Return to Lesbos

by Valerie Taylor

  “It’s her feelings.”

  “Her best friend was killed. I told you.” The graceful shrug was as much a part of him as his clear brown eyes. “Girls are so sentimental. You have to go on living, and sooner or later you find someone else. It’s a little soon for her, that’s all.”

  Frances said in a whisper, “I like her.”

  “Sure. She’s had a bad time. She’s an Austrian, she was in a concentration camp when she was eleven, twelve years old, I don’t know exactly. Her whole family was murdered. I think it took all the courage she had to really love anyone—I think Kate was the only person she ever gave a damn about. If Kate had lived they would have stayed together forever like an old married couple. She’s a monogamous type,” Vince said, apparently not considering monogamy much of a virtue.

  Frances opened one of the paperbacks to hide her confusion. The name, Kate Wood, was written strongly across the top of the title page in black ink. She said, “Some people would have kept these, and grieved over them.”

  “Erika’s very strong. It would be better if she yelled and fainted,” Vince said sadly. “I love her. Not in an erotic way, of course.”

  Frances said, “I think I could love her, period.”

  “You’re gay.”

  “Yes.”

  “Doing anything about it?”

  “Not right now.”

  “You should never admit you’re gay,” Vince said quietly, “people have such fantastic ideas. You have to wear a disguise most of the time—if somebody finds out!” He drew a finger across his throat. “It’s worse for us, though.”

  “I believe you.”

  He lifted graceful shoulders. “So keep the books. Erika won’t take money for them. It’s a superstition, like the women who won’t cash their children’s insurance policies. We went through that, too. Kate had a group policy where she worked, made out to Erika as the beneficiary. Erika paid the funeral expenses out of it and gave the rest away. She’s terribly hard up, she never has any money, but that’s what she wanted to do.”

  “I can see how she felt.”

  “Yeah, but couldn’t she see that Kate wanted to leave her provided for? She hasn’t got a nickel saved. What happens if she gets sick and can’t work?”

  I’d take care of her, Frances thought, warming. I’d work my hands off to take care of her.

  “She gave away all Kate’s clothes and all the furniture and stuff they had and moved into a furnished room. I don’t know what it’s like, I’ve never been there. As far as I know nobody has. I’ve got a key, she gave it to me when she got out of the hospital—she was afraid of dying in her sleep,” Vince said matter-of-factly. “She was supposed to call me up every day, and if she missed a day I was supposed to check. But she never missed. You don’t just walk in on Erika.”

  Frances wondered if it were a warning. She said, “I’ll take care of the books. Maybe she’ll want them back some time.”

  “I don’t know why she didn’t keep them.”

  Frances knew. Books have a life of their own. She felt warm and tender, as though she were melting with compassion. She said with some difficulty, “Tell her I took them, will you? And tell her—”

  “With some things, you have to do your own telling.”

  “Yes. Of course. Can I take some of these now and come back for the rest?”

  “Any time, sure. Wash your hands before you go.”

  Out in the street, she looked around with some surprise. For a while she had forgotten where she was—and who she was supposed to be. Maybe, she thought, I can start being myself again. She stood uncertainly in the middle of the sidewalk, holding the heavy package Vince had tied for her: ten, and she could pick up the rest a few at a time. She had a good reason to go back.

  Furniture, she thought dimly, finding her crumpled lists as she hunted for tissues in her handbag. She didn’t want to shop. She wanted to go somewhere and think about Erika Frohmann. She wanted to talk to Kay, who was in Iran by this time and out of her reach since there are some things you can’t say in letters.

  Vaguely, with nothing better to do, she made her way to Shapiro’s and roamed through the furniture department on the top floor, looking at things without seeing them, until her package became too heavy.

  What difference did it make how she furnished the house? It wasn’t her house, never would be. She wasn’t going to stay in it. But she realized that she would have to account for the day to Bill.

  She had forgotten Bill, too. For a couple of hours he had stopped existing.

  She stood in front of a French Provincial chest, looking beyond it, holding her packet of books as though it were a child.

  5 IN THE DAYS WHERE FRANCES WAS STILL FRANKIE Kirby, the pindling half-fed child of a soft-coal miner, the district was the heart of her small world, not the company house where her ailing mother dragged from washtub to dishpan to cookstove, or the mine where her father disappeared every morning, to emerge grimed and sullen at night. For Frances Ollenfield, married to a young man more and more absorbed in business, it lay inside the covers of books—a vicarious life that ranged from Jane Austen to Kerouac. And later, everything important was concentrated in the apartment where she and Bake had so much happiness—and then, at the end, so much bitterness.

  Now she had no center, and she was incomplete and fragmented. More and more, as the days passed, she found herself thinking about Erika Frohmann. The girl was becoming an obsession, the focal point in a life that had grown increasingly meaningless. She longed to take Erika in her arms and comfort her for all the evil which life had brought her. Her arms ached, her breasts ached for the pressure of Erika’s body.

  To a bystander, the life of Mrs. William Ollenfield at this time was centered in the big square layer-cake house on Regent Street. She threw herself into the furnishing and decorating of the rooms, drowning her needs in work. She bought a table and sofa, three chairs, rugs and curtains and numerous small things for the living room, ending with something that looked like an illustration from Home Beautiful. It wasn’t a décor that encouraged blue jeans and bare feet—but of course Mrs. William Ollenfield wore shoes even when she was alone in the house.

  She even talked to Bill about fixing up the basement for parties, a step that seemed to have special meaning for him—a status symbol, she thought scornfully, like the backyard barbeque and the car with tail fins. A place to give parties. That she disliked parties didn’t make any difference, people gave them anyway, and the other guests probably disliked them too. But one had to go.

  She fitted up one of the bedrooms as a guest room, with light, functional furniture and flowered curtains; the effect pleased her. It occurred to her that she would like to move into it herself, away from Bill’s nightly tossings and his twice-a-week fumbling and the male smell of him. It would be a place where she could sleep deeply, not intruded upon, not violated. But if she left Bill’s bed she would have to leave his house as well, and she wasn’t ready for that decisive step. Not just yet.

  She didn’t know where the idea of leaving had come from. It seemed to spring up in her mind from some long-dormant root, putting out leaves and blossoms at an astonishing rate. She waited to see what that fruit might be.

  In the meanwhile, to pass the time and keep herself from becoming tense with wondering, she went on buying things and putting them in place, creating an effect of comfort not like a housewife building her own nest, but like the manager of a hotel, paid to do what she did. She felt no involvement. She would never live here, or not long enough to make any difference. It was no home of hers.

  She thought about it, soaking in the bathtub an hour before the Wives were due for cards and coffee. It was the feeling that goes with working out two weeks’ notice on a job, already emotionally separated and impatient to leave. Between two worlds and accountable to neither. In this frame of mind she had called up the Wives, putting an end to Bill’s nagging; she faced their arrival calmly because they were not and never would be a part of her
life. It cost nothing to be polite to them.

  She dressed for the Wives with great care, put on a dress with flowers on it, did her hair the way Bill liked it. Going downstairs, she felt a flash of proud pleasure. The house was spotless. She had made a date torte, more impressive than a layer cake and really no more difficult. She was safe.

  The night before she had lain awake sick to her stomach with fright, hoping she might be coming down with something spotty and contagious so she could call off the party. But when the doorbell rang, she went calmly to let the first two in, the freckled redhead and a small blonde who kept throwing bits of baby talk French into the conversation. They were laughing, but in a nice way, a social way. The redhead said, “I adore the way you’ve fixed this place up. I want to do my living room over but Joe keeps saying not this year—”

  It was easy. She was one of them, for the time being. If you were married to an executive and had your hair done professionally and never, never said anything you really thought, you were in. For what it was worth. I can be charming as all hell when I want to, she thought, hiding a giggle.

  Four hours later, standing at the front door to let them out, she wondered why she had worried. It had been easy—knowing that it wasn’t going to last, it had even been fun. Things are only difficult when you care, she thought, pleased. She could play it cool with these pleasant women because she wasn’t going to be doing it forever. She was going to get out.

  The conviction lingered in the days that followed, even though events seemed to stand still. July deepened into hotter sunshine and richer growth, the grass in the backyard darkened and thickened, the humming of insects filled the late afternoons. Frances discovered a simple pleasure she had forgotten since the first years of her marriage: sitting outdoors alone after nightfall, breathing the cool grassy fragrance that follows a hot, humid day. Bill was often out, as he had been on the other job; his busyness gave her a chance to breathe. She took an old leather cushion out on the grass and sat relaxed, idle yet aware, breathing in the summer nights.

  The old couple next door sat on their front porch, in a plastic glider with creaking joints. When they went in she usually sat for a while relishing her aloneness, looking at the moon and the little drifting clouds and listening to the tree branches making the same gentle sighing they had made in Shakespeare’s England. “On such a night as this,” she thought, standing up, cushion in hand, as the next-door television came to life. No soft summer evening would keep the old people from going in to listen to Floyd Dalber’s newscast on channel five, after which they would go placidly to bed.

  It didn’t seem to her that the news could be regarded as soporific, but at least it made a break in the day. She usually drank a last cup of coffee and went to bed around half past ten because there was nothing else to do.

  Going to bed didn’t necessarily mean going to sleep, however. Bill had installed a window air-conditioner in the bedroom; next year, if he took over the house, he would have the whole place air-conditioned, sealed away from the living, breathing outdoors. The unit made a hypnotic whirring whisper that sent her into a half-drowse for an hour or so. Then she was awake, sweating with tension in the artificial coolness, and lonely to desolation.

  Bake, she thought, turning and moving on the bed as though her hungry body might touch another in its need. But Bake was part of a past that was irretrievably gone. She didn’t want to think about Bake in terms of the present, driving swiftly with Jane beside her in the car, waking on Sunday mornings to hear Jane moving around quietly in the kitchen, or—Frances drew a sharp breath—peeling off her shirt and slacks in the white moonlight that flowed through the bedroom window, while Jane lay in bed watching her with wide eyes and a waiting smile. That hurt.

  It was better to think about the future. At least, it would have been better if she could have foreseen any future. There was no predictable end to the hunger for love that tore her in pieces, these hot summer nights.

  In the daytime she was hungry for two things: something to do that had meaning, someone who offered companionship. At night she was kept awake by a craving that only one thing would satisfy. There were things she could do for herself, but which filled no real need, which only eased the physical tensions for a while. She scorned them as childish. I need someone to love, she thought in misery.

  It was worse when Bill felt amorous. After he fell asleep she got up and bathed, brushed her teeth and shampooed her hair as though hot water could dissolve his touch. She didn’t hate him; sitting on the edge of the tub, rubbing her head with a thick towel, she wondered why that realization made her feel worse instead of better. Hell, I don’t even dislike him. He’s a nice guy. I wouldn’t mind being his secretary; he’d be a nice boss, kind about days off and small raises. I just don’t want him to touch me. I don’t want any man to touch me.

  That’s what marriage is, though. It makes an obligation out of a free gift. I want—

  I want a lot of things, she concluded, pulling a fresh nightgown over her head. (Bill liked her in nightgowns, preferably sheer nylon ones with lace. Left to herself she slept in cotton pajamas. Bake had wanted her naked.) A lot of things I’m not going to get in a hurry.

  She smoothed the sheets and got decorously back into bed, lying well away from Bill and pulling her gown down as far as she could. Bill was sleeping out loud, his mouth open a little. The top sheet was pushed down around his legs, and the chest and groin hairs were beaded with sweat. She felt repulsed and pitying at the same time. A nice guy, as far as he knew how to be. He had taken her back and been kind to her—as far as he knew how to be. He even wanted to buy her a fur coat, she reminded herself, closing her eyes and composing her face for sleep, although she knew she wasn’t going to get any sleep for the next few hours.

  The problem was that she didn’t want a fur coat, or a new sofa and wall-to-wall broadloom, or even (smothering a nervous snicker), the pure love of a good man. No, nor fifteen minutes of his valuable attention twice a week. She wanted someone to love. It wouldn’t be a man, no matter how kind and generous he was. To make love with a man seemed to her a kind of perversion.

  Bill stirred in his sleep. She lay still on the front edge of the bed, watching the shadows move along the wall as late cars rolled down the street.

  It was almost morning when she fell into an uneasy half-sleep broken by street sounds and the heat of Bill’s body so close to hers. She dreamed of Erika.

  The alarm clock woke her, not tired now but strangely rested and clear in her mind. It was a fine, hot, sunny day. She got up and stood looking out of the bedroom window, hearing Bill thumping around in the bathroom; he was the kind of man who jumps out of bed at the first buzz and goes into high gear immediately. The old man next door was already out, placing the sprinkler so his flowers would get the good of the water before the sun was high. He looked busy and contented. She beamed at him from behind her curtain.

  She was going to find Erika Frohmann.

  She didn’t know what would happen after that, but anything would be better than these long nights full of needing.

  6 IT WAS LIKE THE FIRST DAY AT COUNTY HIGH, standing in front of the big brick building in her stiff homemade gingham, watching the town girls go up the sidewalk in giggling groups as though they owned the place. It was like waiting for polio shots with nobody to tell her, as she used to tell Bob, that it would be over in just a minute. It was like getting ready to have her first baby, with an aching back and nausea and deepening panic. She was scared.

  It was like standing just outside the doors of youth, watching them swing shut against her. She had felt this unreasoning panic once before, on her thirtieth birthday.

  She gathered up all her courage, opened the door of the bookstore and went in, not hearing the silver tinkle of the bells because her ears were thick with terror.

  Erika Frohmann was standing beside the cash register, her elbows propped on the wooden counter, her blonde head bent over a magazine. She looked up. The polite inquiry
on her face gave way to recognition. She said, “Hi. Vince has expected you.”

  “Oh—the rest of the books.”

  “Also he likes you.”

  From which she knew that Vince had told Erika the one thing she had to know. She said, keeping her voice even, “I like him too. Do you work here?”

  “Not really. I’m only watching the store while he goes out. I have nothing to do in the summer, you see.”

  “Would you like to go out for breakfast, or something, when he gets back?”

  Erika said, “I’d like coffee. Thank you very much.”

  They looked at each other. Before Frances could think of anything else to say—she who had been so glib with the Wives only yesterday—Vince came in, walking light and catlike in Moroccan slippers turned up at the toes. Erika slipped out from behind the counter. “We’re going for coffee,” she said, and Vince grinned, pleased. “All right, I’ll see both of you later.”

  So they were walking down the hot street side-by-side, their steps nicely matched. Frances felt lightheaded with pleasure.

  Erika’s face looked less boyish in the sunshine; she had the shadowed eyes and hollow cheeks of one who lies awake night after night, remembering. She said, smiling a little, “Vince is very nice. Some people might not like him because—you know, he has his own problems.”

  “Because he’s gay,” Frances said hopefully. The word was so out of keeping with Erika’s rather melancholy expression that she couldn’t help smiling. “It’s a silly word.”

  “It is. I can’t think of anything less gay than being gay.” She gave Frances a small inquiring look from under cautious half-closed eyelids. Frances nodded.

  “Vince said so. I thought—”

  “He asked me.”

  “The other words are worse, anyway.”

  “You can’t always tell about people, the way they dress and everything. It’s embarrassing to make a mistake.”

  “Especially if you start late. Then, too, this is a foreign country for me even now. The customs are different.”