My Three Husbands by Swan Adamson Page A

she’d act like my girlfriend.
    I couldn’t figure it out. It got to be really frustrating.
    â€œMaybe she’s afraid of intimacy,” Mom suggested when I made the mistake of confiding in her. “Jerri was like that.”
    I was incredulous. “You’re comparing JD to that dyke who socked you in the jaw? No way!”
    Mom used her Glenda-the-Good-Witch voice. “Well, sweetheart, I found Jerri attractive.”
    â€œWe’re not talking about you and Jerri,” I said sharply. “We’re talking about me and JD.”
    â€œI am merely suggesting that JD may have intimacy issues, as Jerri did.” Mom’s eyes grew moist. She put down her wineglass. “Well, I had some unresolved self-esteem issues, too.”
    â€œHow do you know when you’ve actually found the right person?” I asked my mom.
    She shrugged. “I thought your dad was the right person.”
    I didn’t want to bail, but I couldn’t see any real future with JD. The band’s problems grew steadily worse. Personalities didn’t mesh. As a business, Black Garters was total chaos. Gigs were canceled. People had to be paid. JD didn’t want to deal with any of the day-to-day shit. She kept shooting up. Everyone acted like smack was way cool. I didn’t use it so I was the boring straight girl.
    JD didn’t want me to go. She didn’t want to lose me, she said. But I just couldn’t envision myself hanging around, like one of her other women, watching from the sidelines as she picked up new hearts to break and turned into a junkie.
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    After I split from JD, Mom offered to let me move in with her. But I couldn’t go back home. She was always sick with some mysterious ailment or another, and I didn’t want to take care of her. So she lent me enough money for a month’s rent on a closet-size apartment and I started to look for work. I had no job experience of any kind.
    Daddy was just starting his new firm in Portland, so he couldn’t support me. Whitman never offered. He was working freelance as a travel writer, so half the time he was in Europe or out on the road.
    The dads did say I could live for free with them, but only if I went to school and worked part time. I said I’d rather just work. What I didn’t say was that my credit-card debt was rising like the fare in a taxi to hell.
    â€œWhat kind of a job are you looking for?” Daddy asked.
    â€œI’m thinking of being a topless dancer.”
    Whitman let out a strangled cry and threw up his hands.
    â€œThe tips are good,” I said. “And it can be artistic.”
    â€œIt’s not artistic!” Whitman shouted. “Don’t give me that bullshit! Tits are not talent.” He turned angrily to my dad. “John, tell her she can’t do it. Tell her there are some lines that cannot be crossed. Stripping, for Christ’s sake!”
    â€œIf it’s so awful, why did you take me to see Gypsy?” I asked defiantly. “She was a stripper.”
    â€œYes, but she was not my daughter,” Whitman shouted, red in the face.
    â€œI’m not your daughter either!” I snapped.
    â€œThat’s very true,” he shot back. “If you were my daughter, you’d be at Smith or Wellesley with a full scholarship.”
    â€œI’m sorry if I can’t measure up to your expectations,” I cried.
    â€œSo am I.” He tried to calm down by sucking in his deep yoga breaths. Buddha breaths, he called them.
    â€œRight now,” I said, trying to sound reasonable instead of desperate, “I just need to earn money. I don’t have anything to live on.”
    I hoped they’d feel sorry for me.
    Whitman was completely unsympathetic. He turned to my dad and said, “I have no authority here. You have to tell her she can’t do it.”
    â€œI’m twenty-one,” I reminded them. “I can do whatever I