Stranger On Lesbos (11 page)

Frances considered. If she went home now it would mean another fight. If Bill was asleep when she got in, her arrival would almost certainly wake him, and he would raise hell. (Not without reason, she admitted, feeling herself crumpled and dim-eyed.) On the other hand, if she waited until he had left for the office it would postpone the fight until evening, and by that time it would have lost vitality.

Neither anger nor anxiety would keep young Mr. Ollenfield, sales manager for Plastic Playthings, from being at his desk by nine o'clock, teeth brushed, suit pressed, shoes shined, hair combed. Because young Mr. Ollenfield was' going to get ahead in the world or know the reason why; and after all, what's a wife compared to a bigger expense account and money in the bank?

She was too tired and confused to explain all this to Bake. She said, "Oh. let him sleep with his sales reports."

"But baby, why do you keep worrying about the man? He's old enough to cook his own breakfast. I hope it gives him ulcers."

I'm turning into the kind of woman who stays out all night, Frances thought. A tramp. The perpetual feeling of guilt that lived in the back of her mind uncoiled and stirred, ready to sting. She summoned up all her resentment against Bill
after all, hadn't he stayed out plenty of nights, doing God knows what? Doing plenty, I'll bet, she thought defensively. She put her hand on Bake's knee, anxious to feel the solidity, the reality of her.

"Okay. Do we have any coffee?"

The apartment was a mess. Bake drifted around, still a little fuzzy, emptying ash trays, opening windows, carrying glasses into the kitchen. "God, I'm tired."

"Come to bed. I'll let you sleep
if that's what you want."

"Is it what you want?"

Frances' mouth curled into an unwilling smile. "Not exactly."

Bake yawned widely, unzipping her pedal pushers and letting them fall to the floor. "It wouldn't have to be like this," she said, her voice muffled by the shirt she was pulling over her head. "You wouldn't have to be so rushed, you know. You could move in here."

"But how?" The obligations of her life loomed up solid and implacable
Bill, Bob, the house. She stared at Bake.

"Easy. Pack up your stuff and move out."

"I couldn't do that."

"All right, don't. It's up to you."

"But how could I?"

"It's been done before. Kay was married, you know. She divorced her husband to live with Jane. She was married to Carlton Schofield, the atomic scientist."

Frances felt a surge of sympathy for Kay, and some envy. "What would I live on?"

"Oh hell, you can always get a job. I can get you a job, if that's all that's worrying you." Bake stood naked in the half-light from the shuttered window, her head bent thoughtfully. "There are plenty of jobs. You could work in an office."

"I'd like to go to work anyway. It would be nice to have some money of my own, not have to ask Bill for every penny. Not that he minds, only
"

"Only you feel like a whore."

"Well, yes, I do." She shook her head. "I can't do it, though."

Bake shrugged. "It's up to you. Are you coming to bed or not?"

This is silly, Frances thought. Their argument was taking on the familiar pattern of a married quarrel, in the familiar setting of getting ready for bed. She and Bill had bickered like this, tired and edgy after an evening out; had tried and failed to make up for it by physical closeness. It occurred to her suddenly that she would like to skip the next part of the night and simply go to sleep in Bake's arms. But this is the way I used to feel with Bill, she thought, aghast. She stripped off her clothes and got into bed, sighing a little.

Later Frances lay in a relaxed half-doze, watching the oblong of window lighten. It would be wonderful to have a job, to be one of the fast-walking girls she saw downtown, going to a desk job every morning. Most wonderful of all to live in this apartment with Bake, sharing their breakfast over two propped-up books and having plenty of time to talk. Lately their scattered hours together had been invaded by too many other people, their companionship diluted by too much drinking. They were wasting time and spending too much money
Bake's money, since Frances had none of her own.

"I'm tired of being a freeloader," she said.

Bake rolled over. "Huh?"

Frances moved closer to her, seeking comfort in contact.

There was Bob. For fifteen years her days had been shaped to his needs. She might leave Bill
but her son, no. Not even now, when he was outgrowing her.

"Matter, baby?"

"Ssh, go to sleep."

Perhaps she could get a job, though. That would give her some money of her own, and make it easier to stay downtown on the evenings she spent with Bake. As things stood, every move she made laid her open to suspicion.

She was getting warm and drowsy. She could feel her arms and legs relax. I'll decide tomorrow, she thought, shutting her eyes and falling asleep with her hand against Bake's breast.

CHAPTER 9

It seemed to Frances, all that winter, that she was warm for the first time in her life. Warm and at home, solidly and actually when she was with Bake, in retrospect or anticipation when they were apart. The company house near the mine tipple, the dormitory room at college, the various apartments and houses where she and Bill had lived during the seventeen years of their married life
these were nothing but sojourning places, temporary shelters without meaning or comfort.

And without warmth. It was foolish, it was fantastic, because the house on the South Side, for example, had a perfectly good gas furnace
indeed, the first thing Bill did when he came in after work was to throw the windows open and "get some fresh air in here," while she shivered. But she felt that some residue of chill, lingering in the center of her bones, was melted now for the first time. I've thawed out, she decided solemnly, curled up on Bake's sofa, listening to the rattling of dishes as Bake cooked dinner, while she (presumably) took a nap because she had a sniffly cold.

She had known real, physical cold, of course. The winter she was thirteen, when they chopped up the doors for firewood because the mine was on strike and there was no money for food, much less fuel. Even reading didn't help. Your fingers got stiff holding the book, and the chill crept down between your scrunched-together shoulders and up your stockinged legs. Frankie had been hungry before, plenty of times, when the miners were out or Pa spent all his pay on drink. But this was worse than being hungry.