Unlike Others (12 page)

She looked around, a little panicked at finding herself the midst of a world that was not only alien but hostile. It wasn't the first time; she had grown up in the straight world, but there were still these terrifying moments. What if someone looked at her or talked about her that way?

She looked at Linda. But Linda was ignoring her, turning a black-covered shoulder to her, talking to the waitress. All right, so Linda didn't want to be recognized. That solved a moral problem very neatly. If Linda had given her a welcoming smile, would she have responded, or not? Loyalty—yes, common decency—required that she align herself with this lovely warm-hearted girl who had given her so much pleasure. But here sat Betsy, capable of looking at her with the same coldly critical eyes she now turned on Linda's companion.

Betsy said, "They don't have to wear fly-front pants. No normal woman would do that." She looked again at the redhead.

Jo picked up her second drink. Her hand shook so that the clear liquid slopped over the glass. The waitress, hovering, stepped up quietly and wiped the drops from the tablecloth. When she had retreated Jo said carefully, "Look, Betsy, there are all kinds of people in the world. Does everybody have to be alike?"

"Well, no, but they don't have to be criminals either."

"Why criminals?"

"Isn't it against the law?"

"A great many things are against the law," Jo said shortly, "including most of the things husbands and wives do together. Including a lot of things even churches approve of. People have to decide what's right and wrong for themselves."

"I don't see how anybody can think that's right. Only what do you suppose they do?" Betsy looked at the tablecloth. "I mean, how can they really do anything? It seems kind of silly."

"I wouldn't worry about it," Jo said. She heard her own voice, low and harsh, and stopped.

"Of course, what men do with women seems silly too. What do they get out of it? I mean, it's embarrassing."

The steaks came then, beautifully grilled, with a mushroom on top of each and the natural juices forming a little ruddy pool on the platter. A beautiful steak, Jo thought as the waitress set hers in front of her, and the last one I'll have in quite a while, the shape my budget's in. She cut a piece and put it in her mouth.

Betsy was still looking at the two girls. Jo's meat was without texture or flavor. She took a drink of water to wash it down. Betsy said in a low shamed voice, "I guess I know what they do. At least, I can figure out most of it. But it seems so, so sort of—"

I give up, Jo thought. It's like planning a college education for someone who doesn't even know the alphabet. This kid's not only straight but square, as square as they come. And she doesn't even know the difference.

She looked at Linda, her profile glimmering clear and lovely between the fur collar and the little fur cap. Why was she here and why was she dressed that way? Her working clothes, no doubt—she moved like an actress, a dancer, a model. Then she had a glamour job. File clerks don't wear suits cut like that, with real Persian collars.

But then why was she here with this half-drunk girl whose clothes were a walking advertisement? A client, maybe. She listened as the girl broke into a whining complaint that was audible all over the room. The food was lousy. She didn't want anything to eat, she wanted to have a drink and go home. She gestured, and tipped over her water glass. Jo burned with vicarious shame for Linda, who sat calm and unconcerned as though her partner were a complete stranger. Knowing the quick response and the sharp perceptions of this calm-looking young woman from their single night together, she knew how embarrassed Linda must be.

I give up, she thought. She forced herself to take another bite of her steak.

She wasn't sure now what she had hoped to accomplish by taking Betsy to lunch. It had been an instinctive thing, worked out in detail before she knew what she was going to do. Whatever my little id had in mind, she thought grimly as she paid the check and counted out a generous tip, it didn't work. I'm out more money than I can spare, and I'm farther than ever from understanding Betsy or getting her to understand me. All we've touched on is the dress and behavior of dykes—and now I know what she thinks about all of us.

She winced over "us" as she hadn't done in years.

"It was a wonderful lunch," Betsy said, following her through the revolving door and into the sunlit street. "Thank you so much for asking me. I'll make it up to you some day." She laid a hand on Jo's jacket sleeve, and Jo flinched as though her fingers had been red hot.

“That's all right," she said in a low voice. "It's been nice getting to know you a little better."

You liar, liar, she told herself, crossing the street amid a flurry of lunch-hour shoppers. Now she really thinks I'm a crab. She looked at Betsy, walking along beside her. Betsy's face was pleasant and innocent. She gave Jo a friendly smile that meant nothing except good will. Jo smiled back, with stiff lips. I'll never make any time with this kid. It's too bad I love her, because I sure as hell do love her and it's not going to pay off. I can't help it, though.

It's such a wonderful business being gay. Just one mad round of pleasure all the time.

She waited for Betsy to precede her into their building.

CHAPTER 12

She woke up on Saturday morning feeling wonderful. The warm clear weather held and the air was soft with Indian summer. Sunshine poured in when she rolled up the bedroom shade. Be a good day to clean the place, she thought, forgetting how depressing the job had seemed the last time she tackled it. She jumped out of bed making plans: She would get into all the cracks and crevices and go after every speck of dirt, the cupboards too, because Mrs. Riggs' cleaning woman didn't do a halfway decent job.

She was down on her knees in the bathroom, digging around the edges of the tiles with a bobby pin, when the telephone rang. It was Richard. She could tell from the sound of his voice that he had something on his mind, so she pulled up the step stool and sat down, sneakers hooked over the second rung, wet wrinkled-pink hands dangling between her knees. "Hi. How's everything?"

"Just wondering how things are with you."

She always forgot how deep and kind Rich's voice was. Just listening to him made her feel good. "You weren't at Jerri's party the other night, so I thought, well, I’ll call up Jo and see how the world's treating her," the soft rumble went on.

"You know I'm not a party person. They either bore me or scare the hell out of me. I stay home and curl up with a good book."

"Yeah, I know. You should get out once in a while, just the same.”

"All right. Next time."

There was a little waiting silence. She asked, "Did you and Michael have a good time?"

"Michael doesn't live here any more. He moved out last week."

"Oh." The silence lasted. All the things she wanted to ask him and couldn't tumbled into her mind. Had he found someone else? Do you feel terrible about it? Did you see it coming or where you completely surprised? Did you have a fight or did he just walk out?

She couldn't ask. Karen had made a real production out of leaving—that was female bitchiness, but men could be that way too. Especially the ones like Michael, who was a real nellie. She waited tensely, the muscles in her upper arms jumping from the unaccustomed exercise of scrubbing.

"It's all right," Richard said gently. "We had a civilized people talk and parted on friendly terms, and all that jazz. These things happen."

"That's the story of my life too." Jo looked glumly at her dirty knees. The bathroom floor was only half scrubbed; by the time they got this thing talked over to everyone's satisfaction the dirty water would be dried on and she'd have to start all over.

It didn't matter. Michael said to break the silence, "How you doing, darling?"

"Not too good. The girl of my dreams is being courted by my boss."

"That's real great. Which one am I supposed to feel sorry for?"

"Why," Jo said, "you might be happy for all of us. She's lovely and popular and he's having a fine time planning what he’ll do to her when he gets her in the hay. And I'm suffering from unrequited love. First thing you know I’ll be writing poetry."

"Darling, you can read it to me. That's true love."

"Sure."

"What are you planning for tonight?"

"Going to wash my hair and take a good hot bath, if the bitches downstairs leave me any hot water. I'm cleaning the whole apartment on my hands and knees."

"You don't feel like going pub crawling, do you? I'll buy you a drink if you're thirsty."

Well, Jo thought, why not? Rich held her hand when she was depressed or in a state of crisis; he didn't ask for help very often. A friend like Richard shouldn't have to bury his face on your shoulder and burst into tears for you to know he's unhappy. She said carefully, "I was thinking about it myself. Did you ever go to a place on Rush called The Spot? I was there a couple of weeks ago—nice quiet place."

"Mixed?"

"No, dear, I thought you'd like to cruise the girls for a change."

Richard chuckled. "All right, all right, what kind of a place is it? The bar Freedburg took us to the other night was full of rough trade, I was afraid to take off my muffler for fear someone was going to cut my throat. Or to take my hand off my zipper—"

Jo cut in firmly. "I've only been there a couple times. It was pretty quiet. Of course I wasn't paying much attention to the boys."

"Music? Dancing?"

"Just a jukebox. Dancing, yes." She hesitated. "We can go somewhere else if you'd rather."

"No, it sounds like fun. We don't have to stay."

Linda, she thought. In the next breath, warning herself not to count on seeing Linda. If you don't hope for too much you can't be disappointed. She said, "It'll be good to get out of the straight world for a while."

Jo moved impatiently on her step stool.

"How about it? Ill pick you up around eight?"

"Sure, fine."

She climbed down and went back to the bathroom. The tiles she had washed were a precise pattern of white edged in black, sharp against the smeary grayish ones that were still dirty. She dumped the cooling water out of her plastic pail, refilled it with hot, added detergent and a sprinkle of bleach, and got down on her knees again to finish the job. It didn't seem so dull now that she was looking forward to an evening out. If she hit lucky and brought somebody home—it was easier that way, because she lived alone and most girls didn't—the apartment would be looking its best. It was bourgeois to care, a holdover from the housekeeping standards of Cottonwood Falls, and she was ashamed, but she couldn't help it. She couldn't help making her bed and washing her breakfast dishes before she left in the morning.

While the bathroom dried she threw a storm coat over her damp-streaked jeans and ran down to the corner for French bread and cold cuts, a fifth of red wine and some whiskey. She came back hugging her brown paper bag, made a sandwich and ate it standing beside the kitchen table, washing the crusty bread down with the warmed-over coffee from breakfast. That she had less than five dollars to last until payday didn't bother her in the least. She would be all right unless someone at the office ran short and wanted to borrow; Stan sometimes asked for small sums which he always paid back the next day. She had her monthly commuter's ticket and she could carry a sandwich.

The lunch at the Manchester House had cost eleven dollars and hadn't produced anything but embarrassment and a sense of failure. It was like fishing where you know there aren't any fish, all you do is waste your bait. If nothing interesting turned up tonight, she could at least get her money's worth out of her own liquor.

Over and over she had heard the theory that Lesbians drink too much because they have to drown their guilt feelings before they can make love. She was doubtful that they drank more than other people, on the average—which took care of that. But for those who did, she suspected that it was more to ease their frustration when they found themselves without a partner than to nerve themselves to a brand of lovemaking they thought wrong. She herself had drank little through the six years of her guilt and anguish, from sixteen to twenty-two. And in the six years since Jeannine had taken her in hand and made her proud and glad to be loved, she did her drinking when she was lonely and insecure.

On the other hand, there were ad men and copywriters, always bragging about their affairs with women, who drank a great deal. So how did you know?

She dressed carefully for her evening out. Tapered slacks, striped shirt a little shabby now but still becoming, the car coat that was her favorite wrap. I look all right, she thought, brushing her hair close to her head. The boyish clothes were becoming without being butch, When Richard's car pulled up in front of the building she dropped her billfold and keys into her pocket and ran down, feeling the familiar warm pleasure that came before an evening on the town. Anything could happen. Perhaps nothing would, but there was always a chance. At this point the whole evening lay ahead, untested and full of possibilities.

She climbed into the car beside Rich and kissed his cheek with extra warmth, so that he might feel some of the sympathy he didn't want her to put into words. "You really want to do this," she asked, "or are you just brightening up my dull day?"

He patted her shoulder. "You're good company."

Funny what a lift it gave you to touch somebody you really liked—no passion, no involvements, just honest affection. She settled down beside him and watched the neighborhood flow past, an unending amusement for a girl who seldom rode in a car. "It's not the same on a bus," she said.

"Still sightseeing? Well take the Outer Drive."

"Oh, lovely."

The Lake lay to the right of them, vast and brooding beyond its curving reach of sand. On the left rose the dark bulk of housing projects, irregularly dotted with lights. As they neared the downtown area the office buildings rose tall and proud against the night sky. "The only thing in Cook County worth looking at," Jo said, pleased.