Читать книгу Journey To A Woman - Ann Bannon - Страница 13

SHE DROVE HOME LIKE A PUNCH-DRUNK NOVICE, LAUGHING AT the panic she caused and feeling light, giddy, peculiarly happy in a way that almost seemed familiar. She was unable even to feel guilty when she got home and found that Charlie had had to feed the kids and was waiting with stubborn hungry impatience for her to feed him.

She did her chores with a smile. Everything seemed easy. Even the children. The bedtime routine charmed her, the way it would have if she had to go through it only once or twice a year. She put her arms around her children and cuddled them, to their surprise. And Charlie, who was ready to bite her head off when she came in, traded his wrath for astonished love two hours later.

It did something to Beth to be in the company of a desirable woman, a woman whose interest was obviously reciprocal, and the first thing it did was make her happy. Her kids reflected the lighter mood gratefully and innocently, but Charlie … Charlie wondered where it came from, and, knowing his wife, he worried.

Beth was surprised two days later when Cleve Purvis called her. She had been in a state of wonderful tickling anticipation all day, picking out a dress, pondering what to say when she got to the studio. And now, at two o’clock in the afternoon, Cleve called.

“I know this is goofy,” he admitted, “but could I talk to you?”

“Sure,” she said. “Go ahead.”

“Not on the phone.”

“Why not?” she said, surprised.

“Don’t ask me, I feel like enough of an ass already. I’ll pick you up in half an hour.”

“But Cleve—”

“Thanks,” he said and hung up. So she got her clothes on and decided that whatever it was she’d make him drop her off at Vega’s afterward.

Cleve took her to a small key club bar and sat her down at a table in the rear. They faced each other over the table. Strangers? Friends? Acquaintances? What were they exactly to each other? Cleve had left college before Beth met Charlie and they had only known each other fairly well since she had come to California. They had seen each other often, they had exchanged a few jokes, and now and then when Cleve was tight they danced together. But never alone. Never had they had a private talk. Charlie or Jean or the kids or somebody was always with them.

It made Beth feel odd, unsure, to be with him now in a private bar. Nobody knew about the meeting, apparently, and no one was there to see them but a few late lunchers and early imbibers. It gave the meeting something of the character of a secret tryst.

Cleve ordered a couple of martinis. “I know this must seem funny to you,” he said, and covered his awkwardness with a gulp of gin.

“Does Charlie know you asked me here?” she said.

“Not unless you told him.”

“No,” she said, and somehow the fact that both of them could have told him and neither of them had made her feel part of an illegal conspiracy.

“Well, don’t, Beth,” he said. “Just keep it to yourself. I may not have any right to stick my nose in your affairs, but when your affairs get scrambled up with Vega’s, somebody’s got to tell you a few things.”

Beth felt the hair on her scalp begin to tingle. “What things?” she said. Cleve finished his drink and ordered another. He drank like Vega—briskly and for a purpose. Beth looked hard at him, studying the face she thought she knew so well. It seemed different now, pensive under the thick dark blond hair. His mustache drooped and the deep cleft in his chin gave a droll twist to his frown. Cleve was not a handsome man, although Vega was a beautiful woman and they looked a good deal alike. It happens that way sometimes in a family. Two of the kids will resemble each other, yet the features that go so harmoniously in one face are awkward and out of proportion in the other. And still, Cleve’s face was pleasant enough—not out-and-out ugly. Beth liked it. She liked the tired green eyes and the small wry grin he usually wore, and now and then, when she thought about it, she wondered why in hell such a man would marry a giggling good-natured idiot like Jean. Maybe her endless smile comforted him. Maybe it bucked him up through the dismal periods Charlie said he had, when he was more interested in booze than selling plastic toys.

Up until the present it had not interfered with his business. Charlie was willing to let him drink what he wanted, as long as he could do his job. So far, it appeared, he could. Beth, looking at him, wondered what strange, strong hold liquor held over the Purvises. Vega and Cleve both worshipped the stuff, and Mrs. Purvis was blind and crippled and leaking because of it.

Cleve had trouble telling Beth why he had brought her there this afternoon. It was easier after a couple of drinks, and by that time they were both looking at each other through new eyes.

“By God,” Cleve mused. “I never realized you had violet eyes before. I always thought they were plain blue.”

“Is that why you dragged me down here? To tell me that?” she asked.

He grinned sheepishly. “That’s probably as good a reason as any. Better than the real one.”

“You were going to tell me something about your wicked sister,” Beth said. “And you better had before I get drunk. I have a date with her this afternoon at four.”

“A date?” The phrase seemed to rock him a little. “Well, what the hell, drink all you want, you won’t be any up on her. She’s never sober.”

“She’s never drunk, either,” Beth said.

“Yeah, how about that? I wish I were that kind of a drinker,” he said enviously. “Never sober but never drunk.”

“It doesn’t seem to make her very happy,” Beth observed. “Maybe it would be better not to be a drinker at all.”

“No doubt about it,” Cleve said, grinning, and ordered another.

“Cleve, I can’t sit around all day,” she said, giving him a smile. “Tell me about Vega, or I’ll leave you here with only the booze for company.”

“Okay, okay,” he said. “Beth, I—I—Vega’s queer.” He threw it at her, curt and clumsy, as if it were hot and burned his mouth.

Beth stared at him, her face frozen with surprise, with a sudden fear and wariness. “That’s a lousy word, Cleve. Queer.”

“It’s a lousy condition. I only tell you because she won’t.”

“Well, give her the credit of a little kindness, anyway,” Beth snapped. “She’s your sister.”

“Nobody needs to remind me,” he said. “Beth, this isn’t a nice way to put it and I wish to hell I could laugh it off or forget it or put it some genteel way. But when Charlie told me she asked you to come in and model I thought somebody had better let you know.”

“And that somebody was you? Is this what you tell all her girls? Must be great for business,” She put all her scorn into it.

“No.”

“Well, then why tell me? Why not let me find out for myself? If the other girls can be trusted with her, why can’t I?” Her temper ignited quickly.

“You’re special,” he said. “You’re different from the other girls—better, I mean. And she likes you more. That’s obvious.”

“Well, if Vega’s so damn dangerous she probably would have made it clear to me herself.” She was angry; her innocent idyll with Vega was jeopardized by his harsh words. How could she fool around now, just play a little, if Vega’s own brother watched every move with morbid suspicion?

“That’s the hell of it, Beth,” he said, leaning toward her over the table. “Vega doesn’t realize it. She doesn’t know she’s gay.”

Beth’s mouth dropped open slightly. “Good God, how can you be gay and not know it?” she exclaimed.

And it was Cleve’s turn to stare. “I wouldn’t know,” he said finally, slowly, still staring. “I don’t know anything about it, frankly. I’ve never felt that way.”

Beth felt her whole neck flush and her cheeks turn scarlet. She was suddenly embarrassed and irritated. “Is that all you came here to tell me, Cleve? Vega’s gay? Nobody in the whole world has figured this mystery out but you, of course, and you don’t know anything about it. Not even Vega knows about it. Just you. Not your mother, not Gramp, not the people who live with her, not the models who study with her. Just good old Doctor Cleve, expert analyst. He doesn’t know anything about the subject, by his own admission, but he’s willing to damn his sister and smear her reputation on the strength of his own intuition. Oh, Cleve, come off it,” she said, disgusted and disappointed.

He wouldn’t argue with her. “I know she’s gay,” he said simply. “Shouting at me won’t change that.”

“Nuts!” said Beth—but she believed him. “Can you prove it?”

He smiled, a melancholy smile. “I’m glad you’re defending her,” he said. “I’m glad you’re mad about it. I wouldn’t have liked to see you take it for granted…. No, I can’t prove it. I can only tell you things…. I say this, not because your eyes are violet, not because you have such a lovely mouth, not even because we’re both a little high. I say it in honor of your innocence. I say it to spare you shock. I say it because I hope you and Vega can be friends, and nothing more. She needs a friend. She really does. All she has is Mother, and Mother has run her life since it began. Vega adores her as much as she hates her, and that’s a lot. She can’t get away from her, even though she wants to. In her heart, in her secret thoughts—I don’t know—maybe she has some idea she’s gay. But Mother hates the queers, she’s always poured contempt on them. How can Vega admit, even to herself, that she’s the kind of creature Mother despises?”

“Your mother doesn’t despise alcoholics, or quacks, or physical wrecks.”

“Yes, but you see, none of those are queer,” he said earnestly.

“Oh, Cleve, that word! That ugly, mean, pitiless word!”

“I’m sorry,” he said, studying her.

Beth finished her drink with a quiver of excitement and desire and disgust—all the feelings that Vega roused in her.

“Vega’s going broke,” Cleve said. “That’s why the studio’s so bare. Looks like a barn. She’s had to hock a lot of stuff and return a lot. She used to support Mother and she told me they didn’t want my goddamn charity. Now they’re getting it—they can’t live without it—but they let me know every time I hand them a check that they run right in and wash their hands as soon as it’s deposited at the bank.”

“Why?” Beth said, shocked.

“Mother thinks I’m a bastard because I didn’t study medicine like my father. Gramp thinks whatever Mother thinks. And so does Vega.”

Beth began to see what a tyrannical hold Mrs. Purvis, in spite of her debilities, had on her children.

“Vega and I understand each other,” Cleve said. “We’re both contemptible.”

For a moment it seemed like he was begging for sympathy and Beth said, rather sharply, “Oh, you’re not so bad. When you’re tight.”

Cleve gave a dispirited little laugh. “We know each other better than we know ourselves,” he said. “Someday you’ll understand us, too,” he said, looking into his glass. “If you keep on running around with Vega.” He sounded almost jealous. He sounded almost like a man warning another man away from his wife, not a friend warning another friend of his sister’s emotional quirks.

Beth cautiously steered him back to finances. “Why is she going broke?” she asked. “She has a nice studio, lots of students.”

“Not so many, not anymore. Their mothers are worried about them. There was a scandal a couple of years ago.”

“I never heard about it,” Beth declared, as if that proved it a deliberate fib.

“You don’t hear about everything in the Purvis family,” he retorted, and silenced her. “One of the girls had an affair with one of the others. Vega knew about it and she didn’t exactly discourage it. And then some of the others found out and told their parents. Vega should have quit then and there and tried somewhere else, but she hates that kid who started it all and she wants to stay here and make a go of it in spite of what happened. Show everybody. Show the girl herself most of all. Damn!” he said, and finished another drink.

Beth thought suddenly of the strange tough little blonde with no makeup and a cigarette drooping froth her mouth in the caffè espresso place. “Who was the girl?” she asked.

“P.K. Schaefer is her name. Vega hates everybody but she hates P.K. worse than poison.”

“Is she sort of a beatnik type? I mean, does she hang out in the coffee houses, does she dress like—”

“Like a goddamn boy,” he finished for her, with the sound of his mother’s disapproval plain in his voice. “Always has a cigarette hanging out of the corner of her mouth, as if that would make a male of her. As if that would take the place of—oh, hell.” He ordered another drink, staring moodily at the floor.