Unlike Others

by Valerie Taylor

  She was down on her knees in the bathroom, digging around the edges of the tiles with a bobby pin, when the telephone rang. It was Richard. She could tell from the sound of his voice that he had something on his mind, so she pulled up the step stool and sat down, sneakers hooked over the second rung, wet wrinkled-pink hands dangling between her knees. "Hi. How's everything?"

  "Just wondering how things are with you."

  She always forgot how deep and kind Rich's voice was. Just listening to him made her feel good. "You weren't at Jerri's party the other night, so I thought, well, I’ll call up Jo and see how the world's treating her," the soft rumble went on.

  "You know I'm not a party person. They either bore me or scare the hell out of me. I stay home and curl up with a good book."

  "Yeah, I know. You should get out once in a while, just the same.”

  "All right. Next time."

  There was a little waiting silence. She asked, "Did you and Michael have a good time?"

  "Michael doesn't live here any more. He moved out last week."

  "Oh." The silence lasted. All the things she wanted to ask him and couldn't tumbled into her mind. Had he found someone else? Do you feel terrible about it? Did you see it coming or where you completely surprised? Did you have a fight or did he just walk out?

  She couldn't ask. Karen had made a real production out of leaving—that was female bitchiness, but men could be that way too. Especially the ones like Michael, who was a real nellie. She waited tensely, the muscles in her upper arms jumping from the unaccustomed exercise of scrubbing.

  "It's all right," Richard said gently. "We had a civilized people talk and parted on friendly terms, and all that jazz. These things happen."

  "That's the story of my life too." Jo looked glumly at her dirty knees. The bathroom floor was only half scrubbed; by the time they got this thing talked over to everyone's satisfaction the dirty water would be dried on and she'd have to start all over.

  It didn't matter. Michael said to break the silence, "How you doing, darling?"

  "Not too good. The girl of my dreams is being courted by my boss."

  "That's real great. Which one am I supposed to feel sorry for?"

  "Why," Jo said, "you might be happy for all of us. She's lovely and popular and he's having a fine time planning what he’ll do to her when he gets her in the hay. And I'm suffering from unrequited love. First thing you know I’ll be writing poetry."

  "Darling, you can read it to me. That's true love."

  "Sure."

  "What are you planning for tonight?"

  "Going to wash my hair and take a good hot bath, if the bitches downstairs leave me any hot water. I'm cleaning the whole apartment on my hands and knees."

  "You don't feel like going pub crawling, do you? I'll buy you a drink if you're thirsty."

  Well, Jo thought, why not? Rich held her hand when she was depressed or in a state of crisis; he didn't ask for help very often. A friend like Richard shouldn't have to bury his face on your shoulder and burst into tears for you to know he's unhappy. She said carefully, "I was thinking about it myself. Did you ever go to a place on Rush called The Spot? I was there a couple of weeks ago—nice quiet place."

  "Mixed?"

  "No, dear, I thought you'd like to cruise the girls for a change."

  Richard chuckled. "All right, all right, what kind of a place is it? The bar Freedburg took us to the other night was full of rough trade, I was afraid to take off my muffler for fear someone was going to cut my throat. Or to take my hand off my zipper—"

  Jo cut in firmly. "I've only been there a couple times. It was pretty quiet. Of course I wasn't paying much attention to the boys."

  "Music? Dancing?"

  "Just a jukebox. Dancing, yes." She hesitated. "We can go somewhere else if you'd rather."

  "No, it sounds like fun. We don't have to stay."

  Linda, she thought. In the next breath, warning herself not to count on seeing Linda. If you don't hope for too much you can't be disappointed. She said, "It'll be good to get out of the straight world for a while."

  Jo moved impatiently on her step stool.

  "How about it? Ill pick you up around eight?"

  "Sure, fine."

  She climbed down and went back to the bathroom. The tiles she had washed were a precise pattern of white edged in black, sharp against the smeary grayish ones that were still dirty. She dumped the cooling water out of her plastic pail, refilled it with hot, added detergent and a sprinkle of bleach, and got down on her knees again to finish the job. It didn't seem so dull now that she was looking forward to an evening out. If she hit lucky and brought somebody home—it was easier that way, because she lived alone and most girls didn't—the apartment would be looking its best. It was bourgeois to care, a holdover from the housekeeping standards of Cottonwood Falls, and she was ashamed, but she couldn't help it. She couldn't help making her bed and washing her breakfast dishes before she left in the morning.

  While the bathroom dried she threw a storm coat over her damp-streaked jeans and ran down to the corner for French bread and cold cuts, a fifth of red wine and some whiskey. She came back hugging her brown paper bag, made a sandwich and ate it standing beside the kitchen table, washing the crusty bread down with the warmed-over coffee from breakfast. That she had less than five dollars to last until payday didn't bother her in the least. She would be all right unless someone at the office ran short and wanted to borrow; Stan sometimes asked for small sums which he always paid back the next day. She had her monthly commuter's ticket and she could carry a sandwich.

  The lunch at the Manchester House had cost eleven dollars and hadn't produced anything but embarrassment and a sense of failure. It was like fishing where you know there aren't any fish, all you do is waste your bait. If nothing interesting turned up tonight, she could at least get her money's worth out of her own liquor.

  Over and over she had heard the theory that Lesbians drink too much because they have to drown their guilt feelings before they can make love. She was doubtful that they drank more than other people, on the average—which took care of that. But for those who did, she suspected that it was more to ease their frustration when they found themselves without a partner than to nerve themselves to a brand of lovemaking they thought wrong. She herself had drank little through the six years of her guilt and anguish, from sixteen to twenty-two. And in the six years since Jeannine had taken her in hand and made her proud and glad to be loved, she did her drinking when she was lonely and insecure.

  On the other hand, there were ad men and copywriters, always bragging about their affairs with women, who drank a great deal. So how did you know?

  She dressed carefully for her evening out. Tapered slacks, striped shirt a little shabby now but still becoming, the car coat that was her favorite wrap. I look all right, she thought, brushing her hair close to her head. The boyish clothes were becoming without being butch, When Richard's car pulled up in front of the building she dropped her billfold and keys into her pocket and ran down, feeling the familiar warm pleasure that came before an evening on the town. Anything could happen. Perhaps nothing would, but there was always a chance. At this point the whole evening lay ahead, untested and full of possibilities.

  She climbed into the car beside Rich and kissed his cheek with extra warmth, so that he might feel some of the sympathy he didn't want her to put into words. "You really want to do this," she asked, "or are you just brightening up my dull day?"

  He patted her shoulder. "You're good company."

  Funny what a lift it gave you to touch somebody you really liked—no passion, no involvements, just honest affection. She settled down beside him and watched the neighborhood flow past, an unending amusement for a girl who seldom rode in a car. "It's not the same on a bus," she said.

  "Still sightseeing? Well take the Outer Drive."

  "Oh, lovely."

  The Lake lay to the right of them, vast and brooding beyond its curving reach of sand. O
n the left rose the dark bulk of housing projects, irregularly dotted with lights. As they neared the downtown area the office buildings rose tall and proud against the night sky. "The only thing in Cook County worth looking at," Jo said, pleased.

  "Besides the Forest Preserve."

  "Yeah, I forgot that. We didn't get to go this summer. I wonder who picked all our wild raspberries."

  "I went with Michael a couple of times. He didn't care much about picnics, though."

  "Some day," Jo said dreamily, "I'm going to take my vacation in the fall and go on a camping trip. Don't laugh—you know what I mean, sleeping out in a tent. We females don't use that word the way you do, anyway."

  "You're so middle class. I won't ask how your little romance is coming along."

  "Nothing to report." She put her hand on his knee. "Rich, there just might be somebody I know at The Spot"

  He smiled at her. "Just wink, and I’ll vanish. Who knows, maybe I'll hit lucky myself."

  She wanted to cry. She said, "How come all the gay places we know about are on the North Side? There must be some in other places."

  "Most of our friends live north," Richard said reasonably. "You know how word gets around on these things. Somebody really ought to publish a directory."

  They turned off the Drive at Randolph, crossed Michigan and Wabash and State, looking oddly quiet at this hour on a Saturday evening; Jo was used to the crowds and hustle of the rush hours. Rich turned the car north on Dearborn, sliding smoothly into a row of cabs waiting for the light. "It's livelier in New York," he said wistfully. "This town's nothing but an overgrown village."

  "I've been thinking about going there. Only I'd like to have a little money saved up first."

  "Better be sure you've got a job lined up before you make the break. Money goes awfully fast when you're not working."

  "You grew up there, didn't you? How come you've never gone back?"

  He shrugged. "Inertia. Also I never seem to get a dollar ahead. Real estate's a funny business, you have to know somebody to get a job. Pull won't keep you in, but it gets you in. Besides," he said, stopping for a red light, "every time I think about making a change I meet someone."

  He backed neatly into a parking place, came around and opened her door. A couple of girls going into The Spot paused and looked them over. Tourists or members of the club? Jo felt embarrassed. She walked beside Richard, holding her head up, refusing his hand at her elbow. This was one place where a male escort was no advantage.

  The place was busier than it had been on her last two visits. The juke box was going full blast, there was a loud clatter of voices, the lads behind the bar rushed back and forth serving beer, a little wine, not much hard liquor. The young people who came here couldn't afford much but beer, and the older customers wanted to relax but not to drink too much. Jo had seen little intoxication in the gay bars she'd visited, a thing she couldn't say for some of the places downtown.

  She and Rich got into the room by squeezing past several dancing couples. "Like to sit at a table?"

  "No, I like the bar."

  A boy of twenty or so moved over so they could sit together. Richard gave him a searching look and got back a smile. Jo grinned. Now he'd have to wait to be sure the kid didn't have a friend in the men's room or the phone booth, that he wasn't expecting anyone to come in later. If the boy was alone he'd start a conversation. She said, "I'd like beer."

  "You can have a drink if you want it.”

  "No, beer sounds good."

  She didn't much like beer. But Richard had taken her to lunch a couple of times lately, and she knew that his commissions had fallen off. The country hadn't settled down after inauguration, as everyone predicted; it was a real recession and not just an election year flurry. And he had bought Michael a new sports jacket—perhaps other things, too, that she didn't know about.

  Anyway, if she drank nothing but beer there was no chance of taking too much. She looked around the long oval bar, seeking one face and sizing up the others she encountered.

  They're so young, she thought. Although she knew you had to be of voting age to get served, and plain clothes and short hair make almost any woman look younger than she is. Too bad the old ones couldn't learn that, instead of piling on pounds of makeup and junk jewelry in a vain attempt to fool the public, having their fancy waves set every week and tipping around on high-heeled pointed shoes.

  The two who sat quietly sipping Chianti and holding hands, for example, were probably in the middle twenties instead of sixteen or seventeen as they appeared to be. She glanced at them from time to time as she sipped her beer. They didn't talk at all, and she suspected that they had just found each other or that it was their first time together in public since making love. They were enclosed in an invisible bubble that shut them away from everyone else. The younger was a slight little thing with reddish-blonde hair, not unlike the schoolgirl Jo had admired on the street the other day; her long straight mane, the clear shade that's often imitated and never duplicated, flowed down her back without ornament. Her companion was a little older, solid and sturdy, with a square dimpled chin and a good-natured expression.

  Bless them, Jo thought, feeling like their mother. The look so nice together.

  Richard said, "What's the matter, kid?"

  She indicated the two girls. He looked. "It's nice to see somebody happy," he agreed.

  They had been there perhaps half an hour when Linda came in. She was alone. She wore pedal pushers and a car coat very like Jo's, and she looked tired to the point of exhaustion. She climbed on a stool halfway around the bar from Jo and ordered an old-fashioned which she didn't bother to drink when it came. One of the boys spoke to her. She answered inaudibly. Jo watched her for a while as she stared into space, her fingers clutching the small glass. Then she touched Rich. "That's the one, at the end. I'm going over and talk to her."

  "Good luck."

  She made her way around the bar until she could touch Linda's shoulder. Linda turned without surprise. "Hi."

  "Are you waiting for somebody?"

  "No, I'm alone."

  "Want to dance?"

  "Not tonight, I'm too tired. Sit down. What are you drinking?"

  "Beer."

  The bar girl brought it. Linda looked around, frowning. "It's noisy in here. I like this place, but you can't hear yourself think."

  "Would you like to go somewhere else?"

  "Where?"

  "My place."

  Linda pushed up her sleeve and looked at her watch. "I have to be back by midnight, or I turn into a pumpkin."

  Passing Richard, Jo reached over a talking boy and touched him. He turned, nodded, and went back to his beer. She went on, reassured. He'd call tomorrow or Sunday, depending on how things worked out for him.

  Linda hailed a cab. "Let me, I just got paid.”

  That was the last word she said until they were in front of Jo's building. She sat upright through the half-hour ride, holding her eyes wide as though she would be undone once they closed, letting her knee touch Jo's very lightly.

  It was warm in the apartment. The first steam heat of the season sighed and rattled in the pipes. Linda slipped her jacket off and sat down in the deep chair, kicking off her loafers. "I can't stay long," she said.

  Jo said, "That's all right."

  "Debby's sick," Linda said. She stopped, and looked at Jo. "The girl that's staying with me. She's getting over a terrible hangover. Did you ever give anybody Antabuse?"

  "I never did. I had a friend who took it, but he was in the hospital at the time."

  "It's enough to make you sign the pledge."

  "Reminds me—want a drink?”

  "A very small one, or it'll put me to sleep."

  Jo went into the kitchen, turned on the light and found the whiskey and two glasses. The glasses were a little dusty from disuse, so she wiped them out with a dish towel. Linda sat looking flustered, holding her untouched drink. Finally she said, "I couldn't speak to you the other day. D
ebby's terribly jealous and she'd been drinking. She came to the store in that rig and insisted on being taken to lunch. My supervisor's all right, a very understanding woman—usually they just send out for sandwiches, because noon's our busy time. I work at Vogue North, selling and some modelling."

  That accounted for the air of elegant simplicity. Store discount, of course, and end of the season sales. Vogue North sold everything for the chic tailored woman, and Jo longed for but had never been able to afford one of their suits. She was glad to know that Linda was a working girl.

  She could visualize the scene. Debby showing up, loaded and noisy, practically in drag, demanding to see Linda no matter what she happened to be doing at the time, demanding to be taken to the ultra-conservative Manchester House. The other models and saleswomen watching, drawing their own conclusions. And Linda carrying off the whole thing as no one else could have done.

  She felt a little sick, as though it had happened to her.

  "She’ll do it once too often," Linda said, closing her eyes, "and I’ll lose my job. Then we’ll both go hungry." She opened her eyes again and looked at Jo. "If I'd spoken to you she'd have made a scene. Anybody at all, but especially an attractive woman."