Another Kind of Love (19 page)

“What is there to consider? You either are or you aren't. Isn't that right?”

“If you're so sure, why do you ask?” He sat forward and gazed at her intently.

“Well, if this is all there is to analysis—asking a lot of stupid questions and giving silly answers—then I really did make a mistake in coming.”

He continued to gaze at her.

“I had my first experience about a year and a half ago!” She almost hurled the information at him. “I have been a practicing lesbian since then. I like it. I like women.”

“You don't like men? But you were married?”

“To an idiot!”

“What about other men?”

“Oh . . .” She was so exasperated she was ready to cry. “I like men, too. But not the same way. Before I'd been introduced to this sort of thing, I thought I liked them fine.”

“But since then?” He opened the desk drawer and peered into it, then pulled out a pad of paper and a dull pencil.

“I don't feel anything for them . . . other than as friends. I like them as companions . . . but physically they don't move me. I'd just as soon hug my pillow.”

“You find women more appealing?” he asked.

“Infinitely. I can get stimulated by a woman . . . the fact that her skin is smooth and she smells of perfume . . . that she can be seductive and womanly . . .”

“Something a man cannot be?”

“Well . . . not very well, can he? I mean, he would have to be a woman.”

“Why do you think you feel this way?”

“That's what I came to ask you.” She smiled and for the first time began to feel more at ease. “After all, I came from a decent home; I've had no horrible experiences with men. . . . It was just sort of all-of-a-sudden.”

“Many lesbians come from socially sound homes, had the usual advantages, and were spared any traumatic experiences with men . . . yet they became lesbians. Frankly, Mrs. Saunders”—he glanced at his watch and then smiled at her—“we don't really know that much about the subject yet. We don't know why these things happen in cases like yours. We don't even know if we can cure such cases . . . but we do the best we can. But the final outcome rests with you. It's your decision.”

They had discussed a bit more what analysis could be expected to do and what it could not—a world of a person's hope held in a few sentences.

He glanced at his watch again and this time indicated the session was over. “I'd like to see you again and talk about this some more. Make the appointment with my nurse before you leave, will you?”

Dee sat very still now, as she had with those words. A little numb—not quite knowing what to do with herself. He had walked her to the door and opened it for her, a different door from the one through which she had come in.

Was it really only four years ago? she asked herself. It seemed like it was from another life altogether . . . about someone she knew intimately—but not herself. She'd made the appointment but never gone back. After all, she had told herself, she couldn't really afford it. It had been an impulsive thing to do. And since they didn't really know that much about it to begin with—well, then, why go back?

If she had to choose . . . Rita would win. Rita would always win. She needed Rita in a way she could never explain to anyone else, much less herself. Rita was just a part of her, good or bad.

But Lord! Rita could make her life a hell!

H
er office window was dirty with summer dust and exhaust fumes even though she was on the twenty-first floor. Dee could see the miragelike effect from the tops of the other buildings with heat distortion. New York. A hell or a haven. It was what your mood was, because all you had to do was cross the street to find a new world.

She wished she could feel the same about people. Dee could enjoy a city without any need to possess it. But she couldn't do this with people.

They frightened and bored her at the same time. All but a select few, and she could never tell how they had become her “select few,” or why. Like Jerry Wilson, for instance, whom she was having lunch with today. She had not particularly liked him when they'd met seven years ago. He was just another one of her ex-husband's strange friends—a homosexual, and proud of it.

It was all so long ago, she thought. She was just a scrub-faced twenty-year-old whose arms and legs were always in the way.

Dee snorted silently. A newlywed! she thought wryly. Married a year already and just beginning to enjoy the love-turned-to-hatred she felt for her husband. The sweet joy of looking at him and thinking, “You're a nothing!” Why it was sweet, she was not too certain, except, perhaps, because it helped to bury the hurt she had covered up so many times when he had gone out of his way to be rude or sadistic. Because it helped to make her feel that when their marriage broke up—and it would—it was not going to be her fault. He would have done it to himself.

She had been ready to make a home for him, to have his children, and had oftentimes thought of them sitting around on a Saturday afternoon, out on the Island in their own tract home somewhere. Maybe Pete would be giving the oldest child piano lessons or something, and she would sit out on the porch on a hot day, keeping a motherly eye on the youngest of the brood, hearing the sounds of music, hesitant and awkward, as the lesson went on.

Dreams. Dreams that became nightmares in their mockery. But Jerry had somehow sensed her need for her dreams and had also known that Pete would never be the man to make them come true. Jerry Wilson had taken it upon himself to be a booby prize. He would help with the dishes after Pete would push his way from the table and stretch out on the couch to watch the fights. Jerry would take her to the theater, or to museums, or to the zoo, just to get her out of their West Side tenement apartment.

She had to work even then, of course, while finishing her college studies. Pete wouldn't. Pete was a musician, not an office slave. He was a composer, not an aspiring corporation idiot.

Dee had often wondered why Jerry put up with him . . . or her.

She smiled as she thought of those hot summers and freezing winters, of the many times they were happy to get one meal for the day from the pitiful savings in the sugar bowl. Pete had to have scored paper; she had to have film. He had to rent a practice studio; she had to rent a darkroom with enlarging facilities. What with the bare necessities for their respective fields plus what they needed in rent and clothes, money for food was a luxury. In fact, now as she thought about it, their closest moments after their first year together had been those occasions when they would pass a restaurant and the almost fablelike aromas of exotic cooking would taunt them in the street—then, a look would pass between them that held them in compassionate bondage.

It's strange, Dee thought, how a respect for hunger can keep two people together just a little while longer—even arguing helps to take the gnawing out of your stomach for a while.

The phone rang dully in the background, and Dee knew her reverie was over. She almost didn't want to let it go despite the unpleasantness of it. At least it was normal, she decided. I could talk about my depressions or have a loud fight with Pete and not worry about what the neighbors would “find out.” I could confide in friends about our problems and know it was a part of their world, too—something they could honestly understand.

“Mrs. Sanders,” Karen Lundquist's voice called her on the intercom.

“Yes, Karen.” Dee smiled quietly at the sound of Karen's voice. It always had just a touch of awe about it, and Dee enjoyed the fact that even after almost two years, Karen still called her Mrs. Sanders.

“A Miss Thornton on the phone. Says you're expecting her call.”

“Miss Thornton?” Dee searched her memory for a moment and then answered. “Oh, yes! Put her on, Karen. And go powder your nose or something . . . it's private.”

A light laugh came from the other end. “I'm not now, nor have I ever been, a member of the FBI,” Karen answered in mock reproof.

“I know you motherly types,” Dee said. “Always wanting to keep us old maids out of trouble.”

“You're hardly what I'd call the old-maid type! Besides, eavesdropping always gives me a headache.”

Dee watched the intercom light go out in the button and come on again, signifying the transfer had been made.

“Martie! I'm glad you remembered to call.”

“Hello, there.” Martie's voice came over the line with such force that Dee had to hold the receiver away from her ear.

“I made up a pretty hasty list for you this morning,” Dee said.

“List? What list?”

“You asked me for some portrait photographers. Remember?”

“Oh, that. Yeah. Tell you what, Dee. How about meeting me for lunch and we can discuss it. I know of a wild Armenian joint not too far from your office.”

“You seem to know a lot about me and my surroundings,” Dee said, not a little unflattered. “Thanks, but no thanks. I have a luncheon date today.”

“Tomorrow? C'mon, woman. I'm making a frantic pitch and I expect some cooperation.” Martie's voice was hearty and good-natured.

“No. I really can't, Martie. But don't think I wouldn't love to.”

“Your friend jealous? I'm trustworthy, you know. And I help old ladies across the street.”

Dee laughed. “You know that and I know that. But my friend might misinterpret the situation. I'm sure you've been through it yourself.”

“Man, I invented it! Okay. I get the message and I respect the fact that at least you play it square. I thought you would.”

“Is there any other way?” Dee surprised herself with her own coyness.

“Not for people like you and me.”

There was no doubt of her sincerity, and Dee felt a warm glow creep into her face. “Do you still want the list?”

Martie laughed. “Sure. Shall I say you sent me?”

“Would you understand if I asked you to leave my name out of it?”

“Yes.”

Dee read off the six names she had gathered together, and she told Martie what each of them did best, so that she could choose. Dee couldn't shake the feeling that she was up to something terribly wicked as she talked. Actually, she felt as though she were flirting with a man, yet the knowledge that Martie was a woman made it doubly forbidden. It was, however, very safe and only a friendly admission of an immediate attraction between them. Nothing else.

“All right, kid. That should wrap it up. Hope I didn't put you to too much trouble.”

“No. Of course not.” Dee wanted to say something to let Martie know she really liked her . . . but she became embarrassed and couldn't.

“Well, guess I won't be able to see you for a while. I'm leaving for Europe next week . . . with a booking in London and Paris for sure. Lord knows what else will happen.”

“Sounds great,” Dee said, almost enviously. Even though she was going to Europe herself soon, she would never be able to have the inner sense of freedom and adventure that seemed so much a part of Martie's makeup.

“Can I call you when I get back?” Martie asked after a moment.

“Only if you want to talk to Rita, too.” What else could she say?

“No. I don't have enough time to put up with her or to hang around waiting for you. But if you're ever free—or want a friend real bad—look me up. My agent can always find me.”

Odd, Dee thought, I hardly know this woman and I almost feel like crying. “Thanks,” she offered awkwardly.

“Well, so long, then. Good luck.”

“Same to you, Martie. Same to you.”

A short silence. “Bye, Dee.”

“Bye,” she answered almost in a whisper. The line went dead. She wanted to call Martie back and tell her something—anything. But she knew she wouldn't. She couldn't. What was there to say. Dee replaced the receiver, staring at her hand as she let it rest on it.

She didn't hear Karen's light rap in the open doorway connecting their offices. “I've got the August proofs for you, Mrs. Sanders. Production is all up in the air, claiming we're not going to have enough room for the ads if we don't cut some of the contest copy.”

“Oh. Thanks, Karen.” She turned and looked up at Karen's young, steady eyes and thought she saw a strange expression clouding the usually pansy, soft green color. “Problems?” she asked, turning back to her desk, with the proofs in her hand.

“No. Everything's fine . . . considering.”

“Like what?”

“Oh. Nothing really serious, just several little things I'd like a chance to talk over with you, some time at lunch maybe. I'm having an awful time getting the right exposures with my flash . . . things like that.”

“Who doesn't?” Dee smiled. But she knew that this wasn't quite true. She also knew Karen pretty well by now, and there was more on her mind than flash photography.

“How about lunch tomorrow?” she asked Karen. She tried to sound as offhand as possible.

“Swell. My treat.”

“Oh, no. You'd just take me to Nedick's on your income. I'll put you on the expense account as Peter Basch or someone. We'll do it up right.”

“Did I ever tell you that I'm very fond of you, Mrs. Sanders?”

“Write me a fan letter,” Dee said. “Now get the hell out of the office and let me work.”

Karen started to leave, then paused at the door. “I know what I wanted to ask you,” she said. “Was that
the
Miss Thornton? I mean, it's none of my business but . . .
Martie
Thornton?”

There it was again. That sickening lump of lead in her stomach whenever she felt “caught,” whenever there was any chance that someone might have guessed about her. Would she never get rid of it?

“Why, yes.” It was better to tell the truth. Easier to lie about
why
she would be talking to a notorious lesbian than to be found out in a lie that she was talking to her at all.

“I thought so. You can't miss that voice, can you?” Karen smiled. “As my generation puts it, I dig that broad.”

“Stop making me feel like an old woman and go oil your typewriter before it rusts.” She didn't think Karen had really suspected anything. Not from the way she had asked. And actually, if she had suspected, Karen was too discreet to have brought it up uninvited.

“My typing is all done for this morning, madam. That's why I'm here. Efficiency is my motto.”

“You're going to efficiency yourself out of a job if the old man sees you with nothing to do,” Dee laughed.

“I'm also sneaky,” Karen parried. “I'm doing back-issue research for you in case anyone asks.”

“Beat it! Get out! Punk kids don't know any better than to take up an executive's time.”

“I'm going, I'm going. Be nice to me or I'll organize a union.”

Dee raised an arm as if to hit her, and she scampered off giggling. Damn fool kid, Dee thought kindly, and secretly complimented herself for having the best secretary on the floor. Not too long ago she'd brought in some of her still-life shots, and she was doing really quite well. Like many beginners, Dee couldn't break her of using only color film, but the kid had a good eye for composition and a nice feel for texture. Qualities that could never be taught—you either had them or you didn't. She'd get someplace. That is, if she didn't marry the boy she was engaged to.

Dee guiltily changed the subject in her own mind. She didn't want to let herself think that way for fear it might show through in her conversations with Karen. Even if the girl never became a career woman, she'd have a creative hobby and a husband and a home. More than Dee could confess to.

Confess,
Dee thought to herself. An interesting choice of words. Why would I have to
confess
to marriage? But the clock on the wall didn't allow for speculation right now. She had to meet Jerry Wilson in twenty minutes at the Plaza Hotel. Jerry always had lunch at the Plaza. Wouldn't be seen anywhere else.

She threw her cigarettes into her purse, glanced around the office, remembered that she had put aside a photo of a particularly handsome young man to tease Jerry with and stuck it in an envelope, then dashed out with a wave to Karen, who was proofreading some galleys for one of the other girls.

“Back by two,” Dee said as she went out the door to the elevator. She stepped into the car seconds later, and as she turned, saw Karen look up at her and smile.