Another Kind of Love (27 page)

T
he small Renault bounced and swerved at a moderate speed through the traffic down the Boulevard Raspail heading toward Orly Field. Raoul had attached the luggage rack to the top of the car and strapped Dee's valises to it carefully.

Dee sat up in front with him, perched in a sideways position so she could also talk with Pepe. However, they had driven mostly in silence thus far. Dee wished now she were the clever type, with a running line of jokes and puns, something witty forever at the tip of her tongue. She hated to say good-bye—she always felt so damn inadequate.

The headlights of the oncoming traffic illuminated each of their faces just enough for her to make out their expressions, yet not enough to be able to interpret them.

Raoul broke the silence, cursing a car in front of them, which had made a sudden decision to pull into his lane.

“I wish one of you would say something,” he said a moment later. “This silence is making me nervous.”

Dee smiled. “I feel the same way, Raoul, but what can I say? That you've been wonderful, that I'll never forget how perfect you both made my visit? It sounds so synthetic.”

“Oh, no!” Pepe interrupted. “Those are things for polite strangers. We were friends the moment we saw you, and it grew deeper each day like a love affair of the minds. Had you not been at home, do you think we would not have sensed it? Please. Let us not waste time with this kind of nonsense. Let us speak plainly like friends.”

“This is true, darling,” Raoul agreed. “We are going to miss you very much, Dee. It is not as if you were simply going to be gone on a vacation—we may never see you again.”

Dee felt the warm sting of tears coming into her eyes and blinked to hold them back. The same thought had been going through her mind, too. She glanced at Pepe in the backseat and wondered what, if anything, she thought about the time Dee had spent away from them. Pepe had not actually asked
why
Dee was suddenly so anxious to get back to New York . . . but the question was obviously bursting to come out.

Yet she didn't want to say anything—it was better to let them use their own imaginations than to try to make up a story. Let them think she'd been jilted, or was afraid of falling in love, or anything they wanted. If she lied and they were able to see through it, things would be much worse. She wished to hell she could find a man and get married.... If she could be just half as happy as Pepe and Raoul, it would be worth any sacrifice. But that's the trouble, Dee thought. Marriage for me
is
a sacrifice!

As if by some kind of telepathy, Pepe brightened up a bit and said, “Perhaps Dee will marry and come to Paris for a honeymoon.”

Dee shook her head with a slow smile. “Don't count on it. But there's no reason why you couldn't come to New York on a vacation or business trip—then you would be my guests! Pepe would love New York, Raoul. Why don't you plan it?”

“We have often talked about it,” Pepe said thoughtfully.

“Well, then. Why not?”

“Perhaps . . . who knows?”

Suddenly they all fell silent again as if each of them had tired of the game of making gracious noises at one another.

“Raoul,” Dee said suddenly as he turned into the approach to the terminal, “don't park.”

“What?” Pepe said, not a little confused.

“No . . . please,” Dee continued. “Just let me off in front and the porter will take my things inside.”

Raoul glanced in the mirror for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders. “Women . . .” he commented to no one.

“You wish to leave alone?” Pepe asked.

She nodded. “I just can't stand the thought of us all standing around, nervous and uncomfortable, and then having to say good-bye. I—I don't think I could take it.”

Raoul pulled up to the terminal and, with a barely noticeable choke in his voice, said, “I think perhaps Dee is right.”

Pepe was beginning to cry herself. “I intend to go home and get drunk.”

“I'm not exactly being shot off to the moon, you know,” Dee said, keeping her voice in control, “and the mails are still running.”

“And we might really go to New York,” Pepe said.

“Or Dee might come back,” Raoul offered.

The porter walked up to the car and began removing the luggage from the top. None of them said anything for a few moments.

Suddenly, Pepe leaned forward and grasped Dee gently by the head and kissed her on both cheeks. The taste of her tears was still on Dee's face when Pepe whispered, “We will meet again,
chérie. . . .”

“I know.”

Dee hesitated a moment, looked at them both, then quickly opened the door and kissed them swiftly before stepping out.
“Adieu,”
she managed to say, and shut the door firmly.

She almost ran into the terminal, the porter following her more slowly. She didn't dare look back and focused only on the Pan Am counter ahead of her—she hoped she would not have to wait too long before takeoff.

 

 

Dee used her briefcase as a lap desk inside the lounge of the Stratocruiser. She tried to keep her mind on her notes, to compile them before she got back to the office. She had slept for several hours after the first part of the trip between Shannon and Gander, but now it was impossible.

It was a little foolish, she realized, to be working now. No one at the office expected her back before Thursday or Friday—and she still had a vacation coming to her despite the trip to Paris.

But just sitting in her seat had been unbearable. She kept turning over and over in her mind what she would say to Karen. Karen would have received her cable by now and would know she was coming in sooner.

“Sir,” she called suddenly, and her voice sounded strange, “how much farther now?”

“Let's see,” the flight attendant said, looking at his watch. “About another two hours, Miss.”

For no apparent reason, Dee felt tears welling up and wondered what Martie was doing just now. She would have to write Martie a long letter. Why was it she always felt as if she had so much to say to Martie until it came time to say it? She could talk to Karen . . . Karen.

Am I falling in love with her? Dee asked herself. Could I be that big a fool? But it wouldn't matter much now. . . . Karen had probably cleared out. She had never sent that second letter she'd promised. Christ! Dee realized, I'm falling in love with someone who practically can't stand me, and moreover, I've lost a damn good secretary!

T
he morning was cool and nippy with the preview of fall as she stepped onto the aluminum ramp and walked down to the metal-covered passageway leading to the terminal. She trailed behind the other passengers, letting them rush on ahead. She had nothing to rush for.

As she came around the first bend in the walkway, she saw a girl standing against the wall. At first she thought it was just a girl . . . but as she drew nearer, she recognized Karen. In a moment of guilty panic, she wanted to turn and go back. But Karen had already spotted her and came running to meet her.

“What on earth are you doing here?” Dee asked, shocked, pleased, and unsure of herself.

They began to walk together, and as Karen talked and explained all that had gone on at the office, or asked questions about her trip, Dee couldn't help but realize how happy she was to see Karen again. How easily everything fell into place when Karen was near. Or how Karen made her feel that she could handle any situation gracefully, intelligently.

Naturally, neither of them said a word about Rita—or Karen's letter. The airport was hardly a place to discuss something as delicate as that.

Dee cleared customs and met Karen next to the car-rental counter, and then they went outside to the cab stand. “How'd you get out here?” Dee asked, her as she held the door open for Karen.

“Cab,” she answered simply.

“That's pretty expensive.”

“My rent has been pretty cheap of late,” Karen smiled. It was the first reference she'd made to something besides work or the trip.

“How's Cho-Cho?” Dee asked, feeling stupidly introverted.

Karen looked at her pensively. “She's missed you. She wouldn't be bothered with me during the day, but in the evening, around five-thirty or six she begins to yowl and rub against my legs.”

Suddenly, Karen stopped. It was as if the reference to her legs were forbidden conversation. Of course, Dee knew from long experience, the moment someone finds out you're gay, they conclude immediately that you're on the make for them. So naturally, certain topics become taboo.

“Anyhow,” she went on, “I finally got across to her that I wasn't trying to replace you or . . .” Karen laughed nervously.

You or Rita, Dee finished the sentence for her silently.

“But we get along fine—it's understood that I'm better than nothing and Cho-Cho allows me to stay. But she sure does want her little nip in the morning,” Karen laughed.

“Well, at least you accept Cho-Cho as a personality and not just an animal. . . .” She wondered how long they were going to discuss banalities.

Nothing of particular importance was said until they came to the Queensborough Bridge. Somehow this link with Manhattan jolted them into present problems.

“I . . . I guess you'll want me to move out as soon as I can now that you're back,” Karen said softly.

Dee felt her blood turn hot and wanted time to think out her reply. Unlike their previous relationship, if she asked Karen to stay on now, it would sound like a pass. The tires of the cab thumped and swished across the bridge like water-soaked galoshes on a dry rug.

“Actually, Karen,” Dee began, “my plans are rather vague. I'd not really . . . expected you still to be in my place . . . that is . . .”

“Did you think I'd run out on you?” Karen asked in obvious surprise.

“No! No, of course not,” Dee lied.

Karen twisted in her seat and stared at her for a moment, then covered Dee's hand with her own. “You must have been hurt many times by stupid people.”

There was no reply to that one, so Dee let it go. “I was rather hoping that since this is Sunday you might not be committed elsewhere and be able to help me go over my notes from the trip. We could whip them into order and get them ready for the old man before the end of the week.”

“Sure,” Karen said.

“Look, Karen,” Dee said falteringly. “I don't want you to get out or anything. I'm damn grateful for the company . . . particularly yours.” She could feel her face flush, and she hated herself. “But I know how complicated these things can be—I mean, maybe Phil would rather . . .”

“Oh Dee! For heaven's sake! Will you stop acting like Emily Brontë. . . . It's my life—not Phil's.”

“Sorry!” Dee said, mindful to have a broad smile on her face.

“Forgive me,” Karen said after a pause. “I didn't mean to snap at you. But you can be awfully stuffy sometimes.”

The cab pulled up in front of her apartment, and they got out in silence. The apartment house looked like something out of a childhood remembrance as they walked to the door of her place. They both fumbled for the door key in their purses, grinning inanely now that they were about to be alone, without outside interference.

“I didn't realize,” Karen said as Dee fitted her key into the latch, “how much I'd come to accept your apartment as my home. I mean . . .” She blushed slightly. The door pushed open, and Cho-Cho came bounding from the bedroom and in one motion leaped onto Dee's shoulder, crying and purring at the same time. “Hello, sweetie,” Dee said softly, nuzzling her cheek against the cat's soft face.

Karen helped her carry the baggage in and put it in the bedroom. Cho-Cho wouldn't stop yowling her vindictive reproaches while following Dee about the room.

“Oh, stop it, Cho-Cho,” Dee said in false anger, “you don't look as if you suffered so much.”

“That animal will outlive us all,” Karen laughed.

There was something frighteningly domestic about the scene, and as if they had both sensed it simultaneously, the conversation ended.

Dee hung up her dresses and coats but decided to leave the rest until later when she had rested. She picked up her bulging briefcase and led the way downstairs like a mother hen followed by her chicks.

“Place looks great,” she said to Karen almost too cheerfully.

“I'm a good housekeeper . . . if it's someone else's home.”

“Did you do any darkroom work at all?” She didn't really care if Karen had or not. It was the last thing she wanted to ask her.

“I started to . . .” Karen replied. “But, I don't know, it just didn't seem right . . . using your chemicals and your things. It made me feel kind of lonely.”

Dee put on some water for coffee. She wondered if Karen expected her to say something, but decided to let it go. She didn't really understand why using her things would bother Karen, but didn't want to go into it now.

They spent a few silent moments setting up the cups and pulling out the instant coffee.

“I hope your briefcase isn't all work—it looks like there's enough there for three secretaries.” Karen smiled slowly.

“The bulge is due to a duty-free bottle of Drambuie I bought in Shannon. . . . The rest is work, and lots of it.”

“Well,” Karen said slowly, “let's get to it. Might as well get it out of the way so we can get to the bottle. I should think you'd like to relax a little.”

Dee nodded. “It's a little chilly in here. How about a fire before we start? Make the work seem less tedious.” She walked over to the fireplace and laid the pressed sawdust logs carefully over the kindling. Then she lit it and crossed the room to the divan, placing her briefcase on top of the coffee table on her left. Dee pulled out the bottle and set it on the floor.

Cho-Cho jumped up on the couch and sat down next to Dee with her front paws resting on Dee's thigh. “There's a steno pad in the drawer over there,” she said absently to Karen. “Pencils, too.”

“Stealing company property, eh?” Karen said, laughing.

“Uh-huh,” Dee said, her mind already at work on her notes and how to dictate them into memos. Without even trying too hard, she was again Karen's boss, and they might as well have been in the office.

 

 

The fire had burned down to an occasional tongue of flame darting out of the embers. Dee stood up, threw the papers in her hand into the fireplace, and placed another log on top.

“Please, Dee,” Karen said in a tired voice, “I'm getting writer's cramp.”

Dee laughed sympathetically. “Sorry. But that's all we'll do for now. You can type them up tomorrow at the office.”

“Are you coming in?”

“I doubt it.... I'd like a day or two to catch my breath.” She stared at the log as it began to burn. “How about a martini? I could use one.”

“You must be exhausted. Sure. I'll have one with you.”

In a few minutes, Dee returned from the kitchen, carefully balancing the two glasses.

“I'll have to get you a tray for Christmas,” Karen smiled as she accepted her glass.

“That's worse,” Dee grinned. “They slide all over the tray then.”

Karen lit a cigarette and blew the smoke into the air with a heavy sigh. “Well, at least the old man will know you weren't just goofing off in Paris—not once he sees these memos.”

“No. I was plenty busy,” Dee managed to answer. She felt her throat constrict and, for no particular reason, wanted to cry at the mention of Paris. “You'd like the French rep, Mr. Bizot,” she said after a moment.

“I'd like Paris!” Karen raised her glass and smiled. “To better understanding. . .” There was a knowing look in her eyes.

Dee said nothing but took a long swallow from her drink. She felt its effects at once. She was much more tired than she had been willing to admit.

Karen pulled her legs up under her and sipped her drink quietly. “You know,” she said finally, “I've done a lot of reading in the past few weeks.”

“Anything worthwhile?”

“Depends on what you're trying to learn,” Karen said evasively. “I . . . well, I found your private reserve of nondisplayable literature.”

“Oh?” Dee stalled.

“I couldn't sleep one night after your . . . friend stopped by. I'd looked down here but didn't see anything I really wanted to begin . . . so I looked upstairs. I'd remembered some books in that shelf next to the radiator in the bedroom.” She stood up carefully and went into the kitchen, then brought the decanter of martinis back with her and poured them each some more.

Dee knew she should have thrown away those lesbian novels ages ago, but for some reason never was quite able to do it. “I'm afraid,” she said slowly after a prolonged and pregnant silence, “that those novels are not very indicative of anything but a desire to exploit for money.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Karen said carefully. “I learned a good deal from them.”

“Like what?” She knew she shouldn't have the second drink.

“Like, this sort of thing is not nearly so shocking or so rare as I had thought . . . that it's really quite a social problem, and yet sort of romantic at the same time.”

“Yes to the first, no to the second,” Dee said guardedly. Here it comes. “These martinis are pretty potent,” she added, pushing Cho-Cho off the couch just for something to do.

“And how lots of women are . . .
gay
and sometimes never know it, or learn about it too late to find themselves the right companion.”

“Why should they want to find the right companion?” Dee asked her, wondering what the hell Karen was leading up to. Some sort of excuse for her?

“Love . . . romance . . . the whole bit.”

“And do the books tell you that they never really find it?”

“No . . . the women are usually cowards and throw themselves out of windows, or marry the first guy who asks them rather than face what they really are. . . .”

“And this sounds romantic to you?”

Karen stood up and crossed over to Dee, sitting down next to her. “But I'm not a coward, Dee. . . .”

Dee could feel her pulse beat throughout her body, and she was afraid to think more than one sentence ahead. She could feel the warmth from Karen's thigh against hers, was aware of her heavy breathing and the change in Karen's voice. Christ! how she would love to take Karen in her arms and kiss her.

“It's beginning to rain,” Dee stated, feeling idiotic.

Karen smiled slowly. “Rain, fireplace, martinis . . . and marvelous company. What more could I hope for?”

“Karen,” Dee said slowly, “just what do you want?”

“That's a difficult question to answer, Mrs. Sanders.” Her grin was absolutely evil.

“But answerable nonetheless,” Dee countered.

Karen smiled seductively. “Who was it who said something about the emptiness of words?”

Whatever question that had lingered in Dee's mind about whether or not Karen's closeness was unintentional was completely gone now.

“And then,” Karen continued, “there's the man who decided that action speaks louder than words.”

Dee just had time to put down her drink, phrasing a reply in her mind, when Karen leaned across her and kissed her softly—yet purposefully—on the lips.

“Are you out of your mind?” Dee asked, her emotions turning into a tornado of reactions.

“It always surprises me that I seem to shock you—what kind of a hermit do you think I am?” Karen's face grew serious again. She raised one hand to Dee's cheek and ran her fingers over it, then across her lips. “I've never kissed a woman before.... It seems so strange.”

“Why on earth do you want to now?” Dee asked, trying to make sense out of Karen's actions, wanting to hold her close, and yet trying to keep in mind that this was Karen's first experience. But what for? If Karen was just “experimenting,” she was taking a big risk fooling around with Dee. . . .