Stranger On Lesbos (14 page)

Three years of it, she thought. Three long years of hurrying to get my desk cleared by five-thirty so I can get home and wash the breakfast dishes. Then Bill's at a committee meeting or a business dinner, or out on the town with a customer, and Bob has something on at school. And me with nothing to look forward to but Social Security when I'm sixty-five, if I live that long.

She thought as she had thought almost every day for the last two years what it would mean to live with Bake. I'll do it, she promised herself. I won't back down this time.

But she was glad that she didn't have to break the news to Bill for a few days.

CHAPTER 11

“Mom?” That was Bob in the living room, probably home for supper after all. The slam of the front door reverberated through the house. Frances reached for the hand lotion, trying to keep her voice level, and wondering what she could fix for him to eat.

"In the kitchen, son."

He looked like his father, a tall sturdy young man whose breadth filled the kitchen doorway. Frances smiled mechanically. Then she saw that he wasn't alone. He had a girl with him, a slim splinter of a girl with smooth dark hair and curving black eyebrows. He pulled her into the room after him. "Mom, this is Mari Congdon."

Frances said something polite. Since he was fourteen he had been bringing home girls
blondes, brunettes, redheads and some who got their coloring out of a bottle and changed it every week. Kids started dating now before they were out of eighth grade, and all of the girls were smart-looking and self-possessed, but they all looked alike to an adult. Sometimes she wondered how Bob told them apart.

This one was different. Young as she was, surely not more than seventeen, she had a mature quality that the others lacked. Or maybe it was the expression on Bob's face that made the difference. His mother caught her breath, watching him. That mixture of tenderness, amusement and hunger
it was the look of a man in love. And the girl had the quiet awareness of a loved woman, for whom all things are intensified.

I'm imagining things, she told herself crossly. Aloud she said, "I have to go out in an hour or so, but wouldn't you youngsters like something to eat?"

Bob looked embarrassed. The girl said in a low composed voice, "Thank you, but we have a date. Bob's been wanting me to meet you, and I thought
you see, he had to come home and change anyway
"

Frances said more cordially, "Well, I'm glad you did. You must come and have dinner with us. Maybe Sunday?" Then she remembered that she was going to break the news to Bill on Sunday. I won't be seeing Bob any more unless I call up and make an appointment with him, she thought. I won't cook any more dinners for him. Do they let the mother have visiting privileges, if the father has custody?

Nonsense, Bob's almost eighteen. He makes his own decisions. She glanced at him covertly, seeing him with that man look on his face, and desolation settled down over her. The apron strings were snapped now, sure enough.

She became aware of the silence that had settled down. Bob said gruffly, "Well, come on," and the girl followed him out of the kitchen, turning back to offer Frances a sweet, apologetic smile. She had on heels and nylons: a formal date, then. Frances wondered fleetingly where they were going. Then her own problems came rushing back. She snapped off the kitchen light and went upstairs, feeling tired and shopworn, to dress for an evening on the town with Bake.

She didn't much care for the places Bake and her crowd frequented, places where women danced together and the only men were blatant queers or gawking sightseers from out of town. Bake knew all sorts of interesting people: painters, writers, newspapermen, publishers, corporation lawyers, atomic scientists, museum curators. Because of her job she had an entree to supper clubs and restaurants that were mentioned in the smart magazines. But when she was in the mood for relaxation she liked to go to Karla's, the Squared Circle, the Gay Eighties. Special clientele, Frances thought wryly. Too special. She wasn't ashamed of loving Bake, but she didn't want to be classified with the couples she had seen in the Gay Eighties, looking into each other's eyes, holding hands under the table. Or with the lonely haunted women who drifted in after midnight, ordered drink after drink and scanned the room for possible pickups.

When they were at the apartment, she could forget her qualms in Bake's arms. But tonight they met downtown, on a busy street corner. Frances gathered up her courage. "Bake, why don't we go straight to your place? I'd like us to be alone for once."

"Would you, darling?" Bake had already had a couple of drinks. She smiled. "I tell you what, we'll go over to Karla's and have just one. Then we'll go right home."

"Not Karla's. It's so tacky."

Bake's eyes narrowed. "If the places I like aren't good enough for you
"

"I didn't mean that." It was no good reasoning with Bake; Frances had seen her in this mood before. She slipped her arm through Bake's, resolving to try to get her home early. "Taxi?"

"Certainly. We're celebrating, aren't we?"

Karla's was jammed. Jukebox blasting, waitresses pushing and twisting to make a path among the small tightly crowded tables, people talking loudly to be heard above the music. Bake headed straight for the bar. A husky butch and her fem were just getting up to leave, and Bake grabbed their stools.

"The joint's jumping," she said.

The bartender
Frances had seen her three or four times before she realized that Mickey was a girl
nodded. "Yeah, the word's getting around. Friday night too, that helps." She reached under the counter for clean glasses. "The usual?"

"Double. We're celebrating."

"I haven't seen you two in quite a while. Thought maybe you split up or something."

"Uh-uh. We're not going to split up, are we, baby?"

Frances murmured, "I hope not."

"This girl's moving in with me." Bake chose her words with care, enunciating precisely. "Isn't that great? She's going to leave her dumb husband and come in with me. Smartest thing she ever did."

"Please, Bake."

Bake slid one of the Martinis her way. "To us.”

Frances sipped her drink and fatigue and apprehension fell away. The faint guilt that had nagged at her since the meeting with Bob's girl vanished. "I never used to drink at all," she said in wonder.

"You missed out on a good thing," Bake said. "Make us another, will you, Mickey?"

"Sure thing."

Frances couldn't remember why she had disliked Mickey so at first. She made a good-looking boy, solid and healthy.

Only the slight swell under the pockets of her plaid shirt and something indefinable in her walk gave her away. Not more than twenty-five, she had rosy cheeks and smooth dark hair; she managed the bar competently and seemed to be in charge whenever the gray-haired manager was out, which was most of the time. Frances had seen her separate two hair-pulling dolls and usher them both out into the street without getting winded. Of course I couldn't go for anybody like that, she defended herself. Bake's not queer, but I don't have to be narrow-minded about other people, do I?

She accepted her second double Martini through a pleasant haze of good will.

Bake was sitting very erect, holding her glass carefully. She'll be all right, Frances reassured herself. Never shows it when she's had too much; I wouldn't know it myself if she didn't get so guarded.