Unlike Others

by Valerie Taylor

  She stiffened. "What?"

  "You couldn't give her a little good advice, could you?”

  Like, stay away from the guy? Jo said coldly, "I'm not married."

  "Yeah, sure, I know. I just thought—"

  You just thought you could have some fun and not take any chances, Jo filled it in for him. You just thought I'd been around, seeing I'm older and have a place of my own. You just thought Betsy was a helpless little thing who needed good advice, how to have fun without getting caught. You can go and screw yourself—no, I guess not, it takes two. She said aloud, chipping the words off like icicles, "She's been married. She can probably take care of herself."

  By this time he was obviously wishing he'd never brought the matter up. He'd fire me this minute if he dared, she told herself. He said, "Well, okay," wanting to untangle himself from this embarrassing situation and leave but not knowing how. Jo sat with her eyes lowered, waiting for him to rescue himself. Finally he got his feet into gear and ambled off without saying another word.

  She didn't know whether to laugh or cry—or throw something. Her fingers closed around the cube of monotype metal she used for a paperweight. It was solid and heavy. She hefted it. Make a nice satisfying crash if I sent it flying through the window. But the habit of self-control was too strong. She said, "Oh, hell," and put the slug down again, blinking back tears of anger.

  At least he was giving her credit for being normal. At least he assumed she'd been with men. Which meant that, although she might eventually be fired because she knew too much about the boss's private affairs, she wouldn't be fired because he knew too much about hers. That was some help.

  He avoided her all the rest of the week.

  By Saturday her body's hunger was more than she could endure. She thought about Linda, her silent understanding and her excellence in love. She thought about Karen, cold and grudging, whom she had still loved with all the need that was in her. She thought about Betsy, who was going to Cal City with Stan this very evening and who might very well be eager and willing to give him what he was looking for. Three girls in her life, more less, and nothing but trouble and frustration from all them.

  Betsy and Stan would have dinner and go somewhere for a show, and park for a while, and then he would take her to a hotel. Or more likely a motel, lots of transient trade in for quickies and no questions asked. Jo didn't think he would make love to her in the car, like a pair of teen-agers, all cramped and squashed and half-dressed. She hoped not. If Betsy were really going to do this idiotic thing, she hoped it would be better than that. It hurt to think about Betsy in a man's arms, but she couldn't help it. She knew how Betsy would look with her clothes off, the tender slim perfection of her young body, the soft curve of her breasts with the twin pink rosebuds, the almost adolescent lines of her and the whiteness of her skin. Relentlessly, her mind followed the two of them, man and woman, through every stage of their lovemaking. When she came to the final consummation she put her hands over her face, as though to hold off a blow.

  She had never felt any jealousy of Betsy's young husband, only a motherly pity and a sense of kinship. He was one of her own people, caught in a situation she knew only too well. But the idea of Betsy in bed with Stan was too much. She felt as though she would choke.

  In this frame of mind she changed her shirt and went to The Spot, stopping on the way to have a steadying drink because she was afraid of what she might find when she walked in. She wanted to see Linda, but there was a chance of finding Linda with someone else—or of being rebuffed even if Linda were unattached.

  Besides, she felt confused. She wanted Linda, who could satisfy her needs so expertly. At the same time she loved Betsy, who didn't even know she was gay, who very well might not be gay, although Jo had never felt this way about a straight girl.

  It was a mess.

  Linda wasn't at The Spot. Jo stayed for almost four hours, drinking slowly but steadily and beginning to feel tearful as she always did when she was loaded. Linda didn't show up. In the end Jo went home with a chubby-faced blonde butch in jeans who pulled no punches asking her, and wasted no time getting her into bed once the door was locked behind them.

  Even with all that bourbon under her belt, she found a fierce pleasure in the girl's lovemaking. She was aggressive, violent at times, but good. But Jo's head ached and at the craziest moments the picture of Betsy in Stan Haxton's arms kept coming back to her.

  She didn't want to be here in this room with this stranger.

  It was almost daylight when she went home. Her head ached and she had heartburn. She didn't know why people never included heartburn when they talked and wrote about the evil effects of drinking, it was painful enough. She couldn't turn her head without losing her balance. Her face felt gritty. A lot of nothing, and for what? A cheap, dirty satisfaction.

  She took a taxi to the station and caught the first southbound train of the morning. The passengers looked tired and dejected. Bums and drunks, she criticized them. That's what I am, a bum. And a Lesbian too. Puts me right down at the bottom of the social scale.

  She let herself into the building, got up the stairs to her own room—thank God, she wasn't rich enough to live in a place with doormen and elevator operators—and finally got her apartment door unlocked, after missing the keyhole a couple of times. All the corny jokes, all the funny-paper gags, she thought wearily, sunk in the beginning of a familiar morning-after letdown. In the comics it's the young man who comes dragging in after a night on the town. What does that make me?

  She knew she was regressing. She'd overcome this shamed, abashed feeling a long time ago. But there were still moments when her bringing-up was too much for her.

  She pulled off her shoes and lay down on the bed, pulling up the spread for warmth. The early light of a cold September morning was just beginning to filter in under the drawn shades.

  At nine she was waked by a terrible crashing and jangling. She was out of bed, mouth dry and heart pounding, before she realized that it was only the telephone. It kept on ringing. She picked her way into the shadowy living room and lifted the handset. "Hello?"

  Betsy's voice came to her muffled and far-away. "Jo, can I come and see you? Something terrible has happened."

  She hesitated. The way she felt, if it were anybody else the answer would be a flat no. "I guess so," she said slowly, rubbing her eyes. "Do you know where I live?"

  Hanging up, she wondered what was the matter. Betsy was all right—at least, she was conscious and able to talk. For a second she considered the fantastic notion that old Mrs. Haxton had died while her son was in Cal City, making love to his assistant. That would look great in the papers.

  Or maybe the old lady's heart trouble was the real thing, and ran in the family. Maybe Stan had dropped dead in a motel and there would be a real scandal. Come on, she scolded herself, you've been reading too many drugstore novels.

  She shook her head, which still ached. Whatever it was, she'd have to wait until Betsy got there before she could do anything about it. She turned on the ceiling light in the kitchen and got out the percolator. The smell of the raw ground coffee made her gag, but she fixed up the pot and got it on the burner, then went into the bathroom to investigate the hot water situation. In the back of her mind a strange excitement began to stir. Betsy was in trouble, and had turned to her for help. Betsy was on the way over. Anything could happen.

  CHAPTER 9

  By the time the doorbell chimed she'd showered, dusted herself with scented powder, pulled on clean pajamas and her plaid robe, and covered the worst of the bruises with lotion makeup. Not bad, she decided, looking at her reflection. She still looked tired, her eyes ringed with brown shadows, but that was natural in anyone who'd been dragged out of bed after four hours' sleep. She drank a cup of freshly-made coffee and waited for Betsy, not knowing where she was calling from or how long it would take her to get there.

  It seemed longer than it probably was, but at last the bell rang. Jo pushed the buzzer, opened
the door a crack and stood waiting to be sure it was really Betsy and not a Sunday-morning prowler. No use taking chances. It got more dangerous every year to go out on the streets after dark.

  But it was Betsy who tiptoed up the stairs, making more noise than if she hadn't tried to be so quiet. She stood in the hall, looking around. Jo opened the door and hugged her, coat and all.

  "Jo, I thought I'd never get here."

  "Well, you're here now." Jo led her into the living room, latched the door, looked at her in the light from the desk lamp. Betsy's face was pale and her eyes swollen. She looked scared. Jo slipped the light coat from her shoulders and laid it across a chair. "You want some coffee?"

  "I'd love some. It's getting cold out."

  It was good to be doing something. Maybe if she kept her hands busy she could keep them off Betsy. She poured two cups of coffee and carried them back to the living room, turning off the kitchen light as she passed the dangling cord. "Sit down and drink it while it's hot."

  Betsy took the cup in shaking hands. It rattled against the saucer. When she carried it to her mouth, a little of the coffee ran down her chin. Jo wanted to take Betsy in her arms and hold her until the shaking stopped. She sat up straight, keeping both hands on the hot cup, her slippers planted firmly on the rug. If she got up and went to Betsy now, it would be the end.

  She said carefully, "It's none of my business, but I'm ready to listen if you want to tell me about it."

  "I'm so ashamed," Betsy said. Her shivering worsened. She decided she couldn't manage the cup and saucer, and set them carefully on the floor. "You knew I had a date with Stan last night, didn't you? He talks to you a lot."

  I knew a hell of a lot more than that, Jo thought grimly. She nodded. "He said something about it."

  "There didn't seem to be any reason I shouldn't go," Betsy said defensively. "Unless you think it's not a good policy to date anyone you work with. I wouldn't if it was a larger place. I mean, well, my divorce is final and he's not married or anything, I thought it would be okay."

  He's married to a horrible old hypochondriac and a flock of guilt complexes, he's Oedipus in person, Jo thought, but she managed not to say it. She nodded. "I'd say it was your own business. A girl has to make up her own mind about things like that."

  "I don't want to marry anyone, but that doesn't mean I can't go to dinner with a man."

  "I wouldn't think so."

  Betsy fell silent. Stalling, Jo thought. She wants to tell me, but she doesn't know how to get started. Once the first word comes out it'll be easy, like getting the first olive out of a bottle. She sighed. Looks like I’ll have to do all the work.

  She asked gently, "Did you go to the movies, or dinner or what?"

  “Both. It was all right—I mean, he seemed sort of absent-minded, but it's different from the office and I thought, well, maybe he was tired or something. I thought maybe he was worried about his mother, too. I know he hardly ever leaves her alone in the evenings."

  “And?"

  “We went to the movies." Betsy faltered to a stop. After a minute she went on, "Then went to a restaurant and had a drink. I didn't want anything to eat, but he ordered steak.”

  Trite, Jo thought tiredly. He plies the kid with liquor takes her to a motel, or a hotel. Right out of East Lynne. She asked, "Did you drink very much?"

  "I wasn't stoned, if that's what you mean. I felt relaxed—you know the way you feel after a couple of drinks. Only after dinner we went to a place, sort of a night club I guess. They had a strip-tease act I thought was disgusting." Betsy shook her head. "Men seem to go that kind of thing, I don't know why."

  Jo waited.

  "So then he said, ‘Let's go someplace where we can talk.' Like that. All he wanted was to talk, that's what he said."

  Betsy got up and walked across the room. Standing with her back to Jo, she looked smaller and younger than she really was. "I knew what he wanted," she said in a muffled voice. "Fellows all tell you that. Everybody does it, I'm not going to hurt you, I’ll take good care of you, and so on. That's why I liked Chuck, he never tried to make any time with me before we were married. The rest of them were always wanting me to come up to their room, or something. Just to talk!" she said with sudden sharpness.

  Jo was silent. She could see Betsy following Stan into a room, standing silent and acquiescent while he shut the door behind them. It hurt. She couldn't have spoken if she'd wanted to.

  Betsy said, "We went to a motel."

  Okay, girl, put that quarter in your other pocket, you were right the first time. Jo moved a little. The soft wool of her robe whispered against the upholstery, the only sound in the room.

  "I knew what he wanted. I'm not going to pretend I didn't, it wouldn't be any use. They all want the same thing no matter what they tell you. Only by that time I didn't care so much," Betsy said honestly. "I guess I was a little drunker than I thought"

  "You didn't have to go."

  "I know. I thought about it while he went in the office and paid the man. There was a little office at one end, and I sat in the car while he went in. I guess they expect you to do that. I thought, well, what difference does it make? I like Stan." She sounded defiant. "He's been nice to me and he has a pretty thin time at home. I thought we could go in and smooch a while and then I'd stop him before things got out of hand. You know what I mean. If you've had any experience with men you can usually head them off before they really do anything."

  Why, you little cheat, Jo thought. But she couldn't take her eyes off the back of Betsy's neck, where the little tendrils of soft fair hair stirred when she moved. It was as though there were two Jos, one scornful of Betsy and one wanting to love and cherish her. She asked hoarsely, "What happened?"

  Betsy looked at the floor. "It didn't work," she said flatly. "We hardly got inside the door when he started pulling my clothes off. He'd had about five drinks, more than I had—maybe he didn't really know what he was doing. I didn't know a man could be so rough."

  "And then?"

  "I started to yell. I was scared, honest. He put his hand over my mouth. He pushed me down on the bed,"

  Jo whispered, "He raped you."

  "No. He couldn't."

  "What do you mean?"

  “Nothing happened."

  A flow of relief poured through Jo. It was all right Betsy was unharmed.

  "He kept trying and trying," Betsy said in such a small voice that Jo had to lean closer to hear her. "He made me help him, you know what I mean? But even then he couldn't do anything."

  "So?"

  "So we got dressed and came back and he never said anything the whole way," Betsy said rapidly. "He never said anything all the way home, and I was scared to death. I mean, you keep hearing about men going berserk and killing people. Only I don't think he's the kind. Anyway, it wasn't my fault."

  Jo clenched her hands behind her back.

  "I felt terrible. I kept feeling like I was going to throw up. I got out at my aunts' house. I was scared to death she'd be waiting up for me, but she wasn't. I felt like I couldn't stand it to go to bed, I had to talk to somebody and I couldn't talk to my aunt because she'd flip. So I went down to the drugstore on the corner and called you."

  "Will she worry about you if you don't come home?"

  Betsy's blush darkened. "I told her I might stay all night with a girl friend."

  And what a giveaway that is, Jo thought, her tenderness mixed with disgust. She stood up, stretching muscles that were stiff and sore. It's been quite a night, she thought. She said, "You better stay here. You can sleep in the bedroom and I'll curl up on the davenport. I got in late myself."

  "I wouldn't take your bed. Let me sleep on the davenport."

  "No, that's all right. Just give me a minute to change the sheets. I’ll fix you some hot milk and a pill," Jo said, glad to be moving around and doing something useful, "and you’ll be asleep in no time. Good thing this is Sunday, we can sleep all day if we want to."

  "I hate to think
about going back to work."

  "It’ll be even more embarrassing for him than for you, if that's any comfort. Anyway, you don't have to date him again."

  "I suppose not." But she sounded depressed.

  Jo, stripping the blue sheets from the double bed, turned and looked at her sharply. "What do you mean, you suppose not? You don't want to go out with him again, do you?"

  "I guess not. Only I haven't dated anybody since I got my divorce and it seems too bad to have it work out like this. Maybe he won't try any funny business the next time—I mean, if I don't want to—well, maybe he’ll be willing to just park or something." Betsy's eyes filled with tears. "Don't make me say such things, it's too embarrassing."

  Careful, Jo thought. She carried the used sheets into the bathroom and stuffed them into the hamper, came back with clean linens and remade the bed. Shaking the pillow into a fresh case, she said in a voice that tried to be unconcerned, "I don't know much about men, but I don't think it works that way. They keep right on trying. Especially if you're divorced—they just naturally figure divorced girls are panting for a man. Unless you think he was just drunk and didn't know what he was doing."

  "He didn't have any trouble driving. It was more like he wanted to, real badly, but he was scared."

  The long arm of mother. You don't rape mother, do you, Sigmund—not the image of pure chaste womanhood? Give me a girl just like the girl who married dear old dad, but what in hell am I supposed to do with her when I get her? Jo tucked in the blanket at the foot of the bed and tried not to look at Betsy, who went right on. Maybe he could tell I’m not that kind of a girl, I didn’t really want to.”