by Robin Talley
“Are you nervous, darling?” Paula whispered.
“What a question.” Elaine shook her head. “Were you nervous your first time?”
“Terrified.” Paula smiled and kissed her again. Elaine nearly lost herself in the kiss. Paula’s strong arms held her tight, and her lips were gentle and greedy all at the same time. Finally, Paula broke away. “I was younger than you are, of course. Only eighteen.”
“I wish I’d known you at eighteen.”
“You wouldn’t have liked me. I was tall, but the rest of me hadn’t grown in yet. I was awkward and gangly.”
Elaine tightened her hold around Paula’s back and tilted her chin up so their lips met. “Darling, you’ve never been awkward or gangly as long as you’ve lived.”
Linh lowered the laptop, giggling. “I can’t keep going. This is so cheesy.”
“No it’s not! It’s romantic.”
“Come on. They’re seriously calling each other ‘darling’?”
“People used to talk that way! Anyway, keep going. It gets better.”
There was no awkwardness as they touched. As Elaine carefully unfastened the buttons of Paula’s shirt, reaching beneath it to lift the bra and stroke the firm, warm breasts. As Paula untied the sash at Elaine’s waist, her dressing gown falling open under her steady, practiced hands.
“Okay, this is more what I had in mind.” Linh broke character to smirk down at the screen. “But I don’t get what Marian Love has against possessive pronouns. I mean, ‘the bra’? ‘The breasts’?”
“Yeah, all the pulp novels do it that way for some reason.” Abby hoped Linh wouldn’t notice she was blushing. It was weird, hearing her read this book out loud after Abby had gotten so attached to it.
Also, it was indescribably embarrassing to hear the only person she’d ever hooked up with talk about breasts.
Linh turned back to the book, and Abby reached for a couch cushion she could hide behind in case this got any more embarrassing.
They touched each other with a tenderness, a hunger, that Elaine had never before felt. As they fell back onto the waiting bed, leaving their clothes in an unkempt puddle on the floor below, it was all Elaine could do not to cry out her happiness loud enough for the neighboring apartments to hear.
“Make love to me, Paula,” Elaine murmured, just before Paula’s lips crushed hers again.
“My darling,” Paula murmured, sliding down to lay wet kisses on her throat. “That’s exactly what I intend to do. I’m going to show you just how much I love you.”
Linh paused again. Abby wanted to hide behind her cushion, but she also wanted to see what Linh was thinking.
They used to say that to each other. I love you.
It was strange hearing Linh say those words now, and having them mean something totally different.
Or did they? Linh didn’t have to read that part. She could’ve skipped it if she’d wanted to.
Was there something more going on here than Linh wanting to read vintage porn? Was this Linh’s way of saying what Abby had been hoping she’d say for the past four months?
But after that pause Linh just kept reading, and Abby had no idea what to think.
As the night outside the filmy window grew darker, the two girls moved as one. As though their bodies had always been united. The beauty of it overwhelmed Elaine, sweeping her away, and she cried out her pleasure again and again.
As they lay in each other’s arms, exhausted but not sated, Paula asked Elaine—
“What, that’s it?” Linh stopped in the middle of the sentence.
Abby tried to focus. She loved that line—“as though their bodies had always been united.” It took her breath away every time she read it. “That’s what?”
“It didn’t actually say what they did.”
“Well, yeah.” Abby ran her fingertips over the couch cushion, wondering idly if she could get away with running them across the smooth skin of Linh’s arm instead. “They couldn’t go into that much detail because of the censors. Before the sixties even the trashier books were still pretty vague about anything, you know, below the waist.”
“Well, then, what’s the point? Why did they even put out books with these scenes?”
“It’s—well, it’s romantic.” Abby flushed. “Readers can fill in the blanks. The specifics are, um, implied.”
“Oh.” Linh shifted over to meet Abby’s gaze. Okay, she definitely looked like she was flirting. “So what do you think the book implies happened between Paula and Elaine?”
“Um.” Abby bit her lip. “Well. Probably, uh, third base.”
“You think so?”
Linh was still smirking, her lips curled up adorably at the corners. Abby could only stare at her.
She wasn’t imagining this. Was she?
Linh was looking at Abby with a gleam in her eyes. And they were alone, on a couch, with only a couple of inches of space between them. Talking about sex.
If Abby kissed her, would she ruin everything?
And...did she care if she did?
This felt like a moment for taking risks. That was what Paula would’ve done.
To hell with it.
Abby moved forward. She couldn’t read everything she saw in Linh’s eyes, but she knew Linh wasn’t pulling away. They were close now, so close...
Abby shut her eyes and leaned toward her. Their lips brushed tentatively. The warmth Abby had been seeking for so long was finally within her grasp.
Yet something felt different—almost wrong. And a very unwelcome, very un-Paula-like thought sounded in Abby’s head.
Are you sure this is still what you want?
“Abby.” Linh’s voice was sudden and uncertain, as though she were stumbling over her thoughts. Their lips no longer touched. “Um, we probably shouldn’t.”
Abby’s eyes snapped open. “What?”
Linh had pulled away after all. The gleam in her eyes was gone. “I don’t think—or, well, I guess I’m not sure if you totally, um—”
“Yeah. I mean, me, too.” Abby cut her off and lurched to her feet.
God, how stupid could she have been?
Abby wasn’t Paula. Neither was Linh.
You couldn’t expect real life to be like a romance novel. That was why fiction existed in the first place.
Abby knew she should laugh it off, but the part of her brain that was supposed to be in charge of rational decisions was too busy thinking about how she should really put this scene in her book. There would come a point when Gladys and Henrietta were on uncertain terms, and they’d nearly kiss, but then one of them would break it off and they’d both be confused about what it all meant.
I need to remember how this feels, Abby told herself, shutting her eyes tight. I should write this down so I don’t forget.
If I can give this feeling to someone else, maybe I won’t have to feel it anymore.
“Abby, wait.” Linh stood, too. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine! Don’t worry about it. It’s time for me to go anyway.” Abby had no idea what time it actually was, but maybe if she got out of this room everything would stop hurting so much.
She shoved her computer into her backpack and pushed out the door. The hall was almost empty, but on the far end a couple of freshmen were walking toward the steps carrying heavy black instrument cases.
“For real, though.” Linh was following her, speaking quietly. Abby wished she’d leave it alone. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—I mean, we—”
“Don’t worry about it! It’s cool. Gotta go or I’ll be late.”
Abby’s stomach churned as she thundered down the stairs. She managed to run the whole way off campus and to the metro escalator without thinking about what a fool she’d made of herself, though, so she decided that counted as a win.
The train was pulling
in as Abby reached the platform. It was a long ride from Tenleytown to Takoma, where Professor Herbert’s office was, but it gave her space to catch her breath. In her head, she started writing another letter to Marian Love.
Dear Ms. Love,
I’ve been wondering about something. How were Paula and Elaine so sure of how they felt about each other? I know they loved each other—they had the true, pure, forever kind of love, but...how did they figure that out, exactly?
Because, I mean, kissing is fun. Flirting is fun. Going out on dates is fun. Sex is fun. Holding someone is the best thing ever.
Except—what if there’s this one person you’ve always loved doing all that stuff with, and then all of a sudden it doesn’t feel the same as it used to? Does that mean you don’t love the person the same way you did?
And, well, if it does mean that—if love can change—then how can you be sure it was really love to begin with? Because isn’t the whole idea that love lasts forever? Isn’t love supposed to be the whole reason all of us are even on this planet in the first place?
Abby’s phone buzzed again. She wanted to ignore it and keep working on her letter—it was probably just one of her parents—but it could also be Professor Herbert, so she looked down.
It was Linh.
Sorry again about what happened before, the text said. I know you’re busy, but do you think we could talk later? Things got kind of weird in the lounge and I think it was my fault. I feel really bad. Are you okay?
Ouch. Did Linh seriously think Abby was so pathetic that she had to apologize over and over to make her feel better about looking stupid?
Sure, Abby replied. We can talk later.
There. That should be vague enough to let Abby wriggle out of it for a while. Vagueness always worked when she used it on her parents.
She was almost at Takoma by then, so Abby pulled up the map to the professor’s office. She checked her website bio, too, in case she’d missed anything important when she’d read it the other day.
Professor Herbert was older than Ken Aldrich, but she wasn’t as old as Marian Love. She was middle-aged, whereas Marian Love would be ninetyish, probably, assuming she’d been in her thirties when she wrote Women of the Twilight Realm. That meant Professor Herbert had missed the pulp era back when it was actually happening, but she’d written a bunch of scholarly articles about it anyway. Abby had read the ones she could find. They were fascinating—all about the way the books explored gender stereotypes and internalized homophobia, and how most of them were complete fails when it came to race and class and intersectionality—but there hadn’t been anything in them about the real identity of Marian Love. Still, Professor Herbert seemed to know more about these books than anyone else Abby had met, so she must have some idea.
Plus, she sounded like a fun, old-school lesbian, like Ms. Sloane. Abby hoped she had an office cat. Her dad was allergic, so they’d never been allowed to have one, and Abby had always wanted a cat to pet when she was lying on her bed watching shows.
When she got off the metro she still had a few blocks to walk. She followed the directions on her phone, trudging past parking lots and bungalows and tree-lined apartment complexes while trains whizzed by on the tracks above. When she reached the campus, the office building her phone led her to was tall and industrial looking, but inside the halls leading off into classrooms and small offices were inviting enough. Abby climbed to the second floor.
“Excuse me?” Abby knocked on the open door with Professor Herbert’s nameplate attached. Abby recognized the professor behind the wide, paper-strewn desk from the photo on her website. Even with her graying hair she didn’t look as old as Abby had expected, and her smile was warmer, too. “I’m Abby Zimet.”
“Of course, Abby. It’s very nice to meet you.” Professor Herbert had a slight Southern accent. She stood up behind her desk, shook Abby’s hand and gestured for her to sit down.
There was no sign of a cat, but there was a framed poster on the wall. It was the cover of another lesbian pulp novel Abby had read about, Women’s Barracks. It showed a group of women in a locker room, with one woman in a military uniform smoking a cigarette and leering at another in a bright pink bustier and booty shorts.
Abby tried to put the awkwardness with Linh out of her mind. Professor Herbert clearly knew a lot about this subject. Today, Abby might finally get close to finding Marian Love.
“So how’s Ken doing?” Professor Herbert smiled. “I don’t get down to the archive these days as much as I used to.”
“He wasn’t feeling well when I was there last week. I felt bad for bothering him.”
“Oh, he’s always coming down with something or other. A regular hypochondriac if you ask me.” Professor Herbert laughed. Right away, Abby liked her. “So, how can I help you? You’re working on a school project, is that right?”
“Yes.” Abby told her about the book she was writing, and how she was trying to read as many of the pulp novels as she could.
“I’m impressed.” Professor Herbert raised her eyebrows. “Most people your age don’t seem interested in such ancient history.”
“Well, the books are a lot better than I thought they’d be. Some of them anyway. But the biggest thing I want to find out is what happened to Marian Love. What her real name is, and if there’s a way for me to meet her. Ken said she might have lived in the DC area, but he wasn’t positive.”
Professor Herbert’s smile faded. “You’re looking for her in particular?”
Good, Marian Love really was a her. After Ken had asked that question, it had bothered Abby a little. “Yes. Women of the Twilight Realm was the first pulp novel I read, and I got kind of obsessed.” She looked down, embarrassed, even though it was the truth.
When she looked up again, though, Professor Herbert’s lips were pursed.
“Well, I’m afraid you won’t be able to meet her.” The professor folded her hands tightly on her desk. “I wish Ken hadn’t gotten your hopes up. You see, Janet Jones—that was Marian Love’s real name—”
“I knew it!” Abby couldn’t believe she’d gotten it right. “I knew she was Janet Jones! I found her name online. Wow, I can’t believe I figured that out!”
“Well, yes, but I’m afraid Ms. Jones passed away.” Professor Herbert nodded gently. “Some time ago.”
“She—what?”
Marian Love couldn’t be—dead. She couldn’t.
“I don’t have permission to share this for publication, so I’ll have to ask you not to put it in the paper you’re writing for your class. If that’s all right with you, I can tell you what I know.”
“Um.” Abby swallowed, but her throat felt as if it were closing up. She wasn’t entirely sure she was breathing. “Sure. Fine.”
Professor Herbert twisted around to reach into a filing cabinet. “I can’t allow you to keep this, or to copy any of it down, but you can look at it here. I’m sorry to be so difficult, but I promised to keep this information confidential. I probably shouldn’t be telling you at all, but I hate to think of you going off on a wild-goose chase. Here it is.”
She passed a photocopied sheet of paper to Abby. It was typed on old-fashioned letterhead that read Bannon Press across the top, and it was dated September 30, 1955.
Dear Miss Wood,
I was very sorry to hear about the accident involving Miss Jones. I am sad not to have had the opportunity to meet her. She was clearly quite a talented writer, particularly considering her youth. I hope you will convey my condolences to those with whom you have been in contact, though I understand and will respect their requests to remain anonymous.
I agree that the revised manuscript Miss Jones had entitled Alone No Longer is an excellent work, very worthy of publication. My secretary has received the information regarding the bank account and will make the arrangements for payment.
Thank you, once again, for sh
aring her manuscript with me.
I look forward to receiving your next novel for Bannon Press.
Yours truly,
Nathan Levy, editor
Bannon Press
54 W 23rd St., 17th floor
New York, NY 10011
Abby took off her glasses and scrubbed the back of her hand across her eyes. “I don’t get what this letter is talking about.”
Professor Herbert plucked a box of tissues off her bookshelf and pushed it to Abby. “Claire Singer gave it to me. She wrote for the lesbian pulps herself, under the name Dolores Wood. Have you read anything of hers? Her most popular book was A Love So Strange. It was one of the early ones.”
Abby shook her head. “What does she have to do with Marian Love?”
“Well, I had suspected for some time that Ms. Singer might have some information about the writer who called herself Marian Love. There was such an air of mystery about Ms. Love, since she only published the one hugely successful book. I found her writing strikingly similar to Ms. Singer’s—even more so than the way writers in the same genre often tend to sound alike. I thought that either Ms. Love had been heavily influenced by Ms. Singer, or—and this was the theory I decided to explore—that ‘Marian Love’ was simply another of Claire Singer’s pseudonyms, and that she was keeping it quiet for some reason. About ten years ago I went up to Philadelphia, where Ms. Singer was living, to interview her for a paper I planned to write.” Professor Herbert shook her head. “I wish my theory had been correct. The truth is simply awful.”
“What is the truth?” Abby could barely get the words out. She felt like crying, but tears wouldn’t come.
“I’m afraid Ms. Jones died very young.” Professor Herbert gazed up at the poster on her wall, as if she didn’t want to look at Abby while she told her this story. “She was only eighteen, and there was a car accident. The details aren’t clear—her family seems to have tried to cover everything up. It appears Ms. Jones and another young woman were living somewhere near DC at the time, and Ms. Jones’s family must have discovered that she was a lesbian. Ms. Jones and her friend decided to do what many young people did in those situations—run away to New York. They hoped to start a new life together in Greenwich Village. The Village was very different then, of course—very poor.” Professor Herbert sighed. “The car they were driving was an older one, and cars weren’t as well maintained in those days in any case. We’ll never find out exactly what happened—whether they simply experienced car trouble, or whether there was alcohol involved. Or whether, perhaps, the two of them were trying to outrun someone who might have been pursuing them. All we know is that there was a very serious crash. Ms. Jones was killed, and her friend was badly injured.”