Strange Are the Ways of Love

by Lawrence Block

  The handball bounced out into the street and one of the boys chased it past the wheels of a car. There was a squeal of brakes; then the car started up and drove away and the boys went back to their game. Jan glanced at the old woman and saw that she hadn’t moved, hadn’t even looked up at the sudden noise.

  She thought how terrible it must be to be old. Sitting around with nothing to do and no place to go. She shivered at the thought, but at the same time she felt comfort in knowing that she herself was not old, that she had places to go and things to do and would have them for a good long time.

  Then it occurred to her that it was not just the woman’s age, that it was not age at all. It was the loneliness. She knew just by looking at the woman that she had nobody, and without knowing anything about her other than that her hair was grey and her legs ugly, she could tell that there was no one inside the building waiting for the woman and no one in the city who would come home to her.

  No one would know when the woman died.

  This was frightening. It was far more frightening than age or ugliness or the grave.

  Was Jan alone? She was now. Only Mike and Ruthie so much as knew where she was, and Ruthie was in Mexico and she never wanted to see Mike again.

  In that sense she was alone. She had never even met the girl she was to see that night, but she knew that from the moment they met she would not be alone again. She was alone now as surely as the old woman was alone, but she would not be alone after tonight. That was the difference between them: she was waiting to love and be loved, and the woman was waiting only to die.

  She felt that she ought to read something. She picked up three books, one after another, reading the first few pages of each and replacing each in turn on the bookshelf. After the third book she decided that she didn’t want to read, that in fact she didn’t want to do anything at all.

  If only it could suddenly turn into night, if four or five hours could drop from time forever. In a sense the anticipation was pleasant, but it was also agonizingly long.

  And she was worried.

  Would Laura like her? Would she, Jan, say the right things and smile the right sort of smile and keep her mouth shut at the proper time?

  For that matter, would she do the right things in bed?

  She was terribly ignorant. From the first moment years ago when she had suspected herself of being gay she had devoured every available book on the subject of female homosexuality. Every type of book but an instruction manual, she thought, laughing to herself. There didn’t seem to be anything in print along those lines. She knew what to feel and what to think, but the basic mechanics were outside of her circle of knowledge.

  What would she do? What would Laura expect her to do; what kind of caresses would she want? Laura was experienced, of course. Laura had loved before and had been loved before, and Jan hoped desperately that she would be good enough. She had to be good—that was all there was to it.

  Through the window she watched a boy saunter by with his hands plunged deep in his pockets, whistling something and shuffling his feet along the pavement. There were so many people in New York, so many people whom you could see a million times and never meet. She still hadn’t met anybody living in her building. All she knew was that somebody had a dog that barked in the middle of the night Otherwise the building might as well be empty.

  Lighting another cigarette, she realized that she didn’t actually have a date with Laura. Once she made her decision it seemed obvious that they would meet that night, but it hit her that no arrangements had been made, no time set, no place designated for them.

  She almost dropped her cigarette.

  She would go to The Shadows. Laura would be there. Laura had to be there; that was all there was to it.

  The boys weren’t playing ball any more. They had vanished and only the motionless old woman remained. Otherwise Barrow Street was empty.

  The buzzer jarred her at a quarter to five. She had managed somehow to drift into a semiconscious state, half submerged in a book and half asleep in the comfortable chair. It took her several seconds to identify the buzzing sound and several more seconds to decide who it could be. For one wild moment she suspected that it was Laura coming to see her, coming to meet her and make love to her, until she remembered that Laura didn’t know who she was or where she lived.

  Only two people knew where she lived. One was in Mexico.

  It could only be Mike, then, and she didn’t want to see him, especially this afternoon when she was waiting to meet Laura. She half-decided to let the buzzer remain unanswered, but when it sounded a second time she remembered that he had undoubtedly seen her through the window on his way into the vestibule. She walked slowly to the answering buzzer and pressed it once, hearing the outer door swing open.

  She heard his footsteps coming up the hallway. Then he knocked and she walked to the door, not wanting to open it.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s me—Mike.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Just to see you. Can I come in?”

  She opened the door part of the way. He was dressed in the same clothes he had worn yesterday and he looked tired, as though he hadn’t slept much that night. His guitar was slung over one shoulder.

  “Can I come in, Jan?”

  She opened the door the rest of the way and motioned him inside and soon they were seated in the living room just as they had been the afternoon before. She thought that there should have been some way to get rid of him, some quick gambit to keep him from entering the apartment, some conversational trick to hurry him out the door and down the street. But it was infinitely easier to open the door for him and follow him to the living room.

  “I got the audition,” he was saying. “I called Henry just a minute ago and it’s all set.”

  “What audition?”

  He looked at her for a minute, puzzled, and then laughed.

  “That’s right, I didn’t tell you. A friend of mine has been trying to set up an audition for me with Comet Records and it’s set now. It’s next Thursday night.”

  “Mike, that’s wonderful!”

  “It may be. It could be a break and it could turn out to be nothing, but it’s a chance. If I’m good it means a chance to cut a record.”

  “You’ll be good.”

  “I’d better.” He crossed his legs and leaned back on the couch.

  “Let’s celebrate in advance, huh? Just to be on the safe side. What are you doing tonight?”

  “I’m busy.” The reply came spontaneously and it didn’t seem like a lie to her. In her mind she already had a date with Laura.

  “I see. I’d have asked you earlier but—”

  “But you just called Henry.”

  “Yeah. How’s tomorrow night?”

  Stop it, she thought. And she said, “I’m busy then, too.”

  He nodded. “The night after?”

  She opened her mouth to say that she was busy that night and every night but the words didn’t come out. She wanted to tell him that as far as he was concerned she was busy for the rest of her life, but she didn’t want to hurt him. And yet he kept on, kept asking to be hurt.

  “Jan,” he said slowly, “what’s the matter?”

  “Nothing’s the matter.”

  “Cut it. You’re off-again on-again like an old crystal set. What’s the bit?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “You don’t want to go out with me. Why?”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Is it because I kissed you last night?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well?”

  He leaned forward staring at her and she thought, He’s trying so hard. God, he’s trying so hard.

  “Jan, are things happening too fast for you?”

  Yes, she thought fiercely. Yes, but not the way you mean. It’s a different way entirely.

  “I think that’s it,” he went on. “I’m used to things happening fast and you’re not. For years now
I’ve been on the go, moving from one room to another every week or so and changing my friends the way other people change clothes. Everything happens like a 45 record played at 78. You know what I mean?” She nodded.

  “You probably think I’m working too fast. I can’t help it, Jan. I like you and I . . . but I have to give you more time, don’t I?”

  She nodded, mainly because she didn’t know what else to do. He was all wrong. He had cause and effect mangled, his logic was way out in left field, but this was irrelevant. He was leaving. He would go away and leave her alone if she let him talk for a few more minutes, and the fact that he would be back in a day or so didn’t seem to make any difference. Only the present mattered, and anything that could get him out of the apartment was the right thing for the time being.

  As if he had read her mind he stood up, the guitar still slung over his shoulder. “I’m going,” he announced. “I have to give you some time to think, Jan. I’ll be back, but not for a few days. Take your time.”

  “I—”

  “Don’t say anything now. It’s my fault. I’m not used to girls like you.”

  “I’m not the right kind of girl for you.” She had to get through to him somehow but she couldn’t spell it out for him. She probably should say Look, I’m a Lesbian, but down deep it didn’t seem right that she tell him.

  “Maybe you aren’t. I want to find out.”

  He walked to the door by himself, quickly, and when the door closed behind him she picked up her book from the arm of the chair and hurried into the bedroom. She didn’t want to watch him walk off down the street.

  At six she showered and dressed simply in a plain cotton knit dress that matched her black hair. She brushed her hair methodically, letting it fall down her back but loosely securing it away from her face with a few pins. She hesitated before using perfume, wondering whether Laura would like it or not and finally deciding in favor of it.

  She had dinner alone in a tiny restaurant around the corner on Bedford Street. The food was good but she scarcely tasted it. The waiter was courteous, buzzing around her table constantly, recommending a good wine to complement the fish and even telling her how pretty she looked. But she hardly heard him, hardly noticed him at all, and once outside the restaurant she couldn’t remember what he looked like, whether he was short or tall, dark or light.

  She had spent a long time at dinner and a longer time walking to Macdougal Street. She didn’t want to arrive too early. She was nervous almost to the point of trembling, lighting one cigarette from the butt of the last.

  At precisely nine o’clock she was on Macdougal Street, mounting the steps of The Shadows.

  10

  THE SAME SONG was playing on the jukebox. Dinah Washington was singing So Long again, her voice deep and sad, and Jan wondered if there were any happy songs on the jukebox in The Shadows, or if a Lesbian bar had to be sad by definition.

  Someone must have played the song. Someone was sad, someone had just broken up with someone else. She scanned the room quickly, looking for Laura and simultaneously trying to pick out the girl who had played the record. All the girls she saw at first were seated in couples and she rejected them automatically. The girl who played So Long would be sitting alone.

  Then she saw her. In the back in a corner booth the blonde called Peggy was sitting alone and drinking. Her head was lowered, her mouth inches from the rim of the glass that rested on the table. She looked even sadder than the song.

  Jan was glad. She felt guilty being pleased about Peggy’s unhappiness, but it meant that the pair had broken up, that Laura was free now. She took a seat at an empty table, sitting at the far side so that she could watch the door without having to look at Peggy.

  She ordered Scotch-and-water and toyed with it when it arrived, not wanting the drink and not needing it. She didn’t have to be drunk, not tonight.

  The song on the jukebox didn’t match Jan’s mood at all. This was going to be a good night, and the background music should be good and light and happy, joyously and crazily happy. It was an evening for Hello rather than So Long.

  The words of the song pounded against her ears. Two people promising to love each other forever. Was that the way it had been for Peggy? Had she expected it to last or had she been waiting all along, waiting for the break-up from the beginning? Did anything last? Would she and Laura last?

  Or didn’t it matter? The moment mattered, the moment above everything, and she didn’t dare to start worrying about time or permanence or anything of the sort. The moment was all-important and it made her questions seem terribly trivial.

  Just as the song ended the door swung open and Laura walked into the room.

  She didn’t even stop to look around. She didn’t have to; it seemed as though she knew instinctively just where Jan would be sitting.

  “Hello,” she said. Jan liked her voice. It was gentle without being weak, smooth without any slickness.

  “Hello.”

  “You’re Jan Marlowe. Is it short for Janice or Janet?”

  “Janet.”

  “I thought it would be. I’m Laura Dean.”

  “I know.” She hadn’t known, not the last name, and she repeated it mentally. Laura Dean. It was a good name. She liked it.

  Laura took a cigarette and tapped it twice on the table before lighting it. She ordered bourbon-and-soda when the waitress came and then lit her cigarette, extinguishing the match with a quick flick of her wrist.

  “Jan,” she began, choosing her words carefully, “what are you doing here?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “I think so. Tell me.”

  Jan took a sip of her drink, searching for the right way to phrase what was in her mind. The same record began to play once again on the jukebox.

  “I think I’m here for the same reason you are.”

  “What’s the reason?”

  The waitress brought the drink and left, but Laura left the glass untouched. She seemed tense, as if Jan’s answer was going to be extremely important to her.

  “I came here to meet you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes,” she said, still unsure of herself. “Yes, you see I . . . I—” She broke off suddenly and took a deep breath, dragging the air into her lungs. She knew that she had to say exactly what she felt, that she could not wait any longer and that the words had to come now in a rush, no matter what was to happen afterwards.

  “I want you,” she said. “I want you more than I ever wanted anything in my life. I wanted you the minute I saw you Friday night and even more last night and I thought about you all day. I think I’m in love with you.”

  Silence.

  And then, “God.”

  And then, “Well, that was quick. Your next answer is important, Jan. Because I’m only going to ask you once and this is your last chance to back down. Are you sure?”

  It was so perfect. She said, “I’m sure,” in a thin small girl voice and all the barriers dissolved. As her whole body relaxed she could sense the same relaxation passing through Laura.

  For the first time she noticed what Laura was wearing. Laura had a dress on, and Jan was glad she had selected the knit for herself. Laura’s dress was a rich blue that contrasted radiantly with the red-brown of her hair. Laura was beautiful. Laura loved her.

  Laura took two bills from her purse and put them on the table. “Let’s go,” she said. “This place is vile and we don’t have to stay here now, do we? You’ll come up to my apartment now, won’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course.”

  “And leave your drink. They serve shellac here. I have better stuff at the apartment.”

  “I won’t need anything.”

  “No. No, neither will I.”

  “I only drink when I’m lost or afraid or when I don’t have anything to do. I’m not lost now and I don’t feel afraid at all.”

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Jan.” Her voice was a caress.

  “I know.”
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  They stood up and walked to the door and out to the street. The last streaks of the sunset were fading into full darkness. There were stars.

  At the foot of the steps Laura said, “I live on Minetta Street. Right around the corner.”

  “I know.”

  Then Laura took her hand—easily, naturally—and she wasn’t embarrassed in the least, not even with all the people milling around. She thought, You can stare at me. You can see who I’m with. I’m proud of it. And as they walked toward Laura’s apartment it was all quite perfect, all exactly as she wanted it to be.

  The apartment matched Laura. That was Jan’s first impression, and the over-all effect of the place.

  At once one major difference between Laura’s apartment and hers on Barrow Street was that hers—Ruthie’s, really—was not attempting to be a permanent affair. The furniture by and large had been there when Ruthie leased the apartment and would remain there after she left it. The additions she had made and whatever additions Jan would make would do little to change the fundamental nature of the place.

  Laura’s apartment was different. It was easy to tell that it had been rented unfurnished and that each piece of furniture was purchased with an eye to developing permanent living quarters.

  Nothing was out of place. No chair or table was in any way incongruous. Both apartments were about the same size, with kitchen, bedroom, living room and bath, but Laura’s appeared bigger and more intimate at once. The furniture was modern without being faddish or affected. There were several good prints on the walls in simple black wooden frames. A sofa near the window overlooking the courtyard was smartly black and white and at the same time it was comfortable.

  Jan sat down on the sofa. Laura seated herself next to her, their bodies close but not touching. Awkwardly, Jan folded her hands in her lap, wanting Laura to hold them but not knowing how to bring that about without being awkward.

  “Nothing to drink, Jan?”

  “No thanks.” Should she have a drink? Was that part of the pattern?

  “I don’t know just where to start, Laura said. “I suppose I should ask you about yourself and tell you about myself, but that wouldn’t make much sense. We don’t have to go through all that rigmarole, do we?”