Stranger On Lesbos (17 page)

"Oh, Christ, another one. Come on, honey, we'll give you something to make you feel better."

Frances asked, "What's the matter with her?"

"She needs a fix, that's all. Your girl friend?"

"No, I never saw her before."

He led the girl away. Frances was alone.

The bathtub at home was white and clean. The linen closet was full of fresh towels and there were new bars of soap wrapped in colored paper. More than anything in the world, she wanted to get into a tubful of hot water and scrub this day's dirt off herself.

In the morning, a sleepy-eyed policewoman brought oatmeal and coffee. She wasn't hungry. I'll eat when I get home, she thought. When the matron came back to take the tray, she asked for permission to call her husband.

CHAPTER 13

Bill was waiting at the desk. There were dark smudges above his cheekbones and sharp vertical lines between his eyes. He looked tired, but his suit was pressed and he wore a sober knitted tie. Not the kind of man you expect to find in a police station, bailing out his wayward wife.

She was surprised to see, when they passed a drugstore on the way to the car and she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the plate-glass door, that she didn't look particularly wayward. She felt dirty and messy, her head ached, her arm and leg muscles were tired. But she looked mild and refined, like a schoolteacher of whom it could only be said, damningly, that she still looked young. She got into the car and nervously smoothed her skirt, which was wrinkled from being slept in.

Bill started the car.

The only words she had heard him say were, "Thank you," to the policeman who had escorted her into his presence. She wondered nervously how to break the ice that seemed to be thickening around them. I'm so sorry. (The penitent note.) It wasn't my fault. (Too defensive.) This has certainly been an interesting experience. (Flippant.)

She put out a tentative hand. "Bill
"

"Skip it." He didn't sound unkind, merely preoccupied. She pulled back her hand as though he had struck her. They drove in silence for what seemed like a long time. He pulled up in front of the house and sat waiting, making no move to get out. Finally she realized that he was waiting for her to leave. "I have to get to work," he said without changing expression. "I'm late already."

She wondered whether he had gone to the office the day before, but was afraid to ask him. He was a silent stranger.

She scrambled out of the car and watched him drive away, absurdly like a hostess speeding the departing guest.

The house was quiet and rather chilly
of course, Bill would have turned the thermostat down no matter how upset he was. She walked through the downstairs rooms, feeling like an intruder. The furniture was a little dusty, but everything was neat. There were dishes piled in the kitchen sink
no more dishes than she was accustomed to find there after a day at work. Either Bill and Bob had eaten out, or they had washed their dishes. Or else
and this brought a pang of guilt like a physical pain
they had been too worried to be hungry. She pictured them sitting at opposite ends of the dinette table, heavy-eyed from anxiety and lack of sleep, picking at their food.

It wasn't any picnic for me either, she thought resentfully. None of it was my fault. I didn't want to go to Karla's in the first place. That was Bake's doing. And besides, Bill's stayed out all night plenty of times, and how do I know what he does? At least I didn't come home drunk.

At least, a small reproving inner voice reminded her, you've never had to bail him out.

She plodded upstairs, and stood looking vaguely at the furnishings of her own bedroom. The covers were folded back neatly from the unmade bed, Bill's chiffonier drawers were closed, the window was open the usual four inches. She closed it, shivering in the cold wind. The trinkets on her dressing table looked unfamiliar. She went into the bathroom and turned on the hot water, feeling the dull throb of headache behind her eyes.

Bill didn't need her. Bake had told her so a hundred times, and she had agreed. In long discussions over the luncheon table, in the dreamy relaxation that followed love, in their increasingly frequent quarrels Bake had insisted that Bill no longer needed her, that she meant nothing to him. It was a statement worn meaningless by repetition, like the Lord's Prayer or the Pledge of Allegiance. Now she realized with sharp terror that Bake had been right all along. Bill really didn't need her. He was at work all day and out on business most evenings, he had his own circle of friends, his interests were foreign to her. He was no longer the man she had married. And she had changed, too. If she left him, he would no doubt marry again. In a year's time she would be forgotten. She felt cold and frightened, as though she had crawled out from under a warm blanket and stood naked and exposed in a chilly wind.

She was in the tub, lathered thick as whipped cream, when the phone rang. It took three rings for her to wrap a towel around herself and run dripping down the stairs, half panicky, half hopeful.

"Hello?"

"Frankie. Baby. Are you all right?”

She shivered. "I'm fine."

"I worried about you all night. I'm a wreck." Bake sounded anxious, whether for Frances or herself it was hard to say. "Is anyone with you?"

"No, I'm alone. The men in my family don't seem to care whether I'm alive or dead."

"They'd have been notified if you were dead. What do you want them to do, stand around and bawl because you're back home safe?"

"Well
"

"Look, I have to see you. I've cancelled all my appointments for today anyway. Why don't you come over?"

Remember she ran out on you. "I'm pretty tired," Frances said hesitantly.

"That makes two of us. You can take a nap over here. I'll fix you some hot milk or something."

Frances stood uncertainly holding the telephone. Beyond the living-room window she could see the house next door, a stodgy building of tan brick set in a square of dead grass. The rattling stalks of last summer's flowers drooped above a patch of bare earth. It was a dispiriting sight. She said reluctantly, "I really ought to go to the office."

"Call in and tell them you're sick."

"Well, I could do that."

"Baby, I have to see you."

"Okay, I'll come." She would have to take a taxi; it was cold outside and her hair was dripping wet. She would have to telephone the office. She would
oh, to hell with it. Anything was better than spending a day alone in this silent house. She said, "I'll be there in half an hour."

Bake was waiting at the door of the apartment. At the sight of her, all the loneliness and resentment melted out of Frances' heart. She was in Bake's arms, and her head was on Bake's shoulder, and everything was all right.

She said, sobbing, "I don't ever want to go through anything like that again."

"It's pretty horrible," Bake said. "It happened to Jane and me once. That's one reason I didn't want to be picked up again." She disentangled herself to wave at a confusion of newspapers on the studio couch. "It's all right, the fool's going to get well and they didn't give any names."

The
Tribune
and
Sun-Times
had about six lines apiece, on inside pages, stating that the police had been called when an unidentified woman struck a second woman, also unidentified, at the Club Karla on the near North Side. The victim, had been taken to a nearby hospital for emergency treatment and was recovering at her home from a slight concussion. There was no mention of the mass arrest and no suggestion that Karla's was anything but a run-of-the-mill night spot.