Unlike Others (16 page)

Sure, if Stan was free he'd probably grab the first woman who was available and reasonably attractive. Meaning, as of right now, Betsy. Betsy was no doubt beginning
to
feel out of the social swim without a man, even if men didn't appeal to her physically. Jo doubted that anyone appealed to her physically; she had never been awakened. Like many another women, Betsy probably felt that what happened between two people in bed took only a short time and was a small price to pay for security and acceptance. Even if her Chuck hadn't been too good at the "normal" life, she knew what to expect from a husband. It was endurable. And as for Stan,
he
was panting to get married.

I know I haven't got a chance, Jo admitted. But
as
long as she's free I'm going to keep on trying.

She
went back to the office and forced herself to go over the first folio of Topix with close attention. Usually several glaring mistakes hit her in the eye as soon as she opened the pages. This morning she looked mechanically down the printed columns without making sense of anything she read. She was tired and worried—and apprehensive. And hungry for love; not just for sex, although she had reached the point where the thought of Betsy produced an immediate and appreciable physical reaction, but love.

She knew that Mag was right. The solution was to find
a
good steady girl, who wasn't frigid or alcoholic or any more neurotic than the average run of human beings. Somebody warm and intelligent who would be glad to settle down and make a home. This would be about as easy as finding uranium in the back yard.

Sure, she knew couples who had been together four, five, even six years, girls who seemed to be faithful to each other, who didn't drink too much, who paid their bills and went on vacations together and were concerned with the everlasting female business of making a home. When they gave a party, it was for people they liked. They had, or hoped they had, a future. It sounded good. But where do you find someone like that?

Mag would have been a great girl to take on, say thirty years ago. Humorous, ambitious in her work and good at it but not dominated by the job. She'd have been off on assignments much of the time, preventing the boredom and friction that come from being together too much. Jo would have kept the household going and helped earn the living. And at night they would have found pleasure and comfort in each other's arms. But Mag was sixty-two. Thirty years ago, Jo's parents had been on their honeymoon.

Rich laughed at her for believing in romance, but a homosexual woman was still a woman, with the same psychology as the others. It wasn't enough to look for excitement; she wanted something more durable. And just now she was head over heels with Betsy Considine, who didn't even know that Jo wanted her
who was involved with their employer. Some office triangle, Jo thought. They ought to make a movie out of it.

Betsy came in around eleven. She sailed past Gayle without a word, ignored the two empty offices and came back to stand in Jo's doorway. Jo said, "For heaven's sake come in and sit down, it's bad enough to have Stan holding up the woodwork." She noticed that the girl's face was swollen and unhappy. "What's the matter, flu bug bit you too?"

"Guess so."

"Well, you're in good company. Here, have a Kleenex." Betsy perched on the edge of the visitor's chair, began to cry. "Blow your nose.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. Flu makes you feel terrible.” Provide her with an excuse if she needs one. “Why don’t you go home and take some aspirin and go to bed?”

"I’ll be all right in a minute."

Sure, sit there and breathe on me. That's all I need right now, a good case of virus flu. The back of her throat was beginning to itch, her sinuses felt stuffy—or was that her imagination? She decided not to make a diagnosis until she'd had eight hours' sleep. There wasn't anything she could do about it if she did get sick.

She folded her hands on the desk, like a teacher hearing a recitation, and waited.

"I've got to talk to somebody," Betsy said. "You don't talk about people, I noticed that." She looked at Jo timidly, but with courage. Jo said,

"Okay, go ahead," with no special sympathy.

"Not here, somebody might hear."

There was nobody here but Gayle making a long telephone call to one of her bridesmaids, but Jo knew what Betsy meant. An office is no place for confidences; gossip and clothes chatter, yes, but nothing that matters. She said, "All right, let's go out and have a cup of coffee. Things are slow this morning anyway."

It was a lie, but it seemed more reasonable to be leaving the office if there was nothing much to be done. She wanted a drink. She wasn't a heavy drinker, but there were times when a drink came in handy and this looked like one of them. Instead, she took Betsy to the corner drugstore, ordered two coffees and watched while they put cream and sugar in hers, as though she might have been mixing hemlock. There was a self-conscious silence. Jo took a sip of her black brew, decided that hemlock would have been an improvement. She said. "Go ahead, what's biting you?"

"Well," Betsy said. Apparently she had prepared her story before coming in, but it hadn't done any good; she couldn't get it out. She looked past Jo at a case full of hot-water bottles and enema syringes. “You know what happened when I went to Cal City that time?”

"You told me."

"He called me at my aunt's house last night," Betsy said, plunging in. "I wasn't expecting it Sunday night and all. He asked me if I'd go to the movies. I said I would—only I had to be in early." She looked at Jo. "There's no reason I shouldn't, is there? Nothing can happen to a person at the movies, out in a public place that way."

"So?"

"It was all right, he wasn't fresh or anything. I mean, like he put his arm around me, but everybody does that, you know what I mean?" Jo nodded. "Then afterwards he took me home. It was nice and warm out but he didn't mention parking or anything. I told him he had to go right straight home and he said sure, he would. It was all right."

Jo sat watching her, afraid to say anything now that she was under way.

“So," Betsy said in a rush, "he took me home and I told him not to come in. I said, ‘I’ll be all right, you don't have to come to the door,' but he came in with me and we sat down on the davenport for a while." Betsy's voice was so small Jo had to lean close to hear her. "I didn't want to make any fuss because I was afraid I'd wake up my aunt."

"And besides, you were enjoying it."

"Maybe I was. I like to be kissed. So pretty soon he started to unbutton the top of my dress, and I asked him not to, but he didn't pay any attention to me. I might just as well not have said anything. He fooled around a while—you know—and then he pulled my skirt up. And then he—"

She stopped, unable to say what had to be said.

"He screwed you. What were you expecting?”

Betsy gave her a miserable look.

"What's the matter, didn't you know how it's done? You've been married."

"Yes, but—"

"What?"

"I hated it." Betsy's cheeks were red. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "It was horrible. I always hated it when I was married too. I don't see how anybody likes it. Damn it, a man climbs on top of you and does that silly thing and then he gets up and goes away. Why do they talk like it's something wonderful?"

"I suppose it can be," Jo said slowly. Words she dared not say were trembling on the tip of her tongue. "That I the way it was with him?"

"Sure. He straightened up his clothes and went away. He didn't even kiss me good night" Betsy said angrily. "They get you all worked up to wanting-I don't know what, wanting something you never had. Then they do that and it's all over. I don't see what they get out of
it."

I will be fair, Jo told herself firmly. "How long did
all
this take?" she wanted to know. "The actual lovemaking, I mean."

"A couple minutes. They make you think it's something big and wonderful, all the fuss they make about
it.”
Betsy's tears had stopped now. She reached for a paper napkin from the metal holder, blew her nose and sat upright, looking pugnacious.

Jo said slowly, "Maybe it's different for men. They get everything they want in just a few minutes. A woman takes a lot of getting ready for love. Not just kissing, but
other things. Smart men know that, the ones that have had a lot of experience, they do all the things that make you feel good." She stopped. Betsy's eyes met hers, troubled and curious, and skeptical too.

Betsy said, "I don't like men. I don't like the way they smell or the things they do when they kiss you. It embarrasses me to look at one with his clothes off. I feel ashamed just thinking about it."

Jo said, "Betsy, women know about this too. If a girl loved you she'd do all sorts of things to make you happy. Don't you know this?"

"I've heard about people like that." Betsy looked at the tabletop. "I always wondered. I mean, when I was in high school I had an awful crush on one of the girls in my gym class, and one day she kissed me. We were dressing in the locker room. I don't know—" She trailed off. "I thought about it a lot. It made me feel funny."

So what am I supposed to do now, draw her a diagram? Jo said dryly, "Well, there are a hundred things a man can do to make you feel good. If he'll take the time and patience for it. A woman can do ninety-nine of them better. Because she knows how you feel, she's not just thinking about herself, she wants to make you really happy."

"I still don't see it."

"Just take my word."

Betsy was silent. Jo stirred her coffee, not because there was anything in it that required stirring but because it gave her something to do. She said gently, "Don't worry about it, you'll be all right."

“I hate Stan. I don't ever want to see him or talk to him again."

"Why don't you quit? You're young and nice-looking, you won't have any trouble getting another job."

"I'm going to. Only," Betsy said in a whisper, "he didn't do anything to keep from getting me in trouble. Suppose I have a baby? I’ll have to marry him."

"Do you want to marry him?"

"Oh, God, no, I'd rather die."

"Then you don't have to. Besides," Jo said, hoping she was right, "It hardly ever happens. Don't worry about it.

Betsy said, "I was so scared I didn't sleep all night.”

That makes two of us, Jo thought. It's practically a lost art. Before she could stop herself, she said. "Why don't you come over to my place and take a nap? I'm going home this afternoon. I don't feel so well myself."

"I don't want to be a bother."

"You won't be any bother. Come on." If Mag's running a taxi service, I'm running a high-grade hotel. She could see the apartment as she had left it that morning, promising herself a good cleaning-up after work. Rich's whiskers scumming the bathroom basin, damp towels on the floor, the bed unmade and a two-day supply of coffee cups in the sink. The sheets were ready to walk to the laundromat all by themselves. The bed hadn't been made since Friday night—no, Saturday morning. A mess.

She said again, "Come on. We’ll call Gayle and tell her I'm sick and you're taking me home. Or vice versa. She'll be alone in the office, she won't do any work—oh well, it doesn't matter."

"All right."

Betsy waited outside the door while Jo paid the check. Damn it, Jo thought, I'm tired too. Touch me with the tip of a finger and I’ll fall over. Why in hell doesn't somebody tuck me in once in a while? I'd like a friendly shoulder to cry on, too.

She didn't have money for a cab, so they went down the long double flight of steps into the station and waited a few minutes for a train. Some courtship. No soft lights, no wine, no music, and the girl doesn't even know I'm chasing her. Both of us bleary-eyed and all pooped out.

She held out her strip ticket to be punched. It's the best I can do right now, she assured herself. If it's not good enough then I'm sorry, but it's the best I have and it'll have to do. If she wants soft lights and music she's out of luck.

They got on the train and sat without speaking all the way to Fifty-third Street. Jo's eyes kept falling shut. She pried them open by pure will power and kept changing her range of vision, to stay awake. All I want is to sleep around the clock, she thought. She sat looking out of the train window, watching the back porches and fire escapes go by, conscious of Betsy dozing in the seat beside her and of the slow rise and fall of Betsy's breathing.