Strange Women, The (11 page)

"In another state, Marg could have a divorce for non-support, abusive treatment, what have you. But in this one you need proof of adultery, and no sane woman would mess with Sheppard. Then he dragged it all into court—demanded custody of Skippy, called Marg an unfit mother—it was all bluff, he wouldn't be bothered supporting a child, not him. But then Frank's mother got into the act
—she
has Skippy now. You've got to say one thing for Ramona," she added with scrupulous fairness, "she stuck to Marg, through all the hell."

The words were self-reproach; she was remembering others.
Of course, Margaret, if you ask me, I shall testify that you have always been a good mother and led a quiet and respectable
life
in my house, and that I know nothing to the contrary.
But had Margaret wanted only a character witness?

Had Margaret's refusal to endure a bad marriage been a reproach to Nora's own failure with what might have been a good one with Les Rannock? Margaret, who had been willing to bring up a child alone if need be?

Had she thrown Margaret and Ramona together, fearing to be involved herself?

Impatiently, she rose. "Let's go. It's almost seven."

Jill asked in an undertone, as the car pulled away from the Lenox Apartments, "What sort of place is this—Flora's?"

"It's a bar," Nora said slowly. "Men—aren't admitted."

"One of—those?"

Nora shrugged. "It's respectable. It's about the only place I know where a woman can have a drink alone without being molested by drunks and sailors. Most places, an unescorted woman is treated like a prostitute looking for a pickup."

The streets of the South End were cavernous and dark, between the neon signs brightening every corner; lurid orange, poison-fruit red, electric blue and green. The street-lamps flickered a sickly yellow by contrast.

Nora pulled the car to the curb and, when they got out, locked it. The door, modestly glassed, announced in a small neon voice FLORA'S. Holding the door for Jill, she blinked at the splotched brightness. A juke-box was playing, a little too loud.

Soon they were seated around a table covered with white oilcloth. There were about twenty women, in couples or small groups, at the tables. At one end was a small bar with half a dozen stools. A few of the women were wearing slacks; but in this weather, that was nothing unusual.

Nora leaned over and whispered to Jill, "See? Bet you a dollar to a dishrag you can't tell the gay girls from the others. What would you like to drink?"

Jill shrugged. "Ginger ale, I guess."

"Jill, if you really don't drink, I won't persuade you. But if you ever do, this is both the time and the place."

"Well, if I get drunk, it's your fault, remember. Rum and coke, then."

Ramona made a disapproving, face and, like Nora, ordered Scotch. Margaret smiled. "The usual for me."

"Wet blanket," Ramona muttered.

"If you were smart, you'd stick to beer yourself. You know perfectly well—"

"Listen, I don't need you to tell me—"

"Ease off," said Margaret, "this is a party. Remember?"

Ramona leaned toward Jill. "That's Flora Danbury at the bar. She owns the place." She indicated the tall, very thin woman in a fashionably cut business suit, graying hair touched up with chic blue. Jill smiled:

"She looks more like a Dean of Women."

The woman swivelled suddenly and her sharp eyes raked their table; then she walked with long strides toward them. "Good evening," she said, in a crisp low voice. Her face was deeply lined; her eyes, dark behind thick horn-rims, met Nora's briefly, with cool recognition; then came to rest on Jill.

"You haven't been here before. How old are you?"

"Twenty-two."

"No offense, young woman. But we can't endanger our license by serving to minors."

Jill extended her driver's license, with a demure smile. Flora Danbury barely glanced at it, putting a familiar hand on Jill's shoulder.

"It's all right, kid, I just have to be sure."

Jill glanced at the hand on her shoulder and suddenly giggled. Nora could almost read her thoughts; this was an exciting adventure, to be sitting in a slum bar—a queer joint.

Flora was older than she looked; and the hands, as finely kept as Nora's own, were not young hands. Jill smiled up brightly at Flora, and the hand on her shoulder moved slowly up to rumple Jill's curly hair before she said, "Well, dearie, I hope I'll see you often. You come in any time."

Nora, noting the contracted pupils, thought: she's mainlining now. She sighed, the reminder of the world's ceaseless misery striking through the juke-box noise.

Ramona giggled as Flora moved away. "Whew! Jill, my pet, you're playing with fire!"

"What do you mean?"

"Flora never bothers couples. It's bad for business. But when a new girl starts cruising her—"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, come off it. Cruising. Making eyes.
Flirting!"

"I wasn't!" Jill protested.

Nora was wondering why on earth she had come. The place was harmless enough—she had been here a dozen or more times—but it was no place for Jill. She put down her second drink untasted. "Want to powder your nose, Jill?"

In the ladies room, which was cleaner than Nora expected, she glanced randomly into the mirror. "Do you want to leave, Jill?"

Jill smiled with mischievous stubbornness. "Why, no! I've always wanted to visit a place like this—I hadn't the least notion
you'd
know a lesbian bar!"

Nora sat down on the painted bench before the mirror. "This isn't, quite. It's borderline—the so-called gay world calls it square. It doesn't cater exclusively to homosexuals, and mostly it attracts the ones like Marg and Ramona, who try not to attract attention to themselves."

"And you?"

"Exactly," said Nora: smoothly, though the barb had hurt, "Otherwise it's very conservative; no men in drag, very few cruising butches."

"Darn! I thought that would be the interesting part!"

"I'm very sorry I can't accommodate you," Nora said stiffly, "but Flora doesn't want the police—or a lot of rubbernecking tourists who come to stare at the queers."

When they returned, Margaret and Ramona were dancing together, and Jill touched Nora's arm. "Dance with me?"

Nora had already stiffened to shove back her chair when the enormity of it struck her; and the memory... Pammy, teaching her to dance on the cool parquet floor of the library. She could not—she
could not
stand up here and take Jill in her arms.

"I'd rather not, Jill. I'm not much of a dancer."

"Please? Just once?"

"I really would rather not. Not here."

"You mean—" Jill's voice was almost shrill, "you’ll dance with me—but not
here,
where people might
think—"

"I will not. My reasons are none of your business." Nora was angry now.

"Of course not!" Jill was breathing raggedly, two red spots on her cheek. "I didn't ask to come here, Nor. You brought me. But now that we're here, you turn prissy—"

The word, Pammy's word, repeated the lash on the sore spot. "Jill, lower your voice, people are looking."

"Let them look!
I
don't spend my whole life worrying about what people will think—"

Nora clenched her hand over Jill's bony wrist, her strong fingers crushing down; hard. Part of her confused cruelty was guilt—for Jill had only voiced what she herself had been thinking.

"Jill, I've taken a lot from you, but this I won't take. I'm damned fond of you," she added, in a voice that shook, "but not fond enough to let you make scenes in a bar and get away with it." She had to force herself to unlock her grip before she broke Jill's wrist. "Flora's on her way over. Pull yourself together."

Flora was apparently unaware of the contretemps, but Nora, remembering other occasions on which Flora had turned up—as if by magic—just in time for a brewing storm, could not face her.

Flora smiled blurrily at Jill. "I noticed you're not dancing, dearie. Would you dance with me?"

Jill, covertly rubbing her abused wrist, pushed back her chair. "I'd love to," she said quietly. "Nora doesn't feel like dancing. I was just trying to persuade her." And she moved away, Flora's arm around her waist.

Slowly, Nora became aware that Margaret and Ramona had returned to the table. Ramona giggled, and Margaret said viciously "That little bitch!"

"It's my fault," Nora muttered. "She went to a girls' school, she's used to seeing women dance together." She realized too late that her words must offend her friends, but felt constrained to defend Jill. She watched them, feeling a little sick at the sight of Jill encircled by Flora's craggy arms.

How do I get this way? It turns my stomach to see Jill with that old pervert—but who am I to call anyone a pervert?

As Flora and Jill passed their table, Ramona rose, touching Flora's shoulder lightly. "We'll be leaving soon. I'd like to dance with Jill first, do you mind?"

Flora relinquished Jill graciously; as the two girls spun away from the table, Ramona's wide skirt swinging out in time to the music, Margaret leaned across the table.

"Nora, when they get back, let's cut out of here. This is no good. Ramona's half drunk."

"Jill isn't any too sober. You were right; Marg; this was a nitwit idea and I apologize for it."

Margaret propped her chin in her hands, her loose fair hair spilling over the collar of her striped shirt. "Nor, it's none of my business, but—what the hell are you playing at with that kid?"

"She's no kid, Marg, she's older than you are."

"Whatever she is, it doesn't make sense. When she looks at you, her eyes light up—you've no business—you're on the wrong side of the street for that game."

"Pot calling the kettle black?"

"Nor, I had some reason, some excuse. You—you've got everything. A top professional reputation. Work that means something. The Major—"

Nora pleaded, "I thought you of all people would understand—"

"No. For you it's the last thing I could ever understand. As for Jill—well, hell, she's married, she's pregnant— what the devil is she doing in this galley? She doesn't look like a thrill-seeker, so what is it?"

"I only wish I knew! Maybe if I rub her nose in it, good and hard—believe me, Marg, I'm not playing around for kicks!"

"If she hurts you," said Margaret with unexpected violence, "I'll break her goddamn neck!"

Nora said, not looking up, "It's more apt to be the other way around."

"Are you sure of that?"

Jill and Ramona almost collapsed into their chairs.

"Oooh, I'm dizzy," Ramona squealed, and picked up her glass, drinking fast, and coughing. Jill's lipstick was smeared, and Nora refused to think about that.

"I hate to break the party up, but we're all working women. Let's go somewhere for some solid food."

She saw Ramona's guarded attempt to draw Jill aside, and briefly considered leaving her to it—
rub her nose in it..
. but Margaret's drawn face decided her.

In the car she let Jill nestle against her like a sleepy, somewhat drunken child. She found a favorite crossroads restaurant; they gathered in a booth, silent, the effects of the drinks wearing off. Nora was surprised to see that it was barely ten. It seemed they had been sitting in Flora's half the night.

A gust of icy air blew around them; a man came in and plunked himself at the counter. "Coffee," he said with weary incisiveness, "black."

Nora straightened and stared. "You're out late, Vic."

He spun the counter stool to face them. "What are you doing here?"

"Out for a night on the town." Nora remembered; this had been a favorite hangout when she and Vic had snatched their crumbs of leisure together. Jill withdrew her hand.

"Come and sit with us, Vic."

He nodded pleasantly to Jill, politely to Margaret, and his eyes lingered on Ramona in surprise and discovery. "My God, Barbieri, I didn't know you out of uniform!"

"I’ll take that for a compliment," the dark girl said gaily as Vic slid into the booth. Margaret drew herself ungraciously against the wall. Nora met Margaret's cornered eyes, and sighed, remembering that Margaret had the unhappy quality of freezing up, silent, in a crowd. Jill, too, sat silent, making no effort to join in the fast repartee of Vic and Ramona. It was partly their quiet which made Nora say presently, "Vic, we were just leaving."

"Oh, it's early yet. I'm going to have more coffee. Who's with me?"

Ramona disregarded Margaret's mute headshake.

"Please."

Nora shrugged. "Me too, then. Jill? Marg?" The waitress nicked away and replaced cups. Vic rose and went to the juke box; the fluid colors shifted, spraying juicy green, sensual orange on his dark face. Ramona slid from her seat and joined him, leaning so close that her loose curls touched the man's shoulder. Margaret looked cold and wretched. Coins clattered; the bleat of a popular crooner filled the steamy air with the sweet strains of
Ramona.

"I prefer my own version," Margaret muttered after the song had ended. "Ramona, I'd like to break your little neck, Ramona, I'll do it yet someday by heck..."

Jill giggled nervously as Vic and Ramona came back.

"Ramona, Nora really wants to get back," Margaret said.

"Must you?" Vic asked.

"I'm afraid we must, Vic."

The man glanced at Ramona. "Well, if you others must run along, I'll bring Ramona later."

"You don't mind?" Ramona dimpled.

Vic's eyes crossed Nora's for a split second, with a rapier flick of something like triumph. As they crowded into Nora's car they saw Vic and Ramona walking toward his gray Chrysler; Nora slammed in the clutch violently.

"Did I hear somebody call somebody a bitch?"

Before the Lenox apartments Margaret paused before getting out, her hand on the doorframe. "Jill, come over some time. We can play some records."

"Love to. And some night when Nora's working, we could go to a movie, too."

Nora leaned past Jill. "Marg," she said, "don't be too damned stoic this time, the kid's not worth it."

Margaret smiled, without amusement. "Physician," she said gently, "heal thyself."