Stranger On Lesbos Read online

  She got lip, a little groggily, and followed Bake into the kitchen. She stood leaning against the doorframe, watching Bake as she opened the oven door and slid a pan in. This was a different Bake, her very own, no kin to the girl striding along against the wind or the girl reaching out in bed. Her heart warmedall the way through.

  "What's the matter, baby?"

  "You know something?"

  "Sure." Bake wiped her hands on the dishtowel. "Me too."

  CHAPTER 10

  “This is going to be a real vacation," Bake said. Her face glowed as it always did when she was describing some project of her own devising. "It's our anniversary. We've been together two years."

  "Good God," Jane said, "that sets some kind of a record. Of course Kay and I have been together almost four, but that's different."

  "Yes," Bake said with something steely and ominous in her voice, "I know about you and Kay."

  "You know damn well"

  Lissa cut in, "Are you going to have a party? I love parties."

  "Nope. We're going on a trip, a week or maybe two weeks if Frankie can get her vacation now. I've been thinking about Quebec. French Canada."

  "Cold there this time of year," Jane said, breaking her Ry-Krisp and looking at it distastefully.

  Frances said, "But Bake!"

  Polly said maliciously, "Frances doesn't sound so enthusiastic. Maybe she isn't as crazy about sub-zero weather as you are."

  "It isn't that," Frances said, troubled. "I'd love to go. Only I didn't plan on being gone so long during the school year."

  "I suppose your child goes to camp in the summer," Polly said dryly. "How old is he now, old enough to wash his own neck and ears?"

  "Seventeen. I know it sounds foolish, he's really old enough to take care of himself. But I don't like to leave him."

  "The old maternal instinct. I use mine all up on Lissa, the big baby."

  Lissa widened her eyes. "But Polly honey, I need to be taken care of."

  "Sometimes I think both of those girls are feeble-minded," Bake said sharply when Polly had paid the waiter and left, with Lissa trailing along. "I can't understand Polly. She used to be such an intelligent girl. It isn't in that stupid little bitch of a Lissa to be faithful to anybody." She took the slip the waiter handed her and sat moodily studying it. "Goddam it, we can't even have a quiet meal together any more. Everybody has to come busting in."

  Frances managed not to point out that the other three had been seated on the other side of the room until Bake called them over. There was no point in arguing with her when she was in this mood, especially after a couple of drinks. Bake's plans began to take on substance only after she had shared them with somebody elseshe had to talk herself into things.

  Jane said, "Looks like it's time for me to go. I'll see you girls later." And left.

  Frances said again, urgently, "But Bake."

  "What?"

  "You know I can't get away for two weeks just now. Or a week, even. I thought maybe we could go somewhere for a week end."

  "Look, you went without a vacation all last summer when everybody else was going off on cruises and what not. You've got all that time stacked up. There's absolutely no reason why we can't go to Canada for a couple of weeksor a month if we feel like it. Ski in the Laurentians, see the old French farms where they use the bullock carts"

  "That's not it."

  Bake dropped a handful of change on the cashier's desk, and held the revolving glass door open for her. "Look, that boy of yours is a senior in high school. He'll go away to college next yearI suppose Bill's still set on an eastern school for him? Okay, nobody's going to wipe his nose for him then. Don't you think it's about time you cut the apron strings?"

  "Bill would make a terrible fuss."

  "Bill doesn't need you either, for heaven's sake. He needs somebody who'll send his suits to the cleaner and not care how late he stays out or how many secretaries he sleeps with, just so he brings home the paycheck. The guys Bill runs around with could trade wives blindfolded and never notice any difference. You're wasting your life."

  Frances said slowly, "Sometimes I think Bill knows. About us, I mean."

  "Then what have you got to lose? Just tell him you're leaving."

  Frances picked her way across the slush-slippery intersection, keeping a wary eye out for taxis. It was an overcast day, gray and windy. Bake slipped a hand under her elbow, a rare gesture. Her usual public behavior was impersonal to the point of being curt.

  "Remember our first day? It wasn't much like this."

  Pattern of branches against a burning blue sky, and one small red leaf spiraling down. Frances' eyes misted. "No, it wasn't."

  "Damn it, you sound like you were reading the obituary page. There's no reason it can't stay good. You're not the first person to make a stupid marriage and you wouldn't be the first person to get out of one, either. Sometimes I think you're simply too lazy."

  "I keep telling myself."

  "As far as Bill's concerned," Bake said coldly, "he's nothing but a Babbitt. I don't care how noble and idealistic he was when you married him, he doesn't know the first thing about you afterwhat is it, eighteen, nineteen years? I knew you better after eighteen minutes. In another ten years he'll have a paunch, a bald spot and an ulcer, and it'll be like living with the Wall Street Journal." She looked shrewdly at Frances. "In another ten years Bob will be married and have a couple of kids, too. Then what have you got to live for?"

  "Oh God, you make it sound so horrible. Don't you suppose I've thought about all that?"

  "If you didn't have to rush home from the office and cook dinner, you could take some evening courses and finish your degree work. I've always been sorry you dropped out when you went to work."

  "What else could I do?”

  "Nothing, I guess, as long as you're determined to be a household drudge."

  "I'd have left anyway, after what that awful girl said to me in the washroom."

  Bake shrugged. "That's a chance you take. It would have been the same thing if she saw you out with a manwell, no, not quite the same, but she was only kidding. You shouldn't have taken it so seriously."

  "She wasn't kidding."

  "Then you should have denied it."

  Frances was silent. They reached her office building, tall, many-windowed, impersonal. "All right," she said abruptly, "I'll do it."

  "What, go to Quebec with me?"

  "That too. But I mean, I'll leave Bill." She swallowed hard. "I can't tell him till next week, though. He has this pre-Christmas convention coming up."

  "You're scared to tell him."

  "Yes, I am. But I will, as soon as the convention is over. That's a promise."

  "Good girl. That gives me time to scout around and find a good lawyer. In this state you have to prove cruelty or infidelity, I think. You might ask Kayshe's been divorced."

  "I like Kay."

  "So does Jane," Bake said dryly. "Maybe we better postpone the trip, after all. If it got back to Bill, he might file a countersuit or something. We don't want anything to keep your decree from coming through. And God knows," Bake said, "we don't want any publicity."

  "It sounds so messy."

  "Not with a good lawyer. Look, baby, I'm late for an appointment. We'll talk it over tonight, shall we? We'll get everything settled and then go on a real binge, just the two of us."

  "What, no Jane?"

  "Don't be so bitchy. You know Jane's an old friend."

  Frances hesitated. "Okay. I'll be down around eight.”

  The glow of determination ebbed away as she rang for the elevator and then stood waiting, going over her problem for

  the hundredth time. There isn't any good solution, she ought, feeling a little sick as the elevator door slid shut and the floors slid past. There just isn't any way out of this. No matter what I do, it's all wrong.

  She was no longer able to think about her marriage objectively, if indeed she had ever been. Whether it had been a mistake from the beginning
, her nature and Bill's being so different that happiness was impossible for them; or whether Bill had changed, as she supposed at first; or whether every marriage was doomed to self-destruction by its very nature, as some of Bake's friends arguedshe had thought about all these possibilities without finding an answer. And of another possibility, that some twist in her own nature made it impossible for her to love normally, as the world judges love. That the same quality which made her love Bake also made her incapable of happiness with a man. She shrank from believing this, because it made her at the same time guilty and helpless to do anything about it. It was better to think that the fault was Bill's.

  She hung her coat on the rack in the office washroom and absent-mindedly opened the first of her salesmen's reports. I've promised, she reminded herself unhappily. I can't back down now.

  She felt confused and depressed.

  As for the job, it was just a job. For the first few weeks it had been exciting to come to the Loop every morning, feeling herself part of the crowd that poured into the packed blocks between Michigan and Clark, Van Buren and Lake. Then the glamour wore thin and figuring commissions on insurance policies became no more exciting than washing dishes. Only the freedom that went with earning moneyeven though most of it went for clothes, lunches and bus faresand the necessity to prove some degree of independence, kept her at her desk.

  Three years of it, she thought. Three long years of hurrying to get my desk cleared by five-thirty so I can get home and wash the breakfast dishes. Then Bill's at a committee meeting or a business dinner, or out on the town with a customer, and Bob has something on at school. And me with nothing to look forward to but Social Security when I'm sixty-five, if I live that long.

  She thought as she had thought almost every day for the last two years what it would mean to live with Bake. I'll do it, she promised herself. I won't back down this time.

  But she was glad that she didn't have to break the news to Bill for a few days.

  CHAPTER 11

  “Mom?” That was Bob in the living room, probably home for supper after all. The slam of the front door reverberated through the house. Frances reached for the hand lotion, trying to keep her voice level, and wondering what she could fix for him to eat.

  "In the kitchen, son."

  He looked like his father, a tall sturdy young man whose breadth filled the kitchen doorway. Frances smiled mechanically. Then she saw that he wasn't alone. He had a girl with him, a slim splinter of a girl with smooth dark hair and curving black eyebrows. He pulled her into the room after him. "Mom, this is Mari Congdon."

  Frances said something polite. Since he was fourteen he had been bringing home girlsblondes, brunettes, redheads and some who got their coloring out of a bottle and changed it every week. Kids started dating now before they were out of eighth grade, and all of the girls were smart-looking and self-possessed, but they all looked alike to an adult. Sometimes she wondered how Bob told them apart.

  This one was different. Young as she was, surely not more than seventeen, she had a mature quality that the others lacked. Or maybe it was the expression on Bob's face that made the difference. His mother caught her breath, watching him. That mixture of tenderness, amusement and hungerit was the look of a man in love. And the girl had the quiet awareness of a loved woman, for whom all things are intensified.

  I'm imagining things, she told herself crossly. Aloud she said, "I have to go out in an hour or so, but wouldn't you youngsters like something to eat?"

  Bob looked embarrassed. The girl said in a low composed voice, "Thank you, but we have a date. Bob's been wanting me to meet you, and I thoughtyou see, he had to come home and change anyway"

  Frances said more cordially, "Well, I'm glad you did. You must come and have dinner with us. Maybe Sunday?" Then she remembered that she was going to break the news to Bill on Sunday. I won't be seeing Bob any more unless I call up and make an appointment with him, she thought. I won't cook any more dinners for him. Do they let the mother have visiting privileges, if the father has custody?

  Nonsense, Bob's almost eighteen. He makes his own decisions. She glanced at him covertly, seeing him with that man look on his face, and desolation settled down over her. The apron strings were snapped now, sure enough.

  She became aware of the silence that had settled down. Bob said gruffly, "Well, come on," and the girl followed him out of the kitchen, turning back to offer Frances a sweet, apologetic smile. She had on heels and nylons: a formal date, then. Frances wondered fleetingly where they were going. Then her own problems came rushing back. She snapped off the kitchen light and went upstairs, feeling tired and shopworn, to dress for an evening on the town with Bake.

  She didn't much care for the places Bake and her crowd frequented, places where women danced together and the only men were blatant queers or gawking sightseers from out of town. Bake knew all sorts of interesting people: painters, writers, newspapermen, publishers, corporation lawyers, atomic scientists, museum curators. Because of her job she had an entree to supper clubs and restaurants that were mentioned in the smart magazines. But when she was in the mood for relaxation she liked to go to Karla's, the Squared Circle, the Gay Eighties. Special clientele, Frances thought wryly. Too special. She wasn't ashamed of loving Bake, but she didn't want to be classified with the couples she had seen in the Gay Eighties, looking into each other's eyes, holding hands under the table. Or with the lonely haunted women who drifted in after midnight, ordered drink after drink and scanned the room for possible pickups.

  When they were at the apartment, she could forget her qualms in Bake's arms. But tonight they met downtown, on a busy street corner. Frances gathered up her courage. "Bake, why don't we go straight to your place? I'd like us to be alone for once."

  "Would you, darling?" Bake had already had a couple of drinks. She smiled. "I tell you what, we'll go over to Karla's and have just one. Then we'll go right home."

  "Not Karla's. It's so tacky."

  Bake's eyes narrowed. "If the places I like aren't good enough for you"

  "I didn't mean that." It was no good reasoning with Bake; Frances had seen her in this mood before. She slipped her arm through Bake's, resolving to try to get her home early. "Taxi?"

  "Certainly. We're celebrating, aren't we?"

  Karla's was jammed. Jukebox blasting, waitresses pushing and twisting to make a path among the small tightly crowded tables, people talking loudly to be heard above the music. Bake headed straight for the bar. A husky butch and her fem were just getting up to leave, and Bake grabbed their stools.

  "The joint's jumping," she said.

  The bartenderFrances had seen her three or four times before she realized that Mickey was a girlnodded. "Yeah, the word's getting around. Friday night too, that helps." She reached under the counter for clean glasses. "The usual?"

  "Double. We're celebrating."

  "I haven't seen you two in quite a while. Thought maybe you split up or something."

  "Uh-uh. We're not going to split up, are we, baby?"

  Frances murmured, "I hope not."

  "This girl's moving in with me." Bake chose her words with care, enunciating precisely. "Isn't that great? She's going to leave her dumb husband and come in with me. Smartest thing she ever did."

  "Please, Bake."

  Bake slid one of the Martinis her way. "To us.”

  Frances sipped her drink and fatigue and apprehension fell away. The faint guilt that had nagged at her since the meeting with Bob's girl vanished. "I never used to drink at all," she said in wonder.

  "You missed out on a good thing," Bake said. "Make us another, will you, Mickey?"

  "Sure thing."

  Frances couldn't remember why she had disliked Mickey so at first. She made a good-looking boy, solid and healthy.

  Only the slight swell under the pockets of her plaid shirt and something indefinable in her walk gave her away. Not more than twenty-five, she had rosy cheeks and smooth dark hair; she managed the bar competently and seem
ed to be in charge whenever the gray-haired manager was out, which was most of the time. Frances had seen her separate two hair-pulling dolls and usher them both out into the street without getting winded. Of course I couldn't go for anybody like that, she defended herself. Bake's not queer, but I don't have to be narrow-minded about other people, do I?

  She accepted her second double Martini through a pleasant haze of good will.

  Bake was sitting very erect, holding her glass carefully. She'll be all right, Frances reassured herself. Never shows it when she's had too much; I wouldn't know it myself if she didn't get so guarded.

  She nudged Bake. "Please don't take any more."

  "It's all right, I won't pass out on you this time." She said to Mickey, laughing, "About the second time we were together I got plastered and went to sleep before I hit the pillow. She's never forgiven me."

  Frances blushed. "Please, Bake."

  "Dance?"

  She turned. A tall, thin woman of her own age stood beside her, dangling a cigarette from her veined hand. Frances said uncertainly, "I don't think so. thanks."

  "She doesn't want to dance with you," Bake said.

  "That's up to her. Do you want to dance or not, honey?"

  "Look," Bake said, "I told you she doesn't want to dance."

  She stood up. So did Frances. "Listen, Bake, let's go home now. I'm tired."

  The thin woman looked Bake up and down, her eyebrows raised. "Are you married to the girl or something? I only asked her to dance."

  Bake said between her teeth, "Will you go away?" She moved closer to the woman, who took an uncertain step backward and stood swaying a little on high heels. Oh God, Frances thought, she's loaded too.

  Mickey said, "Break it up, kids. Let's be friends."

  "Friends, hell," Bake said. "Get out of here, you bitch."

  She laid her hand against the woman's flat chest and pushed. The other customer, caught off balance, went down gradually, like someone in a slow-motion film. There was a sickening thud as her head struck the edge of the bar.