by Lee Lynch
Frenchy walked home. She remembered the first time she’d gone to that building. How different her life would have been had Pam not looked out the window. She’d probably be living in Florida, wishing she’d had the guts to stay in New York by herself. She trudged up the stairs with her bundle, the News under an arm. Someday she was going to buy the Times, just to see what all the fuss was about. Someday, she thought, she was going to do a lot of things.
Her phone rang as she stepped inside her apartment. Lydia wanted to visit her that Sunday. Frenchy’s heart warmed at the sound of Lydia’s voice and she told her she was welcome.
* * * * *
It was Sunday morning again; Frenchy stretched for the sheer pleasure of it on her thin foam pad. The sheets were clean, her boys’ cotton pajamas were freshly laundered, and it was gloriously early. Even the newsstand would not yet be open. She allowed herself the luxury of remaining in bed. Alone.
She was almost glad the yeast infection had kept her from picking a girl up and bringing her home for the night. Now she could savor her Sunday morning. But what, she wondered, would she do for a sex life? Maybe Wednesday nights would be good to spend with girls. Nobody was around Wednesday nights, though; maybe she could get her day off changed. At this moment she felt so free of any need for sex she decided not to worry about it. Besides, after her passion for Pam, she didn’t want sex with just anyone. She didn’t want to be faced with making love like she used to. She’d really have to trust someone before letting herself be touched again. So what was the sense? Living down here in the Village she could go to the bars anytime, have a few drinks, eye a few girls, and come home satisfied. Wasn’t that what all the fuss was about? To be in your own world, to share being gay with somebody else, to touch, as deeply as you could, another lesbian?
She could see, now, how much she needed the gay world. How she had lived for her Saturdays all those years in the Bronx with her mother. How the rest of her time had been a poor shadow of life. How her relationships hadn’t meant anything unless they were with someone gay. How anything she did meant nothing unless it was centered around being gay. How she as a person and her life had been meaningless unless she was being her real self.
Living with another lesbian had made everything mean more. Like food. With her mother food had been a matter of necessity, her meals borne like the time between Saturdays. With Pam — and now cooking for herself — food was different; she was feeding somebody important, a lesbian who had a place in the world. Cooking and eating with another gay girl was fun. Sometimes it was a game; sometimes it was sexy; sometimes they could talk. Always, it was good to spend time with another lesbian. She wanted to become good enough at cooking to ask girls, or her friends, over for dinner. And she no longer wanted to be dependent on someone else feeding her, as Mercedes still was on Edie, as Jessie was on Mary — these butchy women couldn’t feed themselves. She, Frenchy, could earn her own money and she would cook the food she bought with it. And she liked feeding herself, liked nurturing this lesbian she was, this lesbian other gay girls liked, this lesbian who would someday be someone’s special lover.
Suddenly she remembered: this was the day she would take Lydia to the ballgame. Hurriedly she checked the clock — they wouldn’t meet for hours yet. Would Mercedes bring Lydia to her? Or was the kid old enough to travel the subways by herself? She indulged herself in a memory of Mercedes walking along the beach in Provincetown all those years ago. Mercedes was trusting her daughter to Frenchy. Would she ever again trust herself?
She got up out of bed, anxious. She hadn’t seen Mercedes in so long. . . Maybe she wasn’t beautiful anymore. Maybe she’d changed in other ways, lost that special quality of hers that had drawn Frenchy to her. Maybe she wasn’t so tough anymore. But then, neither was she.
She brushed her teeth, examining her eyes in the mirror. Could anyone tell that she wasn’t the same? That she’d been touched by a woman in a new way? Did she look reachable? The night she’d touched Mercedes... Was it this weakness she’d seen in Mercedes’ eyes? If someone saw it in her own she’d do as Mercedes had done — run. Unless — unless it was someone she wanted to tell about having changed, about wanting to be touched. Someone she trusted, who revealed herself to her, too. Did Mercedes understand that Frenchy hadn’t been ready for her then? Didn’t know or want to know this side of herself? Didn’t know she could even learn, that it was possible?
Frenchy turned the shower on, stood with one arm testing the spray, then stepped under the water and felt its warm flow wash away a whole part of herself. You had to give a girl more than sex, more than things like flowers and drinks, more than compliments and courtesies. You had to give her part of yourself.
She surrendered to enjoyment of the water, the smell of the soap, the feeling of being clean. She thought about singing in the shower and realized that for the first time she wanted to. And could! There was no one to hear...
A sudden warm constriction inside her caused the mood to vanish. She had forgotten — it was time for her period again. She reached and her fingers brought up blood. Then she realized she no longer itched. And neither did she have cramps. As a matter of fact, instead of crampy, she felt sexy. All warm and needing someone to touch her there — hand or tongue. She squirmed under the water at the thought and grinned. Me? she asked.
She’d long ago finished washing, but she stood there enjoying the feelings, wishing she could stay till her period was over. This was another way of being all right. Would she always feel like this now — this good? Walking around the Village on Sunday morning wouldn’t hurt, she decided. She turned off the shower.
Dressed in her Sunday blue jeans, white shirt and heavy sweater, she chose her jean jacket to wear out. Pam had decorated it for her and she still felt self-conscious in it. Across the back, red letters outlined in black spelled out her name. There were designs stitched around the buttonholes and the collar: seagulls and waves, suns and moons. What would the kids at the bar think of it, she’d wondered, just as she sometimes worried they could tell she was no longer stone butch. But how many of them were now? Jessie had changed; Beebo didn’t strike her as the type; others regularly switched depending on the girls they were seeing. It was her own opinion she feared most. No one would kick her out of a bar for liking sex. Maybe they would lose some respect for her, since she was always the one who was toughest — and proudest of her ways. If she lost a little face — wasn’t it worth it?
She walked tall along Morton Street despite the lumpy sanitary napkin. Thumbs looped in her jeans, she sauntered to a newstand and bought the News. A dyke couple from the bar was there.
“Hi!” she said cheerfully.
They looked up at her, bleary-eyed. “Hi, Frenchy. You look pretty bright-eyed for this time of day.”
“Just got out of bed,” she explained proudly.
“We didn’t get to bed yet,” they chorused.
Frenchy pitied them. They probably hadn’t even had a good time, sitting in some all-night place with a few friends saying the same things over and over, dancing by leaning against each other, and all this was supposed to be fun, exciting, the thing to do. Now they’d sleep all day, laze around their apartment in the evening, disoriented, and have to get up as usual Monday morning. These women lived in the Village, had each other. Why wasn’t that enough? Did they still feel outside of things? Still feel the need to insulate themselves from the hurt of being gay in a straight world by spending so much time in bars? It was disheartening to think her own happiness would soon dissipate. There had to be a way to make the gay life less hard, some way to make the straight world hurt less.
But today the sun was shining, and Frenchy walked down Sixth Avenue to a French bakery she had discovered. The long line of customers there was part of the Sunday morning ritual. She studied the delicacies behind the counter. Maybe she should get a box of cookies or something for Lydia to bring Edie and Esther and her mother. Maybe they shouldn’t go to the stadium at all, maybe they should do s
omething downtown. Then Frenchy could show Lydia her place. She ordered her breakfast and a box of delicacies for Lydia.
Chapter 8
Crazy Nights
Spring, 1967
Yeah, it was on me, suddenly, the craziness. I was almost relieved. Now I could choose to go with it — or ignore it, just walk into my assignment where I’d concentrate on work till it went away. I felt it pulling me back toward the door out of the hospital. I could go back home, get dressed and go downtown. I longed for the sight of midtown Manhattan in daylight. The fancy buildings, the crowds, the traffic. Soon the bars would open in the Village. Cool and dark and romantic. A girl would wander in. Look down the bar at me. I’d smile, pick her up, touch her. The thought sent shivers down my back.
Edie, I thought. I used the thought of her to pull myself back into the corridors of the hospital. The hospital. But all those years they kept putting me in hospitals...
I walked the corridors crazy to get out.
The corridors began to shrink. The voice paging people on the loudspeaker began to echo. My head felt like it would explode. What was wrong with me? It had been so long since I felt like this. I had a choice. I could stop it — could I stop it?
“Mercedes,” a gay guy was saying. Was I in the bar already? “Are you all right? You look sick.”
I turned to look at him and realized I worked with him. This wasn’t a bar. “I look sick?” I repeated stupidly. “Yes,” I said, “I’m feeling very sick.” I had sick time coming. A few days at least. “Will you tell them? Tell them I’m sick. I got to go home.”
“Sure, Mercedes. Can you get home okay?”
“I’ll take a cab,” I yelled back, already filled with exhilaration. I burst into the sunshine and whirled around, my white jacket billowing. I ran to the subway, ran and ran. At home I stripped off my clothes, lay naked on my bed, feeling as high as if I’d been drinking. I hugged myself. My head was in this strange cloud that seemed to insulate me from all my worries. I touched my body. It was still me, firm, solid. Smooth and good to touch. But I could wait. I would find a girl to touch me. Some cute little girl like Rosetta. But I didn’t want Rosetta or anyone like anybody I knew. Yet if I saw Frenchy, I’d, I’d — throw myself at her. No, of course I wouldn’t. I’d run like hell to another bar and pick up someone else so fast Frenchy’s head would spin.
I held my herb bag, a little calmer. Still driven, but calmer. I had to do three things: dress, get the emergency money from my bottom drawer, and write Edie a note. Not that it was any of her business. But it was, I reminded myself through this sudden hostility. My absence would be really hard on her, with all her worry about Esther. I didn’t want to think about that. I’d tell her I needed some time for myself, that I felt close to the edge. Could she take care of herself? Maybe she would call Lydia to come stay with her.
She could call Frenchy to come over, give her my bed. I caressed it lightly, thinking of Frenchy in it.
I wrote my note and went downtown.
* * * * *
It was night. The craziness had worn off a little. All afternoon I’d wandered the streets and the tunnels under the buildings of Manhattan. What a wonderful warm spring day. Each time I passed lilacs I got a little more drunk on their smell. My body tingled with anticipation. This night I would be with a woman.
By the time the sky was lavender again I was hungry. Feeding on my own excitement, I hadn’t remembered to eat. I went down to Chinatown. Marie and I used to go down there when we were together. For the price of subway fares and a couple of dollars we could have a feast. They never knew what to make of us — two little dykes talking Spanish and eating Chinese.
This night I looked around and saw a little place that looked friendly — a few tables and a family running around waiting on people. As I sat down this little kid came up to me with a cart. I took something off it and she marked a pad of paper. Whatever it was, it was great. Someone else came by with a big pot of tea. I’d never had such good tea in my life, not even the espiritista’s. There I was, still a crazy little Spanish dyke smiling my head off and eating everything they brought me. I walked out of there as high as I’d been that morning, and I bought some gum to cover all the garlic I’d eaten.
I strolled into a bar chewing gum and feeling real at home. I ordered a Coke.
The place was nearly empty. It wasn’t right in the Village, but below it, I knew I wouldn’t see anyone I recognized there. The lanky blonde bartender was the type who minds her own business. Some women played pinball, others sat around in groups or couples, no singles that I could see, but it was early. I smiled into the mirror, reading the backward lettering on the window: GOGIE’S BAR. Below it I could see my collar was crooked. I went into the bathroom, combed my hair and washed up the best I could, fantasizing about where I would sleep that night.
A woman was sitting at the bar when I returned. I smiled at her, taking her by surprise as dykes don’t smile much at strangers in New York City. And suddenly I knew what I’d do, because any girl I picked up would have to know our night together would end. I’d lie about who I was. I’d be on vacation. Visiting from some place out of town. Then I could leave whenever I needed to and nobody would question me. If the girl asked about my New York accent, I’d say I grew up there. This was perfect, I thought, and the girl alone at the bar was a sign it would work out. Let it, please, I prayed. I needed this so bad.
I looked closer at the chick, but decided to take my time. Maybe she was meeting someone. The jukebox began to play something light and new, just what I needed. I hoped this bar didn’t have the oldies on the jukebox. More women came in. I was still nursing my Coke. I ordered another; it was better for me than liquor. I felt too good, I didn’t have to fake a high with booze. Occasionally a woman asked the chick at the bar to dance — so, like me, she was looking for somebody. I worked on my story and realized how rational I sounded to myself. I wasn’t drinking and I was thinking things out pretty clearly. The only bad thing was taking a vacation when Edie needed me. But at least I didn’t add not leaving a note onto her troubles, as Esther had.
Maybe I wasn’t crazy to do this. Maybe I wasn’t crazy at all anymore. I startled myself thinking: maybe I never had been crazy. Or maybe I was just as crazy as I needed to be. Maybe someday I could tell when I needed to stop, to get away, and I could plan it. Maybe I was doing something absolutely normal. That thought took the fun out of things, and I laughed quietly to myself. In the mirror I saw the girl from the end of the bar as she moved next to me. I offered her a cigarette.
She asked, “Are you shy or not interested?”
She sure wasn’t shy. I gave her a look in the mirror before I turned to light her cigarette, then looked up from the match into her eyes. She didn’t look away. “Let’s say I was enjoying the suspense,” I told her, and she laughed, exhaling. This was the life.
“Do you hang around here all the time?” she asked.
“I haven’t been around in a while.”
“Going with somebody?” She had the low sexy voice I’d been dreaming of.
“No. You?”
She shook her head slowly, and we smiled. “You don’t go out much?”
Suddenly I wanted to tell the truth. “I was sick for a long time. I’ve been recovering, straightening out my life. The bars aren’t the place for that.” So that we could hear over the jukebox, her face was excitingly close to mine.
“Now you’re ready for the bars again?”
“I’ve been ready for a long time, baby,” I said pointedly. Then I turned away from her. “But not the same way. They’re not a way of life for me anymore. I’m here because I need to be, but I can’t say when I’ll be back.”
“I’m used to that,” she said.
I couldn’t tell if I’d heard sadness in her voice so I looked at her again. All I saw was that seductive glitter in her eyes. She was a pretty girl. White, with softly waving brown hair, those glowing brown eyes and a wide, sensitive-looking mouth. Maybe I was
dreaming; she was too good to be true. I wasn’t sure I even wanted to know who she was, but I figured I’d be safer knowing. “What’s your name?”
“Candy.”
“You come down here much?”
“Only when my husband’s out of town.”
That shut me up.
“He doesn’t know I do this. It would hurt him too much.”
“Does he go out of town often?” I saw her drink was empty and ordered her another whiskey sour.
She shook her head. “Once a year, to a convention. He’s a dentist.”
After all I’d been learning about myself and being gay, and finally accepting myself for the first time these past few years, I was saddened by this woman who couldn’t live openly with herself. “Why did you marry a man?”
“I couldn’t live this way, the gay life. I couldn’t tell my friends, my family. I’ve gotten used to his income, to staying home and being cared for. He doesn’t ask much of me. I told him before we married I didn’t want kids, so I don’t have to worry about that.”
“But... living a lie like that?”
She lowered her head. “Sometimes it makes me sick. But most of the time I’m too comfortable to give it up.”
“You only go with a girl once a year?”
The sexy smile replaced her troubled look. “Makes it even better,” she half-whispered, leaning close to me. I inhaled her whiskey breath with the feeling someone had just dropped me off a cliff and I was free-floating in space. I knew I’d be taking all those sick days I’d been thinking about. Hey, I told myself, this is how she wants to live — you won’t have any ties to her afterward.