Return to Lesbos

by Valerie Taylor

  “What’s your story this time? Don’t believe a word you tell me, not a word, all those other times you handed me a lot of bullshit.” He scowled at her. “This better be good.”

  She cleared her throat. “Bill, I haven’t been honest with you and I’m sorry. I mean, I tried. All this last year since Bob was married. I don’t love you and you don’t really give a damn about me, it’s just the idea.” She gulped. “I’m leaving. Now, today.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  She saw, with wonder, that he was about to cry, whether with anger or shock or drunken sentiment she didn’t know. It was even possible that he loved her, so far as he could love anyone.

  He spoke again. “We’ve been getting along fine. You had a spell back there, but that was over a long time ago. We get along better than most people.”

  It was the same old stone wall. She could explain until she was dizzy, but she couldn’t get through to him. He’d built up this image of the happy marriage, right out of the women’s mags. All she could do in self-defense was break it into little pieces.

  She heard her voice harsh in the quiet house. “I’ve been faking, Bill. I’ll never be able to live with a man, any man. It isn’t your fault, you’ve been all right, but I can’t make it. I’m a lesbian.”

  “Oh hell, Francie, I may not be the most romantic guy in the world, but we get along all right. This is some notion you’ve picked up out of a book or something. Tell you what it is, women get this way when they start to get middle aged.” He looked relieved.

  “I’ve hated it all along. I’m a lesbian, Bill. You might as well believe it, because it’s true.”

  Her eyes were wet. He said reluctantly, “All right, supposing that’s true. You could go to a psychiatrist. That’s their job, to make people normal.”

  “I don’t need a psychiatrist. This isn’t a mental illness, it’s just the way I am.”

  “You’ve found someone to have an affair with.”

  “Maybe.”

  He dropped the glass. The liquor spread over the new rug. He paid no attention. He took a couple of steps toward her, walking carefully. “You have, haven’t you? Don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  His face hardened. She moved back a step. Not a man to hit anybody, she had told herself yesterday (a million years ago), but there had been that horrible afternoon she tried not to remember, when her coldness infuriated him and he stripped her and took her with a violence that was like rape. To be violated now would be more than she could bear, with the touch of Erika still on her skin, the taste of Erika on her lips. She glanced behind her, through the open hall door. Innocent sunshine lay across the porch. If she turned and ran screaming down the steps, neighbors would surely come—she would be safe.

  She stood where she was.

  He hit her. Rocked off balance, she went numb for a second. Then she was standing against the wall with a hand to her jaw, while pain spread up into her face and down into her chest. Before she could breathe the second blow caught her across the cheek. The edge of his palm caught her eyes, and lights flashed.

  She said, “You bastard.” Her voice came out blurred. Salt trickled into her mouth. She spat it out, a red blob.

  “I won’t let you get a divorce.”

  “You might as well. I’m going anyway.”

  “I’ll tell the truth in court.”

  “Go ahead.”

  He looked doubtful. She knew that by this time tonight his determination would have melted; he would be thinking about his job, his reputation, the publicity in the papers. Poor guy, she thought, he works so hard for security, and there isn’t any.

  Pain throbbed in from her chin. She felt the place carefully. It was swelling, all right. It would almost surely be discolored, but she didn’t think anything was broken. Maybe it was a small price to pay for freedom. Maybe it was a pattern she had to repeat every time she changed her life. Her father had blacked an eye for her, learning that she was going to college on a scholarship; she had arrived on campus with a spectacular shiner. And all the pancake makeup in the world wouldn’t cover the bruises she carried to Bob’s wedding, the day after that session with the lady baseball player.

  She said, “Let me by. I want to pack my clothes.”

  He looked at her. At what she saw in his eyes, she was afraid. Then he picked up a book from the table and threw it as hard as he could, not at her but at the wall. It hit with a smack and fell, fluttering loose pages. Bill pushed past her and went out, slamming the door. His five-minute stand as a man was over.

  She stood still, held by the sound of the banged door. In a minute she heard the car start. It rolled down the drive in reverse, stopped, righted itself and off. Frances laughed. The sound was loud in the house.

  He would go somewhere and have a few more drinks, maybe find some nice sympathetic bartender to tell his troubles to. And when he sobered up, he would probably decide to forgive her all over again. That was the American male in real life, no guts. He’d be back, reasonable and kind, and when that failed, pitiful. She could be worn down by pathos, when all the mink stole and charge account arguments failed; especially if she was tired to begin with.

  She locked the front door and bolted it, went through the house to the kitchen and put on the night lock. Climbing up the back stair she remembered, wondering, that she had always been afraid of physical violence. Now she felt clear headed and triumphant, as though she had come through a crisis and the rest would be easy.

  She put some alcohol on her bruised chin while the bathtub filled. The jaw was certainly swollen, and a plum-colored lump was beginning to darken just under her chin. The right eye looked ominous too. She blinked a couple of times; her vision was all right, so it was probably only the lid. Her teeth were intact and nothing seemed to be broken. I got out of that pretty well, she thought smugly, peeling off her clothes and stepping into the tub. And since cruelty was the commonest ground for divorce in Illinois, it wouldn’t be necessary to fake any evidence. She would get to a lawyer while she still had the bruises to prove it.

  Bathed, shampooed, dried and dressed in clean slacks and a thin shirt, she began sorting her clothes. Hurry, but don’t panic; they were good clothes and it might be a long time before she could afford to buy more. No Mrs. William Ollenfield stuff, no little flowered dresses with ruffles, just the things that felt good on her, office casuals, shoes she could walk in, no jewelry except her diamond—she supposed she had a right to that, she would sell it later. The winter clothes could be packed and sent to her after things settled down. She supposed she had done enough housework to earn them even if she hadn’t been too satisfactory in bed. She felt calm and executive as she folded her things and laid them in the suitcases.

  She tucked her hoard of small bills into the front of her bra and slipped a checkbook into the back pocket of her slacks. The bank wasn’t open until half-past nine, and even if it occurred to Bill to close out the joint checking account she would be there, first in line when the doors opened. She would make a scene; he wouldn’t. She didn’t think he would give the money a thought; anyway, he was probably feeling penitent by this time. In a way it was too bad she didn’t want a property settlement. That sock in the jaw would have gone a long way in court.

  She looked around the bedroom. It didn’t mean anything, it was just a room; faced with a choice between it and Erika’s hideous little cell she could leave those fancy drapes without a qualm. She picked up Bob’s graduation picture and opened her large suitcase to put it in. Sentimental, but she hoped he would go on liking her if he didn’t approve of her. It was her turn to take the long step into an independent adult life, and it was badly overdue. Bob was a person in his own right now, his life interwoven with that of Mari and the coming child. If they met again it must be as friends or strangers. Still, she would take his picture with her.

  The telephone was ringing in the downstairs hall. She walked past it, carrying her two heavy suitcases. At the front door she put
them down and dug the house keys out of her pocket. She laid them down on the small table beside the lamp, half a dozen keys on a metal ring with a scroll F in black enamel on the tag; she turned it face up and turned the lamp on so that Bill wouldn’t miss them.

  She set her suitcases on the porch, checked the lock, then stepped out and pulled the door shut behind her. The Yale lock clicked shut with a small definite sound. Inside, the telephone was still ringing.

  She walked down the narrow strip of concrete that bisected the yard, a bag in each hand. At the edge of the sidewalk she hesitated. Then she went on to the corner, without looking back.

  16 HEAT ROSE FROM THE DOWNTOWN STREETS and shimmered in the sunlight. People moved slowly; women in the shops seemed to be filling up their time rather than buying, they carried few packages and they looked listlessly at merchandise held out by mechanical clerks, as though they really didn’t care. Drugstore fountains were full of people resting their feet, having cold drinks and enjoying the air-conditioning. Cooled stores did a good business in notions, cosmetics, small items that gave people an excuse for loitering. It was an average midwestern summer.

  Frances brushed through the drifting people as though she belonged to another race. Her mind was on neither weather nor shopping.

  Today her decisions were taking shape without conscious effort, rising into her mind as though someone else were telling her what to do. She checked her suitcase into a locker at the Greyhound station, unremarked among the people coming and going. With the key in one pants’ pocket and her checkbook in the other, she moved on to the bank, made out a check payable to cash for a hundred dollars, then tore it up and made out another for two hundred. She had to think about Erika, too. She told herself calmly, standing in line at the teller’s window, that she would be working by the time it was gone. When she got out on the street she tore the rest of the checks across the middle and threw them into a city wastebasket.

  It had taken a long time to gather up enough courage for the first step. That taken, she was going right ahead. She marveled at how easy it was.

  It was almost eleven by the big clock on the bank building. She felt pleasantly hungry. She stuffed her tens and twenties into the breast pocket of her shirt and buttoned the flap down over the bulge; that made her look lopsided. From the change in her purse she bought a newspaper and went into the drugstore. The fountain was busy, but she climbed onto the last empty stool and folded her paper back to the For Rent columns. Over bacon and eggs and a toasted pecan roll she checked everything that looked halfway possible. Settled, she could look for a job. There were always jobs, in good times and bad, and she was young enough and attractive enough to fall into one. If she didn’t like it she could change later.

  She supposed she would have to get word to Bill before she did another thing. Left to himself he’d have the entire police force out looking for her. She didn’t want to spoil her chances of a quick, easy divorce by being counter-sued for desertion; but she felt Bill needed a few hours in which to simmer down. She would ask Vince to call him. Vince would know which lawyer to see, too. She counted on him to help her, if not for her own sake, then for Erika’s.

  The town, which had seemed so cramped and alien a few weeks ago, now began to take on a welcoming look. Since Erika had a contract for the coming school year they would have to stay here for a while, at least. She would work in one of these downtown office buildings, and the people she met would be friends, at least during working hours. Any dealings she might have from straight people would always have to be limited by the necessity for caution, but even so, the idea of working with other people was pleasant after so many years alone. She would find a place to live, a place to get her hair done, a store for buying her office dresses, a corner where she could wait for the bus that took her to work. She would get a card at the library and come to know the librarians and where her favorite books were on the shelves.

  She felt wonderful.

  She thought about Erika and found with surprise that there was no hurry about seeing her. They had years and years ahead of them.

  She got a handful of dimes from the cashier and began calling the people who had apartments to rent, skipping those who didn’t mention the rental or the number of rooms. Two were already taken, a third was looking for a man (men were more reliable about paying, a female whine at the other end said; she hung up before she could lose her temper). Another was at the far end of town, fine for people with cars but no good for anyone who had to depend on public transportation. Finally she realized that her lack of familiarity with the town was going to keep her from finding a place to live at a price she could pay. It was one more thing to turn over to Vince.

  Anyway, it would be better to get the job first and then look for an apartment within walking distance. There was Erika’s work to consider as well. She didn’t know where the high school was located. She vacated the booth in favor of a big fat man with a cigar and a sample case, and made her way to Vince’s store. Right now, she admitted, it was the only home she had.

  Today he had a gift copy of Robert Browning’s poems in the center of the window, an Edwardian offering in white, watered silk with a garland of roses on the front cover, and a frayed purple ribbon hanging out of the gilt-edged pages. She was glad that someone else had liked these fond and foolish volumes; she hoped the right person would come along to buy this one. The rest of the display—fans and a millefleur paperweight—she barely glanced at. The chimes tinkled twice as she opened the door and shut it again behind her.

  Vince said, “Doll, am I glad to see you! Where have you been since breakfast time?”

  “Organizing my entire life. Vince, where’s a good hotel for a few days? Not too cheap or too expensive?”

  “Single or double?”

  “Why, I don’t know.” At least she didn’t have to beat around the bush with Vince. He knew what the score was; he was on her side. At least, he was on Erika’s side. It came to the same thing in the long run. She said, “That depends on her. I’ll start looking for an apartment just as soon as—”

  “Frances.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “You’re going to hate me,” Vince said. He did look anxious. “Erika came down here, oh, around half-past ten, to see if I’d heard from you. I got the idea she expected you and you didn’t show. You stayed at her place last night, was that what happened?”

  “Till six this morning.” Her mouth was dry. “Then I had to go home. I told her I’d be back. She should have waited. I was going up there as soon as I had it out with Bill.”

  “She acted like she was hurt because you left.” Vince picked up a volume of essays from the counter and flipped through the pages, trying to look interested. “Or maybe puzzled. You must not have told her what you had to cope with at the other end of the line.”

  He put the book down and gave Frances a look of mixed bravado and apology. “I spilled it. I’m sorry.”

  “What?” But she knew.

  “That you had to account for your comings and goings to a husband.”

  “Oh God.”

  “Oh God is right. You must have forgotten to mention that you had any such thing.”

  “I didn’t mean to hide it from her. You have to believe that.” She laid a hand on his unresponding arm. “I didn’t even think about it at first, it didn’t seem to matter, and then I couldn’t find any good way to bring it up. I was going to tell her the whole thing as soon as I broke away from him. Honestly.”

  Vince shrugged. “I take it you finally broke away. Or did you run into a cement mixer on the way down here?”

  “Don’t be like that.”

  “I believe you, all right. But will she?”

  “What did she say?” She waited anxiously.

  “Nothing. Not a mumblin’ word. She simply walked out.”

  There was no handy answer for that. She stood looking at him, while the new world she had been building went up in a mushroom-shaped cloud. Job, apartment, an
d all.

  He said nervously, “It’s not good.”

  “Look, I left my husband this morning. For keeps. Told him I was going and walked out, like whatshername, that Ibsen girl. I told him why, too.” She smiled. It hurt her swollen jaw. “All my clothes and stuff are at the Greyhound station in a locker, two big heavy suitcases. Would it be a bright idea if I just took the next bus out?”

  “Where to?”

  “Anyplace. I don’t care.”

  “You want to kill her completely?”

  “I don’t want to hurt her at all, I’d sooner be thrown to the lions, but it looks like I can’t help it. We were both happy last night,” Frances said miserably. “I know she was happy. That makes it even worse.”

  “That was the impression I got, too. Only the people you care about can hurt you like she was hurt.”

  All her sureness had vanished away. She stood in the middle of the floor looking at him. “I don’t know what to do,” she said in a surprised voice. “What should I do?”

  “Get an explanation to her some way. Look.” His face was friendly now; he put his hand over her cold fingers, detaching them gently from his sleeve. “I had a fight with somebody I loved a lot, once. He hurt me, and I said so. I never want to see you again, I said. So he went away.” Vince smiled. “I sat around for three months waiting for him to come back. I would have cut my tongue out and mailed it to him, special delivery, if it would have done any good.”

  Didn’t he ever write, or anything?”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Sure, he should have knocked me down and made me listen. Nobody meant anything, it was just a fight like people have. Only we kept getting in deeper.”

  “So what do I do?”

  “It might not work, but what I’d do, I’d go and see her. Make her talk to you. She’s a stubborn little bitch, and a good thing, she’s had to be, but when she sees you the battle is half over.”