Unlike Others (9 page)

She knew she was regressing. She'd overcome this shamed, abashed feeling a long time ago. But there were still moments when her bringing-up was too much for her.

She pulled off her shoes and lay down on the bed, pulling up the spread for warmth. The early light of a cold September morning was just beginning to filter in under the drawn shades.

At nine she was waked by a terrible crashing and jangling. She was out of bed, mouth dry and heart pounding, before she realized that it was only the telephone. It kept on ringing. She picked her way into the shadowy living room and lifted the handset. "Hello?"

Betsy's voice came to her muffled and far-away. "Jo, can I come and see you? Something terrible has happened."

She hesitated. The way she felt, if it were anybody else the answer would be a flat no. "I guess so," she said slowly, rubbing her eyes. "Do you know where I live?"

Hanging up, she wondered what was the matter. Betsy was all right—at least, she was conscious and able to talk. For a second she considered the fantastic notion that old Mrs. Haxton had died while her son was in Cal City, making love to his assistant. That would look great in the papers.

Or maybe the old lady's heart trouble was the real thing, and ran in the family. Maybe Stan had dropped dead in a motel and there would be a real scandal. Come on, she scolded herself, you've been reading too many drugstore novels.

She shook her head, which still ached. Whatever it was, she'd have to wait until Betsy got there before she could do anything about it. She turned on the ceiling light in the kitchen and got out the percolator. The smell of the raw ground coffee made her gag, but she fixed up the pot and got it on the burner, then went into the bathroom to investigate the hot water situation. In the back of her mind a strange excitement began to stir. Betsy was in trouble, and had turned to her for help. Betsy was on the way over. Anything could happen.

CHAPTER 9

By the time the doorbell chimed she'd showered, dusted herself with scented powder, pulled on clean pajamas and her plaid robe, and covered the worst of the bruises with lotion makeup. Not bad, she decided, looking at her reflection. She still looked tired, her eyes ringed with brown shadows, but that was natural in anyone who'd been dragged out of bed after four hours' sleep. She drank a cup of freshly-made coffee and waited for Betsy, not knowing where she was calling from or how long it would take her to get there.

It seemed longer than it probably was, but at last the bell rang. Jo pushed the buzzer, opened the door a crack and stood waiting to be sure it was really Betsy and not a Sunday-morning prowler. No use taking chances. It got more dangerous every year to go out on the streets after dark.

But it was Betsy who tiptoed up the stairs, making more noise than if she hadn't tried to be so quiet. She stood in the hall, looking around. Jo opened the door and hugged her, coat and all.

"Jo, I thought I'd never get here."

"Well, you're here now." Jo led her into the living room, latched the door, looked at her in the light from the desk lamp. Betsy's face was pale and her eyes swollen. She looked scared. Jo slipped the light coat from her shoulders and laid it across a chair. "You want some coffee?"

"I'd love some. It's getting cold out."

It was good to be doing something. Maybe if she kept her hands busy she could keep them off Betsy. She poured two cups of coffee and carried them back to the living room, turning off the kitchen light as she passed the dangling cord. "Sit down and drink it while it's hot."

Betsy took the cup in shaking hands. It rattled against the saucer. When she carried it to her mouth, a little of the coffee ran down her chin. Jo wanted to take Betsy in her arms and hold her until the shaking stopped. She sat up straight, keeping both hands on the hot cup, her slippers planted firmly on the rug. If she got up and went to Betsy now, it would be the end.

She said carefully, "It's none of my business, but I'm ready to listen if you want to tell me about it."

"I'm so ashamed," Betsy said. Her shivering worsened. She decided she couldn't manage the cup and saucer, and set them carefully on the floor. "You knew I had a date with Stan last night, didn't you? He talks to you a lot."

I knew a hell of a lot more than that, Jo thought grimly. She nodded. "He said something about it."

"There didn't seem to be any reason I shouldn't go," Betsy said defensively. "Unless you think it's not a good policy to date anyone you work with. I wouldn't if it was a larger place. I mean, well, my divorce is final and he's not married or anything, I thought it would be okay."

He's married to a horrible old hypochondriac and a flock of guilt complexes, he's Oedipus in person, Jo thought, but she managed not to say it. She nodded. "I'd say it was your own business. A girl has to make up her own mind about things like that."

"I don't want to marry anyone, but that doesn't mean I can't go to dinner with a man."

"I wouldn't think so."

Betsy fell silent. Stalling, Jo thought. She wants to tell me, but she doesn't know how to get started. Once the first word comes out it'll be easy, like getting the first olive out of a bottle. She sighed. Looks like I’ll have to do all the work.

She asked gently, "Did you go to the movies, or dinner or what?"

“Both. It was all right—I mean, he seemed sort of absent-minded, but it's different from the office and I thought, well, maybe he was tired or something. I thought maybe he was worried about his mother, too. I know he hardly ever leaves her alone in the evenings."

“And?"

“We went to the movies." Betsy faltered to a stop. After a minute she went on, "Then went to a restaurant and had a drink. I didn't want anything to eat, but he ordered steak.”

Trite, Jo thought tiredly. He plies the kid with liquor takes her to a motel, or a hotel. Right out of East Lynne. She asked, "Did you drink very much?"

"I wasn't stoned, if that's what you mean. I felt relaxed—you know the way you feel after a couple of drinks. Only after dinner we went to a place, sort of a night club I guess. They had a strip-tease act I thought was disgusting." Betsy shook her head. "Men seem to go that kind of thing, I don't know why."

Jo waited.

"So then he said, ‘Let's go someplace where we can talk.' Like that. All he wanted was to talk, that's what he said."

Betsy got up and walked across the room. Standing with her back to Jo, she looked smaller and younger than she really was. "I knew what he wanted," she said in a muffled voice. "Fellows all tell you that. Everybody does it, I'm not going to hurt you, I’ll take good care of you, and so on. That's why I liked Chuck, he never tried to make any time with me before we were married. The rest of them were always wanting me to come up to their room, or something. Just to talk!" she said with sudden sharpness.

Jo was silent. She could see Betsy following Stan into a room, standing silent and acquiescent while he shut the door behind them. It hurt. She couldn't have spoken if she'd wanted to.

Betsy said, "We went to a motel."

Okay, girl, put that quarter in your other pocket, you were right the first time. Jo moved a little. The soft wool of her robe whispered against the upholstery, the only sound in the room.

"I knew what he wanted. I'm not going to pretend I didn't, it wouldn't be any use. They all want the same thing no matter what they tell you. Only by that time I didn't care so much," Betsy said honestly. "I guess I was a little drunker than I thought"

"You didn't have to go."

"I know. I thought about it while he went in the office and paid the man. There was a little office at one end, and I sat in the car while he went in. I guess they expect you to do that. I thought, well, what difference does it make? I like Stan." She sounded defiant. "He's been nice to me and he has a pretty thin time at home. I thought we could go in and smooch a while and then I'd stop him before things got out of hand. You know what I mean. If you've had any experience with men you can usually head them off before they really do anything."

Why, you little cheat, Jo thought. But she couldn't take her eyes off the back of Betsy's neck, where the little tendrils of soft fair hair stirred when she moved. It was as though there were two Jos, one scornful of Betsy and one wanting to love and cherish her. She asked hoarsely, "What happened?"

Betsy looked at the floor. "It didn't work," she said flatly. "We hardly got inside the door when he started pulling my clothes off. He'd had about five drinks, more than I had—maybe he didn't really know what he was doing. I didn't know a man could be so rough."

"And then?"

"I started to yell. I was scared, honest. He put his hand over my mouth. He pushed me down on the
bed,"

Jo whispered, "He raped you."

"No. He couldn't."

"What do you mean?"

“Nothing happened."

A flow of relief poured through Jo. It was all right Betsy was unharmed.

"He kept trying and trying," Betsy said in such a small voice that Jo had to lean closer to hear her. "He made me help him, you know what I mean? But even then he couldn't do anything."

"So?"

"So we got dressed and came back and he never said anything the whole way," Betsy said rapidly. "He never said anything all the way home, and I was scared to death. I mean, you keep hearing about men going berserk and killing people. Only I don't think he's the kind. Anyway, it wasn't my fault."

Jo clenched her hands behind her back.

"I felt terrible. I kept feeling like I was going to throw up. I got out at my aunts' house. I was scared to death she'd be waiting up for me, but she wasn't. I felt like I couldn't stand it to go to bed, I had to talk to somebody and I couldn't talk to my aunt because she'd flip. So I went down to the drugstore on the corner and called you."

"Will she worry about you if you don't come home?"

Betsy's blush darkened. "I told her I might stay all night with a girl friend."

And what a giveaway that is, Jo thought, her tenderness mixed with disgust. She stood up, stretching muscles that were stiff and sore. It's been quite a night, she thought. She said, "You better stay here. You can sleep in the bedroom and I'll curl up on the davenport. I got in late myself."

"I wouldn't take your bed. Let me sleep on the davenport."

"No, that's all right. Just give me a minute to change the sheets. I’ll fix you some hot milk and a pill," Jo said, glad to be moving around and doing something useful, "and you’ll be asleep in no time. Good thing this is Sunday, we can sleep all day if we want to."

"I hate to think about going back to work."

"It’ll be even more embarrassing for him than for you, if that's any comfort. Anyway, you don't have to date him again."

"I suppose not." But she sounded depressed.

Jo, stripping the blue sheets from the double bed, turned and looked at her sharply. "What do you mean, you suppose not? You don't want to go out with him again, do you?"

"I guess not. Only I haven't dated anybody since I got my divorce and it seems too bad to have it work out like this. Maybe he won't try any funny business the next time—I mean, if I don't want to—well, maybe he’ll be willing to just park or something." Betsy's eyes filled with tears. "Don't make me say such things, it's too embarrassing."

Careful, Jo thought. She carried the used sheets into the bathroom and stuffed them into the hamper, came back with clean linens and remade the bed. Shaking the pillow into a fresh case, she said in a voice that tried to be unconcerned, "I don't know much about men, but I don't think it works that way. They keep right on trying. Especially if you're divorced—they just naturally figure divorced girls are panting for a man. Unless you think he was just drunk and didn't know what he was doing."

"He didn't have any trouble driving. It was more like he wanted to, real badly, but he was scared."

The long arm of mother. You don't rape mother, do you, Sigmund—not the image of pure chaste womanhood? Give me a girl just like the girl who married dear old dad, but what in hell am I supposed to do with her when I get her? Jo tucked in the blanket at the foot of the bed and tried not to look at Betsy, who went right on. Maybe he could tell I’m not that kind of a girl, I didn’t really want to.”

The hell you didn't. Jo said aloud, "You've been mar
ried,
haven't you? Or didn't your husband ever do anything?"

"Chuck?" Betsy looked shocked. "Sure. I told you, 1 didn't even know there was anything the matter with
him
till I found him in bed with that-that monster." Tears began to roll down her cheeks. "He always turned off the light. He didn't make me look at him. Men are so ugly, and they act so silly. It never lasted very long with Chuck and then I could go to sleep."

Naturally. Poor kid, trying so hard, and not able to talk it over with her or ask her to help him. It's
a
fine setup for the boy.

"He never liked to make love to me. He told me so— he was nice enough to come to mama's funeral, when
mama
died. Only he did what they all do, before I found out. It's a good thing he didn't give me a baby, that's all."

Jo turned down the blanket and whisked into the kitchen. Lifting the quart container of milk out of the refrigerator with trembling fingers, she thought: if I had any sense I'd take something. But then she might wake up and want something.

Stop dreaming, Jo Bates. Nothing like that's going to happen.

She said, "You get into bed. I'm going to give you something to put you to sleep."

Betsy looked more childish than ever curled up under the blue blanket. Blue was her color, as it had been Karen's. Seeing her like this, small and perfect with the arms and legs of her pajamas turned up, Jo had
a
momentary illusion that she was Karen. She blinked.

"Oh, Jo, there's a big black and blue spot on your arm. What happened?"

"I must have bumped into something."

Betsy swallowed the pill solemnly, big-eyed and obedient as a child. She took the cup and sat back against Jo's pillow, watching the delicate wisps of steam curl up into the air. "You know something? If I do go out with Stan again, I think I can keep him in line."