Jealous And The Free, The

by March Hastings

  Ten-thirty. Leda hadn't even called.

  For some reason, Michele had managed to convince herself until the last minute that Leda would change her mind and come directly home. Even while she had tried to believe it, Michele had known in her heart that it was nothing but a vain hope on her part. Yet when Leda had not shown up and did not even bother to call, Michele felt somehow that she had been doubly betrayed. And she began to sense now a trepidation bordering on hysteria.

  She brought the pen to the sheet of paper and tried to squeeze out a word. But nothing happened. Stupidly she stared down at the pristine page.

  Boris ambled in from the livingroom and plopped down beside her. He rested his muzzle on her knee and peered up at her, the expression in his eyes as mournful as her own.

  Michele laughed suddenly and reached down to scratch his ear. "If I look like you," she said, "I don't blame her for running out on me."

  Carefully she screwed the cap back on the pen and stood up.

  Boris stood up beside her, ready for attention.

  Michele ignored him and went on into the livingroom. On the table by the radio she found four quarters and a dime, all the money she had left in the world. Leda still had a little, yet certainly not enough to keep them for long. And it would be another two weeks before Leda got her monthly check from home.

  They could eat spaghetti for a week on that dollar ten. And tomorrow for sure she would go out and look for a job.

  But tonight...

  She glanced at the clock. Ten-fifty. And twenty seconds.

  Michele sighed and dropped the coins into the pocket of her slacks. In exactly nine minutes and forty seconds, if Leda weren't here, she would walk out that door and...

  And down to the corner bar? To drink a couple of beers and creep home and say: Look, Leda, I got even with you.

  Michele snorted disgustedly. Even to herself she was beginning to sound childish.

  Still, she felt like a child in relation to Leda. Leda, who knew all the answers and spoke about trust as though it grew on trees. How the hell could you trust somebody when you were nothing yourself? When you didn't know any of the answers or where to find them?

  Michele jabbed angry fingers through her hair. Maybe it was about time she learned a few of the angles for herself.

  At one second after eleven, Michele slammed the door shut behind her and started down the stairs.

  She had no idea where she was going, except that her destination lay somewhere in the Village. Yet she knew exactly what she wanted to do. Somewhere in the Village she would find a bar. And in that bar she would find someone. Someone who had been around, who knew all the tricks of the trade. Almost anyone would do. Certainly anybody she found in a bar would know more about this business than she did.

  Hurrying outside past the stench of garbage cans lined along the hall, Michele struck out for Fourth Street and the Village. She had gone barely a dozen steps when she heard Leda's voice calling her name.

  She stopped dead in her tracks, listening to the running footsteps come toward her.

  Leda grabbed hold of Michele's arm and waited to catch her breath. Tight lines of strain pulled at her mouth.

  "You're late," Michele said.

  "By two minutes," Leda answered. "I had to wait for a bus."

  "You could've left earlier."

  Leda closed her eyes. "Oh, God," she breathed. "I'm sorry I stopped you." She let go of Michele's arm and stepped back. "Go on," she said. "Wherever you're going.”

  Michele's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

  "Because I refuse to spend the rest of the night screaming with you in the street," Leda said quietly. "I'm tired. I need some peace and quiet."

  A cold draft seemed to blow across Michele's heart. She felt desolate, alone. Miserable. She had expected that Leda would at least be sorry for her lateness. And she had not for a moment thought that the girl would encourage her to go to the Village. Surely Leda must know where she had been going. And why.

  "I'm going for a drink," Michele said.

  Leda nodded.

  "To the Village," Michele added ominously.

  "Yes, I know," Leda said. She sighed and glanced away to watch a drunk reeling along the curb.

  "Don't you care?" Michele asked almost frantically.

  Leda stared at her hard for a moment. Then she said, "Of course I care, Michele. But it's something we all do sooner or later." She smiled. "I was fifteen when I went through it."

  "Through what, for God's sake?" Michele heard the desperation in her tone, but she no longer cared. Nothing was making sense any more. And least of all, Leda.

  Leda laughed low in her throat. "Learning about life," she said. "With a capital L. For some foolish reason, you can't accept the fact that I love you unless I let you suffocate me. And you think you're going to find someone who'll let you do it."

  "No," Michele protested. "No. I ... I just don't know yet what it means to be... to be gay," she said, using an expression she had picked up from Leda. "I mean, if we were married, you wouldn't dare run off to a party unless..."

  "Don't be too sure." Leda's eyes twinkled.

  Michele recoiled.

  "Oh, honey, I'm sorry," Leda said. "I didn't mean to hurt you." She sighed again. "But I don't seem to be able to do anything else anymore."

  Michele took a step away from her. "It's probably my fault."

  "Yes," Leda said, "it probably is." She smiled then and gave Michele a little push on the behind. "Go on," she encouraged. "I'll be here when you get back."

  Michele sneaked off like a sick dog with its tail between its legs. She had no idea why Leda should be sending her away, except to get rid of her. And at the moment she couldn't blame the girl at all, if that's what she had in mind. For Michele felt like a first rate fool. All through their brief encounter she had sensed Leda's appraisal of her behavior, Leda's disappointment. Yet she couldn't very well turn around now and run after the girl. Some hell of a butch she had turned out to be. All the way to the Village, Michele kept chiding herself for her own loss of esteem in Leda's eyes. She would hardly blame the girl if she despised her. Yet Michele felt far from ready to give up the fight. In fact, she had hardly started.

  And by the time she finished, Leda would have reason to respect her.

  Still, when she reached Washington Square Park, Michele was no longer certain just what she wanted to do. She hadn't the vaguest idea of how to go about picking up a woman. Or, for that matter, how one recognized a woman who would let herself be picked up and not yell for the police. Even in the Village there were women with babies and husbands. Not even all the ones in trousers and short hair were safe to pursue.

  Dejected, uncertain, Michele wandered into the park, past benches crowded with people soaking up the welcome coolness of evening. Past shadowy figures lying too close together on the lawn. Her feet ached from the tight sandals and her shoulders drooped tiredly. She spent a dime for a Good Humor and strolled off toward McDougal Street.

  Wherever she looked through the Friday night crowds, it seemed to Michele that she must be the only one in the whole city spending the evening alone. Here and there she glimpsed couples of girls, hurrying along, some laughing, others seriously intent. All of them obviously involved, obviously not interested in her or her predicament.

  A cool wind blew up from the west off the river, bringing with it the imminent threat of rain. Somewhere off to the left, the rumble of thunder close at hand sent strollers rushing into bars and restaurants. Still Michele walked slowly along the narrow street, licking the last drops of ice cream from the stick.

  Ahead of her she recognized the fringed canopy of a coffeehouse she had visited once with Leda. And across the street from it, the shocking pink facade of a bar she knew many Lesbians frequented. She slowed down for a moment, considering the choice presented her. Then, as the first huge drops of rain slapped at her back, she bolted in the direction of the coffeehouse.

  Pausing in the covered entryway, Michele glanced
at her reflection in the plate glass window and shoved a wet strand of hair back off her forehead. From inside Michele heard the clatter of cups, the whirr of the espresso machine, the scratchy roar of a radio.

  And above it all floated a silvery, seductive, deep-throated laugh that caught her nerves and sent a shiver along her spine.

  Peering through the rusty screen door, Michele easily identified the laughter.

  The woman sat erectly in a high backed, antique chair, her figure tiny, yet somehow regal against the towering background. Impeccably groomed, obviously European, she might have been any age.

  Michele knew only that the woman seemed to radiate a charm, a warmth that reached out to touch and welcome her. And, as she pulled open the door and stepped inside, she felt the woman catch sight of her and fall silent.

  Michele walked the length of the nearly empty room to a corner table, painfully aware of the attention being focused on her now by the woman and her companions.

  She ordered an iced cappuchino and lit a cigarette. Leaning back against the wall, she exhaled a cloud of smoke and peered through the screen at the beautiful woman with the silvery laugh.

  The woman had taken out a small sketch pad and sat busily working with a pencil. Next to her, a girl younger than Michele, her dark hair close cropped and wavy, leaned forward as though to block the woman's view. The four women with them kept up a steady stream of chatter, glancing from the woman to the dark haired girl to Michele.

  Watching the girl and her vain attempts to distract the woman's attention, Michele felt a surge of satisfaction sweep through her. For the first time in days, she knew the pleasure of being able to attract and hold someone's interest as she had not been able to hold Leda's. Instinctively she knew that the woman was strongly attracted to her. And she felt herself beginning to respond eagerly to the woman's interest.

  She did not for an instant pause to consider why the woman might have been drawn to her. Nor did she examine into her own reaction. She busied herself instead with studying the competition, comparing her own attributes with those of the girl. The girl had a beautiful face, Michele decided, but probably not too much brains. Not much personality either, judging by the way she behaved. Anyhow, not too much of a challenge.

  Challenge for what?

  It had hardly occurred to Michele that she had to do more than sit there. For years she had been accustomed to that other world where all a girl had to do was wait till a guy came over and said hello. Yet she realized that in this new world, she didn't even know the ground rules. The woman obviously preferred a butch. Which probably meant that Michele was supposed to make the first move. Play the man in this mating game.

  Yet she couldn't very well walk over to a table of strange women and ask one of them for a date. What the hell did one do?

  She hadn't even the strength in her to move. Her hands felt clammy and her head throbbed with an excitement she had never experienced before. She stubbed out the cigarette and sipped at her coffee, trying hard to control the waves of nausea hitting her stomach.

  The girl pushed back her chair and stood up.

  Michele tensed, watching the girl take something from the woman, then turn away from her. The girl came toward Michele, walking slowly, her eyes probing into Michele's face.

  Unfalteringly, Michele stared back. She caught her breath sharply as the girl stopped by her table and threw a sheet of paper in front of her.

  "For you," the girl said. She nodded toward the woman. "From the madam."

  Michele let her breath go slowly and leaned forward to peer at the sketch before her. And at the note scrawled beneath it.

  You have a beautiful head, it read. May I paint it? "She collects heads," the girl commented blandly. "Among other things."

  Michele ignored the comment and concentrated on the signature.

  Corinne... WAtkins 4...

  The girl put a dime on her thumb nail and flipped it onto the paper.

  Michele glanced up at her questioningly. "That's to call her with." She smiled broadly. "Corinne thinks of everything," she said. "And pays for it."

  Michele watched the girl retreat. She did not blame her for being bitter, considering the mission she had been sent to perform. But she had sensed more than bitterness in the girl's manner. And for a moment she felt an empathy toward the girl, feeling that somehow the dark-haired child was very like herself. That the girl's reaction to Corinne's betrayal was much like her own reaction to Leda. And for just that moment she felt as though she had found a friend, a fellow traveler on the bumpy road of love.

  And then she saw the look in Corinne's eye and she forgot about everything but the leap of desire that burned through her. She had never been looked at like that by anyone. Not even Leda. She felt herself melting inside her clothes and her fingers clenched convulsively in her lap.

  She wanted to get up and run, hurry home to Leda where she would be safe and loved. Yet she could not drag herself up out of the chair.

  Long after Corinne and her friends had disappeared into the rain, she sat there smoking and sipping coffee. Finally she became aware of the old man behind the counter glaring at her and realized he wanted to close. She got to her feet stiffly, left him three quarters and went outside.

  The rain had settled to a heavy drizzle that felt slimy against the skin. She had only a quarter left in her pocket and nowhere to go but home. She made her way cross-town slowly., almost oblivious to the weather and the water squishing inside her sandals. Her hand clutched the wad of paper in her pocket, as though seeking to draw forth a hidden and tantalizing meaning from the words written there.

  Who or what was Corinne? And what would happen if she called her? Michele knew perfectly well it was not Corinne she wanted. That it never would be, really. It would always be Leda she loved. Yet she could not deny that she had been very much attracted to the woman from the instant she had heard her laugh. And she knew that Corinne had been just as attracted to her.

  This knowledge gave her a sense of confidence she had rarely felt before. She didn't want to lose Leda. But if she should, it wouldn't be the living death she had thought it might be. Others would love her. Many others.

  As she unlocked the door and let herself into the darkened apartment, Boris came out to meet her. She stooped for a moment to pet the animal, then straightened up and strode into the bedroom.

  Leda was in bed, but still awake. Her eyes were wide and luminous in the dark.

  "Hi," Michele said, a little sheepishly, feeling not at all confident now that she was face to face with Leda. She turned away a little and began to unbutton her wet shirt.

  "Well?" Leda said.

  "Huh?" Michele mumbled.

  "Did you learn everything you wanted to?"

  "I learned a couple of things," she said, making her voice imply far more than had happened.

  "Well, good," Leda said. She patted the mattress beside her. "Now come to bed."

  Obediently, Michele sat down and pulled off her sandals and slacks. Then she lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling, her hands clasped behind her head.

  "Michele?"

  "Hmm?"

  "Kiss me?"

  Michele turned on the pillow to peer at the girl. "I didn't know if..."

  "Of course I want you to. I love you.”

  She rolled over then and took the girl in her arms.

  Leda's fingers twined in Michele's hair. "Love me, baby," she whispered.

  Michele's lips found hers hungrily.

  Suddenly she held Leda away from her. "You're crying," she said.

  "I am not," Leda answered. "I got something in my eye."

  "What?"

  "You, idiot. Now shut up and kiss me."

  Michele didn't have to be urged. She grabbed the girl roughly and pulled her tight, all thought of Corinne, of anything but the girl in her arms gone from her mind.

  At least for tonight, Leda belonged to her alone.

  CHAPTER 8

  It seemed to Michele that
she had spent most of her life waiting for Saturday mornings. Saturday meant no school, no work, just fun. Yet this morning she sat on the edge of the bed listening to Leda make breakfast and wondering how the hell you show a girl a wild weekend on a quarter.

  Or rather, thirty-five cents.

  Remembering the dime from Corinne, Michele smiled. Last night she had been ready to run to Corinne or maybe to anybody who wanted her. Ready to run as far as she could from Leda and the complications Leda had brought into her life.

  But that had been last night.

  This morning she felt vibrantly alive, her body relaxed and glowing with the remembered thrill of Leda's love. For many hours they had lain awake together, rejoicing in each other, talking about their future. And Leda had whispered, "I'm sorry," and given to Michele the promise she had longed to hear.

  From now on there would be no trouble, no intrusions, no strangers coming around to complicate their lives.

  From now on there would be just the two of them, alone together. Forever.

  And as she heard Leda whistling in the kitchen, Michele knew that the girl was as happy as she. At least for the moment.