Another Kind of Love (13 page)

S
he came pushing through the front crowd with admirable determination. If someone had asked Laura to describe her, she would probably have said “average,” and felt the description just short of eloquent.

Her hair, her face, her figure—everything about her—was average, including her coloring. The only distinctive or outstanding impression she gave was an aura of cleanliness.

Laura couldn't take her eyes off the girl. She had a quick surge of near terror followed by a strange resignation. It was almost like crossing the street and looking up to see a car coming right at her; there wasn't time to step aside, and knowing this, she could only hope the damage wasn't going to be too great. She wanted to close her eyes for an instant, to be sure it was happening to her, but the girl's eyes had found hers and it was settled.

She walked directly toward Laura with an air of calling Laura's bluff. Sassy, Laura thought—that's what she is. She's been to too many juvenile-delinquent movies.

The girl stopped at their table. Without taking her eyes from Laura, she said in a deep, well-modulated voice, “Hello, Del.”

Madeline looked up from her surveillance of the patrons and, half laughing, said, “Edie! Where have you been all winter?”

Laura could tell by Madeline's tone that she had labeled this girl “bargain,” too. Edie. Laura turned the name over in her mind. Well, it's better than Georgie.

“Away,” Edie replied, still looking at Laura, “who's this?” She raised her chin toward Laura.

“Friend of mine. Edie, meet Laura.”

“What kind of friend?”

Madeline laughed. “Just a friend. She's staying at my place until she gets settled here.”

Laura sat quietly. Even though Edie wasn't particularly ingratiating, she did have a certain magnetism—a kind of primitiveness.

“Gay?” Edie asked without blinking.

Laura looked quickly at Madeline but said nothing. Madeline placed her hand on Laura's arm firmly. “Maybe, maybe not. We're waiting to find out.”

When Laura looked back at Edie, she saw that something in the girl's expression had changed; she seemed softer, less antagonistic. For the first time she addressed Laura directly.

“Do you always stare at women when they enter a room?”

“No,” Laura answered without hesitation.

Edie nodded as if the answer carried grave significance. “Would you like to dance?”

“Yes.”

“Order me a beer, Del.”

Laura felt Edie's hand on her waist as they took the two steps to the fringe of the dance floor, then let herself be taken into Edie's arms and walked to music, silently.

She's no dancer, Laura concluded.

She felt that one of them should say something.

“What do you do?” she asked. It sounded rather blunt and impolite. “I mean, do you have a job or go to school or . . .”

“Off-Broadway,” Edie said, and brought Laura closer to her so that her lips were just even with Laura's neck. “Bit parts, mostly. One or two good roles with shows that close before they open, and the rest of the time unemployment lines.”

“Are you a good actress?” Laura noticed that Edie's cheek was perspiring. The hand she had around Laura's waist was rubbing her lower back very gently. It was a strange sensation—it was a strange situation. Unlike her situation with Ginny, there was no love or tender exploration. This was sex. But how could sex be so important if they were both women . . . ? And yet, Laura admitted silently, it was stimulating in nearly the same way as with a man. The knowledge that she was attractive, physically desirable, and the feeling of power were there.

But there was no comparison to Ginny and what they had shared.

One jukebox song ended and another began. Edie gave no indication of tiring or wanting to sit down. A few times Laura glimpsed Madeline, visiting at various tables.

The place was beginning to clear out now. Lovers left, arm in arm or in grim silence; some girls were leaning over the table of another girl, making a last bid for company that night.

It was very like any ordinary corner bar except so terribly intensified. . . like living under a magnifying glass.

“Laura, baby,” Madeline interrupted them on the floor. “It's almost three, and I'm pretty tired. Do you want to stay on or come home?”

Laura felt Edie's hand clutch at her back. Edie said, “I was thinking of asking Laura over to my pad for coffee, Del.”

Madeline smiled with no expression in her eyes. She looked at Laura slowly. “There's Macy's and there's Lord and Taylor—but a bargain is a bargain.”

Laura wished she could laugh or say something clever, but her mouth was suddenly very dry, and she couldn't think. They had stopped dancing and were walking toward their table. If I don't go with Edie, Laura reasoned, I'll never have the nerve again—I've got to stay.

Edie and Madeline stood by the table as Laura sat down and quickly gulped down the remainder of her watered Scotch. She knew it wasn't so much what she'd find out by going with Edie—after all, what could that show her? What would it prove? It was a compulsion—a Pandora's box that she had to open.

“Well . . .” Madeline stretched. “You two owls can stay up if you want to, but at my age I need my rest.”

“You talk too much about your age,” Edie said in a monotone. “What you need is somebody to shack up with.”

“Uh-huh,” Madeline laughed. “Take care of her for me, and if you're going to keep her up too late, then call me and let me know.”

“Are you kidding?” Edie placed her hands on her hips defiantly.

“Hey, you two!” Laura found herself saying. “I'm over twenty-one.”

Edie and Madeline looked at her, then at each other in mutual surprise.

“No one's even considered what I'd like to do,” Laura continued, almost unable to stop herself.

Edie let out a thundering laugh and slapped Madeline heartily on the back. “It walks; it talks; it shimmys; it shakes . . .”

Laura could feel the color rising in her face and said nothing.

“All right,” Edie said in mock seriousness. “What would you like to do?”

Confronted with the question, Laura felt foolish and awkward, but she managed to reply with some dignity, “I do want a cup of coffee, thank you. I would also like to be consulted in the future.”

“Let's go, then,” Edie said kindly, and took Laura's hand.

Madeline walked with them to the door and down the stairs into the fresh night air. She hailed a cab and threw Laura a kiss as she climbed in and was driven off.

Laura was slightly uncomfortable now that she was alone with Edie. But as they walked down MacDougal Street, she grew more excited and felt daring and wicked.

Edie carried the bulk of the conversation as they strolled on the nearly deserted street. She told Laura about various childhood experiences, not seeming to care if Laura was interested or not.

They walked up the well-kept stairs of a brownstone on Charlton Street.

“The apartment belongs to a friend of mine,” Edie explained softly. “She's letting me stay here until I can find a place of my own. I gave up my pad in the fall.”

“You did mention being away.”

Edie smiled as she held the door open for Laura. “Anyway, she's gone for a vacation in Europe, and it's rent-free.”

Inside, she took Laura's coat and hung it up neatly in a small closet. “We were madly in love for about twenty minutes once,” Edie smiled reminiscently.

Laura laughed uncertainly. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” Edie said, gesturing to Laura to take a chair. She watched Laura as she sat down on the sofa.

Edie crossed to the small kitchenette and put on water to boil. “Being gay can be pretty wild, you know. Most of us never really make out—for the long haul, that is. Just one-night stands, flings, passion, and arguments.”

She shook her head sadly. “It's the drinking and always going out to bars; it's the kidding yourself that just because you've found somebody to take to bed that it's love. It's a lot of stupid things.”

“Sounds more like fear of love,” Laura said.

Edie sat down on the sofa next to Laura. She looked at her with unanticipated tenderness. “What do you expect from me?”

“I . . . I'm not sure,” Laura answered. “Perhaps the same thing you expect from me—someone to help you get through the night, to fill the darkness, if only for a moment.”

Edie asked, “Have you had any experience?”

Laura wanted to grab her coat and make a run for it, yet she knew she wouldn't “In a way . . .”

“Then that's what you really want, isn't it?” Edie leaned forward, pushing Laura back on the couch so that she was half lying, half sitting. Her face was inches from Laura's.

“Let's say I want to experience . . .”

Laura stopped as Edie's hand came to her throat and then moved down, unbuttoning her sweater.

“This is no time for semantics, honey. Don't think . . . feel.”

Laura watched Edie's face come so near, she could no longer focus on it. She closed her eyes and opened her mouth to meet Edie's.

They both forgot the boiling water.

A
t six
P.M.
exactly, Laura signaled a passing cab in front of the office. She couldn't bear the bus today—it was too nice a day. As she rode down Fifth Avenue, Laura sat pensively reviewing these past weeks and how much of a routine it had become for her to frequent the Village “rounds” almost nightly. The bartenders now knew her along with the other steady customers.

At the office she worked herself mercilessly each day, as her department took shape and more responsibility came. Then she ate a hurried dinner and lost herself in her new world.

It hadn't helped her to forget Ginny—she could never do that and accepted it now. But it did help her to find a place for herself in the world—a place that was both a sanctuary and a strange source of rebellion.

She knew that Madeline did not approve of what she was doing, and of the hours she kept. But Madeline had made it quite plain that she understood what was happening to Laura, that it was a phase of “coming out” and that it would pass. It annoyed Laura occasionally that Madeline seemed to take such a superior attitude, particularly when Madeline would make some comment about Laura going out “to punish yourself.”

But it was also quite clear to Laura that she needed Madeline, needed a friend....

She paid the driver and looked around the now familiar street before walking into the apartment building. It seems as if I've lived here all my life. Palm trees and freeways are a long way off. . . . It all happened to someone else—not me, she thought.

She looked up at the trees and saw the branches in their need to bud and grow. There was no doubt about it: spring had finally arrived in New York.

Sighing, she wondered if Ginny realized that spring had come. Or if Ginny knew she was thinking of her. She wondered how Ginny was doing and if she needed anything—or if she had found someone new.

It's strange, she thought, how you can numb your feelings about people yet can never really rid yourself of them. Some silly little incident or random association and . . . wham! . . . They were back, raw as ever. Instant amnesia—and anesthesia—for painful memories. That's what the world needed. Only it should be permanent as well. Liquor didn't really do the job. Not really.

“Just in time for soup,” Madeline yelled as Laura let herself into the apartment.

Reliable, sweet Madeline, Laura thought with a comfortable sigh.

“I'm going with you tonight,” Madeline announced. With a mischievous smile, she asked, “How do you like my drag outfit?”

Laura had to laugh. Madeline couldn't have looked masculine no matter what she did, and the jersey blouse with matching slacks she had on did very little to make her manly.

“You'll be the butch of the ball,” Laura said.

“My. Aren't we learning the trade jargon!” Madeline laughed.

They sat down to a hurried dinner, and Laura speculated about what was making Madeline so chipper this evening. Not just the weather.

“Have you seen Edie lately?” Madeline asked.

“No,” Laura answered. “Why?”

“She's doing a bit in some awful thing at Actor's Playhouse. Thought you might like to catch part of the rehearsal tonight.”

“Why?” Laura asked cautiously.

“Friend of mine is in the show, too—kind of a friend, that is. Anyway, it won't kill you, and Edie does have quite a thing for you.”

“Sure,” Laura laughed. “She's loved me for twenty-five minutes. That's a five-minute edge over her old girlfriends.” She stood up and walked into the kitchen, balancing her dishes. “All right. I'll be a sport. Do I have time to clean up?”

“Yes. But make it fast.” Madeline began to wash the dishes, whistling merrily.

“Why don't you get a maid?” Laura called from the bedroom.

“How would I advertise? Gay and personable?”

Laura shrugged her shoulders in mock helplessness and took a shower, briefly enjoying the sheer luxury of the spray of water.

Drying herself, she looked at her reflection in the mirror impersonally and realized for the first time how tired she looked, and how much thinner.

“The wages of sin,” she murmured to herself, and turned her back to the mirror. She dressed quickly and applied her makeup with hasty efficiency.

“You about ready, Laura?” Madeline called.

Laura went into the living room smiling. “In the flesh. What's your hurry?”

“You'll see.”

They left the apartment just after dark and walked briskly to the small playhouse on Seventh Avenue.

A lanky youth with tight-fitting chino pants sat at a small table as they entered. He had the glazed look of the devout failure.

Madeline smiled at him benignly. “Max said it was all right for us to watch the rehearsal,” she told him.

He looked at them both momentarily. “The producer?”

“Of course.”

“Go on in,” he said, as if he had a beer with old Maxie every evening. “You've missed about fifteen minutes of the first act.”

Madeline walked down the narrow stairway and into the darkened theater. She paused by the refreshment stand inside the theater long enough for Laura to get accustomed to the dark, then led Laura to a seat in the last row.

Laura leaned over and whispered, “This better be good.”

“You may never know how true that is,” Madeline answered.

In the dim light from the stage, Laura could make out Madeline's expression. Gone was the mischievous look and the bright little smile. In their place were concern and speculation. Laura wondered if Madeline had sunk money into this show, but decided against it—Madeline knew better.

Laura settled back in the uncomfortable seat and wished she had a drink. Glancing around the room, she saw a cluster of people sitting off to the right and several leaning forward in the first row center.

“How does the audience see anything when there's no dais?” she heckled softly.

“Shh,” Madeline ordered.

Laura shrugged and tried to listen to the gaunt young man on stage who was talking to a blue spotlight behind a blue sheer backdrop with modernistic foliage sewn on it.

She sat back and sniffed happily. Yes. It was there. That special, intoxicating smell of the theater—that kind of velvety, faintly perfumed, warm-dust aroma.

There was something curiously soothing about it all. Gradually Laura began to succumb to the wonderful mood a darkened theater always aroused in her. It struck her then that this was the first time she had ever really been in an honest-to-God New York theater, even though it was off-Broadway. She must come more often—she'd almost forgotten what a delicious experience it was.

Absently she watched the blue light dim and move to the edge of the stage. Somewhere music came through in a rhythmic, fragmented drumbeat. The figure of a woman began to emerge slowly from the offstage shadows. Laura found herself straining to see. She was barely conscious of Madeline, who had turned to watch her.

All Laura's attention was focused on that shadow figure that was now undulating to the center of the stage. There was something about it that sent a strange, warning thrill through her. She could not have said what it was exactly.

She wished they'd turn the damned spot up so she could see.

When it did happen, it was so swift Laura was unprepared.

“Ginny!” It was a full moment before Laura realized that the stifled gasp was her own. She stared in frozen realization at the crown of soft red hair that shimmered in the soft, ghostly light—at the pale, anxious face, the small, supple body that not even the ill-fitting costume could obliterate. So familiar, yet so unreal.

“Steady, old girl,” whispered Madeline, closing her fingers around Laura's arm so tightly it was almost painful.

By this time Laura was almost standing up.

A thousand impressions and arguments flew through her mind, and the scene became a blur to her except for Ginny's small figure making stage gestures, walking upstage and, for some reason, into a man's arms.

The sight of her there was all too odd, too unexpected.

Laura picked up her purse mechanically and without a backward look left the theater. She was halfway out the street exit when she heard Madeline's voice calling her.

She turned on her heel and stopped. “That was a pretty cute trick,” she said tightly.

“It wasn't meant as a cute trick,” Madeline replied softly.

“What did you mean by it?”

“I . . . I just wanted you to know she was in town, and I thought this way you could see her without being discovered.”

“You're lying.” Laura said flatly.

Madeline took Laura by the shoulder gently. “You're not angry with me, are you?” She sighed. “I guess it was the actress in me—the dramatic approach. I'm genuinely sorry.”

Laura felt the tears creeping into her eyes, and the back of her throat was aching. She fought them back and gained control of herself.

“No,” she said finally. “I'm not really angry. It was just such a shock . . .”

They walked in silence past Sheridan Square. Laura wanted to get drunk, to just lose herself inside a bottle of Scotch until she drowned.

She paid no attention to Madeline. She tried to place the event in its proper perspective, tried to see the situation objectively. So what if Ginny was in town . . . Maybe she didn't know that Laura was here, too, or maybe she hated Laura after finding that she had run out.... Maybe many things.

But—what reason did Laura have for staying away from Ginny?

Laura led the way up the steps to the bar and, without even saying hello to Georgie, marched into the back and sat down. She half saw that Madeline paused to talk to Georgie, a terse conversation punctuated with stern expressions and lifted eyebrows. Then Madeline was walking toward her and sitting down at the table with Laura.

“How did you know who she was?” Laura asked.

Madeline smiled as if to admit that “she” could only be one person. “From your description, and knowing her name. When Max told me that she had been Saundra Simon's protégé, there could be no doubt.” She sat silently a moment. “I talked with her yesterday.”

Laura looked up at Madeline quickly.

“I was having lunch with Max.” Madeline paused while Georgie set their drinks in front of them and walked silently away. “He was telling me about this girl in the show, and he said she was going to join us a little later. Seems he's taken a fancy to her and thought that with my new pull at
Fanfare
I might get a good plug in for both the show and her.”

Laura nodded and, with a slightly shaking hand, took a deep swallow of her drink.

“The long arm of coincidence,” she mumbled, savoring the harsh taste of the whisky.

“I didn't put two and two together until after she arrived and Max made some comment about Saundra and Ginny.” Madeline laughed mirthlessly. “After that, my brain was going like a rampant IBM tabulator.”

“And you concocted this little plot?”

“I'm afraid so. I thought the shock would stir you out of this waste of time in bars . . . and here we are.”

Laura sat back and said nothing. She looked about the room at the few faceless girls coming in or already seated. Someone fed the jukebox, which glittered hungrily in its corner; an old Frank Sinatra ballad began. Too early for the rock'n'roll crowd, Laura thought.

“What are you going to do?” Madeline asked quietly.

“Probably nothing,” Laura answered with a wry smile. “Did you tell her I was in town?”

“I didn't have to. She already knew.”

“How do you know?”

“She asked if I knew you.” Madeline stared at the lamp on the table, then reached out to straighten the shade.

“Stop playing with that thing, damn it,” Laura commanded tersely. “What did you tell her?” She was sorry immediately; she hadn't meant to sound so harsh.

But Madeline accepted Laura's manner with calm understanding. “Only that I had met you,” she said gravely. “And that was all. I changed the subject. There was no point in lying about it, was there?”

“No. I suppose not.” Laura relaxed again.

“Why don't you call her? I'm sick of looking at you moping around.”

“Would it do any good?” Laura signaled to Georgie for another round. “She probably hates me.”

“You'll never find out at the rate you're going. If you do still love her, do something about it! Why are you building up such a ‘thing' about it?”

“Shut up!” Laura demanded. She desperately wanted to call Ginny, and Madeline's urging didn't help. But Laura was afraid to—afraid of this emotion that Ginny aroused in her. She feared that if she called Ginny, somehow, in some mysterious way, she'd be “hooked” again and this time not able to break away. Laura felt trapped by her own desires—desires she didn't understand, much less control.

Later, Laura looked up and suddenly realized that the bar was full of people. There were several wet ring spots on the table, and Laura realized that she must have been drinking steadily, without thinking or keeping track of the drinks or the time.

Madeline was standing at the bar, talking to a very attractive blonde but keeping her eyes on Laura.

Laura looked at the clock over in the far corner of the bar. It was a quarter of eleven. She felt as if she had been unconscious and was awakening in some alien, bawdy place. But there was Madeline to remind her she was not alone, that she had a friend, someone who cared what happened to her and what went on inside her.