Queer Patterns

by Lilyan Brock

  The steady stream of automobiles moved slowly onward; pedestrians hurried homeward, and Life and Fate moved relentlessly forward.

  The broad ribbon of open road ran through the heart of nature, speaking softly of the peace she held for tired mortals —yet Nicoli’s heart was not attuned to that peace.

  Neither spoke much in words, but Nicoli sensed the tenseness of the air about them that seemed to be charged with something dynamic… charged with words which were struggling tempestuously for expression, with passions which were wailing for escape. Sheila reclined apparently relaxed in the cushions of the car, very much as a child who, worn out from play, sinks comfortably into a welcoming chair—there was no outward sign of the inward chaos she felt.

  They stopped for dinner along the road at a charming, restful inn surrounded by large old trees. Low on the horizon rode a mellow autumn moon and through the trees just over the rambling roofs hung the evening star, glinting clear and radiant, reminding Nicoli in its pure fire of the purity which was Sheila. Forever after, as she saw the evening star, she was to remember with exquisite clarity the first moon and star-shine she had shared with Sheila.

  During dinner a stringed orchestra played softly, its romantic melodies designed to warm the hearts of its listeners. To Nicoli as she listened to the plaintive strains came a frantic desire to flee away from the dreamy tender eyes of Sheila and the music that threatened to burst the floodgates of her soul. Still, when they left the inn, she wanted sorely to suggest riding on into the night. Then the side of her that for so many years she had compelled to dominate asserted itself and she turned the car toward the city—driving rapidly, seldom speaking on the homeward journey, fearing that something in Sheila’s voice would cause her to abandon her resolutions. Arriving in town, she drove Sheila home, not trusting herself to linger and talk, but with almost feverish haste speeding away from her.

  In her mind, as she drove blindly on, she recalled Sheila’s expression while talking with her that evening: was she wrong, or had her eyes held a new light, a new look of tenderness? The desire to drive back and ask Sheila to come with her—anywhere—was consuming.

  The perfume of this precious person still lingered in her senses, causing her heart to beat madly, her blood to pound in her temples as if seeking an outlet…

  Another day of the struggle within Nicoli had come to a close. Slowly but surely Sheila had stolen into her daily life until Nicoli could not visualize life without her. The Weaver in weaving had somehow caught their threads together and twisted them into a single strand.

  *

  The next day found Sheila nervous and unable to concentrate at the rehearsal until Nicoli, in desperation, after several attempts to straighten her out, called her aside and quietly said: “I think it would be a good idea, Sheila, to take these scenes tonight and get them set in your mind before tomorrow. I can’t take the time to work on them now. We can come here, or—” she hesitated—“better still, we can work at my apartment; it will be more comfortable there.”

  “Yes, I think so too,” Sheila replied. “I’ll be glad to get the extra time in—I do want to get the right interpretation. I don’t know what possesses me today, Nicoli—I seem to have gone haywire for some reason or other. I’ll try not to cause you any more trouble… I’m sorry.”

  Nicoli smiled at the earnest face. “No trouble at all. Will eight o’clock suit you?”

  “Any time is convenient; you see, Philip went out of town today, so I shall be perfectly free to work as late as we may want to. By the way, Nicoli, where is your apartment?”

  “I’m at the Sheridan-Plaza, on Riverside Drive.” Nicoli told her. “Apartment 11-A. I’ll expect you, then, around eight.”

  *

  Eight o’clock: Sheila emerged from the elevator on the eleventh floor. “First door to your right,” the cheery voice of the elevator boy informed her.

  The door of 11-A opened as she approached it. Nicoli greeted her: “I heard the elevator and thought perhaps it was you. Come in.”

  Broadly spacious rooms greeted Sheila’s eyes as she stepped, into the apartment. Rooms splashed with light. The floors were waxlike, and upon their gleaming surface stood decisive, virile, cleanly-angled furniture. Everywhere was the touch of Nicoli’s own inimitable style, truly a fit setting for her dynamic self.

  “Nicoli, it’s lovely,” exclaimed Sheila, looking about. “It is just the sort of place one would expect you to have. It even looks like you. I believe I should have known instantly that you lived in it.”

  “I’ve lived here among these things a good many years, Sheila; they are like old friends—” then in a voice tinged with sadness, “they are my only close companions.” Throwing off the fleeting mood, she continued, “But here, young woman—we have work to do, and a lot of it, too. We’d best get started.”

  As they sat on a huge divan under the glow of a lovely old lamp, Sheila studied the woman who sat so earnestly, manuscript in hand, discussing the scenes. Nicoli was wearing a smartly tailored robe which suited her type perfectly, and under the mellow light her closely cropped hair looked peculiarly beautiful with its scattered sprinkling of silver.

  It was difficult for Nicoli to keep her eyes on the papers before her and as the evening wore on, they strayed more and more often to Sheila’s lovely face, until Nicoli felt certain that she too must feel the magnetism in the air about them. Surely she must sense the presence of the force that seemed to be drawing them together, urging them into each other’s arms.

  The resonant voice of Sheila repeating the lines of the play began to beat rhythmically in Nicoli’s brain… over and over… over and over… until her blood seemed to be coursing through her veins attuned to that same strange rhythm. Her emotions eddied in a mad whirlpool, striving to free themselves from the brain that impeded them—until at last they burst their bounds and she took Sheila into her arms. Her lips sought Sheila’s, loosening the wealth of passion she had fought so long to conquer. Her exploring, fingers wandered over the flame-enkindling curves of the lovely body… her warm mouth moved hungrily downward over the firm young throat and on to the smoothness of the velvetlike skin of Sheila’s breast. Her voice was low and husky when she spoke:

  “I love you so, Sheila,” she whispered hoarsely. “I’ve tried so hard not to, but I do. You’ve been in my thoughts every moment since that first day—I haven’t been able to think of anything else—I’ve wanted you so.”

  Sheila’s arms tightened about Nicoli. “I’ve wanted you too, darling—I’ve wanted you to love me as I love you—I’ve wanted you to kiss me and hold me close to you forever.”

  Nicoli’s eager mouth claimed Sheila’s feverish one. Their souls merged into one, and all of the desire and longing of the weeks past had its fulfillment at that moment.

  Later, wrapped in Nicoli’s close embrace in the silken blackness of her bedroom, Sheila found a love that was forever to set her apart from the world and bind her always to that world of shadow and shade whence there is no escape.

  In the darkness her restlessness and loneliness were silently spirited away, her search came to an end, and the dense fog of longing and yearning that had hung over her being lifted and vanished in a vaporous mist before the brilliant sun of revelation.

  Peace and calm came at length to pour oil on the passion-tossed waters of her soul. Sleep descended to carry her away to a land of heavenly dreams—dreams of Nicoli’s love… her arms… her long, fervent kisses.

  *

  Nicoli stirred slightly, her hand instinctively reaching out to touch Sheila. She awakened with a start at finding herself alone, and sitting up quickly, she called “Darling!” Her voice sounded through the empty rooms. Plainly Sheila was gone.

  Why did she leave? Nicoli asked herself. Then glancing at the disheveled pillow beside her, she saw a note. What does it mean? she pondered, as she ripped it open, afraid to read it lest it tell her that Sheila had torn herself from the spell that had bound them so closely. Her eyes sc
anned its contents:

  “Nicoli, darling,

  “How can I tell you what last night meant to me? It is as though I had always known your love. I have been seeking so long the thing you have given me—striving vainly to solve the riddle of my being-—wondering, ever wondering what it was that made of me an outcast from the lives of others.

  “When I return to you I shall have broken all ties that might have kept me from being wholly your own.

  Sheila.”

  *

  Nicoli recalled the ensuing weeks. They had taken up their lives together, there in her apartment. The very atmosphere of it had taken on a new meaning: everything seemed to have become permeated by Sheila’s influence; her presence could be felt even during her absence at the theater when Nicoli sat reading or writing along in their rooms. These had been utterly happy days for them, filled to overflowing with their newly found contentment. The Woman Alone had opened, and critics and showmen had pronounced it the greatest thing Nicoli had ever done. They had been lavish in their praise of Sheila Case, saying there was a new life and fire to her work that raised it above all past performances. The glamour that had always been hers was enhanced by the flame that burned so brightly within her. A new dramatic star had risen in the realm of the theater and everywhere the public acclaimed Sheila Case.

  Weeks and months passed and still the play went on, until the capacity attendance was the talk of the entire show world and the phenomenal success had become almost a legend on Broadway. Sheila’s every move was recorded in the papers, depriving her of all privacy. Everywhere she and Nicoli went they were immediately surrounded by admirers anxious for a glimpse of the star of the moment.

  They had been happy—supremely so—living each day for each other, each night for the love that was theirs; thanking God that He had brought them together, praying Him ever to keep them so; vowing never to part until death should take one from the other. Yet, wrapped in each other’s arms they had been fearful of their sublime happiness lest something destroy it and send them back to the dark solitude each had known.

  *

  “When will you have to leave?” Sheila inquired anxiously as they sat in Nicoli’s office.

  Nicoli’s eyes dropped again to the cablegram she held in her hands.

  “As soon as I can get a boat. Vance says it’s urgent that I get there before the opening.”

  “That isn’t but two weeks off, is it?”

  Nicoli glanced at the calendar on her desk. “Just exactly two weeks. I can’t imagine what the difficulty is—I thought until this arrived that the show was all set.”

  “Well, it seems to me that as familiar as Vance is with the script he should be able to get the show in shape to open without you.” Sheila’s voice was petulant.

  “You’re absolutely correct, darling,” Nicoli agreed. “If I had known that he couldn’t handle it himself, I never would have allowed him to persuade me to produce a number two show.”

  “Still, from a financial standpoint, you would have been foolish not to, but—” Sheila’s hand reached out to Nicoli’s— “this separation is going to be dreadful. I don’t know what I shall do without you!”

  Nicoli’s strong fingers gripped Sheila’s slender ones. “It is going to be beastly, my darling, but it’s too late now to do anything about it—I’ll just have to go.”

  Sheila sighed resignedly. “Well—there’s one thing about it; with you over there, the first night is bound to be a success.”

  “Let’s hope so! I’d hate to leave you only to see a failure.”

  The telephone on Nicoli’s desk rang. “Yes?”

  “You can sail tomorrow night,” her secretary’s voice informed her. “Shall I make reservations?”

  “That’s fine,” Nicoli replied in her usual clear decisive manner. “Go ahead and make them.”

  She replaced the telephone. “That’s that! I won’t need much time to pack. I’ll leave the office early tomorrow and throw a few things into some bags. I shan’t need many clothes.”

  “I’m so glad—I don’t believe I could stand to see many of your things leave the apartment.” Sheila’s words were tinged with the anguish she felt at losing her beloved Nicoli for even so brief a period.

  *

  In the speeding taxicab on the way to the docks Sheila sat close to Nicoli, her arm linked through hers.

  “I can’t bear to let you go,” she whispered. “I don’t see how I can stand having you away from me.”

  Nicoli’s arm slipped about her waist, pressing her closer. “There isn’t anything we can do—I have to go—but I’ll be thinking of you and loving you every moment of the time. Nothing can keep me from doing that.”

  “Promise me you’ll cable me the minute you arrive,” Sheila pleaded. “I have to know you’re safe. I have to have some word from you.”

  “I promise, darling…”

  Conversation was brought up short by their arrival at the docks. Pier 47 was crowded and a motley throng wended its way up the gangplank and onto the decks of the departing liner. Messenger boys laden with flowers and elaborately packed bon voyage baskets hurried about seeking their respective destinations. Merry groups in faultless evening attire talked and laughed gaily as they pressed through the crowd, eager to find departing friends with whom to share a farewell drink or two. A woman recognized Sheila and turned excitedly to inform her companions, “That’s Sheila Case, the actress!” Immediately Sheila’s receding figure drew all their eyes as she and Nicoli followed a steward to Nicoli’s cabin.

  Comfortably settled there, they spent the remaining minutes talking, each endeavoring to direct the conversation away from Nicoli’s impending departure.

  In just a few moments the luxurious liner, bearing her human cargo, would slowly pull away from the shore and begin her long journey across the great body of water, only to glide gracefully up to another pier and its noise and confusion.

  The ship’s clock ticked away the fleeting time.

  “All ashore that’s going ashore.” The words drifted into Nicoli’s stateroom, followed by the deep musical tones of the gong.

  Sheila rose unwillingly from her position on the lounge. Bravely she strove to keep her voice cheerful. “I must go, or I’m afraid they will be taking me along.” She made a valiant attempt to smile.

  Nicoli gathered her into her arms. “I wish they would, darling! I don’t know what I’ll do without you.”

  Sheila’s hands caressed Nicoli’s face. “I love you so, my darling.” Her mouth came to rest on Nicoli’s. Her kiss was long and fervent. Reluctantly she released her and with an uncertain voice bid her a hasty goodbye, then hurried from the stateroom—along the crowded deck—down the gangplank —her only bridge between supreme happiness and abject loneliness. With eyes blinded by tears she watched the narrow strip of water widen relentlessly between the shore and the huge white glistening ship. With an aching void where her heart had been she turned away… her Nicoli was gone.

  *

  The following days Sheila felt horribly alone. Alone in a city where so many would gladly have given anything to share even a moment with her. But people meant nothing; their applause left her strangely untouched, for no matter how appreciative her audience was, when the final curtain fell and the noise and confusion of the theater were left behind, all that remained for her were four walls and her utter loneliness.

  “How empty fame is, after all,” Sheila thought. “How little it is worth compared to the precious moments it costs in separation.”

  Three weeks. Nicoli’s long awaited cable announcing her departure for home came at last. Hours dragged by—hideously slow hours—as Sheila in her mind followed the steamer mile after mile across the expanse of water. Then the gala day… Nicoli, her Nicoli, was coming. Sheila sang gaily as she dressed to go to meet her. Long before the steamer slipped into its berth she stood waiting. Finally it arrived, and Sheila pressed forward through the crowd to the gates.

  At last her eager gaze
caught sight of the familiar figure coming down the gangplank. “Nicoli! Nicoli!”

  *

  During the drive home Sheila talked excitedly, loosening a flurry of questions, allowing no time for answers. “Did you have a pleasant crossing? Any interesting people on board? And repeatedly the query, “Did you miss me? Are you glad to be back?”

  *

  Evening… the theater again… yet how different the familiar surroundings appeared, with Nicoli home once more.

  Sheila was in a gay happy mood as she went about the task of applying her make-up: Nicoli, her Nicoli, would be watching her performance tonight. The face reflected in her mirror was aglow with the excitement she felt at once again having Nicoli close to her.

  No longer would the nights seem eons long—what had appeared an eternity of solitude had somehow miraculously ended. The untold misery of the hours spent out of the arms of her beloved was fading from her memory. In its stead walked feverish anticipation of the hours to come. Mad, unforgettable hours they would be, when all of life would be forgotten in her worship of Nicoli’s nearness. Was it wrong, she asked herself, to love her so intensely, to the absolute exclusion of everything else? Was it wrong to have placed her in her heart almost as an idol in a shrine? Yet how to do otherwise with a love of such intensity and magnitude—a love that was ageless—something that even when they were no longer alive would live on and on, growing more beautiful, more sacred as the centuries passed. How…

  On leaden feet the hours of the evening passed. To Sheila the play had never been so long. At last the final curtain descended; curtain calls were over, and she was free to rush to her dressing room. Nicoli was already there when she entered.