Stranger On Lesbos (18 page)

Frances took a deep breath. "What a relief!”

"The other papers didn't even mention it." From the crumpled confusion on the couch, it was plain that Bake had made a thorough search. "Was it pretty bad?"

"It wasn't good." She followed Bake into the kitchen and sat perched on the tall stool, arms around knees.

Bake busied herself with bottles and glasses. "You need a drink."

"That's for sure."

The apartment was pleasantly warm, the little kitchen bright and neat under the overhead light. She remembered the Sunday last spring when they had painted the walls and cupboards, a day that began with a vast epicurean breakfast at noon and ended in a wild all-absorbing bout in bed at two the next morning, dredging them up exhausted and hung over on the arid shores of Monday morning. If I belong anywhere, she thought, it's here. This is home.

Bake handed her a glass, and stood soberly looking down at her. "I hate myself. I've been to hell and back."

"You couldn't help it."

"Darling, why do you let me get so plastered?"

Frances said with a trace of bitterness, "Because I can't do anything with you."

Bake said slowly, "Oh yes you can. There are a great many things you can do with me."

Frances was silent. A slow warmth generated by alcohol and desire was beginning to grow within her, dispelling the fatigue and loneliness. It spread from the pit of her stomach up into her chest and arms, then down. Wonderful, after being chilled so long.

She held out her glass. "Got any more?"

"Sure."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while. Bake yawned. She had on pajamas, an old pair she kept for camping trips and the like; her hair was ruffled; she sat with her bare feet propped up on a kitchen chair. Frances had seen her like this a hundred times, and it always filled her with a deep secret happiness. Bake, indolent and relaxed, was so different from her self-possessed public self as to give Frances a feeling of ownership
as though she had a hidden treasure of whose very existence other people were unaware. She sat looking at Bake, knowing that she was going to want to touch her pretty soon but in no hurry, relishing her leisure.

"Matter, baby?"

"I was just thinking that I don't have to be home till almost six o'clock."

"Doesn't leave you much time. It's twenty past ten now."

Frances refilled her glass. "Don't let me drink too much. It makes me sleepy."

"Do you good to catch a nap. We don't want you falling apart."

The press of desire was becoming more urgent. She moved across the kitchen, glass in hand, walking carefully because quite suddenly her legs seemed to belong to somebody else. She laid a hand on Bake's shoulder. "Darling."

"Yes."

In the two years of their relationship she had approached Bake perhaps a dozen times. It was Bake, aggressive and experienced, who initiated their lovemaking, suggested experiments, set the time and place. Frances had been content to have it that way. Now she stood wordless, afraid of being rebuffed, feeling the slow imperative rise of her love and unable to ask for what she wanted. She looked questioningly down into Bake's face.

Bake stood up. "Come on, baby. Come to bed."

CHAPTER 14

“Awake, baby?"

Frances stirred. "Mm."

"It's four o'clock. You've been asleep for hours. I took a little nap myself," Bake said, smiling.

"That's nice," Frances said. She opened her eyes, trying to bring the room into focus. "Was I
all right?"

"You were wonderful."

"Know something?"

"What's that?"

"I love you."

Bake laughed softly. "Big surprise."

Frances rolled over. "Ooh, you're nice and warm. I wish I didn't have to get up."

"You never want to get up, you lazy bum." Bake's arms were warm and gentle around her, no hunger in them now. "I don't like to have you get up, either."

Frances sat up, pulling the blanket closer around her shoulders. "Got a cigarette?"

"Here." Bake lit two cigarettes, took a puff of each, and handed her one; the small ritual after love that was part of their closeness. Frances smiled, taking it. "Ash tray?"

"I moved the stand around to your side." Bake stopped abruptly, as though someone had put a hand over her mouth.

Frances smiled, seeing in her mind's eye a Bake staving off anxiety by shoving the furniture around. It was so at variance with all the things that made up the daytime Bake
and so in keeping with her private gentleness and concern. She reached for the glass ash tray.

Her smile froze.

There were four butts in the ash tray, two stained with the dark-red lipstick Bake used, two with a soft mauve pink.

"What's the matter?"

"Have you changed your lipstick?"

"Oh." Bake's face closed, as Frances had seen it do when people probed too close for comfort. A courteous evasion would be forthcoming
or an expedient lie. "Jane was here a while yesterday. She took a nap."

For a moment she almost believed it. She wanted to believe it. It was such a reasonable, comforting explanation, and the truth opened on such a wild vista of desolation. Then she looked again at the four stained and twisted cigarette ends. Two each, smoked in the leisurely relaxation of after-love; this was their pattern, hers and Bake's. Now she knew where Bake had learned it, how it came to be habitual with her.

Frances said in a strangled whisper, "Jane was here
with you. You made love with her the way you do with me."

"Frances, look, I've never lied to you. I'm no good at lies." Bake caught her by the shoulder, turned her until their eyes met. "I've known Jane for years, ever since I first came to Chicago. We're old friends."

"That's a good name for it."

"I suppose you've never slept with anybody else, like your husband, for instance."

"I wouldn't mind so much if it were somebody else."

"That's a lot of crap. You'd mind no matter who I slept with
and I guess I would too if it were the other way around." Bake shook her head as though to clear the sleep out of it. "Look, would you feel better if I said it didn't mean anything to either of us? It was just something that happened."

"Those things don't just happen."

"Sure they do. You're with someone you like, you have a few drinks, and wham! there you are. It doesn't mean a thing."

"I suppose she's better at it than I am. I don't know anything except what I've learned from you."

Bake grinned. "Complaining?"

"No." Frances started to cry; she couldn't help it.

Bake sat quietly looking at her for a while. "Look, baby, you're overtired. You wouldn't feel so bad about this if you weren't so tired. You've had a bad couple of days."

"That hasn't got anything to do with it."

"All right, goddam it, I went to bed with Jane. I called her up, if you want to know. What was I supposed to do, sit here chewing my nails, wondering what was happening to you and whether that woman was going to be all right or not? All I wanted was somebody to talk to. Neither of us planned the rest of it. You have to believe that."

"Then why did you do it?"

"Oh God, Frankie, these things happen. Jane probably feels just as bad as you do. She and Kay had been together almost four years
ever since
well, anyway, can't you just drop the whole thing?"