Community of Women (13 page)

Elly was moaning now.

She stroked and kissed Elly’s legs. Elly had lovely legs, lovely thighs, and she kissed them.

And then the finale. Then the moon and the stars, and life and death, and the overall end of the world.

They slept, body against body, breasts close to breasts. They slept in love.

18

T
UESDAY
morning was traumatic. Now you might argue that morning is by definition a traumatic state for most people, and you might well be correct arguing thus. But for Elly Carr, who opened her eyes in her room at the Hasbrouck House a few minutes after seven, Tuesday morning was infinitely more traumatic than usual.

There was the hangover. That was fine for a starter. It was a hangover with bells on. Literally. Elly could hear the bells booming inside her skull, and with no effort at all she could imagine the hunchback Quasimodo doubled up somewhere in her cranial cavity, pulling a rope and giggling in hunched hysterics.

A hangover is no picnic. A hangover like Elly’s, which is as much like an ordinary morning-after headache as a nuclear explosion is like a firecracker, is even less of a festive occasion. But in this particular instance, the hangover was nothing at all. Elly barely noticed it.

Maggie eclipsed the hangover. Maggie was lying flat on her back, eyes closed, breasts pointing ceilingward, red hair sprawled out over a white pillowcase. There was Maggie, and there was Elly, and the room reeked with the pungent odors of stale sex.

Sex.

Sex with Maggie, yet

Homosexual sex.

Sexual homosexual sex.

Lesbianism, for the love of God!

Some people, when they drink to excess, experience what is popularly known as a black-out. In the morning, when their eyes unwillingly open, they remember very little of what transpired the night before. In place of memories, these persons have huge spaces of blankness.

This can be unpleasant. A man may drink, behave like a total ass, and wake up not realizing he has made a mortal enemy of a former friend. But there are good things about a blackout. Sometimes memories are not worth having.

Elly Carr never blacked out. This morning was, in that respect if in few others, no different from many other mornings. Elly remembered everything she had done the night before, remembered every last detail from the moment Maggie picked her up at her house in Cheshire Point, driving to the railroad station in the little Volkswagen, to the last final and penultimate quiver of orgasmic fury in the bed at the Hasbrouck House.

These memories were less than a delight.

Elly shuddered violently. She tried to imagine what on earth had made her do what she had done, tried to figure out some vaguely rational explanation for the undeniable fact that she and Maggie had made love. There was no such explanation. It was impossible, ridiculous, absurd. It made no sense at all. But it had happened.

She sat up shakily. Maggie was still asleep, and Elly was glad of it; the morning was bad enough alone and could only be worse if shared with another human being. Especially, she thought, Maggie Whitcomb.

There was a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. She reached for the pack, shook a cigarette loose, placed it between her lips. Lips which had kissed Maggie last night. Lips which had—

She found matches and scratched one. Her hands were shaking rather violently by now and she had a little trouble getting the flame and the cigarette end together. She managed it, eventually, shook out the match with a flick of her wrist and let it fall to the carpet. She sucked smoke into her lungs, letting it trail out from between slightly parted lips.

It had happened. And, what was more, she had enjoyed it. That was the most singly frightening fact of all. The act itself was tough enough to accept, but a person is never entirely responsible for what happens when he or she is drank, and if she and Maggie had simply fooled around foolishly for a few minutes, it would be easy enough to rationalize the whole thing as something which was meaningless and not worth thinking about.

But she had loved every minute of it.

And so had Maggie.

What in hell did it mean? That she was a … lesbian? God, it didn’t seem possible! She was a nympho, maybe; she was the easiest lay in the western hemisphere, perhaps. But a lesbian? It was only common sense to assume that a girl who yanked her skirt up every time a man was in the neighborhood was hardly the type to get hot for girls.

But—

Hold on, she thought. Leave us be logical, little girl. Painfully logical, if the need be. Because, no matter how many ways you find to avoid the issue, the fact remains that you went to bed with Maggie. And that you had a feeling, somewhere deep down inside you, that it was going to happen. And that you were pretty damned glad when it
did
happen, and that you loved it, and that now you wish it hadn’t happened but you still loved every minute of it while it was going on.

And that you want it to happen again.

She drew on the cigarette. Did she want it to happen again? Now
there
was a question. Questions were easy to find—they were cropping up all over the place. But answers were something else entirely. It wasn’t so very easy to pick out the answers to all those interesting questions.

Questions and answers. Problems and headaches, and the hangover in back of all of it, making everything worse. And a tremendous thirst, with her throat parched. There was a private bathroom attached to the room, and there was running water in the sink, but she didn’t have the strength to get up and slake her thirst.

She was on her third cigarette when Maggie awoke.

Maggie actually was awake before she opened her eyes. Consciousness returned slowly, and while it was returning she remained motionless, nude upon her back. She stayed there for several minutes, taking stock of where she was and how she had gotten there, listening to the quiet sounds of Elly smoking a cigarette.

Then, finally, she opened her eyes, stretched, and sat up.

Elly blushed.

Maggie looked at the girl. A whole rush of emotions came to her … pity for Elly, who was obviously tormented and miserable, guilt at having made a lesbian out of her, whether for a night or longer, and, beneath it all, the undercurrent of desire that refused to be dispelled.

She said: “Good morning.”

“Maggie …”

“Don’t say anything,” she said. “Not for a few minutes, anyway. Let me talk. I’ve got something to tell you.”

“Maggie …”

“I mean it, Ell. Let me get it all out. It’s not easy to say. Then you can talk all you want.”

“Whatever you say.”

She swallowed. It was not easy, not at all. Because now honesty was going to have to be the best policy. She had been as cold-blooded as possible in the now-successful campaign to get in bed with Elly Carr; now, the battle won, she had to be honest. She was not fundamentally a cold-blooded person. Sexual conquest alone was not enough for her. She was emotional, and if this whole affair with Elly was going to amount to anything more than simple one-shot sex, she was going to have to play the game according to the rules, with no low blows and no concealed weapons.

So she said: “I’m a lesbian, Ell. I’ve been exclusively homosexual since I was a junior in prep school. I’ve never slept with a man, because my husband, David, is a male homosexual. We—”

“Maggie—”

“Hear me out. Dammit, I said not to interrupt. Will you let me finish what I’m trying to say!”

“I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t mean to snap at you. Ell, Dave is gay and I am gay and we’re married to keep up appearances. And I … I seduced you, honey. I very willfully got you to accept me as a friend, and then I just as willfully got you to … to go to bed with me. Maybe it was wrong of me. I’m not certain, and maybe that’s something you can decide better than I can.

“I’ll tell you this much, Ell. I wouldn’t have tried to make love to you unless I thought you would be responsive. I got you drunk last night, but I still wouldn’t have done anything if I hadn’t known damned well that you wanted it as much as I did. And while we were making love it meant as much to you as it did to me. I know that.”

Elly didn’t say anything, and Maggie paused, searching the brunette’s face, trying to find some indication that her words were having an effect. Elly’s face was blank. It told her nothing. She reached for one of Elly’s cigarettes and lighted it, using the time the act of lighting the cigarette took to reorganize her thoughts.

“I knew you had … homosexual leanings,” she said finally. “All along, you were a potential lesbian. Otherwise nothing could have happened between us, Ell.”

“What do you mean?”

“Think back,” she said. “Remember the afternoon when we sat around—uh—a little exposed? Didn’t you feel anything?”

“Maybe I did.”

“And you suggested necking in the cab. It was just a joke, but you thought of it all by yourself. Deep down inside you weren’t joking, Ell. Subconsciously you knew what you were and knew what I was. And you knew what you wanted.”

“It’s hard to believe, Maggie.”

“It’s true, though.”

“Then I’m a … a lesbian? I’ve been one all along?”

“Yes.”

And Elly was leaning forward, unconscious of her own nakedness, intent solely upon making a point. “Then you listen for a moment,” she said. “Because I’ve got a thing or two to tell you.”

Maggie listened. She listened to an absolutely incredible story of nymphomania, of sordid trysting, of blatant adultery. She listened to the recounting of a saga starring deliverymen and handymen and door-to-door salesmen, a story of a phantom lover on a black stallion, a story of deep impulses and frighteningly intense emotions.

“My God,” she said. “I wouldn’t have believed it, Ell.”

“Nobody knows. I’ve never told anybody. I almost went to a psychoanalyst once but I knew I would have to tell him what my problem was and I couldn’t bring myself to say a word to anyone, not even a doctor. Now do you think I’m a lesbian, Maggie? Maybe I’m just oversexed. Maybe I’m some kind of sex maniac or something.”

“You’re a lesbian, Ell.”

“But—”

“Don’t you see?” She leaned forward, ready to make her point. It was so obvious and Elly couldn’t understand it. “You’ve never really been satisfied by men, Ell. Not inside, not all the way. That’s why there’s this phantom lover image in the background. That’s why you keep searching for the perfect lover, letting these rotten men walk all over you. And that’s why it never worked, why you couldn’t straighten out. Deep down inside you wanted a woman. You wanted me, Ell.”

“You make it sound sensible.”

“That’s because it is sensible. Whenever you had sex with a man, you thought about this phantom lover fantasy. Did you have that last night?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You remember,” she said, eyes narrowing. “Did you or didn’t you?”

“All right, so I didn’t. What does that prove?”

“That you don’t need fantasies any more, Ell.”

“Then I am a lesbian,” Elly Carr said slowly. “That’s what you mean, and that’s what you’ve been telling me. And I suppose … I guess you’re right, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then where do we go from here, Maggie?”

Maggie shrugged. “We get dressed,” she said. “And we leave this hotel, and take a taxi to Grand Central, and catch the first train to Cheshire Point. You go to your house and I go to my house. And then we wait and see what happens.”

“Will we be lovers?”

“I don’t know, Ell. We may. You’ve got to do some thinking, honey … You’ve got to decide just where you want to wind up. You may hate me.”

“I couldn’t hate you.”

“You might, Ell. You might decide that a lesbian’s life is something you couldn’t bear to live, that even a secret gay existence is too much for you. And you might repress everything by hating me.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Maybe not.” She shrugged. “It’s something you’ll work out, Ell. Something you’ll resolve on your own.”

“So we get dressed now?”

“That’s right.”

“I see.”

Maggie studied the tip of her cigarette. She was doing this stupidly, she thought. She wanted Elly, wanted her desperately, and it would be easier to take advantage of her now, to keep her from sliding back into the heterosexual scheme of things. But she simply wasn’t put together that way. Whatever happened, the decision had to be Elly’s and it had to be a free one. Otherwise everything would be ruined.

“Mag—”

“What is it, honey?”

“Before we get dressed and go, could we—”

“Could we what?”

“Could we make love?”

“Why … oh, God, Ell. Oh, baby!”

“But I don’t know what to do,” Elly was saying now, the words pouring out in a rush. “I want to. I really want to, but I don’t know what to do. Will you help me, Maggie?”

“Oh, God,” she breathed. “Yes, Ell. Yes, my baby. Yes, my darling, I’ll help you. I’ll help you, honey.”

19

A
LL
day Tuesday Nan waited for Ted Carr to call.

She didn’t know whether to expect the phone or the doorbell to ring. Maybe he would come to her as he had come the day before, ringing her doorbell, telling her to get her clothes off, then making love to her on the living room floor. Maybe he would call instead, to talk to her, to give her instructions on a time and place when and where they could be together. She expected the call rather than his personal appearance, since she couldn’t expect him to double back from New York a second day in a row. And she looked forward to the call. She waited to hear his voice, wanted to see what would happen next.

There was one possibility which never occurred to her. She took it for granted that he would contact her, one way or another, and she never conceived of the possibility that he would not call her at all.

He did not call her at all.

She waited until it was quite obvious that he was not calling. She was a few minutes late picking up Skip and Danny at school, and on the way home she barely understood their conversation because she was too busy thinking about Ted. She drove home fast, and while the two of them went downstairs to mesmerize themselves in front of the television set, she sat waiting for the phone to ring.