Another Kind of Love (15 page)

Anger and liquor had robbed Laura of all caution. “What do you want, Saundra?” she heard herself ask. She wasn't quite sure why she bothered, unless it was just because of Saundra's nuisance value, or her own curiosity as to the outcome of this situation.

Saundra threw back her head and laughed coldly. “I think you know the answer to that. Let's not play games.”

“Why not? Afraid you won't win this time?” Laura's quiet sarcasm shook Saundra's form-fitting composure ever so slightly.

“You
are
a miserable young snot, aren't you,” she rasped.

“You're not so bad yourself,” Laura parried.

Saundra stared at her with unblinking eyes.

For a moment Laura had the impression that she was a large, jeweled snake.

“I advise you to stay in your own backyard,” the snake hissed softly. “With playmates more suited to your level.” Her glance flicked over to Madeline, and the insult was unmistakable.

No one moved.

Saundra laughed maliciously and placed her hand on Ginny's shoulder possessively.

“Mrs. Van Norden is rather well known for her charity among lonely young women,” Saundra baited venomously.

“You bitch!” Laura half rose from her chair. She found herself almost hypnotized by Saundra's dazzling viciousness—she could almost see the mechanism of that calculating brain making something sordid out of her relationship with Madeline.

“What would you know about charity, Saundra—or love, either, for that matter?”

“How clever you are.” Saundra's reply was like the lash of a whip.

Laura ignored it. “What I might have felt for Ginny has nothing to do with my moving in with Madeline,” Laura whispered hoarsely. “What happened between Ginny and me . . .” and suddenly Laura couldn't say anything more.

She could hear Saundra laughing, but she seemed miles away. It seemed to Laura that her brain had been turned inside out. She felt herself sit down, and she looked at Ginny, stared at her, tried to see through her.

But Ginny simply sat there and looked back at her. “You've been living with her ever since you arrived here?” Her tone was edged with reproof.

“There has been nothing between us,” Laura said wearily, and felt as if she were lying. “Anyway, it's none of your business.”

All at once Laura was struck by the peculiar paradox of her situation. In a way, there had been a great deal between her and Madeline. But nothing physical. It was only that she had needed Madeline, had needed her friendship, her understanding. Nothing more. What more could there have been? Nothing! Goddamn it, nothing!

Ginny stood up slowly. Laura watched her, unmoved. She was so filled with her own emotions that nothing else seemed to matter—she simply had to straighten herself out, had to put things back into some kind of order, some semblance of reality.

Reality. Madeline would give her that; she always had. Madeline could keep her in this world without making it impossible to endure. . .

“And to think that I chased you the way I did,” Ginny pouted the way she would over a faulty purchase. “That I offered myself to you again because I thought you would be different, would have learned about yourself—I even kidded myself into thinking you would be everything I'd ever want or need.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “You even sat there and let me . . . let me suggest we try again.”

“That'll be enough, Ginny!” Laura snapped angrily. She wished to hell that Ginny would shut up and stop making an ass of herself. But that wasn't it, either. It was more that she herself felt like an even bigger ass for once having loved this shell of a human being. She wanted to get away from the sight of Ginny . . . and Saundra. Away from the sickness of it all.

It didn't seem to matter to Ginny that Saundra was there and heard all she said. Ginny sobbed, “All right, then. You keep your affair! I'll keep mine and we'll be square. But can't we see each other once in a while? Can't . . .”

“Oh, Christ!” Laura cursed aloud. “All of a sudden I'm the most wonderful thing that ever happened to you. How come? We'll double-date, Ginny. All right? On all the legal holidays—just the four of us.”

“But, Laura . . .”

“But what?” Laura asked without expecting an answer. She stood up and hastily put on her coat, motioning to Madeline to do the same. It didn't occur to her to inquire if Madeline wanted to leave or not—she was leaving and that automatically meant that Madeline would leave, too.

She roughly pushed Madeline in front of her, and they exited, leaving Saundra and Ginny to complete their little drama alone.

Laura experienced an inexplicable sense of relief, as if a great, pressing weight had somehow been lifted from her. She no longer had to feel guilty for having run away, or think that she'd genuinely hurt Ginny. And she was no longer burdened with her love for Ginny.

There was a kind of justice in what had transpired. Laura had the fatalistic sensation that life had evened itself out. She was certain now that Saundra and Ginny deserved each other in some neurotic way. Saundra talked of love as if it were chattel to be bargained for—bought and sold and bought again. And Ginny made it sound like a necessary evil—a sexual and economic convenience that would last until the next conquest, a new sponsor for her aspirations and random passions.

She glanced over at Madeline, walking beside her. The look of concern and unhappiness on her face surprised Laura. It's been a rough night for her too, she thought, suddenly stricken with the cruelty of her own self-absorption. But she found Madeline's pained look oddly pleasing.

Let her suffer a little, Laura thought with a trace of sadism.

She wasn't sure why she wanted Madeline to suffer at all, unless it was because Laura believed that she had known all along that Laura's “torch” had been in vain, that what Laura had been going through was not really the agonies of denied love.

They walked silently and slowly. It was almost as if they would lose something if they walked too quickly or arrived too soon at the apartment. Something that was hanging, waiting to be said or understood. . . Something Laura was convinced she knew but couldn't think clearly enough to force into the open.

Arriving at the apartment, they entered wordlessly.

At last, Madeline broke the long silence.

“I'm sorry, Laura. Really sorry.” Her voice was low and tender.

“Why?” Laura asked abruptly.

“If . . . if Ginny hadn't thought that there had been something between us, you might have . . . won her.” Madeline said it as if there were no other way to describe Ginny.

Laura shook her head. “You might still,” Madeline continued to soothe. “You could call her later, after . . . things cool off a little. . . .”

“But I don't want to,” Laura interrupted vehemently. “Not now, not later . . . not ever!”

Madeline sat down and stared at Laura. “What do you mean? After all these weeks of . . . of denying yourself your big chance at happiness, and you don't want it any more?”

Laura turned and looked at Madeline, appraised her as if really seeing her for the first time.

“That's right.”

“But . . .” Madeline protested.

Laura grinned. “All I want to know is how long you've known.”

“Known? Known what?”

Laura didn't answer at once—she was glimpsing now what it was she had felt on the way home and had been unable to mask. “How long have you known that my torch had gone out?”

“Oh . . . that!” Madeline said. It seemed to Laura that she sounded both disappointed and relieved. “Does it matter, Laura?”

“Not really,” Laura answered honestly. “Did you arrange for us all to meet tonight?”

“Of course not,” Madeline replied indignantly. Then she laughed. “But the idea did occur to me.”

Laura walked over to where Madeline sat, and perched on the arm of her chair. She could feel Madeline tense up. But she offered no comfort; she was enjoying her moment of revenge, of having Madeline in the position that Laura herself had occupied so many times herself.

“There is something else I'd like to know,” she said with a half-amused tone, despite the fact that she was actually very serious and felt strangely elated.

Madeline didn't move, didn't even raise her head to look at Laura. “What's that?” she asked in a whisper.

“How long you've known that I would fall in love with you.”

Laura's voice was low, and she could feel her temples throbbing. She leaned close toward Madeline, feeling her warmth and drawing a secure kind of comfort from it—a feeling of complete naturalness.

Calm, poised Madeline looked up with moist eyes. “I didn't know . . .” she said tightly. “I only hoped. Oh, God! How I hoped.”

“And now—what happens now?”

“What do you want to happen now, Laura?”

She looked hard into Madeline's dark, questioning eyes. The love she saw there was so undemanding, so real and simple, that Laura felt herself filled, tranquilized with trust and security.

She took Madeline's face into her hands and kissed her forehead gently, then her eyes and the tip of her nose. “I'm going to let myself go and love you—and never lose you.”

Laura touched her cheek to Madeline's, then reached for the slim, vibrant body. She could feel their bodies merge, their hearts pounding against each other. Their flesh leaped with the excitement that charged through them, intermingling.

Laura clung to her—motionless, savoring the painful sweetness.

“Are you going to kiss me, or are you going to torture me to death?” Madeline asked huskily.

“Both,” whispered Laura.

She pulled Madeline's warm searching mouth to hers. The shock of pleasure was almost unbearable. All consciousness was blotted out in that first drowning moment.

The last thing Laura remembered before she went under was thinking how wonderful it was not to feel guilty anymore—or unwanted. . . or strange.

She was where she wanted to be at last.

She was home.

T
he late-afternoon sun sent shadows over the water, sprinkling it with glistening lights as the current passed under the East River Bridge to her left, sharp and clear.

Dee Sanders gazed absently through the grease-smudged window of the New Haven train as it crossed the trestle paralleling the Third Avenue Bridge.

It's just one of those days made for camera fiends, she thought, and silently cursed having left her Leica at the office. At least, she wouldn't have to go back anymore today. It was already past five, and she couldn't bear the thought of entering the massive Photo World building again. The July heat really didn't bother her nearly so much as the constant temperature changes from air-conditioned buildings to the steaming, soft tar streets and oppressive wind-blocking structures. She would just get used to one climate when she would have to enter another and feel like a human thermometer with berserk mercury.

Automatically she calculated that 150 at f:4 ought to do the trick, then gave a fatalistic shrug as the train took her into the rich, dark shadows of the approach to the 125th Street platform, throwing her mental reading completely out of kilter.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the window and was, as usual, surprised to realize it was she. So often she would suddenly see an attractive woman walking or sitting opposite her, with the uneasy feeling that she knew this person from someplace. It was a split-second reaction—and just as quickly she would realize it was her own image in a mirror. These were about the only times Dee ever blushed, when she had done or thought something utterly foolish or inane. After all, she had lived with herself for a long time and was generally aware of the fact that she was a carefully chic woman, her short brown hair brushed back from her face showing to advantage the strong line of her chin and the dramatic effect of her slim, arched nose.

With a start she glanced around to be sure no one had noticed her looking at herself; then she concentrated on watching the little milling knots on the platform thread out into lines of people getting off and on the train. Like automatons, she thought. Mindless like the armies of ants who moved about busily, pushed by instinct or nature, or whatever you wanted to call that mysterious force from which all life was drawn. Driven, she decided, recalling the line of a poem written by one of her college classmates years before: “. . . to their own extinction unaware.”

Like me, like all of us, she mused bitterly.

Somehow trains always reminded her of the transiency and anonymity of life. They depressed her and she hated them. The chill of gloomy observation began to settle down over her mind like a mist. She tried to dispel it by focusing her attention elsewhere and found herself staring into the amused eyes of a young man standing just below her window. He winked at her, grinning broadly, and even though the bold invitation in his expression was unmistakable, she felt a sudden glow of pleasure.

My hard-lived twenty-seven years can't show too much if the boys are still winking, she thought. But she turned her head away with deliberate hauteur, feeling slightly guilty at having enjoyed the attention. It was exactly the sort of sly, flirtatious behavior that was so typical of Rita. The kind of thing that aroused her senseless jealousy and laid the groundwork for so many savage and futile quarrels.

Ah, Rita, she thought. That beautiful, impossible bitch.

There was a long squeak followed by a series of clanks and metallic groans, and the train began to move slowly forward.

She settled back in her seat and closed her eyes. Clear sailing now until Grand Central—unless the gods of New Haven decreed otherwise and there would be one of those frustrating halts in the tunnel. Well, she'd just not think about it. No use inviting trouble.

But as the train began to gather speed and move swiftly onward, her spirits lifted. A few minutes more, a quick walk up the ramp at Grand Central, then a cab, and finally . . . home.

It sounded good. She hoped she would get there before Rita. A few moments of peace and quiet was what she needed. For some inexplicable reason the thought of Rita made her feel uneasy again. Dee had to admit that her feelings about Rita had been growing increasingly confused. And this particular day was always trying. This was Rita's day to do the rounds of the agencies for work. She devoted one day a week to the ritual and spent the rest of the time recuperating and getting ready for the next assault.

It began to annoy Dee that Rita was so casual about accepting Dee's financial support. As though it were her due. Almost a kind of payment for the pleasure her beauty allowed Dee to experience.

Now, that's unfair, Dee scolded herself sharply. Rita loves me, and I love her. And their arrangement was perfectly natural under the circumstances. Or was it?

Dee's mood of confusion deepened. Part of her was so eager for Rita's embrace—eager to respond, to feel close and comfortable. But the other part. The other part longed desperately for time to be alone. How wonderful it would be if just one night she could be alone so that she could give herself up to her own thoughts, not have to keep Rita amused or be dragged against her will to one of those damned, noisy Village bars.

I should rent a place in the Village and save on cab fare, Dee contemplated without meaning it. Now, just stop it, she commanded, you're not starving anymore. You can afford it. It doesn't look right for one of New York's best-paid staff photographers to be so damn cheap. My, my. Look at the big conformist, she laughed mirthlessly to herself.

After a long, drawn-out halt, Dee mechanically left the train and walked with the crowd down the cement walkway, careful not to let anyone push her too close to the side, where she might fall. She wondered briefly if the train felt as relieved as she did.

Once outside, the early evening was too lovely to waste in a cab, and she began walking across Forty-third Street to Madison Avenue and uptown. The Empire State Building, proud and glittering, loomed over the city like a huge bird hatching her eggs.

Dee looked at it enviously, thinking that at least that huge hunk of steel, stone, glass and wires was closer to being a mother than she was . . . or probably ever would be.

This futile pondering left her so weary that at Fiftieth Street she gave up and took a cab to her apartment, even though it was only another six blocks up and one and a half blocks east.

She tipped the driver and climbed the five steps to the double red doors. The brass knob, polished as usual, and the gleaming windows—which had recently had their protective iron grill work painted a neat black—restored some of her usual optimistic disposition.

Her apartment was the only one on the floor, and the only one in the building with a yowling Siamese cat every time she came near it. “Hello, Cho-Cho,” she whispered, and pushed her gently out of the doorway with her foot. “Anybody home?”

Cho-Cho-San glanced with imperial disdain, clearly indicating that as long as she was there, who else would Dee want. She raced in front of Dee into the bedroom on the first landing and leaped onto the king-size double bed to watch the routine of coming home from work. It didn't take Dee long to change into her slacks and blouse, and she quickly washed off the makeup from her face so as to let the air get into her pores.

She picked up her briefcase and carried it downstairs to the large living room, glancing briefly at Rita's potted plants on the windowsill overlooking their private garden-patio beyond. It
was
good to be home. Quiet. She stared a moment at the charred and dead fireplace and wondered if Rita had called the superintendent about getting a chimney sweep as she had asked. It would be fall soon, and Dee hated to wait until the last minute to do things. She wanted everything possible ready and waiting, or discarded.

Cho-Cho had situated herself—not lying nor sitting, but situated—in front of the low, dark oak cabinet that served as a room divider to the dining-kitchen area and also as a bar. Dee laughed aloud and crossed over to the cat, who was busily scratching her ear with her bare foot. “All right, Cho-Cho. A little one for you, too.”

Dee poured a jigger of Scotch into a small dish for the cat and a healthy drink for herself.

“Hello, down there, anybody home?” Rita's familiar voice called down the staircase.

“Hi, darling. Just got in myself. Come down and keep me from feeling like a dipso, will you?” She anxiously waited for Rita to walk down the stairs and for that moment when her breath would catch, simply because Rita was so beautiful.

Rita had a way of walking down a staircase that made you think she was on an escalator. She didn't walk—she moved, her supple young body carrying her head like a priceless treasure.

Rita threw her bag and gloves on the chair by the bar and smiled sweetly to Dee. “I'd love a drink, thanks.”

“It'll cost you a kiss,” Dee said, playfully putting her arms around Rita, gently.

“Not now, darling.” Rita pulled away. “I'm all sticky.”

“I don't care. . . .”

“Now, darling, please,” Rita said more firmly. “If you'd put on some lipstick you wouldn't feel so butch,” she added with a falsely light voice.

“Sorry,” Dee said, quickly bringing her hand to her mouth. The belittlement had killed any desire on her part. She brought Rita the already prepared drink and sat down on the long couch opposite the fireplace. “How was your day?”

Rita sighed dramatically. “The usual. Don't call us. We'll call you.” She threw off her shoes and rubbed her feet. “Jesus! But it was hot today. Of course, you wouldn't know, being in an air-conditioned office, sitting on your behind. You really should get some exercise, darling. You'll get fat.”

Dee ignored the bait. “Oh, I was out today. Had to go up to White Plains on business. It's like another world up there.”

“Well, at least you get out once in a while . . . more than I get. I hate New York in the summer. Why couldn't we go away for a month or so?”

“I work. Remember?”

“Is that a dig at me?” Rita's eyes narrowed and her voice became tight.

“No. It's not. Come on, let's not let the heat get us into an argument. We've both had a bad day and now we're home. Shall we forget about it?” Dee took a long swallow of her drink and hoped her tone had not been too conciliatory. Her eye landed on the fireplace again, but she caught herself just in time before asking Rita about the chimney sweep. It didn't seem a very prudent time in the event she hadn't called.

“What are you doing tonight?” Dee asked without thinking. “I mean, will you be home or do you have a business engagement?” In spite of herself, there was a note of sarcasm in her tone.

“I have a ‘business engagement,' as you so tactfully put it. My hours aren't nine to five, you know. Job hunting doesn't give me that leisure.”

“Honey,” Dee said carefully, “it's not my fault you're not working. Please don't take it out on me.”

“Well . . . you make everything sound so . . . so immoral.”

If the shoe fits, wear it, honey, Dee thought, but said aloud, “I just miss you, that's all.”

“Ha! When I am home you coop yourself up in that silly black room . . .”

“Darkroom,” Dee amended.

“. . . and I sit out here all by myself. Or how about all the time you spend working late?” Rita snorted. “At the office, dear,” she mimicked. “I'd like to see what kind of work you do at the office.”

“You're bound and determined to have an argument aren't you? If I said it was a sunny day, you'd argue that it looked like rain. All right, Rita. Let's fight.”

“Quit the condescension,” rasped Rita. “Maybe I didn't go to college, but I'm just as clever as you are.”

Dee watched her, fascinated. Anger made Rita's eyes shine and her being so terribly vital that Dee was helpless against such loveliness, and the fury drained out of her. She looked at Rita with sudden tenderness and resignation.

“Cleverer,” Dee said with a light smile. “I'm intelligent . . . but you're clever.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means I love you—no matter how much you want to fight.”

Rita tensed for a moment and then relaxed. She came over to Dee and sat in her lap. “I'm sorry,” she murmured. “I've been acting like a real bitch. Forgive me?”

“Don't I always?”

Rita giggled. “Meaning I'm always a bitch?”

“That's why I love you.”

“You're terrible . . . but kiss me anyway.”