Sweet as Honey, Bright as Dawn

The postcard received with that morning’s delivery was still on Deb Mielke-Park’s mind as she started pedaling up 11th Street away from Spruce. She and Sue had lived in “the Gayborhood” for forty years, but she’d never heard of the place advertised on the mailer. She couldn’t figure out how she’d ended up on their list either: Sue was the one who’d read; Deb was a numbers girl. And it had been a year since that final heart-attack. The advertisement had been straightforward—she was invited to join an exclusive club at this bookstore, located in Jeweler’s Row “a half-block off Sansom between 7th and 8th.” Handwritten address instead of a printed label; an image of an English basement entrance, an obscure address, and a small unlabeled map were the only other hints on how to find it. That and the name: C. Gupta’s.

She was on the verge of crossing past Sansom when a breeze from the west blew across her. There was something in it—a scent perhaps?—that struck her as familiar. She slowed and glanced to the right: in that direction lay the bookstore, whereas her errands for the morning were north on Chestnut. But the breeze convinced her, for some odd reason, to follow it, so she swung a sharp right onto Sansom and pedaled to pick up momentum. Sudden changes weren’t her thing; Sue was the impulsive one, the one willing to take chances. Deb was thankful for that, or else the past four decades would have been vastly different. But maybe this caused an adrenaline rush, because the next few blocks of her ride became easier. She turned right again on Epos-Sophia Street, then found the steps down to 1906. She chained her bike to a post at the top, then slowly climbed down to the shop.

The interior had once been an apartment, based on what she saw of the structure within, but had been at some point converted into a bookstore. Actually, multiple apartments: she could see where a door had been added in one wall, connecting it to the next, and the store had the feel of a place where one could get lost for ages. There was a tall, slender hippie behind the case that acted as a front counter; he resembled the lovechild of Tommy Chong and George Harrison, at least as she remembered them from her youth. She thought he was younger than her by a couple of decades, but couldn’t say for certain. His name-tag read: Yama.

“I’m sorry,” she started, “but I got something in my mail today…?”

His face lit up as he spoke. “Excellent; Deborah Mielke, I presume?” He coughed into a fist, “I’m sorry, it’s Deborah Mielke-Park now, isn’t it?”

She raised her eyebrows but nodded. “That’s correct. Though I’m wondering if you might have gotten….”

He shook his head, then offered his other hand. “No mistake, ma’am. Though I will admit, Soo-mi Park has been through here as well.” He smiled. “Mielke-Park, of course.”

She looked at him, then accepted the hand, giving a firm grip. “Thank you.” She probably should be offended, but as they hadn’t shared a last name for most of their relationship, it didn’t surprise her. If anything, his knowing to correct himself seemed more odd. “Anyway, it said something about a unique opportunity with your readers’ club?” She seemed uncertain what else to say.

He smiled again, a smile showing just a couple of teeth; she always took those to be the most genuine. “Yes, yes. Very exclusive. Don’t get to offer very many, anymore.” He waved his hand dismissively, then motioned toward one of the open passageways. “Before I give you the full details, why don’t you take a look around? See if there’s anything that catches your eye. If you have any questions, ask me when you come back. The layout’s a circle, so if you start there, you’ll come back through that one, and shouldn’t miss anything of import.”

By this time her eyes had become accustomed to the interior lighting—it must have been recessed, as she didn’t notice any hanging lights or such. Behind the proprietor was a door marked “Office,” mostly covered by a large poster of a half-human/half-eagle creature soaring over a vast landscape; it reminded her of the prog bands of her teens. The name was blocked by a hand-written sign: Your karma ran over my dogma. She snickered at the pun, then started to explore the bookstore.

The shop was a series of hallways, with rooms branching off here and there. Each room had a name; she assumed that these were similar to genre sections in a “normal” bookstore, but couldn’t figure out most of the themes. The first such room, marked as Shruti, was filled with vinyl albums, more than she’d seen in any record store. She saw prominent signs for Motown Records and Apple Records, and an obscure one for something called Akashic Records. She considered exploring, but, uncalled by any sirens’ songs, she moved on down the hallway.

The first room that actually called to her was Khut—“thread” in Hebrew, if she remembered from shul correctly; she hadn’t spoken or read it in so long. She stepped into the room and immediately noticed an odd book about eight inches square. Opening it, she discovered a single long piece of extremely thin paper folded like an accordion, delicate calligraphic text on each facet. But the words appeared as English: where she’d turned to, the main character, Mitsuko, had been forcibly married to the samurai Hikaru, the very day she had met him in Kyoto. As the subjugation—marital rape (Deb self-corrected, drawn in despite her disgust)—was described in full, the author noted how Mitsuko saw something in Hikaru’s eyes, a sense of connection despite the horrific violence. “Under different circumstances, I might grow to love him; but I can only hate him.”

***

They—Deborah Mielke and Soo-mi Park—first met in a diner in Cherry Hill, across the river from Philly, in the summer of ‘81. Soo-mi had brought with her the advertisement that Deborah had placed on the message board at Temple; it turned out that both women were taking post-graduate classes after graduating the previous spring (from Bryn Mawr and Villanova, respectively).

“I know there are probably cheaper places to live than Locust Strip,” Deborah was explaining. “But… I just feel more comfortable living there than some of the other options.”

Soo-mi was picking at her salad. “I’m just tired of living with my folks. I’m tired of them trying to introduce me to good Korean Catholic boys every time they catch me. Plus the commute—being able to live in the city, close to both work and school….”

Deborah nodded. “Same. If I get introduced to another Yehudi doctor, I’m going to scream.”

Soo-mi laughed. “I work with several at the hospital. I take it you’re not interested?” she asked.

Deborah frowned then nodded. “There’s a reason I want to live in Locust Strip. You’re Catholic, Soo-mi? Are you going to have a problem with living around….” She looked down in shame.

The Korean woman smiled at her, and patted her hand. “Of course not. I have issues with the Papacy myself. That’s not my cup of tea, but… if that’s what you prefer, so be it.” She leaned in. “And my friends call me ‘Sue,’ okay?”

There was something in Sue’s eyes, a connection, that nearly overwhelmed her. “Deb. You can call me Deb.”

***

As Deb entered the Seduta room, she felt the need to sit down in a wingback placed in the center of the room. There was a leather book, embossed with that rhombille tessellation that looked like a series of cubes stacked atop one another. Gold leaf pages, carefully-drawn illuminations, and a sharper style of calligraphy. This story was about a young Janissary, Şafak, in the Galata neighborhood of Constantinople. He had been threatening a young Armenian widow, Anush, with exile (or worse) if she didn’t find someone to marry or convert to Islam as he once had. He couldn’t marry her himself (as his order was celibate) but there was something in her eyes, some connection which tempted him; that only served to make him angrier. Soon, she was married off within her community; he never saw her again. “Under different circumstances, we might have had a life together; but I can only hate her.”

***

Deb came in from another late night; Sue was in the kitchenette studying. “How did your date go?”

Deb was annoyed and angry, as usual. “I’m tired of nothing but college girls experimenting. Half of them are engaged anyway.” She grabbed a beer from the fridge and leaned against the counter. “And I’m not bull enough for the femmes, or femme enough for the bulls. I’m tired, I’m lonely, I’m frustrated, and it’s been over a year since I’ve had a second date.”

Sue laughed softly at the complaints. They were nothing new to her. “Frustrated? Not from what I heard the other night.” Deb blushed furiously, while Sue continued. “At least you get to have that release. Think of all us poor Catholic girls out here having to wait until marriage.”

Deb grinned back. “Don’t lie to me, girl: our walls are too thin. I’ve heard you on your own, calling the Lord’s Name in vain.” Both women stared at each other, then laughed.

Sue stopped first, then cleared her throat. “Actually, I do have a question for you.” She stood up and walked to a few feet in front of Deb. “We’re friends, right?”

“Yes…?” Deb nodded slowly, uncertainty in her voice.

Sue took another step forward, closing the distance. “And friends can help each other out, right?”

Deb raised her eyebrows. “Yes…?”

“What if…?” Sue closed the distance again, taking the beer from Deb’s hand, setting it on the counter, their bodies almost but not quite touching. “What if I wanted to explore…? Would you be willing to help…?”

There was that look in Sue’s eyes that Deb had seen before. A connection, one that nearly overwhelmed her. Their lips met without another word being said.

***

She’d lost track of time; she’d have lost her direction as well, if not for the occasional arrow drawn on the walls to point out the route. Eventually, she found herself in the Wald section, wood-paneled with a green ceiling and mossy carpet, perched atop a step-stool in order to focus on an upper shelf that had drawn her. There, tucked in between a play by Shakespeare and a novel by Cooper, was a wooden book with soft cotton pages. It was plain, with simple woodcuts for the endpages. Within was the tale of Asher, a young man from Salem, scion of a prominent family; on the page she read, he was part of a mob terrorizing a local Quaker family. He wasn’t a leader, just a follower, doing as everyone else was. But as the flames started to lick at the house, the men beaten, the women cowed, he noticed one of the daughters—Esther—glaring at him. There was something about it, how he felt a connection to her. “Perhaps under different circumstances, there might be a future there. But I can only hate her.”

***

Mielke and Park worked well together, and were both known as reliable volunteers around Penguin Place, though rarely did they do so together. They respected each other’s methods and personalities, and complemented each other in ways that didn’t seem obvious at first. They’d been a couple for five years, and always found time to support the community, especially during the epidemic. It was only natural that both would be asked to work on the Walk.

Sue, as a nurse, had watched too many of their friends and neighbors waste away to nothing. She was a calming force, helping Deb to see the forest through the trees; but also willing to think outside the box. Deb was less social, but had become known as a talented fundraiser and one of the best volunteer treasurers, able to negotiate her way through the red tape and bureaucracy that threatened to bankrupt many of the grassroots efforts. Not to mention a blunt and confrontational attitude (one nickname she didn’t appreciate was "Beebo"). She didn’t mind being an instigator and help drive Sue to get off the fence when otherwise she might get lost in thought.

At the starting line, a small group was there to cheer them on. Not their parents: Deb’s had both died in a car accident, not long after they met Sue; Sue’s parents hadn’t spoke to either of them in over four years, when the truth came out. But Deb’s brother and his family more than made up for it; and occasionally Sue’s youngest brother would call to check on them, though always keeping them at a distance. Small steps.

Much like the Walk. Twelve thousand meters, a little over seven-and-a-half miles, almost forty thousand feet. And they walked it step by step, together. Deb had raised $100. Her sponsors came from her accounting office, mostly the secretarial pool; the partners “knew” but so long as she didn’t embarrass them, they ignored her activism. Sue’s, on the other hand, were hospital staff, doctors and nurses, on the front lines; those had pledged over $250. But it wasn’t about the money—Deb knew that the charities could use every penny times a hundred—so much as being together, in the open, walking arm in arm, hand in hand, through the streets of Philadelphia.

As they approached the finish line, Sue stopped midstep. Deb almost lost her balance. “What’s wrong, honey?” Sue was silent, only pointed toward where two of her older brothers stood, each holding a Korean flag in one hand and the rainbow in the other. The two women exchanged looks. And Deb felt that connection with Sue, the weight of their life together, as they broke into a run to go and hug the two men.

***

She was tired as she walked the halls. She couldn’t remember if she’d been in the room called Souvenu; she was pretty sure she would if she had. It didn’t take her long to find a book there, thick and dust-covered: embossed spine and cover, gold-edged pages, and the smell of real paper. This one told the tale of Brendan, an Irish lad in London. He spent nights working at a gentleman’s club, where he was known as “Bea,” in an emerald dress to match his red hair and green eyes. It was dangerous to work the streets—not just for “gross indecency” but because Jack was still uncaught. On one particular night, Ambrose, an occasional customer, seemed to be more willing than usual, a connection in their eyes. Looks led to whispers; whispers led to slipping out a back door, into an alley. Beatrice knelt, first facing the fancy gentleman and then on all fours facing away, as the two acted upon their carnal desires. It was then that whistles blew and torchlights lit them up. Immediately, Ambrose threw a fit, upset that Bea was not who she claimed to have been. The bobbies let him go with a warning, cuffing Brendan. The two brief lovers exchanged one more look, and Brendan scowled. “Perhaps under different circumstances, he would not deny me, and we could be happy together. But I can only hate him.”

***

They weren’t among the first same-sex at the courthouse, as they’d both worked the day Pennsylvania started recognizing them. Deb and Sue chose to wait until Friday morning, for the crowds to die down. As far as they were concerned, they’d been married ever since that autumn night in 1982 when they first kissed and the magic had passed between the two. But the magic was still there. And there were legal considerations to take into account: they were both getting older, in their mid-50s, and wouldn’t live forever. So flanked by brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, and families, they officially became Deb and Sue Mielke-Park. Each bride took the other as lawfully wedded wife, the look in their eyes and the connection between them still there, and they kissed like it was their first.

***

Deb walked under the sign Destinatio, into the entryway where she’d first met Yama. He was still there, but he looked different: his skin was dark green, almost black, and he was hairless. His robes were red; he wore a headdress with a red gem inset. She was not surprised.

“Did you find anything of interest?” he asked her quietly, though his mouth didn’t move.

“It was… enlightening.” She smirked slightly, and closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the events of the morning properly: cycling into the intersection; a truck running the red light; a screech of brakes; the smell of blood and oil. At least it was over in an instant. “Now what?”

He nodded. “You are now at moksha. It’s free will, your choice.” He motioned to the door she’d first come through; behind it was a bright light. “There lies samsara. More living, more suffering, more pain.” Then to the office door, that now also had a bright glow behind it. “And there is brahman. Peace, becoming one with all.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Both are more complicated than that, of course. But you understand.”

She looked at one. Then the other. Then at him. “You said Sue was here?” She bit her lip.

He nodded, “Yes: you both helped one another, very much so.”

She again looked at the two doors, one then the other. “Which did she choose?” Her eyes were pleading.

He laughed. “I cannot tell you. It is your free will. Not hers.” He smiled softly, as did she.

She nodded once more, opened the door of her choosing, and stepped into the light.