Unlike Others (17 page)

CHAPTER 15

At least she was getting her money's worth out of that damned expensive bed, but in what a platonic way. She shook her head to get rid of the buzzing in her ears, a product of fatigue, flu and the whiskey she'd polished off around two a.m., while Rich was snoring with his head on this very pillow. She wished she could put her own head down and sleep for at least a week.

Betsy stood beside the window looking as though she wished she were somewhere else. She was probably sorry she'd told Jo her story and doubly sorry that she had accepted this invitation. It's not the kind of thing a girl goes around telling people, Jo thought, not until she reaches the age where a ten-minute workout on the davenport seems like something to brag about.

She said as calmly as she could, "Hop into bed, and I'll bring you some Seconal."

"I don't need anything. I'm a terribly heavy sleeper."

"That's all right, you'll sleep better with a pill, and wake up feeling better too."

The blue pajamas were in the bottom drawer, washed, ironed and folded away for an overnight guest. Jo got them out, together with a pair of knitted stretch socks her aunt had sent at Christmas time. Even a girl who sleeps au naturel ought to keep pajamas on hand, she decided; made it easier when assorted people dropped in for the night. She handed the clothes to Betsy and withdrew to the bathroom, cleaned Richard's whiskery fuzz off the sides of the basin, put a new blade in the safety razor, picked up the soggy towel he'd draped over the tub and wiped up the floor. The room was now ready for the next invasion.

She ran a glass of cold water, found the barbiturate Rich's doctor had prescribed when she was getting over Karen, and sat on the john waiting modestly until she was sure Betsy had finished undressing.

Betsy swallowed the pill obediently, like a good child. This is getting to be a pattern, Jo thought. Betsy said, sitting up. "I feel so scared. Everything's happening so fast."

"It'll be all right. Go to sleep."

"Suppose I find out I'm pregnant? I might be pregnant right now."

"All right, it's a simple operation if you catch it early. Just takes a few minutes and everything's all right."

Betsy's eyes widened. "I don't think I can sleep. You won't go away, will you?"

"No, I'll be right here."

I'm too tired to move, Jo added, sinking down on the davenport and shutting her eyes. It was about noon, a strange time to be home from work. Outside, children from the grade school at the corner were coming home for lunch. She could hear their voices, fresh and clear. The building had the blank, alien feeling of daytime.

Jo turned, trying to find a comfortable position, feeling the ache in her neck and back. The little sleep she'd had the night before had been on the very edge of the mattress, with Rich's heavy arm flung over her body; no wonder the boys leave him, she thought, he's a diagonal sleeper.

Must call Rich. He’ll be missing Michael and worried about this jail bit. Maybe he’ll lose his job because of it. And I ought to call Mag and see how her cold is—and Mrs. Fosgett to thank her for everything. How does it feel to have that kind of money, that kind of influence? Plus a husband who likes you and leaves you free to live your own life.

Picking up the telephone took more energy than she had. She laid her cheek against the prickly upholstery and fell asleep.

She woke, disturbed by some movement in the room, and sat upright, trying to remember where she was and what had happened. Then her vision cleared, and she saw Betsy standing beside the bed. Jo asked, "What's the matter?"

"I feel so awful." Betsy shivered, although the room was stuffy. "I keep thinking about last night."

"Well, don't worry about it. Everything will work out all right."

"I feel sort of jumpy. As if something was going to happen, and I don't know what."

"Nothing's going to happen that you don't want to have happen."

"That's the trouble. I don't know what I want. I want something and I don't know what it is. Ever feel like that?"

"Look," Jo said, "you're tired and upset. Why don't you sleep it off?"

"I'd like to sleep." Betsy's heart-shaped face was vague with fatigue, the eyes swollen, the skin blotched with tears. She looked at Jo through the half-darkness. "Are you getting any sleep on that davenport?"

"More or less."

"Why don't you come to bed? It's a nice big bed.”

Sure is, Jo thought. That's why I bought it. She yawned. "Maybe I will, if it wouldn't keep you awake."

"I'd feel safer with you there."

This is great, Jo thought. Everyone feels safe with me around, but where's there any security for me? Who tucks me in and holds my hand and wipes my nose for me? She stripped off her dress, unhooked her bra and took it off and then, in deference to Betsy's idea of propriety, wriggled her slip straps up on her shoulders again. The bed was smooth now, with fresh sheets—must remember to go to the laundromat on Saturday. Jo pulled the top sheet and wool blanket up around her neck and lay still, careful not to touch Betsy.

The first effect of the sedative had worn off, and Betsy was wide awake and talkative. She moved around restlessly, stuck her feet out from under the covers, then turned over in search of a sleeping position that felt good. "I don't know what's the matter," she said sadly. "I feel jumpy, but why should I? Makes me feel so silly."

For two cents I'd tell you. Jo mumbled something meaningless and turned to face the room, her back to the other girl. But Betsy plunged like a porpoise. The covers pulled off. Oh, hell, Jo thought. At the moment she would have given up all her hope of love, present and future, for ten hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Betsy said in a small voice, "My head hurts."

"That's the pills."

"Well, I wish it would go away."

“Look, do you want me to rub your back? Maybe it would help you sleep."

"Okay."

Jo turned up the hem of the blue jacket—pajamas by courtesy of the management. (Let her give you something, Jo, there's no percentage in all this big-hearted stuff.) Betsy's skin was milk-white where it had been covered from the sun. Days on the beach had turned her skin creamy beige, not molasses-brown like Jo's back and arms, and the area covered by her bathing suit was smooth and white. She lay on her side, while Jo ran gentle fingertips from neck to waist. "Let me know if it's too much."

"Ooh, that feels good."

"Try to relax."

And try to relax yourself, Miss Bates. Remember, this kid is straight. Or at least, she doesn't know what she is. If she's anything.

"Jo.”

"Yeah?"

“What you said in the drugstore."

"What about?"

"Liking girls." Betsy burrowed her face in the pillow, like the proverbial ostrich. Her body tensed. Jo's fingers moved carefully, nape to waist, following the delicate ridge of the spine. Betsy asked, "Did you ever do it?"

"Sure."

"Is it fun?"

How do you answer that one? It's better than fun, it's the greatest happiness in the world when you have the right person. Jo sat still, her hand at the curve of Betsy's hip. "I think so."

"Would it be for me?"

"How do I know?"

"I used to wonder about it. There was this girl in high school." Betsy's voice dwindled off. She took a deep breath. "Do you want me to?"

"Look," Jo said. She closed her eyes to shut out the sight of Betsy's neck with the delicate little tendrils of hair against the creamy skin. "You're tired. Sure I'd like to. I like you." The understatement of the year, her mind jeered. "Look, I'm not going to rush you into anything and have you feeling sorry later. You get some sleep."

"I think I'd like to. What hurt could it do?"

How noble can you get? Jo sat up and swung her feet over to the floor. "Betsy, I've wanted to make love to you since the first time I saw you. But I don't want it to be for kicks, the way kids play doctor or smoke pot just to see what it's like. This isn't something I care to fool around with."

"Oh." Betsy sat up. Her face was that of a slapped child. Jo touched her hair. "You get some sleep now," she said. "Think it over. If you're interested, let me know. If you're not, then just don't bring it up again. Okay?"

"Where you going?"

"Back on the davenport. Get some sleep now, like a good kid."

The davenport had lumps in it. The blanket was one she'd used on the beach all summer; a few grains of sand fell out as she spread it. But it felt so good to lie down that nothing else mattered. She shut her eyes and lay still, listening to the rhythmic gurgle of the radiator.

She didn't know whether Betsy's courage or her curiosity would survive this emergency. She might wake feel-jug rested and self-assured, confident that she could manage Stan—or any other male who might conceivably he waiting for her. She might decide that her willingness had grown out of gratitude. She might conceivably be shocked, and thankful that her offer to do a thing she regarded as abnormal had been turned down. In that case, it would be all over.

I don't care, Jo thought. But she did care, achingly. She wanted Betsy, had wanted her since the day she walked into the office and found Betsy sitting there with her white-gloved hands folded so primly. But more than anything else, she wanted Betsy to make up her own mind. She wanted love, certainly. (She moved restlessly on the narrow space of the davenport, feeling desire stronger than fatigue.) But love is for adults. She wasn't going to hang on to a girl who was only half willing; Karen had taught her the futility of that.

This time she was out for a two-way relationship, Betsy would have to make her own decisions. Nothing real or lasting was possible unless it was on that basis. I won't settle for anything less, Jo thought.

She felt that this decision wasn't especially admirable. It was for her own sake as much as Betsy's that she wanted complete acceptance. She had done Karen an injustice, earning the living for both of them, babying her, making all the decisions, behaving in general as though Karen were a pretty doll, to be pampered and cuddled but not trusted. Granted that this was what Karen wanted, hadn't it been all wrong for both of them?

She fell asleep with the first words of a prayer in her mind, addressed to a God she had stopped believing in a few years back. Outside the wind blew, the sun shone, a few first leaves drifted down from the autumn trees, people went about their daytime business. It was two o'clock of a Monday afternoon in September.

CHAPTER 16

She hadn't stopped to think about the possibility of losing Betsy by this postponement, until after the words were spoken. It had been compulsive, a thing for which she could claim neither blame nor credit. Waking at her usual time, stiff and unrefreshed, depressed as she often was after a long sleep, she found Betsy gone. The blue pajamas lay neatly folded on the unmade bed.

That takes care of that, she thought. It was seven o'clock on Tuesday, a nothing sort of day, a gray hour. No telling when Betsy had left, but one thing was sure: she wouldn't have gone this way, without a word, if she'd been joyful over the prospect of being initiated into the mysteries of Lesbian love.

Jo made the bed, scoured the bathtub, crammed more clothes into the full hamper, and showered. As an afterthought, she cooked a good breakfast and ate it with appetite, even though she had supposed she wasn't hungry. It seemed unworthy to let the alimentary tract rule her emotions, but she decided that unhappy people skipped meals just because malnourishment helped them bang on to their misery. It was deplorable but understandable.

She put on her gray suit and the pleated white shirt, the silver cuff links, oval silver earrings, the new black pumps with teetering heels. She decided she wasn't a bad-looking wench considering what a crazy life she'd been leading. She had another cup of coffee, sitting on the step stool, waiting for it to be time to go to work.

She wondered if Betsy had squared things with her aunt, and whether she would really leave Topix, and whether Stan would be well enough to come back to work. She felt sure that his flu was remorse and not a virus.

Her head hurt, after almost sixteen hours of sleep. Apparently it didn't pay to lead a virtuous life.

The office was empty and quiet. She let herself in and tiptoed back to her own room, almost afraid to disturb the silence. Her desk stood as she had left it the day before, printed sheets spread out, pencils lying here and there. Gayle wasn't in yet and the telephone was silent. Jo went down to the fifth floor lunchroom and had a cup of coffee, sitting at the counter next to a thin gloomy man.

She thought about Linda, and realized that she didn't know Linda's last name or her home address. There was Vogue North, but they might be suspicious, and rightly, of strangers who called their employees to the phone but didn't know their names. She would have to wait.

She was tired of her job. She was tired to death of Topix and all the jolly little bits about who was engaged and married and having babies. Presumably it was important to the actors in these domestic dramas to
be
immortalized in type; she sympathized with the universal human desire to see one's name in print. She herself had high school annuals and family snapshots stored on a high closet shelf. But she was tired of other people's vital statistics.

She was tired of getting up at seven and drinking coffee in a rented kitchen, of catching the bus downtown and watching the days crawl toward payday. She was tired of loving girls in a world that expected women to love men, or at least go to bed with them. She was
tired
of the remnant of guilt she carried in the back of
her
mind all these years, that rose to nag her on rainy nights and dull Sundays. She was tired, period.

She could go to New York. It would be more of the same thing on a larger scale, but it would mean novelty: a different apartment, unfamiliar streets and the challenge of a new job. With part of her mind she clung to the known and familiar. The little waitress who served her lunch at least three days a week, the letterhead sheets in her second desk drawer were known. With another part, she longed for change.