by Monica Nolan
Janet nodded as if Maxie had confirmed a piece of evidence. “She’s still listed as a trustee, despite being non compos mentis, which is quite improper,” Janet explained. “If you could get the court to appoint a sympathetic trustee to replace her, that trustee could argue that the other trustee—your mother—was contravening the intention of the trust by cutting off your allowance.”
“You mean I could get my allowance back?” Maxie was dazzled by the possibility.
“Don’t depend on it too much,” Janet cautioned. “And let me do a little more digging before we take it to court.”
Everything’s coming up roses, Maxie hummed to herself, as she headed back to the living room. If she got her allowance back, she wouldn’t fritter it away on taxicabs and cigarette girls—not all of it, anyway. She’d save it for the things that mattered: nice meals out, a new camera for Stella, some shoes, a bookkeeping class . . . Her mind ranged over the possibilities.
It was as if the Friday night crowd at Francine’s had packed themselves into Janet’s little apartment. Maxie inched along the wall, craning her neck in an effort to see who Louise was talking to. Was it Pamela? No, a stranger. Maxie turned away, disappointed.
Stella wormed her way to Maxie. “Some party!” Her eyes were bright with enjoyment, her hair curlier than ever from the humid heat. “There’s a bunch of us on the fire escape—come join us!”
“In a minute,” said Maxie. “I’m going to get some refreshment first.” She worried she might miss Pamela’s arrival, out on the fire escape. On the other hand, she didn’t want to look like she was lying in wait for her estranged girlfriend!
She headed down the hall to Janet’s tiny kitchen. A redhead was there, an apron over her white shirt and gray slacks as she set Phyllis’s hot-plate meatballs on a platter. For an instant she was a stranger, and then—
“Pamela!” The impetuous cry made the other girl whirl around, knocking the meatballs into the sink.
“Maxie!” the Junior Sportswear Buyer breathed. For an instant they ate each other up with their eyes, and then their arms were around each other, and Maxie felt the softness of Pam’s lips and the steady pulse of Pam’s heartbeat as they fit themselves into the familiar position, Maxie’s head tucked under Pamela’s chin. Greedily Maxie inhaled the scent of pinecones and mint. Was Pam thinner? She tipped her face back to look up at her steady. She’d gotten a haircut recently.
Pam was looking down at her, the same searching expression in her eyes. “I’ve missed you!” The same phrase burst from their lips almost simultaneously, and they both laughed. Pamela sobered immediately.
“Oh, Maxie, I was wrong—Lois told me how you’ve been working like a demon all these weeks—I’m never going to doubt you again!”
Trust Lois to give her a glowing report! “Did she tell you about my new job at Polish?” Maxie asked a little shyly.
Pamela’s arms tightened around her. “No—really? Oh, Maxie!” The words meant nothing special, but the tone was music to Maxie’s ears.
“I was wrong too,” she said, her heart swelling with emotion. “I’m not going to give you a moment’s uncertainty from now on, cross my heart and swear to God!” The thought of Lon crossed her mind, but she pushed it away. That interlude earlier this week had been an aberration. “No more visits to Kicksville!” she declared.
“I’m not going to dampen your natural vivacity with my dour predictions anymore,” Pamela told her earnestly.
“I’m going to give you the stability you deserve,” Maxie replied passionately.
Maxie could feel Pamela’s strength as she grasped her even more tightly. “These weeks without you have been hell!” she groaned, and the two girls kissed each other with a desperate hunger. Maxie wrapped herself around the junior executive like cellophane around a fruitcake.
“We’re keeping the partygoers from the food,” she panted.
Pamela pulled away from Maxie, but kept hold of her girlfriend’s arm. “Let’s squeeze ourselves out of this sardine can,” she said masterfully. “We’re going to my place!”
Chapter 16
Breakfast in Bed
Maxie rolled over to snuggle into Pam, but her hand felt only the empty pillow. Opening her eyes, she discovered she was alone. The room was empty.
“Pam?”
There was a clatter from the kitchen and the smell of sizzling bacon. “You stay in bed!” Pam’s voice ordered her.
Maxie sank back, luxuriating in the sensation of being pampered. After spoiling her with a night of unparalleled pleasure, Pamela was making her breakfast in bed! Her old girlfriend knew better than anyone how much Maxie hated to get up in the morning.
How could she have quarreled with such a wonderful girl? She never, never would again, Maxie vowed to herself for the fortieth time since last night.
She pulled up the green-and-blue plaid bedspread. In spite of June’s heat, there was a wonderful chill in the air. While they’d been separated, Pam had gotten an air-conditioning unit installed. If I’d known that, I would have been in an even bigger hurry to make up! Maxie thought.
“Ta-da!” Pam pushed open the door with her foot and entered, flushed and beaming, bearing a tray with coffee, orange juice, English muffins, scrambled eggs, and slices of crispy bacon.
“Here, have some cream.” Pamela set down the tray and poured the cream from the blue pitcher with a flourish.
“Real cream!” Maxie breathed, watching her coffee turn golden brown. The Magdalena Arms only served milk at breakfast. She thought of the powdered milk concoction the Summer Recreation Program kids were drinking at the Eleanor Roosevelt School and felt a fleeting pang of conscience.
“Scootch over,” Pamela ordered, climbing back into bed with Maxie. She lit a cigarette and picked up her own cup of coffee, which she drank black. Pamela must have run to the corner grocery that morning for the cream, Maxie realized, or had she known, as Maxie had, that their passionate reunion at the party was as inevitable as firecrackers on the Fourth of July?
“Have a bite?” Maxie invited, holding out the toasted English muffin she’d buttered and slathered with strawberry jam.
“You know I never eat breakfast.” But Pamela bent to lick a spot of jam from the corner of Maxie’s mouth. “Well—just a taste.”
“Silly!” Maxie munched her muffin contentedly. It was like falling in love all over again. Their three-week separation had done both of them a world of good, she thought. They had each matured, gotten a new perspective on life, learned to see the other person’s point of view. Why, the new air-conditioning unit was proof of that, if nothing else was!
Last night their words had overlapped and intertwined even as their bodies had, as they both confessed their unabated passion for each other in incoherent snatches. “We’ve got a connection, Maxie,” Pamela had panted, shedding her white shirt, “that just won’t be broken!” As she spoke, the junior executive was pressing all the old buttons with the sure touch of an expert piano tuner working on a favorite concert grand. And nearly naked Maxie had to agree: “You’re the girl for me, Pam,” she choked out. “I can’t stop myself from coming back for more!” The newly appointed magazine assistant had thought then of how salmon swim upstream to mate, thrusting themselves out of the water, leaping over obstacles, higher, and higher—
“Cold?” Pamela asked with tender concern as Maxie shivered a little in delicious remembrance.
“No, it’s perfect here,” said Maxie. “I still can’t believe you finally broke down and got air-conditioning!”
“It wasn’t so expensive after all,” said Pamela, naming a sum that sounded extravagant to Maxie. “That included installation,” she added, laughing at Maxie’s shocked expression. “Why, Maxie, I believe you’ve finally learned the value of a dollar!”
Her remark reminded Maxie of the last time she’d been in this apartment, and the bill she’d torn in half. She wondered if Pam was thinking of it too. But Pam continued more seriously, “And you’ve proved you
know how to work hard as well. Lois told me all about your stint as a Recreational Aide. I even went by one day last week, looking for you. When they told me you weren’t working there anymore, I—well, I just assumed you’d quit.” Pamela dropped her head in shame. “It wasn’t until I saw Lois the other day that she told me how you got booted out for the boss’s niece. Then I realized I’d misjudged you yet again.”
The words were as sweet as the jam on Maxie’s muffin. “We have lots to catch up on,” she murmured. “I want to hear everything you’ve been doing and tell you everything I’ve been doing! Every single thing!”
“It’s a darned shame the Parks and Rec department did that to you,” Pamela continued hotly. “Did you at least file a complaint? You really should!”
“There’s no need,” said Maxie hastily. “I’ve got the Polish job.” The true reason for her sudden departure from the Summer Recreation Program for Disadvantaged Youth was not one of the things she wanted to tell Pamela, as it turned out.
The mention of Polish distracted her ambitious girlfriend. “Maxie, I’m so proud of you.” Pamela’s voice practically throbbed with emotion. “Working at Polish! One of the top magazines in the city! Why, it’s the pinnacle of almost anyone’s publishing ambitions!”
Maxie waved her hand dismissively, all the while lapping up the praise as a kitten laps up cream. “I was mostly hired for my social connections, you know. Hal Hapgood seemed to think it would make up for my deficient typing skills!”
“Who cares how you got in the door?” said her practical girlfriend. “What matters is, you’re in! And you’ll be writing copy in no time, I bet. Look at your Step Stool piece!”
Maxie squirmed slightly. Stella had rewritten her gay little story so thoroughly she’d barely recognized it when it finally appeared in print. “I’m not so sure of that.” She tried to laugh off Pamela’s misguided praise. “Hal Hapgood said I’d have to turn my hand to anything that came along. And, really, that kind of appeals—”
“Once he sees your talent, he’ll change his mind,” Pamela insisted. “Now that you’ve finally found your focus, you’ll move up faster than an express elevator!”
Had she found her focus? Was her career finally fixed and moving ahead like a train on a track? Maxie threw a pillow playfully at Pamela. “Oh, you—you’ll have me running the magazine in a month!” She was tempted to point out that only a few weeks ago Pamela had been pushing her toward Grunemans’ packing room, but she stopped herself. She had resolved not to fight with Pamela anymore.
They drifted to the kitchen, talking of Grunemans’ upcoming summer sale, Janet’s party and prospects, and the latest gossip about the gang. Maxie offered to do the dishes, eager to show off some of the new skills she’d been learning. “Doing dishes in a fully equipped kitchen is a cinch after the bathroom dish-washing techniques Phyllis has been showing me,” she insisted over Pamela’s protest.
“Have you ever heard of Amalgamated Enterprises?” she asked, her thoughts reverting to her job destiny as she soaped the china.
Pamela shook her head. “Why do you ask?”
“I met a woman who’s a big muckety-muck there—Velma Lindqvist—and—”
Pamela had been tilting back in the kitchen chair, blowing smoke rings, but now she came upright with a thump. “Velma Lindqvist! I’ve heard of her. She’s got her own personal salesgirl at Grunemans—she’s always picking up something for the Children’s Hospital Benefit, or the Poolside Picnics Fund-raiser. She came to Bay City a few months ago, bent on making a big splash in the society pages. Quite a looker, for a woman her age, too.” Her eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. “How did you happen to meet her?”
“A mutual friend.” Maxie decided not to mention Elaine’s name. And she’d better not ask if Pamela had picked up on any gossip on Velma’s possible variance! “I applied for a job at Amalgamated Enterprises.” That was the truth, she thought, scrubbing a skillet industriously, if not the whole truth.
Pamela relaxed. “Speaking of fund-raisers,” she said, “why don’t you come with me to the Step Stool meeting Thursday? We’re planning an ice-cream social to raise money for the next issue.”
“Fine by me,” Maxie agreed. “Unless I have to work late, of course.” After all, she, too, now had a job that demanded her time.
“We can pick up Lois, and maybe get a bite to eat beforehand,” Pamela planned.
“Lois?” Maxie wrung out the dishrag and hung it up. “I didn’t realize you’d shanghaied her—I mean, that she’d gotten interested in The Step Stool.”
“I took her to a meeting a week ago. Poor kid.” Pamela sighed. “She needs distraction. She’s getting thin from brooding over Netta.”
Maxie felt a pang of guilt. She’d been so preoccupied with her own problems, she hadn’t paid much attention to the young office manager. Now she realized that Lois had been down in the dumps for weeks. Even her Automated Office class hadn’t cheered her.
“She’s been eating her heart out since the last letter.” Pamela shook her head. “Sometimes I wonder if . . . well, if Netta’s developed another interest!”
“No!” Maxie leaned against the sink. “You mean one of the other voting rights volunteers?” She considered the idea, and shook her head vigorously. “Netta may share a political passion with her fellow workers, but she’s not fickle, like me.” She faltered and continued quickly, “I mean, like I used to be. Netta and Lois are solid, I’d swear to it. It’s just the strain of the separation.”
“I hope you’re right.” Pamela stubbed out her cigarette.
“I’m sure if Netta knew how Lois was suffering, she’d leave those Negroes to fend for themselves and head home like a shot,” Maxie declared.
“Of course, I have all the respect in the world for Netta and her convictions,” said Pamela, following her own train of thought.
“Yes, of course,” agreed Maxie. She was thinking how awkward it would be for Dolly and Stella if Netta did return to the Magdalena Arms unexpectedly.
“This country needs people of conviction; I’ve always said that,” Pamela declared.
“Yes,” said Maxie, wondering who Pamela was arguing with. She wanted to ask Pam if she thought Dolly and Stella might be more than business partners, but that would have meant explaining their “Around the World, Through the Seasons” photo project, and Pamela had never approved of Dolly’s art-photo sideline. Maxie sighed. She admired Pamela’s moral certainty, but it certainly interfered with gossip.
“Oh!” she said as she remembered the juiciest tidbit of all. “I forgot to tell you, I found out all about Kitty Coughlin, and I was right—she’s not a psychology student at all! She’s a supposed ‘sociologist’ and she’s doing a book on Bay City deviants!” Maxie described to the astounded Pamela her impromptu tailing of her fifth-floor neighbor and how it had led her to Sociological Survey Editions.
“The book is going to be called The Coral Reef: Bay City’s Deviant Community,” Maxie told Pamela triumphantly. “The cover line is ‘Floating just below the surface, ready to wreck an unwitting society!’ ”
Pamela frowned. “Lois mentioned Kitty once or twice,” she said. “But I had no idea there was anything suspect about her. You’d better steer clear of that sleazologist.”
“Maybe if we all talked to her,” Maxie argued, “we could get her to change her book’s tune.” She’d always preferred meddling to a hands-off attitude.
Pamela shook her head decisively. “More likely you’d find some twisted version of yourselves in her book. Not that you’d ever read it, of course.”
Maxie thought that while she certainly wouldn’t approve of such a book, it might make interesting reading.
“Mrs. DeWitt must be turning senile, putting someone like that on the fifth floor,” Pamela continued heatedly. “Is nothing sacred these days? First Francine’s and now this!”
“Mrs. D. does her best,” Maxie excused, thinking of the aging landlady’s patience with her penniless tenant. “As
for Francine’s, I’ve been thinking we should try to convince Mrs. Flicka to pay up.” Maxie warmed to the subject, which had been on her mind after the nervous evening she’d spent at her old hangout. “After all, Francine’s only objection is the exorbitant prices the new mob is charging. She’s like Mrs. DeWitt—she doesn’t take inflation into account, and she thinks you can still buy a sergeant for twenty dollars a week. Honestly!”
“How do you know all this?” Pamela asked, frowning.
“Oh—someone at Janet’s party was talking about it.” Maxie didn’t want to tell Pamela about the visits she’d made to the Knock Knock Lounge, sniffing around for information.
“I would never encourage anyone to pay protection money.” Pamela was stern.
“Then we should find out who’s behind the shakedown,” Maxie suggested. “I got quite a bit of practice tailing Kitty—”
“Who are you going to tail?” Pamela’s skepticism was apparent.
“Well, I—I know a girl who saw a cop taking a payoff. And she can identify the—the person who did the paying off. Now, say we followed this person and they led us to the mob boss. Then—”
“Then what?” Pamela prompted.
“Well, at least we’d know!” Maxie persisted. Wasn’t knowledge power? They’d figure out the next step once they knew.
Pamela was shaking her head again. “Your friend sounds rash and impulsive. She’s bound to get into trouble if she tries to play PI.” Her voice took on that familiar lecturing tone. “The homophile movement has spent years fighting the pervasive myth that variant women are inevitably drawn to crime. It is the duty of every Sapphic sister to be extra law-abiding.”
Pamela seemed to have forgotten that Maxie had herself dozed through similar sermons on the subject. “The last thing any of us wants is to see some misguided girl spattered across the headlines in some sordid underworld affair.” Pam continued, becoming more impassioned, “Your Mamie McArdle was awfully fond of that sort of thing. Gosh, I’m glad you’re not working for her anymore!”
Maxie wanted to rise to her old mentor’s defense, but held her peace. She and Pamela had never seen eye to eye on Mamie.