"No, I never saw her before."
He led the girl away. Frances was alone.
The bathtub at home was white and clean. The linen closet was full of fresh towels and there were new bars of soap wrapped in colored paper. More than anything in the world, she wanted to get into a tubful of hot water and scrub this day's dirt off herself.
In the morning, a sleepy-eyed policewoman brought oatmeal and coffee. She wasn't hungry. I'll eat when I get home, she thought. When the matron came back to take the tray, she asked for permission to call her husband.
CHAPTER 13
Bill was waiting at the desk. There were dark smudges above his cheekbones and sharp vertical lines between his eyes. He looked tired, but his suit was pressed and he wore a sober knitted tie. Not the kind of man you expect to find in a police station, bailing out his wayward wife.
She was surprised to see, when they passed a drugstore on the way to the car and she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the plate-glass door, that she didn't look particularly wayward. She felt dirty and messy, her head ached, her arm and leg muscles were tired. But she looked mild and refined, like a schoolteacher of whom it could only be said, damningly, that she still looked young. She got into the car and nervously smoothed her skirt, which was wrinkled from being slept in.
Bill started the car.
The only words she had heard him say were, "Thank you," to the policeman who had escorted her into his presence. She wondered nervously how to break the ice that seemed to be thickening around them. I'm so sorry. (The penitent note.) It wasn't my fault. (Too defensive.) This has certainly been an interesting experience. (Flippant.)
She put out a tentative hand. "Bill"
"Skip it." He didn't sound unkind, merely preoccupied. She pulled back her hand as though he had struck her. They drove in silence for what seemed like a long time. He pulled up in front of the house and sat waiting, making no move to get out. Finally she realized that he was waiting for her to leave. "I have to get to work," he said without changing expression. "I'm late already."
She wondered whether he had gone to the office the day before, but was afraid to ask him. He was a silent stranger.
She scrambled out of the car and watched him drive away, absurdly like a hostess speeding the departing guest.
The house was quiet and rather chillyof course, Bill would have turned the thermostat down no matter how upset he was. She walked through the downstairs rooms, feeling like an intruder. The furniture was a little dusty, but everything was neat. There were dishes piled in the kitchen sinkno more dishes than she was accustomed to find there after a day at work. Either Bill and Bob had eaten out, or they had washed their dishes. Or elseand this brought a pang of guilt like a physical painthey had been too worried to be hungry. She pictured them sitting at opposite ends of the dinette table, heavy-eyed from anxiety and lack of sleep, picking at their food.
It wasn't any picnic for me either, she thought resentfully. None of it was my fault. I didn't want to go to Karla's in the first place. That was Bake's doing. And besides, Bill's stayed out all night plenty of times, and how do I know what he does? At least I didn't come home drunk.
At least, a small reproving inner voice reminded her, you've never had to bail him out.
She plodded upstairs, and stood looking vaguely at the furnishings of her own bedroom. The covers were folded back neatly from the unmade bed, Bill's chiffonier drawers were closed, the window was open the usual four inches. She closed it, shivering in the cold wind. The trinkets on her dressing table looked unfamiliar. She went into the bathroom and turned on the hot water, feeling the dull throb of headache behind her eyes.
Bill didn't need her. Bake had told her so a hundred times, and she had agreed. In long discussions over the luncheon table, in the dreamy relaxation that followed love, in their increasingly frequent quarrels Bake had insisted that Bill no longer needed her, that she meant nothing to him. It was a statement worn meaningless by repetition, like the Lord's Prayer or the Pledge of Allegiance. Now she realized with sharp terror that Bake had been right all along. Bill really didn't need her. He was at work all day and out on business most evenings, he had his own circle of friends, his interests were foreign to her. He was no longer the man she had married. And she had changed, too. If she left him, he would no doubt marry again. In a year's time she would be forgotten. She felt cold and frightened, as though she had crawled out from under a warm blanket and stood naked and exposed in a chilly wind.
She was in the tub, lathered thick as whipped cream, when the phone rang. It took three rings for her to wrap a towel around herself and run dripping down the stairs, half panicky, half hopeful.
"Hello?"
"Frankie. Baby. Are you all right?”
She shivered. "I'm fine."
"I worried about you all night. I'm a wreck." Bake sounded anxious, whether for Frances or herself it was hard to say. "Is anyone with you?"
"No, I'm alone. The men in my family don't seem to care whether I'm alive or dead."
"They'd have been notified if you were dead. What do you want them to do, stand around and bawl because you're back home safe?"
"Well"
"Look, I have to see you. I've cancelled all my appointments for today anyway. Why don't you come over?"
Remember she ran out on you. "I'm pretty tired," Frances said hesitantly.
"That makes two of us. You can take a nap over here. I'll fix you some hot milk or something."
Frances stood uncertainly holding the telephone. Beyond the living-room window she could see the house next door, a stodgy building of tan brick set in a square of dead grass. The rattling stalks of last summer's flowers drooped above a patch of bare earth. It was a dispiriting sight. She said reluctantly, "I really ought to go to the office."
"Call in and tell them you're sick."
"Well, I could do that."
"Baby, I have to see you."
"Okay, I'll come." She would have to take a taxi; it was cold outside and her hair was dripping wet. She would have to telephone the office. She wouldoh, to hell with it. Anything was better than spending a day alone in this silent house. She said, "I'll be there in half an hour."
Bake was waiting at the door of the apartment. At the sight of her, all the loneliness and resentment melted out of Frances' heart. She was in Bake's arms, and her head was on Bake's shoulder, and everything was all right.
She said, sobbing, "I don't ever want to go through anything like that again."
"It's pretty horrible," Bake said. "It happened to Jane and me once. That's one reason I didn't want to be picked up again." She disentangled herself to wave at a confusion of newspapers on the studio couch. "It's all right, the fool's going to get well and they didn't give any names."
The Tribune and Sun-Times had about six lines apiece, on inside pages, stating that the police had been called when an unidentified woman struck a second woman, also unidentified, at the Club Karla on the near North Side. The victim, had been taken to a nearby hospital for emergency treatment and was recovering at her home from a slight concussion. There was no mention of the mass arrest and no suggestion that Karla's was anything but a run-of-the-mill night spot.
Frances took a deep breath. "What a relief!”
"The other papers didn't even mention it." From the crumpled confusion on the couch, it was plain that Bake had made a thorough search. "Was it pretty bad?"
"It wasn't good." She followed Bake into the kitchen and sat perched on the tall stool, arms around knees.
Bake busied herself with bottles and glasses. "You need a drink."
"That's for sure."
The apartment was pleasantly warm, the little kitchen bright and neat under the overhead light. She remembered the Sunday last spring when they had painted the walls and cupboards, a day that began with a vast epicurean breakfast at noon and ended in a wild all-absorbing bout in bed at two the next morning, dredging them up exhausted and hung over on the arid shores of Monday morning. If I belong anyw
here, she thought, it's here. This is home.
Bake handed her a glass, and stood soberly looking down at her. "I hate myself. I've been to hell and back."
"You couldn't help it."
"Darling, why do you let me get so plastered?"
Frances said with a trace of bitterness, "Because I can't do anything with you."
Bake said slowly, "Oh yes you can. There are a great many things you can do with me."
Frances was silent. A slow warmth generated by alcohol and desire was beginning to grow within her, dispelling the fatigue and loneliness. It spread from the pit of her stomach up into her chest and arms, then down. Wonderful, after being chilled so long.
She held out her glass. "Got any more?"
"Sure."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while. Bake yawned. She had on pajamas, an old pair she kept for camping trips and the like; her hair was ruffled; she sat with her bare feet propped up on a kitchen chair. Frances had seen her like this a hundred times, and it always filled her with a deep secret happiness. Bake, indolent and relaxed, was so different from her self-possessed public self as to give Frances a feeling of ownershipas though she had a hidden treasure of whose very existence other people were unaware. She sat looking at Bake, knowing that she was going to want to touch her pretty soon but in no hurry, relishing her leisure.
"Matter, baby?"
"I was just thinking that I don't have to be home till almost six o'clock."
"Doesn't leave you much time. It's twenty past ten now."
Frances refilled her glass. "Don't let me drink too much. It makes me sleepy."
"Do you good to catch a nap. We don't want you falling apart."
The press of desire was becoming more urgent. She moved across the kitchen, glass in hand, walking carefully because quite suddenly her legs seemed to belong to somebody else. She laid a hand on Bake's shoulder. "Darling."
"Yes."
In the two years of their relationship she had approached Bake perhaps a dozen times. It was Bake, aggressive and experienced, who initiated their lovemaking, suggested experiments, set the time and place. Frances had been content to have it that way. Now she stood wordless, afraid of being rebuffed, feeling the slow imperative rise of her love and unable to ask for what she wanted. She looked questioningly down into Bake's face.
Bake stood up. "Come on, baby. Come to bed."
CHAPTER 14
“Awake, baby?"
Frances stirred. "Mm."
"It's four o'clock. You've been asleep for hours. I took a little nap myself," Bake said, smiling.
"That's nice," Frances said. She opened her eyes, trying to bring the room into focus. "Was Iall right?"
"You were wonderful."
"Know something?"
"What's that?"
"I love you."
Bake laughed softly. "Big surprise."
Frances rolled over. "Ooh, you're nice and warm. I wish I didn't have to get up."
"You never want to get up, you lazy bum." Bake's arms were warm and gentle around her, no hunger in them now. "I don't like to have you get up, either."
Frances sat up, pulling the blanket closer around her shoulders. "Got a cigarette?"
"Here." Bake lit two cigarettes, took a puff of each, and handed her one; the small ritual after love that was part of their closeness. Frances smiled, taking it. "Ash tray?"
"I moved the stand around to your side." Bake stopped abruptly, as though someone had put a hand over her mouth.
Frances smiled, seeing in her mind's eye a Bake staving off anxiety by shoving the furniture around. It was so at variance with all the things that made up the daytime Bakeand so in keeping with her private gentleness and concern. She reached for the glass ash tray.
Her smile froze.
There were four butts in the ash tray, two stained with the dark-red lipstick Bake used, two with a soft mauve pink.
"What's the matter?"
"Have you changed your lipstick?"
"Oh." Bake's face closed, as Frances had seen it do when people probed too close for comfort. A courteous evasion would be forthcomingor an expedient lie. "Jane was here a while yesterday. She took a nap."
For a moment she almost believed it. She wanted to believe it. It was such a reasonable, comforting explanation, and the truth opened on such a wild vista of desolation. Then she looked again at the four stained and twisted cigarette ends. Two each, smoked in the leisurely relaxation of after-love; this was their pattern, hers and Bake's. Now she knew where Bake had learned it, how it came to be habitual with her.
Frances said in a strangled whisper, "Jane was herewith you. You made love with her the way you do with me."
"Frances, look, I've never lied to you. I'm no good at lies." Bake caught her by the shoulder, turned her until their eyes met. "I've known Jane for years, ever since I first came to Chicago. We're old friends."
"That's a good name for it."
"I suppose you've never slept with anybody else, like your husband, for instance."
"I wouldn't mind so much if it were somebody else."
"That's a lot of crap. You'd mind no matter who I slept withand I guess I would too if it were the other way around." Bake shook her head as though to clear the sleep out of it. "Look, would you feel better if I said it didn't mean anything to either of us? It was just something that happened."
"Those things don't just happen."
"Sure they do. You're with someone you like, you have a few drinks, and wham! there you are. It doesn't mean a thing."
"I suppose she's better at it than I am. I don't know anything except what I've learned from you."
Bake grinned. "Complaining?"
"No." Frances started to cry; she couldn't help it.
Bake sat quietly looking at her for a while. "Look, baby, you're overtired. You wouldn't feel so bad about this if you weren't so tired. You've had a bad couple of days."
"That hasn't got anything to do with it."
"All right, goddam it, I went to bed with Jane. I called her up, if you want to know. What was I supposed to do, sit here chewing my nails, wondering what was happening to you and whether that woman was going to be all right or not? All I wanted was somebody to talk to. Neither of us planned the rest of it. You have to believe that."
"Then why did you do it?"
"Oh God, Frankie, these things happen. Jane probably feels just as bad as you do. She and Kay had been together almost four yearsever sincewell, anyway, can't you just drop the whole thing?"
That sounded reasonable. The trouble was, there was no reason in the way she felt. She was hurt, yes, and jealous. With the familiar cycle of fatigue, desire, passion and relaxation, her weariness had cleared away and she was able to react emotionally again.
She rocked back and forth on the bed, in actual pain.
"I don't think I can stand this.”
"Will you listen to me, or do I have to knock some sense into you? I went with Jane for a while when I first came to town, sure. She wasn't the first one, either. You didn't think I never cared for anybody else, did you?”
"I don't care how many other"
"As if going to bed was all there is to it." Bake's voice was scornful. "There's liking each other, being friends. Reading the same books and listening to the same music. Thinking the same things are funny." She took a deep breath. "There's caring. I care what happens to you."
"I found that out yesterday." As though triggered by her own scorn, Frances got out of bed and began pulling on her clothes. One stocking ripped from hem to toe, but she gartered it tightly and put on her shoes. "I'm going now."
"Look, let's not fight."
"I'm not fighting." She turned wide, hurt eyes on Bake. "Maybe I'll get over this some time."
Bake swung her feet over the edge of the bed, slid her arms into a terry housecoat. "I'm sorry. Maybe it would have been better if I'd lied to you."
"It wouldn't have done any good. I always had a funny feeling about Jane. Now
I know why. I always knew," Frances said slowly, in wonder, "but I wouldn't let myself know."
“I'm sorry."
They walked to the door together, not touching. Bake held it open impassively. "Remember, this is your idea, not mine. I'll be around when you get to feeling better."
Frances didn't answer. All the way down the endless stairs she was conscious of Bake standing there, watching her go.
Now what? she asked herself, slumped into the corner of the taxi. She couldn't go back to Bake; she never wanted to see Bake again. She couldn't go home, to Bill's house. She thought wildly of a hotel, and then realized that she had less than two dollars in her purse, not even enough for a cheap room. Besides, that would be a temporary solution. What she had to find was an answer.
The streets were crowded with salespeople and office workers getting out for the day. She stopped the cab at the corner of State and Lake, gave the driver all the money she had except fifty cents, and wandered aimlessly for several blocks. There was a kind of comfort, or at least distraction, in lights and crowds, the excitement of color and motion. She stopped several times to look in store windows, without really seeing the merchandise on display.
She was getting chilled. The wind was ominous of snow, and her coat was thin. She went into a drugstore and ordered coffee. It was Thursday night, late closing for Loop department stores, and the fountain was crowded with shoppers and store personnel. Housewives, high-school kids drinking cokes and eating hamburgers, tired salesgirls, grabbing a quick cheap meal. She drank the coffee black and hot, thankful for the warmth and stimulus of it, unwilling to get up and leave the brightness of the store.
"You alone?"
She looked up, startled. The woman was somewhere between fifty and sixty, thin to emaciation, with rolling, veined eyes and a long corded neck. "Don't you remember me? I saw you at Karla's one night. You were with a dark-haired girl. She's not with you tonight, though."
"No," Frances said. She put a nickel under the edge of the saucer and stood up, clutching her check and a dime.
The woman stepped into her way. "You look sort of beat. Is there anything I can do for you, dear? Anything at all?" She looked hopeful. "Would you like a drink? Maybe you'd like to come home with me for a drink?"
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