by Lee Lynch
The sausages were in the sauce and Pam was putting water on for spaghetti. Suddenly Frenchy wasn’t hungry anymore. How many times a week was she supposed to want spaghetti, she wondered, forgetting that she had decided to make it herself. She set the table.
Dorene was in the kitchen sampling the sauce. Dorene really was a lovely woman, Frenchy thought. Tall and slender, completely unlike herself and Pam. Graceful, with a handsome and strong face, its brown color almost as light as — Frenchy paused with a plate in midair to feel the weight of Mercedes’ name on her tongue. How long had it been since she’d last seen her? Since she’d first met her? And still she could feel like this. She didn’t understand why that attraction should be so much stronger and different from how she felt about Pam, why it seemed younger, cleaner, more promising somehow. Was it simply because she wasn’t actually living with her? Would it all be just as hard? Or harder because Mercedes was Puerto Rican? But Edie and Esther were together. And surely their difference in background wasn’t any greater than the difference between Pam and herself or Mercedes and herself.
Everyone sat down to eat, Pam and Dorene still stoned and talking soft nonsense, Frenchy lost in her thoughts of Mercedes. She remembered sitting down to another table a few weeks ago, remembered spending time with Mercedes’ own daughter.
Mercedes having a daughter. On the one hand she couldn’t stand the thought that Mercedes had been raped, had been swollen and in pain with an unwanted child. On the other hand, look at Lydia. How could she do anything but like such a high-spirited kid? She remembered Lydia’s pride in the trap drums she was learning to play. The child seemed separate from the mother, but somehow her existence enhanced the mother’s.
They had finished eating, but Dorene and Pam lingered over their wine. Frenchy talked only a little with them, and they hardly seemed to notice her distance. The way they looked at each other, the way they knew how to move around each other in this house, the way they took care of each other, maybe Pam and Dorene were meant for each other — like Esther and Edie. Maybe she wasn’t made like that, able to give so much to a girl. Edie had never asked for it, nor had Frenchy known she could ever have that kind of love with a girl. Besides, she and Edie weren’t meant for each other in the same way. That was a special feeling, more like a steady warm spring rainfall than a summer downpour. More like riding on the Staten Island Ferry than a big ocean liner. More Frenchy’s speed.
She caught the words “yeast infection,” and tuned into Pam’s conversation with Dorene again. Pam had better not embarrass her, not reveal that she’d given herself to Pam or to any other girl like that.
“So I’m celibate now,” said Dorene.
“I suppose I ought to be,” said Pam. “When did yours start?”
“About a month ago. I ignored it as long as I could, but I know I can’t be celibate much longer. As a matter of fact, if I knew somebody who had it already who wanted to sleep with me, I’d probably do it tonight! Anyway, I gave in and went to old Dr. Gracey.”
“That pig?”
“He’s cheap and his cure works.”
“Yes, but — yuk! The clinic gives you a tube of ointment and an inserter. You can do it all yourself.”
“Yeah, seems like I have to do everything myself these days,” Dorene laughed, winking at Pam.
“Hey, don’t look at me,” Pam said. “You probably gave it to me.”
Frenchy rose to clear the table. “We’ll do the dishes,” Pam offered.
You damn well better, thought Frenchy. She was enraged. So Dorene had had her infection only a month. For Pam to get it, that meant they’d been together since Frenchy moved in. Come to think of it, Dorene practically lived there anyway — was always just leaving when Frenchy got home from work, stopping by even when Frenchy was there. Didn’t she have a lover of her own? What happened to her Spanish chick? But then - Pam had been her lover before Frenchy came on the scene. Maybe she thought Frenchy was the intruder and Frenchy should leave. Maybe Dorene had realized that she really wanted Pam. That would explain the increase in her visits.
Strangely, she didn’t feel jealous. Instead, it was becoming more and more clear that she was going to have to make some decisions, and soon.
She left Pam and Dorene in the kitchen throwing Ivory suds at each other and she went to the telephone. If Edie approved she’d take Lydia to the zoo or something. More likely something. That kid didn’t seem the zoo type. Frenchy chuckled to herself as she dialed, wondering where fathers did take their kids.
* * * * *
Sunday mornings were still wonderful. When she went out to get the News and baked goods, she knew more and more people on the streets and in the shops and could nod hello, even talk awhile.
There seemed to be a whole society of dog walkers in the Village whose contacts cut across the gay and straight worlds. Poodle owners, for example, whether they were the most effeminate of gay men, or the most synthetic of painted women, were always talking in the street. And the often unattractive owners of the most unattractive dogs seemed’ to find one another attractive over their common leashes. Frenchy, she’d buy herself a Sheltie. Gentle as a collie, but smaller, easier for her to handle. But not yet. Not till she knew what she was going to do. Meanwhile, she walked the nearly empty Village streets on Sunday mornings as if she were in a small country town and knew every neighbor.
Mondays, though, were not so good. Now that she had her promotion and worked a few blocks from home, Mondays — like this one — were awful. Her new duties were harder and she hadn’t learned them yet. She loathed supervising. The disciplining, the need to be everywhere at once, the demands and needs of the customers, the cashiers, the managers. But she would succeed. She would do it if it killed her. And once she did succeed, damned if she wouldn’t ask for a demotion back to her old job. If only Pam had gotten a job she wouldn’t need all this money. And it wasn’t that much more, really, than she would get working some nights and weekends extra if she wanted to, as a cashier.
Thursday was her day off, and by Wednesday she would always have things more in hand. Not that she liked the job any better, but she felt more on top of it. She would slack off a little, let her mind wander. And how her mind wandered these days. To Pam, and the apartment, and where her life was going; to Lydia and Mercedes.
The Saturday before had brought the Pam problem to a head. Pam asked how she felt about Dorene staying a few nights as she was between apartments. Out of a growing indifference she agreed to let her stay. The first two nights Dorene had slept quietly on the couch, going off about her business all day, arriving home late at night. The third day she’d stayed home all day with Pam. The house was airless and more dishevelled than usual when Frenchy got home; Pam was still in her robe, Dorene in very short shorts and a T-shirt. Frenchy could tell she wore no underwear. The atmosphere was thick, moist-feeling.
That night Pam had wanted to make love. Because Dorene was in the next room and her light was still on, Frenchy refused. Pam said Dorene wouldn’t mind. Frenchy said she would. All she wanted was to go to sleep. She’d had several crises at work that day and had to be in early to reprimand a cashier. She was very anxious and knew she needed to be fresh and clear in the morning.
Dorene came in and sat on the edge of the bed, softly whispering to Pam, while Frenchy tried to sleep. She showed her annoyance by tossing and turning, but finally drifted off. She came awake suddenly, into silence, but somehow felt Dorene’s presence. Then she heard Pam’s breathing, a soft rustling of hands moving under sheets. She sat up. Dorene had climbed under the covers. When they saw she was watching, Pam reached an arm toward Frenchy to draw her to them, touching her breasts. Frenchy bolted out of bed.
“I am not,” she said firmly and too loudly, standing to her full height with her hands on her hips, “interested in your perverted sex.” She stood there in her pajamas glaring at the two women.
“You’re not interested in sex tonight, period,” said Pam, not unkindly. “And I am. So�
��s Dorene. I can’t see anything wrong with making love with her. If you want to join us, do. You can watch if you want.”
Having the presence of mind to take the clothes she’d need for morning, she went out to sleep on the couch Dorene had vacated. She was a little frightened. Girls had told her how much she’d hurt them — was it her turn now? If it was hurt she telt, it didn’t go too deep. If you have enough lovers, she thought, maybe it can’t.
Although she knew Pam and Dorene were making love in the next room, she slept dreamlessly. In the morning she went to work, meted out the required discipline, and survived the day. On her way home she stopped at the rental agent’s office to ask about an apartment in Pam’s building she knew was vacant. It was clear to her that she’d never go live up in the Bronx again. The Village, filled with people like her, had claimed her. The agent was glad to rent the tiny place.
Pam, mercifully, wasn’t home. Frenchy extracted her belongings from the mess, and after a dozen trips up the stairs to her new apartment she was finished moving. She left her old key with a note to Pam: “You can give this to Dorene. I moved upstairs as I think it’s better for both of us. I need to know what to do and I can’t do that here.” She hesitated, not knowing what parting words to use. Should she thank Pam? Invite her to visit? She wanted to say something final, something to set the tone of their new relationship, but she had no idea what it might be. She caught herself reaching between her legs to scratch and remembered the ugly words “yeast infection.” She left the note on the kitchen table and, quickly, afraid Pam would return, searched for the phone book and found it under several old newspapers. There he was, Dr. Gracey. If he cured Dorene he must be used to this sort of thing. And Frenchy would rather make an appointment now, while she was alone, than from a pay phone somewhere. She dialed his number, noticing the abbreviation Ob-Gyn next to his name. A ladies’ doctor. She had never been to a ladies’ doctor before. A receptionist answered and gave Frenchy an appointment. When she had asked why Frenchy wanted to see the doctor Frenchy had mumbled something about itching and hung up.
Frenchy came quickly out of her reverie about breaking with Pam. One of her cashiers was calling for help with a return. For the next hour there was a steady flow of long lines, too few baggers, and enough voids to keep Frenchy from thinking again. Then it was lunchtime. Normally she’d amble around the Village streets, eating lunch in a fast food place, feeling a part of things, relishing her sense of belonging. Today, though, she had her appointment with the ladies’ doctor.
All morning she hadn’t allowed her anxiety about the visit to enter her mind. Now as she sat on the cold leather chair in the waiting room, fear consumed her. She was by turns cold with it and hot from the embarrassment of what was about to happen to her. The receptionist showed her to a room and left her with a flimsy paper gown. “You know how to use one of these, don’t you?” the receptionist had asked crisply, and left before Frenchy could mutter an answer.
Should she leave the opening in the back or in the front? Should she get up on the examining table or sit in the chair? Would he use one of the needles in that big bin on her? Her feet were cold on the floor, and her bottom was cold on the vinyl chair. The paper gown seemed full of little holes designed to let the air in. She settled finally on the table, painfully aware of how the chill made her nipples stiff like when Pam touched them.
“And how are you doing, young lady?” Dr. Gracey said as he entered. He looked her up and down. “Hm,” he commented as he read the scant information on her chart He was a tall, heavy older man who wore a wedding ring. His white hair was slightly long, his moustache full and stained from tobacco. His hands were cold as he gave her a quick general exam. “And where did you pick this up?” he asked. Was he being sarcastic? He disappeared, returning all too soon with the crisp receptionist. She stood through the exam, arms folded, scowling, thinking who knew what.
“Feet in here,” barked the doctor.
The metal stirrups were ice cold.
“Scoot down more and raise your knees. We only need half a table for you, little one,” he laughed.
The stirrups, throught Frenchy, would make a good weapon. They looked ugly enough. How would the doctor like to be beaten to death by cold stirrups? But maybe that was why he kept a witness in there, to protect him from humiliated dykes. How had Dorene stood this?
“It’s a yeast infection, all right,” he told her. “I’ll just paint you up and you’ll be fine in a week or so. No sex till then.”
Paint her up? A week or so? No sex?
But before she could think how to ask without sounding more foolish than she felt, he was between her legs again smearing her with something wet.
“All set, little one,” he said finally. The receptionist whisked out the door. Dr. Gracey wrote something on her chart and told her he’d prescribed something for her. Then she was alone in her rumpled paper gown, staring at a hideous purple stain on it. On her legs. Down there. How was this going to cure anything? How could she go back to work like this? Would it come through her pants?
The receptionist slapped a small grey package on the counter inside the door. “For you,” she said. Frenchy waddled over, clutching her gown closed behind her and breathed in relief to see it was a sanitary pad. She’d never been so glad to see one in her life.
She had to hurry the few blocks back to work. Why did she feel as if she’d been assaulted? As if the man had molested her? No man had touched her down there since the doctor she’d had as a kid. Did every woman feel dirty after such an exam? Or was it just because she was gay? She shuddered. Why did straight women let men touch them? How could they stand it? She’d never let it happen again, ever. There must be lady ladies’ doctors.
It was with relief that she saw the long lines at the store, the harrassed face of her boss. She could push what had happened back where it belonged. No one would know she was painted purple down there, had rubbed the itchy parts raw before she’d made her appointment. No one would know the receptionist had aimed one last parting shot at her before she’d left: “Try wearing skirts once in a while,” she’d suggested. As if skirts could cure anything. She’d swaggered out the office door in answer, combing her hair back. The next time she wanted some damn man to touch her, that’s when she’d wear a skirt. They made her feel as naked and vulnerable as those paper gowns. It was one thing for a femme to wear them. Reaching up a thigh under a skirt, now that was sexy. But not her, not to stop some itching that should never have happened, damn Pam, not to cure anything in the world.
She found herself yelling at the stockboy. She’d have to calm down. She was short a bagger and one missing bagger could really throw you off. That doctor had made her blow her cool. She found herself begging the manager for a replacement bagger as the disgruntled customers glared at her. Finally, vengefully, she bagged herself, between voids and writing up the next week’s schedule which had to be posted before she went home that day. And there were always more voids when the customers waited too long; they got ornery and watched the cashiers extra hard, then the cashiers got nervous. If only her friend Marian from the Bronx A&P were there, they would laugh and exchange exasperated looks. But a supervisor couldn’t make friends with a cashier. That would show favoritism and upset everyone. The other department heads were all men and she wasn’t interested, especially today, in being friends with any man. “Watch out for them,” her mother had always told her, “they want only one thing.”
Soon people would be getting out of work and the commuter rush would begin. Then she’d be even busier, but closer to going home. Her legs ached. She wished that Pam were still around to massage them. Pam had come to see her, of course, hadn’t cried or carried on, but was sorry they couldn’t work it out. A couple of times Frenchy suspected Pam was hinting that they could still sleep together, but Frenchy, by this time, was suffering so from her infection that she had no interest in sex. Especially if this was what it got her. Besides, she was repelled by the idea of sharing.
Or threesomes. She shuddered as she erased an error on the schedule. She had enough trouble taking her clothes off for one girl. Pam had asked her for dinner a couple of times, but Frenchy hadn’t accepted. Not that she held anything against Dorene either. She just didn’t feel good being with both of them.
Her first act in her own place was to scrub it. That was easy because she lacked any furniture. Her first night she slept on blankets on the floor. The next day she had a hardware store cut her a piece of foam rubber the size of a double bed. Over the next couple of weeks she visited second-hand stores and bought herself pots and dishes, lamps, a couple of comfortable armchairs and a low table. A monk’s cell, she thought when she’d finished. She returned to the thrift store to buy drapes and a spread. If she’d learned anything from Pam, it was how to make something into something else. An old bedspread became curtains, a frayed linen tablecloth her bedspread. When she realized the bedspread would have to be cut in half so she could open her curtains and let light in, she decided there was no reason curtains had to open from the middle and was proud of her ingenuity when she pushed her curtain aside in the mornings. She’d taken her old clock radio from Pam’s apartment, and now all she needed was a TV. But it would be a while before she could afford one.
In the meantime, she had bought a half a dozen old lesbian paperbacks and a stack of comics at the thrift store and had settled down to a quiet bachelor life. She was foot-lose and fancy free now. She had a good job, some nice friends, a place of her own. Best of all, she lived in Greenwich Village. This was enough. This was the life ...
Someone needed her on the floor again. She realized she’d been rubbing her crotch against a chair and stopped. This itching was unbearable. Why had she let the old man paint her private parts like some fancy tramp if it wasn’t going to work? She made one last adjustment in the schedule, but held off posting it till she was ready to leave. Otherwise, the girls would ask for changes. For one last hour she went out to face the music. As cashier, she enjoyed the store more when it got busier, her automatic actions seeming to free her mind more for her own thoughts. Today she looked forward to the end of this hour when she could pick up a can of beans, some hotdogs, a six-pack, and go home to rest her tired feet and read. And scratch.