by Robin Talley
Abby wished Professor Herbert would stop talking. With every word she said, it was that much harder for Abby to imagine that this story wasn’t true.
“When the friend recovered,” Professor Herbert went on, “she wrote to Ms. Singer and forwarded the manuscript Ms. Jones had hidden in her suitcase. She said Ms. Jones had hoped to publish it under the pen name Marian Love.”
“But...” Abby couldn’t make sense of any of this. “The letter says her manuscript was called Alone No Longer.”
“It was common for publishers to change titles in those days. It was the same with cover art. Authors didn’t have much control over them, even when they weren’t—well. In any case, Alone No Longer became Women of the Twilight Realm, and Janet Jones became Marian Love.”
No. No.
Marian Love—Janet Jones—she couldn’t have only lived to be eighteen. Only one year older than Abby.
“How did she know all that?” Abby was desperate to find a hole in this story. “Claire—what did you say her name was?”
“Claire Singer.” Professor Herbert pulled a book off the shelf and passed it to Abby. The title on the spine read A Love So Strange, but it wasn’t falling apart, so it couldn’t be a first edition. It must be one of those lesbian press reprints Ms. Sloane had talked about. “Ms. Jones had written her a fan letter, and Ms. Singer offered to connect Ms. Jones with her publisher. After the accident, the Jones family didn’t want anyone to find out about the circumstances surrounding her death, so it was only thanks to her friend that the manuscript survived at all.”
Abby frowned. “So that’s why no one found out what happened to her?”
“That’s right. Ms. Singer agreed to tell me all this, and to let me make a copy of that letter, only if I promised never to publish anything about it. I think she only told me because she was afraid that if I dug back through the records far enough, I’d figure it out for myself and publish it without anyone being able to stop me. So I agreed to keep that part quiet. It wasn’t relevant to the literature itself, and by not sharing the information, we were honoring Ms. Jones’s family’s wishes.”
“Her family who didn’t want anyone to find out she was queer,” Abby muttered. “Even after she was dead.”
Professor Herbert sighed again. “You have to understand—I’m not excusing what her family did, not at all, but it was a different time. Everyone truly did think staying closeted was for the best, even within the gay community. It wasn’t all that different when I was growing up, even though that was years later.”
But Abby couldn’t get past the image of eighteen-year-old Marian Love running away to New York with her secret girlfriend and dying mysteriously by the side of some highway. It was like something straight out of one of the pulp novels.
“What was that in the letter about a bank account?” She blinked down at the paper. She wished she could cry, but numbness was setting in instead. “If Marian Love died, who was that Nathan guy sending the money to?”
“Probably her family.” Professor Herbert shrugged. “Ms. Singer said she wasn’t clear on that.”
“Did her family even know she’d written this book? Maybe the money went to that friend instead—the one she was running away with. If she was Marian Love’s girlfriend, that would make sense, wouldn’t it?”
Professor Herbert tilted her head to one side. “I suppose it might.”
“Unless...” A darker thought occurred to Abby. “Wait. What if this Nathan Levy guy was keeping the money for himself? Did you ever meet him?”
“No, he died several years before I began doing this work in earnest. And I’ve never heard anything about Nathan Levy being unethical, but I suppose you can never be sure.” Professor Herbert peered down at her. “You look as though you’re taking this awfully hard, Abby.”
Was she that obvious? Abby looked away. “I guess.”
“If you really want to get to the bottom of things, I suppose you could always reach out to Ms. Singer yourself.” Professor Herbert reached for a stack of Post-its. “I’ll write down her email for you.”
Abby did the math in her head while Professor Herbert wrote. Sixty-two years. Marian Love had been dead more than half a century. Since before either of Abby’s parents was even born.
Marian Love—Janet Jones—hadn’t lived long enough to see her book in print. She hadn’t even known it was going to be published at all.
She’d died trying to start a new life, the same way Elaine and Paula ran away to New York to start their new lives. And her own family, the very people she’d been trying to escape, had made it all into a big secret.
It was the saddest thing Abby had ever heard.
“I should probably head out.” Abby took the Post-it. She still felt numb. “Thanks for all this information.”
“Of course. If there’s any other way I can be helpful, please don’t hesitate to get in touch.”
Abby could barely manage to say goodbye before she left.
On the train back home, her brain kept trying to write letters to Marian Love, asking her more questions. About families and tragedies and love and heartbreak.
But there was no point writing to her anymore. Marian Love was dead.
Abby squeezed her eyes shut and ordered herself to think about Gladys and Henrietta instead. She needed to write a new scene between them. It would take place right after Henrietta’s parents sent her away to be institutionalized, but before she found out that the “mental hospital” they’d picked was in fact a secret lesbian commune.
“It’ll be all right, Henrietta,” Gladys said softly. “I’ll stand by you, no matter what happens.”
“You can’t mean that.” Henrietta brushed away a tear.
“Of course I mean it. I’ll always be here for you.”
Henrietta collapsed into her arms. Gladys held her. It was the best feeling in the world, being held.
She wanted to believe that Gladys would always be here when she needed her. But if there was one thing Henrietta had learned, it was that you could never really count on anyone but yourself.
10
Saturday, July 16, 1955
I folded the letter and tucked it into the bottom drawer of my dressing table underneath a pile of worn-out old brassieres.
It was time I told Wayne yes. It was time I put away my foolish past and became what everyone had always told me I was meant to be: some man’s wife.
After all, Paula’s letter had made it clear she didn’t want me. There was no use fighting it any longer.
Janet flipped through the manuscript one last time before she sealed the package. All 108 pages were there. She’d carefully written the page numbers on the bottom of each sheet with a thick black pen taken from her father’s desk, but it still didn’t look as though she’d typed them on. She could only hope Nathan Levy wouldn’t mind.
She’d rewritten most of her earliest draft. She’d been forced to change much of the girls’ first love scene now that she had a better understanding of all that came before it, but Janet had made sure to copy over her favorite lines. She’d become a regular at the Peoples stationery aisle, having gone through far more typing paper than she’d ever imagined would be necessary to produce five chapters of fiction.
She wasn’t certain yet what would happen in the sixth chapter, or the seventh or the eighth. She wasn’t sure, either, that the events she’d written about in chapter four were entirely plausible, strictly speaking.
Nor did she have the first idea of how she’d ever bring herself to write the ending she had planned. She wasn’t sure she had the fortitude to write about such terrible things happening to the characters she loved. And she had no idea how she’d convey the truth of what Paula was thinking in the dark scenes ahead, as she was writing the entire book from Elaine’s point of view.
Well, she’d figure all that out later. First, she had to co
ncentrate on getting these five chapters onto Nathan Levy’s desk.
Anticipation and terror battled in Janet’s mind as she hurried down 31st Street. Her manuscript, carefully wrapped in brown paper cut from her mother’s leftover grocery bags, was heavy in her arms, and she could barely summon the energy to smile for Mrs. Martin when they passed on the sidewalk.
Janet had a lie prepared, of course, in case one of the neighbors stopped her on the way to the post office. She’d say she was sending old magazines to her friend Lois Bannon, whose parents wouldn’t allow her to buy magazines of her own. It was a bit of a flimsy excuse, and as she pushed open the door to the low gray building, Janet was glad she hadn’t had to use it.
When she reached the front of the line and handed the package to the man behind the desk, though, her hands trembled.
The postman smiled and took the coins she offered, but as he fixed the stamp to the corner of the parcel, Janet longed to snatch it back.
Those were her words. Janet had created people out of nothing. She’d put sentences into their mouths, ideas into their heads. She’d given them lives, relationships. She’d devised their jobs and families and pasts and futures.
Now she was giving it all to someone else.
She had the carbon copy at home, of course, safely tucked away into one of the attic trunks. Still, it hurt to think she was sending off the original manuscript to some editor in New York she’d never even seen. A man who had the power to decide whether she ever became a real, published writer.
Mr. Levy may not understand what Janet had created. He may think her childish or untalented, or both.
The sight of the postman tucking her pages into a mailbag with a hundred other indistinguishable brown-paper packages made Janet want to cry. Yet moments later, as she stepped outside, a slow feeling of triumph began to simmer inside her.
Janet had done it. She’d really done it.
She’d written enough to show her work to a real publisher. Even if he didn’t think it was good, she did, and that counted for something.
She only wished she could tell Marie.
It had been two weeks since they’d seen each other last. Fourteen long, lonely days since Janet had watched her climb into that taxi in Silver Spring.
Marie hadn’t stopped by. She hadn’t called. But then, neither had Janet.
Still, there was no time to linger over her thoughts. Janet was working the dinner shift. She had to hurry home, change into her uniform and go straight to the Soda Shoppe.
When she reached the house, Janet unlocked the front door and dashed up the stairs. She waved down an apology as Grandma tried to ask her something and she was in her room, pulling on her uniform jacket and shoving pins into her hair when her father shouted “Janet!” from the foyer.
“Just a minute, Dad!”
“But, Janet, your friend is here! The one who’s going to single-handedly save the State Department from itself!”
Janet paused. Was it possible?
“Coming!” She shook the pins out of her hair and grabbed her cap.
Janet took the stairs two at a time. Sure enough, Marie was standing in the foyer with Grandma. “Marie? Is that you?”
What a stupid question. It was entirely and thoroughly Marie. She was wearing one of her nicest dresses, a blue one with a scalloped neckline and crinoline puffing out the skirt. Behind her glasses she’d done up her eyes with mascara. Janet had only ever known Marie to wear mascara for dances.
“You’re so funny, Janet.” Marie smiled at her and then at Grandma, whose head was swiveling back and forth between them. Dad, it seemed, had already wandered back to the den and his newspaper. “Of course it’s me. I’ve come to fetch you for the evening. We’ll have to take a taxi, I’m afraid—the Buick is back in the shop. Something about the brakes acting up.”
“You’ve come to fetch me?” Janet hated the way she kept asking these ridiculous questions, as though she were too dumbfounded by Marie’s very presence to speak properly. Though she supposed that was the truth of the matter. “I’m supposed to work tonight.”
“Oh, dear, I should’ve thought of that.” Marie’s face crumpled as she seemed to notice Janet’s uniform for the first time. “I’m so sorry for the late notice, but I only just received the invitation. I’d never ask you to change your plans under ordinary circumstances, but this visit is with some very special coworkers of mine. Is there any way you can miss your shift tonight?”
Janet hesitated.
After two weeks of silence Marie was suddenly in her foyer, wearing a fancy dress and asking Janet to miss a night of work. All to visit Marie’s coworkers.
Yet when Marie gave her that smile again—the warm, quiet look Janet knew was meant for her alone—Janet nodded. She didn’t have the slightest notion what this was about, but she’d have to trust it was important. “I’ll need to make some phone calls.”
After Janet requested, and received, her father’s permission to go out for the evening, the first phone call she made was to Shirley. Shirley always complained that she wanted more Saturday shifts, since that was when the best tips came in, and Janet made the sign of the cross as she dialed the number, praying Shirley didn’t already have plans for the evening.
She didn’t. In fact, she squealed with delight when Janet proposed they switch shifts. With that settled, Janet only had to make one more call.
Mr. Pritchard did not take as kindly to Janet’s request.
“Shift changes must be approved at least five days in advance,” he shouted over the sounds of pans clanking, carhops shouting and cooks bellowing back. “You know the rules.”
“Of course, sir, but—it’s an emergency.” Janet tried desperately to think of what an appropriate emergency might be. She wished she’d prepared a lie before picking up the phone. “I’m very sick, you see.”
“Sick with what?” he shouted.
Janet was scheduled to work again the following night. She didn’t want to miss out on those tips, too, not if she hoped to afford an apartment someday. “It’s a headache, but I’m sure it will pass by tomorrow. Please, sir, Shirley can cover for me. She’ll be there at the start of shift, I promise.”
“Shirley’s the worst girl I’ve got. Why do you think I never put her on Saturdays?”
Marie, standing next to Janet in the kitchen, smiled apologetically. Janet turned away. “I’m very sorry, sir.”
“You do this again, it’ll be the last time,” Mr. Pritchard shouted. “Your headache had better be long gone by tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
When Janet hung up, Marie clapped her hands, but Janet didn’t feel like celebrating. “What’s this all about?”
“You’ll see,” Marie promised. “First you need to change clothes, and quickly.”
Janet eyed Marie’s dress. “I’m not sure I have anything that nice.”
“The dress you wore to the graduation banquet would be perfect.”
“You remember what I wore to the graduation banquet?”
Marie raised her eyebrows.
Oh. Janet blushed. The thought that Marie had been noticing how Janet looked even then wiped away her annoyance at being shouted at by Mr. Pritchard.
She ached to touch Marie’s hand, but that was too great a risk here in the kitchen. Instead Janet ran upstairs to change, calling over her shoulder, “Could you tell my father we’re leaving, please?”
Moments later she’d put on a quick coat of lipstick, powder and her itchy white dress, and was dashing out the door after Marie. To make the dress fit she’d had to wear a tighter girdle than usual, plus a petticoat, and with her undergarments and high heels, walking was difficult. Marie steadied her as they made their way toward the taxis on Wisconsin.
“Now can you tell me what this is about?” Janet whispered once they were a safe distance from the
house.
Marie answered her so quietly Janet had to ask her to repeat it twice.
“We’re visiting two women who live near Shepherd Park,” Marie finally murmured clearly enough for Janet to understand. “Two women like us.”
Janet stopped walking so fast she nearly tripped. “Like us? Not really?”
“Yes, really! Well, that is, they’re Negroes, but yes.”
Janet’s mind was spinning. “And they work with you?”
“One of them does. Miss Carol Barrett.” Marie waved her arm at a taxi, and it slowed in their direction. “She works in the cafeteria. She came up to me at lunch yesterday and whispered that she had a friend, just as I did, and that I should bring my friend over so we could all talk. Then, this afternoon, there was a note in the mailbox inviting us to come tonight.”
“You’re certain she meant—that sort of friend?” It worried Janet a little to think that this Miss Barrett had found them out somehow. Still, she quite enjoyed the idea of being Marie’s “friend.”
“I believe so, but I can’t be certain.” Marie opened the taxi door, and Janet climbed inside. “That’s part of why it’s so urgent that we talk with them, and in private.”
Marie gave the driver the address, and Janet tried to calm herself as the cab rolled north. Before she’d managed it, they were already pulling onto 16th Street.
Janet longed to hold Marie’s hand, from nerves as much as tenderness. She’d never met anyone else who was like them. Unless she counted Dolores Wood, but a letter wasn’t truly a meeting.