by Joan Ellis
She wouldn't feel at peace, Phyl upbraided herself miserably—not until she was back at the Village studio and knew that Eve had stayed. If she stayed...
CHAPTER 2
Eve moved slowly about the large, austere room, groping for something that would reveal Phyl to her. The phone call, her sudden departure, had somehow unnerved the girl. She hated ugly secrets. There'd been so many in her brief twenty years. She was acting immaturely again, the way Joe was always accusing her of acting. Coming this way to a strange apartment, letting—no, begging—a strange woman to love her!
She picked up the meager choice of books on the bookshelf above a makeshift desk, but they revealed little. She opened the top drawer of the chest, letting her fingers poke self-consciously among the tumble of things. And then the truth hit her. Phyl didn't live here. Was this a place Phyl Talbert used for nights like this one? She subdued a compulsive decision to pick up her things and run. She'd been running enough. This once she'd think about it first. Phyl had been so sweet, so understanding—and she'd untied all the tangled knots that made life miserable for Eve.
Maybe everything had been decided for her even before she was born, Eve thought tiredly. Nothing had been right, even then. How many times had she heard her mother and father battling, always bringing out how they'd had to get married while they were still in high school because Eve was on the way? Eve wondered what it was that had turned her mother from a passionate teen-ager who'd gotten herself pregnant at sixteen, to a frigid woman who repulsed every overture towards sex. The nights she'd lain tense and alert in her bedroom, listening to the noisy fights in that other bedroom. Sometimes her mother won, and she'd hear her father pattering down the corridor to the den, which in reality was his own room. And sometimes he didn't leave, and her mother's moans would echo through her mind for nights afterward.
"Men are no good," her mother told her repeatedly. "Only interested in themselves. They don't care how they hurt you. They don't care how you feel, what you need. It's always themselves!"
But despite all her mother's warnings, Eve thought bitterly, she'd married Joe. She'd been dating him less than two months when he'd pulled the bit about crossing the state line and getting married. He'd made it sound so exciting. He was twenty-two, with a good job, and his car. He was forever buying her little presents, things she could smuggle into the house without anybody knowing. At first, she'd said no—she'd been scared to death—but when he'd talked about quitting his job and leaving town, she couldn't refuse him any longer. Without Joe she'd have nobody.
She'd told her mother she was spending the night with a girlfriend, and Joe and she had crossed the state line where they could be married legally. She'd been scared and proud and excited. Joe was good-looking, he was sweet—he was crazy about her. She told herself being with Joe wouldn't be like what happened between her mother and father. She'd even bought herself a sheer nightie and a matching peignoir from the quarters in her piggie bank, because she wanted Joe to think she was beautiful.
Eve shut her eyes tight, remembering that night. They'd driven to a tavern for a drink. Joe had a few. After all, he kept announcing loudly, it was his wedding night—he had reason to celebrate. And then they'd found the motel, and Joe had registered. Hand in hand they'd walked to the unit assigned to them, and Joe had carried her across the threshold, teasing her for being a sentimental kid...
"Hello, Mrs. Slater," he'd whispered huskily, putting her valise across the bed. "You get yourself all prettied up while I go out for my bag and see about some cigarettes over in that office."
Joe went out, and she undressed and put on the white nightie and peignoir, fighting the sudden attack of trembling that had come over her. Here it was, her wedding night. Joe would come back and he'd get into bed with her—and he'd want to do the things her father wanted to do to her mother. Would he hurt her, too, Eve asked herself in soaring panic? Would she scream the way her mother did, and curse him?
Eve inspected the transparent sheerness that half-concealed her young, ripely attractive body. A peculiar sense of shame invaded her. She wanted to run, but the door was opening now, and Joe bounced into the room.
"Hey, you're a sight," he chuckled warmly, and reached to pull her against him.
The heavy scent of liquor on his breath sickened her. His hands moved about her back, the faint stubble of his beard scratching at her cheek. She could feel the heavy pounding of his heart against her breast, and the maleness of him impatient to merge with her.
"Wait a minute, baby," he said hoarsely, and moved about the room turning on every light.
"Why are you doing that?" Eve asked naively. All at once it was as though she were in a room with a stranger. This wasn't Joe who kissed her gently and brought her presents and told how beautiful she was. This was a strange man with ugly desires.
"Evie, baby, I want to see you." His breathing was uneven, his eyes hot as he stood in the center of the room stripping.
Eve's eyes were fastened on him. She'd never seen a naked man before. She couldn't take her eyes away, while simultaneously waves of fear rode over her.
He'd hurt her. Eve had a phobia about pain— even a minor cut turned her sick.
"Come on, Evie, .we don't need all the window dressing," he chuckled and he reached for her again.
"No!" Her eyes were glazed with panic. She was powerless to move.
"We're married," he chortled, and busied himself pulling off the peignoir, tossing it across a chair. Then he pulled the fragile straps of the nightie away from her shoulders and fastened his mouth on one bare shoulder.
"Let me go," she whispered. "Joe, please!"
"Oh, you want to be persuaded," he decided gleefully, and ripped the nightie down the small, trembling body, lifted her out of the maze of sheerness and half-threw her across the bed.
Eve clenched her teeth, recalling with agonized clarity the sounds that had emerged from her mother's room those nights. And now she understood.
His mouth nipped at her breasts, his fingers pinching until she gasped with the pain of it. His body rubbed against her own, not caring about roughness, and his mouth bruised hers, his tongue probing crudely. His weight ground itself against her, his legs forcing at her, impatient to satisfy the lust that plainly tore at him.
"Joe, please," she tried just once, then half-screamed as he ripped into her, and she hated him. She hated all men for this tearing apart of her—this rape.
He hadn't cared about her for one minute, Eve remembered now. She'd cried with pain at his assault, but he'd shut out the sounds with his mouth, lest the tenants next door should disturb them. She was numb with hurt, black and blue from his roughness when he was done. He'd simply turned over on one side and gone to sleep. How could she ever love a man? Four years of that with Joe, and then mercifully it was over because Joe had caught her with Marian. He'd called them every dirty name, told her he wanted no "damned queer" as his wife—and that was that. She'd packed up, bought herself a bus ticket to New York. Three weeks now, and she'd walked about in a daze until tonight, when she'd met Phyl.
Marian had been so good for her. She was gentle and knowing—she'd taken away that terrible tight feeling that was forever strangling her. Every time with Joe was rape—he was a pig, she thought with recurrent anger. Marian understood what she needed, and gave it to her. Joe was an over-heated animal, thinking only of himself.
It'd been such a horrible shock, the way Marian had blamed her for Joe's catching them together. Marian had screamed at her, slapped her—scared 'to death her own husband might discover the truth and throw her out, as Joe had done. But tonight—meeting Phyl—Eve had felt the earth firmly beneath her feet again. Phyl was stronger than Marian. There was something fine and dependable about Phyllis Talbert, she'd told herself. Phyl hadn't frightened her or made it disgusting. Phyl had satisfied her.
Eve walked restlessly about the apartment again. Where was Phyl? Had she gone back to some man who knew nothing of this secret place? Was Phyl m
arried, too? Was she a policewoman, Eve asked herself in sudden fear. She'd heard Villagers talk about this and that gay bar being raided from time to time. Was Phyl a policewoman, on the trail of evidence? Would she be back, to drag her to jail, to use her as a witness against the bar? Homosexuality was illegal—an offender could go to jail.
She'd get out of here this minute! Eve opened her purse to pull a comb through her tumbled honey-colored hair, to reach for a lipstick to replace what Phyl had removed. She wouldn't go to jail for soliciting in a gay bar. That's what they'd call it, wasn't it?
Her pulse hammering frenziedly, Eve gathered her things together and fled from the apartment, her slight heels making a chilling clatter down the four flights of stairs. What a stupid fool she'd been. Again. Where would she go from here? Where?
CHAPTER 3
Phyl maneuvered her small red Triumph into a postage stamp sized parking spot between two Cadillacs, reached for the key with one hand and the door with the other. Why did the Lindsey baby have to pick tonight to make its entry into the world? With a first child, too, it was apt to be a long night.
She could have stayed down there with Eve at least another two hours, Phyl taunted herself now. The Lindsey girl's contractions didn't call for her appearance at the hospital yet. It was a standing joke at Cosmopolitan that Dr. Talbert usually arrived almost before the patient. She'd been like that through her internship and residency. She couldn't grow hardened to pain. Never—if she practiced medicine for fifty years—would she ever wait until the last minute, the way Ed Madigan did, Eve thought grimly. Sometimes she wondered that Ed made it before the baby did.
Dr. Edward Madigan's profession was medicine, his avocation women. But she should be grateful his social life put such demands upon his time, for that was one of the reasons she had been invited to join the highly successful team of Porter and Madigan. Bill Porter lived in northern Westchester, Ed Madigan in Connecticut. In cases of real emergency, she was right across from the hospital to fill in. They made a habit of having every patient know each of the three doctors on their team, in the event a switch should be necessary at delivery time.
Phyl tapped impatiently as she waited for the elevator. Standing here in the unostentatious lobby of her building, she felt self-conscious in the severely tailored slacks, the conspicuous lack of makeup. Not that anybody would connect Dr. Phyllis Talbert with that girl down in Ronaldo's, she reminded herself sharply. The tenants here—largely doctors and nurses and lab technicians—were accustomed to her in the role of obstetrician—habit was strong.
She was lucky, indeed—at her age and with her lack of experience in actual practice—to be working with two top obstetricians. But in the seven months since she'd first taken her place in the smart Park Avenue offices, Ed Madigan had regarded her with steadily mounting interest—as a woman, not an obstetrician. What a colossal joke on him!
The elevator door slid open and Phyl strode inside with a sense of relief. The Lindsey birth would undoubtedly be thoroughly routine—with luck it might be one of those short labors, she thought with a surge of optimism. Her mind raced back to the studio downtown as she reached for her key to this other apartment. What a lovely, sensitive girl! But what had she thought of Phyl, dashing off that way without a word of explanation?
Phyl toyed with the idea of phoning Eve, apologizing for her abruptness, explaining. No, not over the phone—too cold and clinical. Afterward, she'd rush back down there, sit down with Eve and tell her about this other life. Her career was desperately important to her—she couldn't endanger her professional position. Eve must understand—they could have so much together, without jeopardizing her job. Phyl knew now—she wanted Eve as a permanent part of her life. She couldn't afford weeks or months of playing games, when she knew.
Inside her other apartment, Phyl changed swiftly into the simple tailored suit that was practically her uniform. She glanced at her watch. It was still early, barely ten. Eve had talked about not having a job, so time wouldn't bother her. A truant fear charged through her again, that Eve might not be there when she returned. No, she wouldn't think that way. Tonight had been inevitable—she was guided to meet Eve. It was predestined. She couldn't have gone on alone any longer. All these months in New York there'd been no one, not even for the sheer physical relief of one night. She'd been so afraid—with the newness of everything—so she'd tried to hide her secret needs in work. Eve had to be there, she repeated inwardly. She'd go to the hospital, deliver the Lindsey baby, and she'd hurry back downtown to that new life that waited for her.
* * *
Phyl walked into the hospital lobby, thinking this was the closest thing to a real home she'd ever known. She had a job to do here—she was needed. The night elevator operator greeted her with a sympathetic grin. The night crew knew the propensity for babies to be born at night.
"Delivery floor?" he chuckled.
"Delivery floor, Roger," Phyl acknowledged with a faint smile.
The pair at the Ninth Floor desk parted guiltily as Phyl approached with her long strides. The delivery floor head nurse, Miss Pearson, and the resident, Tom Condon. Condon considered himself heaven's gift to womankind—not as an obstetrician but as a man. He was handsome, Phyl acknowledged, but she wished he wouldn't ooze sex around the hospital the way he did. Some of the young nurses all but fell on their backs when he started to toss around the Condon charm.
"Lindsey's in Nine," Miss Pearson reported, slightly flushed, eyes over-bright. "She's swearing against the whole male sex."
"I figured her for that brigade," Phyl sighed, accepting the chart Pearson handed her. It was just as she'd thought, Phyl realized as she read the progress report on Lindsey—she could have stayed away another two hours. Contractions were still too far apart for any immediate action.
"There's a percolator of coffee in the doctors' room," Tom Condon tried the charm on her again. He would never give up, Phyl decided with a trace of irritation.
"Thanks, I may look in after I've seen my patient," Phyl said shortly, and headed down the corridor.
"Something tells me Dr. Talbert doesn't approve of me, Miss Pearson," his voice followed her mockingly down the hall. "I wonder why?"
Phyl had disliked Tom Condon since her first encounter with him. She remembered now how she'd walked into him in a lab room, to find him all tangled up with a wide-eyed student nurse who looked fresh from the farm. If he had to play, why didn't he pick on somebody who knew the score, she'd thought furiously, not a nineteen-year-old kid! And later that night, she'd lain awake in the dark asking herself if her anger had been motivated by her own attraction for that sweet-faced little nurse? Had she been jealous of Tom Condon's success?
She buttoned her white jacket, knocked lightly on the door of Nine, and walked in.
"It's about time!" Belle Lindsey shrieked, then added a stream of gutter language that was not unknown in the labor rooms. "Men!" she finished up. "I hate them! My stinking husband had to be careless! He said it'd be okay—nothing would happen!"
"Famous last words," Phyl said calmly, pulling down the sheet to examine her patient. A perfectly normal, healthy woman—but she was going to fight this right to the anesthesia, Phyl thought tiredly. "Now relax, take deep breaths, and it won't be half as bad."
"How are we doing?" the attractive, breezy Alice Harmon bounced into the room. Of all the nurses on the delivery floor Alice Harmon was Phyl's favorite from a professional standpoint. The other doctors liked her too, but usually for non-professional reasons.
"You ever have a baby?" Lindsey snapped belligerently.
"Not yet," Alice chirped, "but I plan on having six or seven when I find a doctor with a solid practice and a yen to take me to the Marriage License Bureau."
"How long have you been working on the delivery floor?" Phyl asked, to keep the conversation rolling.
"Two years," Alice grinned, then murmured lavish endearments while her patient alternately screeched and swore. "Nice vocabulary, Mrs. Lindsey. The bro
adest we've had in here all week."
Most of the nurses here at Cosmopolitan respected her, Phyl guessed, but not many of them liked her. She made a point of being pleasant but impersonal. Sometimes, in her anxiety not to reveal herself, she was curt and cold, but better that than run the risk of discovery. Why was it like that? Why was a doctor's personal life linked to his professional ability? Her professional ability, Phyl corrected herself ironically. How many of the male doctors carried on not-so-secret affairs with nurses and patients? But that was fine as long as they were discreet about it. Let one word of her personal longings become hospital conjecture, and she'd be through as a doctor here. That would never happen, she swore silently. Never.
“I’ll be in the doctors' room," Phyl interrupted the stream of lively highly-colored chatter going on between Belle Lindsey and Alice Harmon. "I'll look in again soon." She shot a professional smile of encouragement at Lindsey and headed for the door.
Phyl opened the door to the doctors' room, at the same time mentally girding herself for a long night.
"Hi, Phyl," Ed Madigan greeted her leisurely. "A gathering of the clan tonight?"
"Lindsey," Phyl said, walking over to the table where the coffee waited. "Still in early labor."
"And the good doctor rushed right down to hold her hand." He grinned, deliberately inspecting Phyl. "Now if she were my patient, that might be understandable. Lindsey's a gorgeous chunk of woman, even with the belly."
