She finished three hours early. On Thursday night, a little after midnight, she took a cab to Bader’s apartment in north Chicago. Exhilarated and relieved, she pounded on his door.
“Come in.” Bader waved an arm at the interior of his apartment. A dark-haired woman slept on the couch in nothing but her panties and bra. “Can you give her a ride when you leave? I gotta be out of here in a couple of hours.”
“No.”
“No? I’m your boss, sugar.”
“I don’t have a car. I took a cab.”
“Of course I’ll pay. Here, I’ll write down her mother’s address.” He scribbled on a corner of one of the reports she’d just handed him and tore off the scrap. “Have the driver drop her there and then ride on home yourself.” He reached for the wallet in his jean’s back pocket and pulled out a hundred dollar bill. “This will cover it, plus a big tip for a job well done.”
“You aren’t going to look over the report?”
“I don’t need to. You’re flawless.”
The urge to cry pressed so hard on her eyeballs that they burned. The lack of sleep, the long hours of concentrated writing, nearly freezing to death in the cold labs, and now this, a floozy (one who lived with her mother) asleep on his couch, and her assignment of babysitting duties. She herself was supposed to “not act on” her “inclinations,” while he indulged every appetite.
“Gin?” he asked. “You look a wreck.”
Lucybelle pushed the girl’s bare feet off the couch and they thudded to the floor. There was nowhere else to sit. Bader roared his laugh, and the girl sat up, squinting and rubbing her milk white arms. “Wha—? Who’s this? Henri? Who is this?”
Lucybelle stared at the girl, who made no effort to cover herself. Her face led with its nose, long and humped on the bridge. Below, her small mouth and dainty chin retreated into her neck. Above, sooty eyes held their own against the large creaseless forehead. Cleopatra might have looked like this; she was lovely.
“She’s taking you home,” Bader told the woman as he handed Lucybelle her drink. “Put your clothes on.”
“I’m tired. I’ll stay here and go in the morning.”
“You’ll be happier at your mother’s. Come on, Adele, put your clothes on.”
“I don’t know where they are,” Adele pouted.
As before, the apartment was strewn with clothes and their man-musk odor saturated the air. Bader glanced around. “I need to do laundry. Are there any places open at this hour? Lucy, could you find out?”
She swallowed down the gin in two gulps and said, “If she wants a ride. I’m leaving now.”
“I can’t exactly go naked,” Adele said.
As Bader pawed through the piles, presumably searching for her dress, Lucybelle walked back to see the jaguar.
“What happened to your cat?”
“I gave him to a friend for his birthday.”
“Lucky fellow.” Lucybelle returned to the front room to find the woman pulling on a pair of Bader’s jeans. He knelt and rolled up the bottoms.
“We can’t find her dress,” he said. He grabbed a short electric cord. “Cinch them with these. My belt will be too big.”
Lucybelle picked up a T-shirt between her thumb and forefinger and tossed it at Adele’s chest.
“Thanks. Who are you? Henri, who is she?”
“She’s my right hand,” he said. “Now come on, put that shirt on.”
In one stride, he was at Lucybelle’s side. He kissed her cheek. “Thank you, sugar. See you in a couple of months. Behave yourself.”
“Right.” She couldn’t help the affection she felt for this man. His voraciousness swallowed up even her anger. “Be safe.”
“You want to go sometime?” He paused and pinned her with his intense gaze, as if it were possible, as if he might need to take an editor with him to Antarctica.
“To Byrd Camp,” she said with slow deliberation.
“The sea ice is this breathtaking bottomless blue. Once you look into it, you’re ruined for life. You never want to be anywhere else.”
“Well, thanks,” Adele said, running a hand through her hair. “Love you too.”
“In a couple of months,” Bader went on, ignoring the woman and also the fact that he had a flight to catch, “when the sea ice starts breaking up, whole pods of killer whales leap and play in the cracks. I can breathe there. And the sky—”
Lucybelle opened the front door and walked out. This time she had remembered to ask the taxicab driver to wait. Bader hustled Adele out the door behind her and put her in the cab, kissing her tenderly before shutting the door.
Adele slept all the way to her mother’s house, where Lucybelle helped her in the door and then rode up to Evanston, where she fell into bed fully dressed.
Friday, November 8, 1957
She awoke at noon the next day and didn’t even bother to call in to the lab. When she retrieved L’Forte from the Worthingtons across the hall, the poor fellow whined his disapproval at having so little time with her the past few days. She took him out to the patch of grass next to the sidewalk and then brought him back inside for breakfast. As she ate her own bowl of cornflakes, he pawed her shins for more attention, holding his sweet long ears back in anticipation of her hand on his head. She reached down and stroked the short fur on his bony skull. Did Phyllis miss L’Forte at all?
Despite all the sleep, she had a headache. She couldn’t stop thinking about Bader, that woman in his apartment, his full-bore go at life, his mineral honesty. What had he meant with that bit about Marilyn Monroe?
She could have run all her errands in Evanston, but she craved a bigger, denser, more complex picture. She showered and put the copy of HOWL in her purse, along with change from Bader’s hundred-dollar bill. She felt guilty leaving L’Forte yet again, but promised him a long evening together in the wingback chair.
Her headache vanished as she stepped out of the train station in Chicago and looked up at the vertical city with its angled pieces of sky. She laughed out loud. Sure thing: Marilyn Monroe! First she went to the bookstore and bought another copy of Rachel Carson’s The Sea Around Us. Then, seeing a drugstore a block down the street, she stopped in for some toothpaste. As she walked past the rack of paperbacks, she could practically hear the clatter at her back, the mischief and shenanigans in those cheap stories. She found the toothpaste and then decided to grab a bottle of aspirin too. She realized that she was stalling. If Bader wanted to read a trashy book, he’d read it in public on the train. She snatched a box of sanitary napkins, to use as a decoy, and then walked purposely to the paperback racks and perused the offerings. Valerie Taylor’s book was right there, front and center, and she plucked it off the wire rack.
The druggist rang up her purchases, averting his eyes from both the sanitary napkins and her paperback, completing the transaction as quickly as he could. She rolled the top of the brown paper sack tightly, put the parcel under her arm, and walked out of the drugstore with her chin up.
By the time she got to the Michigan Avenue Bridge it was nearly dusk, just as it had been the first time she stood in the middle of its expanse. But everything was different now. She’d made friends at work and won the respect of the geologists. Bader was a bucket of icy water, tossed repeatedly in her face, and for that she was grateful. Last year at this time, in this exact spot, she’d thought of jumping, the oblivion of a river bottom a strong lure. Today, strangely exhilarated after the hardest workweek of her life, she felt embraced by the pale blue glaciers capping the earth and reached for Bader’s epic future.
From a telephone booth she called Acme Transport. Would it be the nasal-voiced fellow from Halloween night or the melodiously voiced woman from New Year’s Eve? Ah, good, the latter.
“I’d like to speak with Stella, please.”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Lucybelle.”
“And who might Lucybelle be?”
“I owe her some money. I was short the night she took m
e home.”
“Aren’t you the honest one.”
Lucybelle hesitated and then matched the attitude with her own. “I do pay my debts, yes.”
“Just watch what kinds of debts you accrue, sister.”
“Excuse me?” Did Stella know how rude her dispatcher was? “Look, if you could just tell me how I can get in touch with Stella.”
“Give me your number. I’ll have her call you.”
That evening Lucybelle sat down at her typewriter. She wrote about the Halloween party and her ride with Stella. She kept these pages, reading them over and making corrections with a pencil. Then she folded them in half and looked through Shakespeare: The Complete Works for a place to steep them in poetry, wisdom, and maybe even a bit of humor. There was Phyllis’s letter, bobbing on the waters of Venice. She shifted a couple hunks of pages forward and found a good spot in Hamlet. To be, or not to be, that was the question. She put the book back on the shelf before she ruined the evening by rereading Phyllis.
She’d promised L’Forte a night in the armchair. She settled in with her new copy of Whisper Their Love and patted her lap. He jumped up.
Lucybelle cringed, as before, at the dean’s desperation, but this time found the jest in the writing, a subversive digging at society’s mores. She read the ending with a fresh interpretation as well. Yes, Joyce appears to accept that she must marry John and live a “normal” life. But he’s drawn with such ridiculous pomposity, and he offers an entirely unrealistic carte blanche amnesty from what he views as her moral missteps. The girl is still a teenager; her life has barely begun. Taylor makes it clear that John is not her destiny. That last scene, where he buys her dinner, the joke seems to be that she’s going for the large steak he buys her, not him. The closing dialogue too tells a different story. Joyce whispers, “I never thought it would end like this,” and John replies, “Stupid, this isn’t the end. This is only the beginning.”
“Ha!” Lucybelle cried out loud, startling L’Forte. Valerie Taylor was a sly one. Indeed, this would never be the end. And who was the stupid one?
Now she was sorry she hadn’t recognized the author’s feat before meeting her. Taylor had managed to write a lesbian protagonist who didn’t kill herself or go crazy. Better, she’d winked at her lesbian readers behind the backs of heterosexual readers, behind the back, no doubt, of even her publisher.
Lucybelle still had no idea who’d sent her the book, but meeting the author, and now understanding the playful subtext, she felt better. She experimented with putting the book on her bookshelf, right next to her row of Cather novels, but thought better of the placement. Instead she tucked it in back of the thick Shakespeare and then smiled at the juxta-position. Actually, she decided, the bard himself, with his goofy sense of humor, would quite appreciate her shelving choice.
Thursday, November 14, 1957
The week careened forward. She submitted Bader’s report to four agencies, all in different formats, and cleaned up a number of letters he’d piled on her desk and asked her to correct and send. Lucybelle found the letter in her inbox late in the day on Thursday.
When she opened the envelope, the picture fell into her lap. The child looked to be a few months younger than her niece, but baby Lucy had a sturdy and frank demeanor, while this baby was Shirley Temple all over, eyes already sparking with an actor’s deception, hair as curly as a lamb’s.
My dear Lucy Heart, Phyllis wrote.
Here’s my precious Georgia. She says Ma and Da already, and Fred swears she says Theater. I know you won’t believe me! But she does. Every day the girl who watches her says Ma and Da are at the theater, and so it’s not really that surprising because of course she longs for us. But don’t you think it’s good for my daughter to know that Ma is doing what she loves, what she needs to do? Of course you of all people hear the guilt in my voice, even in this brief letter. But isn’t Love what counts, and oh, I love her so much. She’s changed my Life in ways I can’t count. Please come visit. I’ll teach her to say Lucy, and then you’ll never be able to resist us again. Us. Now I’m using her as a lure. But it is Us. And you should come.
The production is going so well and I love the cast. We have such fun parties, you’d be in Heaven. I’m sorry, Lucy, I know I was impossible our last year. Maybe our last three years. Maybe the entire span of our Friendship. But I’m so much better now. I needed this.
This, Lucybelle supposed, meant Fred. It was shocking to the point of appalling how much approval—in so many categories, including society, family, on the street, maybe even in the theater—could result from association with one negligible man.
I ran into Harry on Bank Street the other day, a block from our apartment.
Her use of the word “our” sent spikes up Lucybelle’s spine.
He said he’d talked to you a couple of times. Why won’t you call me? Or send me your number and I’ll call you, on my nickel.
Truly, my Sweet One, you should be here in New York now. This new crowd, my friends from the production, are ever so much more engaging than any others we ever found in the Village. Come Home.
Home. That punched her in the solar plexus.
At every single party, with every cup of coffee, I hear your sharp wit slicing up the conversation. Your Reviews, we used to call them. Remember how hard we laughed? Why can’t we have that still? Fred—this will make you mad, no doubt, but I’m going to say it anyway—is hardly ever around. His job is wildly demanding. You don’t know Mielziner. He’s brilliant but requires so much of Fred. It exhausts the poor man. The upshot, however, is quite a bit of Freedom for me and sweet Georgia.
I offer the above only as an Enticement for you to visit. You won’t have to see much of the Dreaded Husband.
Say yes. Buy a plane ticket. And a theater ticket!
Yours always, Phyllis
Theater ticket? Lucybelle looked at the picture of Georgia for a long time.
That night she sat in her wingback chair, lifted the telephone’s receiver, and held it in both hands. Twice she put it back on the hook. Then, at last, she picked it back up and dialed her own former number. Phyllis answered.
“She’s beautiful.”
After a dramatic intake of breath, Phyllis gushed, “Lucy! Oh, Lucy! Oh!”
“Georgia is a lovely name too.”
“I wish you could see her. She’s perfect, all pink and glowing. She looks like Fred. Exactly. Only miniature and female.”
Lucybelle held up the picture and realized that what Phyllis said was true. She forced herself to ask, “And how is Fred?”
“He’s well. He’s building sets for Jo Mielziner, which is such a relief because with Georgia we have bills coming out our ears.”
“Good for him then.”
“I don’t want to talk about Fred.” She said his name as you might say the word “hamburger.” Phyllis caught herself, gasped a little laugh, but then added, “And neither do you.”
“She does have his features, but on her they come together in a much more pleasing way.”
“God, I miss you. As long as she doesn’t get his personality, we’ll be all right.”
“Phyllis!”
“You do know what I mean.”
“You married the man.”
“I did. And look what I got.” On cue, a baby’s cry rasped into Lucybelle’s ear, as if Phyllis had put the telephone to Georgia’s tiny mouth. “I wish you could see her. You’d understand.”
“You’re happy then.”
“It’s so good to be working again.”
“You mentioned a production and cast but didn’t say what.”
“It’s just a small part, but a part just the same. Look Homeward, Angel, opening in two weeks on Thanksgiving Day at the Barrymore. Fred’s working with Jo on the set.”
“That’s wonderful news.”
“Oh, it is!”
“So Fred watches Georgia when you’re on stage?”
“Well, no, but . . .” Phyllis’s voice hitched.
“So, are you seeing anyone?” Phyllis asked shyly.
Lucybelle closed her eyes. She hadn’t been touched, beyond handshakes or accidental jostling, in months. She could distract herself and make Phyllis laugh with stories of the women her office friends had tried to set her up with, but Phyllis would just feel sorry for her. She could make a story out of sweet, artless Dorothy, but she felt protective of her new friend. Probably Phyllis would be quite understanding of Bader’s proviso, but she wouldn’t give Phyllis the satisfaction of knowing her hands were tied.
“I went to a really fun Halloween party a couple of weeks ago.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Did you send me a book?”
“A book?”
“Yeah, called Whisper something something.” She knew the title, of course, but having met Valerie Taylor, she didn’t want to hear Phyllis’s shrieks of condescending laughter.
“No. Why? Oh damn. Georgia just threw up. I love you! Please call me again! Wait! What’s your number so I can call you? Oh, gotta go, she’s puking. Call me!”
Saturday, March 15, 1958
On a cold Saturday night in the middle of March, Lucybelle pulled on her brown wool slacks, a white blouse, and the cream cabled cardigan her mother had knitted. She put the cash in her purse, tucked the Allen Ginsberg and Rachel Carson books under her arm, kissed L’Forte’s forehead, and walked to the train station. The cold air stabbed right through her plum wool coat. Once in Chicago she hailed a taxi.
“2711 South Wentworth, please.”
“That’s colored, miss.” The driver stared straight ahead and waited for her to give a different address. When she didn’t, he asked, “Where you trying to go?”
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