"Hello, Vic. I didn't know you were in."
He did not rise, only nodded tiredly as she set her tray down. "I'm having a run like a bank in a market crash. The drugstores must be clean out of castor oil. Every unprintable pregnant female in Albany, Troy and Schenectady must have decided to give birth. The astrology magazines must have told them it's a lucky day. Do you know how many little squallers I've delivered since two AM? Go on, make a guess!"
"Three?"
"Oh, hell, girl, I delivered three before I got breakfast, including one classic breech. Seven's the score so far, and another coming on. Sister Gabrielle was parking them in the elevator. The fifth and sixth came on almost simultaneously, and DiLuccio was having a bad time, so Quentin took over the sixth for me, and by the time I got through, went to check on the little details, Mrs. Reski was out of the ether already and giving me blue flaming hell. No young snip of a girl doctor was going to learn how—get that, learn how, and Barbara Quentin's been on maternity for three years—on her! And the Reski female could have dropped her kid in a potato patch."
Nora found herself laughing. "Poor Barbara. But we get used to that. You do look beat."
"The original beatnik. Can I cadge a cigarette?" He indicated his pocketless operating trousers. "I've got another gal working upstairs, but she's a primapara and thank God, she won't need me for a couple of hours." He took a deep pull at the cigarette. "You have it soft. Your patients make appointments before they hit the hospital."
This was ritual and she made the expected answer. "You have nine months to get ready for yours."
"I'm going to grab a nap in the doctor's lounge. Will you tell Ramona to cancel my appointments, and you see anyone who looks like an emergency?"
"Sure."
"I ought to be finished with the population explosion by four. Dinner?"
"We had that all out last fall, Vic," she said, smiling.
"I don't take no for an answer that easy. You're eating dinner with me now. Does it make that much difference if I'm wearing a tie and picking up the check?"
"Not if it stopped there. It wouldn't, Vic."
"Damn right." He reached for her hand. "We went good together, didn't we?"
"Very. That was a long time ago, though."
"We still could, Nora."
She said it carefully, for this man was a friend she valued. "You're forgetting, Vic. Things have changed. I'm married."
"Don't you forget it yourself?"
"I'd rather not discuss that. Do you mind?"
"Yes, I do. Pity is a damnably poor foundation for faithfulness in marriage," he said. She sat very straight, the Spartan who has had and must conceal his death-wound. He put his elbows on the table, not smiling.
"Truth hurts, doesn't it? So you're married. What good has it done you? This year has taken it out of you, you know. You look like hell. You're a woman, and you need loving—as who should know better than I?"
"That's a caddish thing to say," said Nora, coloring.
"So I'm a cad. I'm also a doctor, and a friend. The life you're living simply isn't normal."
Nora slammed the table impatiently, shoving back her chair. "Christ! If I can't even eat dinner in peace—"
Vic caught her wrist. "Sit still. See?" he said, without heat, "you can't live this way, your nerves won't take it."
Why should I be angry with Vic, she wondered. He's only saying what I've been thinking. But she was angry.
"What is this, Vic? Offering to sleep with me as a favor to a nervous wreck? Dr. Demorino's old reliable prescription for frazzled females? Vic, if I were a man I'd smash your teeth down your throat."
He chortled. "If you were a man and I made you that kind of proposition, I'd expect you to!"
Her anger dissolved and she laughed. "Thanks, Vic. But—no thanks."
"Now look. Suppose the shoe were on the other foot. Suppose you were in the hospital a year, and your husband going through all that—"
"It's not the same and you know it. For God's sake, you make me feel as if I were going around like a bitch in heat!"
"Oh, come—" but the drone of the paging system cut him off. "Sister Amy, wanted in Ward Fi-yuv. Doc-tor Demorino, wan-ted in Delivery Room. Sis-ter Amy—"
He scowled, dumping his cigarette. "Well, here we go again. I'd hoped Pizzetti would take another hour—"
"Let Quentin handle it. That's what she's for."
Vic shook his head wearily. "Can't. I don't think the Pizzetti kid speaks more than twenty words of English, and it's her first baby. I kind of promised I'd show up and hold her hand." He put his own hand momentarily on Nora's shoulder. "See you later, girl."
She sat watching him, poking idly at her congealed lunch. For the first time she was brought smash against a new fact; after sixteen years of total freedom, the habits and attitudes of a married woman are not acquired overnight.
She could still feel, like a speck of heat, Vic's firm hand on her shoulder; it brought back, with a physical vividness that made her gasp, the memory of his hot mouth; the feel of his thick-set hairy body against hers. She cursed, humiliated, under her breath, but the memory went on; an inexorable playback on some mental recorder whose cutoff switch was out of order. That first, perfect time in her apartment, in broad daylight...
* * *
She had come to Albany four years ago, at the end of her residency in a large Chicago hospital. Vic sent all his patients to St. Margaret's; he and Nora ran across each other frequently. It seemed natural to date him—the snatched, time-pressed casual dates of overworked people who can't call their lives their own; coffee in the lounge, spaghetti in an Italian restaurant owned by an uncle of Vic's, who gave them special food and wine and a flow of talk not too subtly aimed at urging Vic to settle down. But he was still a colleague, a casual friend.
Things had changed suddenly. One cool spring day he had suggested a game of tennis and driven her to the park. Nora, who had only changed her shoes for canvas-soled sneakers, was startled to see him in shorts and an armless singlet. Dressed, he simply looked thick-set; stripped, he was strong and smoothly tanned, with the muscles of an acrobat, legs like shafts of bronze covered with fine, soft reddish down.
Nora, on her mettle with his first serve, played her best, but his every move had an almost professional grace. When he had won two sets out of three, she took him back to the apartment for a drink—already half knowing what would happen. Dressed again in slacks and shirt, he looked like the man she knew—grave and stern, with kind eyes and good hands—but behind the mask Nora still saw the muscular athlete's body, the boyish grace with which he ran and dodged across the court.
Confused under his eyes, she put up her hands to her still-disheveled hair; but Vic moved swiftly to her side, put down his glass and held out his arms. His arms were crushingly strong and his mouth vigorous. Then he held her at arm's length, and she heard his roughened breathing.
"Girl, all day long I watch women taking their clothes on and off, and it doesn't do a damn thing to me. You take down your hair—" he pulled out a pin, sending the copper weight of it tumbling—"and unbutton your blouse button and I could knock you over the head and rape you."
She leaned forward deliberately and kissed him. She said clearly, "Don't bother knocking me over the head."
The sun in the bedroom came in bright and clear green through the leaves outside the window. Vic stood in the sunlight, unaffectedly flexing his arms as he cast aside his clothes. He was unashamed of his strong bronzed nakedness, vigorous and virile; his hot eyes made her a little shy, and when she hesitated, he sprang at her, laughing, pretending a Tarzan growl, and she felt her brief panties tear away; she laughed breathlessly and sank under his weight. Though she was taller than he, she felt fragile in his muscular arms.
It was as wholesome as sunlight—that fierce mating in the glow of day, Vic's hearty strength bearing down on her until she gasped and cried out with the delight of it; then stronger and stronger, the rhythm of elemental need beating
up in them both, until a toppling crest of violence swept away all awareness of time or place, daylight or dark. She heard herself cry out without shame or reserve.
Afterward, lying cool and relaxed in the strong circle of his arms, she had felt the rough touch of his mouth and heard him say softly, "So there's a hell of a lot of woman going to waste under that marble front. I thought so. We won't let it go to waste—will we, girl?"
They hadn't. Nora knew now—sitting in the deserted hospital cafeteria—that if things had gone on much longer, she and Vic would have drifted into marriage; not love—it never entered her mind, to connect romantic passion with Vic Demorino—but still, a good marriage, born of shared work, compatible interests, and the high flare of intense sexual attraction.
And then a thin, insolent man on crutches, with the flaming eyes of a caged falcon, had crossed words like swords; she had seen Vic, briefly, at his dictatorial worst, and Kit's high-tension-wire of veiled sensuality had made Vic's hearty lust seem schoolboyish. Vic had not taken her marriage seriously at first, then had been outraged, almost pitying. She had not tried to make him understand...
She realized, with a start, that she was due at her office in ten minutes. She could just about make it.
She sent Ramona home when the last patient had gone, but lingered herself; and she did not pretend surprise when Vic came in.
"Still here, Nora?"
"Come in, Vic. I saw Mrs. Kerraday for you. She's convinced she's going to have twins or a two-headed freak, and wants an X-ray."
"Anyone who says twins to me for at least six weeks gets murdered," he groaned. "Kerraday, Kerraday—let me think—oh, her. If she's pregnant with twins, they only have one heart between 'em."
He sank wearily in the padded chair. "I could go to sleep right here. They wheeled another one upstairs just as I finished up with Pizzetti—emergency Caesarean. Premature twins. Two pounds, odd, apiece. I thought we'd lose one of them, but they're still breathing." He chuckled, his eyes blinking open. "Hey, you know what? That leaves me with no patient expecting to deliver for—" he considered briefly, then rapped his knuckles on the wooden desk-top, "two weeks. Give me a lift home, Nora? My car's in the shop."
He settled into the car cushions a few minutes later. "God, I am tired. Consider the invitation this afternoon withdrawn. I need sleep—and alone, thanks. Kinsey or somebody ought to write a report on the sex life of the overworked obstetrician."
She laughed. "Do you really think it would even fill up a pamphlet?"
She braked at his apartment house, and he turned before getting out. "Want a drink or something?" he asked suggestively.
Nora hesitated, knowing she walked along a knife-edge which would alter her future. But before she managed to speak he reached for his bag.
"Not on an empty stomach, huh? You might lose control and rape me, and I'm too tired to fight you off. Okay, Nora." He gave her shoulder a quick pat as he got out. "You won't have any more trouble from this quarter. I hope Ellersen deserves what he's getting. If he doesn't, damn it, he'll have a fist fight on his hands." He went quickly up the steps without looking back, and Nora was not sure whether she looked after him with relief-or regret.
* * *
Her own apartment was dark and empty and a little too hot. Nora said "Jill?" switched on the light and went startled, from room to room. The cat mewed in the kitchen, and Nora went and picked him up.
Oh come, she told herself, this is ridiculous, Jill doesn't have to tell you when she's going out.
She lighted the oven, made a salad, carefully laid a single place; but though she was hungry after her sketchy lunch, she found she had no appetite.
Careless for once of the polished and waxed floor, she handed a generous morsel of ham down to Archy, watching him bat it back and forth with languid grace,
"Are you frustrated, Archy? Do you wish you could go out tom-catting in alleys?" she asked aloud. You old maid. Talking to a cat.
The silence was oppressive, and she found herself turning over in her mind words that had to be said between herself and Jill.
Jill, about the other night…
Jill, we were both upset, I acted like an idiot…
Jill, you know perfectly well I'm no lesbian…
The word had finally escaped her. Lesbian. Was Pammy's father right after all? Am I the sort of person who goes around corrupting little girls?
The hall door banged; Jill came through to the kitchen, wind-flushed, arms full of packages. "Is there some coffee left? Oh, good." She got herself a cup.
"Why didn't you have supper before you left, Jill? Everything was all ready. Next time I'm late, do have a proper meal, I might be out all night."
"I wasn't hungry." Jill paused, cup in mid-air. "And if you tell me I'm eating for two, I'll throw my cup at you."
Later in the bedroom she watched Jill unwrap her packages. "I thought you didn't wear brassieres," she said idly.
"I don't, but now I think I should."
"What's this? Lace panties?"
Jill spread them on the bed. "Sinful britches."
“Wha-at?"
"Family joke. One Christmas—I was about fifteen—Pam gave me a set of black lace underwear, very flimsy and naughty-looking. Mama said it was in very poor taste for young girls, but I think Pam meant it as a joke. She was always like that. You know."
Nora positively had to remind herself that Jill could not read her mind.
"Great-aunt Harriet was shocked. Not just disapproving Mama, but—oh, horrified, as if—as if—"
"As if she expected you to do a Gypsy Rose Lee in them?”
“I guess. Jackie asked why it was indecent if nobody ever saw it. After all, nobody sees your underwear, and Jackie said black lace was just the same as flannel bloomers." Jill giggled again, mimicking a thin, rasping old voice. "A nice young girl who wears fantastical underclothing is always looking for an excuse to display it. Unbecoming undergarments are the surest guarantee of modesty."
"Oh, no, Jill!"
"Oh, yes, Nor! So every time I wore them, Pammy asked if I could be good in my sinful britches."
"Jill, where is Pammy living now?"
Jill dropped the "sinful britches," startled. "Why, Nora, Pammy's dead. Didn't you know?"
"Oh, no, Jill, I never heard anything. What—how—"
"She died in childbirth. She married Ken Rainsbury and she lost the baby and she died."
"No, I never knew. I'm so sorry!" She had thought of Pamela living and warm, surrounded by hearty children. It had seemed necessary to think of her that way. She was too shocked and distressed to speak.
After her bath, toweling her spare body, she found herself thinking again, with muted grief and tenderness, of Pammy. Her father had feared a lesbian might corrupt his daughter. Yet it was normal married life that had destroyed Pam—
That is absolutely the most neurotic… if a patient said that, I'd tell her to run, not walk, to a psychiatrist!
Jill was buffing her nails before the mirror. She said, without looking up, "Nora, I—I wrote Mack today and told him about the baby."
"Good," Nora said affirmatively, and realizing this meant surrender, she did not dwell on the point.
"The baby ought to be born early in August. Will you—make an appointment with Dr. Demorino for me?"
"Oh, Jill, of course!" Nora held out her arms and they hugged each other.
"Nora, I—last night I behaved like a spoiled brat."
Nora was breathless at the complete capitulation in this. They clung together; Jill smiled up at her shakily.
"How long will it be before I start to—to get big?"
"Oh, there won't be much gross change before March. Maybe April. Let me see—" she put her hands around the slender waist. Her heart was pounding. Then, without a word, she unfastened the robe at the throat and slipped her hand into the neck of Jill's nightgown, cradling the small breast in her hand. It felt very warm.
Jill laughed nervously. "See? I do need a bra
ssiere now, don't I?" Suddenly she flung her arms around Nora again, with such violence that Nora fell back on the bed. Nora pulled Jill down to her.
"Jill—Jill, I've been hateful, for weeks I've been pretending—"
Jill stopped the murmured words by kissing her. They lay close together for minutes, holding each other; then Jill, her hands shaking, untied the belt of Nora's robe and flung it toward the foot of the bed.
Nora had not moved. Jill came back to her mouth, and their lips fastened and fused together. Her hands, small and soft and gentle, moved caressingly down Nora's shoulders. Nora heard herself gasp aloud with an almost painful delight, as Jill shyly repeated her own gesture; cupping her hand around Nora's breast. She caught Jill close, pulling the girl down heavily across her, feeling the sudden, sweet, savage ache all through her body.
Their feet were still tangled in Nora's robe. Nora said in a roughened voice, "Wait, darling," and reached to snap out the light. With her other hand she swept down and pulled away the tangled clothes, flinging them off on the floor. Then with impatient fingers she jerked off the coat of her pajamas and threw it after them.
The room was flooded with the pale, lustrous light of the moonlight outside, reflected from snow. Nora heard Jill make a strange little sound, halfway between a sigh and a sob. Then Jill’s bare arms closed around her, and the ache and tension of anticipation suddenly melted and flowed. She went limp all over with the anguish and delight of surrender.
Strange Women, The Page 7