Another Kind of Love Page 18

  The room was silent with deadly stillness except for Rita’s hands rubbing her bruised wrists.

  Dee let her head fall into her hands with such abject self-loathing, she couldn’t look at Rita. She had never in her life felt such violent rage or allowed herself to behave so cruelly—in fact, it was almost as if she had not done this at all. Someone else had this sadistic streak, not Dee Sanders. Not the cool, self-possessed, kind and compassionate Mrs. Sanders to whom everyone came with their problems and whom they thought of as such a good-natured, affable gal—a woman of talent, breeding, and character.

  “Oh, Christ,” Dee moaned. “Rita . . .”

  “Save it!”

  “No . . . I want to tell you. . . . I don’t know what came over me.”

  She was sick with rage and jealousy. “I love you. . . .”

  Suddenly, Rita came over to her and kneeled in front of her, kissing her lightly on her forehead and eyes. “I know, darling; I know.

  Don’t torture yourself . . . you didn’t mean it.” She laughed lightly, and her eyes became purpled with sudden passion. “It’s not as if you’d done this before . . .”

  “I swear to you it’ll never happen again, Rita. I swear it.”

  She pulled Dee’s head to her breast and rocked gently. “Shh. I 163

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  had it coming. I forget how hard it must be for you, waiting for me, not knowing . . .”

  “I don’t want to know, Rita. Don’t tell me. Don’t talk about it.

  Not now.” She pressed her face closer to Rita’s breasts, letting their warmth pass into her flesh, the contact draining her of any other thought.

  “I love you, too, darling. I love you. . . .”

  They clung to each other like frightened children in a witch-haunted fairy tale, like Hansel and Gretel. Dee wished to God she could forget that Rita was not always like this—close, sweet, womanly. They had good moments—rich moments filled with love and tenderness; precious moments with such complete understanding that Dee would almost cry with gratitude.

  But not enough of them. Never enough.

  “I had no right,” Dee went on mumbling. “There was no excuse . . .

  could be no excuse for such sick violence no matter what you or anyone had ever done. It’s just that I needed you so badly tonight. . . .”

  “I’m here, darling; I’m here. Shh. It’s all right. I belong to you. . . .

  You can do anything you want. As long as you let me stay with you—don’t send me away.”

  “Away?” Dee smiled. “I couldn’t. It would be like sentencing myself to hell. . . .”

  Rita lifted Dee’s head and gently laid her back on the couch.

  Slowly she began unbuttoning her blouse and looked into Dee’s eyes with such desire that Dee felt she would burst. She sat down next to Dee, letting her hands touch her everywhere.

  “Take my bra off, darling,” she whispered. “You take it off as if you were discovering me for the first time. . . .”

  “Christ,” Dee said to herself. “Oh, Christ . . .”

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  Don’t open your eyes and you won’t wake up, Dee thought. She wanted to enjoy a leisurely Saturday morning for a change.

  She tried not to think about the three undeveloped rolls of film in the refrigerator, almost calling for her to get up. With a small sigh of desperation, she rolled over and curled around Rita’s warm flesh.

  Rita slept nude no matter what the season.

  But it was too hot to stay in bed. Heat prickles were already beginning up her back. Besides, there was that damned film. Actually, she was pretty excited about it—a new formula for direct positives she’d read about recently. But to avoid any possible arguments with Rita she had said it was work for the office. Well, trying out new methods was part of her job, wasn’t it?

  It was apparent from the beginning that Rita strongly resented anything that took Dee’s attention away from her. Even if they weren’t talking or really going to do anything, she just wanted Dee there—on call. Particularly, Rita resented the time Dee spent in the darkroom. It was an alien world to her and one which she had no wish to learn about.

  At first, Dee had been only too glad to surrender unconditionally to the passion of their love. But she had to have an interest outside of this; she couldn’t go on and on, night after night, staring limpid-165

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  eyed by candlelight into Rita’s eyes. No one could—not constantly.

  She had her job and had to work hard at it—and her job was really her way of life because she loved it. But photography took time.

  After almost a year of arguments about the time Dee spent working at home, she finally gave up and simply began staying late at the office.

  Finally, Rita lost her job—or so she said—as a fashion model at one of the private, select dress shops on East 58th Street. Seemingly she couldn’t work anywhere else except maybe a one-shot job here or there. She complained bitterly about being lonely and bored but didn’t seem to want to do anything; she couldn’t concentrate on a book, and the idea of school was evidently too humorous even to consider.

  It was then Rita decided to pursue a singing career. She began taking lessons from some gin-soaked ex-opera star in the Village, a self-anointed genius who swore that without her the birds would only croak. Ever since then, Rita had been awaiting her “break” and making the agency rounds.

  Strange, Dee half smiled, how lives twist and turn, emotions change, and attitudes shift without conscious awareness. She could not honestly say that her present resentment against Rita was really justified—perhaps it was she who had changed. . . . Or perhaps it was just that time had changed her more than Rita. Only now was she really aware of how much the physical had blinded her to their basic incompatibility, how the excitement of the moment had blurred the narrowness of their relationship. How dangerously she had misjudged the quality of Rita’s attention. Rita’s possessiveness had become suffocating.

  Even so, Rita was the greater victim of this. Dee knew how deep and terrifying the fears and insecurities were that drove the girl to such destructive behavior.

  Poor Rita . . .

  With a sudden tender moment she bent down and brushed her lips against Rita’s warm neck.

  “Umm.” Rita turned slightly and pulled away from her.

  “Don’t blame you,” Dee whispered opening one eye into the shaded room. She sat up slowly, careful not to wake Rita, who liked 166

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  to sleep late. The clock on the bed stand read nine. The heat had become more oppressive. Like an oven already, she thought, putting on her slippers. “Cremation: For Fun and Profit,” she muttered aloud.

  “What? What did you say?” Rita asked sleepily.

  “Nothing, honey. Go back to sleep.”

  “Jesus! Must be dawn . . . it’s so hot . . . Please try to be more quiet. . . .” She turned over onto her stomach, and her breathing became heavier and slower.

  Must be quiet, must be quiet, Dee thought with mock anger.

  Stop that noise up there! She crept into the bathroom, dressed, and went downstairs to feed Cho-Cho and treat herself to her morning coffee.

  She set to work in the converted downstairs bathroom and soon lost track of time. She coveted these precious hours alone with the challenge and excitement, which she had never lost over the years.

  Later, as she was in the final stages of washing the last roll, she heard the kettle bang on the stove loudly.

  “How long you been in there?” Rita called, her voice still husky with sleep.

  “Morning, sunshine,” Dee tried to make her voice sound cheerful and bright.

  “Christ!” Rita’s petulant tone scratched at Dee’s taut nerves. “It’s past one. You can at least come out and have coffee with me—if it isn’t too inconvenient.”

  Dee’s hands shook slightly as she held the hose inside the tank
and kept an eye on the watch. “Ah . . . sure, honey,” she said lightly.

  “Just a couple minutes and I’ll be through. Okay?”

  “I guess so. What difference would it make?”

  Dee could hear Rita’s furry slippers shuffle across the tile floor to the round table near the divider. “Good morning, Cho-Cho, baby.

  Come here, sweetie . . . you keep me company.”

  Good God! Dee cursed silently, but went on washing the film.

  “I hope you didn’t forget the party tonight,” Rita yelled accusingly.

  “No . . . ’course not! Babs’s place, isn’t it?” She threw in the name just to prove she hadn’t forgotten.

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  “I’m not going to yell at you all morning. Come out here and talk.”

  Dee placed the clamps and hung the negatives from the line over the three-quarter tub. She quickly washed her hands and, still drying them, entered the kitchen and sat down.

  “No kiss?”

  “Sorry.” Dee stood up again, performed the duty, then put the kettle on again and prepared her coffee.

  “Get any interesting pictures?” Rita asked after a moment.

  Dee nodded and smiled. It was Rita’s way of apologizing for being so cranky. “A few. What time are we expected tonight?”

  “Around eight, but I think it’s silly to show up before ten. Everyone’s so dull before they’ve had enough to drink. You know, if it hadn’t been for me, all of Babs’s parties would’ve been a flop. The way they all just sit around like friendly strangers—no action, no life.”

  “They all like to hear you sing, honey.” Dee hoped she’d said the right thing.

  “What about you?” Rita pouted playfully.

  “I like anything you do.”

  Rita patted her hand across the table. “You’re sweet.”

  Something in her tone embarrassed Dee, but she managed a modest smile nonetheless. “I was thinking about just the two of us going out for dinner tonight,” she offered without having thought of it at all. “Someplace cozy in the Village, maybe.”

  “Wonderful. Could we go to Dino’s? Oh, please, darling. Could we?”

  That did it, Dee said to herself. There was only one other thing that melted her besides Rita’s physical nearness, and that was her exuberant little-girl side. It undid her; that was a better description.

  “Is that the new place that just opened?” She tried to sound offhand, but her voice betrayed her consent.

  “New place, old place—new management, new decor but the same crowd. It’s mixed, so we won’t really have to worry about being ‘seen’ there. Lots of off-Broadway people go there—you know the crowd. It would be such a wonderful thing to gloat over at Babs’s later.”

  “Of course we can,” Dee said. She had never been able to really 168

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  understand or break Rita of the habit of having to gloat before her friends. She realized that it was probably a hangover from Rita’s childhood. No wonder Rita coveted luxury and all things that meant status and prestige.

  She’d driven by Rita’s former home with her once. It was on a main truck route in New Jersey—dismal, depressing, and heavy with the odor of nearby factories. Her parents had died since then.

  Strange. Rita had often said they hated each other, but when her mother died it was only very shortly thereafter that her father died.

  No will to live, the doctor had said, plus a bad heart.

  “Let me fix you some breakfast, darling,” Rita said, jumping up with enthusiasm. She hummed softly as she pulled the bacon out of the refrigerator and broke the eggs into a shallow blue bowl.

  Suddenly, she turned, holding her wet hands up like a surgeon. “I do love you, Dee. Don’t pay any attention to me when I’m bitchy.

  Just remember that I love you.”

  She walked over and kissed Dee gently on the mouth.

  “I love you, too,” said Dee, but she wondered silently, how can I not pay any attention to your moods, darling? All the compassion and understanding in the world doesn’t make a situation any easier or more pleasant. A sharp, smokey aroma of burning food broke through her thoughts. “The bacon!” she cried aloud in dismay.

  They laughed together and, after rescuing the imperiled breakfast, sat down to discuss what they would do and what they would wear that night. The afternoon passed swiftly, and they were delighted with each other. No arguments. Today Dee genuinely wanted to look dewy-eyed, into Rita’s eyes. Today she could.

  Dinner was good. The atmosphere was romantic. Time just seemed to evaporate. Before they knew it, Dee was following Rita into the elevator in the apartment on Seventy-eighth Street and West End, pushing the button for the fifth floor.

  The muffled, discordant sounds of a party drifted through the door of the apartment. Dee hoped desperately she might meet someone to talk to at least. Babs’s get-togethers were usually party-packed with assorted little swishes bustling, and a garden variety of bull dykes who looked as though they had just parked their trucks outside. Occasionally, Babs would invite some interesting-looking 169

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  woman, and Dee would experience a flickering hope for salvation.

  But either Rita would manage to make the woman so uncomfortable she wouldn’t talk to Dee, or the intelligent appearance was de-ceiving, and upon closer observation Dee would only encounter the nearsighted frown of some illiterate lovely too vain to wear glasses.

  “Hi, kids, come on in. We’d about given you up.” A short, dark girl—Babs’s latest love—let them in as Babs herself came toward them, lumbering with her easy, boyish gait.

  She shook hands firmly with Dee and then placed her arm around Rita’s shoulder. “Okay, everybody, here they are. Dee . . .

  and Rita.”

  Some heads turned, nodding briefly, but most of the guests were too preoccupied with their drinks or their own trick for the evening.

  “Sorry we’re so late,” Dee began in apologetic greeting.

  “We were having such a divine time at Dino’s,” Rita interrupted, her voice shrill with forced gaiety. “The new place, you know. We just forgot what time it was.”

  Well, she got it in, Dee thought wryly. She watched a scrawny young man come swooping toward them. “Isn’t she gorgeous! Do introduce me, Babs; I want her to tell me all her beauty secrets.”

  Babs roared with laughter, Rita tittered modestly, and Dee wished she were in her darkroom again. Rita waved merrily to a sallow-faced young girl at the other end of the room and glided toward her while the young man followed her with a frighteningly accurate imitation.

  Babs slapped Dee lightly on the back. “Drive me nuts if I had to live with someone as beautiful as Rita.”

  “You get used to it.” Dee smiled.

  “Say, I’m glad you’re here. One of the gals brought a friend from out of town and she’s been sitting like a turtle all evening. Seems nice enough, but she won’t talk to anyone. Would you help me out and see what you can do? Ask her to dance, or something? I’m a decorator, not a diplomat.”

  “Which one?” Dee asked warily.

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  Babs nodded toward an imposing-looking woman who was somewhere between forty and forty-five. Or, as Dee guessed wryly—a very beat thirty-five or a well-preserved fifty. Hard to tell in this era of highly touted beauty aids, when even your hairdresser doesn’t know. The woman looked up suddenly, and in that one unguarded moment Dee caught such an expression of loneliness and defeat that she turned away in embarrassment. She felt like an eavesdropper in a confessional. That look so nakedly revealing: I’m tired; this isn’t what I wanted, but it’s the only way to reach out to a life I don’t really want . . . don’t really understand. And it’s too late to change.

  Dee shuddered and blinked her eyes hard to shut out the oppressive vision. It was too close to home—and she didn’t want to be remi
nded. She wanted to turn and run, but it was too late.

  The woman had caught her glance, and the uncertain smile on her face was too vulnerable to refuse. Dee had always been a sucker for strays and underdogs.

  She made her way slowly toward the stranger, unsure how she would approach her. But she smiled charmingly and extended her hand. “I’m Dee Sanders, ambassador of good will, pleasant tidings, bits of nonsense, or what-have-you. At least for the moment.”

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  An uncertain flicker, then a slow, deliberate smile spread across the woman’s face. “Hail. You speak English.”

  Dee bowed. “I try. I don’t use double negatives, but I sometimes say ‘ain’t.’ ”

  “You’re entitled. Noblesse oblige . . . or something. My name’s Eileen. I came with the blonde who is having a good time.”

  Her voice was warm and pleasant, and Dee found her earlier uneasiness dispelled. Dee sat down on the uncomfortable foam mattress placed on what should have been a door. “Blondes are supposed to have a good time, aren’t they? At least, that’s what the ads say.”

  “Madison Avenue hogwash,” said Eileen, emphasizing the remark with an airy gesture. She turned to Dee with a look of confident intimacy. “Nobody else here does,” she whispered.

  “Nobody else here does what?”

  “Speak English.”

  Dee nodded in grim appreciation as a young man tripped by, handing each of them a cocktail and going on to a cluster of three well-dressed older men.

  “They say, ‘Wasn’t it a camp,’ and ‘Dish me, honey’—a cross between a Cub Scouts’ outing and a short-order cooks’ convention.”

  Eileen raised her glass in a toast. “To fringe life—and benefits.”

  Dee shook her head and smiled. “I can’t drink to that—it’s an admission of defeat.”

  She wondered how much Eileen had had to drink.

  “Then drink to roses and springtime and love. You go to your church and I’ll go to mine. Do you think I’m drunk?”