A tall woman with a mobile face and a pleasant smile seated them at the lone unoccupied table.
LaVerne asked her, “How did they ever get this place together?”
“Are you all from out of town? Women in the movement from other cities usually ask that.”
“No, we’re from right here, the Hanging Gardens of Neon,” Adele smiled.
“Oh. Well, I’m one of the people who started Mother Courage. It suddenly occurred to me one day over the frying pan that there were no restaurants for women. No place where we could gather and relax without being pushed or hunted by men. My friend knew a lot about business and I knew a lot about cooking and here we are.”
The woman had such an engaging manner that by the time she finished her story all three women were focused on her, remarking how delightful everything was.
“I’m sorry I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Dolores Alexander.”
Adele did the honors for the three of them.
“The kiev is very good and the broccoli moutard, if you’re a vegetarian, has a delicious flavor. I hope you enjoy your evening with us.”
A waitress walked by and Carole stopped her. “Excuse me, do you have Coca Cola?”
“No, but we have Pepsi.”
“No, thank you. We’ll be ready to order in a minute if you’ll come back to us.”
“Think you’ll last without a transfusion?” Adele ribbed her.
Carole threw her hand to her forehead, “Pepsi is vile, 7-Up insipid, and root beer quite out of the question. There. Wouldn’t I have been wonderful on the Edwardian stage?”
“Or under it,” LaVerne cooed.
“M-m-m. I recall a liquor store on Hudson. I’m going to run out and get two bottles of ‘Southern champagne.’ Adele, order me a spinach salad and the kiev.”
She stood up and whirled around without looking. At that same moment a waitress who’d been in the kitchen all that time and who didn’t know the table was filled charged around the corner with a tray full of salads. Carole glanced up just in time to see what was going to happen but not in time to get out of the way. The loaded tray hit her in the stomach, wobbled and clattered to the floor. Three salad bowls zipped toward the door and Carole’s way was strewn with lettuce instead of palm branches. The dressing smelled wonderful. The waitress was mortified.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. I didn’t watch where I was going. Did I get any on you?” All in one embarrassed breath.
“We’ve got to stop meeting this way.” Carole laughed to ease the waitress’s discomfort.
The young woman blinked then laughed herself, “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine. How about you?”
“I’m okay. I think the floor caught most of it. Excuse me, I’d better clean this up before someone slips across the room.
Except for her apron the waitress looked as though she stepped out of an issue of Mademoiselle magazine. She was twenty-three at the most with sharp WASP features, blonde straight hair below her shoulders. She was white America’s dream of femininity, a dream even Carole Hanratty couldn’t quite purge from her loins.
In the late 1940’s Carole was that dream when her own skin was so rich the oil shone on the surface, glowing as only the young can glow. Now she had evolved into a stately woman with a fine carriage and a noble, almost heroic head. Without ever being aware of it she eclipsed the simple radiance of youth.
The young waitress, thoroughly intimidated by the tall, self-possessed woman, fumbled the dust pan. There she was on her hands and knees dying a thousand deaths while this stunning, poised woman asked her again if she needed help. No, I need a quick and painless death she thought to herself. When Carole finally swept out the door in search of her Coca Cola the woman breathed a sigh of relief.
Adele, never one to miss a thing, chuckled.
* * *
When Carol returned with her two Cokes in a little brown bag the spinach salad was on the table.
“Dell, are you sure you didn’t scoop this up off the floor to torment me?”
“I want you to eat out of my hand not off the floor.”
LaVerne popped her fingers and swayed. She loved watching Adele and Carole together. A rare lover not to be jealous of such a close friendship, LaVerne appreciated their relationship. She was wise enough to know that no one person fills another’s needs. Carole gave Adele something she couldn’t—a fast wit, refined literary tastes, and constant devilment. And LaVerne knew she gave exuberant, expansive Adele something Carole couldn’t and that was a steadying hand lest all that energy fly off in a thousand directions at once.
“You know,” Verne said, “the lights hanging over the tables look like the street lights we used to have when I was a kid in Trenton.”
“Come to think of it they look like the street lights we had in Richmond,” Carole replied.
“Ditto for St. Louis,” Adele added. “Hell, maybe they really are street lights.”
The collision waitress went by them and Adele called to her, “Ilse, are these old street lights?”
“Yeah, Jill Ward’s got a hidden supply.”
“Ilse James, allow me to re-introduce you to Carole Hanratty.”
Carole leaned over and shook Ilse’s hand. “I liked our original introduction, myself. Unforgettable.”
“Really.” Ilse used the word without realizing it belonged to a generation, hers. She hurried back to her duties.
“Well, Dolly Levi, how did you find out her name?” Carole’s eyebrow arched over her right eye.
“Asked her. The three of us had a nice chat while she cleaned up the floor. That’s the price of addiction to Coca Cola, my dear; you miss those intimate conversational moments.”
“She is beautiful,” LaVerne exclaimed.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” Carole countered.
“Then you got big eyes,” Adele teased.
“You two cupids attend to yourselves. When I was twenty-five I came to the depressing conclusion I’d never die from love although I did fling myself off a curbstone once when it became clear Katharine Hepburn would never marry me.”
“Oh, stop.” LaVerne’s voice rose on stop.
“Verne’s right. Stop stopping yourself. Love is the wild card of existence.”
“No deal.” Carole held on.
“Confess, you’re a bit bewitched,” Adele pressed.
“You two are starting to act like old maids. I thought matchmaking was how older women spun out their remaining years. Next thing I know you’ll ask me for a finder’s fee.”
Adele and LaVerne laughed. Carole was trying to be morally indignant but the corner of her mouth twitched upward.
“Besides, since when is beauty the basis for love?”
“Now did you hear that come out of my mouth? All I said was, uh, Verne, what did I say?”
“Love is life’s ace? Honey, don’t do this to me. I haven’t got total recall.”
“And all these years I thought you hung on every word. Oh, I am so crushed.” Adele stabbed a piece of broccoli and mournfully shoved it in her mouth. This posture lasted for all of two seconds. “I remember what I was saying. All I was saying was that people do notice each other physically.”
“Right,” the other two answered.
“Who knows when and whom we’ll love but we try to find out first on the basis of physical attraction.”
“I don’t recall this philosophical note.” Carole put her head on her hand.
“Neither do I but it popped into my head.”
“That and thirty-three other things simultaneously.” LaVerne squeezed Adele’s knee.
“Actually, I’ve given this matter a little thought myself on those cold nights when I’m curled up in bed with the cats. A nasty strain of Puritanism lurks in most of us, I suspect. If there was one thing the Puritans couldn’t stand it was a celebration of the body and beauty. So if we get attracted initially on the basis of looks we feel guilty about it or t
ry to cover it up with the old business about ‘she’s beautiful inside and out.’ ”
“Wasn’t it Mencken who said, ‘Puritanism is the nagging suspicion that someone, somewhere, is having fun?’ ” Adele laughed.
“What a good quote. I’ll pass that on to BonBon and Creampuff. Have either of you talked to them lately?” LaVerne asked.
“No, why?” Carole was puzzled.
“I spoke with Bon on the phone the other day. For some reason she was recalling the days of her stripper youth and she said when she first met Creampuff she noticed the curve of her neck. That’s rather sexy. She also added that Creampuff had a sweet smile so she figured she was a lovely woman.”
“I started this whole thing, didn’t I?” Adele paused. “I wish to hell people would stop feeling guilty about everything and anything. I am so tired of people feeling guilty for sexuality or lack of it. I almost feel guilty for not feeling guilty!”
“Guilt is a Jewish invention improved upon by Christians for the last two thousand years,” Carole mentioned.
Ilse nervously watched the three women as they ate their dessert and chattered among themselves. All the times she urged her friends to be aggressive were coming back to haunt her. She wanted to ask Carole out and if she didn’t do it soon she might never see her again.
I can’t walk up there and ask her in front of her friends, she thought to herself. I mean, what if she says no. Besides I can’t put her on the spot like that. I wish she’d go to the bathroom then I could ask her on the way back. She probably has a bladder of cast iron. There’s got to be some way to do this without making a total ass out of myself.
LaVerne got up to visit the can. Ilse figured one less observer was better than two so she gathered her courage, put her hands in her apron pockets so she couldn’t wring them and walked over.
“Excuse me.” Christ, all I say in front of this woman is excuse me.
They both looked up and Adele knew what was coming if Carole didn’t. “I hope this isn’t goodbye after we all just met.”
Ilse stifled an impulse to hug Adele. “In fact, that’s why I came over. I hope I get to see you again. I—uh—Carole, if you’d care to have a drink with me I think I could get off work early since the big rush is over. I … I mean if you’re not in a hurry or anything.” Ilse decided she had made a total ass out of herself. Maybe the kitchen would blow up and a flying pot would end this misery.
“I’d enjoy that. Why don’t you go see if it’s all right?”
“For sure!” Ilse, stunned by success, searched for Dolores.
“Are you satisfied, you Cheshire cat?” Carole leaned over and pinched Adele’s forefinger.
“Are you satisfied?” Adele couldn’t help but laugh at her.
“You never let me get away with anything, do you? Yes, I’m satisfied. It’s about time I let something happen. Anyway, after such a fateful meeting how could I refuse?”
LaVerne plopped down. “Some political soul inscribed on the wall, ‘Peas with honor.’ How perfect for a restaurant.”
“Want to hear something else that’s perfect? Ilse asked Carole to go out with her.”
“No! That kid has guts.”
“We both have to get up early tomorrow so how about if we go back home and you solo? You don’t mind?” Adele asked Carole.
“No. I’ll talk to you tomorrow and let you know how things turn out.”
Settling in at the small table in a corner, Ilse looked at Carole then looked away. “May I ask you a question?”
My age, Carole thought.
“Are you in the women’s movement?”
“What?” Carole’s amazement showed.
“I mean are you in a group or do you read about it or anything?”
“That’s the second time today the subject came up. Do I look like an Amazon?”
“No, you look intelligent,” came the swift reply.
“Thank you. No, I’m not in any organization. I’m not a very political person. Although I am glad some women are working for things that will benefit all of us, you know, like equal pay for equal work. But other than that I don’t find that anyone represents my interests. I’m sure there’s a great deal I don’t know. I have only a surface understanding but as I said before, I’m not a very political person. I take it you are?”
“I’m in the movement, yes.” Ilse smiled. “I can give you some together articles if you’ll read them.”
Suddenly Carole felt like a student but she didn’t let her ego get in the way. “I’ll read them.”
“I’m a revolutionary feminist. I don’t want you to think I’m one of those people who only wants a piece of the capitalist pie. We can build a whole new society, a cooperative society rather than a competitive one. That viewpoint is never represented in the pig media, you know?”
“I’m always afraid there will be enough revolutionaries to halt reform but not enough of you to make a revolution.”
“I thought you said you weren’t political?”
“I’m not but I do have eyes. Anyway, in America the word revolutionary is used to sell pantyhose.”
Ilse laughed in spite of herself. Was Carole witty or making fun of her? Ilse spent the last two years of her life “in struggle” and while she learned a lot she lost more: her sense of humor. Carole’s obvious irreverence awakened that sense of humor and it seemed heady, even dangerous. She stared at the older woman and tried to come to grips with her physical presence.
The first thing anyone noticed about Carole was her height. She was six feet tall depending on the day. Once people recovered from that they observed her head. Thick, brown, medium length hair was brushed back revealing heavy silver over each temple. The silver was offset by small gold earrings. Her nose was long, straight, with delicate nostrils. Her forehead was high. Very English, thought Ilse, or perhaps high Irish. Her cheekbones were sharp and prominent, the jaw firm, the mouth sensuous, full. Deep creases surrounded her mouth and her eyes showed marked laugh lines. She exuded a self-confidence that, together with her physical being, made her compelling.
“Would you like to dance?” Ilse decided to table the political discussion.
“If we decide who leads before we get out there?”
“You, you’re taller.”
As it was a weeknight the women’s bar was only half full when they arrived and there was room on the dance floor. Carole hadn’t danced in a long time and the body contact hit her. She hadn’t done anything in a long time. Ilse rested one arm around her neck and the other around her waist drawing them tightly together. Temples throbbing, Carole couldn’t look down at the younger woman or she knew she’d kiss her. The irony of the situation didn’t escape her. She’d never kissed a woman in a bar in her life, much less the first time she met someone.
Ilse didn’t look up or try to converse until the song started to fade. Then she turned her face up, the faint light revealing eyes of such a light, pure hazel they were practically clear. Without one more word of internal monologue Carole bent over and kissed her. It was one of the few times in her life since age twelve that she acted like a true animal. The freedom was intoxicating.
“My god, what would Emily Post think?” she said.
“Emily’d think you were one hell of a kisser.” Ilse tossed her hair out of the way, put both hands on Carole’s face and returned the kiss. Barry White boomed in the background and they danced one more.
“Will you go to bed with me?”
Carole was shocked. No one, woman or man, ever said such a thing in so short a time. It took months for people to get around to that question and no one dared ask it directly. They tried to sneak up on you usually on the path of a common interest.
No charades before the procession into the bedroom, this is a new generation, she thought.
Ilse, seeing her hesitate, quickly added, “I didn’t mean to make you uptight. I thought it would be a beautiful thing to do. I don’t want you to feel hassled.”
“I admit I’m no
t used to such a direct and fast approach but you can ask me that anytime you like. However, tonight’s not a good night because I have to get up early tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow night?”
Carole decided not to think, “All right.”
“If you want to pick me up at work that’s okay, or I could meet you somewhere. Oh wait, I forgot, a singer is coming into the restaurant tomorrow night so I have to stay until she’s done. You might dig her.”
“It isn’t that electric screeching, is it?”
“No. The woman uses a regular guitar.”
“What time does she go on?”
“Around ten.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow at ten.” She stood up to leave.
“Right, unless the revolution starts tomorrow I’ll be there.”
“Ilse, I think the revolution already started.” Carole smiled and kissed her goodnight.
Adele called Carole after her first class the next day. “Well?”
“Well what, you relentless old gossip?”
“I’m parched for news. What happened last night?”
“We talked and danced a bit.”
“And?”
“And I came home alone because I had to teach this morning. Honest to god, Adele, I thought we left these conversations back in our twenties.”
“Harrumph. BonBon, Creampuff, and I have them all the time, my dear. Anyway, Verne and I made a bet and I lost, dammit.”
“You’re terrible.”
“No, I’m not. What’s so bad about putting a few coins on the optimism of the flesh? Besides, people don’t court anymore so I thought maybe that young lady just pulled you right into bed, honey.”
“She did ask.”
“Maybe I can win half the bet.”
“That’ll be a first. Not with LaVerne you won’t.”
“Ain’t that the beautiful truth! That woman pinches a nickel until the Indian rides the buffalo.”
“I’d be willing to bet people are more emotional about money than they are about sex.”
“Amen. They tell you more about themselves when they spend a dollar than when they spend the night with you.”
“Which reminds me, you might be able to recoup some of your losses if you bet on tonight.”
In Her Day Page 2