Maxie Mainwaring, Lesbian Dilettante

by Monica Nolan

  “. . . so we have a shortfall of a hundred and thirty-nine dollars, which is better than last month,” the serious Step Stool editor said. “In fact, we might have been in the black if the old Electromatic hadn’t conked out.”

  Maxie spotted Pamela and Lois on the other side of the room. Lois returned Maxie’s wave, but all of Pamela’s attention was trained on Louise.

  “Let’s hear your ideas,” their leader continued. “How can we make up the difference?”

  Maxie decided not to bother squeezing through the crowd to join her girlfriend. She’d missed most of the meeting, and it would end soon anyway. She worked her way to the back of the crowd and found a seat on the corner of Stella’s desk. “Hi,” whispered the features editor.

  Martie Schub had been recognized and was standing up. “We could easily make up that amount, and more, by raising our rates,” she said argumentatively.

  “But our subscribers—”

  “Point of order!” Martie said. “Let me finish . . .”

  Maxie’s thoughts drifted away, like a leaf in a current. It wasn’t just that she’d heard the well-worn arguments, pro and con, about raising The Step Stool’s subscription rates many times before. She was still preoccupied with the puzzle of what had brought her society-minded mother to Pete’s pawnshop!

  She’d pressed Pete to tell her about his recent customer. But the pawnbroker had played dumb. Even when Maxie spotted her mother’s butterfly brooch in the glass cabinet, Pete simply shrugged his shoulders and said lots of ladies needed to raise a little cash.

  Of course it was laughable, the idea that Mabel Mainwaring needed money! And if she did, Maxie thought practically, she’d do much better hocking the Mainwaring diamonds.

  Yet hadn’t Mamie suggested back in May that the Mainwaring family was short on funds, and that was the real reason Maxie had lost her allowance?

  Ridiculous! the heiress had told herself as she left the pawnshop, having completely forgotten the original purpose of her visit.

  Back in the office, she’d persuaded Hal to take her along on the polo-field photo shoot that afternoon—knowing full well this special favor would only add to Lucille’s grudge against the second assistant. But Maxie had to find her father, and see what he knew about her mother’s odd behavior.

  Dad had been easy to find, standing on the edge of the field watching the polo team practice. “How’s my little alfafa sprout?” he said absently, when his daughter greeted him. Maxie wondered if he was aware of her banishment. Her father had always preferred ponies to people.

  Behind her, Hal and the photographer were discussing the best angle to capture Horacio Enrique’s appeal. “I want him to be a centaur,” Maxie heard Hal saying excitedly. “Something out of Greek mythology!”

  “How’s Mumsy, Daddy?” Maxie asked her father.

  “Fine, pumpkin,” her father murmured. His eyes followed Horacio Enrique as he galloped past on a sweat-streaked pony.

  Maxie tried again. “I know she was a little upset by that misunderstanding we had in May.” She chose her words carefully. “Has she been acting at all . . . odd, lately?”

  Maxie’s father shook his finger playfully in Maxie’s face. “I know what you’re up to, muffin!”

  “You do?”

  “You think you can get your allowance back if you convince some judge that Mother’s as mad as Aunt Alta. Really, kitten, did you expect me to play along?”

  That had been all she could get out of the Mainwaring patriarch. Maybe everything was hunky-dory at home, but would her father notice if it wasn’t? With him it was ponies, ponies, ponies. He knows his horses’ names by heart, but can he even remember mine? his daughter asked herself bitterly.

  With an effort, Maxie tuned back to the meeting. The Step Stoolers were still debating the subscription rates. “Six dollars may not seem like much to some people here.” June’s voice brimmed with resentment. “And all I can say is that if that’s the case, you’re to be congratulated! But some of us aren’t so fortunate, and an increase of even two dollars would be a real hardship!”

  Maxie had been thinking about cost all afternoon—the cost of the Mainwaring way of living, which she’d never questioned before. She penciled some estimates in the back of her budget book. Why, the polo ponies alone meant the expense of stabling, feed, trainers, grooms, equipment—and that didn’t even take into account the amount her father gambled! The idea that the Mainwaring fortune was threatened seemed less unthinkable.

  But how could it be saved by pawning a butterfly brooch?

  “Maxie!” Stella whispered, pulling the distracted girl back to the present. “Maxie, you’re up!”

  Maxie had forgotten all about getting herself on the agenda for this meeting. But now Louise was looking at her quizzically. “Maxie, you wanted to present something?”

  “Yes.” Maxie stood up and collected herself. She’d planned this presentation and had even brought props. She wasn’t going to let Mumsy’s strange behavior discombobulate her!

  “I’ve been kicking around some thoughts about The Step Stool, and I’d like to share them with you,” she began. “Of course, we all agree that The Step Stool is a superlative example of homophile reporting.” Maxie didn’t point out that it was the only example. “But that doesn’t mean it can’t be improved, does it?” She looked around hopefully, and then plowed on, despite the unencouraging expression on Louise’s face. “I think The Step Stool could use an update—something to bring it into the modern age. We could start with the name—”

  “You want to rename The Step Stool?” Louise bristled.

  Maxie stuck to her guns. “Doesn’t the name Step Stool strike any of you as, well, rather unambitious? I mean,” Maxie hurried on, “If we really want to ‘help reach a higher place,’ wouldn’t a stepladder make more sense?”

  “Or one of those funny things the fellows in the supermarket use to get goods from the high-up shelves,” suggested June helpfully.

  “My idea is we leave behind those homely associations with hardware stores altogether. I give you,” Maxie paused dramatically, “. . . Ascend!”

  She held up the newsletter cover mock-up she’d put together in Polish’s art department, with some help from a friendly illustrator. There was a gratifying murmur.

  “Or maybe, Ascension!” It was June again, still trying to be helpful.

  “Another idea I had was Vista.” Maxie ignored June. “But whatever our choice, I think the name change would let our readers know that our ambitions are growing, that we’re not mired in the past—”

  “I think it’s a super idea!” The vote of confidence came from Stella.

  “I don’t,” said Louise flatly. “It would confuse our readers. And I happen to like the old name!”

  “Maxie’s right, we need to be more ambitious in achieving our goals!” This came from a new recruit named Valerie, who burned with revoutionary zeal. “The time for appeasement is over!”

  A dozen voices were raised in response. “Be practical!” shouted Donnie over the hubbub. “A change like that would be costly—purchasing new stationery and whatnot—and we’re still trying to balance our budget!”

  “Point of order!” proclaimed Martie. “I second the motion to change the newsletter’s name—”

  “It wasn’t an official motion!”

  “—and add the amendment that we take this opportunity to also raise the rates!”

  “Move to table the discussion until next month!” Louise was clearly at the end of her tether.

  “Second!” chorused Donnie and Pamela. Well! thought Maxie resentfully. Not a word about Ascend, but you’re ready enough to second Louise!

  “Better luck next time,” sympathized Stella, as Louise closed the meeting and the girls began chattering and helping themselves to the tin of butter cookies and supply of soft drinks. Maxie’s eyes were on Pamela, who was working her way through the crowd. “Thanks for speaking up for me,” she couldn’t help saying sarcastically, as Pamel
a leaned over to kiss her cheek.

  Pamela pulled back. “You’ve been in publishing for how long and already you’re an expert?” She paused, the way she did whenever she was restraining sharp words. “There are practical problems that have to be considered,” she said in the patient voice that made Maxie’s blood boil.

  “I’m well aware of the practical problems,” Maxie said between gritted teeth. “I just don’t think they’re as insurmountable as you do.”

  “I’m not saying the idea doesn’t have possibilities.” The business girl chose her words carefully. “But what with the shortfall and the upcoming ice-cream social, do we really want to spend time on cosmetic changes, like the newsletter’s name?”

  It was lucky that Louise called to the veteran Step Stooler just then, or Maxie might have boiled over!

  “The old-timers are kind of overcautious.” Stella had overheard the whole exchange. “We’ll just have to wait until we’ve got enough adventurous types, like Val, to outvote them. Then Vista, here we come!”

  Maxie looked at Pam, in a self-important confab with Louise and Donnie, and wondered how she’d ever summon the patience for such a long-term plan. “I’d almost rather start my own magazine,” she muttered.

  Stella laughed, and Maxie relaxed a little. Valerie came over and handed the deflated girl a cookie and a Coke. “I’m so glad you spoke tonight,” she said in her earnest way. “Change is blowing in the wind, while those three”—she nodded disdainfully at the triumvirate—“are writing persnickety articles about pants!”

  Maxie knew she should defend Pam, but she basked in the political girl’s approval. Pam hadn’t even thought to bring her a beverage!

  “If you do start your magazine, I’ll write for you,” Stella proposed, after Valerie went for more cookies.

  “I’d hire you in a second—you’ve got a way with words,” Maxie told her, thinking of how the features editor had transformed her article.

  “Do you really think so?” Stella looked suddenly shy. “I’ve always aspired to be an author—photography is just a hobby.”

  “Have you written anything?” Maxie asked absentmindedly. “I mean, besides for The Step Stool?” Pamela and Louise were chuckling over something on the other side of the room.

  “I’ve finished my first novel,” Stella confided. “I don’t know if you’d be interested in reading it. . . .”

  “I’d love to,” Maxie said automatically, her eyes on her girlfriend.

  “Really?” Stella looked ecstatic. “I’ve been wanting to ask you—you have so much experience, what with working for Mamie and now Polish. Are you sure?” She pulled out her desk drawer and took out a thick brown-paper-wrapped package. “It’s all ready to send out, but I didn’t know where to send it!”

  “I’d be happy to help you.” It was nice to be treated as an expert, instead of an ignoramus. At least Stella appreciated her!

  The magazine assistant took the package and departed for the Arms. She needed a night off from Pam—not even her girlfriend’s air-conditioning would cool her temper tonight!

  The Arms seemed smaller and dingier to Maxie after so many nights at Pam’s place, and the heat was oppressive as she mounted the stairs. The assistant grew even more irritated at her exasperating girlfriend, for choosing such a hot night to be so provoking!

  The distant tapping of a typewriter told Maxie that Kitty was hard at work again. As she reached the fifth-floor corridor she could hear the loud rattle and bang of the carriage return. Maxie tightened her lips. Really! Enough was enough!

  She knocked imperiously on room 502 and, without waiting for an answer, flung open the door. Kitty was seated at the desk, clad only in a filmy white nightgown. Stripped of her Peter Pan collar, the nearly transparent material revealing the mature woman underneath, her college-girl pretense seemed more farcical than ever.

  “Are you going to be typing all night?” Maxie demanded as Kitty jumped and turned toward her.

  “I’m awfully sorry,” the pseudo-student apologized. “I have a paper due on stimulus-response in lab mice—”

  “Save the applesauce!” Maxie interrupted. “I’ve eaten it until I’m sick of it. You’re not enrolled in school, and you’re not typing any paper!”

  Kitty recoiled, covering her typewriter protectively as Maxie continued, “I’ve known your real game for weeks—digging up salacious stories to titillate the ignorant public, when what’s really needed is an honest account of gay life!”

  “Have you told anyone else?” Kitty gasped.

  “Not yet.” Maxie seated herself on Kitty’s bed and lit a cigarette in a leisurely fashion, while the unmasked girl swiveled nervously to face her. “What’s your motivation, Kitty? You don’t seem the type to write this sleazy stuff.”

  “We all have to live.” Kitty defended herself. “You should know that.”

  “So you’re just in it for the money? I’m willing to wager something else drew you to this topic—something deep inside you that you can’t deny!”

  The rise and fall of Kitty’s barely concealed breasts quickened as Maxie sent her a smoldering glance. Moonlight filtering through the window made the sleaze writer’s skin glow with a pearly luminosity. “I’m just a social scientist,” the scantily clad girl gulped. “I’m merely here to observe and report.”

  The room was heavy with heat and repressed desire, and Maxie knew she’d struck a nerve. “I can help you out or I can hinder you,” she declared, deciding to leverage the mixture of lust and alarm emanating from the conflicted writer. “If you play ball and include some upstanding, well-balanced lesbian ladies in your book, all well and good. But if you limit your observations to alcoholics and frustrated housewives, I’ll put the lid on your so-called research!”

  “Are you threatening me?” Kitty asked. “This kind of intimidation is against the law, you know!”

  “Call it a trade.” Maxie was suddenly tired of toying with her repressed neighbor. She rose. “And if you’re still typing after midnight, I’m complaining to Mrs. DeWitt!”

  She closed the door behind her, and to her relief, the tippy-tapping did not resume. She unlocked 505 and switched on the light. There was a piece of paper on the floor, and Maxie picked it up. It was a message from Dolly, scrawled on Magdalena Arms stationery.

  9:30 p.m. Her majesty your mother called—

  demands your presence at Loon Lake Fourth

  of July weekend. Call her tomorrow.

  Chapter 19

  Loon Lake

  Maxie was packing for Loon Lake. Hal hadn’t wanted to give her the time off, but Maxie had soothed him with the promise of society gossip, assuring him, “All sorts of powerful people are going to be there—you wouldn’t want me to miss it!”

  In truth, it was Maxie who couldn’t miss this opportunity to ask her mother a few casual questions about pawnshops and butterfly brooches.

  Maxie went to the fifth-floor washroom to gather her toothbrush and toiletries. Kitty was there, washing out her underwear. The second assistant had thought the unmasked sleazeologist would avoid her, but Kitty looked up and brightened.

  “I’ve been thinking about your suggestions for my—project.” She lowered her voice when she said “project.” “Why don’t I interview you? You’re an excellent example of a well-adjusted deviant.”

  Maxie was taken aback, both by the unexpected approach and the flattering characterization.

  “I’d want to know especially about your relationship with your mother,” Kitty continued earnestly. “Whatever you may think, I truly want to get to the root of deviancy!”

  “Maybe,” Maxie temporized. She might have added that she was just as curious about her mother as Kitty was. “I’ll think about it over the weekend.”

  Lois was in Maxie’s room when she returned, putting a package on the busy girl’s bureau. “Your sun lotion,” she said.

  “Thanks loads, Lois.” Maxie tucked the tube into her toiletries bag.

  Lois sat on the bed
, sighing, “You’re lucky to get away this weekend. The temperature is supposed to climb to the nineties!”

  “I know,” said Maxie. She was glad to get out of the city, not just to escape the heat wave, but to get some perspective on herself and Pamela. She picked up Stella’s manuscript, still in its wrapping, and wedged it in her bag.

  “At least it’s not too humid.” Lois tried to look on the bright side. “Netta says her little town is like a swamp!”

  “Goodness, Lois,” Maxie couldn’t help saying, “that’s no kind of place for a vacation!”

  “The important thing is that we’ll be together,” Lois said loyally.

  Maxie thought about Lois’s devotion as she settled herself on the Loon Lake–bound bus. Lois would be a better candidate than Maxie for Kitty’s study, the ex-deb admitted. She was the most well-balanced member of the fifth-floor gang.

  On the other hand, I’ve improved quite a bit, the magazine girl thought, watching the familiar landmarks flash by. It was odd seeing them from the bus instead of the family Oldsmobile, but they hadn’t changed. There was the farm, which meant they’d left the city behind; there was the neon-lit roadhouse that had fascinated Maxie as a child; there was the turnoff to Lake Ulm, where they’d always stopped for lunch.

  Yes, she’d definitely changed for the better, Maxie decided, remembering the bored and sullen child she’d been, the restless teenager, the debutante with a passion for danger. Sure, she’d quit one job, lost another, and was currently in Hal’s bad books, but she’d managed to make it on her own for more than a month!

  She even enjoyed munching the leftover roast beef, saved from a Polish lunch meeting, instead of eating a restaurant meal her parents had paid for. Better a stale sandwich by myself than a turkey club, with Mumsy as company!

  Of course, she still liked luxury, she thought, dusting off her “uncrushable” seersucker shift and climbing in the Olds Mumsy had sent to meet her at the bus station in Illiniwek. It was pleasant to lean back in the air-conditioned car while the chauffeur stowed her overnight case in the trunk. To know that when she arrived at the cabin, Sigrid would press her party dress; that her meals would be made and her dishes washed. She could sleep as late as she liked without missing breakfast!