Pen

When I first met Pen, I was fourteen. So was she. She was a little taller than me. A little broader. More solid. Everything about her painted a picture of confidence—not with bold colors, no arrogance, just a well-structured blend of natural hews. But once you found her eyes beneath the layers of shaggy brown curls, you could sense her power. It was intense. Focussed. Sometimes searing. More than once, it left me breathless.

 

Our first year together was in the early sixties when we shared a room in boarding school. Actually, it was her room. Since I was the only day student in the entire school, I was instructed to keep a change of uniforms there, for sports or in case I stayed for dinner. Her room was where I was supposed to study when study hall was closed in the afternoon, although there was only one desk and it clearly belonged to Pen.

 

It took a week for her to allow me to put my books on it. But before the month was out, we had stolen down to one of the forgotten sitting rooms to haul an aging wing-backed chair up to her room so I would have a place to sit. After that, Pen would lay on her bed, I would drape myself across the chair, and we got to know each other.

 

I was more reserved with her than she was with me, not because I was shy or awkward, but because I had been taught to defer to the rich, and Pen’s family was very rich. She would tell me stories about her home life that were straight out of a novel; butlers and maids, nannies and cooks, traveling on ocean liners, a brownstone in New York, a beach home on Cape Cod.

 

It all sounded quite magical to me, but even then I understood that Pen wasn’t any happier than I was. In fact, she tended toward melancholy. Partly because she had a broad and deep sense of life; broader and deeper than even my mother whom I considered to be the wisest person alive. As a result, Pen and I never bothered to discuss boys, or makeup, or fashion. We went for the hard stuff: the evolution of God, “noblesse oblige,” or how to sneak into the kitchen to grab a tub of ice cream without being caught.

 

At times Pen was tentative when asking me about my life. I think she assumed I would feel awkward about my mom being the junior art teacher and me being the only day student. But my mom, with her ubiquitous kindness and easygoing nature, soon made Pen feel as welcome in our home (a downstairs apartment of a barely functional New England bungalow a mile from the school) as I was.

 

In fact, over the course of the next forty-five years that my mother was alive, I believe my mother loved Pen as much as she loved me. Surprisingly, I was never jealous of this. Not because I was so mature or special, but because my mom was. She made me feel like my relationship with her was different from any other, that she had more love for me than I could possibly need, and that I could always come to her, count on her, confide in her. At my mother’s funeral, Pen confessed to feeling the same way and she mourned as deeply as I did.

 

Although Pen and I spent every school day together for four years, we rarely saw each other during vacations, so I never got to know her family or see her home. When we decided not to go to the same college—her idea more than mine—Pen came to my mom's apartment for every vacation. I was always surprised that her parents didn’t seem to mind, but then Pen never talked about her parents with me unless I asked a direct question. 

 

After graduating college, she bought a gallery in Chatham on the Cape while I worked as a copy editor for a trade publication in Washington D.C. True to form, Pen pursued her art, her talent, herself, with seriousness. I, on the other hand, substituted my passion for writing with reading other people’s writing. I partied. I tried very hard to be heterosexual.

 

I remember our first, or maybe our second, thanksgiving after collage. I visited Pen in Chatham before we both went to my Mom’s for the weekend. It was the first time I had been to her newly purchased cottage. Surprisingly, it wasn’t on the water. It was high on a hill so that you could see the entire bay from her back porch. It was spectacular. The cottage was small. Homey. Completely comfortable. She had an amazing collection of art, mostly abstract, that brought color and joy to the whitewashed walls and sparsely furnished rooms.

 

She studied my face as I wondered from room to room. “You look surprised,” she had said.

 

“I love it,” I whispered. And I did. It was warm, calm, confident. 

 

It also made me feel inadequate. It made me want to take a hard look at my life. It made me ashamed. Pen was an adult building a future. I was living in a musty basement apartment where a second-hand mattress lay on a bare floor, an old AT&T wooden spool served as a dining room table, and stained planks layered between cinderblocks formed an entertainment center. I had no art. No view. No natural light to speak of. Just a black and white TV, some old school books, and a few records I played over and over again.

 

When Pen was 26 both her parents died in a gruesome plane crash. It was a small plane. Her father had been the pilot. That’s about all I know. Had I been more industrious, I would have done some research in the society sections of the national newspapers. But Pen never wanted to grieve with me, so I left it alone. And at this point in her life, she had a serious girlfriend, so I figured if I pried it would be more for my benefit than hers.

 

Pen ended up living with Stacy for more than fifteen years. During all that time, I was always welcome in their home. My mother too. Pen had built a beautiful guest cottage next to the main house which is where we stayed. To be perfectly honest, I always imagined that she had built it just for us, but in truth, I think not. Pen had two siblings, a brother and a sister, who were younger than she was and completely wrapped up in themselves, their wealth, and their importance. They would get into trouble and come crying to Pen. Sometimes one or the other would stay for weeks. They put a crimp on my time with Pen more than Stacy.

 

I wish I could say I liked Stacy, but I didn’t. She was kind enough. And very sweet to Pen. But she never liked us to discuss the hard topics. Politics was out of the question. Religion off the table. Racism, homophobia, sexism—forbidden. So for the last ten years of their relationship, Pen and I would take long walks along the beach (meaning we nursed a couple of beers at a local pub) and we talked about all the things that confused, upset, or mystified us. 

 

We were both so addicted to this communion that Pen started lying to Stacy. She would tell Stacy she was flying to some less-than-exciting city to interview an artist when in reality she would come visit me. Truth be known, Pen never actually stayed with me. She would rent a very fancy two-bedroom suite in a Georgetown hotel, and I would stay with her. It felt wrong. A little shady. But always delightful. It brightened my life considerably when I could look forward to her visits.

 

Once I asked her how she felt about lying to Stacy and her answer was simple. “Fine.”

 

“You don’t feel a little guilty?” I prodded.

 

“About what?”

 

“About pretending to be somewhere you’re not.”

 

“If I told Stacy the truth, she would take it to mean something that it's not. She would take it to mean I don’t love her, or appreciate her, or respect her. All not true. What’s the point of telling someone the truth if they only hear lies?” 

 

I still grapple with that concept.

 

When Pen turned forty, Stacy announced she was leaving to marry a man. I was shocked. Pen said she wasn’t but I am sure she was deeply wounded. She never said as much. She blamed herself for not being engaged enough, spontaneous enough, or silly enough. And we had many long and hard talks about lesbians who turn to traditional marriage because it is too hard to spend your life explaining, correcting, and excusing. But to Pen, it was never a lacking in Stacy. There were many times when I wanted to scream out the obvious. STACY ISN’T COMPLICATED ENOUGH FOR YOU. 

 

But after a while, I realized that even though Pen blamed herself, she did not find fault with herself. She wasn’t screaming Stacy isn’t complicated enough for me. She was quietly saying, I am too complicated for her. Not a bad thing. Just a thing.

 

It didn’t take long after Stacy left for Pen to change her life completely. She sold her business. She sold her home. She traveled through Europe for months at a time. She had more casual relationships than I thought possible and by all accounts, she was having the time of her life. More than once, she paid my way to London for the week so I could meet Jane. By the time I got there, it was Mary, or Kathy, or whoever.

 

This was at a time in my life when I was finally settling down. I had moved up to Managing Editor, I was renting a beautiful little carriage house in Capitol Hill, and I was “in like” with a woman who was the opposite of Pen—the old and new version. To my great relief, Pen and Harriet got along brilliantly.  In retrospect, a little too brilliantly.

 

When we both turned 45, Harriett gave Pen one of her paintings and I gave her its frame. Pen absolutely loved them both. So much so that she bought a gallery near Canyon Road in Santa Fe and decided to represent Harriet exclusively. For the next five years we traveled back and forth between Santa Fe and Washington. Realizing Harriet’s somewhat edgy art wasn’t going to support a gallery, Pen quickly started representing other artists. Initially, Harriet was put out by what she described as Pen’s treacherous lack of commitment, but Pen made it up to her by buying a house in Santa Fe with a charming guest house/studio just for Harriet…and me. 

 

I confess with Pen and Harriet ensconced in their art endeavors, I turned my attention elsewhere. I became totally captivated by the Southwest. The light was clear and warm, and quite dazzling. And while the landscape was often stark, I could never decide if I was being invited to join it or being warned to stay away. 

 

The three of us took many trips to some spectacular scenery where I learned that the desert is not an obvious beauty. You have to like browns and reds and small specks of green. You have to be thrilled by a sky that spans the horizon. And I was.

 

It didn’t take me long to fall in love with the Southwest. Apparently, it took even less time for Harriet to fall in love with Pen. In hindsight, I watched it happen and didn’t do anything about it. But then, neither did Pen. In her defense though, I don’t think Pen ever did anything to encourage it either.

 

For the next couple of years, in the early 2000s, I stayed alone in Washington for longer and longer and Pen became engrossed in running her business. We rarely talked. I never asked about Harriet. Pen would occasionally mention a party they went to or a dinner they shared, but to this day I don’t know if they became lovers or what finally drove Harriet into her next gallery and her next relationship. 

 

When my mother died, Pen was at my side, grieving with me, remembering with me, fearing what life would be without her, with me. We were as close as we had ever been. Nothing else seemed to matter but the shared loss. For the next year, we would meet in Chicago to reminisce. 

 

Did anyone know, appreciate, or treasure my mother as much as we did? Of course not. Did anyone else know the warmth and utter security of my mother’s love and attention? No-one.

 

Both Pen and I found it profound and profoundly sad that we were the only two people on the planet who carried the torch of my mother’s memory forward. I knew my mother longer than anyone else alive. Pen was second. There should have been hundreds of torches, but there were only two.

 

Pen and I lived under this delusion for another few years until one harrowing night. I remember it was a Friday night and I was sitting in my cramped little carriage house eating a Lean Cuisine straight out of the box feeling like this life I had constructed was dysfunctional. In fact, crumbling. 

 

I heard a knock on my front door. No one unexpected had ever knocked on my front door. I didn’t really know what to do. I didn’t have a peephole. Phones were not ubiquitous and texting was considered silly. So I did nothing. And stayed afraid.

 

The next day Pen called and asked where I was Friday night. 

 

“Home’” I said. “Why?”

 

“Didn’t you hear someone knock on your door?”

 

“That was you?” I said, flabbergasted. 

 

“No. It was George.”

 

I waited, expecting her to explain. But she didn’t. “Who the hell is George?”

 

“You’re Mom’s common-law husband.” 

 

I am ashamed to say that it wasn’t until that moment I realized my mother had a whole, complete, and obviously satisfying life that didn’t include me. Or Pen. My whole life my mother made me (and Pen too) feel like the one and only. It turns out we were far from that. It turns out we weren’t even the only “daughters.”

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See Pen | See Harriet | See Ryan | See ML