Another Kind of Love (16 page)

I
t was late. Dee had been working steadily since dinner. She stretched, feeling happy and fulfilled despite the tight ache of her muscles. She pulled off her yellow rubber gloves, now stained with chemicals, stared at the neat row of capped brown bottles as if they were an alien army frozen into immobility, then slowly rubbed the small of her back.

Yawning lightly, she removed the roll of film from the developing reel carefully and, having placed a clamp at one end and a weighted clamp at the other, deftly dried the negative roll with the squeegee. It was the fourth roll of 620 she had developed tonight. No wonder she was tired.

Dee glanced at the stopwatch she kept on a pushpin in the converted darkroom, and then remembered she had changed the time to twelve o'clock for the sake of convenience.

Rita had given her the watch on their first anniversary. How long now? Going on four years . . . no, going on three. It was hard to tell—so much had happened and yet so little. Dee almost smiled, wondering if other people had the same feeling about their lives. Probably not. Most people were normal.

She hung the negatives up to dry and walked through the kitchen into the living room to switch on the radio. WPAT was already off the air; that meant it must be past three in the morning.

“Where is that child?” Dee muttered to herself, half in concern and half in anger.

Impatiently, Dee turned the dial on her FM tuner, trying to find something besides Lawrence Welk or the news. Finally, she simply turned the damn thing off, too irritable and tired to bother with putting on records.

She glanced around the room from habit, looking for dirty ashtrays.... Rita couldn't stand dirty ashtrays. And the condition Rita would probably be in when she came home would not be a tolerant one—it seldom was. Alcohol merely aggravated Rita's normal hostility.

Dee walked back into the small, compact kitchen and put the kettle on for tea. Somehow the idea of more coffee at that hour of the morning wasn't appetizing. She leaned against the drainboard and stretched again. Without looking she knew the sudden weight on her foot was Cho-Cho-San. Dee leaned over and scratched Cho-Cho behind her ear and under her collar, taking equal pleasure from the animal's diesel-like purring. “Silly, no-good, crummy cat,” she said aloud and pulled her whiskers gently.

Cho-Cho's eyes blinked open, revealing round blue eyes full of mock scorn, then squinted as she yawned and feigned indifference.

“Where's your stepmother, Cho-Cho? Hmm?”

The cat raised herself elegantly and leaned against Dee's ankle.

Cho-Cho's ears went forward as the key on the latch sounded faintly downstairs while Rita obviously fumbled to fit it into the keyhole. Without hesitation, Cho-Cho bounded around the kitchen, through the living room, and up the stairs to the first floor and the front door, meowing as she went.

“Fickle creature,” Dee chuckled. Well, guess my errant wife is home, Dee thought wryly. Errant husband? Errant wife!

The door opened as Dee poured the boiling water into her special cup, unanticipated anger swelling in her as she heard Rita thump against the open door.

A man's muffled voice drifted down to her. “It was fun, baby, really great.”

A long silence. Then a soft moan from Rita. “Call me again . . . soon?” she heard Rita purr. Another long silence.

She stirred the sugar into her tea, her hands trembling slightly. Cho-Cho walked indolently back into the kitchen and crumpled on Dee's foot again.

Male and female murmurings for a minute or two more, and then the front door closed just loudly enough not to be considered “sneaking in.”

Dee heard Rita's footsteps overhead in their bedroom, a closet door open and shut, a heavy sigh, and then the stocking-footed steps on the staircase.

“Darling?” Rita called softly. “Are you down there?”

Sure, Dee was tempted to reply, me and five Village dykes having an orgy. Sorry you missed it. “Yes,” she said instead, her voice taut. “Having some tea. Want some?”

“No, thanks,” Rita replied, and cautiously came up to Dee and encircled her around the waist from behind. She kissed the back of Dee's neck slowly.

“Cut it out,” Dee ordered tightly. She couldn't stand to have Rita touch her after she'd been out on one of her dates. Nonetheless, she felt her blood rush to her temples, and an uncontrollable thrill through her body.

“You're so old-fashioned, darling.” Rita pouted.

She preceded Dee into the living room, dropping into the easy chair she and Cho-Cho shared.

“Your hair is mussed and your lipstick is smeared,” Dee said quietly. She sat down again opposite her on the sofa facing the fireplace.

“So what?” Rita said in a bored tone, but fussed with her shoulder-length black hair just the same. Automatically, she pressed her lips together in an effort to spread evenly what was left of her lipstick. “Really, Dee! You'd think I was going to bed with this guy, or something. You know it's just business.”

“There's a name for
that
kind of business,” Dee said harshly.

“You mean
whoring
?” Rita laughed. “And I suppose you don't? You've kissed plenty of asses to get where you are, and don't you forget it. Fat lot of nerve you've got calling me names.”

“At least you're eating and warm because of it.”

“There's all kinds of whoring,” Rita said, reaching down to pick up Cho-Cho. “I suppose you think I enjoy dating these guys,” Rita went on nuzzling the cat.

“I don't care whether you do or not—although I know damn well you do—but you don't have to stand in the hall necking with each and every one of them.”

“Necking!” Rita snorted. “What's to neck? It's not as if I meant it or told them I loved them. It's
business.”

It wouldn't have done any good to try to explain to Rita how she felt about their relationship. Rita could never understand Dee's feeling about being as much as “married”—that she loathed the idea of anyone else pawing Rita, taking her lips, even just holding her so that they, too, knew the wild hunger of wanting Rita's body. “How long have you been looking for a job?” Dee asked as calmly as she could.

“Why are we going into that now?” Rita countered, pretending heavy-lidded fogginess. “Which of my careers do you refer to—my modeling or my singing?”

“Careers! Plural?” Dee couldn't help laughing. “For a girl who hasn't worked in over a year, you're pretty lax with the language.”

“You're beginning to bore me, darling.” Rita's tone grew brittle.

“Pity,” Dee replied levelly. “If you didn't enjoy dating these hoodlums, you'd be able to see that all your charms are getting you exactly nowhere.”

“Hoodlums! They're agents, or executive producers.”

“That little runt you were out with day before yesterday was right out of a Mafia movie.”

“Oh, is that so! Well, for your information, he just happens to be the brother-in-law of one of Broadway's most influential personalities !”

“The sewer inspector, no doubt . . .”

Rita's lavender eyes flashed for an instant, and her face blanched with rage. Then, just as swiftly, her expression softened and the trace of a smile came to her lips as she pushed the cat off her lap and crossed over to where Dee sat. “Let's not argue. Please, Dee. Would you rather I took a job as an elevator operator somewhere?”

Dee stiffened imperceptibly, fearing the moment when Rita would bend forward and her perfume would wilt away all of her resolve. Yet her tone softened despite herself. “You know it's not the money, Rita. . . .”

“I know, baby,” she said in that intimate voice she saved for moments like this, “but it's not easy to break in—you know that.”

She leaned over and nuzzled her head against the nape of Dee's neck, letting her lips wander softly against her smooth skin.

Dee felt her hands go weak and a plaguing urgency creep into her lower abdomen. She half turned and pulled Rita over almost onto her lap, then clasped her head with her now hot hands. “You are beautiful, goddamn you.”

“Of course, sweetie ... but only to you.”

Dee knew Rita didn't believe that for a moment, but didn't feel like arguing the point now. She watched Rita close her eyes in anticipation of her kiss, and the knowledge that this beautiful girl was not only willing but asking for her kiss sent a shiver of desire through Dee she could not dismiss. But still she could not let her anger go so quickly. “Do they kiss you like this, Rita?”

She savagely pushed her teeth against Rita's mouth, sinking into its softness with cruel passion. “Or like this . . . ?” she asked, catching Rita's full lips into her own and softly pulling at them. “Or like this . . . ?” She plied her tongue into her mouth as if savoring the rarest forbidden fruit.

Rita became tense immediately but could not pull out of Dee's grasp. Dee felt herself losing control of her emotions—anger became rage and rage became fury. Rita's eyes opened and she stared with fear into Dee's cold, smiling expression.

“Don't worry,” Dee mouthed against Rita's lips, “I won't hurt your precious face.... I don't have the guts.”

She pushed Rita over more and, placing all her weight on top of her, held her with a strength she didn't know she possessed. “Tell me about the men you date for ‘business,' Rita. Tell me about how you hate their kisses. Come on, my little lover, you can tell me. I'm your soul mate, your spiritual companion—understanding, considerate, loving . . . ”

“Nothing! Nothing!” Rita choked in fright. “They never touched me—ever!”

“You don't expect me to believe that when I can hear you time after time cooing at the door, letting their sloppy mouths run all over your face . . .”

“All right!” Rita screamed. “All right, you bitch! You want the truth?” Her body struggled against Dee's and finally threw her off balance.

“You're goddamn right I've gone to bed with some of them. Lots of them. Why not? Do you think I'm like you? Women aren't enough for me!
You're
not enough for me! I need men and I need their bodies and I need their attention. You think you can coop up someone with my looks in this apartment night after night?” Her eyes narrowed to pencil lines across her face. “And I'll tell you something, darling, I enjoyed every friggin' minute!”

The room was silent with deadly stillness except for Rita's hands rubbing her bruised wrists.

Dee let her head fall into her hands with such abject self-loathing, she couldn't look at Rita. She had never in her life felt such violent rage or allowed herself to behave so cruelly—in fact, it was almost as if she had not done this at all. Someone else had this sadistic streak, not Dee Sanders. Not the cool, self-possessed, kind and compassionate Mrs. Sanders to whom everyone came with their problems and whom they thought of as such a good-natured, affable gal—a woman of talent, breeding, and character.

“Oh, Christ,” Dee moaned. “Rita . . .”

“Save it!”

“No . . . I want to tell you. . . . I don't know what came over me.” She was sick with rage and jealousy. “I love you. . . .”

Suddenly, Rita came over to her and kneeled in front of her, kissing her lightly on her forehead and eyes. “I know, darling; I know. Don't torture yourself . . . you didn't mean it.” She laughed lightly, and her eyes became purpled with sudden passion. “It's not as if you'd done this before . . .”

“I swear to you it'll never happen again, Rita. I swear it.”

She pulled Dee's head to her breast and rocked gently. “Shh. I had it coming. I forget how hard it must be for you, waiting for me, not knowing . . .”

“I don't want to know, Rita. Don't tell me. Don't talk about it. Not now.” She pressed her face closer to Rita's breasts, letting their warmth pass into her flesh, the contact draining her of any other thought.

“I love you, too, darling. I love you. . . .”

They clung to each other like frightened children in a witch-haunted fairy tale, like Hansel and Gretel. Dee wished to God she could forget that Rita was not always like this—close, sweet, womanly. They had good moments—rich moments filled with love and tenderness; precious moments with such complete understanding that Dee would almost cry with gratitude.

But not enough of them. Never enough.

“I had no right,” Dee went on mumbling. “There was no excuse . . .
could
be no excuse for such sick violence no matter what you or anyone had ever done. It's just that I needed you so badly tonight. . . .”

“I'm here, darling; I'm here. Shh. It's all right. I belong to you. . . . You can do anything you want. As long as you let me stay with you—don't send me away.”

“Away?” Dee smiled. “I couldn't. It would be like sentencing myself to hell. . . .”

Rita lifted Dee's head and gently laid her back on the couch. Slowly she began unbuttoning her blouse and looked into Dee's eyes with such desire that Dee felt she would burst. She sat down next to Dee, letting her hands touch her everywhere.

“Take my bra off, darling,” she whispered. “You take it off as if you were discovering me for the first time. . . .”

“Christ,” Dee said to herself. “Oh, Christ . . .”

D
on't open your eyes and you won't wake up, Dee thought. She wanted to enjoy a leisurely Saturday morning for a change. She tried not to think about the three undeveloped rolls of film in the refrigerator, almost calling for her to get up. With a small sigh of desperation, she rolled over and curled around Rita's warm flesh. Rita slept nude no matter what the season.

But it was too hot to stay in bed. Heat prickles were already beginning up her back. Besides, there was that damned film. Actually, she was pretty excited about it—a new formula for direct positives she'd read about recently. But to avoid any possible arguments with Rita she had said it was work for the office. Well, trying out new methods was part of her job, wasn't it?

It was apparent from the beginning that Rita strongly resented anything that took Dee's attention away from her. Even if they weren't talking or really going to do anything, she just wanted Dee there—on call. Particularly, Rita resented the time Dee spent in the darkroom. It was an alien world to her and one which she had no wish to learn about.

At first, Dee had been only too glad to surrender unconditionally to the passion of their love. But she had to have an interest outside of this; she couldn't go on and on, night after night, staring limpid-eyed by candlelight into Rita's eyes. No one could—not constantly. She had her job and had to work hard at it—and her job was really her way of life because she loved it. But photography took time.

After almost a year of arguments about the time Dee spent working at home, she finally gave up and simply began staying late at the office.

Finally, Rita lost her job—or so she said—as a fashion model at one of the private, select dress shops on East 58th Street. Seemingly she couldn't work anywhere else except maybe a one-shot job here or there. She complained bitterly about being lonely and bored but didn't seem to want to do anything; she couldn't concentrate on a book, and the idea of school was evidently too humorous even to consider.

It was then Rita decided to pursue a singing career. She began taking lessons from some gin-soaked ex-opera star in the Village, a self-anointed genius who swore that without her the birds would only croak. Ever since then, Rita had been awaiting her “break” and making the agency rounds.

Strange, Dee half smiled, how lives twist and turn, emotions change, and attitudes shift without conscious awareness. She could not honestly say that her present resentment against Rita was really justified—perhaps it was she who had changed.... Or perhaps it was just that time had changed her more than Rita. Only now was she really aware of how much the physical had blinded her to their basic incompatibility, how the excitement of the moment had blurred the narrowness of their relationship. How dangerously she had misjudged the quality of Rita's attention. Rita's possessiveness had become suffocating.

Even so, Rita was the greater victim of this. Dee knew how deep and terrifying the fears and insecurities were that drove the girl to such destructive behavior.

Poor Rita . . .

With a sudden tender moment she bent down and brushed her lips against Rita's warm neck.

“Umm.” Rita turned slightly and pulled away from her.

“Don't blame you,” Dee whispered opening one eye into the shaded room. She sat up slowly, careful not to wake Rita, who liked to sleep late. The clock on the bed stand read nine. The heat had become more oppressive. Like an oven already, she thought, putting on her slippers. “Cremation: For Fun and Profit,” she muttered aloud.

“What? What did you say?” Rita asked sleepily.

“Nothing, honey. Go back to sleep.”

“Jesus! Must be dawn . . . it's so hot . . . Please try to be more quiet. . . .” She turned over onto her stomach, and her breathing became heavier and slower.

Must be quiet, must be quiet, Dee thought with mock anger. Stop that noise up there! She crept into the bathroom, dressed, and went downstairs to feed Cho-Cho and treat herself to her morning coffee.

She set to work in the converted downstairs bathroom and soon lost track of time. She coveted these precious hours alone with the challenge and excitement, which she had never lost over the years.

Later, as she was in the final stages of washing the last roll, she heard the kettle bang on the stove loudly.

“How long you been in there?” Rita called, her voice still husky with sleep.

“Morning, sunshine,” Dee tried to make her voice sound cheerful and bright.

“Christ!” Rita's petulant tone scratched at Dee's taut nerves. “It's past one. You can at least come out and have coffee with me—if it isn't too inconvenient.”

Dee's hands shook slightly as she held the hose inside the tank and kept an eye on the watch. “Ah . . . sure, honey,” she said lightly. “Just a couple minutes and I'll be through. Okay?”

“I guess so. What difference would it make?”

Dee could hear Rita's furry slippers shuffle across the tile floor to the round table near the divider. “Good morning, Cho-Cho, baby. Come here, sweetie . . .
you
keep me company.”

Good God! Dee cursed silently, but went on washing the film.

“I hope you didn't forget the party tonight,” Rita yelled accusingly.

“No . . . 'course not! Babs's place, isn't it?” She threw in the name just to prove she hadn't forgotten.

“I'm not going to yell at you all morning. Come out here and talk.”

Dee placed the clamps and hung the negatives from the line over the three-quarter tub. She quickly washed her hands and, still drying them, entered the kitchen and sat down.

“No kiss?”

“Sorry.” Dee stood up again, performed the duty, then put the kettle on again and prepared her coffee.

“Get any interesting pictures?” Rita asked after a moment.

Dee nodded and smiled. It was Rita's way of apologizing for being so cranky. “A few. What time are we expected tonight?”

“Around eight, but I think it's silly to show up before ten. Everyone's so dull before they've had enough to drink. You know, if it hadn't been for me, all of Babs's parties would've been a flop. The way they all just sit around like friendly strangers—no action, no life.”

“They all like to hear you sing, honey.” Dee hoped she'd said the right thing.

“What about you?” Rita pouted playfully.

“I like anything you do.”

Rita patted her hand across the table. “You're sweet.”

Something in her tone embarrassed Dee, but she managed a modest smile nonetheless. “I was thinking about just the two of us going out for dinner tonight,” she offered without having thought of it at all. “Someplace cozy in the Village, maybe.”

“Wonderful. Could we go to Dino's? Oh, please, darling. Could we?”

That did it, Dee said to herself. There was only one other thing that melted her besides Rita's physical nearness, and that was her exuberant little-girl side. It undid her; that was a better description. “Is that the new place that just opened?” She tried to sound offhand, but her voice betrayed her consent.

“New place, old place—new management, new decor but the same crowd. It's mixed, so we won't really have to worry about being ‘seen' there. Lots of off-Broadway people go there—you know the crowd. It would be such a wonderful thing to gloat over at Babs's later.”

“Of course we can,” Dee said. She had never been able to really understand or break Rita of the habit of having to gloat before her friends. She realized that it was probably a hangover from Rita's childhood. No wonder Rita coveted luxury and all things that meant status and prestige.

She'd driven by Rita's former home with her once. It was on a main truck route in New Jersey—dismal, depressing, and heavy with the odor of nearby factories. Her parents had died since then. Strange. Rita had often said they hated each other, but when her mother died it was only very shortly thereafter that her father died. No will to live, the doctor had said, plus a bad heart.

“Let me fix you some breakfast, darling,” Rita said, jumping up with enthusiasm. She hummed softly as she pulled the bacon out of the refrigerator and broke the eggs into a shallow blue bowl. Suddenly, she turned, holding her wet hands up like a surgeon. “I do love you, Dee. Don't pay any attention to me when I'm bitchy. Just remember that I love you.”

She walked over and kissed Dee gently on the mouth.

“I love you, too,” said Dee, but she wondered silently, how can I not pay any attention to your moods, darling? All the compassion and understanding in the world doesn't make a situation any easier or more pleasant. A sharp, smokey aroma of burning food broke through her thoughts. “The bacon!” she cried aloud in dismay.

They laughed together and, after rescuing the imperiled breakfast, sat down to discuss what they would do and what they would wear that night. The afternoon passed swiftly, and they were delighted with each other. No arguments. Today Dee genuinely wanted to look dewy-eyed, into Rita's eyes. Today she could.

Dinner was good. The atmosphere was romantic. Time just seemed to evaporate. Before they knew it, Dee was following Rita into the elevator in the apartment on Seventy-eighth Street and West End, pushing the button for the fifth floor.

The muffled, discordant sounds of a party drifted through the door of the apartment. Dee hoped desperately she might meet someone to talk to at least. Babs's get-togethers were usually party-packed with assorted little swishes bustling, and a garden variety of bull dykes who looked as though they had just parked their trucks outside. Occasionally, Babs would invite some interesting-looking woman, and Dee would experience a flickering hope for salvation. But either Rita would manage to make the woman so uncomfortable she wouldn't talk to Dee, or the intelligent appearance was deceiving, and upon closer observation Dee would only encounter the nearsighted frown of some illiterate lovely too vain to wear glasses.

“Hi, kids, come on in. We'd about given you up.” A short, dark girl—Babs's latest love—let them in as Babs herself came toward them, lumbering with her easy, boyish gait.

She shook hands firmly with Dee and then placed her arm around Rita's shoulder. “Okay, everybody, here they are. Dee . . . and Rita.”

Some heads turned, nodding briefly, but most of the guests were too preoccupied with their drinks or their own trick for the evening.

“Sorry we're so late,” Dee began in apologetic greeting.

“We were having such a divine time at Dino's,” Rita interrupted, her voice shrill with forced gaiety. “The new place, you know. We just forgot what time it was.”

Well, she got it in, Dee thought wryly. She watched a scrawny young man come swooping toward them. “Isn't she gorgeous! Do introduce me, Babs; I want her to tell me
all
her beauty secrets.”

Babs roared with laughter, Rita tittered modestly, and Dee wished she were in her darkroom again. Rita waved merrily to a sallow-faced young girl at the other end of the room and glided toward her while the young man followed her with a frighteningly accurate imitation.

Babs slapped Dee lightly on the back. “Drive me nuts if I had to live with someone as beautiful as Rita.”

“You get used to it.” Dee smiled.

“Say, I'm glad you're here. One of the gals brought a friend from out of town and she's been sitting like a turtle all evening. Seems nice enough, but she won't talk to anyone. Would you help me out and see what you can do? Ask her to dance, or something? I'm a decorator, not a diplomat.”

“Which one?” Dee asked warily.