by Orrie Hitt
The whole thing had been blackmail from the start. No love, not the way there was love with Peggy, just blackmail. Love me, Thelma would say. And she would love her. What else could she do? Thelma, in her own particular way, was as bad as Frank. She thought only of herself. But, really, wasn't that true of everybody? Everybody thought of himself or herself first. And that's what she should be doing. Being a slave was no good. Living the way she was living was no good. She had to do something about it.
"I want to talk to you," Thelma said.
"All right. Go on."
"You're very pretty."
"Am I? You've told me that before."
"And—competent."
"I don't like that."
"I didn't think you would. Are you as nice with Peggy?"
"Shut up."
"Or Jerry?"
"Just you shut up!"
"You don't have to lie to me," Thelma said. "I'm older than you are and you can talk to me."
"I don't want to talk to you—not about that."
Thelma lit a cigarette and the glow from the match washed over her face.
"You're a lot like I am," she said. "Bisexual, I think they call it."
Helen had read about people like that but she didn't believe it was the case with her. She was in love with Peggy, very much in love. Naturally, the money helped—Peggy was quite rich—but it went further than that. Far down inside of her, it was something good and wonderful, and every moment that she cheated on this love she felt terrible pain.
"I'm not like you," Helen said.
"You are or you wouldn't be here."
"You forced me into it, don't forget that."
"Did I?" Thelma inquired softly. "Or would you have come to me anyway?"
"No."
"I think you would have."
"Don't be too sure."
Thelma filled her lungs with the smoke. "It doesn't matter," she said. "Things are the way they are and that's all that matters."
Things, for Helen, were hell. Weekends she had to go down to that awful room on Kennedy Street and during the week, for some stolen moments, she came to Thelma. And these moments she hated the most. Thelma looked down on her as though she were some kind of an animal and all Thelma cared about was her own personal satisfaction. No, she would never have come to Thelma voluntarily. She was living in a weird way, a terrible way, and she was sick of it. Thelma was worse than Jerry, far worse. But she could not escape. All doors were closed to her.
"You're a fool," Thelma was saying.
"I am or I wouldn't be here."
"No, not that. You would be here anyway, fool or not. Maybe not this week or next, but one night you would have come to me. You need me, Helen."
"I don't need you."
"But you do. Don't you understand? I've seen so much more than you, know so much more. You need somebody like me. If you would only be honest with yourself you would see that you need me more than I need you." Thelma laughed and stretched her white arms. "I have always managed to find somebody. Have you? Have you ever managed to find anything except this horrible way that you live?"
Helen was on the verge of tears. "Don't," she said.
"Why do you cry if it is not so?"
"Because you're so rotten."
"I don't want to fight with you."
"Then why do you?"
"Because I want you to be honest with me and you are not honest. You lie with every breath. I ask you about Jerry, about this thing that he does for you, and you say that it isn't your fault, that he got you into it. I don't believe that. I think you got him into it. I think you were like that when you came here. I always have thought so."
"What if I am?" she challenged.
"Then you're nothing but a whore," Thelma flung at her.
"Yours?"
"Now who's being rotten?"
"You make me."
"Do you say the same things to Peggy?"
If she had a knife she would stab Thelma. Something had to be done, something had to be done before she went out of her mind and lost all control.
"You leave Peggy out of this."
"You lie to me about her, too."
Helen, blinking away the tears, said nothing.
"You say she means nothing to you but I know better."
Peggy was the one thing in Helen's life that was decent, the one thing that she had to protect. To destroy this was to destroy all, to dirty this was to dirty all. Together they had found real beauty, had given meaning to life. If this was taken from her there would be nothing left.
"She doesn't," Helen insisted stubbornly.
Thelma stretched again.
"We shouldn't fight," Thelma said.
"No."
"And you shouldn't lie."
"I'm not lying."
"I'm sure you are but that isn't important. What is important is that you are here and you are mine." Thelma moved around on the bed and her voice softened. "Come to me," she said softly. "Come to me and forget that we have argued."
And Helen could not refuse.
Except for a radio playing softly, the third floor was quiet. That would be Evelyn Carter listening to a late disc jockey show. Evelyn hardly every slept any more. She cried a lot and listened to the radio and when they played something soft and sentimental she lost herself in a lake of self-pity. It was fairly common knowledge that Evelyn no longer wanted the baby, that she was trying to find some means to get rid of it, and it was equally common knowledge that her life would be at stake if she made the attempt.
Helen walked along the hall, past the door where the radio was playing, and somehow, when she thought about it, Evelyn's plight didn't seem to be so bad at all. Have the baby, that was the answer. Have the baby, father or not and bring it up. Or have it adopted. Evelyn, she decided, was lucky. Evelyn could solve her problem. And she, Helen, could not solve hers. Her own problem was beyond all solution.
She hated Thelma Reid.
And she loved Peggy Markey.
But she was caught, caught, and she could not free herself. She was caught between Jerry and Thelma and they were both closing in, ready to destroy her for then-own gains.
Love me, Thelma Reid said, or the school board will know.
Love the men for money, Jerry said, or everybody will know what you are.
A lesbian.
And a prostitute.
She could hardly be considered less.
And she wanted so much, so very, very much. She wanted a nice car and fine clothes and lots of money. She wanted all of the things she had never had, all of the things she had dreamed about, and now she was in danger of losing all. Peggy would hate her if she ever found out. She would despise her. That Helen could not stand. Peggy was more than love. Peggy was her chance at tomorrow.
"You mustn't tell anybody," Peggy had confided, "but my father is rich, awfully rich."
"Why hide it?"
"Because it might make a difference."
"Not to me it doesn't."
"No, not to you. But to some of the others, it could."
"Is that important?"
"Everything is important."
Peggy had changed a lot lately. She went out with Jerry once or twice a week and later, lying on the bed, she would laugh about the way that Jerry had tried to make love to her.
"He's got one thing on his mind," Peggy would say.
"I told you that."
"Only it doesn't do him any good."
"You ought to hear the other girls talk. They think it does."
"I don't care what they think."
"They say Peggy Markey is getting hers regularly."
"Do they?"
"You know they do."
"Well, when they're saying that they're not talking about us."
"No, that's true."
"And they say the same about you and that Harry Martin. Didn't you know that?"
"Yes, I knew it."
Helen smiled now, walking along the hall, thinking about Harry Martin. H
arry was so honest that he wouldn't look at a girl if the top button of her dress were undone. He had been brought up to believe that woman was sacred and nothing or no one could change that belief.
"I love you," Harry had said more than once.
"You're crazy. You don't mean it."
"But I do mean it."
She felt sorry for him. He was a nice boy but she could not return his love. She would never be able to do that. He was, after all, a man.
They were all the same, she told herself. All men were the same. They were like two stores with different fronts, but inside, the merchandise offered was the same.
Love was the property of woman.
Love belonged to woman.
It was as simple as that.
The room was dark, the shades drawn on the windows. The faint odor of perfume lingered in the heat, perfume that belonged to Peggy.
Quietly, Helen walked toward the bed.
"Is that you, Helen?"
Helen stopped, stiffening.
"Yes. Are you awake?"
"For a half hour or more. Where were you?" Helen thought rapidly.
"I couldn't sleep and I went into the bathroom to read."
"Oh? What did you read?"
"Nothing. Just the paper."
"There isn't anything much in the paper."
"No."
"Aren't you coming to bed?" Peggy wanted to know.
"I am now."
"I've got your side all warm for you."
"That's sweet," Helen said. "Awfully sweet."
There was a whisper of sound from the bed and she knew that Peggy had moved over against the wall. Slipping off her robe, Helen crossed over to the bed and climbed between the sheets.
"It's unusual for you to be awake," Helen said, faking a yawn. She wasn't tired at all; with the things that were going on in her head and body she couldn't be tired. "You most generally sleep all night long."
"I know, but I got a call from my father tonight while you were out with Harry. I forgot to tell you about it."
"And?"
"He's coming on for parents' night."
"That's next Saturday."
"Yes."
"What's wrong with that? Didn't you expect him?"
"I've expected him, all right. I'm just been worried about what might happen after he gets here."
"Worried?"
"There's one thing I haven't told you about him. He's sort of crazy over young girls."
"He is?"
"All through high school I was worried that he would insult some of my classmates by making a pass."
"An old man's folly?"
"Something like that."
"Well, you can't blame him. If a man has nobody he might as well look for someone young."
"I suppose so."
"And some of the girls like older men better than younger ones. The older ones aren't after the same thing."
"That's not my father."
"It isn't?"
"No. He likes to drink and he likes to make love."
"I see."
Peggy was silent for a moment.
"You could help me with him," she said.
"How?"
"He'll want somebody to go to parents' night with him."
"What about you?"
"Once he sees the girls around here he'll want to take somebody else, too."
"I see."
"You haven't got anybody coming and I wouldn't dare trust him with one of the other girls. He'd make a fool out of me. But if you would go with him it would solve everything."
Helen laughed.
"You trust me?"
"That way, yes."
"And the way you don't trust me?"
"With Harry Martin, sometimes. He seems awfully serious."
"He is. But I could say the same thing about you and Jerry."
"Yes, I guess you could."
"Does Jerry ever tell you that he loves you?"
"Not with words, no, but the way he acts. I think so, anyway."
"He's not worth it, honey."
"No man is worth it."
"Not even your father?"
"For a young girl, my father least of all,"
"Is he that old? That way?"
"I don't think so."
"He must be quite a man."
"I guess he is."
They lay there saying nothing, their bodies close together. So Peggy's father had a young mind and he wanted fun. That was interesting. He was also very rich and that, too, was interesting.
"Peggy?"
"Yes?"
"I'd be glad to help you with him.”
"Thank you."
She would. She would dress her best, act her best and she would drive him crazy. He wanted something young. Well, she was young. And maybe he wanted it forever. Well, she was available. If she married money now she wouldn't have to bother finishing college, wouldn't have to live like an animal, wouldn't have to chase a rainbow that never, for her, appeared in the sky. And if she got Peggy's father she would also have Peggy. Not only Peggy but all of the things she had ever yearned for.
"I'll do it," she said contentedly.
"Thank you."
Helen closed her eyes, relaxing, and her fingers found the soft, warm skin beside her. She would do it. One way or another, she would do it.
"I love you," Helen murmured.
"And I love you."
"Kiss me."
Peggy kissed her.
"I love you," Helen said again.
The body beside her moved closer.
"Show me," Peggy pleaded.
She did.
CHAPTER 10
The wind that came down the lake was sharp and filled with the threat of snow. Overhead the sky was gray and threatening and beyond the towering pine trees that encircled the frozen surface of the lake the clouds were dark and low.
"I don't know why I let you talk me into it," Peggy complained. "We've been out here less than fifteen minutes and already I'm half frozen."
Jerry laughed and looked up from his task of trying to chop a hole through the ice.
"Move around a little bit," he advised. "Take a walk and flap your arms around."
"That might help."
"It will. Only don't go near the shore. There are spring holes in a lot of spots and the ice in those places isn't thick enough to walk on."
She shivered and turned her back to the wind.
"You won't catch any fish anyway," she said. "Bet you won't."
"Bet I will."
"What happened to the old saying that 'a wind from the South blows the bait in the fish's mouth?'"
"I never heard it before."
"Then you aren't much of a fisherman. Every fisherman knows that old saying."
He whacked away at the ice with the axe and the chips flew.
"I thought you never went ice fishing before."
"I didn't, but my father did lots of times. And I heard him say that it should be a warm day, that the water should be running in the holes."
Jerry broke through the ice and struck water. A shower of slush filled the air.
"It's a lot of stuff," Jerry said. "I've caught fish out here when you could hardly stand the cold."
"Then you ought to do pretty good," she said. "I can't stand it now."
"I told you, take a walk."
Silently she watched him while he unwrapped the line and set the tip-up. The tip-up wasn't a fancy thing, not like the ones her father used, complete with reel and all the rest of the junk. The tip-up was made from a shingle, tapered on both ends and with a hole drilled through the middle. The line was fastened to one end, the other end painted red, and a long stick went through the hole in the center. Whenever a fish bit the tip-up would stand straight up.
"Lousy bait," Jerry said. "Too small and no life."
He had bought the bait down the road, not far from the highway, and the little man with the dirty hands had charged him a dollar a dozen.
"Who could have li
fe in this weather?" she wanted to know.
"Take that walk," Jerry said. "As soon as I get the tip-ups in you'll keep warm by helping me tend to them."
It was her turn to laugh.
"I'll believe it when I see it," she said.
He was on his knees setting the tip-up, but now he turned his head and looked up at her.
"I believe what I see," he said.
"What's that?"
"You're pretty in red."
"Am I?"
"Don't tease me. You know you are."
Peggy liked to tease him. He thought he was so hot with the other girls and she had him right where she wanted him. Tamed. If she didn't have him just where she wanted she wouldn't have come out to the lake country with him.
"I think I will walk around," she said, shivering.
"But stay away from the shore. This is a spring-fed lake and you can be in-over your head before you know it."
"All right."
She started away from him, walking fast and moving her arms. The wind was bitterly cold against her face but she didn't mind that. If only her legs and thighs would get warm she would feel better.
She hadn't been surprised when he asked her to go fishing with him. But then, it was getting so that she wasn't surprised at anything Jerry thought or did. She had found him totally unpredictable—gentle and thoughtful at times, harsh and brutal at other times.
"I don't get it," Jerry would say to her. "You go out with me, knowing what I am, and you expect me to treat you like you're the only woman on earth."
"Of course, I do."
"Well, you've got the wrong guy, baby. I take what I want.
"Don't try it."
"Some night I will and I'll make it stick."
"I'll have something to say about that."
"Will you?"
"Yes."
And she had a lot to say about it. Nights when he had taken her to the movies or for a ride in Mrs. Reid's car—she now let him use her car two nights a week—and he had tried to make love to her, holding her tight, his hands rough and insistent, she had laughed at him. She had known that her laughter would hurt more than a slap, more than anything else she could have done.
"You're not pure, baby."
"I am with you."
"Which means that you can be had?"
"Which means that you never will."
