but it's rainin' on cloud nine

Karen comes back that night even more exhausted than she was before. Talking with Ivy makes her feel slow and relaxed, enough to consider walking past Dev and flopping into bed to sleep.

By the door, Dev sits on the ground with his legs folded criss-cross. He’s been there for hours. “How’d it go, darling?” he says. She can see him wince as he realizes that he can’t call her pet names anymore.

Karen tells him, “Ivy’s actually, like, really nice. She said yes.”

“So, the statement?”

“Oh, yeah. Right. Um, we don't know for sure that there’s a strict deadline for this stuff. I can ask Eileen, but I think…” What does she think? “Maybe next week,” she decides eventually. “Not now.”

Dev gives a strange half-smile. “Alright, Karen.” Then he packs up his bag and heads to his own separate place.

===

After the morning’s Sunday service, Karen leans against the brick side of the chapel and calls Ivy. It feels sacrilegious, but she doesn’t want to bother going somewhere else just for a brief chat. When the other woman picks up, she says, “Hi, Ivy! We should have supper in public today.”

“Hello to you too,” Ivy says. “Is that lunch or dinner?”

Karen smiles to herself, reminded again that she’s from another state. “Dinner.”

“That’s fine, then. I’m free from five to eight tonight.”

“Should I bring a packed meal so we don’t have to find a restaurant?” Karen offers to make up for the burden of inconveniencing Ivy with this whole ordeal. There’s no kitchen in their accommodations, but she’s sure she can throw together a salad.

“You seem like the sort of girl who lives off of sour cream and corn-on-the-cob, Iowa.”

“I like corn-on-the-cob!”

Ivy snorts. “My point proven. How about…” A crackle from the phone while she hums the verse of a Bombshell song. “Italian,” she decides.

Karen says, “Oh. Okay, I guess. I like more spice than that, usually.”

“Weren’t you just saying how much you love corn-on-the-cob? If you object, come up with something yourself.”

“Chinese?” Karen suggests, and then she hears Icy hum again as the other woman considers it. The whole situation strikes her as domestic. That is the point, after all, but they’re not posing as a couple in private. Still, she has a vision of themselves as partners having the same conversation in an alternate universe. Making supper plans like they do it every day.

“Sure,” Ivy says eventually. Then, almost shyly, “Bye, Karen.”

As soon as the call ends, another begins to ring: it’s Mom, who always wants to check in after church. With a sigh, Karen presses ‘accept’. 

They exchange standard greetings until Mom says, “We was talking to Penny and Sal Meyer the other day—you know them from school, she used to be a Weigner—and they’re starting on their sixth kid. Honey, we understand that you and Dev don’t want to get married right away, but you’re getting older. If you want start settling down, then—”

“For fuck’s sake, I’m not having Dev’s baby!” Karen says, aware of how rude she’s being. But she can’t help it; he cheated on her, for goodness’ sake, and they weren’t really going to get married in the first place. She can admit it to herself now.

Mom’s voice goes stern. “Karen Ruth Cartwright, there’s no need for that sort of language.”

“Sorry. It’s—I can’t. I’m not going to, Mom.” A pause. She’s going to have to tell everyone, over and over, isn’t she? “We broke up.” 

“Oh, honey… We love you, Karrie. We’ll always love you, and God loves you too no matter what.”

At least Mom isn’t upset with her about Dev, she thinks. Karen should say it now: ‘I’m a lesbian.’ She should. It’s the only way to get through things, and yet when her mouth opens no sound comes out.

Mom continues, “If you want to come home, our door’s always unlocked. You know that.”

“I know,” Karen repeats, and then she hangs up the call with a click and no good-bye. That’s what she always does in these sorts of situations. She runs away and avoids choice.

===

Ivy gets held up by traffic on her way to the restaurant; Karen puts off eating until the other woman arrives, finding herself sick to her stomach when late evening finally arrives. In the distance, the bleeding Boston sun falls to the horizon like a wounded soldier.

Ironically, Ivy isn’t as dressed-up as she was at the bar: a jewel-purple peacoat and dark jeans with her three-inch heels. Then again, they’re supposed to have been dating for a few weeks now, so why should she look any different than usual? She’s still pretty, though. Ivy would be a stunner no matter what she’s in.

Karen, on the other hand, has on an outfit that Bobby and the other chorus members picked for her. Upon reflection she looks like every other theatre girl that day. She wonders whether Ivy could spot her in a crowd by her lean build alone, or if she could discern Karen’s voice over the noise of other conversation. Maybe not.

The restaurant isn’t particularly authentic but it’s affordable, so they order a family meal deal and eat in comfortable silence until the food’s gone. Then Ivy says, “You’re such a messy eater, Iowa. Raised in a barn, I swear.”

Karen licks her lips and tries to wipe her face with a napkin, embarrassed. She says, “Not all of us grew up in a penthouse.”

Ivy frowns. “My mother’s penthouse came after I moved out.” She pauses like she’s not sure how much she wants to reveal about herself. “It was hard for a while. Dad wasn’t around a lot, and he never has a job. You know how much theatre pays.”

“I do,” Karen says. Just that single insight illuminates the universe of Ivy Lynn further—a past that exists, the same as hers, ready to be understood. She almost trips over her own tongue to reply, “My parents keep trying to give me rent money since I’m missing so many shifts for Bombshell. They have their own mortgage for this big new house in Des Moines, and I can tell they can’t afford to keep coming out here to visit me, so… They’re great, really, but they don’t think I’ve got a serious career.”

“Well, my mother won’t visit unless she’s peacocking for a crowd, and I still managed to learn table manners.” Ivy takes her thumb and carefully wipes the corner of Karen’s mouth. “There,” she says, satisfied.

“Is this what we’re like as a couple?” Karen breathes. She can feel the echo of her own hot exhale against the other woman’s skin.

“What?” Ivy’s face screws up into confusion.

“I mean, all touchy and stuff.”

Ivy smirks. “That’s not PDA.” Then, suddenly, she pulls Karen in for a long kiss by the back of her neck. She opens her mouth again and they continue until Karen’s gasping for air. Her body shivers. At the same time she feels everyone else in the restaurant. A double-sense of their perceptions of her. Is the waiter glaring or just staring—are the man and wife at the next booth over occupied with themselves, or do they notice Karen and Ivy too?

“Lord,” Karen says when they part. Lungs still ache for want of oxygen. She starts to poke the food with her fork to avoid her environment. “We should be public, but…”

Ivy gives a subtle wink, directed only at her. “Not too public. I get it. We‘ll save that for the bedroom.”

Karen hides her face in her hands. “Ivy, don’t give me an aneurysm.”

“Please. I’m sure one day you’ll be performing Christina Aguilera in the nursing home.”

Quiet fear swells in Karen’s heart at the idea. She asks, “You’ll come and visit me, right? I have friends in Iowa, but nobody here. Not really.”

Ivy’s expression softens. “Of course,” she says, “and I’ll out-sing you at karaoke every week.”

“Thanks,” Karen says, ashamed of her own loneliness. But then she supposes Ivy sometimes gets a lost look on her face when she lingers in the corner at cast parties. That might be a total figment of the imagination, or a sign that Ivy’s lonely too.

Ivy won’t have to beg Derek for company now that she’s there. Karen reaches out her hand and slips her fingers in between the other woman’s above the table. She says, “I think this was a good idea after all. You’re less scary than people say, and I’m glad to have you as a friend.” Her voice hitches on the last word for no reason.

With a rough jerk, Ivy pulls her hand away. “You’re too trusting, Iowa. We barely know each other. After what I’ve done, I—”

“Ivy, I don’t care about that anymore!” Karen interrupts, desperate to assuage Ivy’s abrupt displeasure. “You fixed it. It’s fine.”

“I’m fine,” Ivy says, though her jaw tenses. She sucks in a breath. “So, I was meaning to ask you something.”

Karen goes almost dizzy that Ivy actually thinks of her when they’re not together. (Did Ivy picture her face too while she was sleeping with Dev? Did she—no, that’s an awful thing to wonder.)

Ivy continues, “Do you think we could practice your blocking sometime?”

“Sure,” Karen says, disappointed that it’s related to Bombshell.

The other woman beams with her million-watt grin. “I’ve seen you in the show. You’re great, obviously, but if you don’t have the role down, then…”

“I know, Ivy,” she says, too sharp. “I just need to work on it.”

“Which songs?” Ivy says right away, eager to identify Karen’s mistakes.

“‘Mr. and Mrs. Smith.’ And, um, ‘History.’”

“We’ll do ‘History,’ then. You’re good enough at the former that I don’t think you need any extra practice.”

Karen’s frustration evaporates at the praise. Ivy’s only trying to help, after all. There’s no point in anger for anger’s sake. “It’s a date,” she says, and knocks together their water glasses in a toast.

===

Karen and Ivy see each other after the next show, too. It’s becoming remarkably easy to approach each other after communicating in earnest. Before it was just touch-and-go moments; now Ivy gives her a bouquet of delicate violets and her own namesake, Karen’s favorites.

On their way home, Tom suddenly puts his arm around Ivy’s shoulders after approaching from behind. He says, delighted, “Ivy! You look bonny and blithe today.” Then he realizes who’s in front of her. “Karen. Huh. Is this a trap?”

“Oh, no,” Karen corrects. “We’re just, you know… hanging out. Having fun. Like we always are.”

“Forgive me if I’m wrong, but I didn’t think you got along well.”

“Of course we do,” Ivy says in that high, squeaky voice she uses when she’s trying to seem perfect. “We’re in the same cast.”

To clear up the situation, Karen lands a peck to her lips. Aplatonic, but classy, not the sort of petting that Ivy and Derek sometimes did at the end of late rehearsals. Kissing Ivy in front of Tom—an actual gay person—makes her somehow giddy that he’ll recognize a commonality between them. On the other hand, he knows her. It’s like that shock standing by Eileen again, understanding that someone sees too deep for total comfort.

Tom glances at each woman and plasters a smile on. “New developments,” he says carefully, as if trying to avoid startling a stray cat. He presses his hands together in a pleading gesture. “Help me understand how this works, please.”

“We…” Karen begins, though she’s not sure where to take the sentence.

Ivy slings her arm around Karen’s waist. “You always get the story wrong, babe. Iowa over here revealed her tragic closeted backstory, and what can I say? It was charmingly pathetic, so we’re trying things out.”

“That was after I fell for her, though,” Karen offers in return, which seems to be the right sort of thing to say.

Tom’s eyebrows raise to form a cascade of lines on his forehead. “And when did that happen?”

Reminder to herself: the best lies have the shrapnel of truth embedded in them. Karen says, “During everything at Heaven on Earth, we sang in Times Square together. Um, this sounds stupid, but I’d never seen Ivy dance without choreography before. She just looked free, you know? I wanted to see her like that forever.”

“Oh,” Ivy says. Her smile is shot through with a flicker of pain. (A candle in the wind.) “I didn’t notice. Guess I was too drunk.”

Karen shrugs. She says, “Maybe.” Then, because she can’t resist bringing up old hurts, “You told me we weren’t friends after you brought me back to your apartment. I’m sure you didn’t mean that, too.”

“No, you pissed me off constantly.” Then Ivy adjusts her posture and expression in minute increments: straightening her back, pursing her lips, lowering her eyelids. Though it’s made of small individual changes, the whole shift has Karen wondering if she’s even the same person. An overwhelming magnetism, now amplified. Ivy says, “You get under my skin, Karen Cartwright.”

Karen looks to the sky and prays to God that she doesn’t seem as flustered as she feels. The tension between them grows like a flame eclipsing the wick of a bomb—rapid, the ultimate disaster always present. Then Ivy presses closer and applies those lips, smeared with gloss, to her pulse. “Ivy!” she shrieks, but she can’t help smiling.

Ivy lifts her head up from the crook of Karen’s neck. “See, you won’t let me express my affection.”

Recognition of Ivy’s teasing makes Karen feel brave, as if they’re equals. It’s enough to say back, “Find some other way to do it and I might, dearest.”

“So I’m dearest, now? No-one more dear in the whole wide world?” Ivy sways gently from side to side, limbs still wrapped around Karen’s waist. She whispers, too quiet for anyone but her target to detect, “Not even Dev?”

Karen rolls her eyes. She says, “Yes, Ivy. It’s you. Why are you asking if you already know what I’m going to say?”

“Because I like hearing you talk. Come over sometime and I’ll make you read me a bedtime story.”

“Well, I only read the local paper. It'll be boring unless there’s a scandal going on.”

“I promised I’d lend you my Marx, Iowa, but I have a funny feeling you’ll keep me up at night no matter what I do.”

Tom says, “Wow, you two are sickening.”

Karen startles out of Ivy’s arms, having forgotten that he was there.

“Don’t be prejudiced against our beautiful sapphic love,” Ivy complains. “You’ll make Karen sad. She needs to be handled gently otherwise she’s useless, like Marilyn.”

In fact Karen feels nauseated: she let herself get so caught up in chase and escape that for a moment their game of flirtation seemed real. She scoffs, “You only treat me gently when you want something.”

Ivy twists her fingers behind her back, like Karen won’t see that she’s bothered too. “I want you to be happy. I said so before.”

“Disgusting,” Tom reiterates. “Ive, I’m talking as a friend, but I’m concerned. I’ve never seen you like this.”

“Like what?” Ivy says brightly. A veiled threat.

He laughs. “You’re smiling, so something good.”

Karen says eagerly, “It is good.” Then she turns to Ivy and remembers how glad she is that the other woman’s there to help.

“You, too,” Tom says. He shakes his head with mock disappointment. “Fallen to the vices of homosexuality. What has our world come to?”

Ivy says, “For the record she hit on me first. Also, here you are talking about vices. Sam’s rubbing off on you.” She folds her tongue over in her mouth as she smiles, playful.

“I don’t know what you mean. We’re independent people.” Tom sighs. “You’re right, though, I like him a lot. Ugh. Is that wrong of me to think so soon? I had a boyfriend before, and he was alright…”

Turning to Karen, Ivy’s bottom lip sticks out in a pout. “Babe, tell him what happens to those men.”

“They become perfectly fine fiancés,” Karen says. Her throat feels sore all of a sudden like she’s snuck one of Dad’s cigarettes from a hiding spot. (He always tries to quit, but he always goes back. Mom calls it a filthy habit.) “And then you think, my God, I can’t stay with him for the rest of my life because I will never, ever stop wondering who else I could be.”

A long, painful silence.

She continues, “I’m sure you’ve made the right choice, is all I mean.”

“Yeah,” Ivy says, drawing out the word while making perfect eye contact with her. “Invite me to the wedding.”

Karen contemplates whether this is a good time to kiss Ivy—‘proof’ of their bond, of course—but she dismisses the idea. Ivy doesn’t want to kiss her unless it’s necessary. Then another bothersome truth floats up: Karen could never marry without Ivy being there, tipsy from joy and looking at her with those eyes. She’d let Ivy wear white, too. It makes her blonde hair shine like molten lead.

“I’m not marrying him, Ive! We’re casual,” Tom says defensively.

Ivy breaks from Karen’s gaze and giggles at Tom, as if Karen’s only imagining that perhaps they’d been thinking the same thing.

===

Another few days of anticipation pass until their next meeting, wherein Karen finds a new appreciation for the amount of sheer time that theatre takes from her. More than a standard job, seeping into her after-hours activities, but the pay is worse.

They decide to meet at Ivy’s hotel room, which happens to be in the same building. As she opens the door Ivy’s wearing a hot pink nightgown with a turquoise robe pulled over it. Initially Karen’s sensibilities are offended—she thinks Ivy’s taking the act of their relationship maybe a bit too far—but, reflecting, standards for distinguishing pajamas from lingerie are probably looser in New York than Clarinda.

Under moonlight, the room looks completely foreign: a large mattress in the middle with white linens silvery and glowing. When she enters, Karen says, “There’s only one bed.”

“My mother paid for a private suite. Wait, did you think I fucked Dev with a roommate around?”

“No,” Karen says, but her embarrassment’s obvious.

Ivy moves over to the bed and begins, “I’ll be Marilyn to show you what to do, and you can be DiMaggio. Now, come next to me.”

Karen sits on the very edge, tense, remembering all the times that she and Dev acted out Marilyn movies. It seems almost obscene to think about around Ivy. Her charms, while benign now, make Karen understand why Dev succumbed so easily.

Ivy leans over Karen and puts a hand on her thigh. “Closer,” she says, “into the dark.” 

Karen obeys. “Then what?” she says with some unknown anticipation.

“We sing,” Ivy answers. She starts, high but husky. As she reaches the chorus—when Karen’s supposed to harmonize—she leans even further. She stops abruptly. “God, you need to loosen up,” Ivy says. “Let me break out the wine.”

To get back to what they were doing before, Karen nods.

“This stuff is cheap swill,” Ivy says. She retrieves a bottle from the minifridge and pours heavy. “But it’s my favorite.”

Karen prefers beer, but she isn’t going to ask for anything else. Ivy has superior taste in general. She chugs from her glass until it’s drained while she resists making a face.

“Wow. Looks like you needed that,” Ivy says.

Karen says, “I've had a long day. You understand.” That isn’t precisely true. Though the day itself was fantastic, obligation still rushes in to attack her from every side: her bills, her career, her parents, Derek, Rebecca, Dev. Even herself, sometimes, the persona.

Ivy lets out a short laugh. “Yeah.” She slides back next to Karen and removes her robe, slipping it to the ground. She says, “What’s your issue with ‘History’?”

“The emotion,” Karen says, “makes me stuck in my head where I forget the lyrics.”

“We’ll just pretend to be Marilyn and DiMaggio like we did before your first show. It worked then.” She drops her head on Karen’s shoulder.

Ivy was supposed to have been Dev, actually, but Karen doesn’t correct the mistake. Instead she turns aside to admire Ivy’s face, pale as the sun when it dips into shadow on the backside of the Earth. “Marilyn,” she says, low. “You’re gorgeous.”

“I’m a woman, plain and simple,” Ivy says. Her lips pull back in a slight grimace. “We’re not just bodies.”

Karen puts the back of her hand on the side of Ivy’s temple and feels its warmth in the air-conditioned room. “No, no. You’re gorgeous because I know all the things you are. That's why I want you to myself. Those other men who jeer from the stands don’t appreciate you like they should. They only want the movie star, Marilyn Monroe…”

Ivy says, “She’s a part of me too. Joe, don’t you see?”

“I do, my dearest, my love,” Karen says, and drapes her hand down near Ivy’s waist. “My wife.”

They’re in the bedroom; different people with different standards of behavior. It’s only natural. She kisses Ivy—feverish, but familiar after so many prior kisses. Her hand moves purposefully to Ivy’s lower back, to her hips, to the outer expanse of her muscled legs, to the soft inner plushness. Higher. A place that makes the other woman open her lips in a gasp.

Then Ivy lets out a shaky breath through her nostrils. “Tell me what’s happening.”

“Well,” Karen begins. Their faces almost touch but they don’t. More intimate. “I’m going to kiss you again, and then…” It’s too inappropriate to identify even within the shelter of fantasy. She wishes she were a man for real, because then she’d confess she wants to move her fingers underneath Ivy’s underwear or bend down to press her mouth in between those thighs. Maybe if she were drunker she could, but she isn’t, and that’s that.

Ivy’s eyes go small and sympathetic. She says, “I know, Karen.” (Like it’s alright with her, at least. Like she might want it too.)

The sound of her own name shatters the illusion. Karen shifts away from Ivy, wobbling from the liquor, and flops down prone.

Beside her, the other woman lays on the bed too. Ivy whispers right by her ear, “I’m sorry, we should be practicing ‘History’ but I got distracted, and—”

“I thought we were practicing,” Karen says stupidly. Hot, humiliated tears run down her face. “I’m sorry, too. I need to go.” So she does.

Author's Notes:

Hey, guys! Let me know in the comments what you think + thank you for commenting on previous chapters!

I know canonically Karen's parents have generic American accents, but here they speak like rural Iowans because I like that and no-one can stop me.