Whisper Their Love (16 page)

"I suppose you're an expert," she said.

He shook his head. "I didn't mean to give you a lecture. All I was going to do was tell you you're right about Uncle Doc. I'm sorry I called you a liar."

There was no reason to feel so hateful about him. Only she didn't like anything about this fellow, his looks or his clothes or his cocky know-it-all talk. Who does he think he is, going around lecturing people about their emotional maturity? As if anybody cared what .he thought.

Still, he wouldn't have had to apologize. "You wouldn't have had to apologize," she told him.

He looked surprised. "Well, but you had it coming. I was pretty nasty to you." He sauntered away a few steps. "I have a feeling," he said, "I'm going to tell you a lot of things. God knows you're not the kind of a girl I ever saw myself falling for. I always pictured myself with a kind of motherly, big-boned type—looking for a mom, I guess. It makes me mad as hell, but I can't stop thinking about you. I'll tell you all about it, the next time I take you out."

"I wouldn't go anywhere with you if you were the last man on earth."

"You wouldn't get a chance to," he said smugly. "The competition would be terrible."

"Oh!" She began walking back toward town, away from him. Her heel caught in a rough piece of pavement, and she felt herself falling. He grabbed her by the elbow. "Watch where you're going, stupid." She-glared, but he held her arm tightly. "I'm going along, you might as well wait for me," he said pleasantly. "I might even take you out and buy you a Coke, if you ask pretty."

"I suppose you think I'm a case of retarded development."

He raised one eyebrow. It gave him a look of insatiable curiosity. "I'm not your parish priest," he said, "but if you care to tell me what's eating you it might be good practice. I intend to spend the rest of my life with you that way: you tell me your troubles, I tell you my troubles."

"Oh, you have troubles too? Just like ordinary people?"

"Well, I wasn't as polite to Uncle Doc as I might have been," he said. He fell into step with her, the two of them walking in an easy rhythm. "I've been going around here feeling as moral as hell because I told the old boy off. It was horsey of me. Some day I'm going back and tell him so."

"You moved out?"

"Sure. When I go on a bust I go full length, as the fellow told the photographer. Going back to school in January anyhow; I just dropped out for a semester because I was short of money." He shook his head. "I'm in a real nice rooming house, hot and cold running cockroaches."

"Now I know you're crazy."

"Don't change the subject," he said. "Give. What's the worm in your apple?"

"Nothing."

"You'll feel better after you tell." They were back among the little houses now. The volume of kids' shouting had diminished; upstairs windows blossomed with light. Bedtime. "Look, do you have to be in any special time?"

"No, I forgot to sign out."

"I bet. I'll buy you some coffee."

She made up her mind suddenly. Nothing else to do but study, and she was in no mood for that. "All right."

The place he took her to was one of those boxcars made over into a hamburger joint. Not much of a place for a first date; maybe he was really broke or maybe he didn't think she was worth impressing. She didn't want to be impressed by him, of course, but still—Curiosity got the best of her resentment. She'd passed a lot of places like this but it was the first time she had been inside one. This one looked clean, though the air was smoky from the grill. The menu was written on a blackboard against the back wall. The man behind the counter, fat and mustached, said, "Hi, John."

"Hi. Two coffees.”

"John what?"

"Jones. I know you don't believe it, but it's true. My middle name's Carstairs. That's what I'll call myself when I hire my second office nurse, J. Carstairs Jones."

"You don't look like a Carstairs."

"Thanks."

The coffee was hot, clear and strong. John took a deep swig. "This the first affair you've had?" he asked.

"I don't know why you think such a thing. You've got a dirty mind."

"Uh-uh, there you go. Sex is dirty. Look, there's not much love in the world, let's not get snooty about it. Anything that has even a little tenderness and understanding in it—if you've got that you've got something, haven't you?"

"I don't know," Joyce said. She wondered how they had got to this point. "I don't know one single thing," she said.

"I should have said, is this the first affair you've had with a woman?" He set down his cup and grabbed her by the shoulder as she got up from her stool. "Don't blow your top, you're only mad because I'm right."

"How did you know?"

"Oh, honey," John Jones said tenderly, "you've got a face that wouldn't fool a week-old baby. If it really looked at you," he added quickly. Most people don't." This was. so in line with her own recent observations that she couldn't deny it.

"You can't run away," he said.

"I'm not running away."

"Okay. Let's change the subject. How's your friend getting along, the one that had the operation?"

"Fine. We just had a big fight," Joyce said, noticing that her hand shook when she tried to stir her coffee. "That's why I came with you, I mean, that's why I don't much want to go back.”

"Regular roommate fight, or is she the one? No, that's not so likely. Considering." She could see his mind working back to their first meeting. "It's reasonable she should pick a fight, you know too much about her. If she can work up a good peeve she won't have to feel so guilty. It figures. What did you do, get a run in her good stockings?"

"You think you're smart."

"Not so very," John Carstairs Jones said sadly. He shoved his cup across the counter and the fat waiter, who seemed to be cook and cashier too, filled it. "He's deaf," John said following her eyes. "Reads lips, though. Want another?"

"What time is it?"

"Twenty to twelve."

"Oh, good Lord." Edith, she thought. Edith would have come and gone, nobody in the room, no notation in the going-out book, no excuse for this kind of thing. She wouldn't bring it up before the House Council—how could she?—but she would certainly have plenty to say in private. "I've got to get back," she said frantically, buttoning up her jacket.

They didn't talk on the walk back, but he held her arm and it felt good, sort of cozy. Didn't make sense, considering how insulting and snoopy the boy was.

He stood with her outside the door of the dorm, just off the sidewalk where the light over the door casing was softened. "Thanks for walking with me," he said. "It's been on my mind ever since that day—I'm honestly sorry I popped off at you like that. Sorry if I made you mad out there tonight, too."

"It's all right. I wasn't very nice to you, either."

"That's okay."

"Well—" Now she was here, she was reluctant to go in. There didn't seem to be much of anything to hope for, inside. "I'll call up first, the next time."

He planned a next time, then. She ought to get that straightened out right now. Tell him she didn't want to see him again. She licked her lips nervously. "All right."

She stood with a hand on the doorknob, watching him walk away. Maybe somebody would look out of the window and see her coming in at this hour. So what? She felt too lost and miserable to care. It would be my luck if the door was locked. But it wasn't, the knob turned smoothly under her hand and she was in, taking advantage of a precaution meant for someone else.

There was no line of light under Edith's door. She was asleep, or out. Or maybe upstairs, waiting. Anxious. Or angry. There was still that possibility to face, but Joyce felt too tired to care much. She walked up slowly, noticing in an abstracted way that her leg muscles were cramped and sore from so much walking. Sounds of slamming and clattering came from behind Bitsy's closed door. Joyce laughed. Bitsy studied by schedule and liked to be in bed by eleven. A fussbudget, a regular old maid about neatness and order. Living with Mary Jean was likely to be an eye-opener. She'd bet Mary Jean would learn to pick up after herself, or wish she had. Serve 'em both right.

There was no one in her room. Edith had given up, then, and gone to bed. She pushed the thought of tomorrow out of her mind. The room looked sort of nice; nice and bare. She tiptoed around picking up Mary Jean's leavings, used and wadded tissues, bobby pins, an old sock, a pried-off stamp, a dirty comb. She cleaned out the dresser drawers, then removed them one by one and shook them over the wastebasket to get the powder and dust out of the cracks. She made her own bed up with fresh sheets and stood back looking at the effect.

She wanted to go to bed and sleep for hours and hours, alone. In fact, the way she felt, she didn't ever want anyone to. touch her again. I wish people would leave me
alone,
she thought fretfully. She felt the clean pillowcase cool against her cheek, and there was comfort in it.

I thought I loved her, she thought. I do love her. Or is it only because I needed to love somebody and she made the first move? That was an unhappy thought and she turned over, hoping that the position would make her sleepy.

Some time in the night she woke, thinking about John Carstairs Jones, and was unable to get back to sleep. He's unhappy, she thought. She hadn't noticed it while they were together, but his face was clear in her mind now and it was young, thin and strained. It must have been terrible for him to fight with his uncle, she thought, when he's always thought so much of him. She recalled the pride in the older man's voice, the one time she'd seen them together. It made her feel guilty. She tried to imagine how she'd feel if Aunt Gen turned out to be a—well, she didn't know, you couldn't imagine Aunt Gen doing anything that wasn't perfectly honest. Suddenly she saw Aunt Gen, too, standing beside the kitchen table in one of her big coverall aprons, her hair braided smoothly above her serious, suntanned face. Even through polished bifocals her eyes made you wish you didn't have anything on your conscience.

John Jones had the same trick of looking straight through you. I don't like him, she thought; he thinks he knows everything.

It took her quite a while to get back to sleep. Nothing was wrong, nothing at all. It must have been all that coffee so late at night.

Chapter 16

“Really civilized people," Edith Bannister said. She leaned forward a little over the steering wheel. There was color in her smooth cheeks, and her voice was pitched higher than Joyce had ever heard it before. She's excited about this, Joyce thought. Excited about getting out for an evening, like some farm woman who's been kept cooped up among the pigs and chickens since Lord knows when and is offered a trip to town. Can she be that bored with school?

Joyce wasn't bored with school. Since the three days away with Mary Jean, when she had been almost sure they would be found out and expelled, she was both happy and unhappy about college, but certainly not bored. I'd like to start over, she thought wistfully. Or maybe come back next year and get on the Student Council and take something besides snap courses. If I could start without Edith. Maybe she'll get a job somewhere else, she thought, but recognized it as wishful thinking.

She'd have liked to forget all that had happened in these three months and concentrate on just living for a while. She folded her hands on her lap and forced her attention back to what Edith was saying.

"She does everything. Ceramics, weaving, the modern dance. Not only talented but versatile. It's one of the few sensible marriages I've ever known," Edith said eagerly. "Both of them free to go their own way without any grudges or petty jealousies. Fritzi often has some man friend staying with him for a few weeks! He knows they're welcome.

"They've even talked about having a child, to make the picture complete" Still, they have perfect freedom now. And companionship. You can have a very fine companionship with a man as long as he doesn't get any silly ideas. You'll discover that for yourself when you have a chance to get acquainted with a more mature type of man." The traffic light flashed amber. She stopped the car with a lurch. "It's an ideal arrangement for both of them."

"I can see that."

"Are you tired, darling? You sound tired."

"I'm fine."

"Not shocked, are you?" The upward tilt of her mouth implied that the idea was pretty funny. After all we've done, after all we've had together. Stuffy conventional people might be bothered by these things, but we
know.
Joyce didn't admit that she was shocked, a little; she had supposed marriage was for the normally-sexed and that those outside the regular social-moral framework stayed single.

The light turned green. The line of city-bound cars moved slowly forward, many-colored and swimming nose to tail through the thickening dark. "I'm taking a chance introducing you to these people," Edith said. Her voice was edged with cold steel. "You could make a lot of trouble for me if you wanted to."

"You don't have to worry."

"You know everyone's against us. People hate us because we're free of their petty restrictions, because we dare to love honestly, without a lot of little social conventions to back us up. They discriminate against us socially, they deny us the right to earn a living, their damn preachers and social-reformers would like to throw us all in jail. The only way you can survive is to have two lives, one for the stuffy narrow-minded people to know about and one with your own kind in the cracks and crevices of your days."

This was old stuff. She'd heard it a hundred times before, and the first few renditions had made quite an impression on her. Nobody loves us, everybody hates us. The only thing that could get Edith worked up, besides making love, was the idea that everybody had it in for sex deviates, including God. Joyce was beginning to wonder if people were that much interested.

What she did find fascinating just now was the idea that two of them so assorted as to sex would be married. Like this Fritzi and Anitra Schultz they were going to see, who were Edith's friends and had such a gosh-awful wonderful life together. She could see how Edith, fastidious, lonesome and not interested in men, might end up as a Lesbian. Or someone like me, she thought wryly; that's had the pants scared off her. But for a man who was interested only in other men, and a woman attracted to other women—now there was something she wouldn't have thought possible. "I don't see what they get out of it," she said.