“Oh, I’m sick,” she said.
“Easy, easy.”
“That was Ed,” she said, “Ed Vance. He was a friend of-”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“You told me on the way home.”
“I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything. Bobbie, I don’t feel good.”
“Do you want to throw up some more?”
“No. I drank too much. Why did I drink so much?”
“Everybody drank too much.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s New Year’s.”
She drew on the cigarette. She couldn’t stand to close her eyes because every time she did the moment on the street came burning back into her brain, the expression on his face, the words he used. She blew out a cloud of smoke and sat up straight in bed. Bobbie put a pillow against the headboard behind her and she propped herself up against it. She looked down at herself and saw that she was naked. She put her hands on her body and touched herself and looked at Bobbie.
“I’m ugly,” she said.
“Don’t be silly.”
“I am ugly inside and out. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Bobbie, what’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing. You’re a little drunk, that’s all, and you’ll feel better in the morning.”
“In the morning?”
“Well, maybe not. You’ll have a hangover, I guess, but it shouldn’t be too bad. You didn’t keep anything down.”
“I’m ashamed of myself.”
“Don’t be. Oh, Rho-”
“Did you hear what he said? Right in the middle of the street, and the way he was yelling they could have heard him in Vermont.”
“Forget him.”
“He’ll tell everybody about me. About us.”
“So?”
“But nobody knows.” That was the truth, she realized. Only other gay people knew the truth about her. The friends she had known before, Tom’s friends, didn’t know a thing. And now they would all know. Ed Vance would tell everybody.
“They’d find out sooner or later.”
“I suppose so, but-”
“Are you ashamed, Rho?”
“I-” She narrowed he eyes, searched Bobbie’s face. “Ashamed?”
“Of me. And of yourself.”
“Oh, no. Of course not.”
“Then what do you care who knows? What difference does it make?”
“They wouldn’t understand.”
“So?” Bobbie held her hand. “They don’t matter, Rho. Can’t you see that? The people who matter are people who understand. People like us, people in the same boat. When you’re gay your friends are your family. They’re the only ones who understand, the only ones who can really care about you. You can forget this Vance person, and the other people you knew, and your rotten husband. They don’t count.”
“I-know that.”
“So what’s the trouble?”
“Nothing.”
Bobbie got to her feet. “I’ll make some coffee,” she said. “We can both use some. I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Don’t go away-”
“I’ll just put up some instant. I won’t be a minute.”
She wanted to say that a minute was too long. But she stayed where she was and didn’t say anything and Bobbie went into the kitchen to boil water. She took a last drag from her cigarette and put it out, then crawled under the bedsheet. She didn’t feel sick now, at least not as much as before. But her head ached and she felt terrible inside. She didn’t know what it was that was bothering her. Bobbie was right-it didn’t make any sense to be so upset about Ed Vance, didn’t make any difference how many people knew the truth about her lesbianism. She was what she was, and you didn’t get any place worrying about that sort of thing. She was a lesbian, and she was not alone, and the opinion of straight people shouldn’t matter to her in the least.
Then what was it?
The whole evening, she decided. The whole rotten evening, and the fighting and making up and fighting again, and the crazy jealousy, and the way she and Bobbie struck sparks every time they brushed up against each other. And the parties, the crazy parties, with everybody trying to crowd all the joy and pleasure on earth into one hellishly artificial evening. And too much to drink, and too much laughter and too many tears, and then that scene with Ed as a capper.
Bobbie came back with the coffee. She accepted a cup and sat up straight again to drink it. It was too hot and she set it down to cool.
“I’m all right now,” she said.
“Good.”
“And I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For ruining your evening. For ruining everything. Oh, darling, why did we have to fight so much? Why?”
“Rho-”
“I’m sorry for it. I hate to fight with you, Bobbie.”
“Oh, Rho, I’m sorry too.”
“No more fights. A New Year’s Resolution, all right? We won’t fight any more.”
“I-”
“We’ll start the New Year right and we won’t fight. And-oh Bobbie, what’s the matter? Darling, you’re crying!”
“I…can’t help it.”
“Did I say something? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I just-”
“Rho, I love you!”
“Oh, Bobbie-”
“We won’t fight, you’re right, we won’t fight any more. I love you so much, Rho. We won’t fight, we’ll just love each other and build something good out of this.”
“Yes.” Her heart pounding wildly, her eyes misty with embryonic tears. “Don’t talk, darling. Just come to me.”
“My clothes-”
“Take them off.”
She hadn’t expected to make love. But love came quick and warm and very tender, clearing her head and taking the unbearable weight away. She buried herself in Bobbie’s love and let the sweetness of it bathe her and cleanse her, then lay close to Bobbie and floated in the afterglow of love until sleep reached for her.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The year was two weeks old. It was a Wednesday, cold but clear, the sidewalks gray with day-old snow toned by the dirt of the city. The day’s work dragged on forever, and she was exhausted by the time she left Heaven’s Door. She wanted a drink in a bad way, but decided to wait for it until she got home. Bobbie had a shaker of martinis ready. They sat together and drank quietly. When Bobbie talked to her she answered in monosyllables. Bobbie finished her drink, went into the kitchen to open a tin of clams for Claude. She came back and sank into a chair.
“Bad day, Rho?”
“Not too bad.”
“Party tonight. At Megan’s place.”
“Do we have to dress?”
“No. Just slacks and sweaters.”
“I suppose we’ll go.”
“You don’t sound happy about it, kiddo. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Just a mood.”
“Nothing I did, is it?”
“No. Just…nothing.”
“Want to kick the cat? Get that mad out of your system?”
“I’ll be all right.”
“Because we could just as easily stay home.”
“We’ll go,” she said.
They went. The walk through the cold air was briskly refreshing. They stopped at Leonetti’s for a quick drink, then went on to Megan’s apartment on Cornelia Street. Rhoda felt very strange walking into the apartment. She hadn’t been there since she cleared out her clothes and moved in with Bobbie. She had been in company with Megan often enough after that, so that there was no awkwardness between them any more, but they had not been together at Megan’s apartment and she was surprised how jarring it was. Every stick of furniture held memories, every room brought back a shattering memory of the way they had loved one another.
“I may get a little bit stoned,” she told Bobbie.
“ Do you good.”
“Uh-huh.”
She got hold of a drink right away, finished it quickly, poured more scotch over the ice cubes and drank again. Go ahead, she told herself fiercely. Let yourself go. Loosen up, relax.
And the liquor worked. She joined a little group in one corner-Jan Pomeroy was telling a joke about a butch and a queen trying to figure out which rest room to use. Someone told a limerick about the queer from Khartoum and Rhoda laughed, although she had heard it dozens of times. The party picked up momentum and moved at a good pace. She kept drinking, keeping a good even high without going over the line.