Warm and Willing

CHAPTER FIVE

The weekend had the quality of a dream. Time was suspended, thoughts were never pressing. Sometimes they strolled together through Village streets, walking easily side by side. And no one could tell a thing by looking at them, Rhoda thought. They walked together like two friends, and nobody could guess that they were so much more than that.

The walks were an education in themselves. She had lived in the Village for several months, had walked back and forth over these streets, but when she went walking with Megan she felt as though she had done that walking with her eyes closed, or wearing blinders. There was so very much she had simply failed to notice.

The men and boys who loitered by the western rim of Washington Square at twilight. “Gay boys,” Megan told her. “Male prostitutes, mostly. Young ones who sell themselves to older men, for a meal or for money. They tend to have a more cavalier attitude toward sex than we do, kitten. They’ll go for hit-and-run love or even buy it on the market place. Pickups in filthy men’s rooms-that sort of thing. You rarely find girls like that. We tend to be more long-term in our love affairs, we sensitive lesbians.”

A small dark coffeehouse on Sullivan Street. “No one ever goes there, Rhoda. Not for coffee or companionship. I understand they sell mescaline there. It makes you hear sounds and see colors, it creates psychotic hallucinations. It’s not strictly illegal, like narcotics, but it’s only handled on the black market. I’ve heard they sell marijuana there, too, but I’m not sure of it.”

A subterranean bar on Barrow. “One of ours, honey. A dyke joint. That’s one of the more compelling names for girls like thee and me, you know. Dykes, lessies, butches, lady-lovers-they call us the nicest things. This place is more refined than most. No dancing and not too much in the way of a butchy element. A lot of the uptown career girls come down here, and it’s all right for a quiet drink. Places like The Shadows on Macdougal are so cruisy that you have to be very hard-up or very scummy yourself in order to tolerate them, but this place isn’t bad at all.”

A girl passing by. “Did you see the way she looked at us? I’ve seen her around but I guess she doesn’t know me. She was trying to decide about us, whether or not we’re gay. You didn’t notice, did you? Gay girls can’t afford to be obvious. Just a glance, a stare held a moment too long, subtle signs like that. Like passwords.”

There was a whole world in the Village she had never known, a furtive homosexual underground with its special places and its own recognition signs, and she was becoming a part of it without ever having been aware of it. A men’s shop that catered exclusively to male homosexuals, a beauty shop where a crowd of gay girls got their hair done, gay bars, a gay coffeehouse, a gay restaurant. These weren’t necessarily meeting-places, Megan told her. They were refuges as much as anything. When you were more or less obvious about your homosexuality-a short-haired butchy bull dyke, a mincing queen-you ran into trouble even in the Village. You wanted a place reserved for your own kind.

And even if you weren’t obvious, you needed the relaxation of gay society. “I know a gay man who works at Manning and Roblin,” Megan had told her. “A public relations outfit, and a good one. He comes on completely straight up there, lives a masquerade five days a week from nine to five. When he’s done with work he wants to unwind. He doesn’t mince and he doesn’t wear lipstick, but he likes to go to a place where he doesn’t have to pretend to be something he’s not.”

The walks and the talks filled her in, let her see more of the Village as a whole and the little subculture of which she was becoming a part. But they did not spend all their time walking. For hours on end they were at Megan’s apartment-no, their apartment, for she lived there now. Mornings, she would awake before Megan and go into the kitchen to cook breakfast. Cooking had been that part of her marriage she had most enjoyed. She had a knack for it, could follow recipes or invent her own. But cooking for Tom had been a joyless pastime; he approached all food as if he were an automobile and the food were gasoline, mere fuel for his engine. There had been no cooking facilities in her Grove Street room, and with only herself to cook for, she had not missed them.

Now she was in her element. She cooked for Megan, a girl who was able to appreciate good food. And a girl who loved her, and whom she loved. This made a difference. Saturday morning she made omelets with crisp bacon on the side and a pot of strong fresh coffee. Saturday night, late, she tossed a salad together and they killed a bottle of chilled wine with it. Sunday she baked a cake.

“So domestic,” Megan said. “I ought to marry you, kitten.”

“We’d shock some poor judge.”

“Uh-huh.”

The best part was neither the walks nor the cooking. Even the lovemaking, deeply exciting, profoundly satisfying, was not the most important aspect of that weekend. They went to each other often that weekend, found new ways of giving and taking pleasure from one another, made the world go away and leave them alone in time and space. But even more important were the lazy silent times, the quiet and peaceful times when all that really mattered was the fact that they were together.

Lying in bed in the afterglow of love, sharing a cigarette, talking not at all. Sitting in the living room with a record on the hi-fi and a bottle of wine open on the table before them. Or sitting with eyes locked together, eyes proposing and eyes accepting in the preliminary overtures to yet another trip to the bedroom and to center of the physical universe.

She had not known it could be so fine. Not merely the sexual part, which was something very special, but the whole idyllic notion of being loved and in love. It had not been like this before, and she doubted that it could ever have been like this with any other person, man or woman. Only with Megan, only with the two of them together.

So happy.

Sunday night Megan said, “There’s a party tonight. But let’s not go to it.”

“What kind of party?”

“Some girls I know.”

“A gay party?”

“Of course. We’re a congenial lot, you know. None of us can stand being alone very well. Parties every weekend, more often than that if you really like to stay in the swim. I could take you and show you off if you like. Let everyone see what a lovely lover I have. You don’t want to go, do you?”

“No. Not tonight.”

But later she said, “These parties, Megan. What do you do at them?”

“Sit around. Drink. Chat cattily, talk about who is going with whom, and who just jilted whom, and other pertinent gossip. Speculate on the sex lives of political figures and Hollywood stars. Clever little bitchy chitchat like that. What did you think?”

“I just wondered.”

“No orgies, if that’s what you meant.”

“Why, I-”

“I’m kidding. Just parties. Some people usually drink too much, and some girl goes on a crying jag, and a couple may break up or two singles may decide to go home together and share a closet.”

So much talk about couples breaking up and new couples forming. She wondered at one point how many lovers Megan had had before her, how many girls like her had shared Megan’s bed and Megan’s love. She told herself it was silly to think about it, sillier still to be jealous. She couldn’t be jealous of a past love, or an affair that was part of a lover’s history. That was before she knew Megan. It was over and done with, it no longer existed.

Yet it hurt to think about those former loves. They paraded through Rhoda’s mind, a long column of girlish silhouettes, each one a symbol of love that had been designed to last forever and that had flamed briefly and died. Megan didn’t talk about them. Once, though, she alluded to the last girl she had lived with, the one for whom she had bought the green red-veined heart. “It won’t last,” she had said, “She’s a flighty thing. It won’t last a month.”

Could love end that quickly? And if those affairs could be so ephemeral, how long could she and Megan stay together?

Forever, she told herself. And she pushed the problem from her mind. This was easily done; she was in no mood for problems.

Monday, on her lunch hour, she stopped at a small jewelry shop, around the corner from Heaven’s Door. She spent a full half hour looking at everything in the shop until she settled on a small gold circle pin an inch across. On the back, she had the jeweler engrave Forever. And, on the lower rim, your rhoda.

She went straight home after work. Megan was waiting for her. She gave Megan the pin, and the blonde girl looked at it and kissed her and laughed and handed her a small, gift-wrapped package. Inside was a silver cigarette lighter, small and chic, with Rhoda Moore engraved on its side in Spenserian script.

Thursday night the phone rang. Megan answered and talked for several minutes. Her face was slightly drawn when she hung up. “I don’t feel like staying home tonight,” she announced. “There’s a good movie at the Waverly. A double feature, two old Humphrey Bogart movies. Let’s go.”

Megan relaxed in the movie. They held hands through the show. It seemed very odd, at first, holding hands with Megan in the theater. There were other people all around them, and at first she felt tremendously self-conscious, as though everyone could see them and what they were to each other. But that was ridiculous. The theater was dark, and no one was watching them the first place. She gave Megan’s hand a squeeze and relaxed and watched the movie.

Afterward she was ready to go home. She was tired, she had work the next morning. Megan wanted to stop for a drink.

“We’ll see some people. You don’t have any friends, kitten.”

“I have you.”

“You should know more people.”

“Why?”

“You should. A little company wouldn’t hurt. Bobby called me this evening, wanted to come over.”

“Who’s he?”

A smile. “She. Roberta Kardaman, Bobby for short. Just a friend-she said she heard I was going with someone and she wanted to drop over and be introduced. I told her we were going out.”

“Oh?”

“She said she’d be at Leonetti’s tonight. That’s the place on Barrow Street, the cellar bar. I think I pointed it out to you.”

“Yes.”

“I told her we would drop by. It’s not far, it’s almost on the way home. Do you mind?”

“No.”

“Bobby was never anything to me, if that’s what you’re hesitant about. Not my type. Believe me, it’s very brave of me to let you meet her.”

“Why?”

“She’ll probably make a play for you.” Megan smiled. “She used to go with a girl named Rae. They broke up, oh, months ago, and Bobby’s been alone since then. And pretty miserable most of the time. I didn’t want her to come over because I thought she might make eyes at you or make some sort of approach.”

She was hurt. “You know I wouldn’t-”

“It’s not that. I thought you might be uncomfortable. But I like Bobby and I don’t want to dodge her. If I see her tonight at Leonetti’s, there’ll be other people around and I don’t think she’ll do anything gauche. She may undress you with her eyes. Do you think you can stand it?”

“I hope so.”

“You love. How did I ever find you?” Then, her tone more serious, “We won’t stay long. It’ll do you good. This is a new world, gay society, and with the lousy marriage you had and the months of hibernation, you have to learn how to handle yourself in a social pattern like this. I don’t mean which fork to use, not that. But there’s a whole ritual, a whole pattern of social relationships and friendships and everything else. It wouldn’t be fair to you if I kept you to myself all the time.”

“I wouldn’t mind that, Megan.”

Leonetti’s was in the middle of a darkened residential block, occupying the cellar of a dingy brownstone. The bar itself was dimly lit, with dark corners and small tables set far apart. The bartender was the only man in the place. He was a tall Italian, bald, with a round face and implausibly innocent eyes. Four or five girls sat at the bar. Half a dozen couples occupied the tables.

Heads turned their way when they entered the room. Rhoda stiffened inside, tremendously self-conscious. The wraps were off now. Here, with Megan at her side, everyone in the bar knew at once that she was gay, that she and Megan were lovers. People might speculate in the Village streets, but here there was no room for doubt. If she and Megan had not been gay, they would not have come here.

She wanted to turn and run. But Megan took her hand and led her easily across the room, passing tables where girls sat drinking. Some of the drinkers continued to look at her. Others lost interest and went back to their drinks or their conversations. She took a breath a leaned slightly against Megan. They found a table far at the rear and sat down opposite one another.

“Bobby’s not here yet,” Megan said. “Well? How you do you like the place?”

“It’s all right.”

“I shouldn’t have brought you. You aren’t ready, are you?”

“I-”

“Promenading down the center aisle while all the butches stare at us. Like a slave auction. What are you drinking?”

“You order.”

The waitress was a slender dark-skinned girl who knew Megan by name. Megan ordered scotch sours for both of them. The waitress nodded and left. Rhoda took a cigarette, gave Megan one, lit them both with the little silver lighter Megan had given her. She blew out a cloud of smoke and let her eyes scan the room. No one was staring at them now. The girls at the other tables seemed more natural. Just other girls, she told herself. Like her. Like Megan. Others who lived in the same special world. They ought to inspire sympathy, not fear.

“I’m all right now,” she told Megan.

The waitress returned with their drinks. Megan paid. They raised glasses and toasted silently. The sour was just right, not too sweet. She drank half of it in a single swallow and set her glass down on the black table top.

Megan said, “The first time I came here I was with a girl named Susan. That was so many years ago. The police closed Leonetti’s since then, and then the bar reopened under a different policy, it wasn’t a gay place at all. And then, about a year ago, we started coming here again. Funny how things come full circle. They had jazz here for awhile, live music and uptown tourists and all. Now it’s a gay club again, just like before.” She worked on her drink “There was a time when I came here seven nights a week. I started to turn into an alcoholic. And a tramp, too. I went home with a different girl every night. God, that was a long time ago.”

“What happened?”

“Susan. We broke up. She moved out on me, and up to that time it had always been the other way around, I had always done the leaving. The first time is hell. I tried to kill myself but I didn’t have the nerve.”

“You poor girl-”

“You live through those things.” Megan turned away. “It’s hell, though. And it always happens, you know. I’m in a lovely mood, aren’t I? Bobby’s phone call did it, I still haven’t shaken the mood. But nothing ever lasts, not in this world. Straight people get married and live unhappily ever after. But they have a chance of staying together. A fair chance. Gay girls never manage. There’s no divorce because there’s no marriage. You just-leave each other.”

“We’ll last.”

“For awhile.”

“Forever, Megan.”

“Oh, sure.” She forced a smile. “What a bitchy mood I’m in. I’m sorry, it’s rotten of me.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“And the hell of it is that tomorrow I’ll deny all of this. I’ll swear that we’ll stay together until hell freezes. And I’ll believe it, too. I know right now it isn’t true, that those things never happen. I know two girls who’ve been together for three years, and that seems like forever in our circle, and you know, I’ll bet they break up before the year is out. They won’t make it. They’ve been hovering on the edge of a break for months now and it’s coming and everybody knows it’s coming, and they’re the ones we always point to when we want to prove that forever is possible, that two girls can grow old together. I wish I could just stop talking now. I’m running off at the mouth and depressing the hell out of both of us. Tell me to shut up, will you?”

“Maybe you’d better. Somebody’s coming this way.”

Two girls came toward their table. One was a very short girl with pale blonde hair and fragile features. Her lips were bloodless and her skin looked as though a touch would bruise it. The woman with her was older, about thirty-five with short dark hair and a heavy frame. Not exactly butchy, Rhoda thought, but more along the lines of the obvious lesbian than any of the others. Megan introduced them as Alice and Grace. They took the two empty chairs.

Grace was the older of the two. “We can only sit for minute,” she said. “Allie’s been sniffling all week. You know her constitution. Every time she turns around she catches another cold. Autumn is a bad time for her, autumn and spring. The changing weather.”

Alice smiled bravely. “I’m all right. I’ll sleep late tomorrow. I was anxious to meet you, Rhoda. You’re very attractive, you know. Megan has good taste.”

She was embarrassed, and covered it by a lighting a cigarette. Grace lit a cigarette of her own. She smoked like a man, Rhoda noticed, holding the cigarette at the base of the V between her second and third fingers near to the palm. Now she said, “I’d be jealous, Rhoda, but Allie doesn’t go for pretty girls. She needs somebody like me.”

“Of course I do.”

“Someone to take care of her.” Grace blew out smoke. “Gawd, what a day. I’ve been running around until I can’t see straight. You two coming to Jan’s place tomorrow? No, today’s what? Thursday? Jan’s thing is on Saturday, not tomorrow. Coming?”

“We haven’t been invited.”

“Oh, you’re invited. You’ll come won’t you?”

“I suppose so,” Megan said.

A few minutes later Grace got to her feet and said that Alice really had to have her rest, especially in this weather. Alice smiled weakly and followed her out of the bar.

“Those two,” Megan said. “Alice always has a cold, or a weak ankle, or dizzy spells. A fragile flower, a dainty little china doll. Grace spoils her silly. Pays all the bills, waits on her hand and foot, never gets to lay a hand on her for a week before or after her period. But that’s the way they both want it. Alice needs someone to take care of her and Grace needs somebody to take care of, so they both get what they want out of it. People usually do, I guess.”

“What?”

“Get what they want.”

“I got what I wanted.”

Megan took her hand. They were halfway through a second round of drinks when Bobby Kardaman came. Rhoda saw her in the doorway, standing at the foot of the stairs and scanning the dark room carefully. Megan waved to the girl, and she cut quickly across the room, not stopping to talk to anyone. A few of the girls called to her. Bobby Kardaman ignored them.

She sighed, sank into a chair, “I’m sorry, I got tied up. Did I keep you long?”

“We’re on our second round,” Megan said. She handled the introductions. Bobby smiled, offered her hand. Rhoda shook it. Bobby’s eyes held hers for a moment, then stopped to study her. Rhoda felt herself coloring. She reached for her drink and sipped it.

Bobby said, “Megan, you’re a lucky girl. A lucky lucky girl.” She sighed again. “I amn’t. Aren’t? I aren’t? No, I am not. That’s the right way. I am not lucky.”

Bobby Kardaman was drunk. Not reeling, not staggering, but tight enough to be slightly glassy-eyed, tight enough to slur the corners of her words. She was a striking girl, Rhoda saw. Chestnut hair, high cheekbones, a full mouth, deep blue eyes, a full-blown body. She patted at her hair with one hand now and looked around for the waitress. “Where is that bitch?” she said. “I need a drink in the worst way. Jesus, what a night. Meg, honey, I’m coming unglued. I really am.”

“Bad?”

“Oh, the worst. Really. You know how you see who you want to? How when you’re gay the whole world looks gay? Oh, Jesus, listen to this. I saw a girl on Macdougal, a corn-fed thing fresh from the farm, you know, and some idiot bell rang and I thought, well, this one has to be gay. Can you imagine? She didn’t look it, she didn’t act it, nothing, but old Kardaman got an idea in her fat head and that was that. If I wanted her to be gay, then she was gay.”

“What happened?”

“Well, I was a little bit stoned.”

“Like now?”

“Not quite, because that was a whole two bars ago. A little less stoned. But I went right up to that Iowa cornball and propped her. Right there on the street. Come with me, I cooed, and I’ll make love to you and we’ll have a ball. Oh, very bad, the worst. The kid cracked, she was scared out of at least three uneventful years of her life. I thought she was going to scream for the law. I left hurriedly. Meg, I have to find somebody. Meg, this is bad.”

“Easy, girl.”

“Oh, sure.” She forced a half-hearted grin. “I must be making a lovely impression on you, Rhoda. Can I call you Rho? Like the Greek letter? Listen, Megan’s friends aren’t all horrid like me. I’m not even this bad all the time. Look, Rho, why don’t you ditch Meg? We’ll get married. I’ll put on a suit and a tie and we’ll run off to Maryland to get married. We’ll make babies, even. Good enough, Rho?”

Bobby blew hot and cold. She would swim in self-pity, then turn bright and begin to joke, telling most of the jokes on herself. The banter she aimed at Rhoda was double-edged, as though she meant it but had no intention of pressing her point. They didn’t stay with her long. When they finished their drinks they stood up and walked out into the night. Bobby stayed behind. “I’ll find something,” she said. “Something for the night, something I’ll hate in the morning. The perfect accompaniment for a hangover. Night, ladies.”

Outside, they walked the length of the block in warm silence. Megan took her arm.

“She likes you,” she said.

“Bobby?”

“Uh-huh. She’d like to take you away from me.”

“No chance of that.”

“I almost got mad at her. But you can’t take her seriously. And she’s having a tough time.”

“I felt sorry for her.”

“Is that all?”

She looked at Megan. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

“Slightly.”

“Don’t be. What does she do?”

“Bobby? Nothing. She’s a remittance man. Or remittance woman. A rich family in a Detroit suburb that doesn’t want a lesbian daughter around to embarrass them. She lived in Cuernavaca for awhile on money from home, then came back to the city. She gets a check every month, just enough to live on. A lot of families are like that. You’re our daughter and we’ll take care of you, but stay away from our door, you dyke. True parental love.”

“You sound bitter.”

“I am.” Megan’s arm around her waist. “I’m going to need you tonight, kitten. Very badly. Be good to me.”