Odd Girl (14 page)

Johnson's hand gripped the arm rest tightly. Anne watched it for a moment and impulsively brought her hand back. She filled the grooves between Johnson's fingers with her own and waited. Johnson's hand came to life impulsively and held Anne's. The touch sent a wave of pleasure through Anne and her own hand felt Johnson's palm sensuously. But then Johnson brought Anne's hand back to Anne's lap and left it there.

Anne was amused. Johnson wanted to see the movie. Or perhaps she was self-conscious about holding hands in public. The rules between women and women differed from those between men and women. Esther disregarded that difference but Johnson was discreet.

She watched the screen, following Johnson's example. The feature was dull, making the woman the villain in compliance with the new trend in Hollywood and television. She wanted to leave and walk somewhere instead and talk, but she didn't want to spoil Johnson's fun. She wondered if Johnson were really enjoying herself, if Johnson had a trite mind, or if she too wanted to get up and leave. Johnson must have read her mind. She bent over and whispered to Anne, "Do you really like this monstrosity?"

Anne shook her head. "But I can stand it, if you can."

"Let's get out of here," Johnson said.

They put on their jackets again and walked back into the air.

"Has this spoiled your evening?" Johnson said. They were walking toward the corner, their hands in their pockets, not bound for anywhere in particular.

"No—it's been nice to meet you again," Anne said.

"Thanks," Johnson said. They stopped to wait for the light. "Where do we go now?"

"I don't know." Anne paused for a moment. There were so few places to go. She wanted to suggest her apartment but then remembered her father. He might be waiting there for her. Then she remembered she had to spend the night somewhere and the voice with the pitchfork kicked her. "How about showing me your etchings?" she said.

Johnson laughed, blushed, and looked at the pavement. "All right," she said.

They turned back in the direction of the restaurant and went around another corner to a quieter street. It was a street full of loft buildings and studios. Johnson's shop was at the corner. It was in a small, slightly sagging building painted blue.

"It used to be a stable," Johnson said, "and the house next to it was where the family lived. I have half the yard." The building had only two floors and it was much like a doll's house, not a place where someone tall would live. "The rent's controlled," Johnson added.

The shop and Johnson's apartment above it were dark and Anne could only see a little behind the large window. There were paintings and frames and sculptures. "I make my living mostly on frames," Johnson continued.

Anne had said very little, observing the street and the house, and now she followed Johnson quietly up the creaking wooden steps.

"It's not much inside," Johnson apologized, "but there's lots of room."

Anne thought Johnson too modest. She had dreamed of finding just such a place to live.

The apartment was bare and divided into small rooms without doors. All but one of them were filled with equipment and half-finished work. One room was white and almost bare with comfortable canvas chairs, bookshelves and a studio couch.

"You can tell I'm a bachelor," Johnson laughed. "I've spent very little time on decorating."

Anne let Johnson help her with her jacket and then sat on the couch and watched her at the closet.

"Were you always a bachelor?" she asked.

"No," Johnson said quietly. Now she looked up and smiled and said, "How about that coffee you missed?"

"Fine," Anne said, and watched Johnson disappear into the small kitchen.

In her natural setting, Johnson was not as carefree and happy as she had been in the restaurant. There was a touch of sadness in her home, and it reflected in her eyes.

Johnson put the water on the fire and came back into the room. She sat on the floor beside the couch where Anne was sitting.

"Would you like music?" she asked.

Anne nodded and Johnson slid over to the phonograph and put on several records. The first was cool and modern, soothing. She slid back to her former place on the floor and looked at Anne.

"It wasn't Esther, was it?" Anne asked.

Johnson looked up, puzzled, and then smiled slightly. "No. Esther's just a friend." Then she resumed, "My roommate left me last year."

Anne felt sorry—Johnson seemed still to be in love with her. "How long had you been together?" she asked.

"Eight years," Johnson said, perhaps a little bitterly, "Her family lured her back."

"I'm sorry," Anne said.

"Now tell me about you," Johnson said, smiling again. "What made you sad in the restaurant?"

"My family's trying to lure me back too," Anne said. "I can't go home tonight because my father might be there."

"Do you live with your family?" Johnson was confused.

"No, I have a sublet about four blocks from here," Anne clarified, "but my parents want to force me to move back home."

"Are you over twenty-one?" Johnson said.

"Yes," Anne said. "There's nothing they can do to me, but I just don't want to face a bloody battle tonight. That's why I'm not going to go home."

"Do they know you're gay?" Johnson said after a moment.

Anne nodded. Now she wanted to tell Johnson about Mark and about Beth. It was a long story, but Johnson heard it, listening full of concern.

"And so I have to find a new place to live," Anne said.

Johnson sighed and thought for a while. Finally she said, "I could clear out a room for you here. It might help until you found another place."

"But you don't know me," Anne said.

Johnson laughed. "I take in stray cats—why not stray women?"

Anne laughed too and impulsively took Johnson's hand. "I like you, Johnson," she said.

Johnson blushed. "Would you like to see those etchings?" she asked.

Anne nodded and Johnson got up and went to the next room. She returned with a large portfolio and carefully untied the straps.

"Woodcuts, etchings, and scratchboard," she said, taking out the sheets of paper. It was advertising work mostly, plus book illustrations.

Anne was amused. Johnson's work was practical, and happy.

Johnson watched her and then said, "Here are my attempts at serious art."

She took out other sheets—lithographs and etchings that she had done with no thought to selling them. They were good, perfectly balanced and sensitive, and with none of the stark and depressing quality of neurotic art. They were original too, neither cubist nor surrealist but Johnson's own contribution to art.

"I like," Anne said, looking at several now spread out on the couch.

"I like praise," Johnson countered, but Anne saw that her compliment had meant a great deal. She was admitting that she liked encouragement. Johnson was real.

She gathered the sheets and put them back in the portfolio and tied it neatly once more.

"You surprised me," Anne smiled. "I doubted that you had etchings."

"Then why did you come?" Johnson said, putting the portfolio against the wall and coining back to sit on the floor near Anne.

"I thought it might be a nice way to spend the evening," Anne said.

The sound of the coffee percolating came into the room. Johnson rose and went back to the kitchen. She came back with two cups on a tray.

"Has it been?" she asked, handing Anne her coffee.

"I think so," Anne nodded, "Only, I wish—" She hesitated; the thought had bothered her all evening.

"What do you wish?" Johnson said.

"I wish you had another name," Anne said. She laughed a little in embarrassment. It was not a polite thing to say in most circumstances.

Johnson laughed a little too and asked why.

"Because Johnson's too masculine," Anne said.

Johnson looked down for a moment and thought about this, amused. "My first name's Prudence," she said finally.

What a dreadful admission, Anne thought at once. But she decided she liked the name.

"May I call you Prudence?" she said.

"Only if you don't try to shorten it," Johnson said.

They suddenly did not know what else to talk about. Anne felt they must talk or the evening would end. She wondered if Johnson would try to kiss her. She wanted it to happen. It was not desire—too much of Esther in the last day or so and too much of Beth had taken desire out of her—but Johnson was good; she would be a good playmate.

"How are you and Esther making out?" Johnson asked. It was not to pry, Anne decided. Johnson wanted to know because of this evening.

"Better than usual, I guess," she sighed, "but it's hard to fight Carl." She wanted to tell Johnson all that had happened but knew it was not fair to Esther.

"Are you in love with her?" Johnson asked bluntly.

"I like her," Anne admitted, "but I'm afraid to love her." Now she turned. Johnson was asking her too many questions and Anne barely knew anything about her yet.

"And just what, Prudence, is your problem?" she said.

"I have none," Johnson laughed. "I told you—I lost mine a year ago."

"How could you stay a whole year without someone?" Anne persisted.

The first record had finished and the room was quiet for a moment except for the hum of the phonograph. Johnson got up and turned it off. The complete silence made the room seem light and large.

"I haven't been without someone," Johnson said.

"I'm sorry," Anne said, looking down at her cup. "I thought for a moment you were unsophisticated."

Johnson smiled and ran a finger through her sandy hair. "Guess I'd better start making you a place to sleep," she said.

Anne looked at her. There was enough light here to study her face. It was a beautiful face, unwrinkled but serious, with light blue eyes.

"Prudence," Anne said, looking at her eyes.

"You're playing a game," Johnson said, perhaps amused.

"Yes," Anne said, "do you mind?"

"No," she said wisely. Now she neared Anne and bent down, touching her lips.

Anne felt a want growing in her again, despite Esther and Beth. It was a good game; it pleased her.

"Shall I go on?" Johnson asked.

Anne felt a wave of pleasure go through her. She could not speak. She nodded, serious now.

Johnson brought her head down again and kissed Anne's neck. It was another gentle kiss, not like Esther's tempestuous half-bite or Beth's studied nibble. But it brought the wave of pleasure as intensely and Anne waited, waited for Johnson to go on.

Johnson sat on the bed beside her and made her lie down, and Anne felt herself caressed by Johnson's eyes. Her breasts were aware, and her thighs, of Johnson's studying gaze. She wanted to tell her to go on, but forced herself to wait.

Slowly, Johnson began to unbutton Anne's blouse with her big and patient hands. Anne felt much like a child being undressed and put to bed. But Johnson's hands were not treating her as though she were a child. Johnson's hands moved and flowed over Anne's body. All Anne's flesh seemed pulsating and aware, alive. And yet her body turned boneless when she felt the warmth of Johnson's mouth move softly over the bulge of her belly.

Anne reached down to bring the girl's face up to hers. And then Johnson brought the length of her body down to meet Anne's and Anne received it, willingly.

* * *

"I love you," Prudence murmured in the gray light.

Anne awoke, feeling herself turned in the wrong direction, and then saw the room in the haze and remembered she was in Johnson's house and not in her own apartment. Prudence was murmuring "Helen" in her sleep. Anne held her tightly. Her flesh was warm in the gray light and her cheek soft on Anne's shoulder.

"A young Amazon," Anne whispered to herself out loud, "sleeping in my arms under the branches of a pine tree."

"Huh?" Johnson murmured, shifting slightly.

Anne kissed her forehead gently, and was filled with the smell of the warm body beside her, a woman's body, strong and young and naked, with no jagged corners like Esther's, limp, relaxed and tired, sleeping with confidence. Anne could feel the touch of Johnson's lips still on her, having claimed her as no other lips had before, having made her aware of herself, having made her know completely that she was a Lesbian.

She yawned and closed her eyes and folded herself over Prudence.

There was the alarm ringing and then Johnson was kissing her chin, her cheek and her ear. "Wake up, sleepy," she said.

Anne opened her eyes and yawned and closed her eyes again, pressing her ear against Johnson's lips.

"What time is it?" she whispered hoarsely.

"Seven," Johnson rang out cheerily, and pulled her up out of the warm sheet so that the air splashed Anne's bare skin. "Time to get ready for work."

"To hell with work," Anne said, trying to get under the sheet again.

"Come on, sleepy." Johnson pulled her again, this time to a sitting position.

Anne shivered and let herself be led, half blind, to the bathroom. The smell of coffee and fried eggs provided momentum for the rest.

"Scrambled or fried?" Johnson called out to her.

"Fried," Anne said, "up."

She braved the tepid shower for three minutes then dried herself and remembered that she had brought her toothbrush with her. What foresight, she laughed to herself.

The heat was coming through the old pipes now, taking the chill out of the house. Anne brushed her teeth then came back to the living room shyly, wrapped in a towel.

Johnson heard her and called out from the kitchen, "There's a skirt on the bed that should fit you."

Anne found her clothes spread neatly over the bed. Johnson had thought of everything. Anne's blouse and underthings would do for her office, even the knee socks and loafers; but not her slacks. Johnson's skirt, a brightly striped, flair skirt, fit her perfectly.

"Let me see," Johnson said, inspecting her. "I knew it would fit someone someday," she smiled. "Mother sent it to me from home. She's always sending the wrong size."

"Where is home?" Anne said. She had not had time to ask Johnson about her past.