Warm and Willing Page 12

  “But-”

  “Don’t you see? You and Bobbie could be partners. Working together, all united in this exciting venture.”

  They didn’t stay on the subject for very long. Jan and Megan started talking about holiday plans and the table shifted over to that subject. Jan was having a Christmas party and there were half a dozen New Year’s parties already in the planning stage, and the holiday season looked promising. Not everyone would be in town, of course. Alice had to go home to visit her parents in Baltimore, and Grace was trying to decide whether or not she should go with her. Alice’s parents had told her it was all right to bring a friend but Grace was sure they would suspect something. “And yet I don’t want to be away from Allie that long,” she said. “She needs somebody to take care of her, and it would be a hard time for her to be alone.”

  Rhoda only half followed the conversation. She was thinking about that idea someone had tossed out, of having a shop of her own. It seemed exciting and she let her mind toss it around.

  The conversation caught her up again and she let go of the thread of thought. Maybe sometime she could think more about it, she told herself. But not now. She was too busy living the good gay life.

  Terry Langer didn’t look gay.

  That was the first thing she thought when she met him, and her next thought was that nothing could be stupider. By now she should have realized that you didn’t have to look gay to be gay. She didn’t look gay, and Bobbie didn’t look gay, and neither did the majority of the girls she knew. But she did not know many male homosexuals, so she still thought of them in terms of the convenient stereotypes.

  Terry didn’t fit the image. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a deep voice and a strong chin and a rugged profile. He had none of the mannerisms of the effeminate male, and yet he was a thoroughgoing homosexual. That was why she was with him now.

  The whole thing had been arranged just a few hours before. Bobbie got a frantic phone call late in the afternoon, talked quickly, then turned to Rhoda. “It’s Bernie Jaeckel,” she said. “You remember him, don’t you? He’s a gay boy, I think you met him at that big blast at Rita’s.”

  She remembered him vaguely. “So?”

  “He’s with a boy named Terry Langer now. And Terry got a letter, this morning, that his parents are coming to town. The surprise visit bit, Rho. They want us to front for them. Double up with the boys tonight. Terry’s folks don’t know he’s gay and he doesn’t want them to suspect anything. And you know, two fellows sharing apartment.”

  It was funny, she thought. Before she met Megan, before she got herself caught up in the shadow world of homosexuality, she never would have thought twice about two men sharing an apartment. It was cheaper that way, it was less lonely. But once you were on the inside you began looking at things in a different light. If two men lived together, and if their apartment was in Brooklyn Heights or the Village or around Broadway and Seventy-second, and if they didn’t go out much with girls, you began to suspect that they were homosexual.

  “Is it okay, Rho?”

  She said it was and Bobbie settled the arrangements. The Langers were due around four in the afternoon. At two-thirty, she and Bobbie cabbed over to the boys’ apartment on West 69th Street. For a little over an hour the four of them sat around a bridge table drinking coffee and talking about people they knew, about plans for New Year’s Eve, and, finally, about the best way to handle Mr. and Mrs. Langer. Now and then Bernie Jaeckel would dart around the apartment destroying evidence-picking up a stray male physique magazine and tucking it out of sight, deliberately shoving furniture out of place or overturning an ashtray to disrupt the apartment’s almost feminine neatness.

  “We ought to change the furniture,” he said at one point. “If we really wanted to do this in style, we would move out all the furniture and re-do the pad in Early Heterosexual. You know, blonde Danish modern from Grand Rapids. Metallic pole lamps. Long wrap-around sectional couches.”

  “Ughhh,” Terry said.

  Bobbie suggested hanging a bra in the bathroom. “But we have to walk a thin line,” Terry said. “I have to seem straight, but we don’t want to give them the idea that Rhoda and I are living in sin.”

  “Would they mind?”

  “My parents would. I’m an only child, you know. I think the moment of my conception was the only time my parents made love.”

  “You don’t even want a few stockings tossed over the shower curtain?”

  Terry chuckled. “Nothing,” he said. “Just so they see that I have a girl friend. That’s all it should take.”

  “Don’t they suspect-”

  “They have no idea,” he said.

  The Langers arrived a few minutes early. Mr. Langer was short and heavy set, with a prominent nose and a bulldog chin and a perpetual cigar in his mouth. Rhoda had a mental image of Berne and Terry spending the next two weeks trying to air cigar smoke out of the draperies. She could picture them running around frantically and spraying everything with Chanel. Mrs. Langer was a small and slender woman who did not talk much. Terry kissed her on the cheek and shook hands firmly with his father.

  After introductions, Terry said, “You should have let me know you were coming. We already had plans with the girls for tonight.”

  “Oh, dear,” Mrs. Langer said.

  “We’ll get out of your way,” Mr. Langer offered. “We can take in a show tonight and see you tomorrow, Terry.”

  But Terry explained things. Bernie and Roberta-he didn’t call her Bobbie-would be having dinner with another couple. But he and Rhoda could beg out and have dinner with Terry’s parents. Then the four of them could spend a few hours together until nine or ten, at which time Terry and Rhoda would have to join a party some friends of theirs were having.

  “At least we’ll have some time together,” he said. “And you’ll get a chance to know Rhoda. She’s been wanting to meet you.”

  The Langers were delighted-they did enjoy meeting Terry’s friends, Mrs. Langer explained. And Terry’s plan was satisfactory all around. It gave Bernie a chance to get out from under in a hurry, hustling Bobbie off to a phony dinner date. And, with the mock party serving as an out around nine or ten, it kept the evening from dragging on too long.

  Things went smoothly enough. Bernie brought out a bottle of bourbon and the six of them sat nursing drinks until five-thirty. Then Bernie and Bobbie made their excuses and got out of there. Terry called a good East Side restaurant and reserved a table for four. The Langers went back to their hotel to dress for dinner, and Terry poured Rhoda a fresh drink and collapsed into a chair.

  “It’s such a trial,” he said. “Just dropping in to surprise me! You would think they’d know better.”

  “It’s not so bad.”

  “Well, you’re a sweetheart,” he told her. “They’ll have a good time in New York now, and they won’t suspect anything. And they’ll go home sure that I’m living the ideal bachelor life, and starting to get a little bit serious about you. They’ll ask about in their letters, of course. I’ll let our mythical romance bubble along for a few months and then write a sad letter saying that you went and married someone else. Then I’ll pretend to nurse a broken heart for awhile before it’s time to find some other girl to front for me.”

  There was a brittle quality to his voice, that special sort of forced cheerfulness one heard so often at gay bars and gay parties. She studied him. He was about thirty, she knew, a moderately successful furniture designer. Bernie was a commercial photographer. She thought of the special lie the boys lived and wondered how long they could carry it off.

  “Any time I can return the favor-”

  “What?” She hadn’t been listening.

  “Any time your parents or relatives make the Grand Tour I’ll be glad to return the favor. That’s all.”

  “Oh,” she said, “No, my parents are dead.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “It happened a long time ago,” she said. There was an awkward pause. �
��So don’t worry about returning the favor. I’ll settle for another drink.”

  Dinner was a relaxed affair at a very good and very expensive French restaurant on East Sixty-second Street. They had cocktails first, wine with the meals, and cordials with their coffee. The food was excellent and the service crisply professional, and the Langers turned out to be surprisingly good company. She had been afraid that the conversation would be stilted and awkward, but it worked out better than she had expected.

  “I couldn’t stand living in New York,” Mr. Langer said. “I’d put on twenty pounds a year with food like this.”

  “But you do anyway, Dad.”

  “Wise guy.” Mr. Langer grinned. “Just watch your own self in a couple of years. But you’re in good shape, Terry. Do you work out at a gym?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I used to, years ago. It’s a good habit to stay in.”

  They wound up drinking coffee again at Terry’s apartment. Around eight-thirty, Mr. Langer led Terry into the kitchen. “Private men’s talk,” he explained-and Rhoda sat alone on the couch. Mrs. Langer smiled oddly, then crossed the room and sat next to her. Here it comes, Rhoda thought. How serious is it between you two? And isn’t Terry a fine young man? But Mrs. Langer said, “It’s sweet of you to do this for him, Rhoda.”

  She stared.

  “Terry doesn’t know that I know. And Fred doesn’t know anything about it, and I’m glad, because it would hurt him horribly. His son, you see. But I know about Terry.”

  “I-”

  “I’ve known for years.” The woman lowered her eyes. “I’ve wanted to talk to him now and then. It’s hard not to want to. He’s my son and I love him, of course. But he wouldn’t want me to know. It would bother him, and so I’ve never let him find out.” She nibbled her lower lip. “Of course I’d love to believe that you and Terry are lovers-but I’m afraid I know better. He’s with that boy Bernie, of course. Thank you for being such a good friend to Terry.”

  She did not know what to say.

  “And I suppose you-”

  “Yes.”

  “You and Roberta?”

  She felt her face reddening. “Yes.”

  “It’s very strange,” Mrs. Langer said. “I think my generation is a very awkward one. If we understood a little more, or even a little less, things might be simpler. We seem to know and understand just enough to be utterly confused. The awkward age, which is what we used to say about teen-agers. You won’t tell Terry about this, will you?”

  “No.”

  “I hope you won’t. I suppose I shouldn’t have said anything at all, but I felt that I wanted to. You’re a very sweet girl. If only-”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  The Langers did not stay long after that. When they left Terry offered to see her home.

  “I can manage,” she said.

  “Really, I don’t mind.”

  “I can get home alone. But thanks.”

  She called Bobbie, told her she was on her way. Then she went downstairs and walked to Broadway and took the subway home.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  New Year’s Eve.

  The touch-off party was at their apartment, just a handful of couples dropping by for a first drink or three to start the evening rolling. Peg and Lucia, Grace and Allie, Jan and Megan, Roz Merrimac and some nameless fragile blonde. There was a big party set for an apartment two gay boys were sharing over on Barrow Street, and they were just fitting in an opening get-together before they headed over there.

  Rhoda played hostess. She mixed drinks while Bobbie sat in a corner and sulked. There was a lot of talk, a lot of laughter. Allie had just gotten back from Baltimore and she was giving a play-by-play of her reunion with her parents. They were very upset over the fact that she had not managed to get married yet, and were at the same time quite concerned that she was ruining her health in New York. Her mother thought she was leading an immoral life. “You mustn’t let men go too far with you,” she had told the girl. “If you lead them on too far, they’ll never marry you. But you can’t be cold, either, then they won’t be interested,” Allie imitated her mother’s voice. She had a talent for mimicry and everyone laughed.

  Rhoda didn’t laugh. Neither did Bobbie. Rhoda went on being the perfect hostess. Bobbie went on sulking, hitting the scotch bottle a little heavy, and keeping to herself. Rhoda made a drink of her own and drained it quickly.

  It was going to be one hell of a night, she thought. One perfect hell of an evening.

  The day itself had been gruesome enough. They had stayed in the apartment, watching the Christmas tree-a skimpy two-dollar affair-lose its needles and turn slowly brown around the edges. The first flare of temper came before noon, some petty argument that she could hardly remember now. And the rest of the day followed along in predictable fashion.

  “Are Jan and Megan coming?”

  “It’s important to you, isn’t it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you still love her.”

  “The hell I do. I don’t-”

  “You always loved her, damn you. You just took a flyer with me to hurt her. You don’t care who you hurt, Rho, do you?”

  Or, “Bobbie, this is your party too, isn’t it?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You were the one who thought of it. You invited everybody.”

  “So? Don’t you want them to come?”

  “Yes, but-”

  “You don’t like my friends.”

  “I like them fine. But you just sit there all day while I’m supposed to get the place looking decent.”

  “It’s about time you did something, Rho.”

  “Oh, really? So you can sit around like a queen on your fat-”

  “Fat!”

  Each time they made up and each time they started in again flying at each other’s throat. Each argument got a little worse than the one before it. Once, when Bobbie absolutely infuriated her, she had her hand back ready to slap the girl across the face. She managed to stop the blow before it started, but she couldn’t avoid realizing what she bad almost done. The thought made her shake. She had come perilously close to hitting Bobbie.

  And now the party was in full swing. This was an evening that should have been the ultimate in relaxation, in furious happiness. It was New Year’s Eve, the best excuse in the world for getting wildly drunk and staying up until dawn and having a perfectly wonderful time. But they were spoiling it for each other. Neither of them could relax, not the way things were between them.

  She moved to join Bobbie. “Let’s put a lid on it for the time being,” she said. “Let’s have a good time tonight.”

  “I’m willing if you are.”

  “I didn’t mean the things I said, Bobbie.”

  “I know it. Rhoda, I’m sorry-”

  “I love you, Bobbie.”

  “Right. And that’s what counts, isn’t it?”

  She held Bobbie’s arm when the five couples walked in a body to the Barrow Street party. There was snow on the ground and more snow falling. Across the street, a batch of college kids were having a snowball fight. One of their shots was way off and came cascading down on the ten girls. Jan Pomeroy squealed and pressed her face against Megan’s coat. Roz Merrimac and her girl friend tossed a few snowballs back at the college kids. Everybody was laughing.

  The party was in full swing when they got to it. The crowd was composed mostly of gay boys with a sprinkling of heterosexual couples who stalked around looking alternately daring and embarrassed. When the ten girls walked in, everybody looked their way. Bernie and Terry were there, and Bernie yelled out, “Here comes the Ladies’ Auxiliary!” Somebody took Rhoda’s coat, someone else pressed a drink into her hand. A girl she had never seen came over and greeted her like a long lost sister and wished her a Happy New Year. Rhoda drank her drink.

  There was a momentary flash of jealousy when she saw Bobbie staring after a girl with long red hai
r. But there was no time to be jealous or moody or bitter. The party moved at too fast a pace. Things kept happening and people kept handing her drinks. A very thin boy with rouged cheeks stood on a chair and did a Bette Davis imitation. Terry Langer kissed her cheek and told her that his parents had gone home, finally. “They never suspected a thing,” he said. “You were wonderful. If only you were a boy, I’d marry you.”

  A very fat man sat on the floor playing a guitar. There were jazz records going on a hi-fi in the corner. Two boys in their late teens came out of a bedroom smiling oddly. One of the straight males tried to ward off a pass by a camping gay boy without coming on too square. A husband tried to stop his wife from flirting with Peg. The fat guitarist stood up and began singing.

  At five minutes to twelve someone shut off the hi-fi and turned on the television set. They watched the mob scene at Times Square. Rhoda slipped through the throng, found Bobbie. Someone was talking about the Times Square scene-“In the morning the police always come by with a wagon and clean up the debris. They always find underwear, piles of it. Bras and pants everything else. People do it standing up in the crowd with total strangers, they do everything. I almost went one year-”

  At the stroke of twelve somebody turned off the lights. Everybody was shouting and screaming. She kissed Bobbie, a long, hard kiss with her arms tossed around Bobbie’s neck and their bodies pressed tightly together. They held the kiss a long time, and then the party was erupting around them, and everybody was kissing everybody. She kissed girls and gay boys, shouted Happy New Year at everyone, drank scotch straight from a bottle. A married man grabbed her and kissed her and tried to get his tongue in her mouth. His hand moved over the front of her dress. She pushed him away and got away from him. When she saw him later he was trying to get Megan to go in the back room with him.

  She found Bobbie again and kissed her again. Her head was swimming and she was so much in love she thought her heart would break. It would work out between them, she thought. It had been a hell of a day but it was going to be all right now, everything was going to be all right. They were in love and that was all that mattered, Fights were just part of the way they were, and they could get over the fights and rise above them and learn to control them and just go on loving each other.