Hilary Fields - Bliss

Pauline waved that away, as though diamonds plummeting out of hot air balloons were the least interesting thing in the world. She pushed her sombrero back off her head, letting it dangle down her back from its leather cord. Tears were streaming freely down her lined cheeks, but she looked radiant, her own personal gloom utterly banished.

“Oh, Horsey…” She trailed off.

Hortencia drew their clasped hands to her breast. “Pauline, if you still want to get married… I mean, if you’ll still have me, well, I’d…” She choked up.

Again, Pauline waved impatiently. “Hortencia, you beautiful old bird,” she declared, taking her beloved’s cheeks in her hands and gazing fondly into her brimming blue eyes, “I don’t care if we live in sin forever, as long as I’m with you.” The two women kissed.

And kissed.

And kissed.

“Yay, living in sin!” howled the Back Room Babes, erupting in applause. Those nearby in the crowd paused in their pyromaniac chanting to clap along with them.

It broke the spell, forcing Hortencia and Pauline to finally come up for air.

“Oh, my. Ladies, we better hurry up. The burning’s about to start, and we don’t want to leave anyone out. It’s your turn, dear,” Hortencia prompted Sera. “Tell us what’s been holding you back, and how you plan to change it. It’s quite liberating.”

“Yeah, kiddo,” urged Pauline. “Give it up to Zozobra, let it all go into the fire!” The crowd seemed to agree, the frenzy of shouting and dancing kindling the night.

Both older women were grinning blindingly. But Sera’s own smile fell away. She could feel all the eyes of the Back Room Babes on her as if they were literally pressed to her skin. She knew very well what her worst hang-up was, and she very much wanted to keep it to herself. The women were opening their circle for Sera, smiling and gesturing for her to take center stage. When her feet wouldn’t move, Pauline and Hortencia came to her, taking her rubbery arms and drawing her into the circle in their place.

Maybe I should just talk about the alcohol, she thought desperately. It’s certainly done a number on my life. But in her heart, Sera knew booze was a demon she’d already exorcised. The addiction would always be a part of her biology, but it no longer directed her behavior, and so long as she maintained her sobriety, it wasn’t a source of shame. Her real problem was—and as mortifying as it was for Sera, it would simply devastate her aunt. I can’t do this, I can’t do this… it would kill Pauline if she knew… She opened her mouth to mumble some platitude about trying harder to meet a nice guy, or making more time for her social life.

Instead, to her utter horror, the truth flew out.

“I can’t have an orgasm.”

A howl erupted from the hysterical crowd.

Fireworks shot into the night sky, detonating with deafening booms.

And with a great roar and a whoosh, Zozobra burst into flames.

For as long as she lived, Serafina would never be able to say exactly how she made it from the field where Zozobra had gone up in smoke, along with the last remnants of her dignity, to the citywide celebration that was toasting his fiery demise. One minute she was in the center of a circle of gaping, dismayed women; the next, she was spilling onto Lincoln Avenue at the entrance to Santa Fe’s historic plaza, swept along on a tide of happy, party-hungry Fe-heads ready to get their fiesta on.

Sights, smells, and sounds assaulted her senses in the best possible way. The trees at the center of the plaza had been dolled up in festive colored lights, while tents, booths for food, games, and souvenirs as well as a bandstand crowded every inch of open space about the square, blocking off the streets to traffic. The mellow adobe facades of the buildings framing the plaza—the Palace of the Governors, restaurants, shops selling everything from tacky souvenirs to authentic cowboy boots and spendy sheepskin coats—were all decked out in lights and flapping fiesta banners. The Five and Dime General Store was closed for the evening. (Sera had asked her aunt when she’d first arrived how a sundries store had managed to co-opt such prime retail space, but Pauline had just shrugged and told her that, as far as she knew, it had always been there, and the tourists appreciated access to cheap sunglasses, sunscreen, camera batteries, and postcards.) The ice cream shop on San Francisco Street was doing a brisk business, however, as she suspected it always did—who wouldn’t like an ice cream cone to stroll around licking while taking in the sights?

A relaxed, festive air had replaced the crowd’s earlier frenzy. The faces around her were lit up with enthusiasm, purged of negativity just as Zozobra promised. Not Sera, though. As usual, she’d failed to ride the moment to its intended conclusion. She winced as she recalled how her awkward pronouncement had coincided with Zozobra’s big flame-out.

On the one hand, it had been surprisingly freeing to finally cop to the truth. There it was, out in the open: Serafina Wilde had never in her life, alone or with assistance, ever managed to achieve sexual fulfillment. She’d buried that shameful secret since puberty, not even telling her doctor or best friends. She’d faked it with what few boyfriends she’d had up until Blake, and he… well; her pleasure hadn’t been uppermost on his mind. All these years, Sera’s inadequacy had weighed on her, nagging at her self-esteem and making her leery of relationships, until tonight, for the first time, she’d gotten it off her chest. And despite the fact that she didn’t hold out much hope of ever “curing” her conundrum, it was a relief not to have to hold it inside any longer.

On the other hand, there had been the look on Aunt Pauline’s face.

If she’d announced she’d run off to join a cult of burqa-wearing fundamentalists, she could hardly have stabbed Pauline Wilde more directly at her core. Everything she stood for—the freedom to express, demand, and receive pleasure from her own body—and everything she’d taught; all for naught with the one person who should have been her greatest success. Pauline had never had a daughter, but Sera knew she’d loved her niece as deeply as if she were her own. She’d tried her best to raise Sera, who’d arrived on her doorstep a shy and traumatized teen, to become a strong, confident woman. Now Sera had, by virtue of her sexual failure, called into question Pauline’s very movement, her philosophy—hell, her technique!

What she’d seen in her aunt’s eyes tonight had almost resembled… betrayal. And as much distress as her disability had caused Sera herself over the years, it was nothing compared to the dismay she felt at hurting her aunt’s feelings so deeply. But she hadn’t had a chance to express any of that to Pauline. Immediately after her admission, still embarrassed and a bit shocked at herself, Sera had been caught up in the crowd. She’d lost track of the rest of the Back Room Babes, apart from Aruni, and she hadn’t reconnected with her aunt since. In fact, she had to wonder whether Pauline and her followers were avoiding her. From their expressions during her confession, it was obvious that whatever issues had brought them to join Pauline’s club, no one else had her particular problem. Perhaps, in their pity, the BRBs were giving Sera some space.

Well, she could live with that, Sera told herself. She just hoped she hadn’t spoiled Fiesta for everyone.

Then she shook herself—hard. Really, how arrogant can I be! Sera suddenly remembered her sponsor’s characterization of the alcoholic ego. As Maggie put it, alkies tended to think of themselves as “the piece of shit at the center of the universe.” No one is worrying about my little “situation” right now, she chided herself. They’re all having a blast, dancing, singing, eating, and drinking. Just as they should be. And as I should be, too. Well, except that drinking part. Tonight is a magical night, and I’m not going to ruin it by worrying about what others think of me.

Much.

Aruni had gone off in search of the Frito pie she’d earlier mentioned, and judging by the many booths offering comfort foods from chile verde to posole with cornbread, tamales to chalupas, chimichangas, and rellenos, Sera doubted she’d have much trouble finding it. Aruni had promised to bring her back some Navajo fry bread drizzled in honey—giant, mouthwatering pillows of deep-fried dough which looked fit to beat any sort of fried bread Sera had yet tried (and Sera had tried a lot). For the moment, she was on her own in the square, though hardly alone. Kids ran about, dodging tourists, their scolding parents, and one another, giggling and shouting. Some were in regular street clothes, while others were dressed for the festival dancing, with girls in white peasant blouses and wide, colorfully ruffled skirts, and boys in white tunics and trousers, with sashes that matched the girls’ skirts. Up on the stage behind the bandstand, some of their parents had already begun performing traditional New Mexican ballet folklorico dances, swirling and stomping to the tune of a huge troop of musicians that constantly swelled and ebbed as members joined for a jam session and then left to stroll the plaza with guitars and fiddles, bringing their joyous music along with them.

“Check it out, they actually serve it in the Frito bag!” Aruni shoved an exploded chip bag under Sera’s nose, slit down the middle and gushing with shredded cheese, onions, sour cream, beans, and guacamole. She dug a plastic fork into the mess and shoveled up a bite, waving it in front of Sera’s face. As advertised, Sera could see whole Fritos layered in with the rest. “Try a bite,” Aruni urged.