Girls' Dormitory (11 page)

He walked out, leaving the door open, casually glancing at the nudist magazine which lay open on the floor. Frank was right; they didn't have a thing on.

Outside it was colder than before, the wind sharper. The cab had gotten out of the snow but now a truck was stuck. Slowly, wondering vaguely about what the driver would do, Jerry walked north.

The door was unlocked and opened to his touch. It was dark in the room, very warm, and he could smell the odor of underthings drying over the radiator.

"You came," she said.

He closed the door.

"Yeah."

"I thought you wouldn't."

"Well, I said I would."

He crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the bed. She was close, very close, but he didn't touch her.

"I'm scared, Jerry," she whispered.

"About what?"

"The baby."

"It's a little late for that, isn't it?"

"Don't be rude."

"I'm not being. I just said."

She reached out and put her hand on one of his arms.

"Jerry?"

"What?"

"Will you help me?"

Her hand was soft and warm.

"How?"

Her fingers closed, opened and then closed tightly on his arm. "I want to get rid of the baby," she said. "I want you to help me find a doctor or somebody who'll do it for me."

"Don't be a fool."

"I'm not being a fool. I've thought it all out. What can I do for the baby if it's born? What can I tell it when it grows up?"

"I don't know," Jerry said.

"It would be better the other way. The world is bad enough for those who have a chance but when there isn't any chance, when there is nothing at all, it's even worse."

She started to cry and he didn't know what to do with her. A girl's tears always bothered him. Either they were foolish or tragic. Evelyn's tears weren't foolish.

"I'll do what I can," he said finally.

"Oh, Jerry!"

"But I can't promise anything. I don't know anybody like that."

"Maybe you can find somebody."

"Maybe."

Her hand moved up to his face, following the line of his chin.

"You're sweet," she said.

He thought of Ellen, how she had died, and he shuddered.

"I'm a bastard," he said. "Or I wouldn't promise."

She lifted herself toward him, her lips hungry and filled with fire. She found his mouth, kissed him, and he could taste the salt of her tears.

"Don't let me down," she begged.

"I won't."

But he didn't know whether he would or not.

Helen crept down the stairs, her bare feet moving soundlessly over the covered steps. At the second floor she turned left and walked down the hall to the door at the end. She opened the door and entered, closing the door after her.

"I'm awake," Thelma Reid said from the bed.

"I thought you would be."

"Is Peggy asleep?"

"Yes."

"What if she gets up?"

"She never does."

Thelma laughed. "Not unless you wake her up, is that it?"

"Shut up."

Thelma stirred on the bed and the springs squeaked. "She was out with Jerry tonight."

"I know."

"Aren't you jealous?"

"Shut up."

"And you were out with Harry Martin. That makes me jealous."

"Does it?"

"You know it does."

Helen sighed deeply, dreading the arguments they always had, and dreading the final, pleading moment which always came.

"Going with a boy is all right," Helen said. "When you go with a boy nobody gets curious."

"I suppose so. Not even about you and that Peggy."

Helen's eyes had become accustomed to the darkness of the room and now she could see Thelma sitting up on the bed. As usual, Thelma was wearing nothing.

"We've been over all that before," Helen said.

"And you deny it?"

"I deny it. There isn't a thing between Peggy and me."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"I told you. If you thought such a thing why did you put her in with me?"

"Because I knew what would happen," Thelma said wisely. "And once it's happened it goes right on happening. Someone in your room with you could do what I couldn't do. Now I'm profiting from the arrangement. Of course, if I had known about you and Jerry and those awful things you were doing on weekends I wouldn't have gone to all the trouble."

The whole thing had been blackmail from the start. No love, not the way there was love with Peggy, just blackmail. Love me, Thelma would say. And she would love her. What else could she do? Thelma, in her own particular way, was as bad as Frank. She thought only of herself. But, really, wasn't that true of everybody? Everybody thought of himself or herself first. And that's what she should be doing. Being a slave was no good. Living the way she was living was no good. She had to do something about it.

"I want to talk to you," Thelma said.

"All right. Go on."

"You're very pretty."

"Am I? You've told me that before."

"And—competent."

"I don't like that."

"I didn't think you would. Are you as nice with Peggy?"

"Shut up."

"Or Jerry?"

"Just you shut up!"

"You don't have to lie to me," Thelma said. "I'm older than you are and you can talk to me."

"I don't want to talk to you—not about that."

Thelma lit a cigarette and the glow from the match washed over her face.

"You're a lot like I am," she said. "Bisexual, I think they call it."

Helen had read about people like that but she didn't believe it was the case with her. She was in love with Peggy, very much in love. Naturally, the money helped—Peggy was quite rich—but it went further than that. Far down inside of her, it was something good and wonderful, and every moment that she cheated on this love she felt terrible pain.

"I'm not like you," Helen said.

"You are or you wouldn't be here."

"You forced me into it, don't forget that."

"Did I?" Thelma inquired softly. "Or would you have come to me anyway?"

"No."

"I think you would have."

"Don't be too sure."

Thelma filled her lungs with the smoke. "It doesn't matter," she said. "Things are the way they are and that's all that matters."

Things, for Helen, were hell. Weekends she had to go down to that awful room on Kennedy Street and during the week, for some stolen moments, she came to Thelma. And these moments she hated the most. Thelma looked down on her as though she were some kind of an animal and all Thelma cared about was her own personal satisfaction. No, she would never have come to Thelma voluntarily. She was living in a weird way, a terrible way, and she was sick of it. Thelma was worse than Jerry, far worse. But she could not escape. All doors were closed to her.

"You're a fool," Thelma was saying.

"I am or I wouldn't be here."

"No, not that. You would be here anyway, fool or not. Maybe not this week or next, but one night you would have come to me. You need me, Helen."

"I don't need you."

"But you do. Don't you understand? I've seen so much more than you, know so much more. You need somebody like me. If you would only be honest with yourself you would see that you need me more than I need you." Thelma laughed and stretched her white arms. "I have always managed to find somebody. Have you? Have you ever managed to find anything except this horrible way that you live?"

Helen was on the verge of tears. "Don't," she said.

"Why do you cry if it is not so?"

"Because you're so rotten."

"I don't want to fight with you."

"Then why do you?"

"Because I want you to be honest with me and you are not honest. You lie with every breath. I ask you about Jerry, about this thing that he does for you, and you say that it isn't your fault, that he got you into it. I don't believe that. I think you got him into it. I think you were like that when you came here. I always have thought so."

"What if I am?" she challenged.

"Then you're nothing but a whore," Thelma flung at her.

"Yours?"

"Now who's being rotten?"

"You make me."

"Do you say the same things to Peggy?"

If she had a knife she would stab Thelma. Something had to be done, something had to be done before she went out of her mind and lost all control.

"You leave Peggy out of this."

"You lie to me about her, too."

Helen, blinking away the tears, said nothing.

"You say she means nothing to you but I know better."

Peggy was the one thing in Helen's life that was decent, the one thing that she had to protect. To destroy this was to destroy all, to dirty this was to dirty all. Together they had found real beauty, had given meaning to life. If this was taken from her there would be nothing left.

"She doesn't," Helen insisted stubbornly.

Thelma stretched again.

"We shouldn't fight," Thelma said.

"No."

"And you shouldn't lie."

"I'm not lying."

"I'm sure you are but that isn't important. What is important is that you are here and you are mine." Thelma moved around on the bed and her voice softened. "Come to me," she said softly. "Come to me and forget that we have argued."

And Helen could not refuse.

Except for a radio playing softly, the third floor was quiet. That would be Evelyn Carter listening to a late disc jockey show. Evelyn hardly every slept any more. She cried a lot and listened to the radio and when they played something soft and sentimental she lost herself in a lake of self-pity. It was fairly common knowledge that Evelyn no longer wanted the baby, that she was trying to find some means to get rid of it, and it was equally common knowledge that her life would be at stake if she made the attempt.

Helen walked along the hall, past the door where the radio was playing, and somehow, when she thought about it, Evelyn's plight didn't seem to be so bad at all. Have the baby, that was the answer. Have the baby, father or not and bring it up. Or have it adopted. Evelyn, she decided, was lucky. Evelyn could solve her problem. And she, Helen, could not solve hers. Her own problem was beyond all solution.

She hated Thelma Reid.

And she loved Peggy Markey.

But she was caught, caught, and she could not free herself. She was caught between Jerry and Thelma and they were both closing in, ready to destroy her for then-own gains.

Love me, Thelma Reid said, or the school board will know.

Love the men for money, Jerry said, or everybody will know what you are.

A lesbian.

And a prostitute.

She could hardly be considered less.

And she wanted so much, so very, very much. She wanted a nice car and fine clothes and lots of money. She wanted all of the things she had never had, all of the things she had dreamed about, and now she was in danger of losing all. Peggy would hate her if she ever found out. She would despise her. That Helen could not stand. Peggy was more than love. Peggy was her chance at tomorrow.

"You mustn't tell anybody," Peggy had confided, "but my father is rich, awfully rich."

"Why hide it?"

"Because it might make a difference."

"Not to me it doesn't."

"No, not to you. But to some of the others, it could."

"Is that important?"

"Everything is important."

Peggy had changed a lot lately. She went out with Jerry once or twice a week and later, lying on the bed, she would laugh about the way that Jerry had tried to make love to her.

"He's got one thing on his mind," Peggy would say.

"I told you that."

"Only it doesn't do him any good."

"You ought to hear the other girls talk. They think it does."

"I don't care what they think."

"They say Peggy Markey is getting hers regularly."

"Do they?"

"You know they do."

"Well, when they're saying that they're not talking about us."

"No, that's true."

"And they say the same about you and that Harry Martin. Didn't you know that?"

"Yes, I knew it."

Helen smiled now, walking along the hall, thinking about Harry Martin. Harry was so honest that he wouldn't look at a girl if the top button of her dress were undone. He had been brought up to believe that woman was sacred and nothing or no one could change that belief.

"I love you," Harry had said more than once.

"You're crazy. You don't mean it."

"But I do mean it."

She felt sorry for him. He was a nice boy but she could not return his love. She would never be able to do that. He was, after all, a man.

They were all the same, she told herself. All men were the same. They were like two stores with different fronts, but inside, the merchandise offered was the same.

Love was the property of woman.

Love belonged to woman.

It was as simple as that.

The room was dark, the shades drawn on the windows. The faint odor of perfume lingered in the heat, perfume that belonged to Peggy.

Quietly, Helen walked toward the bed.

"Is that you, Helen?"

Helen stopped, stiffening.

"Yes. Are you awake?"

"For a half hour or more. Where were you?" Helen thought rapidly.

"I couldn't sleep and I went into the bathroom to read."

"Oh? What did you read?"

"Nothing. Just the paper."

"There isn't anything much in the paper."

"No."

"Aren't you coming to bed?" Peggy wanted to know.

"I am now."

"I've got your side all warm for you."

"That's sweet," Helen said. "Awfully sweet."

There was a whisper of sound from the bed and she knew that Peggy had moved over against the wall. Slipping off her robe, Helen crossed over to the bed and climbed between the sheets.

"It's unusual for you to be awake," Helen said, faking a yawn. She wasn't tired at all; with the things that were going on in her head and body she couldn't be tired. "You most generally sleep all night long."

"I know, but I got a call from my father tonight while you were out with Harry. I forgot to tell you about it."