Another Kind of Love (21 page)

Dee felt it before she knew it. She felt her hands grow hot and clammy at the same time. And her head felt heavy, thick with fury—a sickening yellow clouded her vision.

“Excuse me,” she muttered under her breath as she pushed her chair away from the table. She felt her limbs go stiff as she worked her way around the laughing patrons and the inconveniently placed tables. Dimly she made out the dark door adjoining another dark door. Two doors together. One had a badly worn picture of a top-hatted gentleman; the other of a cameolike lady. For a moment she thought she was going to be sick.

Somehow she managed to open the door, and the familiar sweet-sick sanitary odors hit her like a fist in the stomach. It was harshly bright—well lit so the butches could be sure their makeup didn't show.

And . . . there she was. Rita. Good God! Rita! Her blouse was unbuttoned and her bra almost off. She was leaning against the wallpapered partition, her head thrown back so that her long black hair hung down low across her shoulders. Her mouth was open slightly, showing just the tips of her white teeth, and her eyes were closed.

If anyone had come into the room before, she obviously wasn't paying attention or did not care.

Dee's shocked gaze shifted to the tall, slim figure bent over Rita. A remarkably handsome woman, Dee had to admit, even with the mannish haircut which set off her well-molded shoulders. As if she were someone else, Dee watched this woman's hands roam over Rita's shoulders, down to her breasts, and over her body with an air of ownership Dee almost believed. The woman's mouth clung hungrily to Rita's neck, then moved down . . . down.

“You whore!” The words tore through the small room like a jagged streak of lightning. She did not even realize she had uttered it. It was the voice of a stranger, not her own, surely. She stood there frozen, staring in mute horror at the incredible tableau before her. A sense of curious detachment swept over her.

Then, suddenly she began to laugh, wildly, bitterly.

Rita's head had come forward abruptly, and her eyes had snapped open with apparent surprise. “Dee!”

Dee wanted to throw up—to purge herself of the scene. She wanted to run, but her legs wouldn't obey her. She could only stand there helplessly as the tall woman straightened up and glared at her as though she were an intruder, a light, sarcastic smile on her thin lips.

Rita fumbled at her buttons and at the same time tried to tidy her hair. Lipstick was smeared across her chin, and her mascara had spread a thin, dark circle beneath each eye.

“This isn't what it looks like, Dee . . . honest, Dee.”

Dee turned her head away and stared at the lavatory doors beyond them. “In a place like this,” she said, the words choking her with thick revulsion.

“But, Dee . . .” Rita interrupted, a frenzied look on her face.

Dee looked back at her. For a few seconds she wavered. Then, somehow she found the strength to stand steadily, and her self-command was returning. “I've had it, Rita,” she said, her voice tight and hard with suppressed rage.

She walked back to the door, then paused with her hand on the smudged knob. “I'll spend the night in a hotel. Be out in the morning. I want nothing around the apartment to remind me. Just get out of my life.”

In a daze she walked through the restaurant. She wondered vaguely if the woman had a “friend” sitting there in the room, waiting patiently, pretending not to be concerned.

Dee wished to God she were eighty so that she would never have to think of love or sex again.

S
he sat at her desk the next morning, not really quite sure of where she was, much less why. She still felt sticky and dirty. The hotel accomodations had been spectacularly inferior; sleep even under the best conditions would have been difficult. In the morning she was too anxious to get out even to shower, and she threw on the same clothes she had worn the day before—something she hated to do.

But none of it mattered very much. Even if she'd slept beautifully, she would still have felt just as unkempt and sick. She didn't care. Not about anything. She just hoped to hell Rita was out of her apartment by the time she got home that night. She couldn't stand the thought of a scene or an argument. Not tonight. She was tired . . . so tired. All the years of pent-up hostilities, resentments, and fears had suddenly come cascading down around her head, and she was too immobilized to try to fight her way out.

And that was that. It was over. The torment, the passion, the excitement, the anguish, the ecstasy—all over. What of life was left? she wondered. Now what? Could she really live without Rita? Why had she done it? Oh, Christ! What had she hoped to get from it?

What did it matter now, anyway? It didn't, she supposed. Nothing mattered.

She put her head in her hands and pressed her palms against her aching eyes as if to blot out the turmoil of emotions that were pulling her toward that frightening inward center of unadmitted fear—the unknown. Like getting sucked into a whirlpool, she thought.

Stop it now. Just stop it! You keep on this way and you'll be signing in at Bellevue next.

“I thought,” Karen said, softly placing a paper cup next to Dee's elbow, “you might like some coffee.” She stood hesitantly by Dee's chair.

Dee looked up at her and fought with all her might not to cry. She wanted so badly to cry. And what was worse, Dee could tell that even Karen recognized this need. She didn't say it, but she could sense it. She showed it in her expression, in her tone of voice.

“Why don't you take the day off, Mrs. Sanders?” she suggested.

Dee shook her head slowly, half closing her eyes.

“Is there . . . is there anything I can do?”

She wanted to say, “Just stay near me; don't leave me alone,” but instead managed what she hoped wasn't too pitiful a smile and replied, “No. No thanks, Karen. I'll be all right. Just a personal problem. I'll get over it.”

Karen placed her hand lightly, maternally, on Dee's shoulder. “I don't like to see you this way. . . .” She smiled slowly, then turned and went back to her desk.

It was uncomfortable, this child being so concerned about her. Actually, the thought of anyone being really concerned about her was surprising. She wasn't used to it. Her friends had always taken an interest, of course, but their own lives were so busy and filled with their own problems, they didn't really have the time genuinely to give of themselves. Not that Dee expected it, or even really wanted it. Concern embarrassed her.

Her family life had certainly never given her much opportunity to feel wanted or loved, even though her parents were pretty average people—none of the more blatantly psychotic problems one so often heard about from other homosexuals. Her father had worked all day, hadn't he? Wasn't he entitled to a little leisure time without having to listen to his kids' problems? That was the mother's job! And her mother—well-meaning, certainly. Dee could say that for her. It's just that she became so overwhelmed with her duties as a wife that she forgot motherhood included anything over and above bearing the children. The kitchen floor had to be mopped. . . . Go put your own Band-Aid on.... What do you mean “have a picnic” when there's so much work to do? . . .

The intercom sounded harshly, and she hastily pushed down the switch. “Yes?”

“Sorry, Mrs. Sanders. The old man wants to talk to you in his office.”

“Wouldn't you know it,” Dee muttered under her breath. “He's been playing golf every day for a week, and the one day I can't stand the thought of him he wants to talk to me. All right, Karen,” she said in a normal voice. “Tell him I'll be in. Give me about five minutes to clear my brain.”

“Sure.”

Dee pushed her chair back from the desk and took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled when she couldn't stand it any longer. It was an old trick of hers based on the stub-your-toe-when-your-head-aches principle.

She walked over to the water cooler outside her office, straightened her hair in front of the mirror, and poured herself two glasses of water.

“Hi, gorgeous,” a young man in shirtsleeves called as he walked by.

She smiled in spite of herself. “Hello, Bill. How's the wife?”

“Beautiful! But it's you I really go for. How about it?” he flung teasingly over his shoulder.

Dee waved him away with a grin and felt her spirits suddenly lift. Amazing what a little male flattery will do, she thought, and happened to catch Karen's eye. She still looked worried.

Dee walked over to her and tugged at her hair playfully. “Don't worry, kitten. I'm really all right. What I need is a man, that's all.” She wasn't so certain this wasn't true.

She sighed wearily and gathered herself for the approaching session as the elevator door slid open and she stepped onto the carpeted luxury of the penthouse.

“How was it?” Karen asked as Dee came toward her later.

“Well.” Dee smiled slowly. “I'm not fired, anyway.”

“I didn't mean that and you know it. What did he want?”

Dee stood pensively next to Karen's desk. “Nothing, really. Just checking. He wanted to talk over the European exhibit. He thinks I should leave a little earlier than we had planned. Can I get my work caught up? Will I be able to leave someone in charge here? Is the per diem satisfactory? Tune in tomorrow. . . .”

Karen stared at her a long moment, then shook her head. “You are nuts!” she muttered. “Aren't you excited about it? Don't you want to go?”

For a second, Dee had the feeling that Karen didn't want her to go, that she hated the whole idea and was just feigning enthusiasm. But it was probably just the idea of having to work with someone else that was bothering her. Of course, Karen would miss her. They worked together with almost uncanny perfection and, after all, they were friends.

“Sure. I want to go. In fact, I suppose it's a real pat on the back that they chose me to go.”

“You're dern-tootin'!” Karen exclaimed, but the note of pride was quite evident. She was always after Dee to ask for a raise, or to make herself better known to the executive staff in general.

Sometimes Dee felt that Karen acted more like her mother than someone young enough to be—well, not her daughter, but maybe a kid sister.

On impulse, Dee swiftly bent over and kissed the top of Karen's head. “Just because you're such a nice kid.”

She watched Karen turn crimson and suddenly busy herself with the yearbook paste-up. “You
are
in a funny mood today.”

Dee nodded. “Think I'll go to Paris and find me a nice broken-down duke, or count, and settle down in some shabby but elegant villa in the north of France . . . or something equally historic. Or maybe I'll go to Spain and save a bullfighter from Ava Gardner.”

“Doubt that any man would appreciate
that
much,” Karen laughed.

“Maybe I'll even become a bullfighter myself.”

“That
I'd like to see,” Karen giggled.

Dee stood pensively for a moment, thousands of wild thoughts running through her head. “Karen.”

“Yes, Mrs. Sanders.”

She looked down at Karen and wondered what it was she had been about to say. Her mind had gone blank. She couldn't remember. . . not even the general idea of her thoughts.

Laughing lightly, she said, “Never mind.”

T
he apartment had taken on a new life. It was a slow metamorphosis but a steady one. At first, Dee had been driven nearly insane without Rita around. She had wandered from one room to another aimlessly, half expecting to see some little personal article Rita might have left behind. Even if she'd found something she didn't know whether she would destroy it or kiss it.

Cho-Cho had spent a few listless days without Rita but now, too, had learned to accept the loss—in fact, seemed almost glad to be sole mistress of the apartment. Dee had found Cho-Cho an unbearable reminder those first few days—she kept seeing Rita curled in the armchair with Cho-Cho in her lap, or leaning over to pet the cat absentmindedly.

But now everything had taken on a settled look again. How long had it been? Dee thought. Only two weeks. Yet so much had happened: a passport to be obtained, visas, getting her immunization shots, clearing things up at the office, registering her Leica and Rollei with customs, arranging things so that Karen could assume a maximum of authority while she was gone. Thank heaven for Karen. She was going to miss her.

Even so, there was a new bounce to Dee's step as she left the Fifth Avenue bus to meet Jerry Wilson for lunch. She'd not talked to him since their last luncheon date and had not told him this morning over the phone about the breakup. She was almost afraid to tell him, although there was no real reason to be.

Yet she felt anxious, and her hands were moist as she walked into the hotel lobby. If Jerry sneered or belittled Rita, she was sure she would cry; yet if he was overjoyed she would probably get angry. There was no logic to her emotions; they were simply there. She wished now she hadn't made the appointment, and even briefly considered entering a phone booth and paging him to break the date with some wild excuse.

But it was too late for that. Besides, he was her friend. If she couldn't face him with the news, then her whole adjustment had been a farce. And she'd invested too much agony toward getting over Rita to waste it.

She worked hard, stayed late at the office, had had dinner with Karen a few times, and threw herself into a project of capturing the moods of Sixth Avenue and Forty-ninth Street. She was never without at least one of her cameras and spent every moment possible shooting just the northeast corner. She didn't know that she'd ever do anything with the shots she was getting, but it was something to do. She'd even gone into the building across the street and requested permission to shoot from the second-floor window and the top floor. They'd acted as if she were some intoxicated tourist, but allowed her the privilege. Few people could resist Dee's friendly candor.

She entered the restaurant and saw Jerry sitting at his usual table. He waved at her, half rising from the booth, looking dapper as ever, but with a special little smile on his face that betrayed secret knowledge.

When she reached him, he leaned over and pecked her on the cheek. “You get lovelier each time I see you.”

Dee smiled. “You're sweet.”

“But you look a little thinner,” he admonished as they sat down. “Can't have that. Don't want you ruining that lovely body of yours.”

“Going straight, Jerry?” Dee laughed.

He made a grimace. “Heaven forbid! You don't have to malign me, you know. What's the matter, can't you accept flattery?”

“Not from you. You're more the mother-hen type, always pecking away at me for my faults.”

“That's unkind,” he smiled slowly. “But true.”

She sat back, crossing her legs carefully, placing her purse next to her on top of her camera. “What am I having for lunch today?” she asked him. Jerry never allowed her to order anything for herself.

“Ah,” he pursed his lips appreciatively. “A feast! I decided to be nice to you today with a chateaubriand . . . but like you've never tasted before.” He turned in his seat to face her. “When are you leaving for Paris?”

“Next week. Although there's a good chance I might leave the end of this week.”

“What about passage? Haven't you made reservations?”

“Yes,” Dee smiled. “For two separate dates. One of them will be canceled.”

“Why? I'll never understand the publishing business. They're all so terribly, terribly intellectual, you know, and not an ounce of common sense in the lot.”

“Now, now. Our Paris representative is away on business and isn't certain on which date he'll return. That's one reason. And then, we're putting an issue to bed right now and I am needed despite your low opinion of me, plus a lot of other miscellaneous reasons.”

“Do you want me to give you a few addresses? Gay clubs, or something?”

She glanced at him sharply. He knew about her break with Rita, then. He would never have made that offer otherwise. Well. Just as well. It would save her a lot of trouble and embarrassment. But his question about gay addresses had stirred something within her. . . . A near panic seemed to grip her at the thought of being all alone in a foreign country and seeking out another lesbian. Didn't anything last? What did straight people do to stay married twenty, thirty years and longer?

Jerry's voice reached through her thoughts, asking her how long she planned to stay in Paris. “What? Oh. I'm not sure. A month, roughly.”

“Look, darling. I don't mind your being preoccupied . . . but I don't feel like eating lunch alone. Do your daydreaming on company time if you don't mind.”

“I'm sorry, Jerry. Really I am.” She played with her fork a moment, hoping he would say something to catch her interest. For some reason the prospect of her trip was still unreal to her. But when several moments went by and he said nothing, she knew it was going to be up to her to carry the ball today.

She put her fork down carefully and sat back. “How long have you known and how did you find out?” She said it softly, tentatively.

Jerry frowned slightly. “Not the way you're thinking,” he answered. “The word travels pretty fast about a girl like Rita. There was no mention of you . . . nor of your relationship with her. It was just that it became known she was ‘available,' as it were.”

“I see,” Dee said lamely, not really knowing what to say or what she had expected him to say.

“It could only have meant one thing,” he continued. “But if it's not too painful, I would like to be filled in on a few of the more important details. What finally made her leave you?”

Dee sighed silently, resigning herself to the answer. “I left her,” she said bluntly. “That is, I requested her to leave.”

Jerry snorted. “But that's marvelous! What miracle occurred to make you see the light about that . . . her?”

She bit her lower lip, severely trying to keep her emotions in check. She didn't want to feel anything—just the facts, ma'am. “It was rather sticky, Jerry. If you don't mind we'll let that part go until some other time.”

It wasn't hard to tell he was controlling his curiosity, but she was still grateful for the attempt. “Let's just say I finally found out what an ass I'd been. Okay?”

“But look at you, darling,” he said impatiently. “Just take a good look at yourself. Any imbecile could see you're still in love with her.”

“Please, Jerry. Please. Not now.”

“When? Five years from now when you're still dragging a long tragic face around? That wasn't love you felt for Rita—it was a morbid addiction.”

“Jerry . . .” Dee interrupted, trying to keep calm.

“Don't ‘Jerry' me. You're so in love with the idea of love that you invested in that conniving little broad a thousand virtues that she never even heard of. You—”

“Do you want me to cry?” she asked him in a whisper.

He stopped short, his mouth still open to speak. “Oh, I'm sorry, Dee. I hadn't meant to lecture you or rub things in. I was just reacting as an old friend and not really thinking about what you're going through. Forgive me. I know how painful it must be.” He put his hand over hers for a moment and pressed it.

She looked at him a few minutes and felt herself filled with a strange kind of compassion. It was that rare feeling only the injured can have for the injurer—a private, special understanding. He looked so downcast, so remorseful. “Don't worry about me, Jerry. I'll be all right. But it's going to take time. This wasn't just a one-night stand.... A lot of my life and my emotions were tied up in this. I'll get over it, but right now I need the chance to feel sorry for myself.”

“Of course . . .”

“And I'm not angry with you. You had every right . . .”

Jerry raised his well-manicured fingers to his lips. “Let's just drop the whole subject. We'll talk about it some other time, when you've regained your perspective. Maybe when you come back.”

She smiled then and felt very much like hugging him. But any real demonstration of affection with Jerry was always difficult. He seemed to tense up and withdraw, as if anticipating some sort of maudlin scene. It was a side of his nature she'd learned to accept long ago.

He seemed to shrink from emotional displays of any sort, yet was always the first one to bawl her out for her own fears and reservations. But that was just Jerry. It was the least of her worries, certainly.

Their lunch arrived, and the conversation turned to Jerry's show and the doings at the theater, and his usual patter about people and events around town. Always witty, always sarcastic.

Recklessly she broke into his conversation. “What would happen, Jerry, if you really and truly fell in love with someone who loved you the same way?”

He sat very still for a moment, staring at her. Then a slow, deliberate smile crossed his face. “Happen?”

Dee shivered when the cold chuckle came up from his throat.

“I'd probably die from the shock.”