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  The book she held now was one of Erika’s. Reading it made Frances feel closer to her. At least, she thought, Erika had been spared the disillusionment that comes when love ends, both parties trying to save a feeling that no longer has meaning.

  Upstairs, she undressed quickly in the master bedroom, now so interior decorated that it had no character at all unless she left things lying around. She threw her bra and lacy half-slip over the back of a chair and, turning on the overhead light, looked critically at herself in the mirror. She had always felt she was too thin. Now, with middle age approaching and many of her acquaintances crammed into tight girdles, she was glad. I may not be bosomy enough to suit Bill, she thought—he liked the Playboy type—but she wasn’t unhappy about that. She put her hands under her breasts and was pleased at their firmness and instant response to her touch.

  She got into bed and opened her book. A soft peach light glowed through the shade of the reading lamp on the night table. When she got drowsy she could drop the book down behind the bed, to keep it out of Bill’s sight.

  She was used to being alone. Over the last few years, Bill’s evening routine had settled into a pattern on the few evenings he spent at home: he would work until midnight or later, making out reports and reading other reports, correlating sales figures, typing things on his little German portable with the nervous chattering keys that kept her awake. Around eleven the sound of typing would stop while he made his first trip to the cupboard. He wouldn’t bring the bottle into the living room, keep it conveniently at his elbow—only a lush worked with a bottle at his side. Bill wasn’t a heavy or even a compulsive drinker; at least, he liked to think he wasn’t. Nor would he take enough to blur his vision or his speech. He made a point of this.

  But three or four times before he came up to bed she would hear his slippered footsteps making for the kitchen. There would be a creak when he opened the refrigerator, a soft plopping as the ice cubes jumped out of the rubber tray, the running of water for a chaser. She could almost hear the tiny cold clink of glass on glass as he filled the tumbler.

  He would be sober when he came up, by anyone’s test, but a little fuzzy with alcohol and fatigue. It made it easier for her to pretend she was asleep.

  She opened her book. It was the story of a young girl, pretty and naïve, who ran away from home because her family and high school sweetheart couldn’t accept her being different. In Greenwich Village, perhaps, she could make a life of her own. Frances had opened the door of the rented apartment and timorously explored the rooms with her, had entered the gay bar and hopefully looked at the girls in chinos and car coats. Across the room she caught the eye of a slim beautiful girl—

  Tonight she couldn’t lose herself in the story. The pleasant, made-up faces of the Wives came between her and the unknown girl.

  She read the page over again.

  Downstairs there was a rustling as Bill pushed aside his papers and got up for his first trip to the kitchen.

  Thank God for liquor, Frances mused. Maybe if I could get really stoned I’d go out and pick up a girl. Just any old girl who would do what Bake used to do in bed.

  She had heard of gay girls who went to prostitutes. But she was afraid of disease. She had seen pictures—she shuddered. And besides, she thought angrily, there ought to be a little feeling in it. Even if it’s only friendliness.

  The last time she had picked up a girl had been the night before Bob’s wedding. And what happened? She was raped, beaten up and robbed. Probably wouldn’t happen again in a hundred years, but the memory still made her feel sick.

  This was unbearable. And it could go on all night.

  She pushed down the sheet, seeing in the soft light her still slender and desirable body, so long empty and unfulfilled. It had been so long. You can’t count what Bill does to me, she thought coldly. I don’t take any real part in it—it doesn’t mean any more than what a doctor does when he examines you. There’s no shared feeling in it.

  In the bathroom she found the little bottle of sedative tablets. Bill took one sometimes, when he was hung over. She swallowed one, capping the bottle tightly and putting it back on the top shelf. She had heard about women who took more and more sleeping pills, forgetting in their drugged condition that they already had some. She didn’t really believe she would do anything so stupid, but she wasn’t going to take any chances. Anybody was entitled to be silly now and then.

  Back in bed she folded the sheet tightly across her chest to give herself a feeling of being held—all right, return to the womb if you feel like it—and lay waiting for sleep. She thought about Bake for a while, although the memory made her more uneasy. And about Kay with her slender taut body and eager mind. And then, at last, she let herself think about Erika Frohmann.

  Erika, like sad, tender, faraway music.

  She felt her thoughts blur and her head grow heavy as the medication took hold. Her physical desire dissolved into a gentle oblivion. She fell asleep thinking of Erika.

  8 THE MEETING, LIKE MOST OF THE MEETINGS FRANCES had attended, broke up quickly after the cookies and coffee were served. Vince walked to the door with the speaker, a small dry-voiced man from the American Civil Liberties Union, and some of the others stood around shaking hands and commenting on his talk. “It was certainly kind of you to come, and we’ll all remember what you’ve told us.”

  “I hope you’ll never need to,” Mr. Murphy said. “Just keep in mind that you have exactly the same rights as any other citizens—that includes the right to be regarded as innocent until you’re proven guilty, and the right to be represented by attorney. If you’re ever in a bar having a drink, a place that’s licensed to serve liquor, and the police come in and start making arrests, the first thing is to demand legal counsel. The Union will send one if you can’t afford the fees.”

  “What if they ask outright, are you gay?”

  “You don’t even know what the word means. Keep on insisting that you didn’t know what kind of a place it was. Besides, it’s not against the law to be gay.”

  A slender girl with close-cut black curls protested, “That’s not honest.”

  “How can you be honest when you’re dealing with a crooked social system?” Vince asked eagerly. “Entrapment is wrong, but they do it all the time.” The others nodded.

  The speaker shook hands again, put on his hat and left. There was a respectful silence till the sound of his footsteps died away. Then one of the boys—Frances hadn’t sorted them out yet—said, “Guess I have to go, I’m working in the morning,” and there was a general move to pick up lighters, cigarettes, and leaflets.

  Frances stood beside Erika. She said diffidently, not looking at her, “I’m taking a taxi. Can I drop you somewhere?”

  “No, I’ll wash the cups before I go.”

  Vince said, “Oh, doll, that’s not necessary. I’ll do it in the morning.”

  “No, I’ll do it.”

  “I’ll help,” Frances said. It would be an excuse to look at Erika for a while, anyway. She began gathering up cups and ashtrays from chair arms, folding trays and the floor. Erika stood a moment looking at her; she was conscious of that clear-eyed gaze but not sure what it meant. She went into the kitchen and stood beside the sink trying to stop her knees from shaking.

  Vince shut the apartment door behind the last guest. “How do you like my place?” he asked with boyish eagerness, coming into the kitchen and leaning against the cupboard while Frances scraped and stacked.

  “I like it. It’s uncluttered.”

  “I did it myself. Everything’s from the shop, or something my grandmother had stashed away in her attic.”

  The two rooms were what she had expected; she had felt at home here as soon as she stepped inside. Walls painted white, renovated furniture painted dead black, a long bookcase of boards and glass brick not unlike the one Bake had made, a shawl or tapestry in bright colors thrown across the largest chair. The couch was a foam-rubber mattress neatly sewed into a denim cover, resting on
a door and four short metal legs. Hinge supports still jutted from the empty doorframes. Somewhere in a closet or drawer, Frances knew, were the sheets that turned this mattress into a bed at night.

  She was telling the truth when she said she liked it. Functional, bare, decorated enough by the shelves of books in their colored jackets, it was a free-feeling place. A cheap, unframed Picasso print hung above the kitchenette range. It was such an apartment as she might have furnished for herself, given the freedom.

  Vince said, “I wish I had a fireplace, though.”

  Erika was washing dishes briskly, holding them under the hot tap to rinse and turning them upside down on the drain-board. Under the strong light she looked weary, the lines at the corners of her eyes deepened by fatigue. She had sat in a shaded corner all evening, silent; Frances, acutely aware of her, had turned now and then to look at her, but she hadn’t smiled or looked up. The others shifted position, whispered a comment, lit a cigarette, but Erika was immobile. What discipline was this, Frances wondered, to keep her still so long? What was she thinking about?

  Now she finished her work, twisted the sink plug and stood waiting while the soapy water gurgled away. Vince unfolded two clean towels and handed one to Frances. “Since you insist.”

  She worked mechanically, trying to think of some excuse to prolong the evening. Erika would go, still silent—she couldn’t bear it. She said hopefully, “It’s been an interesting meeting. Thanks for letting me come. Can I buy you both a drink somewhere?” And was at once aware that Vince knew what she was doing. He brushed away a smile with the back of his hand. “I’ve got some things to do, but maybe Erika would take you up on that.”

  Erika said formally, “Thank you very much, but I’d like to go home.”

  Frances was abashed. Vince said, “Look, doll, she isn’t asking for your hand in marriage, she just asked you to stop in somewhere for a drink. One drink.”

  “Why don’t you let me alone?”

  Now it was between Vince and Erika. Frances didn’t even know what the quarrel was about. She realized that Vince was on her side—at least, his interest at this point coincided with hers, which was something—and that she had better keep out of it. She waited. He said crossly, “You have to start living some time. You can’t go around like a zombie the rest of your life. Why can’t you even act decent to your own kind of people?”

  Erika’s mouth dropped. “All right, I’ll go. I don’t care.”

  Frances’s heart thumped. Where can I take her? What will I say to her when we’re alone? She had meant the invitation to be casual, an open-end thing. Now it seemed full of implications. Make a mistake now, she thought, and this girl is out of reach permanently. She felt a scary prickling along her arms.

  Erika checked her skirt pockets to be sure her door key was in one, change purse in the other; stood on tiptoe for Vince’s goodnight kiss; preceded Frances down the stairs. Vince stood at the door to see them off. At the bottom of the flight, Frances turned back to look at him. He gave her a tremendous wink. She followed Erika out into the night, feeling like a blundering fool. And hungry. Hungry for this girl’s touch and the sound of her voice. She felt tired and confused. How was she going to say what she had to say? How could she, who had never approached anyone before, take the initiative?

  They stood on the corner waiting for a taxi, so near that Frances could feel the other girl’s body warmth, yet each shut into her own thoughts. But in the taxi, with the door shut, Erika came to life. “Do you mind if I go straight home? I’m too tired to be good company. And much too tired to drink,” she added with the ghost of a smile.

  “Of course. What’s the address?”

  It meant nothing to her, she didn’t know the town. The driver nodded and made an illegal turn in the middle of the block.

  Erika sat as she had in Vince’s place, hands folded on her knees in the classic posture of resignation. Frances could think of nothing to say. She looked out of the window and wished for this abortive evening to be over.

  They slowed in front of a rundown wooden house with cupola, bay windows, and gingerbread porches—an old house, elegant in its day, now scaling and with a “Room To Rent” sign in the front window. Frances found change in her clutch bag and paid the fare. Erika stood on the sidewalk, looking away. Frances leaned out. “It’s been nice seeing you again,” she said with idiotic punctilio. “I’ll see you soon, I hope.”

  “Do you want to come in for a while?”

  Frances stared.

  “It’s all right if you do.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She stumbled, getting out of the cab. The driver grabbed her arm. His touch broke the unreality that had surrounded her on this dream ride through night streets. Frances stood beside Erika on the sidewalk, afraid to open her mouth because no matter what she said, it was likely to be the wrong thing.

  Erika sighed, taking the key from the pocket of her full cotton skirt. “Come in, if you care to. I’ll make some coffee.”

  Did she want Frances to refuse? And if so, why invite her? At any rate, the taxi was gone; she would have to call another before she could leave. Climbing up the two long flights of stairs, watching the worn toe-catching places in the carpeting, hearing her heels clatter on each step, she tried to puzzle it out. It was politeness, she decided, or an unwilling concession to Vince. Not liking—certainly not interest.

  The key grated in the lock. Erika smiled, holding the door open. “Come in. I’m sorry I don’t have a fan, it gets quite warm sometimes.”

  The room was very neat and entirely without personality. A door here, two windows there, narrow baseboards and a view of the house next door. It was no wonder she had relented on the invitation, faced with another evening in this barren place. Almost anything would be better than staying alone here, unable to sleep. The room breathed loneliness. Here Erika had slept (surely with the help of tranquilizers, or briefly after long hours of lying awake and remembering); she had risen and scrubbed herself spotless in the chipped tub, had made coffee and gone out to meet another day’s teaching. To this room she had returned at four o’clock, carrying an armful of papers to grade. Until summer had come, leaving hours that she had to fill somehow, alone and bereft.

  It was no wonder she tended store for Vince.

  There was a double bed with a sag in the middle, covered by one of those fancy rayon bedspreads so dear to landladies, a washed-out pink that certainly had nothing to do with Erika Frohmann—unless it was the color of frustration. Without lifting it, Frances knew that it concealed sheets with large press-on patches and a mostly cotton blanket of vaguely Indian design. There was the wooden chest of drawers with the flawed mirror and the one straight chair left over from a 1910 dining room suite. On a small table near the door were the round electric plate, the tin of coffee, percolator washed every morning under the bathroom tap and dried with a piece of Kleenex, a couple of plastic cups. Erika picked up the pot and stood looking at it vaguely, as though wondering what to do with it. Catching Frances’s eye, she smiled politely. “Why don’t you sit down? I’ll make some coffee.”

  “Thanks.”

  Erika left, carrying the aluminum pot carefully, as though it might shatter in her hand. Frances sat on the edge of the bed facing the second door, behind which, no doubt, Erika kept her clothes.

  “I’m sorry, I haven’t any cream,” Erika apologized, looking less nervous now that she had something to do.

  “I take it black.”

  “So do I.”

  The wires of the hot plate glowed dull, then bright. Erika measured the grounds carefully, adjusted the little glass hat to tighten it, and set the whole contraption on the heat. Frances said, to break the silence, “I hope I’m not making too much bother for you.”

  “No—oh no, only I wish Vince would mind his own business. Always trying to help other people’s troubles. Things will work out without help—and if they don’t, what can he do about it? Nothing, that’s all.”

  Fr
ances said, “I’m not trying to intrude.” And knew she was lying.

  “I suppose he had to tell you about Kate and me.”

  “A little.”

  Erika’s smile was drawn. “Vince is so young. Twenty-seven, but he still thinks all sorrows can be cured. Or that love is the answer to everything. What does he know about love?”

  Frances said heavily, “I don’t think one person ever takes the places of another. But sometimes a new person can make a place of her own.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  Oh God, Frances prayed, don’t let me give up hope, don’t make it hopeless when I could love her so dearly. She sat looking at the closet door, knowing there was no right answer. Erika said, “Vince thinks all I need is to go to bed with someone. I tried that.”

  “It didn’t work?”

  “No. It was sickening. I don’t have those feelings anymore.”

  The coffee began to make happy noises. Erika turns the switch down to M for medium. The wire coils dulled and the sound diminished. She said stiffly. “I also tried getting drunk first. That’s no good either.”

  “It takes time,” Frances said tritely.

  “I’m almost thirty. Oh God,” Erika said, her voice breaking, “I may live to be a hundred. What am I supposed to do?”

  Frances said in a smothered voice, “It matters to me. Do you think it doesn’t matter?”

  There was deep sadness in Erika’s face. “I can’t understand it. I was always the strong one, always. Kate was sick when she came to me. She was an alcoholic—she was really sick. I made her well.”

  “Well, I’m not Kate, and things have changed for you too.”

  “Some people think that all the body cells change every seven years, and we become different people,” Erika said with a melancholy attempt at humor. “Do you believe that?”