France’s heart was banging. She got to her feet. Erika sat with her head down, refusing to acknowledge her approach. She put a shaking hand on Erika’s shoulder. The bone was flint hard under a too thin covering of flesh. Erika sat unmoving under her hand, like a captive bird. Only the front of her cotton shirt rose unevenly.
“I love you,” Frances said. The statement sounded cold and flat. “You know that, don’t you?”
“I know it.”
“I’m serious about it.”
“I know that too. I’m sorry.”
She moved from under Frances’s hand and turned off the hot plate. The coffee was done.
Frances stood motionless, shocked and frightened. Now I’ve done it. Now I’ve spoiled everything.
Erika handed her a plastic cup, wisps of steam rising from it. “Don’t be unhappy,” she said gently. “Drink your coffee; then you will want to go. It’s getting late.”
“Of course.”
The coffee was bitter. They sat enclosed in their separate miseries, afraid to look at each other. Frances found it hard to swallow. When the two cups were empty, Erika stood up. She moved a little stiffly, as though deeply tired, but her mouth smiled. She touched Frances’s hand lightly. “I like you,” she said apologetically. “Please don’t be sorry. I like you very much. It’s only that love frightens me.” Erika shut her eyes. “It’s not your fault. Give me a little time. Maybe we could be friends. I’d like to have you for a friend.”
“Can I kiss you goodnight?”
“If you want to.” But her voice was dull, and she kept her face half turned away. Frances was afraid to kiss her on the mouth. She touched her lips quickly to Erika’s check, which was cool and impassive.
She stood at the door of her room, frowning in a troubled way, while Frances went softly down the stairs and let herself out into the late night. The air was soft and dark with summer. A thousand scents rose from the grass and flowering bushes. Looking up, Frances saw Erika reach up and close the window, shutting out the heat and the sweetness.
9 “I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH YOU.” Bill was trying to be calm, but his voice shook, always a sign that he was about to lose his temper. A thousand sales meetings and ten thousand customer contacts had taught him to be nasty in a controlled way, Frances supposed. She stood beside the bookcase wishing he would shut up. She sighed.
“I know it takes a while to get used to a new town, this place is pretty small and everything, but Jesus Christ, you never did anything so goddamn wonderful in Chicago as far as I could see. Except take some courses at the university and sit around in that lousy insurance office, working for peanuts while your home went to pieces.”
Frances managed to keep her mouth shut. She looked past him, focusing on the maple tree in the side yard. As though cut from bright green paper, the many-pointed leaves moved slightly in the evening breeze. Think about leaves, how green and cool they are.
“I’m doing everything I can to make you happy. I don’t make any fuss about all these rugs and tables and stuff you’re always buying. Oh no, I’m good enough to pay the bills, the way you buy stuff anybody would think money grew on trees, but you don’t catch me complaining. I’m proud to give you a nice home, anything you want, it’s okay by me—”
“Oh, Bill.”
Conciliatory, wifelike—and useless. She bit back other words, knowing what every married woman learns early in her marriage, that there’s no point in reasoning with a frustrated man. He doesn’t want reason; it’s the reasonableness of things that makes him angry. He wants reassurance and praise, the little woman act, the buildup.
“You can’t complain that my friends aren’t nice to you, either.” Now he was off on some tangent of his own, no use trying to figure where his thought processes were leading him. Whatever had led to this outburst must have been rankling for quite a while. “They’ve been damn nice to you, all because you’re my wife. Pete Prendergast says Betty asked you to join some card club the girls have and you told her you were too busy. Doing what, or shouldn’t I ask? What are you doing that’s more important than making friends?”
“Oh, Bill, they get all dressed up like plush horses, and they fix fancy refreshments and sit around and gossip. I went once. I don’t like poker anyhow.”
“That’s because you’re a lousy player. You’d be all right if you kept your mind on the game.”
“It seems like such a waste of time. Anyway, I had a party for your friends. Besides having the Wives to lunch.”
“I suppose my friends’ wives aren’t good enough for you to associate with. You’d sooner hang around with a bunch of freaks in pants and have decent people laughing at you.”
People with double chins shouldn’t lose their tempers, Frances thought. But she felt a flash of indignation. A series of faces passed in gentle review between her eyes and the cut-leaf maple. Bake, with a preoccupied frown between her thick, dark eyebrows; Kay’s shining eyes and lovely sensitive mouth; Erika, sad and austere. My own people, she thought, intelligent and brave in a world that rejects them. This man with the red, angry face was the enemy.
Bill said in complete exasperation, “You could at least say something. You don’t have to be so damn snotty.”
“Am I?”
“You could answer when I’m talking to you.”
“What do you want me to say?”
He clenched his fist. For a panicky moment she thought he was going to hit her. It took all the courage she had not to duck. Then his hand dropped and he stood frowning at her. “Francie, why do you act like this? Anybody’d think you were doing it on purpose.”
All right, she would give it one last try. She said, choosing her words with care and hoping he might possibly, just possibly get it, “I’m a person, not just a wife. I have to figure things out for myself and decide what I want to do with my life—what’s left of it.”
He said brightly, “Hell, you haven’t got any problem. It’s all worked out for you. There isn’t a nicer bunch of fellows anywhere than the men at the office, and their wives all like you. I’m making good money. You can have anything you want, within reason. You’re a nice-looking woman, bright, and it’s a hell of a lot easier to be somebody in a town like this than it is in a big city. My good God, the whole set-up is made to order for you.”
What can you say, what arguments can you possibly use in the face of new furniture and three charge accounts?
“What do you want, anyhow?”
Love, she thought. Beyond the window, a soft haze was creeping over the maple tree, the shadow of the summer evening. She tried it. She said, swallowing hard, “Love.”
“Well, hell, you know I love you. I wouldn’t work the way I do if I didn’t. My job’s no picnic, you know. All the responsibility falls on me. The guys on the assembly line go home at five and leave their job there, but I’ve got the whole damn thing on my mind all the time.” He looked at her, baffled. “Hell, if I didn’t love you I wouldn’t have taken you back when you got yourself beat up and everything. It wouldn’t have been so bad if it was a man—but getting mixed up with those crazy she-males, not many husbands would’ve put up with that!”
There it was. I’ve been forgiven at least three hundred times before, she calculated, and even times before, she calculated, and every time I get smaller and he gets bigger. Pretty soon he’ll be God Almighty and I won’t even exist.
“You don’t act like you are interested in love, I’ll say that much for you. Every time I lay a hand on you, you start acting like some virgin who’s afraid of being raped.”
But of course, she thought, that’s what sex without love is. It could be an act of friendship, it doesn’t have to be the one great passion of a lifetime, but at least it ought to have a little recognition of the other person in it. Nothing to do with a license or a church ceremony; going to bed with somebody you don’t care about is just plain wrong. She said coldly, “I’ll be glad to divorce you, if that’s what you want.”
His reaction was one of surprise. His mouth fell open and a dull red crept up his neck and spread over his face. He said, “You’re crazy. What do you want a divorce for?”
“You don’t seem to be very happy.”
“That’s what I’m trying to get across to you, for God’s sake. Why can’t you try to do better?”
Frances was silent.
The old lady next door came out of her house, perky in a white hat like a pie plate, a huge white bag swinging from her shriveled arm, and took off on some evening errand of her own. As though the sight of another human being had released her from her trance, Frances took a step backward. “I’m going out.”
“What for? It’s almost bedtime.”
“It’s twenty minutes after eight.”
“You’re not safe alone on the streets after dark.”
“This isn’t Chicago, and anyhow it won’t be dark for another hour. I don’t feel particularly safe here, listening to you yell.”
Her keys lay on the hall table, a little bunch of glitter. She dropped them into her pocket and stepped outside. Let him sulk alone if he feels like sulking.
She almost wished he would do something violent, like beating her, or locking her out, or leaving. Anything would be better than listening to this for the next thirty or forty years. Well then, resolve it. Become one of the Wives. It probably hadn’t come natural to some of them; some of them had gone to college. They must suspect that there was more to life than having their hair done. If they could learn, she could.
For what? Another thirty years of boredom, and retirement to Florida with a dull old man at the end?
The neighborhood was quiet, a few cars on the street, a few couples walking, housewives sitting on their screened front porches. A thin young man in bermudas stood at the curb, lovingly polishing a small foreign car. He glanced at Frances and went back to his polishing. She smiled. Five years ago, the automatic rejection would have stung. Now she walked on, wondering what his girl was like—he wasn’t married, that was a bachelor’s car, and how she felt about getting married. Probably crazy to. They all wanted to catch a man at seventeen and have four babies in rapid succession these days.
She walked briskly past comfortable two-story houses much like her own (or Bill’s), some modernized with iron scrollwork and stylized shutters, some old-fashioned and homey. Her irritation with Bill was beginning to evaporate, leaving a residue of pity. Poor guy, he had a real grievance. All he wanted was a wife like everybody else’s wife. He had been as kind as he knew how to be. It was the kindness that wore her down, like paying interest on a debt year after year and never making a dent on the principal. Forty years from now he would still be nobly forgiving her for the only whole-hearted relationship she had ever known.
She wished that just once she could hate somebody without any mental reservations. It would be a pleasure. She wished she didn’t feel sorry for him.
It had been a mistake, naturally, to tell him how she felt. They couldn’t communicate. They could talk about trifles like the blanket she had just bought for Mari’s baby, and marvel over the wonders of Dacron. But when it came to feelings they were like a cat and a parakeet in the same household, the mewing of the one and the chirping of the other making no sense.
An elderly man came toward her with two dachshunds on leashes. She bent to admire the dogs, and the man gave her a sour look. She hurried on. Let’s be fair, she admonished herself, teetering on a curb to let a car go by. Nobody really understands anybody else. Even Bake—I never did know why she drank so much, what was in her past that made her need to, or why she got those desperate moods. She probably didn’t know herself. Or Bob. People are always telling you how they understand their kids, but I never really knew what was going on in Bob’s head; it was a relief to have Mari take over.
It was really getting dark. The houses were shadowy; windows glowed from within. Frances began to feel a little uneasy. Her feet ached. And for all her coolness, she was a little afraid to be out alone after dark. It seemed unlikely that crime was confined to big cities; even in this quiet suburban town the paper reported purse snatchings and knifings.
She didn’t want to go back to the house on Regent Street. If Bill were still being righteously angry she would be in for more of the same thing. If he’s simmered down and taken a drink or two he was likely to start pawing. She didn’t know which was worse.
A cab came around the corner and pulled to a stop just ahead of her. A slender young girl got out and stood waiting while her escort paid the driver. Frances moved quickly. “Are you free?”
“Sure am. Where you wanta go?”
She had heard Erika’s address only once, but it came to her lips as though it was her own. The driver, an intelligent-looking young Negro, pushed back his cap. “You’re a long ways from home. That’s way over on the other side of town.”
“It’s a nice night for a ride.”
No money. If she isn’t there I can’t pay. What do they do, put you in jail? Mail it to him later, or there’s Vince, I can call him up. She got into the cab, trying to look calm.
Way across town wasn’t far for someone used to big city distances. There was the house, gaunt and falling apart. The driver settled back and waited while she ran up the front steps. The outer door was unlocked, probably didn’t even have a lock. There was no one in the dim downstairs hall. Mail lay on a small table beside a telephone. She climbed the two flights of stairs and stood a moment, irresolute, in front of Erika’s door. Light shone through the transom. She knocked.
Erika opened the door a crack and looked out, then opened it wider. She had on faded blue cotton pajamas and looked sleepy, although it was still early.
Frances said, “Have you got any money? There’s a taxi driver down there waiting to be paid.”
“Just a minute.” She found a shabby clutch bag in a drawer, dumped its contents out on the bed. Frances held out her hand, but Erika ignored it. She selected a dollar bill, pulled on a terry robe and walked down alone, holding herself erect and looking straight ahead. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking.
She hates me, Frances thought. She’ll make me go back. But from the window she saw Erika pay the driver, saw the taxi pull away and roll down the street. She wondered, without really caring, how she was going to get home. When Erika came in, pulling the door shut behind her, she said in a low voice, “I had to come.”
“I know.” Erika laid a small cool hand on her wrist. It rested there lightly. “I wondered when you were coming.”
“Did you want me to?”
“I don’t know.” A small smile changed the shape of Erika’s mouth, making her look both younger and sadder. “As long as you’re here, why don’t you sit down?”
She slid the bolt in the door.
10 WITHOUT THE COTTON PAJAMAS, ERIKA WAS slight and small, like a child. Below the collarbone her skin was milky white, the little breasts those of an adolescent, the nipples tight and hard as unopened buds. Frances ran a gentle hand down over the flat belly, to the secret triangle of curling reddish hair. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” she said softly.
“I don’t want you to stop,” Erika whispered. Under the glaring light her face was shut and expressionless. But when Frances bent to kiss her, she opened her mouth slightly. “Turn off the light, it hurts.”
Frances was filled to overflowing with love. Let me make her happy, she prayed silently. Nothing else was important. Only joy and fulfillment for Erika, who needed so badly to be made happy. She moved to set her lips against a little pink bud.
Much later, she lay awake in the moonlight, feeling the gentle rise and fall of Erika’s breathing. The rest of the world was far away, safely shut out. She had no way of knowing how much time passed before Erika moved. “Frances?”
“Are you awake?”
“Mm.”
“Sorry?”
Erika sat up in bed, groping for the wall’s switch. The ceiling light flashed on clear and bright. Frances put an a
rm around Erika’s shoulders and drew her close, half afraid of being rebuffed. “Are you happy?”
Erika took the question seriously. “I don’t know. Let me get up.” She pulled away to reach for her terry robe. With the belt knotted around her waist she seemed again the remote girl Frances had been uselessly wanting. She said slowly, “It’s different.”
“From—her?”
“No, I mean I’m different.” The wrinkle between her eyes deepened, but she managed a smile. She sat down on the bed, of her own accord leaning against Frances, as though the contact comforted her. “You know, twice in my life I had to give up hope. In the camp where all those soldiers did bad things to me, when I was only twelve years old. That’s too young for so much badness. So I decided never to let anyone touch me again.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Only with men. I don’t hate men the way some gay girls do, you know how much I love Vince—it’s only that I don’t like to make love with them. After the accident I decided all over again, no love.” Erika looked under the bed and dredged up a pair of shabby ballet slippers. She sat with them in her hands. “How can anyone resign from the human race? Now you brought me back to life. I don’t know whether to hate you or say thank you.”
“I don’t want to hurt you. Or make you sad.”
She rested her head against Frances’s bare shoulder. “I won’t ever lie to you. I wanted you. When you were here the other night, after the meeting, I wanted you so badly it frightened me.”
“That’s why you sent me home, then. I thought you were angry at me for bothering you.”
“I was angry at myself. Because I have this feeling about you,” Erika said slowly, “I don’t want to call it anything, but I do know I don’t want to get mixed up with anyone again. I want to stay frozen.”
Frances said smiling, “You didn’t act frozen.”
Erika looked ashamed. “The body. It says do this, do that, and you have no choice. It’s like Pavlov’s dogs, someone rings the little bell and the body reacts. I don’t want to hurt you, but that’s not love.”
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