Unlike Others

by Valerie Taylor

  "Guess so."

  "Well, you're in good company. Here, have a Kleenex." Betsy perched on the edge of the visitor's chair, began to cry. "Blow your nose.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about. Flu makes you feel terrible.” Provide her with an excuse if she needs one. “Why don’t you go home and take some aspirin and go to bed?”

  "I’ll be all right in a minute."

  Sure, sit there and breathe on me. That's all I need right now, a good case of virus flu. The back of her throat was beginning to itch, her sinuses felt stuffy—or was that her imagination? She decided not to make a diagnosis until she'd had eight hours' sleep. There wasn't anything she could do about it if she did get sick.

  She folded her hands on the desk, like a teacher hearing a recitation, and waited.

  "I've got to talk to somebody," Betsy said. "You don't talk about people, I noticed that." She looked at Jo timidly, but with courage. Jo said,

  "Okay, go ahead," with no special sympathy.

  "Not here, somebody might hear."

  There was nobody here but Gayle making a long telephone call to one of her bridesmaids, but Jo knew what Betsy meant. An office is no place for confidences; gossip and clothes chatter, yes, but nothing that matters. She said, "All right, let's go out and have a cup of coffee. Things are slow this morning anyway."

  It was a lie, but it seemed more reasonable to be leaving the office if there was nothing much to be done. She wanted a drink. She wasn't a heavy drinker, but there were times when a drink came in handy and this looked like one of them. Instead, she took Betsy to the corner drugstore, ordered two coffees and watched while they put cream and sugar in hers, as though she might have been mixing hemlock. There was a self-conscious silence. Jo took a sip of her black brew, decided that hemlock would have been an improvement. She said. "Go ahead, what's biting you?"

  "Well," Betsy said. Apparently she had prepared her story before coming in, but it hadn't done any good; she couldn't get it out. She looked past Jo at a case full of hot-water bottles and enema syringes. “You know what happened when I went to Cal City that time?”

  "You told me."

  "He called me at my aunt's house last night," Betsy said, plunging in. "I wasn't expecting it Sunday night and all. He asked me if I'd go to the movies. I said I would—only I had to be in early." She looked at Jo. "There's no reason I shouldn't, is there? Nothing can happen to a person at the movies, out in a public place that way."

  "So?"

  "It was all right, he wasn't fresh or anything. I mean, like he put his arm around me, but everybody does that, you know what I mean?" Jo nodded. "Then afterwards he took me home. It was nice and warm out but he didn't mention parking or anything. I told him he had to go right straight home and he said sure, he would. It was all right."

  Jo sat watching her, afraid to say anything now that she was under way.

  “So," Betsy said in a rush, "he took me home and I told him not to come in. I said, ‘I’ll be all right, you don't have to come to the door,' but he came in with me and we sat down on the davenport for a while." Betsy's voice was so small Jo had to lean close to hear her. "I didn't want to make any fuss because I was afraid I'd wake up my aunt."

  "And besides, you were enjoying it."

  "Maybe I was. I like to be kissed. So pretty soon he started to unbutton the top of my dress, and I asked him not to, but he didn't pay any attention to me. I might just as well not have said anything. He fooled around a while—you know—and then he pulled my skirt up. And then he—"

  She stopped, unable to say what had to be said.

  "He screwed you. What were you expecting?”

  Betsy gave her a miserable look.

  "What's the matter, didn't you know how it's done? You've been married."

  "Yes, but—"

  "What?"

  "I hated it." Betsy's cheeks were red. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "It was horrible. I always hated it when I was married too. I don't see how anybody likes it. Damn it, a man climbs on top of you and does that silly thing and then he gets up and goes away. Why do they talk like it's something wonderful?"

  "I suppose it can be," Jo said slowly. Words she dared not say were trembling on the tip of her tongue. "That I the way it was with him?"

  "Sure. He straightened up his clothes and went away. He didn't even kiss me good night" Betsy said angrily. "They get you all worked up to wanting-I don't know what, wanting something you never had. Then they do that and it's all over. I don't see what they get out of it."

  I will be fair, Jo told herself firmly. "How long did all this take?" she wanted to know. "The actual lovemaking, I mean."

  "A couple minutes. They make you think it's something big and wonderful, all the fuss they make about it.” Betsy's tears had stopped now. She reached for a paper napkin from the metal holder, blew her nose and sat upright, looking pugnacious.

  Jo said slowly, "Maybe it's different for men. They get everything they want in just a few minutes. A woman takes a lot of getting ready for love. Not just kissing, butother things. Smart men know that, the ones that have had a lot of experience, they do all the things that make you feel good." She stopped. Betsy's eyes met hers, troubled and curious, and skeptical too.

  Betsy said, "I don't like men. I don't like the way they smell or the things they do when they kiss you. It embarrasses me to look at one with his clothes off. I feel ashamed just thinking about it."

  Jo said, "Betsy, women know about this too. If a girl loved you she'd do all sorts of things to make you happy. Don't you know this?"

  "I've heard about people like that." Betsy looked at the tabletop. "I always wondered. I mean, when I was in high school I had an awful crush on one of the girls in my gym class, and one day she kissed me. We were dressing in the locker room. I don't know—" She trailed off. "I thought about it a lot. It made me feel funny."

  So what am I supposed to do now, draw her a diagram? Jo said dryly, "Well, there are a hundred things a man can do to make you feel good. If he'll take the time and patience for it. A woman can do ninety-nine of them better. Because she knows how you feel, she's not just thinking about herself, she wants to make you really happy."

  "I still don't see it."

  "Just take my word."

  Betsy was silent. Jo stirred her coffee, not because there was anything in it that required stirring but because it gave her something to do. She said gently, "Don't worry about it, you'll be all right."

  “I hate Stan. I don't ever want to see him or talk to him again."

  "Why don't you quit? You're young and nice-looking, you won't have any trouble getting another job."

  "I'm going to. Only," Betsy said in a whisper, "he didn't do anything to keep from getting me in trouble. Suppose I have a baby? I’ll have to marry him."

  "Do you want to marry him?"

  "Oh, God, no, I'd rather die."

  "Then you don't have to. Besides," Jo said, hoping she was right, "It hardly ever happens. Don't worry about it.

  Betsy said, "I was so scared I didn't sleep all night.”

  That makes two of us, Jo thought. It's practically a lost art. Before she could stop herself, she said. "Why don't you come over to my place and take a nap? I'm going home this afternoon. I don't feel so well myself."

  "I don't want to be a bother."

  "You won't be any bother. Come on." If Mag's running a taxi service, I'm running a high-grade hotel. She could see the apartment as she had left it that morning, promising herself a good cleaning-up after work. Rich's whiskers scumming the bathroom basin, damp towels on the floor, the bed unmade and a two-day supply of coffee cups in the sink. The sheets were ready to walk to the laundromat all by themselves. The bed hadn't been made since Friday night—no, Saturday morning. A mess.

  She said again, "Come on. We’ll call Gayle and tell her I'm sick and you're taking me home. Or vice versa. She'll be alone in the office, she won't do any work—oh well, it doesn't matt
er."

  "All right."

  Betsy waited outside the door while Jo paid the check. Damn it, Jo thought, I'm tired too. Touch me with the tip of a finger and I’ll fall over. Why in hell doesn't somebody tuck me in once in a while? I'd like a friendly shoulder to cry on, too.

  She didn't have money for a cab, so they went down the long double flight of steps into the station and waited a few minutes for a train. Some courtship. No soft lights, no wine, no music, and the girl doesn't even know I'm chasing her. Both of us bleary-eyed and all pooped out.

  She held out her strip ticket to be punched. It's the best I can do right now, she assured herself. If it's not good enough then I'm sorry, but it's the best I have and it'll have to do. If she wants soft lights and music she's out of luck.

  They got on the train and sat without speaking all the way to Fifty-third Street. Jo's eyes kept falling shut. She pried them open by pure will power and kept changing her range of vision, to stay awake. All I want is to sleep around the clock, she thought. She sat looking out of the train window, watching the back porches and fire escapes go by, conscious of Betsy dozing in the seat beside her and of the slow rise and fall of Betsy's breathing.

  CHAPTER 15

  At least she was getting her money's worth out of that damned expensive bed, but in what a platonic way. She shook her head to get rid of the buzzing in her ears, a product of fatigue, flu and the whiskey she'd polished off around two a.m., while Rich was snoring with his head on this very pillow. She wished she could put her own head down and sleep for at least a week.

  Betsy stood beside the window looking as though she wished she were somewhere else. She was probably sorry she'd told Jo her story and doubly sorry that she had accepted this invitation. It's not the kind of thing a girl goes around telling people, Jo thought, not until she reaches the age where a ten-minute workout on the davenport seems like something to brag about.

  She said as calmly as she could, "Hop into bed, and I'll bring you some Seconal."

  "I don't need anything. I'm a terribly heavy sleeper."

  "That's all right, you'll sleep better with a pill, and wake up feeling better too."

  The blue pajamas were in the bottom drawer, washed, ironed and folded away for an overnight guest. Jo got them out, together with a pair of knitted stretch socks her aunt had sent at Christmas time. Even a girl who sleeps au naturel ought to keep pajamas on hand, she decided; made it easier when assorted people dropped in for the night. She handed the clothes to Betsy and withdrew to the bathroom, cleaned Richard's whiskery fuzz off the sides of the basin, put a new blade in the safety razor, picked up the soggy towel he'd draped over the tub and wiped up the floor. The room was now ready for the next invasion.

  She ran a glass of cold water, found the barbiturate Rich's doctor had prescribed when she was getting over Karen, and sat on the john waiting modestly until she was sure Betsy had finished undressing.

  Betsy swallowed the pill obediently, like a good child. This is getting to be a pattern, Jo thought. Betsy said, sitting up. "I feel so scared. Everything's happening so fast."

  "It'll be all right. Go to sleep."

  "Suppose I find out I'm pregnant? I might be pregnant right now."

  "All right, it's a simple operation if you catch it early. Just takes a few minutes and everything's all right."

  Betsy's eyes widened. "I don't think I can sleep. You won't go away, will you?"

  "No, I'll be right here."

  I'm too tired to move, Jo added, sinking down on the davenport and shutting her eyes. It was about noon, a strange time to be home from work. Outside, children from the grade school at the corner were coming home for lunch. She could hear their voices, fresh and clear. The building had the blank, alien feeling of daytime.

  Jo turned, trying to find a comfortable position, feeling the ache in her neck and back. The little sleep she'd had the night before had been on the very edge of the mattress, with Rich's heavy arm flung over her body; no wonder the boys leave him, she thought, he's a diagonal sleeper.

  Must call Rich. He’ll be missing Michael and worried about this jail bit. Maybe he’ll lose his job because of it. And I ought to call Mag and see how her cold is—and Mrs. Fosgett to thank her for everything. How does it feel to have that kind of money, that kind of influence? Plus a husband who likes you and leaves you free to live your own life.

  Picking up the telephone took more energy than she had. She laid her cheek against the prickly upholstery and fell asleep.

  She woke, disturbed by some movement in the room, and sat upright, trying to remember where she was and what had happened. Then her vision cleared, and she saw Betsy standing beside the bed. Jo asked, "What's the matter?"

  "I feel so awful." Betsy shivered, although the room was stuffy. "I keep thinking about last night."

  "Well, don't worry about it. Everything will work out all right."

  "I feel sort of jumpy. As if something was going to happen, and I don't know what."

  "Nothing's going to happen that you don't want to have happen."

  "That's the trouble. I don't know what I want. I want something and I don't know what it is. Ever feel like that?"

  "Look," Jo said, "you're tired and upset. Why don't you sleep it off?"

  "I'd like to sleep." Betsy's heart-shaped face was vague with fatigue, the eyes swollen, the skin blotched with tears. She looked at Jo through the half-darkness. "Are you getting any sleep on that davenport?"

  "More or less."

  "Why don't you come to bed? It's a nice big bed.”

  Sure is, Jo thought. That's why I bought it. She yawned. "Maybe I will, if it wouldn't keep you awake."

  "I'd feel safer with you there."

  This is great, Jo thought. Everyone feels safe with me around, but where's there any security for me? Who tucks me in and holds my hand and wipes my nose for me? She stripped off her dress, unhooked her bra and took it off and then, in deference to Betsy's idea of propriety, wriggled her slip straps up on her shoulders again. The bed was smooth now, with fresh sheets—must remember to go to the laundromat on Saturday. Jo pulled the top sheet and wool blanket up around her neck and lay still, careful not to touch Betsy.

  The first effect of the sedative had worn off, and Betsy was wide awake and talkative. She moved around restlessly, stuck her feet out from under the covers, then turned over in search of a sleeping position that felt good. "I don't know what's the matter," she said sadly. "I feel jumpy, but why should I? Makes me feel so silly."

  For two cents I'd tell you. Jo mumbled something meaningless and turned to face the room, her back to the other girl. But Betsy plunged like a porpoise. The covers pulled off. Oh, hell, Jo thought. At the moment she would have given up all her hope of love, present and future, for ten hours of uninterrupted sleep.

  Betsy said in a small voice, "My head hurts."

  "That's the pills."

  "Well, I wish it would go away."

  “Look, do you want me to rub your back? Maybe it would help you sleep."

  "Okay."

  Jo turned up the hem of the blue jacket—pajamas by courtesy of the management. (Let her give you something, Jo, there's no percentage in all this big-hearted stuff.) Betsy's skin was milk-white where it had been covered from the sun. Days on the beach had turned her skin creamy beige, not molasses-brown like Jo's back and arms, and the area covered by her bathing suit was smooth and white. She lay on her side, while Jo ran gentle fingertips from neck to waist. "Let me know if it's too much."

  "Ooh, that feels good."

  "Try to relax."

  And try to relax yourself, Miss Bates. Remember, this kid is straight. Or at least, she doesn't know what she is. If she's anything.

  "Jo.”

  "Yeah?"

  “What you said in the drugstore."

  "What about?"

  "Liking girls." Betsy burrowed her face in the pillow, like the proverbial ostrich. Her body tensed. Jo's fingers moved carefully, nape to waist, following the
delicate ridge of the spine. Betsy asked, "Did you ever do it?"

  "Sure."

  "Is it fun?"

  How do you answer that one? It's better than fun, it's the greatest happiness in the world when you have the right person. Jo sat still, her hand at the curve of Betsy's hip. "I think so."

  "Would it be for me?"

  "How do I know?"

  "I used to wonder about it. There was this girl in high school." Betsy's voice dwindled off. She took a deep breath. "Do you want me to?"

  "Look," Jo said. She closed her eyes to shut out the sight of Betsy's neck with the delicate little tendrils of hair against the creamy skin. "You're tired. Sure I'd like to. I like you." The understatement of the year, her mind jeered. "Look, I'm not going to rush you into anything and have you feeling sorry later. You get some sleep."

  "I think I'd like to. What hurt could it do?"

  How noble can you get? Jo sat up and swung her feet over to the floor. "Betsy, I've wanted to make love to you since the first time I saw you. But I don't want it to be for kicks, the way kids play doctor or smoke pot just to see what it's like. This isn't something I care to fool around with."

  "Oh." Betsy sat up. Her face was that of a slapped child. Jo touched her hair. "You get some sleep now," she said. "Think it over. If you're interested, let me know. If you're not, then just don't bring it up again. Okay?"