Another Kind of Love Page 11

  Laura sat stunned for a moment. It had been an unexpected out-burst, and it had left her with a miserably helpless feeling. She couldn’t really say that Madeline was bitter—at least, not in the accepted sense. It was her desperation, her cry against herself; there was self-pity, of course, but there was also pride and determination.

  It was a little frightening and awesome, this brutal awareness of one’s own frailties, the drive to survive in spite of it.

  “I’m sorry,” Madeline said finally. “I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

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  Laura made no reply but took a long swallow from her drink.

  She realized for the first time that one of the worst torments in this situation was the conversational taboos it imposed . . . except possibly to a bosom buddy, and even then it was chancy. All the important feelings had to be carried around inside you, had to be hidden carefully. Everything conspired to make you ashamed, and yet you knew that this was the only way for you.

  Husbands and wives could bring each other along to social gatherings, talk about their arguments, their love, just each other . . . but a homosexual could not do this unless he or she moved in purely homosexual circles.

  That this alternative had its own suffocating aspects was already obvious to Laura—she’d seen enough of it in Hollywood.

  But could I do that? Laura asked herself. Could I give myself up to only this and nothing else? It had always seemed to her such a sterile and purposeless existence.

  “Well,” Madeline said, with her old cheer back, “let’s not worry about it now. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you wish. Dive into your work and get a hold on yourself. Then see how you feel.”

  Laura looked up from the glass still clenched in her hands, an uncertain expression crossing her face.

  “No strings,” Madeline smiled. “My kiss a while ago was just a kiss, Laura. Nothing more.”

  Laura couldn’t help wondering if that was true, or if so, how long it would last.

  “In any event, Laura, you won’t find a place to live right away.”

  She was right, and Laura knew it.

  So she was attentive as Madeline showed her where everything was in the apartment, and ignored Madeline’s discreet comment about the fact that the bedroom had twin beds.

  They prepared for bed. Madeline considerately but obviously tried to make Laura feel at ease by asking her questions about Fanfare, about Walter, and about what she planned for the Special Features Department.

  Laura gratefully climbed into the freshly made bed and allowed her body to sink into the soft mattress.

  “Ah, bliss,” Laura sighed.

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  Madeline laughed. “Eiderdown,” she explained. “One of the whims my ex-husband indulged. . . .” She spread her feet firmly on the floor and bobbed over, touching her toes. “I’m not as young as you are,” she laughed and grunted. “And money won’t buy my figure.”

  Laura smiled with her. She could just make out Madeline’s figure in the dimly lit room, pushing against her pajamas. It gave her a strange feeling to know that Madeline was a lesbian and that they were going to share the same room. She considered being on her guard but then realized it would be silly.

  As she waited for her to finish her exercises, Laura went over the happenings of the evening, amazed at how she had blurted out the truth to Madeline. She tried to remember what she had felt—if anything—when Madeline had kissed her. It had been pleasant, she was sure of that. But it had not had that crazing, flesh-on-flesh sensation Ginny’s kiss had given her.

  Even so, she had to admit it was intriguing. In fact, she was almost disappointed that Madeline seemed to have no intentions of

  “seducing” her. If she’s a lesbian and knows that I’ve been exposed to it, she told herself, why shouldn’t she want me?

  Then her mind went uncontrollably back to Ginny. What was she doing . . . ? What would she do? She thought of Ginny in the arms of another woman and immediately felt unreasonable rage and betrayal.

  “And that does that!” Madeline declared, breathing heavily, breaking into Laura’s unhappy preoccupation.

  Laura smiled and watched her get into bed agilely. “Where do you get all your energy, Madeline?”

  Madeline hesitated for a moment, then turned off the table lamp.

  “It’s easy when you’re not tearing yourself in too many directions at once.”

  Laura said nothing and lay staring up at the ceiling, watching the dancing reflection of the traffic lights from the street.

  “Madeline.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You’ve known many lesbians, haven’t you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

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  “And why are they the way they are?”

  “No. Just their version.”

  “But is there any special set of circumstances—any particular type?” Laura turned over, leaning on one elbow, and faced Madeline’s shadowed form.

  “Looking for excuses, Laura?”

  “Just trying to understand . . .” Laura laughed without humor.

  “Yes. I’m looking for excuses.”

  “You’ll waste a lot of time that way . . . and a lot of heartache.”

  “But . . .”

  “Look, Laura, I told you—this kind of life is just one step away from suicide!” Her voice was sober and full of warning.

  “There are sick people bent on self-destruction who always get themselves into trouble and then wonder why; there are people who never allow themselves to use their potential—so many vary-ing kinds of psychotics, it’s beyond our comprehension. But don’t kid yourself—being a homosexual is just as sick, just as psychotic.

  Maybe more so. Some people get that way in an effort to punish themselves; others, to avoid the responsibility of marriage and parent-hood. Sometimes they’re looking for a parental substitute . . . or any and all of those things combined. Nobody knows just exactly what is going on.”

  “What about analysis?” Laura finally asked. “Why don’t people get help?”

  Madeline sighed. “Many of them try; some succeed. The trouble is that most of them don’t even want to change. There’s more to this than just a sexual problem. It’s environmental, sociological, and even involves economics. You don’t walk into an analyst’s office and say, ‘Hey, Doc, give me a shot of hormones and a talking-to.’ I suppose if people would go to an analyst before they are really physically exposed to this kind of thing, it might be easier . . . I don’t know. Something like having to watch your weight or trying to lose fifty pounds—there’s a lot of difference, you know.”

  “Maybe so,” Laura replied. “But there’s a flaw in that theory, too.

  I mean, even if I had never known about this side of myself, I might still never have been happy under any normal circumstances.”

  “Hm. Maybe,” Madeline conceded. “But at least an analyst 98

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  might be able to help you without the struggle of a physical pull as well as an emotional one.”

  “It’s none of my business, but why are you in this kind of thing?

  Why aren’t you still married?”

  “Ah, there’s the rub! I don’t think I can honestly answer that—

  my brain told me one thing and my emotions contradicted. I’d been gay long before I was married, and had become very bored and anxious about the kind of life and the people I met night after night. So I broke away from it. I wanted to see first if I could break away—most of them like to tell you it’s impossible—but more than that, I wanted to try to build a real life for myself. I met my husband about eight months later. He was good, sweet, and intelligent—and believe it or not, I thought I honestly loved the guy.”

  “So?” Laura sat forward, wondering what kind of a man could let a woman like Madeline go.
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  Madeline snorted with secret knowledge. “Not too many months later, the old ‘pull’ began again. Don’t ask me why; I don’t know.

  But life became a hell of suppressed desires, fear of discovery, and the plain misery of feeling like an A-one heel.”

  “I suppose it would have been easier if you could have hated him,” Laura offered sympathetically. “Why didn’t you tell him about it, let him try to help you . . . or was he too selfish?” It was an unkind supposition and Laura knew it, but oddly enough, she felt a resentment against this man.

  “Is it selfishness when you don’t know what you’re trying to hold on to? Some men could be told a thing like that, I suppose . . . but I’m afraid my husband was entirely too conventional. This was something that happened only in naughty books, or was hinted at in a night club—it didn’t happen to people of good breeding. I’m sure he would have tried to understand, to help, but it was so outside his world that I would only have succeeded in destroying him, his image of himself, his masculinity. A man like him might accept the fact that his wife was attracted to another man—but to another woman?”

  Laura could make out Madeline smoothing the blankets, almost compulsively.

  “Anyway,” Madeline continued in a monotone, “it would be an 99

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  area where he could not have competed. To a man like that, whose background was so proper, even the private knowledge of my tendencies would probably have shamed him into thinking he had married a freak. Consequently, my guilt grew and grew—my disposition suffered, of course, and eventually the marriage really began to fall apart. He began staying in town for dinner, and even though I hated myself I was glad not to have to face him.”

  “Divorce?” Laura asked quietly.

  “It was funny,” Madeline said with a wry laugh. “Just when I couldn’t continue anymore and was about to suggest a divorce, he asked me for one—full of apologies and awkward embarrassment.

  He’d found someone else . . . a girl several years his junior who thought he was the greatest guy in the world—a girl who wanted babies and to keep house and to cook. All the things I couldn’t bring myself to want.”

  Laura nodded. “And his guilt gives you a healthy alimony?”

  “That’s a crude way of putting it, but I suppose it’s the natural way of looking at it. But just think what type of guy he was. I’ve a little money on my own, you know; I could have refused his support. But what for? This way he thinks he’s doing the right thing and at the same time paying for his happiness—which, to such a morally proper man, seemed won by foul play.”

  Silence followed Madeline’s softly spoken explanation. Laura thoughtfully tried to imagine herself in Madeline’s position.

  “Go to sleep, Laura. You won’t come to any decisions tonight—

  or for many nights to come.”

  “I can’t sleep. I feel strange and confused.”

  Madeline groaned and sat up in bed. “Women!”

  She threw the blankets off and got out of bed. She crawled into bed with Laura, holding her protectively against her breast.

  “Everybody’s mother—nobody’s husband,” Madeline said sleepily.

  Laura didn’t think to protest. She felt like a little girl again, except that now there was somebody to “take care” of her. She was very comfortable and relaxed.

  “Do you want to be somebody’s husband, Madeline?” She could feel Madeline’s body tense.

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  “No, baby. I just want to be able to love someone—man, woman, or grizzly bear. Go to sleep.” She stroked Laura’s hair slowly, lazily.

  Little by little, Laura relaxed into sleep and was unaware when Madeline stopped stroking—or even if she ever did. . . .

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  “Hey, Laura, where do you want these file cabinets?” Willy called from the hall, gesturing at the two burly men in white uniforms holding their awkward delivery.

  “Anywhere, Willy.”

  He nodded and led the men into her office, then came out and stood nonchalantly by Laura in the receptionist’s alcove. “How about dinner tonight? If Horn and Hardart isn’t your speed we could give Nedick’s a whirl.”

  She laughed and patted Willy on the cheek. She had met him before in Los Angeles when he had come there on business, but had never really had a chance to know him. Now she knew: if you weren’t hugging him thirty minutes after meeting him, you weren’t human. He was a kind, sweet guy. She would have been lost without him this past week.

  Getting the office procedures and assigning furniture space had not been any problem, but knowing the shortcuts and getting some kind of service in a strange town like New York would have been a chore without his cheerful aid.

  “Well?” he demanded lightly.

  Laura had the feeling that if she ever accepted one of his offers he would pass out. “Sorry, Willy. Have a heavy date tonight.”

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  “Going to see Walt off at the airport?”

  She laughed. “Something like that.”

  “All right, all right. Just asking.” He smiled, “Ye olde Friday night pitch.” Willy tipped his hat jauntily over his eyes and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Have a nice time . . . see you Monday.”

  “Good night, Willy.”

  The two men came out of her office and stood waiting at the door. “That everything, lady?”

  “Yes. Thank you,” Laura said absently. She heard their heavy rubber-heeled shoes squealing on the polished hallway floor, the elevator doors open, and a faint voice say, “Down,” and then the doors close.

  It was quiet now.

  She sat at the receptionist’s desk and stared a moment at the clut-ter of back issues of Fanfare and opened and unopened cartons. On the desk were several frantic letters from Helen saying that somebody had to come back to Los Angeles at once or she would go mad. Then the little handwritten footnote to the letters saying that she hoped Laura was happy in “the big city” and that she was missed already.

  The pile of galley sheets for proofing sat on one corner of the desk. Duplicates from Los Angeles Helen had sent as a joke. Laura’s article about Saundra was in them. . . . What had been that little bit in the Press Time News section? Oh, yes, Saundra was going on tour . . .

  That was an item, Laura thought. She wondered what Ginny knew about it, or had to do with it.

  Laura leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. It had rained all day, and now as the night sent the city into a defiant glittering, the rain was letting up. As if from planets away, she could hear an occasional car honking, or some particularly strong-lunged man calling for a taxi.

  In her mind she could see Madison Avenue emptying out its tenants: ad men, TV wizards, and other familiar gray-flannel boys rushing to catch their trains to the suburbs, or walking swiftly toward some favorite bar to have a drink before going home, or meeting their wives or dates.

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  They all had someplace to go, something to do, and someone they wanted to do it with. Laura wished right now she could just go home to Madeline and talk, talk, talk.

  But she wouldn’t. She would meet Walter and, she knew, would probably go to bed with him. He had told everyone he was leaving that night for Los Angeles, but actually his reservation was for early Saturday morning. Laura knew she had been avoiding him—and he knew it, too.

  She sighed and put on her coat, and headed for Walter’s hotel, where she would dutifully meet him in the lounge.

  The avenue had cleared considerably, and here and there she saw the “free” light on top of the cabs. The clouds were breaking and it was nice to see the top of the Empire State Building lighting up.

  What was it Madeline had said? Oh, yes, if the top of the Empire State was enveloped in a cloud, it would either rain or snow. I’m growing too dependent u
pon Madeline, she thought without any intention of changing it.

  Laura decided to walk to Walter’s hotel and enjoy the rain-cleaned streets and the exhaust-free air. She had a sudden longing to be with Ginny—just to know that she was there. They could enjoy this rainy dusk together and walk along the same avenue and look in the same store windows. Maybe stop somewhere and have a cocktail or even a cup of coffee. The pang of loss still hit her occasionally. But then, she had missed Walter, too. It was becoming impossible to trust her emotions.

  If it hadn’t been for Madeline, Laura wondered if she would have stayed away from Ginny. Though Madeline had remained very discreet in her mentions of Ginny—or, for that matter, in all that might connect Laura with being a lesbian—it was as if she was waiting for Laura to make up her mind what she was and who she wanted to be with.

  Thus far, their arrangement had worked out very well. For Laura, at least.

  Madeline had not “pushed” her in any way. Except for the first night, when she had moved into Laura’s bed to comfort her, Madeline had kept her part of the bargain.

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  The hotel doorman nodded politely to Laura as she passed through the heavy glass revolving door. Crossing the lobby, Laura wondered why she was bothering to meet Walter. Some hidden guilt-laden motive, no doubt. Have to prove myself as a woman or something equally Freudian, she concluded.

  Walter was sitting at the piano bar when she entered. He rose when he saw her; his welcoming smile was strained and forced. It’s lecture night, all right, she thought. He’s worried about me.

  “Hello, darling,” he said brightly—a little too brightly.