Another Kind of Love Read online

  she said slowly. “All right. Give me half an hour, though.”

  She excused herself and left the room, wondering how it had all come about. Not quite twenty-five minutes later she returned with her makeup kit in her hand.

  “What about your suitcases?” Walter asked. There was a strained quality in his voice now. It was understandable—at least to Laura.

  Moving away meant he’d see even less of her, have less opportunity to win her back. “Shall I send for them?”

  “I had the bellboy get them.” She glanced at Madeline, who was finishing off her drink quickly, then back to Walter, who had a for-lorn expression on his face. Madeline noticed it, too.

  “She’s not going to Siberia, Walter,” Madeline said with a laugh.

  Laura allowed herself to be bundled into her coat, said good night to Walter, and swiftly followed Madeline out the door. She suddenly felt exhausted, unable to cope with anything but her next breath. . . .

  She thought about facing tomorrow, next month, her life, without Ginny. The thought left her in a vacuous state of disinterest for everything about her. She appreciated Madeline’s tactful silence, appreciated her taking charge. Without question she walked beside Madeline.

  They collected Laura’s luggage at the hotel desk, where Madeline 86

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  told the clerk to add her bill to Fanfare’s. Then, outside the hotel, she hailed a cab.

  It seemed to take forever to arrive at Madeline’s place, especially since Laura could not positively identify any of the landmarks other than that she was on Fifth Avenue, and that when the cab pulled up to the curb she could see Washington Square just one and a half blocks away.

  Laura felt obligated to say something. “I feel like an intruder. . . .

  It’s not too late if you want to change your mind, Madeline.”

  Madeline laughed and reached for a suitcase. “Don’t worry.

  You’re really doing me the favor. I usually just rattle around in the place and get frightfully bored listening to my echo.”

  The modern apartment house lobby advertised its chi-chi atmosphere by having no decoration except an indoor rock garden, and its discreetness by employing no doorman and no elevator operators.

  “Home sweet home,” Madeline sighed as they entered. She deposited the suitcase on the nearest chair.

  Laura looked around the enormous living room with respectful awe. Although the ceiling was high, not a single object or painting rose above eye level; the walls and carpet were of the same pale blue, with only intricately woven oriental throw rugs on the floor—

  over the carpeting—for color. The effect was one of unhindered spaciousness.

  This was Danish modern furniture, the like of which Laura had never seen. Not the usual spindly-stick sort of thing that was so popular—it had substance and visible comfort, plus the simplicity of line commonly associated with Danish work. Doubtless custom-made, Laura concluded. The room was an extraordinary blend of the new styles and the charm and delicacy of the traditional—nothing stood out, yet everything held interest.

  Laura said, in rapturous admiration, “Magnifique! I’d almost forgotten you weren’t a rank-and-file member of the working class.

  Comes the revolution . . .”

  Madeline smiled, took off her shoes, and sank gracefully into the 87

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  nearest sectional divan. “Shall we have a good-luck toast, or do you want to go right to bed?”

  “I’m too tired to sleep, and a drink would be just fine. Thanks.”

  Madeline stood up and crossed the long room to the bar. “Scotch?”

  “Sure.” Laura looked out the balcony window and, for the first time since she’d arrived, had a feeling of excitement about living in New York. From the big window she had a wonderful view of Washington Square, and Laura asked, “What section of town are we in?

  The Village?”

  “Yes. Nice view of the arch, isn’t it? Makes you almost think you’re in Paris.”

  “I’ve never been to Paris, but it does look like what I imagine it to be.” Accepting the glass Madeline offered, Laura sat down in a low turquoise-upholstered chair and watched absently as Madeline made herself comfortable again on the divan. For a moment she let her mind conjure up the image of Ginny, but the bittersweet sting of tears just under her eyelids was a sharp reminder of the dangers of such fantasy.

  Swallowing hard, Laura brushed her fingers across her eyes.

  Then she took a long drink of the Scotch.

  The brief telltale gestures had not escaped the penetrating eye of her hostess. “Homesick?” Madeline asked gently.

  Laura shook her head, not yet trusting her voice.

  “I’m sorry,” Madeline said softly. “I’m not being nosy. But when you spend as much time in bars as I do, you develop an eye for unhappiness—you start playing sidewalk psychiatrist and making bets with yourself about the whys—like money, worries, love affairs, divorce blues, and so on.”

  “Do you ever find out if you’re right?”

  “Sometimes.” Madeline looked at her candidly.

  “And what’s your diagnosis in my case, Doctor?” Laura had a feeling she shouldn’t have asked, but it was too late now.

  Madeline seemed to hesitate. “I’m not quite sure yet . . .” She gazed thoughtfully at Laura. “Similia similibus curantur,” she laughed self-consciously. “Only thing I learned at finishing school.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Oh, something like it takes a thief to catch a thief.”

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  Laura looked at her, puzzled. “You’re getting away from the subject a bit, aren’t you?”

  Madeline smiled. “No. Quite the contrary. Love. That’s the subject, isn’t it? Love in all its multisided glory—and misery.”

  She sipped her drink and glanced speculatively at Laura. “But the kind of love-misery I’m talking about is something rather special—worse than an affair that hasn’t worked out,” she continued.

  “Go on,” Laura urged.

  “This is the suffering that comes not from loving and losing, but from losing love before you’ve even been able to have it . . . because you don’t dare have it.”

  Madeline’s gaze held Laura’s meaningfully.

  Laura realized with a start that Madeline’s words and tone seemed deliberately pointed, but she couldn’t be sure.

  Her heart began to pound, and her body quickened in a strange mixture of fright and anticipation. Had Madeline really understood? Or was she just fishing? Or was Laura reading something into Madeline’s words? It was all very upsetting—and exciting.

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  She wanted to tell her...tell someone. This hell inside her, this burning and aching, was slowly suffocating her.

  But this wasn’t the kind of thing you told someone you had met just a few days ago. No!

  Madeline remained very still, saying nothing. She just waited.

  “I’d give anything to be able to confess that I’m in love with a married man . . . or that I’m pregnant. . . .” Laura said with difficulty. The absolute quiet in the room seemed to hammer at her re-lentlessly.

  Still Madeline said nothing. She crossed the room without making a sound and placed the bottle of Scotch on the cocktail table in front of Laura. She smiled knowingly as she said, “Have another.

  Tomorrow you can blame the fact that you talked too much on the Scotch.”

  Laura hardly heard her. Suddenly she knew she was going to confide in Madeline. She had to . . . or lose her mind.

  She was dimly aware that she should be curious about the source of Madeline’s perceptiveness, but she was too absorbed with her own turmoil, and too overwhelmed by this luxury of having a con-fidante, to explore the matter further.

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  At this moment
it made no difference what Madeline might think of her—or even if Madeline would be repelled and throw her out afterward. All she knew was that she couldn’t bear the hurt alone anymore . . . or the guilt. Right now, logic, intellect, objectiv-ity, and reason played no part in her emotions—if they ever had.

  Her brain seemed to have shrugged off all responsibility for her reactions.

  Whether she could trust Madeline, whether Madeline might tell Walter, did not then occur to Laura.

  “I don’t know,” Laura began slowly, “if I can even put what happened into words.” She glanced at Madeline as if expecting a cue.

  “Do you understand?”

  Madeline walked over to Laura and stood very still. “I think so.”

  She studied the girl for a long moment. “If it weren’t so apparent that you’re about to crack up, I wouldn’t dream of doing this.”

  “Doing what?”

  Madeline ignored the question and went on as if talking to herself. “. . . But I’m an old timer with the ins and outs of love—I’ve seen hundreds of tormented expressions like yours . . .”

  Laura felt her body tense.

  “. . . and neither of us have anything to lose, if it helps. . . .”

  Madeline leaned forward very slowly, as if giving Laura a chance to recoil, to deny what they now both knew was going to happen.

  Laura accepted the fact that Madeline was going to kiss her, and only when she felt her breath against her face did she have a moment of panic. But it was too late then, and in a strange way she was filled with gratitude toward Madeline.

  Her kiss was just long enough to show genuine interest, and gentle enough to show that she did not really expect any passionate return—that she understood what was bothering Laura even if she did not know the details.

  Madeline placed her cheek softly against Laura’s, then straightened up slowly as if any quick motion would send Laura away. She rested her hand on Laura’s shoulder.

  “Do you know why I did that?” she asked Laura.

  “Yes.” Laura could sense release coming up in her brain, feel it 91

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  rise up in her throat. “So that I would know you’re a friend. That I wasn’t alone.”

  “Do you also know that I’m not pushing you into anything?”

  Madeline’s tone was even, considerate, and calm.

  Laura nodded. “I’m going to cry . . .” she managed to say.

  “Good. Here, hold my hand. It’ll make you feel better.”

  She sat down on the edge of Laura’s chair and, putting her arm around her shoulder, pulled Laura’s face to her breast and rocked her quietly while Laura sobbed out all her pent-up feelings. It was like lifting a floodgate in a dam that could always hold more.

  Then, brokenly, she explained to Madeline what had happened in Los Angeles: her loneliness before she met Ginny; the swift but subtle love that had seemingly exploded in their faces; her unsure, confused reaction to Ginny’s refusal to leave Saundra; and her hasty flight from Los Angeles . . . and Ginny.

  “Sounds like a pretty bad script, doesn’t it?” Laura said, her tears subsiding at last. But she didn’t try to pull away from Madeline’s breasts. She wanted to be comforted and secure right now—understood and not criticized. Tomorrow she would be an independent adult again, but right now it was almost beyond her.

  “No, Laura. It doesn’t—because it wasn’t contrived beforehand.”

  Madeline gave Laura a little hug. Then, laughing, she said, “The arm of this chair wasn’t made for sitting. How about a break?”

  Laura smiled and hoped Madeline hadn’t thought her selfish and juvenile. “Yes . . . and I could use another drink now.” Now that Madeline had moved over to the chair facing hers, Laura felt strangely awkward . . . lost. Vulnerable, that was it. As if she had drawn warmth from Madeline, and protection from the wind.

  Well, she thought, that’s just what I did, in a way. She wondered if she should feel ashamed, or embarrassed, or even a little scared.

  But she didn’t, and for that she had to thank Madeline.

  “Obviously you don’t know anything about this kind of life, Laura. It’s a very simple thing in a complicated sort of way. There are those who wear their guilt or their rebellion on their sleeves.

  “And, like me, there are those who would rather not advertise our preference . . . if we actually have one. I’m lucky in that I’m 92

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  not one of those dykes who always wanted to be a man—or, who hate men. But no matter what type we are, we’re all neurotic as hell.”

  “I must sound like a whimpering adolescent to you. . . .” Laura joked, surprised that she could joke now.

  Madeline looked at her quickly, seemed to take in everything about Laura, and then replied softly, “Hardly.”

  Laura flushed. She hoped it didn’t show. She watched Madeline pour a fresh drink, and as she accepted it from her, Laura felt self-conscious and very naive.

  “What do you want to do now?”

  “What do you mean?” Laura asked.

  “What are your plans? What do you hope to do with yourself?”

  Something about the way Madeline said the word “hope” made Laura suddenly feel like a child who’s been asked by an adult, “And what do you want to be when you grow up?”

  “Do I have a choice?” Laura asked bitterly.

  Madeline smiled. “You have a choice about what you do, but whether or not you have the same luxury about what you feel is something I couldn’t answer. Only you can.”

  “I see.” Laura sipped her drink, letting its coolness soothe her still-aching throat. “What is your considered opinion?”

  “I can tell by your tone that you don’t want to know.” Madeline, too, became guarded.

  Laura immediately felt contrite.

  “I’m sorry—I had no right. I’m just so mixed up about everything right now . . .”

  “I know,” Madeline replied simply, without hidden implications or sarcasm.

  There was a short silence between them. Yet it did not seem uncomfortable to Laura. She had faith in Madeline.

  Faith. If love is a primary need for humans, Laura pondered, then trust surely runs a damned close second. She had never before appreciated the value of trusting someone. She had never had the occasion to give of herself, either.

  Madeline smiled as she asked slowly, “I assume that you have re-93

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  signed yourself to the homosexual aspect of this affair—it’s a right church, wrong pew sort of thing?”

  “Homosexual-heterosexual! I don’t know and I don’t even care right now.” Laura’s voice grew tight, bitter. “All I know is that I loved her and got the old married-man’s stall. . . . Well, that wasn’t good enough for me.” Her own affair with Walter flashed through her mind, but somehow that seemed different.

  “I didn’t want to be queer,” Laura added lamely.

  “None of us do,” Madeline laughed. “At least, none of the honest ones.”

  “But if I was going to get mixed up with something like this,”

  Laura went on, “I at least wanted whatever satisfactions it had to offer.” She glared resentfully at Madeline, as if everything were all at once her fault.

  A strange expression crossed Madeline’s face. “You wouldn’t mind starving in a garret if you could be sure you were really a genius, is that it?” She gave a slight helpless gesture. “A guarantee of the future. Nice dream.”

  “No. Nothing like that. Not really, anyway. It’s just that, well, I felt like since I was the one who was making the big conversion—or maybe I should say ‘perversion’—the least she could do would be to give herself up to me, to our love . . . oh, I don’t know.”

  “Self-sacrificing, aren’t you?” Madeline chided gently.

  “Well? Isn’t it a sacrifice? To give up social acceptance just for love?”

  “Just for lo
ve?” Madeline echoed half in dismay, half in amusement. “You talk as if love was some sort of a knickknack you picked up at a church bazaar or a summer cruise, or some other witless ex-travagance. It isn’t, you know. And if you don’t know it, you’d better—and fast.”

  Laura grinned wryly. “That’s some bite you got there, lady.

  Okay, I deserved that. But I didn’t mean it just that way.”

  “Besides,” Madeline continued, “no one asked you to give up anything. You made up your own mind about that. True, discretion is imperative, but no one broke your arm to become a homosexual.”

  “In other words, I would have done it anyway sooner or later. Is that what you mean?”

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  “Who knows?” Madeline smiled. “But I do know that I certainly didn’t want to be a lesbian. I would never have sat back and deliberately chosen this kind of life—there are no advantages, only disadvantages; our entire culture works against us, isolates us, punishes us in a thousand different ways. Frankly, I wouldn’t even advise a purple cow to go out into the world and become queer.”

  “Why are you, then?” Laura could not bring herself to use the word “queer” at this point.

  “Why am I what?” Madeline asked laughing. “A purple cow?”

  “No,” Laura answered, reddening, knowing that Madeline’s bantering misinterpretation was really a jibe at her obvious embarrassment at “the word.” “You know perfectly well what I meant.”

  “All right, then.” Madeline nodded politely. “It’s a compulsion, I suppose. An escape, a punishment. . . . I’m no analyst. It’s more that I’m picking the lesser of two evils—emotional suicide or straws of happiness. I’d love to fall in love with a man and wear an apron and have bouncing babies. But so far . . . so far, I haven’t.”

  “If you want a man so much, then aren’t you cutting off your chances of ever meeting the right one this way? Aren’t you crying uncle?”

  “Sure!” Madeline conceded vehemently. “And that’s just the way I feel. I’m tired. So goddamn tired of going out with this guy and that guy, getting felt up and listening to the same old pitches, being bored and having to pretend that I’m fascinated so his little ego doesn’t get bruised. I’m not twenty-one, you know. I’ve done my stint, been on the hunt, made myself available—all for nothing. My husband was the closest thing to normal love I’ve ever known, and that wasn’t enough.” Madeline’s words came rapidly, and the volume increased.