by Lee Lynch
Silently, Victoria cursed herself for confiding in Claudia. I don’t need a therapist because I want to have some fun, she thought. “Weeks now,” she said, giving in because she did not see how she could avoid answering, without being rude.
“What do you usually do?”
“I’ve never felt quite like this.”
“Oh, come now,” Rosemary admonished her.
Victoria had to admit that Rosemary was right. “I usually throw myself into studying or a book.”
“And that’s not working?” Rosemary sat down across from her.
Victoria shook her head sadly. “No.”
“You probably need a lover.”
“Rosemary!” Victoria exclaimed, shocked.
“Well, it’s true.”
“I don’t want some man suddenly controlling my life. I’ve tried that. The minute they touch you they think you’re their property.”
“You’re a true feminist, Victoria. You can see relationships in a political light.”
“Politics my eye. I don’t like the way they treat me. Even the least obtrusive man, once he’s certain of you, gets possessive. I don’t want that, Rosemary, and I certainly don’t find it exciting.”
“No, I see that. And for that reason I’m going to tell you something I’ve been wanting to tell you for a while, but there hasn’t been the right opportunity. I’ve spoken with Claudia about it and she agrees that since you are our best friend you should know. I hope that it won’t hurt our friendship.”
Victoria was bored by Rosemary’s speech and barely interested in what confession she had to make. She yawned, picking some lint off her chair. The room, devoid of sunlight, was dark and depressing. It was filled with Claudia’s clutter.
“Are you prepared for me to say something quite startling?”
“Yes,” Victoria sighed irritably.
“This is not easy to say, but, I suppose I may as well get used to saying it.” Rosemary swallowed so hard Victoria could hear the gulp and looked at her. “Claudia and I are thinking of becoming lovers.”
I hadn’t even thought of a woman lover, Victoria thought to herself, not at all surprised that her immediate reaction was to consider taking a woman lover as a choice for herself. “I’m glad,” she said simply.
“You think we should?”
“Well, I don’t know much about this sort of thing. I always assumed it just happened—taking a lover or falling in love.”
“Perhaps it does for some people. But we don’t entirely believe in love,” Rosemary proclaimed, pursing her lips.
Victoria was shocked again. “Then why be lovers?”
Rosemary spoke as if giving a prepared lecture. “Both of us want to give our whole selves to feminism. As sex is a physical need and companionship is very important,” she said in a rush, blushing, “we feel that we should provide for both. If we married, we would have to divert our attention away from the movement to men.” Composed now, Rosemary sat straighter. “If we can meet each other’s needs, we’ll have a solution to our problems.”
“Are you sure Claudia feels this way too?”
“It was Claudia who brought it up. Of course, her political thinking lags behind her instinctual search for a solution and a psychologist would worry about her basic human needs. One night she became,” Rosemary looked uncomfortable, “affectionate, and I found it not unpleasant. However, I stopped her so that I could evaluate the implications a physical relationship would have for us.”
Victoria surprised herself by saying very low, “You mean you had to rationalize getting what you wanted.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
Victoria tried to imagine the two in bed. She was certain that Claudia was as passionate and uninhibited in her affections as she was in everything else she did. Rosemary would be a bore, asking how everything felt and what she should do next. But the idea of women loving women, though a frightening option she had never before considered for herself, was exciting. Sarcastic still, she asked, “When will you decide?”
“We’re going to talk about it again this evening. First we’re going to see what the poetry group has to say. I’ve written several poems in the last week based on Sappho’s fragments. I hope that will make a discussion of lesbianism seem natural.”
“Instead of asking her father for her hand, you’re asking her poetry group?” Victoria laughed. She wondered once more why she remained friends with Rosemary. They did have the same interests. And Rosemary, like herself, had never been part of the Yale social world. She lived in the same dormitory and was easy to see and they shared many of the same classes. Yet Victoria could not stand the woman and had avoided her for weeks at a time since they started school. “What do they do?”
“Who?”
“Women lovers,” Victoria answered, shy to say lesbian.
“I’ve been reading up on that, though there’s not much to read. Claudia says it will come naturally, but I’ve picked up a few techniques. First, and terribly unappealing, there is tribadism . . .”
“That’s all right, Rosemary. I didn’t mean a detailed description. Never mind.” Victoria wondered if Rosemary knew how she sounded: studying how to make love! “Listen, I wish you luck with your reading, your discussion and your decision, but I’ve got to go for a walk or something. Perhaps I’ll see you later.”
Claudia rejoined them as Victoria stood to go. She was wearing denim cover-alls with no top under the bib and she stood with her thumbs hooked in the straps. “This is how the farmers where I come from dress, you guys. What do you think?” Victoria noticed the soft curve of Claudia’s breasts flattened behind the bib of the overalls and thought, how lovely. Claudia was looking curiously toward Victoria as if to determine whether Rosemary had told her what she suspected she told her.
“I think you’d better go cover yourself, Claudia,” Rosemary said in a high-pitched voice.
Victoria laughed. “You look wonderful! I can finally picture you growing up on a farm, a spunky little tomboy.”
“I haven’t been allowed to dress like this since I was about five,” Claudia giggled as she ducked back into her bedroom.
“Sometimes she’s such a child,” Rosemary apologized.
“But you love her,” Victoria teased, then corrected herself. “That is, you don’t love her.”
“It’s not that I don’t love Claudia. I respect her and care for her in a sisterly way, not romantically.”
Victoria wanted to shake this stiff, mistaken woman who was so afraid of the power of her own emotions. If it were me who loved, she thought, I’d do the proverbial shouting from the rooftops. “It sounds to me as if you’ve politicized love to death.”
“As usual, we don’t agree, Victoria. We’ll see who leads a fulfilled life. You’re at the mercy of your emotions. Why, if you wanted to come out, which of course I feel you should, you would have an incredible amount of trouble dealing with it because you would go about it all wrong. You would probably never succeed in coming out at all. You’d fix on a person and then have to adjust to her being a woman, rather than choosing the way you wish to live and rationally finding the appropriate person with whom to share that life.”
“Come out?”
“It’s lesbian terminology. It means becoming a lesbian. It implies that all of us have homosexuality in us just waiting to ‘come out.’”
“I see. And why do you think I should come out? Have you caught me ogling women?”
“Be serious, Victoria. First of all, lesbians don’t ‘ogle’ women.”
“Why not? I’m beginning to think women are beautiful.”
“Secondly I, of course, feel that all women should come out. The more we support each other, the stronger we will be. The less we give to men the weaker they will be. It’s said that behind every great man there stands a woman. Well, it’s time to take the props out from under the supposedly great men, expose them for the weaklings they really are and free ourselves to realize our full potential.”<
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Rosemary has good ideas, Victoria thought. Very good ideas. If only she would let them live, express them without politics. “Your heart is in the right place, Rosemary, but you really shouldn’t reject its power.”
“The Power of the Heart. A good title for a poem. Will you write it or shall I?”
“Let’s both and compare.”
“By Thursday?”
“Midnight deadline. I’ll meet you in the laundry room and we’ll have a private reading.” Victoria’s eyes twinkled. “Unless you’re busy.”
Rosemary blushed. “I’ll thank you not to take my relationship lightly.”
“But Rosemary, don’t you think having a lover can be fun?”
“Sure she does,” said Claudia, emerging from her room with a full-sleeved silky blouse, which looked part of a cocktail outfit, under her overalls. “She won’t admit it to you, though, will you Rosie?” Rosemary blushed again. For once she was without words. “It will be, Rose, believe me,” Claudia winked and giggled, glancing quickly at Victoria who laughed back.
“Calm down, Rosemary, we mean well. Let’s drop it, all right? We’ll have it out in the duel.”
Claudia’s mouth opened and she arched her eyebrows. “What duel? Over who?”
“Thursday midnight in the laundry room,” Victoria said, swaggering as if there were pistols on her hips.
“A poetry duel, Claudia. The subject is the Power of the Heart.”
“That sounds romantic,” Claudia smiled seductively toward Rosemary.
Rosemary frowned. “Romance was not my intent,” she told Claudia.
Claudia looked mischeivously toward Rosemary.
“Mine will be full of romance, Claudia,” Victoria assured her, amused by their interplay. “I knew I’d find something exciting to do.”
“Are you going to write now? You’ll have a head start,” Rosemary complained.
“No. Don’t worry, Rosemary. I’m going for a walk around campus. For a fall day it feels an awful lot like spring. I need to be outside.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to come with us to hear some women poets?”
“No, thank you,” Victoria replied as she rose, thinking that she couldn’t stand more than one Rosemary at a time.
“Then we’ll stop by later.”
“All right. Let me know the result of your discussion.” Victoria stole an amused look at Claudia who shrugged before Rosemary had time to turn.
“We will, won’t we, Claudia?” Rosemary asked gravely.
Victoria closed the door as her two friends looked into one another’s eyes. Even more strangely excited than before she had visited them, she returned to her room for her camel’s hair coat, fastened her hair back from the last fall breezes, and strode briskly out of the dormitory.
* * * * *
Annie Heaphy woke before dawn and was seized with panic. Never could she stay beside the woman with whom she had slept. Always she had to flee before the other stirred unless she had been pinned down to a day’s plans. Even then she would find an excuse to escape temporarily: she would get the newspaper, or milk for breakfast. This morning, with Eleanor next to her still in her black shortie nightgown which looked sordid against the stark whiteness of her skin, Annie could think of nothing but how to get out. Eleanor had described herself as a light sleeper. Annie rolled slowly to the side of the bed. She stopped and held her breath, waiting to see if Eleanor had noticed. The woman did not move. As Annie looked at her she tried to recapture the stirrings of real affection she had felt for her last night. She felt only horror. The liquor they had drunk rose in her system and she tasted it. Her hands tingled as they did always after drinking. Her head was full of a dull ache. She needed something to get rid of the feeling. Sleep would do it, but no, she thought, the panic settling even deeper. No, no, no. I’ve got to get out. She reached one arm slowly to the pile of clothing she had discarded next to the bed. All of it but her underpants were within reach and she put them in one pile she could grab. Her shoes she remembered she had left in the living room. If only Rudy or George didn’t put them away somewhere out of sight. Could she go home in socks? What would she wear to work? What would Eleanor think when she found them or when Annie showed up at her door asking for them? Worse still, what if George or Rudy answered the door and she had to explain it to them?
She had to get hold of herself. She took a slow deep breath and slid out from underneath the covers to drop onto the floor. I should have gone in for guerrilla warfare, she told herself, slipping the brim of her cap between her teeth. In one movement, she took the pile of clothes in one hand and grabbed her underpants with the other, rising slowly, clownlike in her awkward stealth, toward the living room.
“Annie, where you all going?”
Annie jumped. She dropped her hat from her mouth and caught it between the two handfuls of clothing. “To the John, Ellie. Go back to sleep.” Hoping Eleanor had not opened her eyes enough to see that she was carrying her clothes Annie stood still, waiting.
“Mmmm. Come back quick, it’s cold.”
Annie did not want to lie and stood there in silence, hoping that Eleanor would just drop back to sleep. When there was no further sign of life, she moved slowly and softly out to the living room, dressed and did not stop until she sat at the counter of a twenty-four hour diner. “Tea,” she ordered, her back to the slowly lightening sky. “And two eggs over with home fries.”
“Bacon, honey?” the middle-aged, tired waitress asked.
“No. Thank you,” Annie smiled, feeling more herself from this contact with the waitress. “You look beat.”
“And ain’t I. This’ll be right out,” she said, handing it to the elderly cook.
Annie Heaphy ran her hand across the yellow fringe of hair that felt dirty under her cap. After this she would go home and shower. She looked at her watch. It had stopped and she set it by the diner clock, a small plastic alarm clock next to the iced tea dispenser. “Can I have a Coke?” she asked the waitress who moved swiftly for all her exhaustion. Annie fed the cold carbonation to her hangover and felt fresher for it. With some of her discomfort gone she hung her head into her hands to wait for the food and found herself drifting, half asleep, into a comfortable fantasy of a faceless woman. She swayed over her Coke, relishing the imagined feeling of being in love again. It disgusted her to think that she had slept with someone she didn’t love. “Crap,” she said very low. “Why do I do it?” The thought of Eleanor still repulsed her and she resolved not to think of her sexually anymore or she wouldn’t be able to face her later. “I should have gone home and read,” she whispered into her bubbling Coke. Again she closed her eyes and hummed silently to herself. Someone was playing Johnny Mathis songs on the jukebox and she lifted her head to glance at the only other customer in the diner. He was rail-thin, his unwashed hair hung into his eyes beneath a stained watch cap. Was he a homeless drifter? A local city creep, finished hustling for the night? Whoever he was, he snapped his fingers to the music, sharing whatever it meant to him with Annie. She shuddered in distaste, and asked herself, “Is this the kind of life I’m part of?”
Back in her car, she found a rock station on the radio, turned it up loud and roared off toward her shower. She drove fast along the street, its houses alternating, toward the end, between shack and summer home. Annie wished that she could afford one of the larger ornate homes. She sped toward the rising sun, and rolled down the window, hoping the still chill dawn air would help to clear her head. Passing the last house, she stopped beating time to the music on her steering wheel and enjoyed the austere beauty of the newly-stripped willows lining the curve. On the left she saw the beach, sand just touched with the light of the sun which sat at the edge of the horizon on the water, as if waiting for instructions. Annie Heaphy, feeling momentarily better, yelled through the wind her car made, “Come on up sun, I’m ready for you!”
High on this early disappearance of her hangover, she cut the engine and coasted into the dried mud driv
eway. She whistled as she jumped onto the small porch which would get screens only if summer people came. The inner door was still locked, not gaping as she had once found it, all her things ransacked before the would-be thieves were convinced there really wasn’t anything there. She locked it behind her and hooked it, tossing her hat onto the old school desk under the front window and sitting down in a sagging wooden-armed porch chair to take off her shoes. It was good to be home, but the house was so empty this morning it seemed to echo. Not even the foghorns sounded. She thought of the fear she had about coming home barefoot and was lost to depression again. How, she wondered, would she ever face Eleanor now that she had run away from her? Would she understand? Maybe I’ll stop by the restaurant sometime today, she thought. Apologize. Explain why I have to leave in the mornings. But I don’t know why. Could it be guilt of some sort? Am I afraid of getting entangled? Of getting hurt? She knew all the easy explanations, but she did not believe them.
Annie dropped her shoe and walked toward the tall tin box shoved into a corner of the bathroom that served as a shower, bunching her twice-worn clothing and stuffing it into the milk crate that was her hamper. It was overflowing. Have to get to the laundromat, she thought. Maybe I’ll do that tonight and skip the bars. Then she would not have to see Eleanor, or feel embarrassed in front of Turkey and Peg. As she adjusted the temperature of the shower she decided to clean the house, too. And to start reading the latest edition of The Ladder which she had not been home long enough to sit down and read since it came. Full of resolve, and clean, she shivered her way into her bedroom and fought with the knobless chest of drawers until the underwear drawer opened and she could dress.
A day in the life of a queer, she thought later, standing by her small kitchen window with a cup of tea. Is this what it’s going to be like the rest of my life? A night here and there with a woman I don’t really want to touch? Getting high to forget the purposelessness of my job, my life? Driving a cab for lack of anything better to do? Then she wondered why she was dissatisfied with driving the cab. It’s a perfectly respectable occupation, she thought as she always did when having this argument with herself. Helping people, in a way; performing a service. And I’m pretty free, except that I have to be there every day. And what would I do with myself if I didn’t have to drive? Go back to college? They don’t teach me anything I want to learn. Who cares what wars men wage against each other? Who cares about Shakespeare? Then she chuckled aloud, remembering the lines from The Tempest she had tacked up before dropping out of school. She reread them: “Let me not,/ Since I have my dukedom got,/ And pardoned the deceiver, dwell/ In this bare island by your spell,/ But release me from my bands/ With the help of your good hands.” These lines had meant much to her when Natalie returned from Spain so changed that Annie decided to transfer to a school in Connecticut where two neighborhood friends had gone. She found them living in the shack across from the beach. When they both moved back to Boston she quit school to add cabdriving to the bartending job she already had. The house had got a hold on her. Its isolation and closeness to the shore were something she had never experienced before. But since her roommates left, it was too empty, only reminding her of her own emptiness.