Strange Women, The (9 page)

Things had changed suddenly. One cool spring day he had suggested a game of tennis and driven her to the park. Nora, who had only changed her shoes for canvas-soled sneakers, was startled to see him in shorts and an armless singlet. Dressed, he simply looked thick-set; stripped, he was strong and smoothly tanned, with the muscles of an acrobat, legs like shafts of bronze covered with fine, soft reddish down.

Nora, on her mettle with his first serve, played her best, but his every move had an almost professional grace. When he had won two sets out of three, she took him back to the apartment for a drink—already half knowing what would happen. Dressed again in slacks and shirt, he looked like the man she knew—grave and stern, with kind eyes and good hands—but behind the mask Nora still saw the muscular athlete's body, the boyish grace with which he ran and dodged across the court.

Confused under his eyes, she put up her hands to her still-disheveled hair; but Vic moved swiftly to her side, put down his glass and held out his arms. His arms were crushingly strong and his mouth vigorous. Then he held her at arm's length, and she heard his roughened breathing.

"Girl, all day long I watch women taking their clothes on and off, and it doesn't do a damn thing to me. You take down your hair—" he pulled out a pin, sending the copper weight of it tumbling—"and unbutton your blouse button and I could knock you over the head and rape you."

She leaned forward deliberately and kissed him. She said clearly, "Don't bother knocking me over the head."

The sun in the bedroom came in bright and clear green through the leaves outside the window. Vic stood in the sunlight, unaffectedly flexing his arms as he cast aside his clothes. He was unashamed of his strong bronzed nakedness, vigorous and virile; his hot eyes made her a little shy, and when she hesitated, he sprang at her, laughing, pretending a Tarzan growl, and she felt her brief panties tear away; she laughed breathlessly and sank under his weight. Though she was taller than he, she felt fragile in his muscular arms.

It was as wholesome as sunlight—that fierce mating in the glow of day, Vic's hearty strength bearing down on her until she gasped and cried out with the delight of it; then stronger and stronger, the rhythm of elemental need beating up in them both, until a toppling crest of violence swept away all awareness of time or place, daylight or dark. She heard herself cry out without shame or reserve.

Afterward, lying cool and relaxed in the strong circle of his arms, she had felt the rough touch of his mouth and heard him say softly, "So there's a hell of a lot of woman going to waste under that marble front. I thought so. We won't let it go to waste—will we, girl?"

They hadn't. Nora knew now—sitting in the deserted hospital cafeteria—that if things had gone on much longer, she and Vic would have drifted into marriage; not love—it never entered her mind, to connect romantic passion with Vic Demorino—but still, a good marriage, born of shared work, compatible interests, and the high flare of intense sexual attraction.

And then a thin, insolent man on crutches, with the flaming eyes of a caged falcon, had crossed words like swords; she had seen Vic, briefly, at his dictatorial worst, and Kit's high-tension-wire of veiled sensuality had made Vic's hearty lust seem schoolboyish. Vic had not taken her marriage seriously at first, then had been outraged, almost pitying. She had not tried to make him understand...

She realized, with a start, that she was due at her office in ten minutes. She could just about make it.

She sent Ramona home when the last patient had gone, but lingered herself; and she did not pretend surprise when Vic came in.

"Still here, Nora?"

"Come in, Vic. I saw Mrs. Kerraday for you. She's convinced she's going to have twins or a two-headed freak, and wants an X-ray."

"Anyone who says twins to me for at least six weeks gets murdered," he groaned. "Kerraday, Kerraday—let me think—oh,
her.
If she's pregnant with twins, they only have one heart between 'em."

He sank wearily in the padded chair. "I could go to sleep right here. They wheeled another one upstairs just as I finished up with Pizzetti—emergency Caesarean. Premature twins. Two pounds, odd, apiece. I thought we'd lose one of them, but they're still breathing." He chuckled, his eyes blinking open. "Hey, you know what? That leaves me with no patient expecting to deliver for—" he considered briefly, then rapped his knuckles on the wooden desk-top, "two weeks. Give me a lift home, Nora? My car's in the shop."

He settled into the car cushions a few minutes later. "God, I
am
tired. Consider the invitation this afternoon withdrawn. I need
sleep
—and alone, thanks. Kinsey or somebody ought to write a report on the sex life of the overworked obstetrician."

She laughed. "Do you really think it would even fill up a pamphlet?"

She braked at his apartment house, and he turned before getting out. "Want a drink or something?" he asked suggestively.

Nora hesitated, knowing she walked along a knife-edge which would alter her future. But before she managed to speak he reached for his bag.

"Not on an empty stomach, huh? You might lose control and rape me, and I'm too tired to fight you off. Okay, Nora." He gave her shoulder a quick pat as he got out. "You won't have any more trouble from this quarter. I hope Ellersen deserves what he's getting. If he doesn't, damn it, he'll have a fist fight on his hands." He went quickly up the steps without looking back, and Nora was not sure whether she looked after him with relief-or regret.

* * *

Her own apartment was dark and empty and a little too hot. Nora said "Jill?" switched on the light and went startled, from room to room. The cat mewed in the kitchen, and Nora went and picked him up.

Oh come,
she told herself
, this is ridiculous, Jill doesn't have to tell you when she's going out.

She lighted the oven, made a salad, carefully laid a single place; but though she was hungry after her sketchy lunch, she found she had no appetite.

Careless for once of the polished and waxed floor, she handed a generous morsel of ham down to Archy, watching him bat it back and forth with languid grace,

"Are you frustrated, Archy? Do you wish you could go out tom-catting in alleys?" she asked aloud.
You old maid. Talking to a cat.

The silence was oppressive, and she found herself turning over in her mind words that had to be said between herself and Jill.

Jill, about the other night…

Jill, we were both upset, I acted like an idiot…

Jill,
you know perfectly well I'm no lesbian…

The word had finally escaped her.
Lesbian.
Was Pammy's father right after all? Am I the sort of person who goes around corrupting little girls?

The hall door banged; Jill came through to the kitchen, wind-flushed, arms full of packages. "Is there some coffee left? Oh, good." She got herself a cup.

"Why didn't you have supper before you left, Jill? Everything was all ready. Next time I'm late, do have a proper meal, I might be out all night."

"I wasn't hungry." Jill paused, cup in mid-air. "And if you tell me I'm eating for two, I'll throw my cup at you."

Later in the bedroom she watched Jill unwrap her packages. "I thought you didn't wear brassieres," she said idly.

"I don't, but now I think I should."

"What's this? Lace panties?"

Jill spread them on the bed. "Sinful britches."

“Wha-at?"

"Family jo
ke. One Christmas—I was about fifteen—Pam gave me a set of black lace underwear, very flimsy and naughty-looking. Mama said it was in very poor taste for young girls, but I think Pam meant it as a joke. She was always like that.
You
know."

Nora positively had to remind herself that Jill could not read her mind.

"Great-aunt Harriet was shocked. Not just disapproving Mama, but—oh, horrified, as if—as if—"

"As if she expected you to do a Gypsy Rose Lee in them?”

“I guess. Jackie asked why it was indecent if nobody ever saw it. After all, nobody sees your underwear, and Jackie said black lace was just the same as flannel bloomers." Jill giggled again, mimicking a thin, rasping old voice. "A nice young girl who wears fantastical underclothing is always looking for an excuse to display it. Unbecoming undergarments are the surest guarantee of modesty."

"Oh, no, Jill!"

"Oh, yes, Nor! So every time I wore them, Pammy asked if I could be good in my sinful britches."

"Jill, where is Pammy living now?"

Jill dropped the "sinful britches," startled. "Why, Nora, Pammy's dead. Didn't you know?"

"Oh, no, Jill, I never heard anything. What—how—"

"She died in childbirth. She married Ken Rainsbury and she lost the baby and she died."

"No, I never knew. I'm so sorry!" She had thought of Pamela living and warm, surrounded by hearty children. It had seemed necessary to think of her that way. She was too shocked and distressed to speak.

After her bath, toweling her spare body, she found herself thinking again, with muted grief and tenderness, of Pammy. Her father had feared a lesbian might corrupt his daughter. Yet it was normal married life that had destroyed Pam—

That is absolutely the most neurotic… if a patient said that, I'd tell her to run, not walk, to a psychiatrist!

Jill was buffing her nails before the mirror. She said, without looking up, "Nora, I—I wrote Mack today and told him about the baby."

"Good," Nora said affirmatively, and realizing this meant surrender, she did not dwell on the point.

"The baby ought to be born early in August. Will you—make an appointment with Dr. Demorino for me?"

"Oh, Jill, of course!" Nora held out her arms and they hugged each other.

"Nora, I—last night I behaved like a spoiled brat."

Nora was breathless at the complete capitulation in this. They clung together; Jill smiled up at her shakily.

"How long will it be before I start to—to get big?"

"Oh, there won't be much gross change before March. Maybe April. Let me see—" she put her hands around the slender waist. Her heart was pounding. Then, without a word, she unfastened the robe at the throat and slipped her hand into the neck of Jill's nightgown, cradling the small breast in her hand. It felt very warm.

Jill laughed nervously. "See? I do need a brassiere now, don't I?" Suddenly she flung her arms around Nora again, with such violence that Nora fell back on the bed. Nora pulled Jill down to her.

"Jill—Jill, I've been hateful, for weeks I've been pretending—"

Jill stopped the murmured words by kissing her. They lay close together for minutes, holding each other; then Jill, her hands shaking, untied the belt of Nora's robe and flung it toward the foot of the bed.

Nora had not moved. Jill came back to her mouth, and their lips fastened and fused together. Her hands, small and soft and gentle, moved caressingly down Nora's shoulders. Nora heard herself gasp aloud with an almost painful delight, as Jill shyly repeated her own gesture; cupping her hand around Nora's breast. She caught Jill close, pulling the girl down heavily across her, feeling the sudden, sweet, savage ache all through her body.

Their feet were still tangled in Nora's robe. Nora said in a roughened voice, "Wait, darling," and reached to snap out the light. With her other hand she swept down and pulled away the tangled clothes, flinging them off on the floor. Then with impatient fingers she jerked off the coat of her pajamas and threw it after them.

The room was flooded with the pale, lustrous light of the moonlight outside, reflected from snow. Nora heard Jill make a strange little sound, halfway between a sigh and a sob. Then Jill’s bare arms closed around her, and the ache and tension of anticipation suddenly melted and flowed. She went limp all over with the anguish and delight of surrender.

Her hands, instinctively seeking softnesses, seemed to have a life of their own. She pressed Jill's head to her breast, feeling the soft lips close over the hardening nipple with strangely pleasant pain. And then she lost track of separate sensations, conscious only of softness, of sweetness, of wave after wave of spreading small shivers that carried her along on their crest.

Through it all she was conscious of immense surprise, of growing tenderness like a counterbass chord pattern to the singing in her nerves. As the diffuse patterns swept to their summit, she heard her own cry, hardly more than a whisper, like a final, explosive cadence; then silence.

It was a long time before either of them moved again. At last Nora turned and reached across Jill for a cigarette. She lay on her back, smoking, the confusion of thought and feeling slowly clearing. But the tenderness, and the surprise remained.

She had always clung, down deep, to a half-formed notion that no woman could possibly give another woman genuine sexual satisfaction. In spite of Kinsey, she had believed the alleged pleasure felt by homosexuals to be a childish delight in kisses, a schoolgirlish shivering because they had never known real sex. But this had been real enough. She felt almost amused at the collapse of the illusion, but also troubled, and humiliated.

Jill was lying face down, her nightgown crumpled beneath her. Nora put out her cigarette and bent to kiss the bare shoulder.

"Aren't you cold, darling?" She pulled up the blanket; then, trembling, circled the narrow waist with her hands. "Jill, what on earth have we been doing?"

"I don't know, but whatever it is, I'm in favor of it. Why aren't men—" she hid her face against Nora's bare breast, "why aren't men this—comfy?"

Nora was glad the girl could not see her burning face. "Men aren't especially emotional, I guess. Or if they are, it doesn't express itself physically. In short, my darling—" she broke off, then went on steadily, "men have an unconquerable itch to get it inside, and when they've done that, whatever their good intentions, that's that. Erotic play is something we decadent females invented because we didn't like being dragged by the hair to the cave."

She was betraying herself, she knew—betraying men she had known who were gentler, more emotional than she was herself. But she went on, using the words as whips to lash herself: "So I fail to see why it should be socially or morally taboo for women to enjoy it together; since men neither need nor want it."