In the morning, she would go to work. And at five-thirty, after work, she would go somewhere for a quick dinner which she would eat without tasting. Then, after a quick drink or two at Leonetti’s for courage, she would go where she could not help going.
To Bobbie’s apartment.
CHAPTER NINE
It went as she had known it would and she moved through the day as if in a dream. Her mind somehow failed to involve itself in what she did, and she waited on customers in Heaven’s Door without seeing their faces, showing them ashtrays and saki sets, taking their money and wrapping their packages, and making pleasant conversation with the enthusiasm of a well-designed robot programmed for retail sales work. She thought of Bobbie, and of herself, and she thought how little control she had over what she did. She was a puppet dancing from bloody strings, tripping here and there with no direction of her own.
It was early when she got to Leonetti’s. The bar was deserted, with just one couple huddled close in the back and one butchy girl drinking straight shots at the bar. She took a stool at the far end of the bar from the mannish girl, and ordered J amp; B on the rocks, drank the drink quickly and took a refill. She had never done much drinking before-hardly any in college, very little during the years as Tom Haskell’s wife. But she was learning. She worked more slowly on her second drink, letting the liquor seep into her body and settle her down. A couple of quick ones for courage, she thought. Lord, how she had changed.
She left the bar. Bobble’s apartment was a few blocks uptown on Horatio Street. She had never been there before but she remembered the address and had no trouble finding the building. A brownstone, well preserved. Over one of the doorbells, a small card with Roberta Kardaman in Gothic script. Roberta-she had never thought of the girl as Roberta. Just as Bobbie.
She did not ring the bell. She climbed stairs, found the door to Bobbie’s apartment. The same card in a slot under a peephole- Roberta Kardaman. A bell at the side of the door. She reached out for it, stopped, lit a cigarette, returned the lighter to her purse.
She thought of Megan. The blonde girl might be home now-she had not even called to make sure. Megan could be at their apartment, waiting for her, wondering where she was, worrying about her. She dragged nervously on the cigarette and coughed. She could still do it, she told herself. Turn around, hurry home, find Megan or wait for Megan, and push Bobbie out of her mind. She could do it.
Oh, God Her forefinger found the bell, stabbed it. She heard chimes sound within the apartment. There was silence and for a moment she thought that Bobbie was not home. Then she heard footsteps approaching the door and she held her arms rigid at her sides and waited.
“I hoped you would come.”
“I had to.”
“Last night.”
“Yes.”
“You’re scared, aren’t you, Rho?”
“Not of you.”
“Of yourself then. Of what happens.”
“Yes.”
“Stay there, I’ll make drinks. Scotch?”
“All right.”
She waited on the couch while Bobbie made drinks. The couch was an old Victorian affair with arms, a floral pattern that blended with the cozily chaotic decor of the apartment. An oriental rug, going threadbare here and there. A Modigliani reproduction housed in a garish gold frame. A sagging armchair, a pair of rock maple captain’s chairs, a Duncan Phyfe drumhead table. A confusion of bad pieces which somehow went together well, all of them managing to reflect the person that was Bobbie.
On the arm of the couch Bobbie’s cat sat staring at her. A Siamese, a study in poise and gentility. Bobbie had spoken of the cat before. His name was Claude-“Because he clawed me,” Bobbie had explained-and he was the only male allowed in the apartment. Rhoda reached out a hand toward the cat, then withdrew it. She tried to remember whether or not you were supposed to pet cats.
“Don’t,” Bobbie said. She crossed the room with the drinks. “He hates affection, Rho. He’s a miserable bastard. Did you want water in this? I made it on the rocks.”
“That’s fine.”
She took her drink, sipped it. Bobbie was sitting in the chair at her right now. She turned on the couch and crossed her legs at the knee and looked at Bobbie. Bobbie was wearing slacks and a gold blouse, and her chestnut hair was drawn back in a chignon. She always seemed to be wearing her hair differently, Rhoda thought. And it always looked lovely. Now she seemed cool and detached, very commanding.
Bobbie said, “What happens now, Rho?”
“I don’t know.”
“We want each other. That much is fairly obvious. I’ve wanted you all along, and I suppose you’ve known that all along. Megan could see it coming. She hasn’t liked me much since you and I met. She knew this would happen.”
“She knew before I did.”
“When was that?”
“I guess the party.”
”That’s what I thought.”
Bobbie stood up, stretched, pulling her shoulders sharply back to draw her breasts into bold relief against the material of the gold blouse. Her body was bent slightly backward at the waist, and her hips thrust out provocatively. Rhoda’s eyes were glued to the girl’s body. The black slacks were very tight, like a second skin, and Rhoda looked at the tops of Bobbie’s thighs and felt a yearning come up in the back of throat, strong and undeniable. She could not look away.
Why? Just a girl’s body, composed of the same elements as her own, arranged in similar if not identical proportion. A body no better or worse than her own and no better or worse than Megan’s. Why such a hunger, such a wave of need?
“Rho.” The voice low in pitch now, husky. “Rho, I do not just want a sweet and simple roll in the hay.”
“No.”
“If I have you it has to be for a long time. Forget forever, I don’t know what forever means. Nothing is forever. But no one-night stands and no week-long marriage. I don’t want that.”
“Neither do I.”
And she thought, Don’t talk, don’t talk to me. Touch me, hold me, kiss me, say wonderful things to me. Just that.
“Megan was your first.”
“Yes.”
“Gay girls change partners more when they just start out. They suddenly see what they are and they find out what a beautiful world sex makes, and they want to take the whole gay world to bed with them. They fall in and out of love at the drop of a bra. When they get older, when they’ve broken a couple of hearts and had their own broken a few times, they start settling down. The novelty is dead and the sex is less important. The big need is love. And having a person you can count on, and one you can be with. When you get older the breaks come further apart and hurt more, and the love while you have it is a deeper, calmer thing. If you are going to be gone in the morning, little girl, then I do not want you here tonight.”
“I-”
“No matter how beautiful you are. And you are, you know. No matter how much I want you. And I do. Oh, too much.”
“I want it to last, Bobbie.”
“Of course you do. Now. And you wanted it to last with Meg, didn’t you?”
“But-”
Bobbie tossed off her drink. “I’m kidding both of us,” she said. “Right now it doesn’t matter whether you’ll be gone in a day or a week or a hundred years. I need you too damned much. I talk a good game but the talk breaks down when you pull the words apart. I couldn’t let you out of here if I wanted to and I don’t want to anyway. I love you, Rho.”
There was a lump in her throat, one that would not be swallowed away. There were tears in the corners of her eyes. Her hands trembled chaotically and her mouth was dusty dry. She stood to her feet and swayed there, lost and rocky, and Bobbie stepped toward her and she fell into the girl’s strong arms. Her head whirled and she could not breathe.
Oh, Megan, she thought, I can’t help this. Megan, I’m sorry, but I can’t help this. Forgive me She stood still and let herself be kissed. Bobbie’s lips found hers and Bobbie’s hands gripped her shoulders. Eyes closed, body limp, she let herself be kissed and touched, let herself be lowered down onto the couch. Bobbie stretched out beside her and held her close. They lay that way, bodies touching. They did not move.