Stranger On Lesbos (3 page)

Frances felt ashamed to admit that this was her first time in a classroom in fifteen years, that she was just a housewife smothered by walls and trying to find
what? She didn't know. She said hesitantly, "No, we're new here. We've been living in Pennsylvania, my husband and son and I." She blushed. It sounded terribly stuffy.

"I'm working on my M. A. I may not live to make it, but it's fun trying." Frances liked the girl's quick self-deriding smile. "I'm Mary Baker, by the way. I have a crazy job
television promotion."

"That sounds exciting."

"It's a living."

"Anything is better than washing dishes," Frances said. "Miss Baker
or is it Mrs. Baker?"

"Miss. My friends call me Bake."

"I'm Frances Ollenfield." And what did names matter, Frankie Kirby or Mrs. William Ollenfield, when you met someone you really liked? "Look," she said, "why does the instructor start with Lawrence?"

"He said why. Because Lawrence was the first to express what other people knew but were afraid to give words to," Mary Baker said. "Sex, of course, but other things too. He knew how people really feel about things, not how they think they ought to feel. He helped smash the old taboos. That's why he's great, even if he did write badly sometimes."

"He's dated."

"Yes." Bake's face hardened. "Not as much as you think, though. We've got a long way to go."

Frances looked down at her hands. "Did you get to the place where Mrs. Morel sits in the garden, wondering where her life has gone to
feeling as though her whole life had been lived by somebody else?"

"I remember it. Do you feel like that?"

The question came so simply that she had no time to be embarrassed. "Sometimes."

"It's a great pity," Bake said softly. "Life is so short, it's too bad not to get the most out of every single second."

Easier said than done, Frances thought.

Through the class hour she kept stealing looks at the girl beside her. A stranger. But not a stranger somehow; like someone known before, and to be better known. She liked Bake's clear firm profile under the short hair, her good nose and solid chin, the way her neck rose out of the white collar. She liked the way Bake sat with her shoulders back and her feet firmly planted. By contrast, Frances felt colorless and insipid.

It seemed natural to have Bake suggest that they go out for a drink when the class hour was over. This was like high school
girls wandering off to the snack shop or soda fountain after hours. (But not skinny shabby little Frankie Kirby from the mines, ever.) They went to a little place just off campus, and Bake ordered Martinis.

"But I don't drink."

"You'll have to learn. You need to loosen up."

The drink was cold and faintly bitter. It made Frances feel alert and relaxed at the same time. She listened while Bake talked about books, about Lawrence. "Read
The Rainbow
. It's not on Kemper's list, but it's one of the best." She mentioned an argument she had had with a man who had known Lawrence in New Mexico, a newspaperman whose syndicated column Frances read every week. "You meet all kinds of people on a job like mine. Some of the famous ones are slobs. But some are fascinating.”

 "It sounds wonderful."

"It's all right."

Four girls came in together and sat down at the next table. One gave Bake a curious look, raised a hand in greeting, then turned away. Bake's mouth hardened. "I've got to be going. Can I drop you somewhere?"

"Oh no, the bus is handy."

"Come on, I'll drive you home."

She drove fast and well. Frances, who usually sat clutching the edge of the seat if Bill went over fifty, realized that they were well over the speed limit, but she felt no anxiety. They took the short drive in companionable silence. When they drew up in front of her house she found herself looking at it through Bake's eyes: a stodgy middle-class dwelling for dull people.

"I hate this place," Frances said. "But what can you do
with the housing shortage."

"It doesn't matter. I'll see you Friday."

Frances felt her face grow warm. "I'll buy you a drink then."

"Good enough."

Bake waved, turned the car around skillfully, and sped away, her left arm hanging negligently out of the open window. Frances stool watching until she turned the corner. Then she went inside, feeling more exhilarated than one drink could account for, and knelt down in front of the bookcase to look for
The Rainbow
.

CHAPTER 3

“I thought you weren't coming."

"I had lunch with a client. God, I thought I'd never break away." Bake undid the top button of her jacket and puffed out a deep breath, indicating how she had hurried. "I wanted to see you even if I didn't make it to class. Did I miss anything?"

"Snap quiz." Frances caught the waiter's eye. He gave her a token smile and came over. "You can easily make it up."

"Sometimes I wonder if it's worth the trouble. I've been doing this for years and years, all to get two little letters after my name."

"No classes Friday."

"Of course not; Thanksgiving week end."

"I'll miss seeing you."

"I suppose you'll have a big family dinner, with turkey and so on?"

"I'm afraid so." . Frances remembered, with a nostalgic pang, the first Thanksgiving after she and Bill were married. There wasn't any money for turkey; they were saving every nickel to pay for the baby. Bill came home from work with a sparrow feather, which he stuck solemnly on top of the meat loaf. She sighed.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing really. I was just thinking how conventional people get as they grow older."

"Age has nothing to do with it. Most people are born conventional."

"I'll miss going to the University on Friday," Frances said. The waiter set their drinks down. She took hers absent-mindedly. "Bill will be out of town all day, and Bob's never home any more. If it isn't ham radio it's basketball."

"It's going to be a good day to get out into the country, if the weather holds." Bake glanced out into the street, where a few late leaves rattled dryly along the sidewalk. The sky was blue, the sun bright. "Of course we could have a blizzard, but this is certainly unusual weather for November." She studied Frances above the rim of her glass. "Why don't we both take the day off and go for a drive? We could bring some sandwiches."

Frances would have been willing to spend the day on a rock pile with a pickax if Bake had suggested it. Anything was better than wandering around an empty house, dusting furniture that was already clean and wondering what Bill was doing and when he would get home.

"That sounds like fun."

"Good. The woods out around Elgin ought to be gorgeous by now. I'll call you Thursday night and we can settle the details."

They separated, Bake to keep an appointment with a client, Frances to sit at the table a while longer, in a haze of well-being that came partly from gin and partly from being with Bake. A whole day together, away from other people and their demands
a day without assignments or obligations. It was more than she could accept. She was afraid to believe in it.

She thought back over the scattered hours she and Bake had spent together in the last few weeks. Sitting side by side in the lecture room, their faces solemnly turned to the instructor, but aware of each other; facing each other across this little table three times a week, over the ritual after-class Martini; walking briskly down cracked and cluttered sidewalks among groups of playing Negro children. Brief as the encounters were, impersonal as their talks had been, they gave depth and color to the day. When Bake missed a class, as happened now and then, Frances felt flat and let down.