The Swashbuckler

by Lee Lynch

  “Yeah,” Frenchy said, her voice as throaty as Pam’s. “Next week, after we go rowing.”

  * * * * *

  Frenchy chuckled to herself as she ran up the subway steps at 14th Street. How her body had ached all week from last Sunday’s exercise! How she had ached inside for the promise of a night with Pam. Hard as she tried to imagine it, she got no further than seeing them making out behind a tree in some remote place in Central Park. She checked out the Automat across the street as she passed, planning to take Pam there for dinner. She didn’t know any other restaurants except holes in the wall, and hippie or not, this girl had class. Compared to Edie, she was cosmopolitan. Like Mary said, all Edie had on the rest of the kids downtown was her education. Inside she was plain old Edie.

  Pam now, she knew a thing or two. She knew the world and how to get along. She had guts, living without a steady job, having her own place, knowing her way around the whole city - not just a few bars at night. Pam would be an education for her, and when she graduated she’d be a smoother, more sophisticated butch, able to take smoother, more sophisticated girls around the big city, taking cabs and eating at Tad’s Steak City or some place as fancy. Maybe then she ought to go see Mercedes, show her the town. Maybe then Mercedes wouldn’t hate her any more.

  She left 14th Street more north than she usually did. It was fancier-looking up here. There were fewer shops and those she saw were expensive places she wouldn’t dare enter. She wondered how Pam could afford to live in the West Village until she got to Morton Street where tenements stood side by side with brownstones. Still, the street had a kind of class to it with its arched doorways and barred windows filled with flowing ferns. Here she was in Greenwich Village, going out with a girl who lived on Morton Street. That made her feel a little better, lightened her heart heavy with thoughts of Mercedes. She didn’t need Mercedes. Pam was an artist, a hippie, not some dyke as dull and lacking in prospects as herself.

  Frenchy stamped out her cigarette. Her freshly laundered and ironed black sweatshirt was spotless, the collar of her white button-down underneath filled with starch from the Chinese laundry, her blue jeans sharply creased and her boots polished like she was going to Radio City Music Hall instead of rowing. She’d even polished her red pinky ring and it caught the sun, sparkled. She patted a Marlboro out of its box and slowed to saunter casually up Pam’s street in case she was watching.

  She buzzed the apartment, leaning against the wall to wait for the answering buzz that would allow her upstairs, wondering if Pam had tidied her place because she was coming. After a couple of minutes she realized this was taking too long and buzzed again. Then she checked the apartment number and gave a long buzz. Maybe she was sleeping. Could the buzzer be broken? But wouldn’t Pam have told her, left her a note? Should she yell up to her window? But which was her window?

  She buzzed once more, viciously. Then she stomped out of the vestibule and started back the way she came.

  “Frenchy!” She had heard a window open; she looked up and saw Pam.

  “Is it eleven so soon?” Pam’s hair hung over the sill and she clutched some garment over her shoulders. “Come back, I’ll buzz you up.”

  Frenchy hesitated, still mad. But she’d look stupider going away mad than going up. And Pam didn’t know how she’d panicked. She went in and climbed the stairs.

  The door was open and she slipped inside. If anything, the mess was greater. She shook her head affectionately.

  “I’m in the shower,” Pam called. “Make some coffee, would you? For Dorene too!”

  “Dorene?” Frenchy glanced around the apartment.

  “Hi!” A sleepy light brown face smiled at her from the bed.

  Frenchy jumped half out of her boots.

  “My, you are short.”

  All Frenchy could do was stare.

  “I’m Dorene.” A hand reached out from under the covers. Silently, Frenchy went over to shake it.

  “Do you know where the coffee is?” Frenchy asked, unable to think of another thing to say.

  “Cabinet over the sink.” The woman pointed, sitting up, the covers falling, revealing her naked body. Frenchy quickly averted her eyes and pulled a chair to the sink to get the coffee down. “No, wait,” Dorene said, when Frenchy had climbed up and was peering into the cabinet, “I think she left it on the table last night. Yeah, there it is.”

  Frenchy climbed down, feeling very undignified.

  “Don’t make any for me, though,” Dorene said. “I got to be going. I’m due at work at twelve. Besides,” she added with a smile in her voice, “I know this is your day with Pammy. I didn’t mean to be here so late. We just didn’t get to sleep till all hours.”

  Dorene quickly dressed and walked into the bathroom with Pam. Over the sound of the flushing toilet Frenchy heard her ask to use Pam’s toothbrush.

  Dorene said when she returned, “Pam’ll be right out. Unless you want to go in. She likes these long, long showers.”

  In the face of all this intimacy, feeling like a customer at the A&P waiting for the customer ahead of her to leave, Frenchy tried to act perfectly natural. “Does she just use this pot to boil water in?”

  “Yeah, but you got to wait till the shower stops because the kitchen sink shuts the water off in there. You can fill the pan in there.”

  “I’ll wait,” Frenchy said quickly. Dorene was smiling. Frenchy realized she’d seen Dorene around the bars. Just now and then, though, and always in the kind of clothes she wore now — jeans and a leotard top, with a couple of shirts or silky jerseys over them and a lot of scarves and jewelry. She had wondered what her scene was.

  “You an artist too?”

  “I try. Indeed I do try, little one. I sculpt. I have to run now. Nice meeting you. See you around?”

  “Sure,” Frenchy said, holding the pot in one hand and the coffee in the other. “I guess so.”

  “Hello darling.”

  Pam had come up to Frenchy and hugged her quickly from behind. Frenchy turned around and sighed in relief. Thank goodness Pam was wearing a robe.

  “I’ll be dressed in a jiff, then swallow my coffee in one gulp and we’re off.” Pam looked out the window. “What a groovy day for a boatride in Central Park. You’re impossibly romantic.”

  “I am?” Frenchy asked, looking for a spoon.

  “Here, just pour a little in,” Pam said, taking the coffee and the cup. “I suppose you’re too butch to be any good in the kitchen.”

  “My mother does all the cooking.”

  “Can you tell when water’s boiled?”

  “Do you like it to have the little bubbles on top or the big ones?”

  “Impossible,” Pam muttered, throwing off her robe and pulling clothes out of various piles as if she knew what was where. Frenchy looked away again and carefully watched the water for signs of boiling. Pam said, “I think we ought to take the bus up to the park. I haven’t got a lock for my bike.”

  “Okay,” Frenchy agreed, beginning to see bubbles.

  “Full of life this morning, aren’t you?” Pam asked as she returned. “That’s done enough.” She took the pot off the stove.

  Frenchy turned the burner off. She had decided not to let on that she was upset over finding her in bed with Dorene. After all, it was Pam’s life — hadn’t she said she was a free agent? Just because they had a date today and were going to sleep together tonight didn’t mean she owed her life to Frenchy.

  “I’m okay,” she answered, smiling over at Pam who was drinking her coffee standing, one leg lifted and propped against the other.

  “You’ve got the prettiest smile.”

  Frenchy scowled.

  “And the nastiest scowl. Do you have change for the bus or should I hunt through my stuff?”

  “No, I can pay for you, no problem.” Frenchy rattled the change she had been careful to put in her pocket.

  “Always prepared?”

  “I try.”

  “How’d you like Dorene? She’s my oldest
friend in the City. We go dancing together about once a month. She’s a fantastic dancer and she says I’m the only white woman she can stand to dance with. I take that as a big compliment.”

  Frenchy wondered if she was a fantastic lover too.

  “And she’s a fantastic lover too.”

  She felt challenged, and hoped Pam still wanted her to stay over. “Do you still want to go out today?” she asked.

  “Of course! I’m up now. Otherwise I might have just pulled you into bed with Dorene and me.” Pam turned to put shoes on. By the time she turned back Frenchy had swallowed her shock.

  On the bus and on the street Pam acted as if they’d been lovers for years. Her kind of lover. She kissed and hugged Frenchy interminably, mussed her hair and teased her. By the time they were at the park Frenchy felt like both an adored child and a woman involved in a passionate affair. She paid for the boat rental and helped Pam in. The attendant pushed them off. The oars had been placed in the oarlocks and she dipped them and pulled. The boat moved a little, then a little more, then she hit the boat next to them. “Sorry,” she called.

  “Want me to navigate?” asked Pam.

  Frenchy remembered how she had said she snarled traffic. “I’m okay. I just haven’t done this in awhile.” More like never, she reminded herself, wondering how to steer. But she’d watched the people on the water the week before and knew it had to do with just using one oar. Soon she had them in the middle of the lake, well away from the worst traffic, and she felt she could pull in the oars and light a cigarette.

  “I forgot mine,” Pam told her.

  Frenchy loosened a cigarette and offered it to her, then flipped open her Zippo. She watched Pam’s face as she leaned into the light. Their eyes met and Frenchy didn’t look away as she lit her own cigarette.

  “You weren’t jealous of Dorene, were you?”

  “Naw,” Frenchy said, inhaling and looking at the tops of the buildings that surrounded the park. They looked so far away. She could hear birds singing. It was so peaceful. “Why would you think that?”

  “You were so quiet before.”

  “I guess she might of took me by surprise a little.” She rowed them back toward the little island they’d drifted away from. “I mean, usually in my crowd when you pick up a girl, she’s not in bed with another girl.”

  “As long as you weren’t jealous,” Pam said almost teasingly.

  Frenchy wouldn’t look at her. “Didn’t bother me.”

  “You’re not a bad liar, Genvieve.”

  “Hey, I told you not to call me that.”

  “Which, liar? Or Genvieve?”

  “Maybe we better go in,” Frenchy said shortly, tossing her cigarette into the lake and picking up the oars.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Frenchy,” Pam said, quickly shifting to sit next to Frenchy, almost capsizing them. “I didn’t know you’d get so mad.”

  Pam looked altogether different, scared now. Frenchy knew she’d made her point, but kept her silence.

  “Listen, if I ever say it again you can take me home, but let’s not spoil today. I’ve been looking forward to it all week. Okay? Here,” she said, “let me help row. Your arms must be tired.”

  Frenchy looked at Pam with a disinterested steadiness, then shrugged and took up her oar. They rowed in a lopsided fashion until Frenchy told Pam to go back carefully to the other seat. Pam obeyed. That’s better, thought Frenchy.

  “Are you mad?” asked Pam. Frenchy shook her head. “I really am sorry.”

  Quiet, Frenchy kept rowing, very smoothly now, admiring the way her sturdy arms looked against their rolled-up sleeves, the red ring twinkling in the sun, her I.D. bracelet flashing. Pam took a small sketch pad out of her large bag and began to draw. Frenchy realized she’d never known an artist before.

  After several minutes Pam tore off the page and handed it to Frenchy. “For you.”

  It was a drawing of Frenchy rowing, cigarette hanging out of her mouth, her face stern. “That’s good!”

  “Thank you. It’s a present.”

  “I can keep it?” She thought of showing it to her mother, but how could she explain who Pam was? Why she was smoking cigarettes? Maybe she’d show Marian at work. “Thanks,” she said, melting a bit. “Would you hold it? I don’t want it to get wet.”

  “If you’ll smile now, I’ll do a nicer one.”

  Frenchy felt a smile force its way to her lips. “I guess I’m too touchy about that.”

  “Your name?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey, I think it’s great you chose your own name. I should have respected it more. It’s like learning to recognize an artist by the name she puts on her work. I learned my lesson.” Pam sketched quick lines. “You really have a fine face.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Are you all French?”

  “Every inch.”

  “You could be Italian. Or Spanish. What part of France are your people from?”

  “Marseilles.”

  Pam looked up, surprised. “Really?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “My cousin’s family was hidden by a family in Marseilles before they came to America during the war. Was yours a fishing family?”

  “Yeah, but they came here before the war.”

  “Why did they come?”

  “I don’t know. I never asked. Where’s your family from?”

  “Warsaw. In Poland. They’re Jews.”

  “Oh.” Frenchy understood now why the cousins had to hide. Why, she wondered, did she keep falling for Jewish girls? In all the years at the bar, no one in her crowd had been Jewish. Or Puerto Rican. Yet on her own, away from the bar, that’s who she was drawn to. Was she looking for someone, something different? In a way she wished Pam were Mercedes, yet another way she was glad she still had time to be ready for Mercedes.

  “There, isn’t that better?” The sketch was of a smiling, carefree Frenchy.

  “Pretty good,” Frenchy said, much complimented.

  “Not mad anymore?”

  “I guess not.”

  They’d been drifting for a while. “I’m sure we’ve been out here over an hour. Maybe we’d better go in before it gets too expensive.”

  “Sure,” Frenchy said agreeably.

  It was a quieter, less demonstrative Pam who rode back downtown. Frenchy worried that she’d overdone her anger. She tentatively reached to hold Pam’s hand.

  “Gee,” Pam said, “it’s been a long time since anyone’s held my hand.”

  “Do you mind?” Frenchy asked, wondering what had got into her to ask a girl’s permission to hold her hand.

  “Of course not. It feels good. Kind of trusting. Like I can lean on you.”

  “Want to go to dinner with me later?”

  “Oh,” Pam said, sitting up, “but you don’t know what I had in mind for you.” Pam’s voice lowered to husky sexiness. “A spaghetti dinner by candlelight. At my place,” Pam finished, whispering.

  Frenchy thought of Mary cooking for Jessie. “What do you think? We’ll buy the groceries now, a couple of bottles of wine, I’ll cook up a storm for you. Restaurants aren’t really my scene.” Frenchy was smiling, and pleased. “Don’t tell me no girl’s ever cooked you a dinner before.”

  “Not really. My ex, Edie, she’d feed me when I went out there, but it was always just because it was time for lunch or something.”

  “This will be a celebration. A happening!” When they got downtown Pam pulled Frenchy from store to store with her, buying the best kind of spaghetti here, the crispest Italian bread there, the freshest vegetables and hamburger in another place. Frenchy staggered under an enormous bag of groceries while Pam struggled with wine bottles and the door to her apartment. Frenchy lit the candle in the bathroom and shut the door. When she emerged, Pam had cleared the counter, the kitchen table and the couch. The bed was still empty of all but rumpled sheets from Dorene’s visit.

  “Where’d you put it all?” asked Frenchy.

  “Away, away,
away,” sang Pam. “I’ll deal with my closet tomorrow.” She laughed, and sat Frenchy down on the couch. “Ah, my French lesbian, it’s a pleasure to have you here,” she said, putting her arms around Frenchy and leaning to kiss her. She ran her arms up and down Frenchy’s back and chest, lingering at her breasts. Frenchy felt totally overwhelmed again. She wouldn’t have dreamed of touching Pam’s breasts so soon. She pulled back. “No, no,” Pam said, biting Frenchy’s lip gently. “Let me, let me, I want you.” Frenchy flushed with excitement at Pam’s words, that someone wanted her like this, that someone was making her feel like girls must have felt when she touched them. So what if Pam was acting butch? She wore skirts, didn’t she? She was going to cook dinner, wasn’t she? She was built like a femme, wasn’t she? And she acted like a femme, except for this delicious arousing and touching.

  “What about dinner?” Frenchy managed to ask into Pam’s lips.

  Pam pulled back. “You’re right,” she said, pushing her hair off her face. “We must eat, fortify ourselves for later.” She was laughing as she stood above Frenchy, large and bold and strong in a womanly way. Frenchy looked up at her as she would at a huge wave about to fall on her and sweep her away. Excitement was all mixed with fear in the pit of her stomach. As Pam walked back toward the kitchenette Frenchy pulled the seam of her jeans away from herself to dry.

  Pam was no more organized in cooking than her housekeeping. Frenchy, used to her small, quick mother’s movements in the kitchen, was mesmerized by the havoc of the larger woman’s methods. As Frenchy sipped wine on the couch, Pam stripped, then lost, garlic cloves one after the other, sent onions rolling into her sink where she left them, selecting only those she needed, and made twice as much ground beef as she could fit in her small frying pan, leaving one batch to congeal on a plate amid a litter of pots, pans, bowls, boards and plates. Now and then she would fly to the couch to hug and excite Frenchy who was docile as a hypnotist’s subject. Pam drank great quantities of red wine from a gallon jug on the floor, filling her jelly glass each time she stumbled over the bottle.

  But when she changed from her sweaty clothes and returned in a long Oriental silk robe, the apartment was filled with delicious smells and the kitchen table was transformed. “Antiques,” she explained as she set out delicate flowered plates, colored wine glasses, embroidered napkins and heavy, shining silverware. “I only bought two place settings of this silver — that was all the shop had — but they’re keeping their eyes open for more for me. Isn’t it elegant?”