Stranger On Lesbos (4 page)

Now, turning the empty glass in her fingers, she tried prudently to brace herself against disappointment. She'll change her mind, she thought. Or it will snow or something. Don't count on going.

But she was smiling as she paid the cashier and went out into the crisp autumnal sunshine, warning herself: she won't call. Frances knew better.

Bake called at eleven the next morning, just three hours after the Flanagans "dropped in for a minute" and while they were having one last drink, which was likely to stretch into three or four. Frances said, "Excuse me," and lifted the phone from its cradle, wishing desperately that she had succumbed to the telephone company's urging and had an extension installed in the kitchen. Betty Flanagan let her story trail off, listening. "Hello?"

"This is Bake. Didn't get you out of bed or anything, did I?"

"No. Just sitting here talking to some people."

"Oh, then you're not free to talk."

"No."

"Look, suppose I pick you up around nine? I'll take care of the lunch. Wear something durable. We'll look for bittersweet." A burst of music drowned her out. Frances waited. Bake's voice returned, sounding far away and full of laughter. "I'm in Hal Butler's apartment with ten thousand crazy people, mostly looped. Look, baby, I'll see you in the morning. Right?"

"Right." Frances hung up. "That was a girl in my class at the University," she said, coming back to sit beside Betty but looking at Bill. "I'm going for a drive in the country with some people I know, tomorrow."

"Do you good," Jack Flanagan said generously. "Hey, Bill, anything left in that pitcher?"

"Might be a small dividend."

"How about you, Frances?"

"Frances doesn't drink," Bill said. "She's a culture vulture
Shakespeare and the opera."

"No vices," Betty Flanagan said. She crossed her knees so that her sheath skirt slipped a little higher. Bill poured another drink and leaned across the sofa to hand it to her, flicking a look down her scoop neckline.

Jack Flanagan said, "Get with it, woman. Bill and I have to get up early and go to Milwaukee tomorrow."

Betty winked at Frances. "We know what they're going to do in Milwaukee, don't we?"

"It's a great town," Bill said. "All that beer, all those big busty blondes."

"Maybe I'll go on your picnic, Fran. Any attractive men?"

"Just girls. Anyway, there's no room."

"Aah, nuts."

Frances was silent. Why did I lie, she asked herself, honestly puzzled. I don't want Betty trailing along, of course. But there's no reason I can't go somewhere with just one girl. No reason at all to feel so
well, illicit. As if I had a secret date with a man.

She saw the Flanagans to the door, her silence unnoticed in the flurry of good nights, and came back shivering into the warm house.

"Do you really have to go to Milwaukee tomorrow, Bill?"

He looked surprised. "Sure, this is a big account. This guy buys all the toys for one of the biggest department stores in town. No telling what time we'll get back."

She stood on tiptoe to put her arms around his neck. "Remember the first Thanksgiving we had together?"

"I remember we were damn hard up."

But not the laughter, or the way we fell into bed when the dishes were done, in the middle of the afternoon, because we couldn't wait. That was the first time I ever really
She blinked.

"Better hit the sack, honey," Bill said. "I'll be upstairs pretty soon."

He honestly didn't remember.

Upstairs, she undressed mechanically and put on her pajamas. Then, in a resurgence of hope, she stripped them off and stuffed them into the hamper. From a bottom drawer she took a sheer black nylon nightgown she had never worn, a present from Bill after a recent sales convention. (Guilty conscience? She pushed the thought out of her mind.) A dab of perfume on her arms and bosom and behind her knees, a quick brushing out of her hair, and she was ready. She lay tense, waiting.

The clock struck one.

From the foot of the stairs came the rustling of paper and the light scratch of a pen. She blinked furiously. He was down there mapping out his Milwaukee campaign, going over the plans he and Jack Flanagan had made this afternoon, while she lay here ready and waiting. She jumped out of bed.

From the head of the stairs she could see him, surrounded by catalogues and price lists. "Bill, please come to bed."

He looked up absently. "In a minute, hon. I'm busy."

If I were like Betty Flanagan, she thought, I'd go out and get myself another man. As all wives do at times, she tried to imagine herself in a lover's embrace, but the picture refused to take form and she gave it up.

She sat on the edge of the bed, waiting.

Darling, she thought
mentally addressing a younger and more responsive Bill
I don't want to get ahead in the world. Honestly I don't. I know you're doing all this for Bobby and me, but all we really need is to be the way we used to be. To share things, and go for walks together, and listen to records. To be together.

The mature Bill, downstairs, rumpled a sheet of paper and threw it into the wastebasket. It landed with a soft plop.

Men, Frances thought resentfully, pulling the pillow up around her ears to shut out the rustling of papers from downstairs. Never trust a man. They always let you down when you need them most.

Like pain flowing back into an old scar, the memory of Freddie Fischer stirred in her. Freddie, the three-letter man and senior-class hero, the boy no girl ever said no to; Freddie, who sat in the back row of the senior English class not because he was shy, like her, but because he preferred not to catch the teacher's eye. Let other, less gifted men worry about Chaucer and the Lake Poets. He had glory and glamour, and he had women.

He could have had her, any time. Homely little Frankie Kirby, with her stringy hair and faded cotton dresses
and her straight A record. He had taken her home from school half a dozen times in his red convertible, letting her out at the corner so her father wouldn't know. Had kissed her casually, and let her write his term papers and book reports. Had invited her to the Homecoming Dance after his eligibility for the football team was finally secure, and had left her waiting half the night on the rickety front porch of her home, waiting for him to appear, corsage in hand. She still hoped that he had meant to go through with it
that it had been a fleeting generosity and not a crude joke.

Because that night had cost her much. She had stolen the money for a formal, a permanent wave, high-heeled slippers and fancy earrings from her father's overall pocket while he slept, without a qualm except for the chance of his waking and catching her. Had been ready and eager to park with Freddie or go to a motel with him or, in short, do anything he wanted her to.

Maybe, she had thought
putting on the net dress with the sequined ruffles, teetering unsteadily on the tall heels
maybe he'll even ask me to marry him. For it was 1941 and high school boys were marrying their classmates, marrying girls met in bars and dime stores, marrying anyone in their frenzy to experience love and leave children behind before they went off to be killed.