Another Kind of Love (12 page)

He looked over at Laura, who looked back at him. She found his male vanity amusing under ordinary circumstances, but this wasn't just vanity.

“It never dawned on me that there was something out of the way with her. I mean, she seemed all right and never said anything to seriously indicate . . .”

“Walter,” Laura said in a low voice, “please get to the point.”

“Well,” he answered with a nervous smile, “it would appear that Madeline lives in that twilight world or whatever it is they call it.”

And there it was. Target sighted—bombs away.

It didn't sound so bad. Of course, he had put it diplomatically, and it really wasn't an accusation against me, Laura thought, but still, one does feel on the defensive.

Shall I let on that I knew what the term means, or play dumb? she wondered. No. Playing dumb would tip him off, and as long as it's just a rumor, he can't be too sure yet.

“You mean she's supposed to be queer?” That was it—go him one better.

Walter started. “Well, I don't know how much truth there is in it. She has been married and all that.”

That's better, Laura scolded him silently; back down.

“Look, Walter. You give me deep, searching looks all evening, let loose with a few little hints, and then decide there's nothing to anything. Did you think I was being seduced?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Yes, you did, or you wouldn't have started all this. What were you looking for? Signs of acne? Loss of reason? Green hair?”

She had Walter on the defensive now, actually trying to convince her that the rumors were ridiculous.

“I . . . I just thought you should know. I felt guilty and responsible when I heard about her, because I more or less talked you into staying with her.”

“You thought I should know what?” Laura asked sarcastically. “I haven't asked Madeline about her sex habits and she's allowed me the same privacy. I didn't even ask her if she'd been to bed with you. Although I'm surprised that she didn't at least try.”

Laura threw in the last sentence to pacify him. And it worked.

“Let's forget about it, shall we? I wasn't accusing you of anything. . . perverted. Was I?” He smiled knowingly. “After all, I know your bed habits as well as your good,” he punned.

Then Walter's face became serious again. “Just one more thing, Laura, and we'll drop the subject. I want you to know where I stand.” He stared at the table, averting her eyes, and his voice took on a tone she had never noticed before.

“Even if you were seduced by her . . . I mean, no matter what you do or are or become”—he smiled and raised his eyes to hers—“I'm saying this badly, but I don't give a damn what you do.... I think you're one fine girl. My only objection to this . . . sort of thing . . . is the same as if you were to date a gangster or an alcoholic, or a Russian spy. You're too likely to get hurt, and I wouldn't want that for anything.”

Laura wondered just how much Walter did know about Madeline, or if by some freak chance he had learned of her almost overnight friendship with Ginny, who was openly a friend of Saundra's. But then, how much did anyone know about Saundra?

He seemed very sincere, and Laura had no reason to disbelieve him. What a guy! she thought affectionately.

“Thank you, Walter.”

“Well, now,” he said with a humorous snort, “let's get off this auld lang syne kick and concentrate on us and enjoy this farewell party.”

She could take it easy now. He was off the subject and satisfied that his virility had not been challenged. Now the rest of the conversation would be business, and in between he would work in one last seduction. But maybe he wouldn't even want to ask her now.

He suggested several places for dinner, but Laura wanted to stay where they were. Might as well eat here, she thought; we'd only have to come back to the hotel so Walter could ask me in for a nightcap.

She half listened to him as he talked on about the future of
Fanfare
magazine and her future with him—businesswise, of course. His whole attitude showed clearly—if not somewhat bitterly—that she needn't put into words that from now on they were simply “friends.”

It seemed so silly, the protocol of male-female relations. There was no telling herself that she came anywhere near to loving him now the way she did before . . . before Ginny. Except that now that she felt closer to him, she could accept him better. Her feelings now were something else. The fact that she coldly planned to go to bed with him was another matter—she neither approved of it nor disapproved; she simply had to do it.

But why, she wondered, did they have to go through all the game of having dinner and idle chatter? She wasn't really hungry. Why didn't they skip dinner and just go upstairs? It would save so much time and money. Only it would never do; she knew that.
Nice
girls—and Walter certainly thought of her as a nice girl—don't have thoughts like that, much less act upon them. It would destroy a man's ego if he thought a girl was using him for the same thing he wanted from her.

Laura forced herself to listen to him and take an interest in what he was saying. It seemed to take forever for the dinner to be through and even longer for their cordial and coffee to arrive. She couldn't help thinking what a waste this evening was for both of them. To Walter, because it didn't really mean anything lasting to him, not anymore: he knew they were finished. And to Laura for even less sentimental reasons. It was more like a social debt she was repaying. She remembered what that night had been like with Ginny, and again attempted to understand what was motivating her now.

God! How it made her miss Ginny. Just to hold Ginny in her arms. Feel her soft, warm body pressed against her own, and feel Ginny's firm, young arms slowly reach up and pull Laura's head to hers in a long, probing kiss . . .

I suppose I really am queer, Laura told herself, and for an instant she wanted to cry. The acceptance of it was almost like realizing you were no longer a child and would have to meet life and deal with it as an adult now—no more finding solace in your mother's lap or hiding under the blanket so that nobody would find you. This was
it.

She only wished she could really and completely get over her feeling for Ginny, whatever it was. It had lessened, naturally, except for moments like now. She pondered briefly if it was Ginny she missed or what Ginny stood for.

“. . . Aren't you going to drink your coffee?” Walter's voice came through to her, and she was genuinely surprised to realize she again hadn't been paying any attention to him.

“I'm sorry, Walter,” she offered apologetically. “I was just thinking that it might be a long time before I see you again,” she lied.

His smile was unmistakably triumphant. “I don't know about that”—he touched his cup to hers—“I'll probably be back and forth a good deal just to keep you on your toes.”

She smiled in reply and found herself dully waiting for him to suggest going up to his suite for a drink so that she could get the affair over with and go home.

Home. Where was that?

“How're you getting on with Willy?” Walter asked suddenly.

“He's a dear,” Laura said genuinely. “I would have been tearing my hair out if he hadn't been around.”

“Hmm,” Walter said in a tone of mock petulance. “Don't become too fond of him.”

“Well,” Laura teased, “when the cat's away, and all that sort of jazz.”

His smile faded slowly. “I'm going to miss you, darling. You know that.” His voice was low and husky.

Somewhere in the back of Laura's mind came the thought “Here it comes,” but she pushed it aside and gave herself up to the overture for act 2 this evening.

“And I'll miss you, too,” she whispered. She sensed that Walter's breathing had quickened, and tried to lose herself in his passion, in his desire—so that tonight would mean something.

Odd, she thought. It's almost like raping myself.

“I know this sounds rather awkward”—Walter grinned his little-boy smile—“and even prearranged, but let's go upstairs so we can talk in comfort.”

“Fresh out of etchings, Walter?” Laura laughed.

“We don't need them, do we?” he asked suddenly, very serious.

“No.” Laura couldn't look into his eyes; she felt unforgivably hypocritical.

“As a matter of fact,” Walter almost drawled, “I really don't know why I want you to come up. It was different when you were mine, but it's pretty damned selfish of me to expect you to . . . well, especially when your heart isn't in it.” He thrust his hands into his pocket with plain frustration and confusion.

“You're under no obligation to me, Laura. Why don't I just put you in a cab and send you home before my male hormones ruin a good friendship?”

“No,” Laura said without even realizing it. She couldn't stand the thought now of not going through with it. “No. I
want
to, Walter. Don't ask me why; I just do. Maybe it's because I trust you and need you despite . . . everything else. I'm not sure. I think I love you more right this minute than I ever did before—but it's different. Much different.”

She knew that she only half meant what she had said, but it was now terribly important to go upstairs with him. As long as he knew that she wasn't offering herself with starry eyes, then nothing else seemed to matter but doing it and having done with it.

He slid his chair back and pulled the table out from the wall while Laura picked up her purse and coat. It was all so elaborately casual—so deliberate, so calculating. It was as if they had agreed to go window shopping.

Inside the elevator, Walter took her hand in his and held it tightly. His palm was moist and hot. She glanced at the operator of the car and wondered what he was thinking. Nothing, probably. Nobody ever thought anything in a hotel unless you left your shades up.

Laura controlled an impulse to look at her watch. Bad enough I'm so cold-blooded, she thought, without having to time it. Must be early, though. Maybe we'll be through in time for me to have a talk with Madeline—I need it.

But Walter doesn't think I'm cold-blooded, she reminded herself. He thinks I'm a torrid little broad who knows how to have an affair without mixing it up with business or babies—or the thousand other obstacles that flesh is heir to!

The elevator doors silently opened, and Walter led her down the hallway. She could tell by the way he held her arm that it wouldn't take long—he was almost hurting her, and that meant he was in a hurry.

She wished she could laugh, but knew in her heart that she didn't think it was very funny at all. It was sad. Two basically nice and intelligent people killing time, she thought, as he stopped in front of his door and pushed the key into the hole; just like filling in a story to cover a two-column shortage. That never did work out right. That was forced and awkward. So was this.

“I'll mix us a drink,” Walter said softly, closing the door behind them.

His room smelled like a million other hotel rooms, and since he was such a meticulously tidy man, there was no indication that anyone was now inhabiting this room. How many girls, Laura wondered, have come into this room and, for one excuse or another, finished in bed . . . ?

She sighed and put her coat over the dumpy brown chair in the corner. “Ugly . . . ugly,” she whispered to the chair, though she had to admire its defiant existence. “You wouldn't last ten minutes around me . . .” she said to it.

“What was that, darling? I didn't hear you,” Walter asked, handing her a drink.

Laura laughed. “I was having an argument with that chair.”

He glanced over at it and smiled. “Goddamn ugly, isn't it?”

Laura glanced up at him quickly and felt another surge of companionship and warmth toward Walter. She had expected him not to understand her comment—or to make fun of it. And there he sat, good, reliable Walter, agreeing with her. She wanted to thank him, to tell him she appreciated him, but knew the words would never come out or, if they did, would only embarrass them both.

“Walter,” she said after a moment.

“Hmm?” He had taken off her shoes and was massaging her feet slowly, working up to her calves, taking the tension out of her muscles.

“How long have we known each other?”

He smiled without looking up. “Oh, I don't know. Several years, I guess.”

She nodded and was pleased that he didn't know exactly. There was something so routine about people who remembered dates and hours. “Walter?”

“Yes?”

She felt his grip tighten around her calf as she stretched back against the arm of the divan. It felt cool on her neck, and she closed her eyes.

His hand slid up under her dress and pressed the inside of her exposed thigh. Walter was half lying on her now, and she could feel his hard body against her legs, and his face buried in her abdomen.

As if coming from far off she heard herself cry out in a desperate, frenzied voice, “Kiss me, Walter. Please . . . kiss me now!”

T
he door was unlocked when Laura let herself into Madeline's apartment, feeling as tired as if she had built the apartment house by hand.

“Is that you, Laura?” Madeline's voice came from the kitchen.

“Yes.” Laura slouched onto the divan.

Madeline walked into the living room. She stared openly at Laura's hastily put-on clothes and her disheveled hair.

“How's Walter?”

Laura sighed. “Probably sleeping by now.”

Madeline laughed heartily. “Modest little tramp, aren't you?”

“No. Just a tired one.” Laura stretched languidly.

“How's my investment doing these days? Selling a million issues ?” Madeline sat down in the big armchair.

Laura laughed without humor. “Really want to know?”

“No. Just making conversation. Never talk about the war with battle-fatigued soldiers.”

Laura snorted in appreciation. There was a silence that seemed very restful—but Laura was in a hurry. She didn't know why, but she felt that time was running out, that she had to hurry or it would be too late. Abruptly she asked, “Did you know you're a twilight lady?”

Madeline almost choked. “A what?”

“Twilight . . .”

“I heard you. Who says?” Her attitude was amused and tolerant.

“Walter.”

“Oh.” She played with the catch on her wristwatch.

“Has he been reading Havelock Ellis again? I do wish he'd buy an up-to-date book. . . .”

“Did you know you've been seducing me?”

“That's nice. Did I enjoy it?”

“Suppose so—his source was rather vague on that.” Laura frowned slightly. “Why haven't you?”

“Why haven't I what?”

“Seduced me.”

“You've been busy.”

“Oh.”

Another short silence.

“Want a drink?” Madeline asked without making any attempt to rise.

Laura ignored her question. “What time is it?”

Glancing over her shoulder at the ornate wall clock, Madeline replied, “Little after midnight.” Then she turned to Laura and asked impishly, “Which of us is going to turn into the pumpkin, and which of us will be the prince?”

“How can you make fun of it?” Laura asked without rancor.

“Being gay?” Madeline asked as a matter of routine. “Used to it, I guess. Might as well laugh at it . . . I'm stuck with it. Like a Siamese twin. It's always with me no matter what I do.

“Besides,” Madeline went on, “I might as well accept it. Smarter brains than mine don't have any answers to offer. Some of my fondest memories are from the analyst's couch—also the most expensive.”

“Do you like men? Sexually, I mean?”

She looked at Laura thoughtfully, and Laura watched her as she would a friendly Martian.

“Sexually? Yes. I like men—it, or they, satisfy my animal feelings, my libido. Or perhaps I enjoy punishing myself, or men, by using them. It's emotionally that we don't dig each other.”

“I like you, Madeline. You're honest.”

“So was Christ,” Madeline joked, “and look what happened to him.”

Time was running out again for Laura: she wanted to get to the point. “Are you interested in me physically?”

Madeline sat back in her chair, and Laura couldn't help thinking that Madeline should really smoke a pipe for effect.

“I'm interested, as you put it, but I've been around a long time, Laura, and I've learned a few things. One is, never make passes at anyone who is your friend—unless you plan to make it serious.”

“Why?”

“Because people like me need friends more than we need a night's fun.” Her voice was calm and sincere.

“And you wouldn't be serious about me?”

Madeline came to sit on the arm of Laura's chair. She leaned over and kissed her forehead gently. “Baby, I'd like very much to be serious about you. But you're carrying a torch big enough to make the Statue of Liberty green with envy, and you've got a lot of decisions to make.”

“Ginny?” Laura asked softly. She could feel Madeline sigh and accepted her silence as confirmation.

“How do you know when you're a . . . lesbian?”

Madeline laughed sardonically. “You can talk to a million of them, and each one will believe she has the only answer. I personally think finding out is almost a matter of circumstance. Of course, there are many women with husbands and kids who are latent homosexuals but never know about themselves—perhaps they're better off.”

Madeline broke off, stared at the opposite wall. Then she shrugged. “It's just something you feel . . .”

Laura sensed that Madeline was trying to be as impartial as possible, for her sake, and yet had not quite succeeded. She thought over Madeline's comments, weighing them as they might apply to her, and mumbled almost to herself, “No matter who the man is, I'll always feel that something's missing. I know that now,” she smiled reminiscently. “But something will be missing either way. How do I know which is right?”

“Are you asking me to decide this for you?”

“Yes.”

Madeline got up. She stood looking at Laura, deliberating. Finally, she asked, “Want to do the rounds and see what it's like?”

Laura suddenly felt excited and awake. She had to find out . . . had to know what she was.... Maybe the “rounds” would help, and they certainly couldn't harm her. She had to choose her way, and now. If this was going to be her life, she wanted to know everything about it that could be learned—firsthand.

And she could trust Madeline. She would not have to be alone in a strange new world that both fascinated and repulsed her.

Laura nodded.

“Just let me take a fast shower and I'll be right with you,” she said slowly, trying to control her excitement.

“You may as well put on a pair of slacks, then.” A few minutes later Madeline went into the bedroom. She watched Laura dress.

“One thing,” Madeline said. “I don't want you to feel inhibited by me.”

“What do you mean?” Laura asked, pulling on her Capri slacks, the same ones she had worn to Tijuana.

“I mean that if you want to make friends with someone you see, or if you get an invitation to leave, feel free to do so. No strings.” Madeline studied Laura's body analytically. “I hope I'm doing the right thing.”

Laura laughed suddenly, feeling young and . . . gay. “If
you're
doing the right thing!”

Just as unexpectedly, Madeline laughed, too.

When Laura was dressed, they walked to the front door. She paused, looked into Madeline's calm and patient eyes, then hugged her affectionately. “Thank you,” she whispered.

They went out into the night air. Despite the late hour, there were still occasional strollers, and a few brave souls were sitting on the benches in Washington Square.

Laura kept pace with Madeline's quick step. She found herself peering into every window, noticing if the brownstone houses needed painting, noticing which streets were paved and which were cobblestone. Everything seemed to jump out at her for attention and closer scrutiny. She didn't feel like a tourist now—more like a general inspecting a regiment, checking the supplies, listening to the men's troubles. Laura felt that the Village was her home now; it was her responsibility, her charge. She had to know everything about it, grow with it, feel it.

Madeline said nothing, but evidently she had a destination in mind. Finally, they arrived at a drugstore on MacDougal and Third. She stopped in front of the telephone booth outside.

“This is it, Laura. The heartbeat of the Village, although you would find many who would disagree with me. Let's say it's the Times Square.”

Laura searched as if expecting to see some utterly distinctive characteristic that would set it apart from any other place in the world.

“Do you want to go on?” Madeline asked, half suggesting that Laura might have changed her mind.

“Yes.” She couldn't stop now, and she knew it.

Madeline stared at her a moment, then began to walk again but more slowly. She paused in front of a stairway leading up to a bar. She glanced at Laura only once before climbing the steps. Laura followed her. She could hear the loud jukebox. Inside, the run-down, unimaginative-looking bar was jammed with people. Mostly girls.

Madeline took Laura's hand and tugged her through the crowd, murmuring “Excuse me,” and “Pardon us,” as she went elbowing to the rear.

Laura saw that the rear was a little better-looking, but the tables lining the walls were strewn with beer bottles, cocktail glasses, and twisted cigarette packages. And crowded with women. She couldn't help staring at the customers, the girls dancing together or standing close.

Madeline put her arm around Laura's waist and began to dance, quite nonchalantly. “Might as well,” she explained, “there's no place to sit.”

She led Laura quite smoothly and silently for about five bars; then she said, “Keep your eyes on that corner spot. I think they're leaving.”

Laura nodded. But she wasn't really paying attention. She was torn between her own reactions and the fascination of just looking around. She was very conscious of Madeline's breath against her ear and found the softness of her cheek very pleasant. It seemed reasonable that Madeline's breasts were merged with her own, and that instead of a man's hard legs against hers, she found firm but rounded thighs.

Then she glanced at the corner table and saw a girl who wore a shirt and trousers standing next to the table, where two girls sat. The standing girl was talking and laughing with the younger of the two, who leaned toward her and seemed entranced. The third girl sat back rigidly in her chair; her pale mouth was compressed into a straight line.

“Fascinating, isn't it?” Madeline asked.

Laura knew she didn't expect an answer.

“C'mon,” Madeline said. “I think they're getting up to go.”

Laura followed her to the table. Madeline had been right. The table-hopper walked away with a smug expression as the other two silently put on their coats and left. Laura didn't envy them having to wade through the crowd of people in front.

She sat down at the table and really surveyed the room.

Madeline was apparently contented just to let her look her fill. She ordered two Scotches and then held Laura's hand. “Atmosphere,” she said lightly.

There was a commotion at the door. A safari of girls, leather-jacketed and short-haired, marched in.

“It's a goddamn invasion,” Laura said without meaning to be funny. “Occupation troops on leave . . .”

“You're not exactly a civilian,” Madeline said flatly.

“Touché.” Laura looked at Madeline for the first time since they had entered. “I just didn't know such places existed.... I wasn't being snide.”

The tall, blasé waitress placed their glasses in front of them. “Hello, Georgie,” Madeline said to her. “Who's here tonight?”

“Same crappy crowd, Del. Good to see you.”

“This is a friend of mine, Georgie. If she ever comes in alone, take care of her for me, will you?”

“On her way in, out, or just shopping?” Georgie's voice was toneless, uninterested, and ageless. Laura decided that Georgie would be a good person to know, to have as a reserve.

“She's shopping,” Madeline replied with a wink to Laura. Then to Georgie, “Got any bargains?”

The girl glared in a friendly way and grunted, “I'll keep an eye out for you.”

“Thanks,” Madeline said.

Georgie walked away with a lumbering precision. Laura would not have been surprised if she had pulled out a notebook and made a list of “bargains.”

“Why did you tell her that?” she asked Madeline.

“You are, aren't you?”

Laura sat a moment considering it. “You're too goddamn smart,” she told Madeline, yet she had to admit it was true. Still, it didn't seem as cold as all that, though her feelings didn't really enter into it at all....

What difference is there, she thought, between picking up a girl and a man? A man doesn't expect love from a pickup.... Why should a girl?

And suddenly Laura knew her “bargain” had arrived.