Another Kind of Love (18 page)

M
artie Thornton was quite petite, actually, but her strapless sheath dress exposed the lean sinews in her arms and back, giving an impression of great physical strength. Dee watched her with rapt fascination, and for the first time in quite a while she was genuinely enjoying herself. Even though she had not really wanted to come tonight, the dinner had been very good, Babs and Rita had unintentionally brought her into their conversation by discussing the difficulties of getting good publicity pictures, and, best of all, the coffee had been delicious.

Dee felt a warm rapport with everything around her, and by the time Martie had walked up to the piano, Dee was prepared to relax and be entertained. The singer had come on with a perfectly blank expression, stood absolutely still for a suspenseful minute, and suddenly begun belting out a song in a voice that Dee was sure came from under the floorboards.

Martie Thornton wasn't just an entertainer—she was a way of life.

Some of her songs were bawdy, and she managed deftly to bring allusions about the gay kids into every conceivable tune. But when she sang a torch song, Dee felt that she had known Martie a long, long time and that she was singing it out for everyone who had ever been in love—or wished they could be. She had the kind of deep and sensitive approach to a song that many great ballad singers have—a sort of abandonment to the mood of the moment.

Dee knew she would like Martie, and she was glad when the last song was over and Martie was taking her bows. Finally, the lights in the club went on, and with a broad smile, Martie came toward them with surprisingly graceful movements.

“What is this?” she asked Babs with a throaty laugh. “I don't see you for a thousand years, and all of a sudden I can't get rid of you. Starting up a fan club?”

Dee was tempted to give Rita a significant I-told-you-so look, but let it go. She was trying to interpret Rita's facial expression. It was a mask of polite interest. But Dee was certain that underneath it Rita was asking herself how a woman like Martie got to the top when she couldn't even begin. A combination of jealousy and admiration—but the latter was grudging, Dee was sure.

Babs made the introductions with unconcealed pride, and Martie sat down at their table. She signaled the waiter.

“Joe”—she gestured a large circle—“once around on me.”

“That's very nice of you,” Rita said demurely.

Martie laughed. “It is, isn't it?”

Dee had difficulty not letting her smile become a guffaw. That took the wind out of Rita's sails, all right!

“. . . and it'll just be a small group,” Babs was saying. “I thought you might like to come by after the show. If we were all real nice to you, maybe you'd even sing a song for us.”

Dee waited and watched Martie as she held their attention while she lit a cigarette. She exhaled the smoke carefully, inspected the end of the ash microscopically, and much to Dee's surprise, winked at her. “When did you say this party was going to be?”

“Soon,” Rita answered for Babs hastily.

“Hm. Well now. Saturdays I have free and I'm usually home most of the day. Tell you what, Babs. You come by and decorate my apartment at no charge, and I'll sing at your party . . . gratis.”

“What do you mean?” Babs spurted.

“Just that. I make my living with my voice—you with your decorating talents. If you wouldn't consider giving away your time in trade, why should I?” She smiled broadly, showing neat, white teeth. “Would you ask Miss Sanders here to take your picture for nothing?”

“How did you know . . . ?” Dee asked.

Martie's hand waved away the rest of her question. “One of my ex-girlfriends was a camera bug . . . used to yak constantly about the work you did with . . . buildings, wasn't it?”

“In a way. I specialize with architecture and city mood studies.” She felt Rita's foot under the table.

“I didn't know you were so famous, darling,” Rita said.

“Devil his due,” Martie commented. “What do you do, Miss . . .”

Rita straightened up perceptibly. “Evans . . . but just call me Rita. I used to model, but now I'm studying voice. Of course, I'd never be able to compete with you, but I think I could develop my own style. . . .”

“But what about the party?” Babs interrupted.

Dee wouldn't have given odds on Babs's chance of survival if it were up to Rita at that moment. But she, too, was now interested in the outcome of this future event.

“I'll stop by, honey,” Martie answered warmly, “if I can. I just don't like to be conned into anything. But don't rely on me to sing. If I feel like it, nothing would stop me. . . . If I don't, well, trying to make me is like trying to pull a stubborn mule out of a mudhole.” She turned and took in Rita shrewdly. “But I'm sure you don't need me. Rita here looks like she would be entertaining even if she couldn't carry a tune in a bucket.”

“Thank you,” Rita said softly.

Dee wasn't so sure it had been a compliment, but didn't want to analyze it now, fearing she would miss one of Martie's marvelously unabashed comments.

Conversation stayed in high, with Martie asking Rita and Babs questions about themselves, showing a great interest in what they said. Suddenly, she stood up. “Well, kids, it's been nice. I've got a change to make, so if you're still around I'll see you later.”

“I'm afraid I've got to be at work early tomorrow,” Dee said. “But Rita can stay if she wants.”

“No, no. I want to get a few things done tomorrow, too.”

Dee recognized the maneuver of not seeming too anxious and briefly wondered if Martie recognized it, too. Babs mumbled something.

“It was nice meeting you two,” Martie said warmly. “By the way,” she added after a moment, “can I reach you at your office, Miss Sanders?”

“Usually,” Dee answered, perplexed.

“I'd like you to recommend a good portrait photographer for me, if you would.”

Dee smiled slowly. “That's not much of a bargain,” she said lightly. “You can't recommend anything for me.”

Martie grinned impishly. “Oh, yes, I can . . . but you're already taken.” She vaguely saluted Rita. “About ten tomorrow morning? Fine.”

She smiled once around the table again and walked off, leaving Dee feeling quite pleased with herself. She was rarely singled out that way. Usually Rita's beauty or her constant line of chatter forced Dee into the background, almost as a straight man for her. It was interesting, Dee thought, how Martie made her feel not so much feminine as womanly. She seemed to hit a responsive chord that by now Dee had decided must be out of tune from neglect.

Dee glanced over at Babs first to get a reaction estimate and, from her blank expression, knew that Rita was burning.

“Well!” Rita thrust coldly. “Aren't we the little impression maker!”

Babs cleared her throat carefully and picked up the check with unusual enthusiasm. “Okay, girls, check's on me tonight. Guess we might as well go home.”

Rita smirked. “ ‘We might as well' is right!” Her smile was icy as she turned to Dee. “I'm glad you're not in the theater, darling. Your upstaging would get you a terrible reputation.”

“I hardly said two words,” Dee offered quietly. She didn't want to get into an argument in public but, on the other hand, could not allow herself to be completely trampled.

“That's right,” Rita snickered. “I forgot how famous you are—everyone knows who Dee Sanders is. The photographer, you know. Not just everyone can do what she can with a box of tin and glass.”

“C'mon, now, Rita. Martie talked most of the time with you, didn't she?” Babs asked in a consoling tone.

“But she didn't offer to call me!” Rita's eyes flashed as she spoke. “Or make any suggestive remarks.”

“She was just trying to bolster my ego so that I wouldn't feel like a dud next to you,” Dee said calmly.

It was evidently the correct thing to say; it shut Rita up. Dee knew Rita well enough to know that she only needed a thread to hang her rationalizations on, and her overactive vanity would carry her the rest of the way.

“Sure,” Babs said. “And she's not likely to forget who you are this way, either.” She looked quickly to Dee for confirmation.

That was one thing Dee could say on Babs's behalf: she couldn't stand to see anyone maligned.

“Are you two going to pat each other on the back all night or are we going home?” Rita said bitterly.

What's the use? Dee asked herself. To answer Rita's questions was like sticking your head in a hungry lion's mouth.

She picked up her purse and followed Rita and Babs past the small tables crowded with people talking and laughing. She wondered how many of them “knew” that they were gay as they walked by. Or maybe some of them were gay themselves, managing to “pass” somehow. It must be nice to be just plain ordinary people—straight and without self-consciousness.

As they stepped out of the cool restaurant into the hot, airless night, Dee glanced almost pitifully at Rita. This being gay is like being a dope addict, she thought: compulsive, cunning, destroying. You can't live with it—or without it.

Perhaps she should go see an analyst again.
Again,
she laughed mirthlessly. One consultation and I'm saying
again
. She remembered clearly the visit she had made four years before—the dark green walls of his office, the mahogany desk polished and unmarred, the wall of books: Jung, Adler, Freud, and many other names she was totally unfamiliar with. Big books, fat books, filled with one human's appraisal of other humans. She had sat waiting for him thinking, what would he say to her?

Well, that would solve her problem nicely. Or perhaps he would simply suggest a little self-discipline. Nothing with her except that she'd fallen into a bad habit.

But she was unprepared when he turned, closed the door behind him, and sat down at his desk without a smile.

“How are you?” he had asked.

“Fine, thank you,” she smiled uncertainly. “And you?”

Finally! A slow smile came across his face. She didn't like the smile. “You're not here to find out about me, are you.” He hadn't asked it; he'd told her.

She'd shifted noisily in her chair—damn squeaking leather chairs. “In a way,” she'd laughed. “After all, I understand it's important that I trust you.” She was sorry as soon as it came out. It was so adolescently flip.

“I'm not a surgeon—I'm not going to cut into you. It is important that you trust yourself, your motives, and your desire to learn about yourself.” He smiled again, and she was struck by what she thought to be the coldest blue eyes she'd ever seen.

“Well . . .” she began, “I'm not even really sure that I need take up your time this way, even though I am paying you for it. I mean, I'm not despondent or anything. I don't plan to kill myself. . . .”

“You don't think you should have to pay me?”

“Oh, well, of course you should get paid. It's your profession. I didn't mean . . .”

“Just what brought you to me?”

There was something so terribly unctuous about him. What right did he have—who the hell did he think he was, her father? “Are you trying to make me uncomfortable deliberately?” she asked self-righteously.

“Are you uncomfortable?”

Oh, Christ! Why had she bothered at all. “Perhaps . . . perhaps I made a mistake coming here at all.” She started to stand up, clutching her purse as though he would take it from her and go through its contents.

“As long as you are paying me for a full fifty minutes, why don't you stick it out and get your money's worth?”

Well! That was better. He wasn't being so smug now.

He waited for her to sit down again, then asked, “Is there any special problem that's bothering you . . . or just general depression ?”

“l suppose most of your patients are depressed,” she stated.

“Mrs. Sanders, we're not here to discuss my health or the emotional state of my other patients. Shall we talk about you?”

Why did he have to make her feel so defensive? Perhaps this was part of the analytical process—bait you to see how you react. She suddenly realized that every muscle in her body was taut, and she forced herself to relax them.

“I'm sorry,” she said after a moment. “I've never been to an analyst before.... I don't know what to expect or how to behave.”

He leaned back in his chair slowly. “You're not in front of TV cameras . . . and I'm not here to judge you or make you follow any social patterns. You do as you please. Pace up and down, if you like . . . stare out the window . . . anything you like. But I'm not a magician. I can't begin to be of use to you until you tell me what's on your mind.”

She sighed heavily. “Depression, as you put it. I just feel so damn lost most of the time, so completely out of pace with everything.” She'd paused and taken a deep breath. “I think, I think part of it has to do with the fact that I'm a lesbian.”

“Should that depress you?”

“Well,” she said indignantly, “don't you think it should?”

“Only if you don't want to be one.”

“I—I don't know. I'm not sure.”

“How long have you considered yourself a lesbian?”

“That's a hell of a question to ask!”

“Really?”