Warm and Willing

CHAPTER EIGHT

Monday, Megan picked her up after work and hurried her off to dinner. “I’ve only got an hour,” she said. “I have an appointment with a Third Avenue dealer at six-thirty and then I have to look at some draperies on East Sixty-Eighth Street. A swank little shop run by two very chic guys. Gay guys, of course.”

“Sometimes I think everybody is gay.”

“Everybody is, kitten.”

They had chicken and rice at the Picador on West Tenth. Their waiter was an olive-skinned Mexican who hovered over them constantly and flirted with them passionately. They ate in a hurry. Megan kept up a running stream of chatter about her work-the pieces she had seen, her plans for the apartment, what fee she could expect, on and on and on. Rhoda tried to stay interested but it was impossible. She didn’t have the background for it, couldn’t visualize what Megan described, couldn’t appreciate any of the detail. It was Megan’s work and she was glad Megan was able to throw herself into it so feverishly, but her own interest was limited.

Then they were outside. “I’d better jump in a cab,” Megan was saying. “Can I drop you off?”

“I’ll walk.”

“It wouldn’t be out of the way-”

But it was a nice night and she walked. She drifted over to Washington Square first but the park was too crowded with tight knots of people forming and re-forming. She could feel an undercurrent of tension in the air. There had been trouble in the park lately, friction between the Village element and the local Italians, friction between neighborhood whites and Harlem Negroes off the A-train. She cut across the park, stopped to watch two men play chess, drank from the drinking fountain, then drifted across town to the apartment on Cornelia.

The apartment was lonely. She waited for Megan to come home, and Megan didn’t get back until a quarter to eleven. She had been running around all night, she told Rhoda, and she was so exhausted that all she wanted to do was get some sleep.

Tuesday was more of the same. That night she didn’t even see Megan at dinner. She didn’t want to cook just for herself, so she had a hamburger around the corner from the apartment and spent the evening trying to get interested in a scholarly hardbound work on female homosexuality. Megan had a fairly extensive library on the subject. The book kept boring her and she didn’t get very far with it. At nine-thirty Megan called and said not to wait up for her, that she would be late. They did not talk long. Afterward, she took a shower and crawled into bed and felt lost in the big bed, lost and alone. At one point she thought that she was going to cry. She felt tears welling up behind her eyes and waited for them to come spilling out, but they didn’t. She lay in bed and finally fell asleep.

She dreamed for the first time in weeks. Not the usual dream, the dream of being chased. This was a gentler dream and one which did not wake her, although she remembered it quite clearly in the morning.

In the dream, she was standing upon the peak of a small hill with rolling lawn stretching out in all directions as far as she could see. The sun was high in the sky, the grass flawlessly green. She was dressed in a formal gown and had a rose in her hair. And then, slowly but surely her clothes began to melt away, stitch by stitch and layer by layer. The gown went, and then her slip and her shoes, and her bra and panties and stocking until she stood nude on the top of the hill. And then flesh began to melt away in the same fashion, slowly dreamily, and then her bones, until she had gradually vanished and only the rose from her hair remained, floating a few feet in space above the crest of the hill.

It was not a frightening dream. The melting process had nothing fearsome in it. It was quite gentle. But when she thought about the dream the next day it bothered her. She wondered what it meant and decided it might best not to think about it. She never mentioned it to Megan.

“You’re a hard girl to get hold of,” someone said. She spun around and looked up at the man who had spoken. It was Ed Vance.

“I tried calling you,” he said. “Your number’s not listed. Then I tried to reach you at work but I didn’t remember the name of the shop, just where it was.” He grinned. “So I decided to take a long lunch hour and make another pilgrimage to the Village. Come have lunch with me and my labors will be rewarded.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not? When’s your lunch hour?”

“In a few minutes. But-”

“Then what’s the problem?”

The problem was that she did not want to see him. He was pushy and she felt threatened when he was with him. As far as he was concerned, she was a manless woman who would be a relatively easy mark. And Tom had probably said something about her, something to the effect that she was frigid, a piece of ice. A man like him would take that as a challenge, anxious to prove himself as a man by melting the ice with her.

“I’m meeting someone for lunch.”

“Someone?”

“Yes.”

“Anyone I know?”

“I don’t think so.”

He looked at her. She turned away, avoiding his eyes. The store was empty now. If a customer had come in she would have had an excuse to slip away from Ed and make herself look busy, but customers only came when she didn’t want them around.

“So you’re meeting someone,” he said.

“That’s right.”

“Well that’s what happens when a guy doesn’t call. I figured you might be free for lunch. And here it’s the other way around. You’re tied up for lunch, and if I had a dinner open and asked for that you probably would have been able to go, but I went and asked you for lunch. That’s the way it goes.”

She didn’t say anything.

“You don’t have a dinner date, though. Do you?”

“Well no, but-”

“Good.” A quick, predatory flash of smile. “I’ll pick you up here at five-thirty. Don’t forget, Rhoda.”

He was gone before she could think of anything to say.

There was one way to get him out of her hair for good, she thought. All she had to do was tell him the truth. He might have visions of himself bringing a heretofore frigid girl to Nirvana, but once she told him she was a lesbian he would stay away from her.

But how? Just blurt it out? She couldn’t quite see herself doing that. It wasn’t that she was ashamed of what she was but the idea of putting it into words for him didn’t set right. There had to be a way. But she couldn’t see it, not yet.

She could she have dinner with him. At four-thirty she told Mr. Yamatari that she had a splitting headache and couldn’t see straight, an excuse which was not entirely false. He told her to take the rest of the day off. She hurried straight home.

Let him come looking for her at five-thirty. Let him find out he had been stood up. Let him take the hint for once and leave her alone.

Her head was splitting when she got back to the apartment. She took three aspirins and stretched out on the couch.

That night she went to a gay bar alone for the first time. She waited until nine for Megan to come home, then gave up sitting around the apartment and walked over to Leonetti’s. She joined four girls at a table and drank three scotch sours with them. They were all girls she had met at Jan Pomeroy’s party the Saturday before, and they were in couples, so that none of them had more than a friendly interest in Rhoda. She relaxed with them and talked with them, and it was better than sitting home alone waiting endless hours for Megan.

No one at Leonetti’s made a pass at her. A few of the girl’s at the bar gave her long-drink looks that let her know they were interested, but when she didn’t gaze back they let it go. There was no heavy cruising. A little after ten she went back to the apartment. Megan was there.

“You had me worried,” Megan said. “I’ve been waiting for you for close to an hour. Where were you?”

“Leonetti’s.”

“With who?”

“Why? Are you jealous?”

“Yes.”

“I was alone,” she said. “I missed you. I couldn’t stand it, all alone. I sat with some of the girls. That’s all.”

“Oh, baby-”

They made good love for the first time in too long. This time Megan was not too tired, and this time Rhoda felt a need that was a living force within her. A new sort of lovemaking, with a degree of desperation in it that she had not noticed before. Afterward, she was more depleted than satisfied. She slipped out of bed and went into the other room.

She drank a cup of coffee and smoked a cigarette. She sat naked in an armchair, the coffee cup on the table beside her, the cigarette smoldering in an ashtray balanced precariously on the arm of the chair. She smoked, drank coffee. She wondered what was wrong.

By the time she dragged herself to bed, she was tired enough so that sleep came quickly. She kissed Megan’s face before settling on her pillow. Megan did not stir. She closed her own eyes and let the world fade away.

Thursday was bad. She overslept and wound up rushing to work without breakfast, without even a cup of coffee, and she was still half an hour late. Mr. Yamatari didn’t mention it, just asked if her headache was better. He told her that a man had come looking for her-Ed Vance of course-and had been disappointed that she was not there. She had almost forgotten about the broken dinner date, and only hoped Ed wouldn’t come around again.

The morning was hectic, the afternoon slow and uncomfortably warm in the shop. By four she had a genuine headache, a splitting headache, but she couldn’t use that excuse again even if it was true this time. As soon as she got home she took three aspirins and lay down to rest.

That night she would have enjoyed being alone. And that night was the night when Megan discovered that she didn’t have to work late. Megan breezed in a few minutes after six, loud and happy, and Rhoda had to match the blonde girl’s mood. It was a strain.

“Let’s live a little tonight,” Megan said. “Maybe even catch a show. What’s the matter with you, kitten?”

“Headache.”

“Well, take some aspirin.”

“I did.”

“Poor kitten. Want me to stroke your head?” Megan didn’t wait for an answer. She sat on the edge of the couch and rubbed Rhoda’s forehead. Megan’s touch was light and her fingers were cool, but Rhoda did not feel like being touched, not at all. But she didn’t want to say so.

“I’ve been working like a dog this week. There’s so much to do and everybody’s in such a hurry. It’s crazy, working in spurts like this. I’ve missed you.”

She didn’t say anything.

“I’d like to cut loose a little tonight. Dinner for a start, and then maybe we can both get a little bit stoned. Unless your head-”

“I’m all right.”

“Are you sure? We can stay in if you’d rather. If you’ve got a headache and if the aspirin isn’t doing anything for you-”

Megan’s concern for her rankled as much as Megan’s hand on her forehead. She forced herself to sit up. “I’m all right,” she said.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No, of course not. It’s just-”

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said. She fumbled for a cigarette, let Megan light it for her. She drew on it and blew out a cloud of smoke. “Where do you want to go?”

“For dinner? I thought something substantial. Let’s get a couple of steaks at O’Henry’s.”

“It’s expensive, isn’t it?”

“My treat.”

They got an outside table at O’Henry’s, one of a half dozen scattered just outside the entrance to give the place a sidewalk cafe feeling. They had two rounds of cocktails, then a pair of rare sirloins with baked potatoes. The food was good and the service was fast.

But something missed. The drinks didn’t get rid of her headache but only made it worse. The food was delicious but she couldn’t enjoy it, could only think that she was not going to digest it, that the steak and potato would sit like lead on her stomach. And she couldn’t avoid feeling guilty over her failure to relax and enjoy what was a very good meal. This was a big production on Megan’s part, an expensive dinner that constituted some sort of combined peace offering and celebration, and everything would have been better if she could have let herself go.

But she couldn’t, not the way she was, not tied in knots like this. And the conversation that should have sparkled was flat and lifeless. They were having trouble talking to each other, and that had never happened to them before.

Once, she started talking about Ed Vance. “I think he’ll leave me alone now,” she said. “I really hope so. He’s beginning to get on my nerves.

“Then why not get rid of him once and for all?”

“That’s hard, with a man like him. But I don’t think he’ll be back.”

“You should have been firmer with him, kitten. I don’t like the idea of a man trying to push into your life.”

Legitimate concern, she told herself. But why couldn’t she help feeling that Megan was trying to run her life, that Megan was making something out of nothing? Why did everything Megan said get under her skin?

Another time Megan mentioned her job. “I’m really throwing myself into this,” she said. “Knocking myself out.”

“You must enjoy it.”

“I suppose I do. But it’s hard being away from you so much.”

“Oh, is it?”

“Honey, did I do something wrong? What’s the matter?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Nothing’s the matter.”

But something was and she knew it. Something was very wrong between them, so wrong that they couldn’t talk like normal human beings without one of them getting on the other’s nerves. She felt wrong about it but that did not seem to change things.

After dinner they sat on a bench in Sheridan Square. The air was heavy, thick with the exhaust of trucks and cabs, rolling south on Seventh Avenue. They smoked cigarettes, and Rhoda thought that not long ago she had not smoked in public, on the street. There were a lot of things she did now that she had not done in the past.

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“A show? Something like that?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Want to drop in on some of the girls?”

“Maybe.”

“I think we ought to,” Megan said. “A little company might do us both some good. We’re just getting on each other’s nerves, kitten, and that’s no good for either of us.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Rhoda? Should I call some of the girls?”

“All right.”

“Anyone special you want me to try?”

“You could call Bobbie. ”

“Why?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why, no reason, Megan. I just thought that she was a friend of ours.”

“You’ve got a thing for her, don’t you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh, damn it, you do. Do you have to be so awful to me, Rhoda? Do you have to-”

They sat in silence, and she thought that it was all falling apart at the seams now, that Megan was jealous, that she was irritable, that the two of them were not going to last forever or anywhere close to it. She took a last drag on her cigarette and dropped it to the pavement, covered it with her foot and ground it out.

Megan said, “I’ll call her.”

“Not if you don’t want to.”

“I’ll call her. Wait for me.”

Megan made the call from an outdoor booth across the street. Rhoda sat waiting for her. She tool another cigarette and lit it with the small lighter Megan had given her; the one with her name on it in precise script. She held the lighter in the palm of her hand and thought about their exchange of gifts. An exchange of presents, she knew now, was a ritual in the formation of a lesbian relationship. All the gay girls did it, giving each other tiny engraved gifts along with vows of foreverness. Once she had seen Megan’s collection of the jewelry she had been given over the years. A pin with two circles interlocked, a bracelet inscribed Never Leave Me-H.R., a half dozen rings, each engraved on the inside-Megan and Sue, Megan and Rita, Megan and Charlotte… all those trophies of loves that would never die, but that had died after all.

When Megan came back toward her she dropped the lighter in her purse. Megan told her that Bobbie wasn’t at her apartment, but that she had called Grace and Alice. “You remember them, Rhoda. They were at Leonetti’s the first time I took you there.”

“They were at Jan’s party, too.”

“Yes, I guess they were. They want us to drop over. Grace wanted to know if we were dressed. She sits around in slacks and a tailored blouse when she’s at home, but I told her we were wearing dresses so she’ll change into something more feminine.”

“She doesn’t have to.”

“She’ll feel uncomfortable otherwise. You don’t mind do you? Grace and Alice are an old pair, but they’re pretty good company.”

“I don’t mind,” she said.

It wasn’t a bad evening. Grace had a quart of J amp; B scotch and nothing to mix it with, and the four of them sat around drinking the liquor straight over ice cubes. They talked about Allie’s cold, which seemed to be chronic, and about the place where Grace was working, and Megan’s decorating job. They talked, too, about people. “A heavy date this weekend,” Grace said. “Allie and I are doing the town. Dinner at L’Aiglon, tickets to Pearly Wine, and then a nightcap or three at the Living Room. Have you ever been there, Rhoda? Everybody sits on these little couches for two, and the lights are low, and they have some sexy cabaret singer, and everyone does a little genteel necking.”

“You must be crazy,” Megan said.

“Why?”

“Because that’s not a gay place. You’ll look great there, Grace. No matter how low the lights are-”

“Oh Megan,” Allie said. She laughed. “We’re going with a couple of gay boys. Billie Rudin and Ray Crane. You know them, don’t you?”

The three of them had to explain it to Rhoda. When you wanted a real evening on the town, and when you didn’t want people staring at you and knowing you were gay, then you doubled with a couple of gay men. That way you came on just like straight people and no one knew the difference.

“Of course it doesn’t work if you’re butchy, or if the boys you go with are screaming queens,” Grace explained. “But if everybody dresses straight, no one guesses a thing. It’s handy, too. Two girls alone can’t go to dinner easily enough, or even to a show. But you go to a nightclub or to any of the better straight bars without getting either a pass tossed at you or a load of funny looks.”

And she realized how very much there was to learn. The demimonde had special survival mechanisms, special ways to get along in an unsympathetic world. How much she was learning, she thought. And how little she had known before.

Just half an hour before they left Grace and Alice’s apartment, Bobbie Kardaman dropped by for a drink. She couldn’t stay long, she said. She was in a hurry, but she had passed by the building and wanted to stop to say hello.

One glance set the pace. Bobbie came into the room and saw her, and looked long and hard at her, and their eyes locked and something happened to Rhoda. She couldn’t deny it, couldn’t avoid recognizing what it was. She broke the glance as quickly as she could but that didn’t change anything.

Oh, God “I’ve been settling down,” Bobbie said. “I spend of most of my time just sitting around my apartment, usually with a glass in my hand. But not always. I met a girl this weekend after the party and I thought everything was going to start swinging again, but after a night I knew this was strictly a short-time affair, and she left this morning and I couldn’t be happier. She was fine in bed-I’m being vulgar, aren’t I, Meg?”

“A little.”

“I’m the vulgar sort. Dirty old Bobbie. She was fine in the hay, kids, but that doesn’t have much to do with things. It truly doesn’t. She was so very boring, one of the pretentiously intellectual types, the kind that likes to discuss Sartre between sets. She tried to come on strong like the dyke in No Exit. We parted company, thank heaven.” She sighed. “So if anybody ever wants to come looking for little Bobbie, you know where she can be found. Home, and alone.”

And then a brief but significant glance at Rhoda She was very nice to Megan on the way home. They had kept rubbing one another the wrong way earlier in the evening, but now everything seemed to have smoothed out. They walked arm in arm, and they talked easily, and there was only one thing wrong.

Rhoda knew that she was acting.

Acting, playing a part, fitting herself into a role. Because she was being very nice to Megan now, and she would continue to be very nice to Megan, and she felt very close to Megan, closer now, oddly enough, than she had felt when love was stronger between them.

They hurried upstairs to Megan’s apartment, a little lightheaded from the scotch, and they had coffee together in the kitchen. She did not say anything to Megan about Bobbie having been home that night after all, did not let on that she knew Megan had lied about calling her. And Megan did not mention Bobbie, either.

But afterward, in bed, waiting for sleep to come, she let herself think all the thoughts that might better have been left unthought. And she knew just what was going to happen, knew it with a quiet certainty.

In the morning, she would go to work. And at five-thirty, after work, she would go somewhere for a quick dinner which she would eat without tasting. Then, after a quick drink or two at Leonetti’s for courage, she would go where she could not help going.

To Bobbie’s apartment.