Stranger On Lesbos (29 page)

"The same with me."

"I think she'll go back to Bake, eventually. I think this is what's been working out. Bake's been in some kind of a spin, on the town every night, picking people up in bars. Riffraff, I mean. I only hope she gets it out of her system before she gets in real trouble."

The Martinis came, in glasses wonderfully cold to the touch. Frances sipped hers absently. Kay said, "What are you going to do now, make up with your husband?"

"I don't know."

"Anything's better than being alone." Kay's smile hurt.

"After thirty you want something steady. I thought
I sort of hoped that was what I had."

Frances laid an impulsive hand on hers. "You're a swell girl."

"I like you, too. Want another drink?"

Frances didn't know whether it was the glow induced by two Martinis, or the softening influence of sympathy, or the memories conjured up by seeing Kay; but after they parted she stood on the corner for a long time, stirred by an unreasonable impulse to call Bake. Might as well be friendly, she argued. I could call up and say hello, anyhow. A little light-headed, she went into a drugstore and waited her turn for a pay telephone.

"Bake? It's me."

"Well, for heaven's sake, where are you?"

"Corner of Adams and Wabash, in a Walgreen's. I just bought a horrible dress to wear to my child's wedding."

Bake said a little thickly, "Fine. Why don't we get together and have a drink to celebrate. Sort of a bachelor dinner."

She's been drinking, Frances thought. But the need to see Bake was urgent. She said doubtfully, "I have to be home early."

"Oh, come on. Well go to Karla's and have just one, then you can go home in style in a taxi. Got an early-morning appointment myself."

"Okay. Just one, though."

She was reminded of other evenings that had started with one drink and ended in bleary incoherence. I don't have to stay, she promised herself. I can be home by nine or so, get a good night's sleep
take some phenobarbital or a tranquilizer if Bill has any left over from that sales conference
can't afford to look tired tomorrow. Louise Congdon's probably having a manicure, facial and permanent right this minute.

A cab stopped at the curb and Bake got out, looking around.

If she had been living it up, it didn't show. But then, it never did. Bake's skin was clear, her tweed suit tidy. She smiled, and Frances' eyes misted. If we could only start over, she thought. If we could go back a year and do it over.

She said, "Look at me bawling. I've had two Martinis already."

"All by yourself?"

"No, I bumped into Kay in Scott's."

"She told you she and Jane have busted up, I suppose."

"I was sorry to hear it."

"Kay's all right," Bake said frowning, "but she never really understood Jane. Jane's a sensitive person. Very shy, really. She needs somebody to look after her."

She didn't want to talk about it. "Look, I have to go home early. One quick one, that's all."

"Sure."

But in the familiar clatter of Karla's, with Mickey bringing the drinks to their table to welcome them back, time seemed to stand still. The first Martini was followed by a second and then a third. It felt good to sit still and look at Bake's face, which was beginning to blur around the edges.

"My feet are tired," Frances said sadly. "This damn wedding."

"Poor baby."

"Got to go home pretty soon."

"Plenty of time. Let's have one more for good-bye."

Finally they went, forgetting to pay Mickey and then, when she called them back, having trouble counting the change. Frances felt happy and loose-jointed. At the curb Bake said, "Look, let's go to The Pub. M-might amuse you. All full of girls in fly-front jeans."

"Bill's gonna be mad."

Bake scowled. "Bill own you, or something?"

"Hah."

The Pub, on the ragged edge of the theatrical district, was like half a dozen other bars she had visited with Bake's friends
a little darker, noisier, and more fly specked, the glasses pyramided behind the bar not so shiny, and the percentage of shabby trousered customers higher than at Karla's or the Gay Eighties. In Frances' relaxed condition, it didn't matter. Tomorrow there would be the wedding to contend with, and after that a long stretch of nothingness. At the moment all that mattered was Bake, perched beside her at the bar, and the wonderful cool glass in her hand. Got a lot of things to tell her, she thought foggily. Later, maybe. She felt that complete understanding was just beyond her reach; any minute now she would know all about everything, all the mysteries and inner meanings of life. She leaned close to Bake, willing to sit still and wait for a more complete revelation.

Bake said softly, "Look what just came in."

She squinted, trying to focus. The newcomers were five or six sturdy, muscular girls in tight slacks and striped jerseys, with visored caps pushed back off their foreheads. They found scattered places at the bar and ordered beer.

"Baseball team," Bake whispered, "girls' pro baseball. The one on the end is sort of nice."

Frances looked, seeing nothing but a pallid blur. But the girl who had taken the stool next to her spoke up. "She's not so hot. Anyhow, she only goes for redheads."

This one was visible, at least. Bulky, not fat, but solid in her cotton pullover, with plump arms and a rather heavy face. No makeup. Under the pushed-back cap her hair curled springily. "Let me buy you both a drink. We just got paid."

Bake said, "We have to go."

"Oh, come on, be a pal."

"I'll have a beer," Frances said. She felt fine. Her view of the room blurred and softened, the outlines of people melting pleasantly into the background. When she turned her head, everything was fuzzy. She had to grip the edge of the bar with both hands and wait until her vision cleared. Bake gave her a warning look.

"Had enough," Frances began sleepily, agreeing, and then flinched as Bake swayed, put her head down beside her empty glass and went to sleep.

Frances' new friend said, "Jeez, she just passed out."

"Asleep is all. She does that."

"Won't she wake up?"

"Sure, after a while."

"Look, I got some good wine up at my place. Come along with me. We'll just have one."

Frances giggled. One with Kay, and one with Bake, and now one with this girl
the world was full of people with one drink. Funny arithmetic. She struggled to her feet, and the floor swung around.

"Money in my pocketbook," she said thickly.

"That's okay."

The bartender said, "A nice dish you got there."

"You can say that again." The girl slipped her hand through Frances' arm. "Come on, honey, it ain't very far. We can walk there."

It had got dark, somehow. Broad daylight when we came in here, she thought. The night was lit with street lamps that hurt her eyes. She clung to her new friend, sober enough to realize that the crossings were full of peril but unable to tell how far away the cars were or how fast they were coming. Her foot struck a curb, and she stumbled, then righted herself. An arm was around her, comforting and supporting her.

They turned in at a scabrous red brick house with torn dangling shades at the lighted windows. The girl pushed the door open. "Think you can make the stairs?"

"I'm fine. My friend Bake now, she had too mush
too much to drink." She gave up trying to explain.

It was important for this girl to know that Bake was the one who drank too much, but the stairs were steep and her foot kept slipping off the edge. She made the top with a triumphant feeling, and stood blinking as her new friend turned on an overhead light.

The room was a clutter of half-unpacked suitcases and duffle bags. A double bed filled most of it, and a folding cot had been set up against one wall. The girl kicked a shoe under the bed. "We just got in from Cleveland. We're going to be here three days
all but Maisie, she got a couple ribs busted this afternoon. I guess she'll be in the hospital a while." She began throwing things out of the largest suitcase. "Some of this junk is hers. Take your dress off and relax, honey. I sure hate to wear a dress."