It was so exactly what she had expected that she couldn’t help laughing. She said, “It isn’t funny, though.”
“It certainly isn’t. I hope you’ve loved someone very much.”
“Yes. The girl who brought me out.”
“What happened?”
What had happened? Bake’s drinking, Bake’s tempers because she wouldn’t divorce Bill and move into the apartment, Bake’s betrayal of her with Jane, were these the causes of their split? Or was it her own cowardice that kept her from taking the final step? It was too complicated. There were too many factors to weigh, and she didn’t know how.
She fastened on the most obvious cause. “My son was engaged to a girl from a very conservative family. He asked me to give up my friend. Some messy things happened and they both knew about it—my husband and my son.” She shivered, remembering the awful night with a girl who beat her and raped her and left her to get home, bruised and penniless, in time for Bob’s wedding. It was too awful to tell anyone, even this thin man with the kind eyes.
She said hastily, “Then my husband forgave me and took me back. He’s gone on forgiving me for more than a year now, and I don’t think I can stand much more of it.”
“He doesn’t love you.”
“He thinks he does.”
“If he loved you the way any human being needs to be loved, one act of forgiveness would be enough—and he’d ask you to forgive him.”
“What for?”
“How do I know? You don’t love him either, do you?”
“Sometimes I hate him.” To admit it was a relief. She said, “I keep trying to tell him how I feel, but he won’t listen. He seems to think it’s my own fault if I’m not satisfied. He earns good money—he gives me things I don’t want—”
“Do you sleep with him? Don’t tell me if you don’t want to.”
“Twice a week, on schedule.” Her voice was bitter. She didn’t mean it to be, but it was. “I feel like a prostitute.”
“And—you’re with someone else too? Some girl?”
“Only once. I don’t know how it’s going to work out, but I want her if she’ll have me.” She looked at him, at his thin listening face above the open-neck shirt. “Don’t tell me I’m abnormal. I feel normal with Erika, but not with Bill.”
“Would your husband want to go on living with you if he knew about her?”
“I don’t know. Before, he seemed to think it was just a phase, like being mentally ill for a while. I did something that upset him, and now it’s over.” She ran her tongue over dry lips. “It’s nice like that. Everything that’s decent and honest is tied up with it. I’m not casual.” She said defensively, “I’m not talking just about sex, there’s love in it.”
“There is indeed,” Dr. Powell said, sounding unhappy. “What would happen if you left him?”
“I can type and file and take dictation. I could earn a living.”
“Then why are you asking me? You really have it all worked out in your own mind.”
Frances set her cup down hard. The coffee splashed. She said, “I didn’t know I had. I guess I wanted some kind of an okay—you know? It’s easy to know what to do, but doing it is something else. Maybe I’m not brave enough.”
“You have to find your own courage.”
“I don’t want to hurt Bill.”
He shook his head. “You can’t help it. Nobody lives without hurting other people. You simply have to decide how to do the least possible harm—what’s right for you is often right for others too. You’re going to hurt Bill if you keep on living in the same house, pulling away from him. You’ve hurt him already.”
Frances sighed. She stood up. “Well—thanks, Dr. Powell.”
“People who like me generally call me Dan.”
“I’m Frances. Anyway, thanks a lot. Especially,” she said, moving ahead of him into the living room and look absently at a row of Toby jugs on the mantel, “for not thinking I’m a case of retarded development or something. Straight people almost never realize that what seems abnormal to them might be perfectly normal for somebody else.”
Dan Powell said seriously, “Frances, there aren’t any rules. Try not to hurt anybody—but remember, it’s better to inflict a small hurt now than a big one later on. No one can tell you what to do.” He laid a brotherly hand on her shoulder. “Come again. Who knows, we might find we’re friends.”
She went away quietly.
Something had been decided. She would have laughed at the idea that a total stranger could make up her mind for her—and yet, she thought, I only needed someone to tell me what I knew all along. Someone I could respect.
Nothing was changed, but she went home full of new hope.
12 IT WAS DISHEARTENING, WHEN SHE REACHED the house of Regent Street, to find Bill out and a note on the refrigerator door. Visiting firemen—don’t wait up. She went to bed, rehearsing what she would say when she had a chance.
I appreciate your kindness, but our marriage is a failure and it’s not fair to either of us to go on like this. Then what? He might hit her—but no, he was the kind of man who calls in a lawyer and signs papers. Anyway, she was going to tell him the truth. All except, maybe, the visit to Dan Powell (and what a pastoral consultation that had been, she thought grinning; the editors of Our Home should only know).
She fell asleep thinking how easy it is to evade a lover when you don’t feel like seeing him, but husbands—they were always under foot when you didn’t want them; you were tied to them by hoops of steel: the double bed, the breakfast table, the joint checking account. And if you wanted fifteen minutes alone with the man to whom you were bound, he had a sales meeting.
She woke to a day streaming with sunshine. Bill was already dressed and shaved. “I’ll eat at the drugstore. You were sleeping so sound I hated to wake you.” He yawned. “Christ, what a night. Schubert and I are taking these three wops to Chicago tonight, last night they’re here. Expect me when you see me.”
“Wops?”
“They’re opening a branch plastics factory in Venice. Here to study American business methods.”
Venice. City of the Doges and the Bridge of Sighs, newly dedicated to pink plastic blocks and aqua cereal dishes. She said drowsily, “I should have gone to Europe sooner. Too late.”
“Huh?”
“Do they drink Coca-Cola in Venice?”
“Hell, how would I know?”
When he was gone she jumped out of bed and dressed, her heartbeat accelerating. It was going to be a scorcher, the kind of weather where you could actually hear corn growing. Sunshine poured in at the open windows. The house was full of that hot, still, leisurely feeling that goes with summer in a small city. It was the kind of day she liked best, a day that filled her with strong, hot energy.
Bake had liked cold winds and walks in the snow. She didn’t know yet what Erika liked. She didn’t know much about Erika, except the way she broke into passionate flame when her body was aroused. It was all to be learned.
She had been separated from Erika—she looked at the wall clock—thirty-three hours. It was too long. Already, she was hungry for the sight of Erika’s face and the touch of her hand. And how did Erika feel by this time? Was she happy, or sorry that the shell of her loneliness had been broken? Frances couldn’t wait to find out.
She dropped her keys into a skirt pocket and stepped out into the bright clear sunshine. Two boys stood at the bus stop, their hands touching. She smiled at them, then turned away to give them a little privacy while she waited for the bus.
Vince was in his shop. He thought Erika was probably at home. If by some wild flight of imagination you could consider her room a home; from Frances’s description it sounded more like a dungeon, and he wondered what kind of crime you had to commit to be sentenced to it. Or on the other hand, she might be spending the day at the art gallery, if you could imagine a square town like Waubonsie having an art gallery.
“You’re kidding.”
“No, we really
have one. Most of the pictures are by local talent and they sort of run to harvest moons and old red barns. There’s a woman in the State Bank building who guarantees to teach anyone to paint. But one of the kids who belongs to Others has some fairly good stuff on display there—they don’t know he’s gay of course—and Erika has been trying to find buyers for it.” He took both of Frances’s hands in his and swung them back and forth, beaming at her with such goodwill that she had to smile back. “Our girl looks like she’s coming to life. I won’t say she looks happy, that’s a lot to expect from a sober chick like Erika, but at least she doesn’t seem to be drowning in her own misery. Would this have something to do with you?”
She said, as she had said to Dan Powell, “I’m not sure yet.”
“Go easy. That kid’s been hurt too much already. But on the other hand, she may never make up her mind if somebody doesn’t give her a little push.”
“You’re a big help.”
“I do my best.”
“I want to see her—I’ve got a whole day to myself and I thought maybe she’d like to go somewhere. But her place is way out to hell and gone and I don’t know what bus to take. I thought maybe you’d know if she was likely to be home.”
“My crystal ball isn’t working this morning. I’ll take you over, though. I have my roommate’s car.”
“But the store. Somebody might want to buy something.”
“Dreams, just dreams. Anyway, I keep an assistant for these rare moments. Allen!”
A young man looked out of the stockroom. His tousle of hair was bleached a brassy gold and the dark lines at the corners of his eyes were certainly penciled. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a customer,” he drawled. “A live one?”
“Certainly not. This is Frances. She belongs to the club.”
The boy moved lightly into the shop, hands on hips. “A lovely girl. If I were a female I’d go for her myself.”
“If you were any more female I couldn’t stand it. I’m going for a ride with this chick. We may never come back. Keep an eye on the stock, will you?”
“You’re certainly an optimist. For being willing to drive that heap of David’s and for thinking someone might come in.” Allen rose en pointe, as far as that’s possible in Italian sandals. “Have fun, children. I’ll stay here and watch the meter tick away the kilowatts. Did you pay the light bill yet?”
“Crazy fool,” Vince said, steering Frances out through the back door and into a garbage-cluttered alley where a tired Volkswagen stood. “He’s a ballet dancer, home because unemployed. And no, to what you’re thinking.”
“I wasn’t thinking any such thing.”
“Oh yes you were. I like my boys butch.”
She didn’t want to talk about it. “You need somebody to take care of you,” she told him, sliding into the little car and marveling as she always did that there was so much more space inside than outside. He looked pleased. “Good, I appeal to your maternal instinct. Would you like to adopt me?”
“Certainly. I’m giving you a bib and a pacifier for Christmas, didn’t you know?” She braced herself as the car lurched ahead. “What I’m wondering,” she said breathlessly, “why a dancer in Waubonsie? I can take the art gallery—is somebody organizing a corps de ballet too?”
“His family lives here, stupid. He’s out of work. They don’t like him, but they’re too humane to let him starve.”
“He should sell plastics.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice. Vince slanted a look at her and decided it was no time to ask questions. He said, “All dancers are crazy. The gay ones are crazier than the rest.”
“You don’t have to be crazy to be gay, but it helps.” She grinned. “It’s like being a Negro and converting to Judaism, it’s double trouble. Gay and show business too.”
“Don’t knock it, darling. Use the right bath soap, and romance will enter your life some day.”
She locked her hands between her knees to stop them from trembling. “I don’t know what I’m going to say to her when I see her.”
“Try sign language.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Be a good day for a picnic. Get out into the country and smell the new-mown hay.” Vince took a deep breath of exhaust fumes and melting asphalt. “To show you what a good-hearted guy I am, I’ll lend you David’s car if you’ll promise to take good care of it.”
“David would appreciate that. Why don’t you go along? We could stop somewhere and get stuff for sandwiches.”
“You feel you need a bodyguard? She might rope you, maybe?”
“Don’t be so cute. I’m thinking about the car, I certainly am not going to be responsible for anybody else’s car. Besides, she’s more likely to say yes if you come too. I don’t think she trusts me.”
“You shouldn’t be so violent,” Vince said primly. “I’ll come if you really want me, but why are you so anxious about everything? Why don’t you wait and see what happens? You might get a happy surprise.”
Erika’s house looked even tackier in the strong sunlight than it had by moonlight: peeling paint, a strip of roofing torn and flapping, and ragged shades added to the general impression of neglect and decay. Frances said, “The House of Usher,” and Vince said, “Charles Addams” in the same breath. “God, we’re cultured,” Vince said, taking her elbow as they started up the first flight. “Watch out for the banister, it’s coming apart. Lean on me and we’ll die together.”
Erika’s door opened before they had time to knock. “The strangest thing,” she said smiling. “I thought I heard elephants coming up the stairs. It’s the circus?”
“We’re looking for the monkey house.”
“Come in, anyway.”
Vince shook his head. “No, thanks, it’s too depressing. Wouldn’t be so bad if you hadn’t made your bed, it would at least have that lived-in look.”
Frances said, “We came to take you on a picnic.”
“That’s right. We came to take you out of the straitjacket and smuggle you past the warden.”
“I am my own warden,” Erika said seriously. “Anyway, I haven’t anything to take.”
“We’re going to buy stuff. Nice cold beer and everything. Come on, don’t fight it. David may never trust me with his car again.”
Frances thought it was likely, in view of the way he drove. She said earnestly, “Please come. It’s a beautiful day.”
“All right. You can wait in the hall while I put on some other clothes.”
“I like those sexy pants.” Vince leered at the wrinkled and faded blue shorts. There was a big three-sided tear over one hip. “Is that the new Italian look?”
“Si, signor.”
Frances slipped her arm through Erika’s. There was no answering pressure, but at least she didn’t pull away. They descended the steps side-by-side, hips moving smoothly in rhythm, feet striking the steps together—scuffed blue sneakers and shabby brown loafers. Vince trailed along behind.
Vince tried again before starting the little car. “Why don’t you two chicks go ahead by yourselves? I really have a lot to do at the store.”
Erika gave him a look. “Liar. You know nobody ever comes in that store. Except maybe your broke boyfriends.”
“Well, it was a good try.”
“It’s not that we like you,” Frances consoled him, “only someone has to carry the food.”
He insisted on going into the supermarket alone, leaving the two girls sitting in the car. “He’ll buy everything he sees,” Erika said dreamily, “Were you the one who thought of this?”
“The picnic was Vince’s idea. I just wanted to see you.”
“What for?”
Considering the exchanges of pleasure that had left them both exhausted and relieved two nights before, it seemed a stupid question. Frances looked at her. “Because I like you, silly.”
“I wish—” Erika stopped. “you’ll be hurt if you get involved with me. That night was wonderful for me, but I’m bad luck. I don’t want you t
o be hurt.”
“It would be worth it. Besides, that’s not true.”
“No. I’m only partly alive.”
Frances put a careful arm across her shoulders. “I’ll risk it,” she said stubbornly. “You’re the only one I want.”
Vince came out loaded with packages and smiling. “I got a quart of chianti as well as the beer. The beer is in dry ice. And a sausage pizza. The man says it’ll stay hot for two hours.”
“It won’t, I’m starving,” Frances said. “What’s in all those packages?”
“Pastrami and liverwurst and French bread and bagels and sour tomatoes and some of those big naval oranges from Texas and figs and six cans of beer, big cans. And a few other things.”
“Who’s going to eat it all?”
“We are.”
Erika laughed. Frances left the arm across her shoulder as the car started, and this time she didn’t move away. It was enough for now. She would forget everything else and have a good time.
They cut into the stream of traffic leaving town. The state highway was busy but not crowded on this weekday morning. The little car zipped past fields standing tall with corn, pastures where smug cows stood with raised heads meditating, and a bit of fenced-off woodland. Frances looked at comfortable white houses surrounded by their red barns. Would a woman living in a place like that be happy and contented, with a garden and some chickens to keep her busy, or would she hunger for excitement and faraway places?
She supposed it depended on who shared it with you. A life of security and peace might be good for some people, if they shared it with a loved one. It might be fine for Erika, after the terrifying years of her childhood and the nightmare of Kate’s violent death. On the other hand, you qualified for that kind of life by having a husband, children, belonging to the Home Bureau. She couldn’t see herself or Erika in that setup.
She was still lost in thought when Vince turned off the highway onto a narrow gravel road. “Where are you going?” Erika demanded.
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