A Thin Bright Line

by Lucy Jane Bledsoe

  “I can’t wait to meet your friends.”

  “I’m so glad you’re feeling better.”

  Dorothy didn’t speak for a long time. Then she said, “The saddest part is I don’t think I ever actually loved her. I was glad to have found someone. I told myself I loved her. I wanted to love her. It was more like”—Dorothy laughed—“like Beverly said, a good situation.”

  “Apparently not that good.”

  “Apparently not. You never really loved Stella either, did you?”

  “Actually I did.”

  “She had a whole life without you. So does Geneviève, without me. We were both delusional.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “I am right,” Dorothy said. “There’s no such thing as a healthy relationship for us.”

  “That can’t be true. What about Beverly and Ruthie? They love each other.”

  Dorothy made a face. “Spare me. There’s no room for slippage there. They feel so, I don’t know, tight.”

  “Ball and chain.”

  “Exactly. No, it just isn’t possible. If you can’t live openly, the relationship gets poisoned. You’re right to live a life of the mind. To write your novel. That’s the way to handle who we are. Find a way to sublimate the feelings.”

  “I didn’t know you were being analyzed,” Lucybelle teased.

  “Ha. I would go for it if I thought I could afford the treatment.”

  “You sound like you hate being a lesbian.”

  Dorothy shuddered. “I hate that word.”

  It did sound rather slimy, like a species of slug.

  “I’m napping,” Lucybelle said. “I bet the boys will want to go out tonight.”

  “Out? Where?”

  “You’ll love everyone. You’ll fit right in, just like you did in Pocahontas.”

  “From Pocahontas to Greenwich Village. That’s one stretch.”

  Lucybelle snorted.

  “You’re a brave woman, Lucybelle Bledsoe.”

  “Only my mother gets to call me that.”

  “Your mother and me.”

  New Year’s Eve 1961

  Wesley sat in his armchair, his satin face mask strapped across his eyes, and thick, padded headphones over his ears, listening to his Renaissance music.

  Harry pulled one of the rounded headphones away from Wesley’s ear and shouted, “Get up. You’re coming to dinner.”

  Wesley didn’t respond.

  Harry pushed the face mask up onto his boyfriend’s forehead. “I scored New Year’s Eve reservations at Lutèce. I’ve laid out your tux.”

  Wesley squinted at the light. “No.”

  Harry hadn’t mentioned the agoraphobia when Lucybelle called to say that she and Dorothy were coming to New York and he begged them to stay at their place. Wesley had always been a bit antisocial, but in the past six days he hadn’t left the house once. Surely his condition was aggravated by the two women moving into his study during their visit. He’d moved his operation, the chair and stereo and entire record collection, to the front room, and so while he wasn’t willing to go out, it was impossible to enjoy staying in, since he took up so much space, both physical and psychic, in the small apartment. L’Forte’s presence made everything worse. If he so much as scratched a paw on the carpet, Wesley nearly gagged, as if the dog were vermin. Yesterday, on their third morning in the apartment, Lucybelle had taken Harry aside and told him they would move to a hotel. She hated causing more stress for the couple. He adamantly refused and she realized that their visit was a badly needed respite for him.

  Wesley’s illness had taken a big bite out of Harry’s trademark affability. During their meals out, he talked incessantly about the symptoms and his efforts to relieve them, discussing Wesley as if he were one of his patients rather than his boyfriend. Lucybelle was sorry to see Harry, a man who’d always had unfailing good cheer, brought down by Wesley’s diminishing world and increasing phobias.

  After they finished their coffee and dessert at Lutèce, Harry hailed a cab and they rode down to the Village. So far they’d seen two Broadway shows and been to the Metropolitan Museum, the Museum of Modern Art, and the Natural History Museum. They’d gone to the top of the Empire State Building and to the viewing deck of the stock exchange. Harry was an excellent tour guide, and Dorothy nearly vibrated with the thrill of New York. She was entirely charmed by their big, sophisticated host, and even, Lucybelle suspected, enjoyed the drama in the men’s home.

  “The Page Three,” Harry announced, holding open the club door for the women. He and Lucybelle grinned at each other. Oh, she had missed the city.

  The place was packed for the holiday, but a group was just getting up from a table and Harry grabbed the backs of two emptied chairs. “Sit. I’ll get drinks.”

  “I don’t know,” Dorothy said as her eyes adjusted to the darkened club. She didn’t sit. “Should we be here?”

  “Why not?”

  “What kind of place is this?”

  They’d had cocktails and wine with dinner, and Lucybelle felt warm and loose. She enjoyed watching Dorothy’s big appetite handle this meal. She said, “Welcome to your life.”

  “Not mine.”

  “Oh, come on. What are you saying?”

  “We both have jobs with the government. I don’t think we should.”

  Harry set two martinis down on the small table. “Dorothy, my love, sit. I’ll just go fetch mine, and another chair, and be right back.”

  “It makes me uncomfortable,” Dorothy said as he left again. “Those two women over there—if they both even are women—are kissing.”

  “Lucky them.” Lucybelle lifted her martini. “To kissing.”

  Dorothy had that bursting appearance again, as if she just couldn’t contain herself, and Lucybelle laughed out loud. “And to 1962, may it bring us happiness.”

  “To happiness,” Dorothy acceded and took a gulp of her martini. “Holy cow, do you know that woman? She’s walking this way, looking at you like you’re her long lost . . . something.”

  Clare wore a black beret, a black turtleneck sweater, a purple velvet vest, and tight black pants. She’d replaced her burgundy velvet satchel with an even bigger lavender brocade one. Lucybelle stood and embraced her, surprised at how pleased she was to see her. She smelled faintly like pine needles.

  Clare thrust a hand at Dorothy’s chest. “So happy to meet your lover.”

  Lucybelle expected an emphatic correction from Dorothy, but after another large gulp of her martini, she just smiled her beautiful, gap-toothed smile.

  “You’re a lucky woman,” Clare added, her tone suggesting intimate knowledge of just how lucky. “She owes me, you know. She once stole a photograph from me.”

  “It’s a picture of Willa Cather,” Lucybelle told Dorothy. “She gave it to me.”

  “Not exactly. When you refused to return it—went so far as to lie about losing it—I let you have it.”

  Dorothy’s alarmed look blinked back on.

  “How are Helen and Serena?”

  “Never see them anymore. Married. Boring.”

  “Charles?”

  “She’s right over there.” Clare nodded at the bar. “I’ll go get her. I know she’d love to say hi. Oh, here she comes.”

  Harry had Charles, who was decked out in a red satin dress, hosiery, and a red pillbox hat with a black lace veil, on his arm.

  “Oh my goodness,” Dorothy whispered.

  “I’ll find chairs,” Clare said, but she didn’t move away from the table.

  “Oh, my darling Lucy.” Charles gave her a big smack right on the lips, leaving a smudge of cherry lipstick. “I’m so happy to see you. The place has gone entirely downhill since you left. No one holds a candle to your style.”

  “My style?” Lucybelle laughed. “It’s nonexistent.”

  “That’s what you think. You’re the real deal, honey. That’s the whole point of you. I need all of this.” Charles flourished a hand through the air, from the top
of his head down to his feet. “But you’ve got those self-styled blond curls, no-nonsense frock, and smart-girl glasses. All you need is a pencil behind your ear. It all just makes you so unique and—”

  “Stop while you’re ahead,” Harry said.

  Lucybelle laughed again and told Charles, “You certainly look beautiful tonight.”

  “Thank you! If I can’t have fun on New Year’s Eve, when can I?”

  “Agreed!” Dorothy tossed out bravely.

  She was trying, Lucybelle had to hand her that.

  “I’d stay and talk,” Charles stage-whispered, “but I have a date.” He gestured toward the bar and winked. “Happy New Year, girls!”

  “Wow,” Lucybelle said as he sashayed back to the man at the bar. “I guess he’s left Alabama far behind.”

  “We’ve all changed,” Harry said and sighed.

  “How long have you two been together?” Clare asked.

  “Actually,” Dorothy said. “We’re both single.”

  “Oh!” Clare said happily.

  Lucybelle wished Dorothy had let the misperception stand.

  “I’m going to leave you girls,” Harry said, draining his cocktail and standing up. He didn’t like to leave Wesley alone for long. Clare quickly took his seat.

  “We better go too,” Dorothy said.

  “I like your smile,” Clare told her.

  “Gosh, I wish more guys did!”

  “Dorothy!”

  She stomped on Lucybelle’s foot under the table.

  Clare assumed a smug look, like she now knew everything there was to know about both Lucybelle and Dorothy. She swung her lavender brocade satchel into her lap and began digging through it, as if looking for the right recruiting pamphlet.

  “We should go,” Dorothy said again.

  “It’s almost midnight. Celebrate with me.” Clare touched Lucybelle’s hand, reminding her of the dark entryway.

  “Go ahead.” Dorothy stood and pushed in her chair. “I’ll catch a cab.”

  “I’m coming.” Lucybelle got to her feet as well. “It was great to see you, Clare.”

  She slipped her arm through Dorothy’s, and they pushed through the crowd at the Page Three as Chubby Checker’s “Let’s Twist Again” segued into The Drifters’ “Please Stay.” Dorothy hurried out the door, and Lucybelle, practically getting dragged, turned, trying to see Clare, but the crush of people blocked her view.

  When they hit the cold air on the street, Lucybelle said, “Let’s walk back.”

  “You could have stayed,” Dorothy said.

  “‘I’ll catch a cab,’” Lucybelle quoted her. “Give me a break.”

  “You looked like you wanted to stay!”

  “I’m with you.”

  Dorothy laughed, pleased.

  As they headed down 7th Avenue, people began honking car horns and shouting greetings to the New Year. Dorothy kissed Lucybelle’s cheek.

  “In public!”

  “It’s allowed at midnight on New Year’s Eve.” Dorothy kissed her again, this time on the corner of her mouth.

  “Five minutes ago you were claiming to want guys to like your smile.”

  Dorothy shrugged, grinned. “Not with you.”

  More than a little drunk, Lucybelle felt as if she’d toppled into a river of warm water. She would just let the flow carry her. They stumbled, holding onto each other and laughing at everything, all the way back to Harry and Wesley’s apartment. As they let themselves in to the dark rooms and tiptoed to Wesley’s study, the effort to keep quiet only got them laughing harder. Wesley shouted for them to quiet down, and they threw themselves on the bed, buried their faces in the pillows, and laughed themselves out.

  Lucybelle took L’Forte for a quick walk and then returned him to the kitchen. As she changed into pajamas, Dorothy, who was already in bed, asked, “So did you have a thing with that beatnik girl?”

  Lucybelle got into bed. “She’s just a friend. It feels funny seeing her again, after all these years. And Charles in a dress. And Harry so depressed. Everyone has changed. I wonder if I have.”

  Dorothy rolled onto her side, facing Lucybelle. “Are you kidding? You’ve changed more than any of them. In good ways, though. They’re all just doing some different version of what they’ve always done.”

  “How do you know what they’ve always done?”

  “It’s sort of obvious.”

  L’Forte, shut in the kitchen, barked.

  “You took him out,” Dorothy said. “What does he want?”

  “To sleep with me.”

  “Well, he wouldn’t be the only one.”

  The dark entryway, the warm river, a new year; she let herself fall into it all. Dorothy clicked off the bedside lamp and kissed her on the mouth. They were loud and rambunctious, Dorothy’s voluptuousness swallowing her litheness. She’d never been so purely lustful as she was that night, the beginning of 1962.

  Monday, January 1, 1962

  For most of the train ride back up to New Hampshire, Dorothy slept or pretended to sleep. Then, in one swift turnabout, she faced Lucybelle.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “You know how I feel about you.”

  She didn’t, not exactly.

  “But I can’t do this.”

  “Wait,” Lucybelle said, but for what she didn’t know. She searched her friend’s face, trying to figure out how to respond. She hadn’t felt this happy in months, maybe even in a couple of years. Seeing her mother, that nearly tender moment of acceptance in the kitchen, spending an evening with her tribe—yes, her tribe—and then last night, whatever it was (did they have to define it?), all of that burned through some obstructive mass inside her. She was free. She’d almost finished the first draft of her novel. She knew who she was. And oh, expressing it as she and Dorothy had last night, that felt sacred to her. She wasn’t in love with Dorothy, and that was almost the best part.

  Dorothy was talking but Lucybelle wasn’t listening. She was thinking of some lines from Willa Cather’s Lucy Gayheart: “Something flashed into her mind, so clear that it must have come from the breathless quiet. What if—what if Life itself were the sweetheart?”

  The train slithered through a birch forest, along an icy stream, and the movement and beauty satisfied so deeply. She reached for Dorothy’s hand.

  “No.” Dorothy yanked her hand away. “Are you even listening?”

  “I wasn’t really. Honestly, look out the window! I just feel happy.”

  “I feel ashamed.” Dorothy looked to the back of the train car, as if searching for an exit. Then she turned her entire body away, hunching toward the aisle.

  “You’re still recovering from Geneviève,” she said, but Dorothy didn’t, wouldn’t, answer.

  Lucybelle refused to let her friend’s fear and shame wreck her joy. The trees and sky, the peace settled deep in her belly, the excitement in her thoughts. These were hers and she would not give them up.

  They didn’t speak again until the train rolled into Hanover where they said brief good-byes and took cabs to their separate apartments.

  Thursday, January 4, 1962

  The basement floor of the new lab, which housed the machine shop and refrigeration equipment, was finally finished, and the scientists, most of whom had been commuting from Chicago and elsewhere, were moving in this week. The Cold Regions Research and Engineering Laboratory would at last begin functioning as the state-of-the-art research facility that had been so long in the dreaming and then building.

  Early on Thursday morning, as Lucybelle drove down Lyme Road approaching the compound, she saw thick, black smoke billowing high into the sky. She drove in the gate anyway, parked, and ran to the small cluster of people standing a hundred yards from the small blaze that was causing so much smoke.

  Dorothy turned to her with a look of fascinated terror. “Arson,” she whispered, her breath a cloud of warm air billowing into the cold morning. They watched as the flames consumed a wall of the front building and then as a propane tank
exploded. The brand new coldrooms went up in the blaze, hot fire against the icy blue sky. Fire trucks, their sirens screaming, raced down Lyme Road and turned onto the laboratory’s grounds.

  Sunday, January 7, 1962

  Lucybelle knew they had to talk, and so on Sunday morning she went without first calling to Dorothy’s apartment. Dorothy was just stepping out of her new white Rambler, wearing her beige wool coat and nylons and high heels.

  “Where have you been so dressed up this early on a Sunday?” Lucybelle asked.

  “Church.”

  “You don’t go to church.”

  “I do now.”

  This development threw Lucybelle off track for a moment. “Can we talk?”

  “There’s no need. I understand.”

  “What do you understand?”

  “That you were . . . intoxicated.”

  “You were too.”

  “It was vulgar.”

  “What?”

  “I was quite surprised, truth be known.” She executed a tight, little head shake, as if freeing herself from a disgusting memory.

  Lucybelle reached for the handle of her car door. She didn’t need to hear any more of this.

  “Wait,” Dorothy said. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean that. Not exactly. I just think . . . what I said before, women like us . . .”

  “I’d hoped you would see it differently after New York.”

  “Why in the world would you think that? Your friends Harry and Wesley have a sick relationship, quite literally, wouldn’t you say? And that beatnik girl? She has nothing in her life but a queer bar. Where else can she go? That fellow in the dress? I don’t want any of that. I want to be normal.”

  Lucybelle felt herself teetering on the brink of perception. She saw beauty in Clare and Charles, and while Harry and Wesley were having troubles, the former had shown them a tremendous time in New York and the latter, poor fellow, at least he loved music. And yet, the sour words coming from Dorothy’s mouth, they made her question how she saw anything at all.

  “I’m sorry,” Dorothy said again. “Maybe it’s just because I’ve been burned too many times. But I need to make a sharp turn in my life.”