Another Kind of Love (10 page)

S
he wanted to tell her . . . tell someone. This hell inside her, this burning and aching, was slowly suffocating her.

But this wasn't the kind of thing you told someone you had met just a few days ago. No!

Madeline remained very still, saying nothing. She just waited.

“I'd give anything to be able to confess that I'm in love with a married man . . . or that I'm pregnant. . . .” Laura said with difficulty. The absolute quiet in the room seemed to hammer at her relentlessly.

Still Madeline said nothing. She crossed the room without making a sound and placed the bottle of Scotch on the cocktail table in front of Laura. She smiled knowingly as she said, “Have another. Tomorrow you can blame the fact that you talked too much on the Scotch.”

Laura hardly heard her. Suddenly she knew she was going to confide in Madeline. She
had
to . . . or lose her mind.

She was dimly aware that she should be curious about the source of Madeline's perceptiveness, but she was too absorbed with her own turmoil, and too overwhelmed by this luxury of having a confidante, to explore the matter further.

At this moment it made no difference what Madeline might think of her—or even if Madeline would be repelled and throw her out afterward. All she knew was that she couldn't bear the hurt alone anymore . . . or the guilt. Right now, logic, intellect, objectivity, and reason played no part in her emotions—if they ever had. Her brain seemed to have shrugged off all responsibility for her reactions.

Whether she could trust Madeline, whether Madeline might tell Walter, did not then occur to Laura.

“I don't know,” Laura began slowly, “if I can even put what happened into words.” She glanced at Madeline as if expecting a cue. “Do you understand?”

Madeline walked over to Laura and stood very still. “I think so.” She studied the girl for a long moment. “If it weren't so apparent that you're about to crack up, I wouldn't dream of doing this.”

“Doing what?”

Madeline ignored the question and went on as if talking to herself. “. . . But I'm an old timer with the ins and outs of love—I've seen hundreds of tormented expressions like yours . . .”

Laura felt her body tense.

“. . . and neither of us have anything to lose, if it helps. . . .”

Madeline leaned forward very slowly, as if giving Laura a chance to recoil, to deny what they now both knew was going to happen.

Laura accepted the fact that Madeline was going to kiss her, and only when she felt her breath against her face did she have a moment of panic. But it was too late then, and in a strange way she was filled with gratitude toward Madeline.

Her kiss was just long enough to show genuine interest, and gentle enough to show that she did not really expect any passionate return—that she understood what was bothering Laura even if she did not know the details.

Madeline placed her cheek softly against Laura's, then straightened up slowly as if any quick motion would send Laura away. She rested her hand on Laura's shoulder.

“Do you know why I did that?” she asked Laura.

“Yes.” Laura could sense release coming up in her brain, feel it rise up in her throat. “So that I would know you're a
friend.
That I wasn't alone.”

“Do you also know that I'm not pushing you into anything?” Madeline's tone was even, considerate, and calm.

Laura nodded. “I'm going to cry . . .” she managed to say.

“Good. Here, hold my hand. It'll make you feel better.”

She sat down on the edge of Laura's chair and, putting her arm around her shoulder, pulled Laura's face to her breast and rocked her quietly while Laura sobbed out all her pent-up feelings. It was like lifting a floodgate in a dam that could always hold more.

Then, brokenly, she explained to Madeline what had happened in Los Angeles: her loneliness before she met Ginny; the swift but subtle love that had seemingly exploded in their faces; her unsure, confused reaction to Ginny's refusal to leave Saundra; and her hasty flight from Los Angeles . . . and Ginny.

“Sounds like a pretty bad script, doesn't it?” Laura said, her tears subsiding at last. But she didn't try to pull away from Madeline's breasts. She wanted to be comforted and secure right now—understood and not criticized. Tomorrow she would be an independent adult again, but right now it was almost beyond her.

“No, Laura. It doesn't—because it wasn't contrived beforehand.” Madeline gave Laura a little hug. Then, laughing, she said, “The arm of this chair wasn't made for sitting. How about a break?”

Laura smiled and hoped Madeline hadn't thought her selfish and juvenile. “Yes . . . and I could use another drink now.” Now that Madeline had moved over to the chair facing hers, Laura felt strangely awkward . . . lost.
Vulnerable,
that was it. As if she had drawn warmth from Madeline, and protection from the wind.

Well, she thought, that's just what I did, in a way. She wondered if she should feel ashamed, or embarrassed, or even a little scared. But she didn't, and for that she had to thank Madeline.

“Obviously you don't know anything about this kind of life, Laura. It's a very simple thing in a complicated sort of way. There are those who wear their guilt or their rebellion on their sleeves.

“And, like me, there are those who would rather not advertise our preference . . . if we actually have one. I'm lucky in that I'm not one of those dykes who always wanted to be a man—or, who hate men. But no matter what type we are, we're all neurotic as hell.”

“I must sound like a whimpering adolescent to you. . . .” Laura joked, surprised that she
could
joke now.

Madeline looked at her quickly, seemed to take in everything about Laura, and then replied softly, “Hardly.”

Laura flushed. She hoped it didn't show. She watched Madeline pour a fresh drink, and as she accepted it from her, Laura felt self-conscious and very naive.

“What do you want to do now?”

“What do you mean?” Laura asked.

“What are your plans? What do you hope to do with yourself?”

Something about the way Madeline said the word “hope” made Laura suddenly feel like a child who's been asked by an adult, “And what do you want to be when you grow up?”

“Do I have a choice?” Laura asked bitterly.

Madeline smiled. “You have a choice about what you
do,
but whether or not you have the same luxury about what you
feel
is something I couldn't answer. Only you can.”

“I see.” Laura sipped her drink, letting its coolness soothe her still-aching throat. “What is your considered opinion?”

“I can tell by your tone that you don't want to know.” Madeline, too, became guarded.

Laura immediately felt contrite.

“I'm sorry—I had no right. I'm just so mixed up about everything right now . . .”

“I know,” Madeline replied simply, without hidden implications or sarcasm.

There was a short silence between them. Yet it did not seem uncomfortable to Laura. She had faith in Madeline.

Faith. If love is a primary need for humans, Laura pondered, then trust surely runs a damned close second. She had never before appreciated the value of trusting someone. She had never had the occasion to give of herself, either.

Madeline smiled as she asked slowly, “I assume that you have resigned yourself to the homosexual aspect of this affair—it's a right church, wrong pew sort of thing?”

“Homosexual-heterosexual! I don't know and I don't even care right now.” Laura's voice grew tight, bitter. “All I know is that I loved her and got the old married-man's stall.... Well, that wasn't good enough for me.” Her own affair with Walter flashed through her mind, but somehow that seemed different.

“I didn't
want
to be queer,” Laura added lamely.

“None of us do,” Madeline laughed. “At least, none of the honest ones.”

“But if I was going to get mixed up with something like this,” Laura went on, “I at least wanted whatever satisfactions it had to offer.” She glared resentfully at Madeline, as if everything were all at once her fault.

A strange expression crossed Madeline's face. “You wouldn't mind starving in a garret if you could be sure you were really a genius, is that it?” She gave a slight helpless gesture. “A guarantee of the future. Nice dream.”

“No. Nothing like that. Not really, anyway. It's just that, well, I felt like since I was the one who was making the big conversion—or maybe I should say ‘perversion'—the least she could do would be to give herself up to me, to our love . . . oh, I don't know.”

“Self-sacrificing, aren't you?” Madeline chided gently.

“Well? Isn't it a sacrifice? To give up social acceptance just for love?”

“Just for love?” Madeline echoed half in dismay, half in amusement. “You talk as if love was some sort of a knickknack you picked up at a church bazaar or a summer cruise, or some other witless extravagance. It isn't, you know. And if you don't know it, you'd better—and fast.”

Laura grinned wryly. “That's some bite you got there, lady. Okay, I deserved that. But I didn't mean it just that way.”

“Besides,” Madeline continued, “no one asked you to give up anything. You made up your own mind about that. True, discretion is imperative, but no one broke your arm to become a homosexual.”

“In other words, I would have done it anyway sooner or later. Is that what you mean?”

“Who knows?” Madeline smiled. “But I do know that I certainly didn't
want
to be a lesbian. I would never have sat back and deliberately chosen this kind of life—there are no advantages, only disadvantages; our entire culture works against us, isolates us, punishes us in a thousand different ways. Frankly, I wouldn't even advise a purple cow to go out into the world and become queer.”

“Why are you, then?” Laura could not bring herself to use the word “queer” at this point.

“Why am I what?” Madeline asked laughing. “A purple cow?”

“No,” Laura answered, reddening, knowing that Madeline's bantering misinterpretation was really a jibe at her obvious embarrassment at “the word.” “You know perfectly well what I meant.”

“All right, then.” Madeline nodded politely. “It's a compulsion, I suppose. An escape, a punishment.... I'm no analyst. It's more that I'm picking the lesser of two evils—emotional suicide or straws of happiness. I'd love to fall in love with a man and wear an apron and have bouncing babies. But so far . . . so far, I haven't.”

“If you want a man so much, then aren't you cutting off your chances of ever meeting the right one this way? Aren't you crying uncle?”

“Sure!” Madeline conceded vehemently. “And that's just the way I feel. I'm tired. So goddamn tired of going out with this guy and that guy, getting felt up and listening to the same old pitches, being bored and having to pretend that I'm fascinated so his little ego doesn't get bruised. I'm not twenty-one, you know. I've done my stint, been on the hunt, made myself available—all for nothing. My husband was the closest thing to normal love I've ever known, and that wasn't enough.” Madeline's words came rapidly, and the volume increased.

Laura sat stunned for a moment. It had been an unexpected outburst, and it had left her with a miserably helpless feeling. She couldn't really say that Madeline was bitter—at least, not in the accepted sense. It was her desperation, her cry against herself; there was self-pity, of course, but there was also pride and determination. It was a little frightening and awesome, this brutal awareness of one's own frailties, the drive to survive in spite of it.

“I'm sorry,” Madeline said finally. “I didn't mean to take it out on you.”

Laura made no reply but took a long swallow from her drink. She realized for the first time that one of the worst torments in this situation was the conversational taboos it imposed . . . except possibly to a bosom buddy, and even then it was chancy. All the important feelings had to be carried around inside you, had to be hidden carefully. Everything conspired to make you ashamed, and yet you knew that this was the only way for you.

Husbands and wives could bring each other along to social gatherings, talk about their arguments, their love, just each other . . . but a homosexual could not do this unless he or she moved in purely homosexual circles.

That this alternative had its own suffocating aspects was already obvious to Laura—she'd seen enough of it in Hollywood.

But could I do that? Laura asked herself. Could I give myself up to only this and nothing else? It had always seemed to her such a sterile and purposeless existence.

“Well,” Madeline said, with her old cheer back, “let's not worry about it now. You're welcome to stay here as long as you wish. Dive into your work and get a hold on yourself. Then see how you feel.”

Laura looked up from the glass still clenched in her hands, an uncertain expression crossing her face.

“No strings,” Madeline smiled. “My kiss a while ago was just a kiss, Laura. Nothing more.”

Laura couldn't help wondering if that was true, or if so, how long it would last.

“In any event, Laura, you won't find a place to live right away.”

She was right, and Laura knew it.

So she was attentive as Madeline showed her where everything was in the apartment, and ignored Madeline's discreet comment about the fact that the bedroom had twin beds.