Strange Women, The (13 page)

"I couldn't." Jill was fiddling nervously with the ring on her finger. "Let's sit in the car."

In the dark front seat Jill leaned against her, and after a minute Nora put an arm around her waist.

"I hate to go, Nor. It's like the end of something."

"The end of anything is always the beginning of the next thing. You will come back, Jill?"

"I'll have to. The college. Did you think I wouldn't?" She swallowed. "I couldn't leave you, Nora."

"Dear, you mustn't—"

"Nora, I love you," she said desperately, "I love you—love you—"

Nora's arm tightened around Jill, but she could not speak.
Damn me anyhow.
Three words. I've said them easily enough to men I never gave a damn about. I said them to Les Rannock, and I ended by hating the ground he walked on. I've said them to my
cat!
Why not to Jill? I do love her. She's the sister my mother never gave me, the daughter I'll probably never have, all the friends I never had as a child—Jill ought to despise me for the damned hyprocrite I am. I take her confidence, her companionship, the comfort of her body, yet I can't give her three words she needs to hear me say.

She freed herself gently. "You'll smudge your lipstick, sweet."

"It's smudgeproof. Don't worry, there's none on you," Jill said, and Nora felt the scalding heat rise in her face.

"I think that's your bus. You'd better get a seat." She slid quickly away, and hurried around to open the door for Jill. As the girl mounted the bus steps, Nora stood outside, moving blindly backward, and realizing that she could not endure to go back to the empty rooms, that she had already begun to miss Jill beyond endurance.

Kit's face had a tinge of color in the window-gleam of the watery sun that lingered, low and pale, on the rim of the world. "Nora," he said, laughing, "you've looked at that watch four times in ten minutes. Going to catch a train?"

"Meet one. Jill's coming in tonight."

"Oh, is that all?" Kit settled back, wondering if that were the best she could do.

He had seen the change. Early this winter she had seemed a walking matchbox, ready to strike fire; then he had seen the nervous tautness go. A week ago she had turned up in the first really becoming dress he had ever seen her wear; the long braids were gone, transforming the austere lovely woman into a young and pretty one.

He didn't see how Jill could account for the change; though it dated from her coming, and it did occur to him that having a younger, prettier woman in the house might have prompted Nora to take pains with her looks.

He had always guessed that behind her brusque, professional manner Nora was capable of warmth; he was pleased at the little sprigs and buds of her personality sprouting through. But he wished
he
could have called them forth...

"Did Jill's mother die or get better?"

"Jill called Friday to say she was out of danger. It was just a bad scare." And they had made use of it to pull Jill back to them. Nora found herself resenting the Bristols; though doubtless Jill would be happier, reconciled to her family. Even her voice on the telephone had sounded lighter, gentler, gayer.

"Kit, darling, do you mind if I leave now? It would only be ten or fifteen more minutes."

"No, go along, my love."

Nora bent to kiss him on the forehead; but Kit, in a sudden surge of possessiveness, pulled her head down, and for the first time in weeks, their lips met and clung. Nora put out a hand to steady herself and fell, half dazed, across him. He shifted automatically to protect his legs; then pulled her against him, hard, and for a minute the whole length of her body lay against his. Through the layer of bedclothes she felt the thrusting rise of his maleness; but he pulled away first, with a gasp that was almost a curse.

"Christ!"

Nora rolled away and sat up. She felt dazed, pulling at her twisted skirt, wishing she could cry, or scream, or curse him, or—or anything but stand there like a rooted tree, frantically conscious of all the men in the ward. She thought she heard a smothered laugh.

"Leonora, I'm sorry," Kit said at last. He could hardly speak.

She couldn't speak either. She knew if she did, she would break down in wild sobs of despair and shame.

* * *

She stood in the railroad station, still numb, though she had hastily repaired her face. It seemed she saw Jill through the wrong end of a telescope, very small and distant; not now wearing the babyish knitted cap, but a dark dress and coat that clung to her body; rounding now into gentler curves, but still young and fresh; her dark gloves sparkled at the wrist with gold and crystal, and fresh flowers were pinned to her coat.

"Hello, Nora darling, I didn't expect you to come all the way down and meet me." Her lips brushed Nora's cheek lightly. "No, silly, I can carry my own suitcase."

"Is everything really all right, Jill?"

"Mother and I didn't talk much. She wasn't very strong. She did say she might have—made a mistake about me. I don't know whether she meant it, or whether she was just trying to make peace." Jill, staring at the sky from which the sunset reds had all faded, said half to herself, "That's a terrible thing..."

Then, coming back to herself with a little shake, "How's Kit? Have you been very busy?"

"Terribly. Vic's been out, and there's still a lot of 'flu around."

"I hope Dr. Demorino isn't sick?"

"No, no. He said he'd been needing a week off. I've had to see some of his routine patients for checkups. And Ramona must have caught some sort of bug, she hasn't been in for three days. By the way," she added sternly, "Vic told me you skipped your last checkup."

Jill froze. "Are you in the habit of discussing me with him?"

"Don't be silly. Your address is the same as mine—naturally he asked if you'd been sick. Any conscientious man would."

Going to have trouble,
Vic had said.
I like to keep my eye on those little nervous ones. They're the ones who have complications and premature babies, because they won't take proper care
of
themselves. Your friend's a bundle
of
nerves. She shouldn't skip checkups. Give her hell about it, will you, Nora?

"Are you very tired, Jill? I'll drop you first, if you like; but this is the first day I've had time, and I'd like to see if Ramona's really sick."

"No, no, I'd like to see them, too."

There was no light under the apartment door, but after Nora's third knock Margaret Sheppard opened the door and stood blinking at them. Her face was puffy, and her crumpled slacks looked as if she'd been sleeping in them.

Nora said in consternation, "Marg, are you sick? Why didn't you call me?"

"No. Come in. I was taking a nap."

The bed was unmade, clothing scattered everywhere, and the door to the glass porch swung open, empty.

"Why, where are all the cats?"

Margaret sat down on the frowsy bed. "I'm not quite awake yet. I didn't work today. Have you a cigarette?"

Nora handed her the pack, taking in the slight tremble of Margaret's hands. "What's happened? Where's Ramona?"

The clock ticked loudly thirty or forty times. "She's—gone.”

"Gone?”

"She's married."

And suddenly Nora knew it all and the words jumped from her. "So this is why Vic wanted a week—"

Margaret's words dropped like lumps of lead. "She didn't come home Saturday, or Sunday. Monday is my late night at work, and when I came in, she'd been here and packed and gone. She left a note saying she and Dr. Demorino had driven over the state line and been married."

"I'll be—damned."

"If only she'd told me. She didn't have to sneak away when she knew I wouldn't be here. Nor, I always knew it would happen some day, but to do it like that—"

"Marg, don't, you're only torturing yourself."

"She left an envelope with thirty dollars because the cats were half mine. They were worth a lot more, but she left me the phonograph and records—I'd like to throw her damned money in her face."

"Nine chances out of ten she wants just that," Nora said, letting her anger free for one luxurious moment, "to start up the whole mess over again. Don't you do it, Marg. Keep the money and spend it. Or give it to Korean relief or something. Listen, Marg, I've got to say this even if it makes you hate me," Nora said, and went and stood by the girl, "Cut your losses, write her off. Or she'll keep you dangling for the sheer hell of it. And I wish Vic would find out, and kick her ass into the Hudson River— Marg, listen, get into a clean dress and come to dinner with us, don't sit here by yourself."

"Nor, honestly, I couldn't. Look at this place."

"It will keep, and dinner won't." Nora went and got her a freshly ironed blouse and skirt. The closet looked empty. "Wash your face, Marg. Doctor's orders."

Blurrily, Margaret smiled. "Okay. I've always done what you told me, and never regretted it yet."

"That's a heck of a responsibility.”

Nora waited until the bathroom door was shut and the sound of the running water would drown her voice. "I don't want to leave her alone. I saw her crack up once."

Jill was looking confused. Nora supposed it was quite a situation to walk into—fresh from the conventional Bristol household. It occurred to Nora to be surprised at herself, too. On the surface she should be pleased because her very capable office nurse had married her partner. Yet she saw only the grief of a woman whose bereavement, and betrayal, could not even be admitted.

Grasping at sanity, she said, "I suppose you can't really blame Ramona. But after all she's done to Marg—!"

Margaret came back, her face scrubbed, and began to comb out her light hair. She pencilled lipstick on her mouth, and sighed. "Do I look all right?"

"You looked all right before," Jill lied gently, "but fresh clothes make anyone feel better, Let's go."

Nora had briefly considered taking them out to dinner, but Margaret was in no mood for sociability. To Margaret—as to Nora herself—society and distractions were kept to enhance happiness, not to chase away troubles. She supposed that was one reason why, during Kit's long hospitalization, she had been isolated and vulnerable to brooding—but she made the gesture as they drew up before her house:

"We can go out, if you'd rather—where there's music and a drink—"

"Good God, no," Margaret said, "I tried that last night in Flora's. You know what the grapevine's like. I turned up alone and before the evening was over, I'd had three propositions."

Nora just shook her head.

She left Margaret with Jill while she prepared a quick meal. They ate in silence.

After dinner Jill went to unpack; Nora, looking at Margaret curled on the sofa—tall, long-legged, her thin face grave and withdrawn—had the uneasy sensation of a mirror image of herself. She was not happy about the involvement she felt with Margaret's problem.

The cat Archy jumped up, and Margaret moved her hand absently over the silky fur. "I thought Ramona—" then her face crumpled, and she shook her hand in a rough rejection, flinging the cat away. She looked ready to cry.

"Nora, you know Dr. Demorino very well, don't you?"

"Very well, yes." Suddenly Nora knew what Margaret meant. "Good grief, Marg, I had no idea
this
was coming." She spoke truthfully; but after she said it, she knew it was not true. She had seen it—but couldn't interfere.
Vic would have thought I was jealous...

Jill came in, and Nora rose quickly. "Drink?"

"Fine," said Margaret, and Jill said, "I didn't know you ever touched hard liquor."

"Oh yes. I stopped because for a while Ramona was drinking more than was good for her. I used to have to cover for her; so I never wanted to start her off."

Nora, who hadn't known that, raised her eyebrows. Now she had an excuse ready-made—but after all, what excuse could she give Vic, for dismissing his wife from the office that was his, too? She went for the drinks. When she returned, Jill was saying, "—of course, Marg. Tolerance of homosexuality—or any offbeat sex—goes in direct ratio to intelligence."

"At the level where I grew up," Margaret said bitterly, "it works the other way. Mother wouldn't let me go to college because
college women were immoral."

"By her standards, they probably were. I'm sure I am," Jill said.

"So they pride themselves on being more decent somehow! Because they're still intolerant of everything except plain, brute, animal sex which they call natural!"

"It's our society, honey," said Nora, handing around drinks. "We have about six different levels of social progress all the time, with half the population at least a hundred years behind the rest—socially."

Margaret said, "Of course there have to be children. Race survival. But, Nor, lots of women get married with the fixed idea that they won't have children. They want to work, or something. And some women can't have children.

Yet they can marry, and nobody calls them immoral. How is a lesbian affair different?"

"Maybe," Jill said, "that's going to be the new morality. To accept sex only as an expression of love, and never for money. Or security. I'd be ashamed to marry a man just so he'd support me and my kids!"

Nora did not take up the challenge. "Well, Jill," she said, "society has to make some provision for its young. It would be kind of rough on women if men didn't support their kids, wouldn't it?"

Jill flared, "That's just a—a convention! In Russia women work just like men!"

"But who wants to live in Russia? And most men want to support their wives and families, in our society."

"They want to keep a woman in prison all her life, in return for a meal ticket!" Jill snapped.

Margaret said wearily, "You're right about one thing, Nora. Conventions protect people from their own irresponsibility. Isn't that where most unconventional relationships break down? Free love never does work, and most lesbians just—drift. The only thing that gives people any real claim on each other is marriage."

"Marriages break up too," Jill protested. "Nothing, no convention, can make a relationship work, except the people involved. Even ties of blood can't hold it together if it isn't working."