by May Sarton
I feel I have told him all I know, but as he asks more and more questions I realize how much one forgets—for instance, the ostentatiously nosy women from the church, and how far the church may have fostered the hostility. As far as possible, I have put all this out of my mind as the only healthy way to handle it.
“It is too bad the police retained that second anonymous letter threatening you,” he says, looking up from the pad where he seems to be chiefly doodling. After all, we are being recorded on his tape.
“At that time I imagined they would try for an arrest,” I say. “More fool I.”
We are now approaching the crucial question, and I dread it. “In your own mind, do you lay the attacks on you to the allegedly pornographic nature of the books you sell?”
“I don’t know. That is how it all began, with, as I have told you, someone taking Pure Lust to the police.”
“Yes, I understand, but it seems as though the woman who shot your dog may have been motivated by a more personal hatred or whatever it is, a fanatic of some sort, that she, in fact, may have entered the scene later.”
“Homophobia, perhaps. I told you that an article appeared in the Globe calling me a lesbian. ‘Lesbian Bookseller in Somerville Threatened’ was the headline.”
“There was at that time a change in the atmosphere around the store?”
“This will surprise you. There was indeed. A great many people charged in the next day to give their support, and I was actually treated like a hero.”
“And that, no doubt, only added to some people’s wish to harm you,” he says with a smile.
During this conversation I am becoming aware of Cutler as someone I can trust. He is after the facts and makes no comment when I provide them. I like that. He is very professional without ever putting me down, or for that matter sympathizing overtly with me, and I am grateful. If someone has to pry into my affairs I am glad that it turns out to be Cutler.
Until now we have talked alone and had time to establish, it seems, a mutual regard. Now Joan comes in and I realize it is ten and we have been talking for an hour. I introduce them and suggest that Joan join us at the table. If customers come in Mr. Cutler and I will go upstairs, but he suggests that we do so now. “It will make my work a lot easier if no one sees me with you. Is there a back door I can leave by?”
“But you will want to talk with Joan, won’t you?”
“Mrs. Hampstead, could I call on you at your home, perhaps?”
“Of course,” and she jots down her address and phone number and suggests he come at four today.
When we are settled upstairs in the two comfortable armchairs opposite the fireplace, it is my turn to ask questions. For some reason the greater intimacy of the apartment makes me feel self-conscious, as though I am suddenly required to talk about myself and not simply “the situation.” “You see, Mr. Cutler, I never intended the bookstore to become a lesbian bookstore. The interview in the Globe set that one element in high relief and it has been, I must confess, embarrassing.”
“Naturally. No one likes to be labeled and here you are living alone and suddenly in a spotlight you had not even imagined.”
“How do you know?” I ask now.
“Well, your lawyer filled me in somewhat, at least as to the loss of your friend of so many years. After such a long rich relationship it must be offensive to be hauled before the world as some sort of monster.”
“It has been in some ways excruciating, but I have to admit that it is giving me an education I had missed. It has forced me to be honest about myself. That is a salutary thing. I can identify for the first time with any persecuted minority and”—here I can’t help laughing—“I know it is absurd, but I am proud of being in the front line. Because, you see, I am safer than most gay people are. By that I mean I am more or less self-supporting and no one else, except Patapouf, has been intimately involved. So I can dare without fear of hurting.”
“You are really admirable,” Mr. Cutler says.
“But my dog paid the price,” I say, “and now for the first time I want those goons to be caught, and punished.” There is a short silence. “How are you going to go about this?” I feel it is my turn now to ask the questions.
“First of all, by getting to know the neighborhood. I’ll find a furnished room. I’ll have to feel my way, and I’m not good at explaining how, but I expect to have sleuthed out a fair amount of information in a few days. Meanwhile, don’t tell anyone that I have been engaged.”
“But if you do find out who is involved, then what?”
“If I can find enough witnesses, we could go to court.”
“More publicity, more newspaper stories. That is what I dread.”
“Expensive. And, considering the neighborhood, you might even lose the case.”
This is a sharp blow. It never occurred to me that if it came to court, I could lose. “Is there any alternative?”
“Of course I can’t tell yet, Miss Hatfield, but there is always hope that things of this sort can get settled out of court. I can’t promise, but that is what we would be aiming at. A threat is a two-edged sword.”
“And shooting a dog, an old, good, and quiet animal … that must be treated, mustn’t it, as a crime?”
“At present we are in a thicket of possibilities and impossibilities.”
“Why is there so much hatred and meanness of spirit?” It comes out of me as a cry of despair. I do not want any of this. I hate the whole business. Since Patapouf’s death the whole world has gone awry. Nothing is any good any more. I want to go somewhere and bury myself. I want to be left alone.
Mr. Cutler, sensing my distress, leans forward, clasping his hands. “Please do not let yourself get into a panic, Miss Hatfield. It was high time you ceased to handle all this alone. Trust me.”
He is so earnest and seems so young that it makes me smile. “Johathan said you are a wizard. So I must trust you, mustn’t I?”
“We shall see, Miss Hatfield. And now I am going to leave you in peace. I’ll telephone you now and then, but do not expect to see me for a week at least. Wish me luck!” We shake hands, and his hand clasp is reassuring.
24
It is lovely to be getting dressed to go over to Nan’s as my afternoon at the store has been rather a hassle—one of those days when too many people want attention and there’s no time to make tea for a few real friends, and no good talk. I complain, but that is ridiculous since I sold a lot of books. Now it is a pleasure to dress in my red dress, which I hope the children will like, to find a book for them, and then off I go. It’s only a few blocks but it’s near M.I.T., and the river seems like another, rather brilliant world, especially now at dusk with the tower windows all lit up and such interesting faces seen on the street as people go home from work. It is very different from my neighborhood. Here there are restaurants with huge plate-glass windows, parking lots filled with expensive cars. Life in a faster lane.
The Blakeleys live in a tower apartment with a small view of the river. “Oh, isn’t it beautiful?” I say, running to the window before I have been introduced to Phil.
“See,” Eve shouts, dancing up and down, “she likes it.”
“Harriet, this is Phil,” Nan now says. “We are all so excited to have you here!”
“And for me it’s the reward for a harried afternoon at the store. Thanks, Phil” I say as he takes my coat. Someone is tugging at my dress to lead me into the living room. “What if I told you I have forgotten your name?” I ask the tugger.
“It’s Serena. You remember!”
Now we are in the living room, the children are in a fit of giggles, and I soon see why. Every chair and the divan has on it a stuffed animal: a tiger, an elephant with a purple trunk, a teddy bear in a red sweater, and on the divan a gray seal with a white, baby seal. “Good heavens! How am I going to sit down on a tiger?” I ask, “or an elephant?” This is greeted with hoots of laughter.
“Or a mother seal,” says Eve.
�
�Or a teddy bear,” says Serena in an ecstasy of laughter.
“Perhaps the teddy bear would sit on my lap,” I suggest.
“He groans when you pick him up,” Eve informs me.
It is a relief to be transported like this into the child world again and I catch Nan’s eye and burst into laughter myself. “I brought you a book. The Wind in the Willows. Do you have it?” I ask Eve.
She takes it from me and studies it for a second. “No.”
“Please read it to us,” Serena breaks in. “Bear can sit on your lap.”
“But,” Phil says, laying a hand gently on Eve’s tightly curled head, “Miss Hatfield has been working all day. Maybe what she needs is a drink first, and then maybe she would be kind enough to read.” He turns to me with a smile. “What can we offer you? Scotch, rum, gin and tonic? But please sit down and make yourself at home. The children do displace a lot of atmosphere.”
“But it’s really not a madhouse,” Nan offers.
“Or a zoo,” Serena shouts. “Daddy calls it a zoo.”
After deciding on a scotch and soda I pick the bear up and sit down with him on my lap in the corner of the divan. “I didn’t hear any groan, Eve.”
“Oh, you have to turn him upside down for that.”
“He wouldn’t like it, since we hardly know each other,” I say, patting his head and pulling his sweater down. “Good bear,” I say to him, “shall we be friends?” With one hand I lift a paw and bend down so he can pat my face.
The two little girls are watching all this intently. Then Eve says to Serena, “She knows about bears, you can tell.”
I am taken right out of all the problems and anxieties in this high place above the river, and feel happy and relaxed. Nan is sitting on the arm of Phil’s chair. How distinguished they look as a couple—he, small-boned, elegant even in shirt-sleeves; she tall and flowing, a woman people on the street turn to look back at as they pass. “I am so happy to be here,” I say and my pleasure must be obvious.
“Well,” Phil says, taking Nan’s hand for a moment then releasing it, “Nan has talked so much about you and your store, I couldn’t believe you were true. Now I see you are.”
Serena has climbed up beside me and announces, “She promised to read to us. It isn’t fair.”
At this Nan laughs. “‘It isn’t fair’ is Serena’s leitmotif.”
“What does that mean?” Eve asks, frowning.
“It means what she says all the time, every other minute.”
“I see that I had better tend to my knitting. You sit beside me, Eve, and we’ll all be together.” When we are settled in I begin to read. It is all fun but nevertheless I am relieved when the doorbell rings and it is a neighbor come to fetch the little girls, who it seems, have been invited out for supper. Serena runs to me at the last moment and throws her arms around my legs and I lift her up and kiss her. Then we three are alone and can be grown-ups.
I drink my scotch in the welcome silence while Nan disappears into the kitchen. “I won’t be long,” she says. “You and Phil talk in peace.”
“They are adorable,” I tell him, “those two little girls of yours. Irresistible, but I don’t think I would ever have had the stamina to be with children all day. How does Nan do it?”
“Well,” Phil lifts his glass to me, “you did awfully well, Miss Hatfield.”
“Do call me Harriet.”
“Thanks, I will. To answer your question, Nan does get help, as you no doubt know. There is a day-care center in the building and Eve of course is at school all morning.”
“It does seem like a great place to live. That view …”
“In a way it is, but we loved our house in Charlestown. There was space. We had a backyard. I’ll tell you something,” he looks at me intently, “this apartment has never felt like home. The children talk about Charlestown, about having a pet again, not allowed here of course.”
There is something he is not saying. I can sense it. “Why did you move? I suppose it is easier for you. You can walk to work.”
There is a short silence. Now, as Nan comes back to join us he looks up at her, a little hesitant perhaps, but decides to say it anyway. “It’s pretty anti-black over there and we finally had to decide that we had better leave for the children’s sake.”
Nan comes over and sits beside me. “Harriet, we know all about what you have been going through, but we had small children. We just couldn’t afford to tough it out as you are doing.”
“Nan says they shot your dog,” Phil says, leaning back and looking up at the ceiling. “I don’t know how one can take something like that. What’s the matter with these people?”
“I’m learning a lot about hatred, Phil. It dries up my mouth.”
“But you can’t do anything about it? I mean take them, whoever they are, to court?”
“I don’t know about blacks, but the police are not about to protect gays, that’s for sure.”
“It’s all based on myth and rumor, isn’t it?” Nan says, her hands clasped tightly on her knees, and as I am not quite sure what she means she glances over at me speculatively. “We are so visible, Harriet. Anyone who looks at me is saying to herself or himself, she’s black. It may not mean she dislikes blacks but something is registered for good or ill. But how could anyone passing you in the street register anything at all except white, not young, and good-looking. There’s no way they would say at once ‘lesbian.’”
“So I am not a target for hatred unless someone blabs about me, unless it gets around that I am some sort of leper, to be avoided and if possible be forced out. I see what you are saying, and I guess it is true.”
“And it’s just as crazy as some people’s idea that I am out to rape any white woman I can get hold of.” Phil laughs, but it is a harsh laugh. We are in the country of pain.
“I’ve never had to live with any of this before. I had to be sixty before I could even say the word ‘lesbian’ and it still doesn’t come easy.”
“But you wouldn’t want to go back to your safe life, would you? Nan says you lived in Chestnut Hill in a house with a big garden, and your friend was a publisher. Or do you sometimes want to cut and run? I wouldn’t blame you.”
I have to consider Phil’s question and my answer does not come until we are sitting down to dinner, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, real mashed potatoes, and fresh beans. I am suddenly very hungry and realize I have hardly been eating for two days. I must tell Nan so and thank her while Phil pours us each a glass of burgundy. Now I lift my glass and make a toast Vicky often made:
Think where man’s glory most begins and ends
And say my glory was I had such friends.
“W. B. Yeats,” says Phil. “I read Yeats at the university. He was a feisty old man.”
Finally it comes round to Phil’s question earlier on. “Phil, to answer your question, I don’t want to cut and run. Besides, you can’t recapture lost innocence, can you?”
“Only if you move backwards.”
“The only trouble is I don’t know what I am moving forward into.”
We eat and are silent for a moment. The silence, I realize, is one of accord, of tacit acceptance of each other, of freedom to be ourselves whatever that self may turn out to be.
It is Nan who breaks the silence to say, “I feel with you partly, I suppose, because we are not activists where race is concerned. I sometimes feel guilty about this; but then I say to myself that bringing up two children who are able to grow, free from hatred, may be what I am meant to do. I think you have been thrown into this hassle about sexual preference not exactly against your will, but against your temperament. You find yourself in the front line of a war you never chose.”
“Or even knew existed.” I cannot help smiling. It seems such a grotesque position to find myself in. “It has its humorous side, but I must confess that I am tired of it. I wish I could have some peace to run the store in. Without Joan, you know,” I say, turning to Nan, “I really couldn’t manage at a
ll. What a help she is.” I am dying to tell them about the detective but remember my promise. “I sometimes hope something so bad will happen that the police will be forced to get involved.”
Phil exchanges a glance with Nan. “It’s interesting,” he says, “what we seem to have in common. I expect you know that they do not go out of their way to help blacks. We learned that in Charlestown and it came as something of a shock.” He takes a sip of burgundy. “Not bad, this wine. I have to suppose that any minority in this country is somewhat outside the pale when it comes to justice, hence the anger. One way or another we have to handle a lot of anger, don’t we?”
“Harriet never seems angry,” Nan interposes. “It is rather wonderful.”
“You weren’t angry when your dog was shot?” Phil presses.
“I was too shocked, too thrown, to be angry. I was in grief, not anger, I guess.” Do I sound smug? I know Phil does not quite believe me. He is looking at me very quietly and nods.
“I understand,” he says. “It was too terrible in some way.”
“But also I think the goons who have been out to get me are crazy people. You can’t get angry with mad people.”
Phil laughs his bitter laugh. “No, you just want to kill them and be done with it. Is there no one to defend you?” he asks. “I mean literally someone to be there if you are attacked.”
“One of my brothers, the younger one, Andrew, is with me a lot and is very supportive. He spent one night in his sleeping bag in the store after Patapouf was shot. By a miracle he was passing by when it happened and took over for me and got me home.” I have talked too much about myself, I am thinking. “You are too kind, and I have babbled on. Let’s change the subject.”
“If only we could,” Nan sighs. “If only we could think of people one by one, not as groups. After all, every minority contains the whole range of human qualities and failings. There are plenty of black crooks and lesbian crooks. Not all gay men look for several sexual partners a day. It’s the generalizing that is so inflammatory. People tossed together become hazardous waste.”
