THE UNASHAMED

BY

March Hastings

The Unashamed

By March Hastings

First published in 1960.

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ISBN: 978-1-936456-36-9

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

CHAPTER 1

She stretched one side of her body, then the other, slowly, careful not to disturb the big yellow cat curled asleep between her knees. As she moved, the soggy sheets clung to her nakedness and wrinkled under her back. Her head throbbed from the heat and the roar of the air conditioner in the living room. The whole world stank of sweat.

Outside, the growing light and quickening throb of traffic noises along upper Broadway reminded Carolyn it was almost five. In a few minutes it would be time to get up, time to dress, time to rush for the train. When she took the laboratory job in Stamford five months ago, the money it paid seemed worth the daily trip from Manhattan. But every day it became more difficult to get up on time. She had been late twice this week. When she was late, it meant taking a taxi from the Stamford station to the lab. And no lunch. No lunch meant dropping delicate lab equipment and owing breakage fees. Debts meant worry and worry meant no sleep. And no sleep—

She watched her life spin across her brain in an endless succession of equations that all added up to zero. Except for Angie.

She turned on the pillow to smile at the girl sleeping beside her. She always smiled when she looked at Angie asleep with her blonde hair crimped into pin curls and goo smeared all over her face. Carolyn had never pinned a curl in her life. She wore her dark hair cut short and combed into sort of a wave on top. She wasn't masculine, she simply preferred to look natural. Angie called her gauche. Yet it delighted Carolyn that Angie primped and powdered and she liked the softness of her and the way her perfume smelled.

The cat yawned and roiled over. Stretching, it dug its claws into Carolyn's thigh.

"Hey!" Carolyn yelped. She swatted gently at the animal and missed.

The cat, Bridgit by name and paranoid by nature, sprang away from Carolyn's hand and crawled up to snuggle its head between Angie's breasts. Angie sighed and stirred in her sleep.

Carolyn sat up and grabbed Bridgit by the scruff. The cat's claws came out, dug into Angie's flesh, and hung on tight. Its face contorted, showing two curved teeth.

"Get that damned thing off me!" Angie squealed.

Frightened by her yell, the cat bolted from the bed and leaped to hide in the closet.

"My God!" Angie moaned. She turned to look at Carolyn. "What time is it?"

"Almost five. I have to get up."

Angie snorted and slid back under the sheet. "Well, I don't," she said. "Not for hours. And if that cat wakes me again—"

Carolyn leaned forward over the girl and pecked her quickly on the forehead. "She won't," she said. "It was my fault."

Angie grunted her disbelief and turned away from Carolyn.

Even her back was beautiful. With a fingertip, Carolyn traced the wing-shaped spray of freckles across the girl's shoulder blades.

Angie emitted a long, annoyed sigh.

"I love you," Carolyn said.

"I love you too," Angie said. "But not at five in the morning."

Carolyn laughed. "All you ever want to do is sleep," she said. "Go ahead. I’ll get back to you later."

She put her legs over the side of the bed and found her slippers. Then, still naked, she shuffled out to the bathroom.

"You can take that lousy cat with you," Angie called after her.

Obediently, Carolyn turned back to the bedroom door and summoned the cat with little sucking sounds that she knew grated on Angie's nerves, but soothed Bridgit.

"My God!" Angie screamed. "Will you please get out and let me sleep."

"But you said—"

"I don't care what I said. Get out." She sat up with a pillow raised over her head. Without bothering to aim, she threw it hard. It landed just inside the closet door. "Get out!"

Bridgit and Carolyn fled.

While water ran in the tub, Carolyn went into the kitchen, fixed a pot of tea, jotted a note on the wall pad to buy sugar. She filled Angie's special Chinese dragon cup and set it on the wooden tray. Then she went to her purse and took out the square pasteboard box that held the earrings.

She had seen the earrings two weeks ago in the window of an antique shop in the Village. They were dangly things with pale blue stones and lots of filigree that she would never have picked for herself. An extravagance she couldn't afford and a bargain she couldn't resist. But Angie would love them. And besides, today was special.

She put the box on the tray with the teacup and a pretty little card that said Happy Anniversary in six languages, including English. Then she carried the tray in and set it on the table by the head of the bed.

She smiled down fondly at Angie's sleepy face and touched her shoulder. "Tea's ready," she said. She did not wait for the girl to respond, but went back to the john and shut the door.

She lay back in the cool water, inhaled deeply and watched the way her breasts rose with the droplets glistening on them. She couldn't stand her breasts. They were the kind men whistle at and women abhor owning, pendulous and full, and just too damn heavy to carry around. She had permanent grooves in her shoulders from bra straps. And they were very sensitive. That was the worst part. Even the bath water against them sent shivers along her spine and when Angie touched them, she went wild. Which was fine when they were at home alone. But sometimes the madness hit her just looking at Angie, no matter who else was around, and then Carolyn would dig her nails into her palms and begin to shake. And the damned tips would spring to life, hard and erect, pushing against her bra and hurting till all of her ached.

Even as she thought it, Carolyn felt a tremor of desire shiver through her. She was sorry that Angie had stopped her before, when she had wanted to take the girl in her arms. Yet it wasn't unusual. Angie often did. Especially in the morning.

It had always seemed strange to Carolyn, the way Angie liked to make love by appointment once a week. Only as a special treat did she break her rule. Carolyn had learned to live with for Angie's sake. Still, there were times when she would look at Angie and, wanting her, know she dare not touch. And then the frustration would choke up inside her till she could scarcely breathe. Until the next time when Angie would creep over to her at night in bed and start to caress her.

She scooped her hands through the water and rinsed the soap from her shoulders and back, wondering if Angie would wake up in time. Surely today Angie would make an exception.

Carolyn had finished bathing and was standing in front of the mirror brushing her teeth when Angie opened the door and came in. She had taken down the pin curls and brushed out her hair. Most of the grease had been wiped off her face but her nose was still shiny. She had put on the earrings and a pink negligee.

Carolyn pretended not to notice. Very deliberately, she took a mouthful of water and rinsed.

Angie stepped up close behind her. "I'm sorry I yelled at you," she said.

Carolyn studied the girl's reflection in the glass. "Why should you be?" she said. "You do every morning."

Angie wrinkled her nose. "Well, today I'm sorry." She patted her hair and turned her head to bring an ear into full view. She touched the earring with a fingertip. "It's nice, isn't it?" She didn't wait for an answer. She rarely did. "I didn't get you anything because you said we couldn't afford it. I thought you meant it. But, if I had known you intended to get me something, I would have anyway. Even if you are the boss about money and I'm supposed to listen to you." She paused to grab a breath of air.

Carolyn shook her head slowly at Angie's reflection and turned around to face the girl. She saw that Angie was close to tears, her lower lip trembling. She stepped close and cupped Angie's chin in her hands. "Honey," she said, "I didn't mean to upset you. Really. I thought you'd like the earrings."

"I do, Carol. Really. I love them," Angie insisted. "It's just that I feel that I should have done something for you and I didn't and—"

"But that doesn't matter, darling. There's no reason for you to feel guilty. I'm the one who was wrong, if anyone was." She kissed the tip of Angie's nose and brought her hands to rest on her shoulders. She stood back and tilted her head to study the shiny baubles. She nodded. "I don't feel guilty. They're beautiful on you." Angie lowered her head demurely and smiled. Carolyn turned her around and gave her a push on the behind. "Now get out of here,"

she said. "I have to get dressed."

She put on panties and a bra and followed Angie back to the bedroom.

Bridgit sat squarely in the center of the bed, meticulously washing her face and serenely ignoring Angie's murderous glare.

"Will you just look at that!" Angie gestured helplessly at the cat and sank down on the edge of the bed. "Sometimes I hate her. She knows I don't have to get up for another hour."

"But you're up now," Carolyn said simply. She lifted the cat and set it gently on the floor.

Suddenly Angie leaned forward and grabbed her around the waist. She pressed her face against Carolyn's hip and held her close.

"Baby, what is it?" Carolyn tried to move away, but the girl held her.

"Carol, I love you," Angie whispered. "I love you." She was crying.

"Well, I hope so. I'd be in a bad way if you didn't. You know that."

"But, Carol, you don't understand." She blinked and peered up at Carolyn. Her eyes were red, her face streaked with tears.

Carolyn glanced at her watch, saw that she was already late, and sighed. "Then tell me," she said, "and I will."

Carefully, she loosened Angie's hands from around her waist and sat down on the bed beside her. She watched Angie and waited for her to calm down.

When she had finally exhausted herself, Angie took a tissue from Carolyn and blew her nose. Then she smiled with that special glow that was all her own. Carolyn felt herself responding and knew she was going to be very late for work.

Angie leaned forward into Carolyn's arms. "It doesn't matter," she said.

"It does to me."

Angie snuggled against her. "Then promise you won't leave me."

"Leave you," Carolyn exploded. "Girl, what's the matter with you? I’ll never leave you, Angie, you know that. I'm crazy about you."

Angie moved her hands along Carolyn's ribs and cupped the heavy breasts in her palms. Then she bent to caress them with her lips. She reached behind Carolyn's back to unhook the bra.

Carolyn grabbed Angie's arms and held them. "Tell me first," she said.

"Oh, it really wasn't anything," Angie said. "I was just… thinking about Walter. You see him and talk about him a lot.

I thought you might want to… marry him someday."

Carolyn hugged her impulsively and laughed. "Honey, I've known Walter for ten years and it has never occurred to me once in all that time that I might want to marry him. Why should you think so?"

"You were out with him till midnight last night," Angie said quietly.

"That doesn't mean anything. We went to the theater and stopped for coffee after." Carolyn shook her head.

"Besides, I'm married to you."

"Oh, you know what I mean," Angie said impatiently. "Real marriage. With babies."

Carolyn let Angie's retort pass without comment. But she felt the sharp pain of it like a kick in the ribs. She had never stopped to consider that Angie might regard their relationship as something like playing house. To her, it was the real thing.

When she was breathing again, she patted Angie's hand and tried to speak lightly. "Well, I don't buy Walter earrings," she said.

Angie looked startled, then she threw back her head and laughed. The idea obviously pleased her. "I wish you would," she said finally. She thought about it again and giggled.

Carolyn had always loved the way Angie giggled, the way her nose quivered and the freckles danced on her cheeks.

It made her feel all funny inside, like she was going to be sick, only not quite like that. And this time it made her want to be masterful with the girl, strong and aggressive.

She put her hands on Angie's forearms and gently pushed her down on the bed. She leaned above her and brought her mouth down to the girl's and kissed her. Angie's fingers twisted in her hair and she felt a sudden shuddering twinge go through her as Angie nipped her shoulder.

Carolyn forgot to be gentle then. She grabbed Angie to her roughly and bruised the girl's delicate flesh with her mouth.

Angie moaned and whispered, "Hurt me."

She did not know what demon goaded her on. She was drenched with perspiration and so was Angie. Yet there seemed no end to the girl's need and no end to her own desire. If she had stopped to think, she would not have abandoned herself to the wild passion inside her. But she was beyond thought, almost beyond reason. It was not love making as they had known it before. It was sex, it was rape, it was a sweet torture to them both.

At the moment, it was perfect. And when the moment was gone, they were sad.

She held Angie close in her arms and buried her face against the girl's shoulder. For some reason, she felt an insane desire to weep.

After awhile Angie stirred and moved away from her to the other side of the bed. She turned her back and put one arm across her face. "You'd better go," she said. Her voice was dry and hard.

Carolyn got up immediately and began to dress. She did not bother with breakfast. Her stomach was churning, her nerves on edge.

Before she left, she went back to the bedroom and for a moment stood looking down at Angie, who had already gone back to sleep.

Even in sleep, Angie was fretful. She would have a headache when she woke up.

And would blame her for everything that had happened. She knew now that Angie had completely forgotten their anniversary and had thrown her little tantrum to cover up. And she realized that Angie had offered herself in place of a gift. It was the first time in months that they had really enjoyed each other, had really been free with each other.

And Angie would hate her for that. For to Angie, sex was dirty, a destroyer of friendship and love.

CHAPTER 2

It was already after seven o'clock. Angie was nearly an hour late. The rice was cold and the chow mein mushy.

It was not like Angie to be late without calling. She was usually very good about such things. For the twentieth time Carolyn glanced at her watch. She sighed and moved the pot off the burner, went back into the livingroom and tried not to listen for the phone.

With a Kleenex she wiped out ashtrays, skimmed a layer of soot off the window sill. She put a candy dish back where she'd moved it from a few minutes before. Then she went to the table and touched her fingertips to the half dozen red roses she'd brought for Angie.

Six red roses. One for each month.

She felt her throat tighten in a spasm of sentimentality. Ordinarily she would have considered the sensation a sign of weakness. A thirty-year-old woman should surely know better, even if she were in love for the first time. Carolyn was aware that she had lost all sense of perspective where Angie was concerned. But tonight she did not care.

She turned her back on the roses and stood for a moment contemplating her domain. Before she met Angela Simpers, that wonderful day in the Museum of Modern Art, Carolyn had lived in a dark and bug-infested apartment with second-hand furniture and a leaky john and she had called herself an old maid at twenty-nine. Then Angie had whispered, "I love you," and Carolyn had bloomed. She was a career girl now, with a new job and an expensive three-room apartment and a tiny Renault to run around in. And she was proud. The ceramic lamps and the couch and the sailcloth sling chairs were not the best. But they were hers and they were paid for. And she was proud of the home she had made for the girl she loved.

Yet she realized that all she had done was not enough. It was never enough.

Carolyn stared glumly at the stack of rock-and-roll records, the piles of paperback novels, the shoddy yellow curtains blaring out the discontent and lack of harmony that raged through Angie.

And the roses, those foolish red roses. What good could they possibly do?

The phone rang shrilly in the bedroom and Carolyn listened to it for several minutes without even realizing what it was. She was looking at the flowers again, feeling wretched, wondering if Angie could ever forget what had happened between them that morning.

The phone had stopped ringing by the time she reached it, yet she picked up the receiver and pressed it to her ear.

For a long while she listened to the steady hum of the dial tone.

She put the receiver back gently and sat slumped on the edge of the bed with Bridgit's head on her knee. It wasn't that Angie didn't love her. She honestly believed that Angie did. It was just that the girl had suffered so when she was a child. She had been in London during the blitz, after all. Her parents were still there. And she was so young, only twenty-three, and alone and homesick. Well, nearly alone, anyway. And—

Carolyn ran quickly through the list of rationalizations she always applied to Angie and knew, as she always knew, that she did not really understand. Not that it made any difference. She belonged to Angie completely and believed she always would.

There had been nothing in her life before Angie that really counted. She realized that now. Angie had given meaning to everything. She lived in constant fear that she might lose the girl. No matter what she did to please her, Angie remained discontented. Carolyn could not bear to think what might become of her if Angie found someone else.

Carolyn knew that for herself there could never be another like Angie. There might be other loves in her life, but they would not be the same. Something about the girl set her on fire, just looking at her, just touching her. She had never felt that way before about anybody. She didn't believe she could again.

It didn't matter what the girl did, really. Or what she was. They loved each other and that took care of everything.

Almost.

She became impatient with thinking about it and shoved herself up off the bed, displacing Bridgit, who scooted into the closet.

Slowly, she began collecting the debris of Angie's turbulent getting-ready-for-work passage through the room.

Panties with torn lace, a bra without a hook, lipstick smeared tissues, a piece of blue ribbon, bobby pins and combs and a dirty powder puff, on the bed, on the floor and chairs. She returned everything neatly to where it belonged.

Then she made the bed.

When she heard Angie's key in the lock, she steadied herself into an air of nonchalance and stepped out into the hall.

She heard Angie say, "It's not elegant, but we like it," speaking slowly and with trained precision.

Angie's voice was the one thing about her that Carolyn would have changed. Neither too high nor too low, it simply did not sound sincere. And her pronunciation was strange. The girl had worked hard to oust the Shoreditch Cockney from her accent, and she had, but with the peculiar result of sounding like a Bronx fishwife who had visited England briefly. And to compound the confusion, she had a speech defect that made an r come out as w. She called her friend Cawol. And when annoyed, as she was now on turning to find Carolyn watching her, it sounded like Cow.

Carolyn heard the anger in Angie's voice and stopped short. Angie pushed her leather purse into Carolyn's hands and walked on past her.

The young man Angie left behind in the hallway winked at Carolyn, then shrugged. He was tall, thick muscled and nearly as wide as the door he leaned against. His white shirt was buttoned to the neck and he wore a blue and red striped tie. His sleeves were rolled up and, when he reached out to shake Carolyn’s hand, the roll was too tight across the muscle.

"That's Jimmy Turner," Angie called from the livingroom. "And Carol."

His face was homely, open and friendly. As she studied it, Carolyn could find no real reason not to like him. Yet she knew instinctively that Jimmy would neither understand nor respect the relationship she had with Angie and the smile she gave him was merely courteous.

She turned, went back to the livingroom and dropped the purse on the coffee table. Angie had already opened the phonograph and now squatted beside the bookcase, flipping through albums.

"Sit down," Carolyn said to Jimmy, gesturing without interest toward the couch. She went to stand with her back to the windows and waited curiously for someone to do something.

Jimmy sat on the edge of the couch and let his hands dangle between his knees. He watched Angie and waited, too.

Angie dropped a dozen records on the machine. Something loud and bouncy began to play.

She stood up and backed away from the phonograph, clicking the fingers of one hand, then the other. Her body began to sway, stomach twisting slowly, hips swivelling, till all of her was in motion. She closed her eyes and tilted her head to let the long blonde hair fall freely down her back. Her hands caressed her hips, her thighs.

Carolyn sat on the radiator with her hands under her, fingers tightly gripping the edge of the metal cover. She was too warm, too aroused to move. Yet she felt sick to her stomach and recognized it as quite a different thing from what she usually felt when she watched Angie dance. The girl had a beautiful body, feminine and healthy, soft yet firm in all the right places. And she was a good dancer, responding with her entire body and maybe her soul to the beat of the music.

Carolyn glanced beyond the swaying body to the expression on Jimmy's face. The girl's movements no longer seemed graceful and sensuous, but calculated and obscene. She wondered what Angie was trying to do.

Jimmy obviously was fascinated by the girl. Carolyn could see the beads of perspiration above his eyebrows and on the bridge of his nose. She understood very well what he was feeling. Always before, she had felt prickles of desire, watching the girl dance. She couldn't blame Jimmy for his reaction to the spectacle. But she could certainly blame Angie.

He leaned forward till he was sitting almost on air. His eyes narrowed.

Carolyn glanced from Jimmy to Angie's glowing face. Angie was openly aware of the effect she was having on Jimmy and she appeared to enjoy it. And then Carolyn understood what Angie was out to do. She was getting even, punishing Carolyn for having wanted her, for having dared to love her. She felt sick with the shame of it. Yet she could not look away. She had to watch Angie in action, destroying them all.

Angie whirled and put out one hand to Jimmy. "Come dance with me," she said, and she moved in close to him as he stood up.

They looked good together. Too good. His dark bulk dwarfed the blonde petiteness of her, seeming to surround and engulf her until she became a part of him.

Observing them, Carolyn knew they had often danced like this before. She thought of her own clumsy efforts to guide the girl around a dance floor, smiled and shook her head sadly.

As calmly as she could, Carolyn left her perch and walked past them to the phonograph. She turned down the volume and went on out to the kitchen.

She put up a fresh pot of water to boil and got out the box of rice. Then she turned on the heat under the chow mein. She managed to keep herself busy for fifteen minutes, even pretending not to notice that the music grew louder. She grabbed a handful of silver and went to set the table.

They were still moving together in time to the music, not as close as they had been, but close enough and still oblivious to her. She watched Jimmy's hand work in a narrowing circle on Angie's behind.

As she came closer, Carolyn cleared her throat. She looked straight into Jimmy's eyes. "You'll stay for dinner, won't you?"

Angie turned to blink at Carolyn over her shoulder and the expression on her face told Carolyn to go away somewhere and hide. "We had dinner out," she said.

"But I've already got it cooked," Carolyn blurted. "You might at least have—"

"Oh, Carol, for heavens sake! Save it for tomorrow or something."

Angie turned her attention to Jimmy, ready to continue the dance.

He put his big hands on Angie's shoulders and held her at arms' length. "Take it easy," he said. "We're not being very polite."

Carolyn almost thanked him. Then she realized that he was being only polite. That he considered her the roommate who did the cooking and felt sorry her dinner had been spoiled.

Jimmy stepped away from Angie and cocked his head to smile down at Carolyn. "I'm real sorry," he said. "Angela thought you wouldn't be home."

Carolyn glanced accusingly at Angie and saw the girl flush a deep, angry red. She waited patiently for Angie to explain.

"It's Friday," Angie said. Her lower lip pushed itself into a pout. "You go home to your family every Friday for dinner."

Carolyn gazed at her levelly. "But this Friday is special," she said. "You should have known I wouldn't go tonight, Angie."

For a moment Angle simply frowned at her. Then the frown disappeared and something Carolyn could not define and did not like the looks of took its place. When Angie spoke, her tone was impatient. "We'll talk about it later,"

she said. "I want to be with Jimmy for a while." She went to the phonograph and switched it off.

Appreciating that she had been dismissed, Carolyn decided not to argue the point in front of a stranger.

Still clutching the silverware, she stalked back to the kitchen and turned off the stove. She put away the settings and fixed herself a plate of chow mein, then changed her mind and emptied both the pot and the plate into the garbage.

The door of the liquor cabinet clicked open. She heard the hollow thud of bottles against wood. A few seconds later Angie stood behind her in the doorway.

"We're having a drink," she said unnecessarily. "I need some ice."

Carolyn moved aside to make room at the sink. She watched Angie empty ice cubes into a bowl and set the bowl on a tray with some glasses. "Angie," she said softly, "please say something to me."

Angie whirled on her. Her eyes were icy and contemptuous, yet somehow wary and afraid. She stared at Carolyn for a long time before her features relaxed and her eyes softened and smiled.

She reached out, grabbed Carolyn's hand and squeezed it hard. "It's all right," she whispered. "I'll send him home early."

"Who is he?" Carolyn demanded.

Angie smiled. "Just an old friend," she said. "Nobody important."

Then she was gone and Carolyn was left to tidy up the mess she had made of the sink.

When she had finished in the kitchen, Carolyn went into the bedroom and shut the door. She sat at her desk near the windows, pulled open a drawer and began to rearrange the contents.

It was what she always did when Angie upset her: retreated, sat, rearranged. She remembered all too clearly the first time she and Angie had disagreed. Like all their arguments, it had started over something stupid, she didn't remember what. It wasn't the cause that had impressed her. It was the tantrum Angie had thrown. That time she had smashed the dishes, almost all of the new set that had cost Carolyn a small fortune. Carolyn had been shocked, completely unprepared by experience to cope with the girl. She had tried to joke her out of it then and Angie had only gotten more upset. She had retaliated by kicking Bridgit till the cat threw up.

But that had been mild compared with what followed. Little things at first calculated to get back at Carolyn every time she stepped out of line. Half a dozen tranquillizers that left Angie groggy and ill. Starving Bridgit for a whole weekend the only time Carolyn dared visit her parents overnight. Then the real dilly, the night Carolyn complained because Angie wouldn't tell her where she had been until three in the morning. Angie had climbed out on the fire escape in high heels. She had stayed there for hours, shivering in the cold, screaming, threatening to jump.

Carolyn sighed. She thumbed through notebooks, put loose stamps into an envelope, tore up scraps of paper, sharpened a couple of pencils.

She had never been able to say that life with Angie was dull. But, after Angie had taken an almost fatal dose of sleeping pills, she had had enough excitement. Since then, she hadn't fought back. She had let Angie have her way, no matter what it was. When trouble started, she retreated, just as she had done tonight. She was almost used to it by now.

The hot July night drifted in through the open windows, bringing with it snatches of kids shouting and honking horns, of Jimmy's big, full voice and of Angie's happy laugh. Angie did not laugh often. It was even more unusual that she was happy.

Carolyn set an electric fan beside her on the desk and turned it on high. For a while she watched the spinning blades and let herself be hypnotized by the blurred movement and by its steady whirr. Then she leaned toward a drawer and puttered again.

She found that she could not concentrate on anything except Angie and the "old friend who was nobody important".

She knew very little of Angie's past, except for things like London and the blitz. Those were the things Angie talked about and it had seemed enough. She wondered now where Jimmy fit in. And why.

After a while she switched off the fan and listened for the sound of voices from the other room. They were talking quietly together now, their voices murmuring softly like wind over waves.

She bit her lip and pressed her forehead hard against her fists.

The perfect end to a happy anniversary. Six red roses and an old, old friend. What a laugh!

She threw herself face downward on the bed. She clutched the pillow with her fists and pulled it over her ears.

Carolyn didn't remember falling asleep but when she sat up again, the sky outside was dark and there was a touch of dampness in the air. She listened, straining in the darkened room, hearing nothing but the sound of her own breathing and the muted hum of the city at night.

She stood inside the bedroom door with her ear pressed to the wood, not really wanting to spy on Angie, yet feeling morbid and suspicious and afraid.

She gripped the knob in one hand and turned it slowly.

You're a damned fool, she thought . If you love her, trust her. I f you trust her…

She opened the door with a flourish and walked noisily across the hall. At the livingroom, she stopped dead still on the threshold.

Jimmy was gone. And so was Angie.

That hadn't occurred to her. She stood there with an inane smile on her face and waited for the fact to sink in. She looked at the bottles and the empty glasses, at the roses and the big empty room.

She sighed then and shrugged. She felt very tired and her shoulders slumped a little as she put the bottles away in the cabinet and set the glasses back on the tray.

CHAPTER 3

During the half hour she waited, Carolyn made her decision: Angie would have to go.

She knew that she hadn't stopped loving the girl. She wasn't sure that she could. But that didn't matter anymore.

For six months she had let Angie dangle her on the end of a string, making their life an emotional shambles. When Carolyn was a good little girl, Angie gave her a kiss. When she wasn't, Angie took an overdose of pills. Whatever Angie wanted, Carolyn had learned to let her have. But this time the girl had gone too far. Carolyn had made all the compromises with herself that were possible.

She was positive that the girl had not been unfaithful to her before. Oh, she flirted with everybody, it was true, and in the beginning it had sickened Carolyn to watch her, pretending to a wantonness and a freedom that she never brought to their bed. But she knew it meant nothing, really. Angie merely used her youth and her pretty face to get whatever she wanted.

But it was different this time. She wasn't sure exactly what made it different, except maybe the guilt she had seen in Angie's eyes. It wasn't Jimmy that mattered so much. It was that Angie was using him to get even, to punish her.

And this time Carolyn would not allow her to get away with it.

Even if she were completely innocent, Angie would have to go.

Carolyn made herself a cup of tea and summoned Bridgit to come wait with her in the livingroom. It was unbearable for Carolyn to wait and worry alone and Bridgit was good that way. She saved her bits of affection and sympathy for moments of need.

She sat on the couch with the cat curled in her lap and put her hand on its purr and felt comforted. With her head back and her eyes half closed, Carolyn remembered the music and the soft lights and she thought again of the girl.

The air was still fragrant with Angie's perfume and the room itself seemed alive with her.

We have been happy here, she thought. And for the moment, she believed it was so.

She began to hum softly to herself, a waltz she used to listen to when she and Bridgit lived alone, and her head swayed in time to the music.

She imagined Angie dancing, seducing her with the liquid movements of her body, circling close, yet not close enough. She reached out to touch her and the girl laughed and spun away, her hand outstretched to someone else.

The girl clung to her partner, her face hidden against his chest. His hands caressed her buttocks, hugging her close.

He whirled with her, lifting her off her feet. They spun faster and faster and the music raced to keep up with them.

Slowly they sank together to the floor. He pressed down on top of her. The girl wriggled beneath him, arching her back to welcome him. As he moved, the girl turned her head. Carolyn could see her face, laughing and happy.

In the hall the elevator door slid open, then closed. Bridgit leaped suddenly from Carolyn's lap and sped into the bedroom.

Carolyn was in the hallway when Angie opened the door. She grabbed the girl by the forearms and dragged her inside. Angie struggled to shake her off, but Carolyn shoved her up against the wall.

"Where the hell have you been?"

Angie sniffed disgustedly and started to turn away. Carolyn smacked her across the face.

"Are you crazy?" Angie screamed, but the cry was one of rage, not of pain.

Carolyn stepped away from Angie with her hands at her sides and turned her back on the girl. Already the fight had gone out of her. She was ashamed that she had hit the girl. She had never done it before.

Angie took off her shoes and kicked them into the hall closet. "I don't like you when you act like a child," she said to Carolyn's back. "It's not very becoming on a woman your age."

The first time Angie had used that line, Carolyn had been devastated for days. There was something too like a mother's disappointment in Angie's tone and in her words. This time Carolyn recognized the gimmick and she smiled.

"You're right," she said in a serious voice. "Maybe I'm getting senile." She nodded thoughtfully. "After all, I'll be thirty-one in less than a year and—"

"Oh, shut up!"

"Well, you said…" She saw the expression on Angie's face and decided she had gone far enough. "I made some tea,"

she said quietly. "Would you like a cup?"

Angie nodded and dropped down into one of the sling chairs. She huddled there with her chin on her chest and her bare feet curled under her, withdrawn and obviously miserable.

Carolyn brought her the tea and sat down across from her. For awhile they were both silent and Carolyn watched the girl's profile, waiting for her to speak. Finally she grew impatient. "Angie, where were you?" she said, quietly and with great calm.

Angie turned her head and glared at Carolyn. She was nervous and defensive, Carolyn saw, and it might be hours before they cracked the shell of her anger and got down to the truth.

She twisted her face into a smile and tried to sound light-hearted as she wished she felt. "Angie," she said, "I don't know about you but I'm sleepy. So let's get this over with and go to bed. I promise I won't get upset. Just tell me what happened."

Angie set her cup on the rug. "Why?"

She didn't have an answer for that one. She simply shrugged.

"Why?" Angie repeated.

"Well, why not?" Carolyn said. She heard the irritation in her voice and quickly tried to cover up. "Unless now you're afraid that I'm too young to know."

It sounded snide and she was sorry she had said it. She watched her attempt at humor fall flat on its face.

Angie sat up as grandly as she could in the awkward chair, her feet still under her. She raised her chin and prepared to speak.

Watching her, Carolyn imperceptibly let herself relax. Angie had obviously decided to play the scene for all the melodrama she could wring out of it. Which simply meant that nothing had really happened. When she had something worth hiding, she hid it well.

"I've been up on the roof," Angie said. 'Thinking. I had to be alone for awhile."

Carolyn decided to take her word for it. "What happened to Jimmy?"

"I sent him home hours ago." Angie lowered her head to look at Carolyn directly. "Carol," she said and she sounded almost breathless, "something happened tonight. Something real."

Carolyn's eyebrow went up. "So I gather," she said sarcastically.

Angie ignored her. "I've never been so… so moved," she said. She brought her fingers together like a child praying and rested her chin on their tips. "Carol, he's still in love with me. Can you imagine?"

Carolyn looked at the adorable face with its shining, happy eyes. She laughed then, but not for Angie to hear. "It does happen sometimes," she said gravely. "I think my parents still love each other and they've been married for almost forty years."

"But they're old, Carol. Parents are always like that. You don't see it often with young people."

Carolyn knew it was useless to tell Angie that her parents had been sixteen when they married. For to Angie, the thought of a parent having ever been sixteen was preposterous. Hers was a simple and blissfully illogical approach to life. She thrived on catastrophe and feared boredom worse than death, so that every instant was made intense and unique. She did not learn from experience. Indeed, she did not experience. She merely over-reacted.

"You're probably right," Carolyn said just to keep her talking. "I don't know much about it."

Angie's smile was complacent. "Well, I know," she said. "Jimmy's been in love with me for two years. And that's something."

"Who is he, anyway?" Carolyn asked. "You haven't mentioned him before, as far as I can remember."

Angie spread her hands on her thighs and smoothed her skirt. "Well, I told you I was engaged to a fellow right after I came to the States," she said. "His sister used to live in the same place I did. You know, the girls' club. He was the first boy I met here and we went out a lot and we got engaged."

"You and Jimmy?"

"Of course," Angie said impatiently. "What's the matter with Jimmy, may I ask?"

Carolyn started to say that he looked like a bull ape, but modified it quickly. "He doesn't look like your type, that's all." She shrugged. "I didn't think you liked them so aggressive."

Angie snorted. "I know what you're thinking. And he's not like that at all."

"He's no eunuch."

"I didn't say he was," Angie persisted. "He's—well, he's just nice, that's all. He never touched me."

Carolyn smiled ruefully. "Whose fault is that?" she asked quietly.

Angie jumped up from the chair and walked away from her angrily.

Finally she turned back and stood glowering down at Carolyn. "I hate you sometimes," she said. "You think all anybody's interested in is sex just because that's how you are. Well, let me tell you something. Jimmy's one of the nicest guys I've ever known and he still wants to marry me and I'm not sure I won't!"

Carolyn knew it would be unwise to hit back, to cut at Angie the way Angie was slicing at her. But her jealousy and her sense of loss were too much and she had to hurt her.

She looked up at Angie and said, very calmly, "What about me?"

Angie was silent just a second, then flared, "Well, what about you? It's got nothing to do with you."

"Oh? I think it does, Angie. I don't believe your Jimmy's the type to overlook the fact that you've been sleeping with a woman all these months. Especially since you wouldn't do the same for him." She paused, then added, "Why don't you ask him?"

Angie's face went gray. She sat down abruptly on the couch and stared blankly in front of her. "He hates queers,"

she muttered. "A fella made a pass at him once and he almost killed him."

"No doubt," Carolyn said.

She had nothing more to say. She had won for the moment, but she had no sense of triumph. She knew she had given Angie an even larger problem than she had had before.

Carolyn knew that Angie had never really been able to cope with the business of being gay. Her attitude towards life she had learned at her mother's knees and she cherished it lovingly. There was no room in "Mum's" code for happiness, only for sticking to the rules. A husband, a couple of kids, a little house, a little car. All the conventional things. Carolyn realized, as Angie did not, that the little conventional things would soon bore the girl right out of her mind. She had never been able to convince Angie of that. And, though Angie hadn't mentioned it for a long time, Carolyn knew that it bothered the girl that she was not playing the game according to Mum's rules. She thrived on Mum's approval. Carolyn's didn't matter a bit.

Looking at the girl, Carolyn sighed. Poor Angie! So confused. Not really wanting a man, revolted by sex and scared to death. But now she would have to know, would have to find out if a man could love her after… that.

Carolyn took the cups into the kitchen and left them in the sink. Then she went into the bedroom, chased Bridgit off the pillow and turned down the spread.

"Come on to bed," she called to Angie. "It's after three."

Angie appeared in the doorway.

"Well, come on."

Angie shook her head, "I only called him because I was upset this morning."

"Yes," Carolyn said, "I know that."

Angie lingered in the doorway. "Carol."

"Yes?"

"Thanks for the roses, honey."

Carolyn stopped undressing to look at her.

"They're beautiful,'' Angie whispered. "And so are you." Her eyes were warm and tender now. She had set Jimmy aside to think about later.

They got ready for bed without discussing the evening further.

Angie took off the new earrings and put them back in the pasteboard box. She looked at Carolyn fondly, then went to her and hugged her tight. Carolyn did not reach out to take the girl in her arms.

Angie stepped back and peered at her. "Are you still mad at me?" She sounded amazed.

Carolyn shook her head and turned away. "No, I'm not mad at you, Angie." She sighed. "I'm just not quite sure what's going on around here."

"Why?"

"Well," Carolyn began, "I know why you saw Jimmy tonight. And so far, we're even, I guess."

Angie laughed. "We're even."

"Good. Then there's no reason for you to see him again," she said confidently.

"I have to. Tomorrow night."

Carolyn was startled but she tried not to let Angie know it. She walked away to the windows and adjusted the curtain. "What for?"

Angie grinned triumphantly. "To tell him I won't marry him." She put out her hands to Carolyn. "I don't really love him. I never did."

'Then why—"

"But, Carol, he wants to marry me," Angie said, as though it explained everything.

Carolyn looked at her helplessly. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"You should know about that," Angie teased. She came up close to the girl. "Aren't you the one who told me men only want one thing?"

Carolyn shook her head. "Only some men, Angie," she said.

"Well, anyhow," Angie went on, "I think it's special when a man wants to marry you. It means a lot to a man to get married. And it makes you feel important when a man asks you to marry him."

"Angie," Carolyn said patiently, "I am willing to believe that Jimmy loves you, if you think so. But so do I, damn it.

And it means just as much to me to have you as it would mean to him. And you love me, not Jimmy. At least that's what you say. Doesn't that make any difference to you at all, Angie?"

Angie had grown restless and irritated with the whole discussion. She could never sustain in anything interest for long. She flopped down on the bed. "Of course it does, Carol. But after all, I want to have children someday and a home. That's what every woman wants. Even you. We can't live like this forever. We have to grow up and accept our responsibilities, our role in life."

Carolyn did not know what textbook Angie had been reading, but she kissed her goodnight before the girl could launch into a lecture on infantile sexuality. It was difficult to be so young, so uninformed.

Just as she was going to sleep, Angie crept close and whispered, "Carol?"

Carolyn mumbled, "Umm?"

"Carol, could a man tell?"

She opened her eyes and slowly sat up. "Tell what?"

"You know. About us."

She looked at Angie but did not speak until the urge to strangle her had passed. She did not understand how she could hate her and want her so, all at the same time. She didn't even try. She took the girl in her arms and slid one hand under the filmy gown and trailed her fingertips up the inside of Angie's thigh.

She kissed the tip of the girl's earlobe and whispered, "I'll try not to leave any scars."

CHAPTER 4

Carolyn left the house at four-thirty and hurried down the street to her car. Minutes later she turned left on Eighty Sixth Street and sped toward Central Park.

She felt sorry now that she had accepted her mother's invitation to come to dinner and bring Walter. But her parents were lonely and old and she would not disappoint them, not even for Angie. Yet this time she felt sorry, for she wanted to be with the girl.

She had tried all day to talk to Angie, to tell her they were through playing games. And all day Angie had managed to evade her. Carolyn understood that she could no longer trust the girl to be faithful. But she could not even pretend that she didn't care. Her heart sickened with the thought of Angie and Jimmy together. Alone, maybe even in her own bed.

Annoyed, she jammed her foot down hard on the accelerator. The little car shot around the corner. She saw Walter toss a cigarette away and start down the steps. He wore the blue suit she liked and a crisp white shirt. His sunburned forehead glistened.

Carolyn had never considered Walter exciting, he was just her closest friend. The building he lived in was a sort of cherished antique, a townhouse, well-worn but still solidly intact among its renovated neighbors. Something honest and substantial about the old building always comforted Carolyn and, watching him come toward her, she thought how right it was that Walter should live here.

"I'm sorry I'm late," she said before he'd opened the door.

He smiled a greeting and slid in beside her. "I just came downstairs," he said. "I called and got no answer, so I figured you were on the way." He pushed the seat back as far as it would go.

He had a gentle, easy way of speaking that Carolyn usually found good for her nerves. Now she heard only the words. They made her furious and worried, but she said nothing. As soon as he shut the door, the Renault shot forward. She raced across Seventy Ninth Street and onto the center lane of the East River Drive. A Thunderbird blared at her and roared past. She swerved to the right side of the road.

Walter looked at her quizzically and put one hand up to brace himself against the dashboard. "I got those ballet tickets," he said casually. "Two weeks from Thursday." His tone demanded no answer but he waited expectantly.

She nodded thanks but kept her gaze on the road. She could think of nothing to say. Not even to Walter. He wasn't trying to pry. She knew that he sensed her tension and wanted only to help if he could. But she didn't feel like talking about Angie. She didn't even want to think about Angie any more. And for some reason, for the first time in all the years she had known him, it annoyed her that Walter realized she needed help.

She heard him take out a fresh pack of cigarettes and peel back the cellophane.

He lit two and handed one to Carolyn. She nodded her thanks.

Walter sat back against the seat and smoked in silence. She felt him watching her and she grew more nervous. He had never disapproved of her relationship with Angie so long as she was happy. But he had told her quite bluntly what he thought of the girl. And now she could not bear to hear him say: I told you so.

They roared through the Battery Tunnel into Brooklyn. The crowded Parkway glinted with fugitives from the Manhattan heat dashing out to the Island for sea food and a breath of fresh air. They brought the oppressive heat of the city with them and even along the Narrows there was no breeze, only the smell of salt and tar and fish.

Walter poked his head out the window and inhaled deeply. "Smell that air!" he said happily. "Say, do you realize I've been trying to get you to the beach since May?"

She glanced at him quickly but he kept his attention on the water.

"Maybe next weekend," he said. "We could pack a lunch."

She smiled. He was trying so hard. "Maybe," she said. "But I can't promise. Weekends are usually pretty busy. You know how it is."

He looked at her squarely now and there were deep lines of concern around his eyes. "Yes, I know how it is," he agreed. He frowned and shook his head. "But I'm not so sure you do."

"What?"

"Angievitis," he said.

"Walter—" she started, a warning in her voice.

"Look," he said calmly, "I've known you for a long time, Carolyn. Don't try to tell me there's nothing wrong when I know that you're miserable."

"I didn't try to tell you anything. I just don't want to talk about it, Walter. Leave me be."

He shrugged. "It's none of my business, after all, is it?" He paused, then went on. "But when you feel like talking, Carolyn, you'll know where to find me."

His quiet way of always winning a point infuriated her suddenly. How the hell could he be so sure of himself and always be right?

"Damn it, Walter, leave me alone," she muttered. "I don't need help from you or anybody else. I got myself into this and I'll get myself out."

He held up his hands to ward her off. "Okay, okay," he said. "I didn't mean any harm."

She felt her cheeks flush warmly. She always hated to argue with Walter. She rarely did. There was something about the two of them together that made disagreements ridiculous. She remembered the afternoon they met, in the library at school, back in the stacks. She had been thumbing through a copy of Moby Dick. He had taken the book out of her hand, led her outside under the trees and spent three hours convincing her that reading fiction was a waste of time. He had given her a long list of books on everything from the sayings of Buddha to the raising of bees and lent her underlined, annotated copies to read.

It had always been like that, until Angie came along. Angie didn't have the patience for books. Or for Walter. And the hours Carolyn spent with him now were not hours of quiet discussion. They were fraught with nervousness, with his disgust for Angie and Carolyn's guilt at having left the girl alone. Still, her friendship with Walter was the one thing she would not let the girl destroy.

At Ocean Avenue they turned off the parkway and back onto city streets. She had always hated the neighborhood where her parents lived. It was noisy and dirty and poor, without color and without pride.

The Webers lived in a third floor walk-up above a bakery and a tailor shop and the bakery sent them cockroaches and the tailor sent them steam. Yet she had never heard either of them complain. It was not their way. She did not know what miracle had left her parents uncontaminated by the air of defeat that permeated the rest of the neighborhood, but she thanked God that it was so. The happiness they shared had even tided them over the blow of having their only child move away from home. They did not understand her need for independence, but they accepted it without question because it was what she wanted.

She parked the Renault in front of the house and Walter followed her into the bakery where she bought a dozen rolls. Every week she brought a little something. It was the most they would let her do.

Upstairs, the two of them let themselves into the apartment which was fragrant with the aroma of good food that hung always in the air. Together they yelled "hi" to Mom as she came out to meet them. Walter had called her Mom the first time they met and Mom had taken him to her heart. It was a good thing for both of them, for his parents were dead and she had no son. She had never quit hoping that Carolyn might marry Walter. Neither had Pop.

Carolyn leaned in at the livingroom doorway and waved to the old man. He had the checkerboard already set up between his knees.

Walter grinned at Carolyn and went on into the room to join Pop.

In the kitchen her mother took the package of rolls and gave Carolyn a hug in exchange. Then she stepped back and narrowed her eyes to peer closely at her daughter. "Something's wrong, Carolyn?" she said. "I never saw you look so tired."

Carolyn shook her head. "Nothing's wrong, Mom. I've been working hard, that's all." She knew that her mother had no conception of the mysteries of bio-chemistry and that to her, at least, even thinking about such things must be hard work. She smiled but Mom did not smile in return.

"Uh huh," Mom said. "Your Angie called. She sounds lousy. She's been working hard, too?"

Carolyn's breath stuck in her throat. It was peculiar, the way Mom said "your Angie." She had no idea of the relationship between them, but she understood well enough that Angie had caused the worry and unhappiness in her daughter's face. There was an edge of annoyance in Mrs. Weber's voice that Carolyn had rarely heard before.

"What did she want?" Carolyn asked.

Her mother lifted her shoulders and held out her hands. "Just to talk. You two had trouble?"

Carolyn shook her head. "Not really," she said. "Just… a misunderstanding."

"Maybe it's not so good, Carolyn, that you should be friends with this Angie?" Mrs. Weber said tentatively. "A girl like that, so young and so far from her parents. Girls like that get into trouble."

Carolyn sighed. "Did she say I should call back?"

"I forgot to ask her. So give it a try."

"Mom, you can't lie worth a darn," she said.

Mrs. Weber chuckled, then worriedly watched her daughter go to the phone and dial.

The phone rang and rang. Carolyn knew it was useless. She went back into the kitchen and slumped down in a chair beside the table.

Mrs. Weber stood at the stove, rotating a big spoon in a pot of chicken soup. She tasted, poured in a palmful of salt and stirred some more.

Carolyn had the feeling there was something Mom hadn't told her. She wanted to seem casual, to wait until the woman got around to whatever it was. But she was too nervous, too worried about Angie.

Finally she blurted, "Well, what did she say?" Her mother knocked the spoon against the rim of the pot, then laid it in the sink. Thoughtfully, she wiped her fingertips on the skirt of her apron. "Well, she said she was visiting her cousin in Queens and she’ll be home very late." She avoided meeting her daughter's eyes. "Maybe not till tomorrow."

"Oh," Carolyn said. She was not at all surprised, but she felt nauseous nevertheless.

Mrs. Weber looked at her daughter cautiously. "She's got a cousin in Queens, Carolyn?"

"Of course she's got a cousin in Queens," Carolyn snapped. "Who hasn't?"

Mom tilted her head to one side and examined her daughter as though she had not really looked at her for a long time. She shook her head sadly. "It's not like you to shout, Carolyn."

Carolyn flushed guiltily and reached out quickly to clasp her mother's hand. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's just that—"

She shrugged, not knowing how to explain to her mother about the girl.

"Uh huh," Mom muttered. "Whatever it is, it's no good, that's what I think. You know I don't try to tell you what to do anymore, you're too old for that. But I’ll tell you this much," she waggled a finger at Carolyn, "I don't like the idea of you living with that girl. You never know what you might find in your apartment when you get home."

Carolyn frowned and turned away. She knew her parents didn't care for Angie, they had made that plain from the start. Yet she had not expected this attack from her mother. Besides, the timing was just all wrong. She couldn't even think of an answer.

Mom went on without waiting for one. "So, if you're smart, maybe you should get married already and forget this career girl business." She moved closer and lowered her voice. "Walter's a good boy," she said. "And he's waited a long time."

Carolyn heard the earnest pleading in her mother's voice and wanted to cry. What could she say to the woman, how could she tell her about Angie, about herself? She knew Angie was to blame for her mother's outburst. Angie and her stupid, obvious lie. Angie, the lonely and lost one, without parents or cousins in Queens.

"Oh, Mom!" she wailed. She threw herself into her mother's arms and buried her face against the woman's shoulder.

She did not cry but in her heart she cursed Angie for the humiliation and the shame.

The more she thought about Angie, the angrier Carolyn got. The anxiety, the fretting gave way to rage. For the moment, she forgot Angie's tactics, the scenes on the fire escape and the overdoses of pills. She forgot the tantrums, the threats and the tears. She even forgot that she loved her.

She busied herself with setting the table and carefully avoided further conversation with Mom. Mrs. Weber, happy in the knowledge that she had done her duty by her child, accepted Carolyn's silence as thoughtfulness and let her alone.

When Walter came in with Pop for supper, he took one look at Carolyn's face and promptly announced an early appointment in the city. Carolyn thanked him with a relieved smile.

The Webers did not waste time talking when there was food in front of them. Carolyn watched her father spoon soup into his mouth. He was a very long and lean old man, except for the mound at his waistline, and his white hair was still thick and wavy. She thought him the handsomest man she'd ever known and the nicest. His one weakness was a fondness for his wife's cooking. Tonight, his gleeful gluttony irritated her and she lost what little appetite she had.

Over coffee, Pop pumped Walter, as he always did, about the insurance business and how Walter was making out.

He liked to tell the story about the first time Walter had come to the house with Carolyn and how Walter had right off the bat sold him an insurance policy he couldn't afford and didn't really want. He respected Walter and considered him, he informed Carolyn at least once a week, a good catch for any girl.

Pop started to tell Carolyn the whole story for perhaps the hundredth time. She looked at her mother pleadingly.

"All right, Kurt," Mrs. Weber said. "That's enough."

Startled, the old man started to protest. "I was only tellin' Carolyn how—"

"She's heard it before," his wife said quietly.

Pop looked at Walter and shrugged. "Women!" he said. "I've been livin' with that one forty years and she still nags."

He poured himself and Walter a third cup of coffee. "But, anyhow, like I was sayin'…"

Carolyn dried the dishes for her mother, glancing every few seconds at her watch. Finally she put away the last cup and hung up the towel. She went to stand behind Pop's chair and sent Walter a signal with her eyes.

Walter stood up almost immediately and extended his hand to the old man. "We’ll have to keep the rest for next time, Pop."

Mrs. Weber put her fingers on Walter's arm and squeezed it. "Come next time, Walter, when you can stay awhile. I hardly saw you."

He bent to kiss her cheek.

"And you," Mom said to Carolyn. "You think about what I said. If you want to come stay home for awhile, don't be proud. Come." She spoke sternly but her eyes were soft with concern.

Carolyn promised that she would, kissed them both and ran down the stairs with Walter right behind her.

The drive back to Manhattan was an aggravation Carolyn could easily have done without. Cooler but still crowded, the day-at-the-beach traffic streamed back to town. By the time she reached the Battery it was after eight.

She had no idea what she would find at home or why she was in such a rush to get there. There were many possibilities but knowing Angie, she favored two: either she was supposed to find them in bed or expected to prevent them from reaching it. This time she didn't give a damn. Angie was going out on her ear. She'd pack Angie's bags and—

Walter brought her back to earth. She had stopped in front of his building and before he got out, he said, "Just one thing, Carolyn. If she tries another stunt like the sleeping pills, call the police. There's no reason why—"

"She won't," Carolyn assured him. "She's got a better gimmick this time."

He didn't look convinced. "Well, maybe. But a person who does things like that needs help. You can't take the responsibility for her."

"Oh, Walter," she said impatiently. "There's nothing wrong with Angie, you know that. She's just—"

"A spoiled brat?" he finished. "Yes, I know. Look, you told me months ago you only put up with all this because Angie needs you. Right?"

"Yes," she said. "She does. She's much better now than she was when I met her."

"Maybe, maybe not. The point is, Carolyn," his voice was very low, "do you need Angie?"

She wished she could laugh in his face and tell him that for once he was wrong. But she couldn't really. Not yet.

CHAPTER 5

Carolyn found a parking spot on Amsterdam Avenue and cut through a vacant lot to the house. Looking up at the windows, she saw that the lights were on and Bridgit perched asleep on the livingroom sill.

She started to take out her keys, then, remembering Jimmy, rang the bell instead. There was a limit to how much she could take.

Angie had the door open and was waiting in the hall when the elevator reached the tenth floor. She smiled a warm hello, then puckered for a kiss. Carolyn ignored her and charged on inside. Angie shrugged and followed.

Except for Bridgit, the apartment was empty. Carolyn felt like a fool. She knew that Angie had spent several hours with Jimmy, knew that the girl had been unfaithful to her. Less than an horn ago she had been angry enough to strangle her. Yet now as she turned to face her, Angie was a dream in a ruffled apron, all smiles and charm, playing house.

Carolyn walked past Angie and into the kitchen. She stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the mess Something was baking, she couldn't tell what. Every pot the house was dirty and most of the silver.

"I'm making a cake," Angie said cheerfully.

It was the last straw. Carolyn refused to lose her temper. She had to find out just how far Angie thought she could go. She turned on the hot water and let it run into the dishpan.

"Well, aren't you pleased?" Angie said impatiently. "It's chocolate, the kind you like. I meant it for our anniversary."

"Our anniversary was yesterday," Carolyn said bitterly.

"I didn't have time yesterday."

Carolyn glanced at her and laughed harshly. "Busy little bee, aren't you?"

Angie stamped her foot and turned to leave.

"Wait a minute!" Carolyn said and the tone of her voice stopped Angie in mid-stride. She handed the girl a towel.

"You dry."

She felt Angie eying her curiously and remained coldly aloof. She was not sure what she intended to say to the girl, but whatever it was, both of them knew Angie wasn't going to like it. Once, when Angie's back was toward her for a moment, Carolyn glanced quickly and saw the slump of the shoulders, the lowered head. She felt a tremor of satisfaction. As long as Angie was scared, Carolyn knew she had the advantage.

When they were finished, she said simply, "Angie, I want to talk to you."

"Can't it wait till later?" Angie said. "I have to wash my hair."

Carolyn took her hand and led her into the livingroom. "Now, Angie. Right this minute." She sat the girl down in a chair.

Angie pouted and swung her legs over the side of the chair, turning her face away from Carolyn. She looked sullen and withdrawn.

Carolyn sighed. She wanted to kick Angie's teeth in, to shake her till her brains rattled. But what was the use? She knew Angie would only laugh in her face. She walked around Angie to the windowsill and put her hand on Bridgit's head. The cat began to purr.

"When the Times comes out tonight, we'll find you a room," she began. "It won't be so bad, Angie. Maybe you can share a place with another girl. Like you used to at the club."

Angie merely stared past her.

She was not sure that the girl had heard. She tried again. "I'll help you out for awhile, till you're settled financially."

She waited. "I can't see any other way," she said.

She waited again. "Angie?"

"I don't need your money, Carol," Angie said. Her voice was hard and tight.

Carolyn flushed guiltily. "I didn't mean that, Angie. I only meant, since you haven't got any saved—"

"What the hell do you care how much money I have? You're throwing me out, aren't you?" Her voice was as nasty now as her expression.

Carolyn picked up Bridgit and sat on the couch with the cat in her lap. She stroked its ears gently and felt the purring against her thighs.

Angie watched her narrowly.

"I'm not throwing you out, Angie," Carolyn said patiently. "I just can't live with you anymore. You're driving me crazy."

Angie laughed, a hard, coarse sound. "Funny, you only think so when you're angry. You didn't feel that way last night in bed."

"How do you know what I felt last night?" Carolyn blurted. Then she calmed down before Angie could snap back at her. "Look, we've been through this a thousand times. I can't stand the way you manipulate me, the things you do.

I feel like a damned fool for putting up with you."

"But, Carol," Angie said, her voice trembling with hurt innocence, "what have I done?"

"How the hell should I know?" Carolyn almost screamed. "I don't know what you're doing half the time, Angie. And it doesn't do me a damn bit of good to ask, because I don't believe a word you tell me anyhow."

"Carol!" Angie sounded sorely misunderstood.

Carolyn felt instantly the twinge of guilt that Angie meant her to feel. She could no longer tell if it was sincere.

"When have I lied to you?" Angie persisted.

"I didn't say you lied to me," Carolyn said with exasperation. She felt the advantage shifting to Angie's side and hurried to make up ground. "I simply meant that I don't know where I stand with you. I have the feeling that what you say and what you think are two totally different things. You say you love me, but—" She gestured helplessly.

Angie bit her lips and prepared to cry.

Carolyn was instantly on the defensive. "Oh, no," she said quickly. "If you cry, Angie, so help me, I’ll knock your head off."

The girl opened her mouth to speak and her lip trembled uncertainly.

Carolyn started to get up and Bridgit dug her claws in to hang on.

"What do you expect?" Angie wailed at her. "You tell me you hate me and then you call me a liar. What do you expect?"

Carolyn dropped Bridgit to the floor and crossed to Angie's side in two strides. She hovered over her threateningly, her hands clenched at her sides.

Angie put up her arms to shield her head and cowered in the chair.

For an instant Carolyn wanted to slap her. But she knew it would be a waste of effort. She stooped beside Angie and took the girl's hands and held them between her own. "Angie, stop it," she said quietly. "You know I won't hit you."

"You have."

"All right, I have," she said desperately. She stood up and backed away from the chair. "Angie, look at me, dammit.

I'm not even near you now."

Angie obeyed quickly. Too quickly. Carolyn felt like a fat mouse between the paws of a hungry cat. She became suddenly wary and felt herself withdrawing from the battle. She knew she didn't stand a chance when Angie got wily.

"I have to turn off the oven," Angie said. She looked up at Carolyn as though waiting for permission.

Carolyn waved her off, glad for the distraction. "Go ahead," she said lightly. "Would you like a drink?"

Angie shook her head no and went out to the kitchen, humming to herself.

Carolyn listened to Angie hum and sighed. She poured herself a double shot of scotch and stood by the windows, looking out, the shot glass between her palms. She felt bleak and isolated inside, heartsick with the insights she was gaining into Angie and with her own lust to get even. She hated Angie and despised herself. Yet she could not let it go. She needed to find out the truth about the girl and punish them both with it.

She remembered what Walter had said about Angie requiring help. Perhaps he was right. There was something almost terrifying about Angie's need to manipulate and control. The need was a blind one. She knew that Angie could not be defeated with talk, for the simple reason that Angie never listened. And she knew that, before she could free herself from the girl, she would have to find another way to stop her.

She considered for a moment attacking Angie with a few of her own tricks. She had slapped Angie once and she had been ashamed. Yet it had gotten more of a response from the girl than anything she had ever said. Angie was well versed in the ways of violence. Still, Carolyn could not really see herself throwing a tantrum. She had never done so in her life.

But if she could make the girl trap herself… She knew that Angie lied so consistently that she couldn't keep track of her own stories. She had often trapped her in a falsehood, only to have Angie lie herself out of the lie. Neither of them knew what was truth anymore.

But if she were clever enough, she might just be able to force Angie to tell her what had happened, without the girl being aware she had done so. And if the truth was what she thought, if Angie were really having an affair with Jimmy, then, she believed, she had good reason to tell the girl to leave. Anything else she could put up with. But she would not share the girl.

Angie came back from the kitchen smiling, the kind of a smile called brave. When Carolyn turned to look at her, she thought that Angie must be losing her touch, her technique had become so obvious. Or maybe it was just that she herself was getting wise to the game.

Carolyn took a deep breath. She knew Angie would be difficult, but this time she felt that she could outsmart her.

"All right," she said, "we'll start over. Were you with Jimmy tonight?"

"Yes."

"How long?"

"About two hours."

Carolyn recalculated for herself and decided to accept the girl's answer. "All right. Now, what was that stupid call you made to my mother?"

"Oh, that," Angie said carelessly, as though she had forgotten. "Is that all that's wrong?"

"No, but it'll do for a start."

"Well, at the time, I wanted you to stay out late. I wanted to be with Jimmy."

"And you thought I'd believe you," Carolyn said flatly.

"Why not?" Angie sounded genuinely surprised. "I've never lied to you."

Carolyn let it pass. "Go on."

"Well, I changed my mind."

"Ah!" Carolyn said triumphantly. "The plot thickens." She knew she was being deliberately nasty, but she watched Angie backing herself into a corner and it gave her a perverse pleasure. "And why did you change your mind?"

"Well, when I thought about it, it didn't seem like a good idea."

"Why, Angie?" She sat her glass on the sill beside her and folded her hands across her stomach.

"I got scared."

"Of what?"

"Well," Angie shrugged, "I've never been to bed with a man before. You know that. And I got scared that it would hurt or I might get pregnant or something."

Carolyn nodded. Her expression was grave. "It must have been pretty rough on you," she said and her tone was full of honey-coated sympathy. She took a step forward. "I hope he didn't try anything."

Angie frowned and let her shoulders droop forward. She looked like an old-time movie heroine at the end of a chapter. "Well," she said, "he tried, but I stopped him."

"What did you say, Angie?"

"Well, I told him I'd changed my mind, that's all. That I wasn't ready yet." She sounded inordinately pleased with herself. "He got mad and left."

Carolyn nodded. "I don't blame him," she said. "Women have been raped for less." She reached around Angie to the light switch and the room was suddenly dark. "You must have been terribly disappointed, darling. But it's not his fault. He just doesn't know you."

Angie started to back away from the tone in Carolyn's voice. "What are you talking about, Carol? You knew I wouldn't let him."

"You'd better shut up, Angie, before you get all confused."

"Carol, I love you," Angie pleaded. "Carol?"

With one hand, Carolyn forced Angie backward till the girl's shoulders were against the wall. Then she slapped her, just once, very hard. "That's for lying to me, Angie."

"No, no," Angie cried. "I didn't."

Carolyn hit her again. "And that's for making a fool of me in my own bed."

"I didn't, I didn't." She put her hands up to shield her face. "I swear I didn't."

Carolyn laughed. "And you still expect me to believe you?" She laughed again and it sounded even to her almost hysterical. She grabbed Angie by the forearms and slammed her again and again into the wall. She wanted to kill the girl.

Finally, Angie screamed and lashed out at Carolyn with her fists. "I hate you, I hate you," she screamed.

Carolyn struggled desperately to hold onto the girl's arms and Angie kicked her in the shin. Suddenly Bridgit appeared from under the couch and scooted between them. The tip of her tail touched Angie's leg and the girl screeched. Without hesitation, Carolyn stuck out her foot and sent Angie flying.

Carolyn followed her down to the floor.

"I hate you," Angie repeated. She was crying now.

"I hate you too," Carolyn said.

Angie stretched out her arms.

"Damn you," Carolyn whispered hoarsely and she realized her own cheeks were wet with tears. She moved into Angie's arms and kissed her hard, forcing her tongue deep into the girl's mouth and deliberately smashing her lips against her teeth. She needed to hurt her, to rip her to pieces. And she needed to make love to Angie—not because she wanted her—but because she hated herself.

She tore at the girl with her hands and pulled the clothes off her and bit her breasts. Once Angie tried to push her away. Then she lay back calmly and sighed.

Carolyn felt brutal and crude. When she heard Angie's sigh of resignation and felt her relax, she knew it was no use.

Angie was humoring her as she always did. She kissed the girl again, without desire, and held her.

Angie took Carolyn's hand and pressed it against her own breast. "Honey, love me," she whispered. Her tone was pleading.

Carolyn buried her face against Angie's shoulder so the girl could not see the pain in her eyes. She slid her hand across Angie's belly and over her thigh.

She made love to her then, gently, slowly, the way Angie liked. Angie made little moaning sounds like a soul in torment. Carolyn felt the girl shudder and lie still. She rolled away from her.

"Honey?" Angie said.

Carolyn didn't answer.

Angie reached out to touch her and Carolyn grabbed her wrist.

"Huh uh," Carolyn said. She stood up abruptly and walked away from the girl. She went into the bathroom and locked the door.

Bridgit crouched in her pan under the sink, waiting for the excitement to subside. She stretched her head out over the edge and peered at Carolyn searchingly. When she got no response, she retreated and rubbed the back of her neck against the plastic rim.

It was too humid and stuffy in the little room for a hot shower. But Carolyn stepped in anyway and let the steaming water trickle through her hair and over her shoulders. It didn't help at all. She knew that she was finished with Angie for good this time, that she had finally had enough. Yet she still had a problem and it was a big one. She did not know how to convince Angie that she meant it and, until she did, the girl would give her no peace.

She dried herself slowly in front of the mirror, rubbing the rough towel fiercely all over her body and feeling suddenly alive and wanting in every pore of her being. When she rejected Angie, she had felt no desire. Now she felt a craving that was something apart from love, apart even from sense. Cupping her hands along her body, she felt a shiver of need go through her that gripped at her stomach and left her weak. She knew she could not go back to the girl now and beg. Yet she wanted a woman desperately.

She went into the bedroom and began very calmly to dress. She put on a pair of cotton slacks and a starched white shirt. Then she combed her damp hair into a soft wave. She was a little too broad in the beam for slacks, really, but nobody would notice that where she was going. And besides, she wanted to look "butch" tonight. That was the way she felt.

Angie was still lying on the living room floor waiting for her. She looked up at Carolyn and made a sour face. "I hope you're proud of yourself," she said.

Carolyn paused for an instant on her way to the door. "I am," she said. "And, Angie, don't wait up for me."

Angie sat up. Her face was very pale in the dim light. "Why?" she asked. "Where are you going?"

"Out to get laid," Carolyn said and slammed the door behind her.

CHAPTER 6

When she reached the street, Carolyn realized that she intended to get very, very drunk. She wanted to find a woman to go to bed with, but she knew her desire was not for a woman alone. She had to forget Angie, had to prove to herself that she no longer cared.

She decided not to bother with the car and rode downtown on the train.

It was already after midnight when she came out of the subway station into the steaming heat of the Village. She turned her back on the fights and the bustle of Sheridan Square and walked slowly west on a quiet side street.

Though it was late, teenage kids loitered on doorsteps, talking, whistling as she passed, and above them, old women in washed-out, sleeveless cottons leaned out of windows to catch a breath of air. The stench from open garbage cans and of meat scraps rotting in warehouses down by the river filled her nostrils and her stomach began to churn. She fit a cigarette and dragged the smoke deep into her lungs.

At the corner a door banged open almost in her face and a derelict stumbled out of a noisy bar. He reeled around to swear at the bouncer, who had already gone back inside, then staggered across the sidewalk into the gutter. He sat down on the curb, his arms propped on his knees, and began to sing in a melancholy, croaking voice.

Carolyn crossed the street away from him and walked close to the buildings, keeping to the shadows. Ahead of her on the opposite side, the window of the Rendezvous made a dull yellow blotch on the night's darkness.

She slowed down as she passed and tried to look the place over without staring. Though the door stood open, the large room was hazy with cigarette smoke. She could see figures clustered three deep at the near end of the bar.

The juke box blared into the silent street.

For a moment she hesitated. She had never walked into a gay bar alone, had never even seen one before she met Angie. It seemed to her a nervy thing to do, like posting a public announcement of her need. It helped only a little to realize that the drinkers at the bar were there for the same reason. But she could not deny that the brassy music, the outlines against the window and the promise of fulfillment excited her.

She crossed the street and started back to the entrance. A giant of a man in a blue cord suit appeared from inside and stood blocking the doorway. Munching thoughtfully on a toothpick, he cocked his head and the bright, narrow eyes inspected quickly. Satisfied, he nodded and stepped aside to let her enter.

Carolyn took a deep breath and launched herself past him into the din. Just inside the entrance, she paused and swallowed uncertainly. She couldn't get anywhere near the bar and she couldn't very well just stand there in the middle of the floor.

"There's room in the back," the big guy said from behind her. "You can't breathe back there, but there's plenty of room."

She thanked him and maneuvered slowly toward the rear of the bar. She saw the eyes turning to watch her. Just the eyes. It felt like dozens of them, tiny sparks of light in dull, blank faces. She did not look back at any of them, but raised her cigarette nervously to her lips and bore it in front of her like a shield. For a moment she was naked in front of the crowd, like a slave girl in the marketplace. Then she was one of them. They went back to their chatter and their drinks. She squeezed through to the bar.

She ordered a gin and tonic and when it was served, drank the gin straight. When it took hold of her nerves, she leaned back, feeling a little more confident, and began to survey the faces around her. With her back against the wall at the end of the bar, she had the best seat in the house from which to cruise.

Directly across from her sat a couple she did not know but recognized from previous trips. They were apparently always there, on those two stools, and always drunk. They were together, yet apart. They did not talk to each other, just sat, stared ahead of them and drank. She could not bear to look at them for more than a glance and partake of their mutual misery, whatever it was. She felt like a Peeping Tom when she did.

And then there were the others. New faces, yet somehow always the same. The young ones, kids in shorts and sandals with closely cropped hair, looking for trouble, drinking too much, and loud in their self-conscious bravado.

The serious cruisers, the older ones, sober and hungry-eyed, silently staring. And the ones who reminded Carolyn of Angie and herself—the ones on the waning ends of affairs—still together, already bored, yet clinging to each other in a sort of quiet desperation.

The happy ones, the ones who were loved, did not come to this place. They had no need to.

Carolyn had seen it all many times before when Angie had brought her here. Angie loved just to sit in a corner and watch. She got a big kick out of being flirted with, and she almost always was. Yet to Carolyn, coming to the Village to look at lesbians was not much different from a trip to the zoo. It always depressed and frightened her. And she knew that, no matter what Angie did to her, she would never allow herself to hang around the gay bars, looking for a partner for the night. She did not want to become like these women, forever looking, forever alone.

But here she was and she had come here for a reason. This time, her reason was the same as theirs.

She searched deeply into many faces but she found no response.

The craving she had felt began to burn again inside her. An aching need, pulsing along her thighs, pounding behind her temples. She wiped her sweaty palms on the knees of her slacks and her hands were trembling.

Somebody dropped coins into the juke box and it broke its three second silence with a blare of trumpets. A glass got in the way of an elbow and spilled onto the bar. Voices rose in argument, then mingled with the din.

She swallowed her third shot of gin. When it hit her stomach, she cringed, realizing she had already drunk enough.

She had eaten little of her mother's supper, not enough for ballast. Her senses began to swim. The heat and the noise and the smoke pressed in on her.

It was getting late. People were beginning to pair off and leave. The need to find someone, anyone became urgent.

Desperately she ordered another drink and began again to search.

She had not noticed the girl in the worn denim shirt come in. Yet when she saw her making her way toward the back of the bar, she felt no surprise. It was as though she had been expecting her and waiting. She had never seen the girl before and knew instinctively that she would never see her again. But it did not matter. It was now that counted.

There was nothing particularly attractive about the girl. She was tall with a narrow, firm body. Her face was small and pinched and reminded Carolyn of a starved Pekingese. The details didn't matter. It was the expression in the deep blue eyes when their glances met that caught her attention and held it. It was an open appeal for help.

Carolyn recognized that plea. It was the one she had been carrying in her heart all evening.

The girl leaned an elbow on the bar and in a deep, well-modulated voice ordered a bottle of beer. The bartender asked to see her money first. She took five dimes out of her shirt pocket and lined them across the palm of her hand. He grinned and gave her the bottle. She grinned back and dropped the dimes on the counter.

Carolyn had expected to see a flush of embarrassment, but there was only good nature behind the grin. If she knew that Carolyn had been watching, she gave no sign. She took the bottle and went to stand near the juke box. She let her shoulders droop, put her head back and half closed her eyelids.

Carolyn studied the girl from behind a cigarette. She knew that the girl was eying her just as steadily. Now that she had found what she wanted, Carolyn wasn't quite sure what to do next. She had never before tried to pick a girl up.

She realized that the girl would be more than willing, but she obviously expected Carolyn to make the first move.

When it was empty, the girl set the beer bottle beside her on the floor. She lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and let the smoke trickle out. For a fraction of an instant, she looked directly into Carolyn's eyes.

Carolyn signalled the bartender. "Another gin," she said. "And a bottle of beer." She paid for the drinks and stood up. If she could just get across the room, she had it made.

The beer was a cinch, but the gin slopped over onto her fingers. By the time she reached the girl, the shot glass was half empty.

She looked at the girl in dismay. "I think I'm a little tight," she said.

The girl laughed, friendly and pleasant. "Honey," she said, "you're doing just fine." She took the bottle from Carolyn, tipped it to her lips and drank deeply.

Carolyn raised the shot glass to her lips and decided suddenly that she couldn't take another drop without falling flat on her face. She looked around for a place to set the glass, then shrugged helplessly at the girl.

"Don't waste it," the girl said. "It's good stuff." She took the shot glass and poured the liquid into her beer, then set the glass on the floor. "There. Simple?"

So far, so good, Carolyn thought. What the hell do I do now?

"I'm Carol Weber," she said impulsively.

The girl raised an eyebrow and glanced at Carolyn curiously. An odd smile played on her lips. "You didn't have to tell me, you know."

"What do you mean?"

The girl shrugged. "Not much of anything," she said. "I just talk."

"No, really," Carolyn insisted.

"You don't come here often, do you?" the girl asked.

"It's my first time alone," Carolyn admitted. She frowned. "Why?"

"Ah, yes. Just my luck. I should have known." She tilted her head back and now there was a hint of sarcasm in the blue eyes. "You had a fight with your girl."

Carolyn shook her head vehemently. "No fight," she said. "We're just through, that's all."

The girl sighed. "I know, honey. That's what they all say."

"All who?"

"The first-timers." She patted Carolyn on the shoulder. "But don't worry about it. It's all right. I've been using the same line for ten years."

Carolyn drew away from the girl's hand. "But it's true," she said indignantly.

The girl smiled again. "You know something?" she said. "I believe you. You've got about as much finesse as a Mack truck. I doubt that you've learned that from experience." The blue eyes sparkled.

For one second Carolyn wanted sincerely to throw the beer in the girl's face and walk out of the bar alone. But then she noticed the eyes. They were bright and laughing, but they were not happy. She would never know what had made this girl put on the mask of sarcasm and nonchalance. She did not really care to find out. But she knew that it was a lie. The girl was not hard, just hardened.

Carolyn let herself relax and she smiled. "Give me time," she said. "I'm a fast learner."

The girl looked at her levelly for an instant, her eyes serious now. Abruptly, she nodded. "I'm sure you know all that's required," she said. She finished the beer, then leaned away from the wall. "Shall we go?"

Carolyn followed her out of the bar and onto the quiet street. She had no idea where they were going. She didn't care. There was only one thing that concerned her now and, wherever they went, she would find it.

Outside, the girl waited for her to catch up. She looked down at Carolyn and her expression was sober, almost sad.

"Look," she said. "You didn't have to come."

"Nobody forced me," Carolyn said.

"I'm not always that snotty," the girl said. "It's just that— Well, I feel like a performing dog in that place. I used to go with a girl and we went into that place every weekend. We always fought like hell after a couple of drinks. We put on a regular floor show till they finally threw us out." She was silent for a moment, then she shrugged. "So what? There's no place else to go anymore."

They started walking toward Hudson Street, neither of them talking. Carolyn listened to the taps of her heels click rhythmically against the sidewalk. It was cooler now than it had been in the bar, though not much, and she breathed deeply to dispel the wooziness that filled her. Her head throbbed with every step she took, from the gin and the confusion and the lack of sleep.

The girl moved closer, not touching her but near enough so that Carolyn felt the sleeve of the denim shirt brush against her arm. She knew that the girl was trying to make things right between them, to apologize for her abruptness in the bar. She felt herself responding to the girl's need for acceptance and love, perhaps because it was so like her own. And she sensed a rush of warmth towards this stranger that she had never felt for anyone before, except Angie. It was not pity. Nor was it love. It was simply a desire to comfort.

Impulsively, she took the girl's hand and they began to walk faster now, their moist palms pressed tightly together.

She felt the girl's thigh moving beside her own and suddenly her nerves caught fire. She knew an urgent and immediate need to possess.

She laughed aloud. Comfort, indeed, she thought. Save that kind o f nonsense for Angie, old girl. Let's call a shovel a shovel.

The girl glanced at her curiously and frowned. "What's wrong?"

Carolyn laughed again, louder this time, happily. "Not a damn thing," she said. "Let's go."

Her excitement was contagious. The girl laughed with her and they began to run, hand in hand.

On Tenth Street the girl led her into a dingy tenement tucked in between two warehouses and down the hall to a first floor apartment.

She did not stop to turn on the lights. "In here," she said. She pulled Carolyn after her into a tiny, airless room.

They fell together onto the rumpled bed. The girl grabbed her and dragged her close. Her tongue probed between Carolyn's lips, her hand teasingly caressed the inside of Carolyn's thigh.

Carolyn could not wait another second. She wanted the girl. Now. She put one leg behind the girl's calves and rolled her onto her back. She yanked the girl's shirt out of her trousers, pulled it up and unloosened her bra. She brought her mouth down onto one of the girl's breasts and teased the tips with her tongue.

The girl opened her own belt and shoved at her trousers. They were both in a hurry. Carolyn helped her wiggle out of the tight pants.

Then she stopped wasting time.

She was all over the girl with her mouth and with her hands, arousing her, driving her wild. She felt the girl's long fingers twine in her hair and tighten, urging her on. She did not need to be led.

She heard the girl gasp and suck in her breath as she touched her. Her need to possess became a frenzy.

The fingers tightened in her hair till it hurt. She felt the girl's body convulse and she held onto her thighs as they quivered.

Then it was done. The girl sighed contentedly and relaxed. She reached out lazily to take Carolyn in her arms.

Carolyn suddenly was sober and very sad. She looked down at the girl lying there, her features shadowy in the light from a street lamp, her hair wispy and damp from perspiration.

The girl was not Angie. She did not even know her name.

Carolyn did-not know where the desire had gone to, but she could not let the girl touch her. She turned away from her and sat up on the edge of the bed. She heard the girl stir behind her.

"Hey," the girl said. "I think you forgot something." She propped herself on one elbow and peered into Carolyn's face intently.

Carolyn shook her head and tried to smile. "No," she said. "I didn't forget. I just sobered up, that's all. I can't."

The girl sighed. "You've still got a conscience," she said. "Well, I tried."

"So did I," Carolyn said.

"You love her?"

Her eyebrows drew together thoughtfully. "I don't know anymore," she said honestly. "A couple of hours ago I thought I was through for good. I wanted to go to bed with somebody else to prove I didn't care."

"But now you're not sure?"

Carolyn nodded.

The girl leaned around her to switch on the light. "Maybe you smoke the wrong brand."

"What?"

"Try a guy."

Carolyn frowned. "Was I that bad?" she said.

The girl laughed, "Not at all." She sat beside Carolyn on the edge of the bed and slid her feet into a pair of sandals.

Then she stood up and pulled down her shirt. "But your heart's not in it, honey. Believe me, it shows." She reached for her trousers.

"You're not Angie," Carolyn said defensively.

The girl cupped Carolyn's chin in her hand. "Have it your way," she said gently. "But give it a thought. Don't let this kid hang you up for life."

Carolyn nodded. "You're probably right."

The girl winked at her. "I'm always right for other people," she said. She pulled up her trousers and buckled her belt. Then she kissed Carolyn quickly on the forehead. "Now, scram," she said gently.

CHAPTER 7

Carolyn meandered down Tenth Street toward the river front. She didn't know where she was going or what she intended to do now. It didn't really matter. She felt lousy. Already a hangover pounded fiercely inside her skull. She felt nauseous and tired and she ached in every bone. More than anything in the world, she wanted to lie down on a soft bed and sleep.

Yet she couldn't go home and face Angie. Not like this. She could just hear Angie, laughing at her, holding her close and cooing, "Poor little thing!" the way she always did. She couldn't take that from Angie tonight.

An early morning breeze from the river brought with it the smell of rain but as yet there was no sign of relief from the heat. She crossed under the towering steel of the West Side Highway and strolled out onto an open pier.

It was quiet on the pier. Her footsteps echoed hollowly on the thick planks. As far as she could tell, she was alone.

It was a hell of a place for a girl to be at four in the morning. She took a closer look around.

The tide had reached its peak and already begun to ebb. She watched reflections of city lights shimmer on the ripples, skip over the surface toward shore and drown in eddies along the bank. The smell of wet moss, of garbage and salt was everywhere. There were a few boats on the river, anchored near the opposite shore. On her left, a loaded coal barge, tied up for the night, thudded rhythmically against the pilings with the lapping of the tide. In a shack on the far end of the barge, a single bulb glowed dimly through filthy panes. She could see no other signs of life.

Satisfied that she was alone, Carolyn lit a cigarette and sent a cloud of smoke billowing into the breeze. The quiet and the slight breeze felt good. The throb in her head settled to a dull ache. Yawning, she stretched her legs out on the pier, leaned back against the piling and turned her face toward the lightening sky, glad for the chance to be by herself.

She let her thoughts drift aimlessly as the tide, wanting to forget the night and all that had happened. But she could not keep her mind from turning back, to Angie, to the bar. And finally she thought about the girl in the denim shirt.

It had been strange, that whole business. She had wanted so much to lose herself in someone's arms, to dispel for a while the pain that was Angie. And when she had the chance, she had behaved like an idiot. She had obviously disappointed the girl.

Yet, oddly, remembering it now, Carolyn felt no shame nor even embarrassment. For, in a way, the girl had been right. It was not just a woman Carolyn wanted, it was Angie. It had always been Angie, maybe it always would.

But if she didn't have Angie—

Would she want a man?

She had wanted a man before she met Angie. Or at least she supposed she had. It had certainly never occurred to her that she might want a woman. She had to admit that she hadn't really thought about it much. Her life had always seemed a full one, with work and play and Walter to pal around with.

It had bothered her parents that she hadn't married, yet to Carolyn it hadn't seemed strange at all. She had spent six years in school. Six years of study and working after class to pay her way. Six years with no time for play. Or for romance. She had always believed that life for a woman should mean more than feeding a husband and raising kids.

She had wanted a career and she had worked hard to earn one. She hadn't meant to rule out marriage. But that was for later, when she was older and ready to settle down.

Yet the first time she and Angie made love, she had realized how meaningless and incomplete her life had been.

She had never felt the emptiness until it had been filled. She knew now how much she had always needed the excitements, the heartaches of love. How much she craved sexual fulfillment. Angie had never been generous that way, but she had awakened a need in Carolyn that could no longer be denied.

Abruptly she sat up and ground the cigarette under her heel.

What about now? she thought. What about now?

She and Angie were through, of that she was sure. There wasn't a chance that they could ever be happy together again. But Carolyn wasn't going to drop dead because of it. She could not go back to her old way of living, to a life without love or fulfillment. Even if she had failed with the girl from the bar, there must be someone to fill the emptiness.

As though in answer, a match flared in the darkness close to shore.

Startled, she jumped up and stood with her back to the piling, her hands behind her, clinging to the splintery wood.

A pulse throbbed steadily in her temples and the breath caught in her throat. She knew fear such as she had never felt before.

She watched a blob emerge from the shadows and gradually become a man. He stopped ten feet away, eying her curiously, sucking flame into the bowl of his pipe. She saw pinpoints of light reflect from his eyes. He flicked the match away and she heard it sizzle as it hit the water.

Too frightened to speak, she stood there waiting for him to make a move. Her glance darted about quickly, seeking an alley of escape. He stood directly in front of her, in such a position that he could stop her no matter what she tried. She knew she didn't have a chance.

She heard him take a step forward. She cowered against the post, close to the edge of the pier, ready to dive if she had to.

Apparently sensing her terror, the man stopped.

She could see him clearly now. A runt of a man with bowlegs and arms like a chimpanzee. He seemed neither young nor old, but ageless. He wore seamen's pants and a torn T-shirt. She realized he must have come from the barge.

The silence became intolerable. She felt a trickle of perspiration slide along her ribs. He didn't try to move closer, just puffed on his pipe and peered at her.

"What do you want?" she asked finally. Her voice was little more than a whisper.

He puffed smoke over his shoulder, then cleared his throat. "Wasn't figurin' to take a swim, was you?" His voice rasped harshly like a rusty hawser. But he obviously meant to be friendly and he smiled around the stem of his pipe.

Carolyn breathed a silent sigh of relief and loosened her grip on the piling. "No," she said. "I was just sitting here, enjoying the breeze." She was still nervous, but she felt the tension beginning to relax.

"Good thing," he said. "Young girl went in here couple of months ago with all her clothes on. Pretty thing, they say.

I never saw her." He clucked thoughtfully, holding the pipe in his hand and rubbing the stem along the edge of his jaw. "Haven't found 'er yet. Guess maybe she didn't want to be found. Had a fight with her fella, they say."

Carolyn listened to the voice drone on without paying attention to the words. She knew he was only trying to calm her. And she no longer felt afraid of him. But the throbbing behind her temples caused by the shock of his sudden appearance drowned out everything else. She found that she couldn't concentrate on what he said or even on how to get rid of him. She was certainly in no mood or condition for a chat.

She tried to light another cigarette to steady her nerves. Her hands shook. Match after match went out as she fumbled. She felt him watching her and became completely helpless. Finally she threw the cigarette into the river and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. She felt light-headed and the pier seemed to sway beneath her feet. She could barely stand yet she did not have the strength to sit down.

She heard him take a couple of steps toward her. She did not want him to touch her. Steadying herself as best she could, she lowered her hands and blinked at him.

"You sick?" he asked cautiously.

She started to shake her head no and felt suddenly limp with the pain. Her eyes began to tear. She felt her legs start to buckle. Knowing she was going to fall, she put one hand behind her and grabbed hold of the piling.

He stepped forward quickly and took her arm. "Here," he said. "Let me help you."

She sagged heavily against him. He put an arm around her and made her sit down on the pier with her head between her knees. She heard him running behind her and the thud as he jumped down to the barge. Almost immediately he was back on the dock.

She looked up as he came close and tried to smile. "I'm all right now, I think." It wasn't so, she had never felt worse in her life.

"Just the same," he said.

He crouched down beside her and held a sopping wet handkerchief to her forehead, then crooked his finger to catch the drops that ran down her face. She felt the calloused knuckles rasp against her skin.

The smell of him, as he kneeled close to her, was worse than the pain. He reeked of perspiration, of tobacco, of salt water, of God knew what else. His trousers brushed against the side of her arm and they felt stiff with filth and wear. She thought it was probably a blessing that she could not see the rag against her forehead. Yet she tried hard not to let him sense her revulsion. She was grateful for his help. Without him, she would have toppled into the river.

He patted her cheeks with the damp cloth and wiped it gently across her lips. She swallowed hard so she wouldn't gag.

"Feelin' better?" he said after awhile.

"Yes, much, thanks." She hoped it sounded sincere.

He stood up then, wadded the handkerchief in his fist and shoved it into his pants pocket. With the pipe still clamped tight between his teeth, he grinned and winked at her. He held out his hands to help her up.

She let him pull her to her feet, but carefully held herself at arms' length. He seemed relieved to see her standing, but she knew he was still concerned.

Something about his manner began to disturb her. "I'm all right now," she said, "I guess I'd better be getting home." She started to edge away from him. Without knowing why, she felt a sudden urge to run.

Frowning, he came a step closer. He stretched out his hand, but did not touch her. "Can I help?" he said. "You need a doctor?"

For one second she felt again the fear she had suffered when he appeared out of the shadows. But there was nothing in his behavior to cause it, she knew.

She laughed then. "All I need is a large pot of coffee," she said. She held her head between her hands and shook it sadly. "I had a little too much gin." She was babbling, trying to relieve the tension she felt building inside her.

He smiled triumphantly. "Coffee I can do," he said. "Pot's on the stove, over there in the shack." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

For a long moment she hesitated, following the line of his thumb out to the barge. It looked lonely and dark and isolated from the world. There was not a sound on the pier, except for the murmur of the water. She had no sensible reason to fear going with the gnarled little man. Yet she was filled with apprehension at the prospect of being out on the barge.

On the other hand, she could sure as hell use a cup of coffee. Now that she was on her feet again, she realized she was still in no condition to get herself home. The thought of the cup she might have to drink it out of revolted her.

Yet she had no choice. Either she would have to drink his coffee or let him take her home. That was the last thing she wanted to do. She knew what Angie would think when she saw him. And she wasn't about to give Angie the satisfaction.

She saw him waiting expectantly and smiled. "Why not?" she said.

She followed his swaying stride across the pier, feeling, from the way her eyes focused, that she must be swaying, too. She waited while he jumped down onto the barge. When he turned and held up his hands to catch her, she let herself relax.

He caught her under the arms and swung her easily off the pier. For an instant she hung suspended, feeling his powerful hands against the sides of her breasts, pressed hard against her.

Then he lowered her gently to her feet and turned to walk along the edge of the barge, leading her by the hand.

The center of the barge was piled high with coal. Once, as she stumbled, her foot slipped off the edge into the pile.

A chunk dislodged itself, avalanching across the deck and into the water. She hurried to keep up with him.

He yanked open the door of the shack and she followed him inside. It was a room about six feet square, unfinished, with a bunk on one wall and a latrine in the corner. A two-burner hot plate with a coffee pot sat on a shelf, a tin cup beside it.

He put his fingertips tentatively against the pot. "Still hot," he said. "Have to take it black, though. Can't keep milk in this weather." He gestured toward the river. "Even spoils in the water."

She stood there uncomfortably, peering around her. She looked at the soot-blackened sheet on the bunk, at the windows and the wall and the floor, cruddy with coal dust. And then at the man himself.

His skin was the color of the sheets, gray with black coal dust ground into the pores. The hair on his arms and head and eyebrows was black with red at the roots, like a henna job done backwards. The only things about him that looked clean were the whites of his eyes.

He caught her examining him and laughed. "Been on this tub a month now," he said. He handed her the tin cup half filled with grainy black coffee.

She nodded thanks and stepped back away from him, toward the bunk.

"Funny thing about that black stuff," he went on, nodding out the open door, "the way it seeps in."

She held the cup tightly between her hands. Feeling the edge of the bunk against her calves, she lowered herself gingerly down onto the mattress.

"Even gets in your teeth."

She took a mouthful of the hot coffee and realized exactly what he meant. Running her tongue across her upper teeth, she felt a gritty slime and wrinkled her nose distastefully.

But the coffee was strong and it calmed her. She drank it down and passed the cup for more.

He poured her another cup gladly and handed it over.

With the coffee inside her, she began to feel a little better. Her knees were still weak and she knew it would be a while before she could safely navigate under her own steam. She leaned back on one elbow and looked around the room curiously. As far as she could tell, there was nothing to indicate the habits of the man. There was not a picture or a book or a magazine in the place and the only newspaper had been spread out on the floor like a rug.

She glanced up to where he stood leaning against the wall. "What do you do besides look after the coal pile?" she said. "It must be a lonely life."

He laid his pipe on the shelf beside the stove. "Don't do much of anything," he said. "Once in a while, I take a night in town. Mostly I just sit and smoke." He paused reflectively. "Is pretty lonely, though. Don't often have a lady in for coffee."

Catching the peculiar light in his eyes, she was sorry she had asked. She felt him peering at her and kept herself busy with the cup, drinking slowly and staring ahead of her at nothing. The pounding inside her head began again.

She knew she would not get out of the shack as easily as she had walked in.

Realizing that she was trapped, she cursed herself for having gotten into such a position.

Her stomach sopped up the sooty coffee and gradually began to settle. In a minute she would calmly get up, thank him for his cups of coffee, walk demurely toward the door —and run.

Then she heard it, the first patter of rain on the shack's tin roof.

Rain falling faster and a rumble of thunder from across the river.

Rain, pouring, clattering like pebbles against the roof. He reached over casually, pulled the door closed, and latched it.

She jumped up abruptly, spilling coffee onto her slacks. "I can't stay here," she said. She heard the tremor of fear in her voice.

He cocked his head and listened. "Rainin' hard," he said.

"I can hear," she answered sharply. She started toward the doorway.

He moved easily and leaned his shoulders against the door. She was aware for the first time of the bulging muscles of his neck and arms. He kept his hands behind him and, except for his eyes, he seemed perfectly at ease.

"A shower," he said. His voice was soothing. "It's only a shower."

Carolyn took a deep breath and dragged up all the strength she could find. Then, without further hesitation, she stepped forward, her hand outstretched to open the door.

He didn't move.

She opened her mouth and began to scream. He hit her sharply across the mouth with the back of his hand.

She staggered backwards onto the bunk. Her head banged into the wall.

He followed her, his face contorted, his eyes bright sparks of life in the grimy face. "I didn't mean to hurt you," he said. He stood over her with his monkey arms limp at his sides. "Never hurt anybody."

She touched her tongue to her lower lip and tasted blood. Afraid to scream again or even to move, she pressed against the wall, half expecting him to kill her.

He put out his hand and gently, tenderly began to stroke her hair. "Soft," he said. “So soft." He let the short strands slip between his fingers.

She forced herself not to draw away and concentrated on his eyes. Those bright, blazing eyes. Black and shining, like pieces of coal.

His hands moved to her shoulders and he leaned slowly toward her, pushing her down to the bunk.

She saw the tiny reflection of herself in his black, shining eyes. Growing larger.

"I won't hurt you," he whispered. "I just want to touch you. That's all. Just want to touch you."

Her back met the mattress and she let herself go, knowing there was no escape.

Gently he unbuttoned her shirt and slid a hand in to fondle her breasts. Bracing himself on one knee, he bent over her, his eyes coming still closer, his breathing shallow as he caressed her.

The rain beat down steadily on the roof. It was smelly and stifling in the tiny room. He pressed closer, undressing her slowly, running his hands lightly over her body. Touching her, touching her...

She twisted her head to one side, suffocating and gasping for air.

He lowered himself on top of her, spreading his body over her like a blanket. Rubbing against her, grinding her into the bed. His rough trousers scraped the soft flesh of her thighs.

"I won't hurt you," he whispered hoarsely. "I won't hurt you."

She closed her eyes. The ugly little man and his smelly sheets became a blur and there was only the pain ripping through her.

Her back arched. She bit hard on her split lower lip, holding back the scream tearing up from her throat.

She heard the breath go out of him and he was a dead weight on top of her.

He rolled away from her then and lay on his back. She got up painfully and for a moment, stood looking down at him, sick with revulsion and loathing. His black eyes stared stupidly at the ceiling, the lights in them gone. A trickle of saliva dried on his chin.

Quietly, she dressed and left the shack. When she reached the pier, she lowered her head and ran through the rain.

Stumbling, falling on the slippery streets, she ran until she was out of breath. Collapsing against the fender of a car, she leaned over the gutter and threw up. Her guts heaved as though she would turn inside out, but she felt no relief.

Sobbing and gasping for breath, she sank slowly down to the curb. She sat with her head between her knees, her feet slipping in the puke.

Soaked through, wretched, she wanted to die.

She sat there for a long time, too numb to think, too miserable to move. Rivulets of rain trickled off her hair and ran down the back of her neck. A man and a woman stopped and peered down at her curiously, then went on down the street. She heard the swoosh of their shoes in the puddles, the whine of tires on the slippery road. But the sounds meant nothing, nor did the rain.

She got up slowly, leaning heavily against the fender of the car. She did not know where she was nor remember how she came to be there. Gradually, she realized that she was afraid. That she was afraid and she had to move.

She started walking, without destination, but sensing that she had to get away. Away from…

From the river. From the barge. As the memory crashed in on her, she began again to run.

CHAPTER 8

Walter opened the door and blinked at her sleepily. He peered at her swollen lip and drenched clothing. Then, without saying a word, he took her hand and brought her inside.

He led her into the livingroom and went to get her a bathrobe. She stood where he left her, waiting, as though unable to move by herself.

He came back and draped the robe around her shoulders. Taking her elbow, he steered her along the hall to the bathroom. "You'd better take a shower," he said. "You're a mess." He closed the lid on the toilet and sat her down.

"I'll bring you some ice for that lip."

For a while she just sat there, staring back at her reflection in the mirror behind the door, hardly recognizing the face as her own. Her hair was plastered flat to her head, trickles of water running from it over her forehead and nose, leaving gray streaks in the smudges of coal dust. Her eyes were swollen from crying, the lower lip poked out bulbously. She looked like a sad clown in black face.

When she tried to get up, her legs wouldn't hold her. She slumped back against the toilet, feeling useless, soggy, depleted.

Walter knocked and, when she didn't answer, opened the door and came in. He held out ice cubes wrapped in a clean kitchen towel. She looked at the package but made no attempt to take it.

"Here," he said. "Put your head back."

She tried to obey but couldn't move.

He propped her chin on his fist and held her head while he applied the ice.

All of a sudden, she was full of life. "Hey!" she yelled. "That hurts!" She frowned at him.

Walter grinned and removed the ice pack. "Well, at least I know you're alive. I was beginning to wonder." He handed her the towel. "You do it," he said. "It won't hurt as much that way."

Held lightly against the wound, the ice felt good. She sensed the cold spreading through her lip and down her chin, numbing them like a shot of novocain. Yet when she took the ice away, pain again flamed through her face and her teeth ached. She put it back quickly, pushing her lip out with her tongue.

Walter poked about in the medicine cabinet until he found a cotton swab and a small bottle of yellowish liquid. Then he took the ice pack away from her and set it in the sink. He held her chin while he cleansed the wound, dabbing gently with the swab.

She smelled camphor and wrinkled her nose with disgust. "What is it?"

"My grandmother swore by this stuff," he answered easily. "It'll cure anything." He snapped the stick in two and tossed it into the basket under the sink. He looked at her and smiled. "There. That ought to do it. Now, a shower."

He helped her up. She leaned heavily against his arm, feeling faint and shaky.

He steadied her with one hand and reached for the top button on her shirt.

Suddenly she was filled with rage. She did not remember that this was Walter, whom she trusted, and that he was trying to take care of her. She saw only the hand, reaching to open her shirt, reaching to fondle, reaching to touch her. Saw only the ugly little man coming toward her, pressing her down, down.

She beat wildly at his arms with her fists, her eyes closed, kicking, screaming at him hysterically.

He did not try to stop her, just waited patiently until she had exhausted herself.

She looked up at him then and began to cry. "Oh, Walter!" she sobbed. "Walter, I'm sorry."

He put his arms around her and held her gently with her head against his shoulder. "It's all right," he murmured.

"Everything's going to be all right." He stroked her hair tenderly.

When she stopped shaking and sobbing in his arms, she looked up at him and smiled wanly. "Thank you," she whispered. "I needed you."

She let him take off her shirt and slacks. He stood back and looked at her clinically, at her bruised thighs and the dirt on her body.

"I'll tell you later," she said. "Now, get out and let me get washed."

She stood in the shower and soaped herself lavishly, letting the hot water stream over her aching body. Everywhere she touched, she was sore. The muscles in her arms ached, barely able to lift the weight of the cloth. Yet she scrubbed vigorously, almost brutally, washing away the memory and the filth.

She felt soiled to the core of her being and no matter how she scrubbed, she could not flush away the shame.

Though she knew it was foolish, she felt as though she had been contaminated for life. Who would want her now, after he had touched her? Surely Angie would have no use for her. She hardly felt that anyone could.

How ridiculous. It was not the first time a woman had been mistreated by a man. Almost every day the newspapers carried stories very much like her own. Nobody condemned the women. Not if they had any sense. It was the men who got in trouble.

What she really had to remember was that not all men were like the one she had encountered. Some would be gentle, some would care. Try as she might, she could not really convince herself. It had been her first experience with a man and it had been hideous.

Women were never like that. Women were more sensitive. Even without love, they were not crude. The girl in the denim shirt had not been truly interested in her. Still, she had been clean and decent and, if Carolyn had let her, she would have been kind.

No matter how she tried to rationalize, she knew the experience with the man would leave a permanent scar in her memory. Whatever else happened to her, even if she died a lonely old maid, she would never put herself in such a position again.

Only one thought would she cling to, she did not want a man, any man, to touch her. Ever.

She stood on the white mat and rubbed briskly dry with a big Turkish towel.

From the kitchen she heard sounds of Walter making coffee, whistling, rattling cups into saucers. And she smiled around her puffy lip, glad for Walter and comforted to have him near. He was always there when she needed him, always happy to listen, asking few questions, doing what had to be done. She remembered how tenderly he had undressed her. Somehow it had been different with Walter. It didn't bother her that he was a man and he had touched her.

She stepped out of the bathroom swaddled in Walter's bathrobe, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Coming into the kitchen behind him, she leaned against the refrigerator and watched him pour coffee into flat white cups.

He looked at her closely, inspecting her pink, shiny face and the hair curling in whisps around her ears. Abruptly, he nodded. "You look like you again," he said. "But how do you feel?"

She smiled ruefully. "Like me. Almost, anyway." She rubbed one hand along her thigh. "I'm still a little stiff."

He took a bottle out of the cupboard and poured half a shot into one cup. "Brandy," he said. "Fix you right up." He picked up both cups and started out of the kitchen. "Come on."

She did not bother to tell him that she would be happy never to drink again as long as she lived. Instead, she followed him into the living room and sat down on the big, overstuffed couch.

She loved the furniture in Walter's apartment. He was the only person she knew who had ignored the advent of foam rubber. The shabby old couch was soft and deep. She put her feet up and stretched out with her head on the armrest, sinking into the cushions, feeling the soreness already beginning to ease from her body.

Walter set the cups on the glass-topped coffeetable and stood looking down at her. "If you turn over," he said, "I'll rub your back."

He sat down beside her and put one hand on her shoulder. She felt herself drawing away. The movement was involuntary. She knew it was foolish and that only minutes before she had not minded his touch. Yet now she felt uneasy and it was an effort to lie still.

He paid no attention to her nervousness. His strong hands gently kneaded the muscles down the back of her neck and across her shoulders. He put one hand inside the collar of the robe and worked his fingers along the spine, down to the waist.

In minutes Carolyn was completely relaxed, wondering why she had shied away. It was ridiculous ever to think of Walter as just a man. He would never hurt her. He never had.

It occurred to her that Walter had never tried to approach her as a lover. She wondered how she might respond now if he did. His hands were gentle, he would be kind. Yet she was not sure that even he could make her forget. Maybe no one ever could.

She felt his fingers warm against her flesh, touching her lightly now, circling, soothing her. There was nothing in his touch but the tenderness of a friend. In her heart, she thanked him for that. She needed him that way, especially now.

She sighed contentedly. "That's wonderful, Walter. I feel much better." She turned on her back to look at him. "Why aren't all men like you?"

He shrugged. "Are all women like you?"

He handed her the cup with the brandy and made a sign for her to drink it. The steaming mixture burned all the way down to her stomach, but almost immediately her nerves began to settle. She felt drowsy, pleasantly relaxed. She lay back against the cushions, as content as a cat in the sun.

Walter sat beside her, massaging her bare feet and her calves. "You've got a nasty bruise on this ankle," he said, tracing around the bone with a fingertip.

"I've got some worse than that," she answered, "but I won't show you where."

Despite herself, she could not bear the feel of his touch on her legs, moving up toward her thighs. It was too much like the memory of the man on the barge.

When he reached her knee, she put out her hand to stop him. "That's enough, Walter. I'll be asleep in a minute if you keep it up."

"What's wrong with that?" he said. "I gather you haven't been to bed yet."

She raised both eyebrows and the laugh lines crinkled around her eyes. "I suppose that's all in the way you look at it," she said.

"What?" He was frowning.

"Oh, nothing," she said quickly. "I just thought I was being funny."

She sat back in the corner of the couch and tucked her knees under her chin. She knew he was waiting for her to explain and she felt, since she had come to him for help, that he had a right to know all that had happened. Still, she hesitated. She was ashamed of her behavior, of her appearance. In all the years of their friendship, she had never disappointed Walter. She did not want to start now. But she had to tell him something.

"Walter…" she began. She stopped abruptly.

He peered at her expectantly.

She took another sip of the coffee.

"Well?"

She looked at his worried eyes and smiled. "Don't look so serious," she said. "You'll scare me.”

He laughed, but not easily.

She glanced away from him. She let her attention focus on one big toe and thoughtfully rubbed the nail with her thumb. "I hate to admit it," she began again, "but you were right about Angie. We're through."

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "For your sake. I know how you felt about her."

She nodded. "I still do, I guess. In a way," she added. "But there's no reason for anybody to be sorry. I'm not, really. It's been coming on for months." She sighed. "I've never been able to make Angie happy. Sometimes I don't think anybody could."

Walter had an almost complacent look on his face. "Um hmm," he said. "I know."

She saw his expression and frowned uneasily. "What do you know?"

"Oh, nothing specific, really. Just that your little friend Angie has some peculiar ideas about life, that's all." He did not look at her as he spoke. "I had a feeling something like this," he gestured at her bathrobed figure, "might happen."

For a moment she simply sat there and stared at him. Then she said, "Walter, I think you must have forgotten to tell me something."

He shook his head, still not meeting her glance. "I didn't forget."

"Well?" she insisted.

"Well, just remember that you asked for it," he said. He leaned back now and met her gaze levelly. "As you remember, when Angie first moved in with you, I took her out alone a couple of times, trying to make friends. I thought it would be easier for all of us that way."

She nodded. "So?"

"We came back here after a play one night and..." He hesitated, then shrugged. "Well, she tried to seduce me. I suppose that's the nice way to put it."

"Oh, Walter, she flirts with everybody," Carolyn said defensively.

"She wasn't flirting this time, Carolyn. She damned near raped me." His forehead creased reflectively. "Anyhow, she made it pretty clear," he said slowly, "that she considers sex as a sort of convenient tool to get what she wants from anybody."

He was not saying anything she didn't already know, but Carolyn was nevertheless curious to hear what he had to say. "What do you mean?"

He ground the fist of one hand into the palm of the other. "Well, for one thing, she told me she didn't want me to think she was 'queer' just because she went to bed with you." He glanced at her and his expression was sympathetic. "She said that she only did it to please you."

Carolyn flushed angrily. That was precisely the sort of thing Angie would say. "Go on, Walter."

"Well," he shrugged, "it's obvious what she was out to do, isn't it?"

She raised her eyebrows. "Is it?"

"Look, I realized right away that she didn't want me. She can't stand me," he said flatly. "But she was determined, for whatever her reasons, to keep you all to herself. I suppose she thought that if she seduced me, I'd be on her side, so to speak. And therefore no longer a threat to her security."

"A threat to... Now, wait a minute," Carolyn objected.

He held up his hand. "Just let me finish," he said. "I wouldn't make an accusation like that without any proof. When I said this to Angie, all she could do was blush. She didn't even try to deny it. But she's hardly spoken to me since.

You know that. Anyhow, I realized then that you were in for a rough time. Lots of women use sex as a weapon. And Angie's one of them."

She felt sick inside, not so much because of what he had said about Angie, but because she felt he had failed her as a friend. If he had known all this... "Walter, if you're so damned smart, why didn't you say something?"

He smiled sadly. "Would it have made any difference, Carolyn? Nobody could tell you about Angie. You know that.

You had to find out for yourself." He leaned toward her. "Let me take a guess," he said calmly. "You've been naughty and you're being punished. Angie's probably found somebody to flaunt in your face."

She felt her cheeks burn with rage and shame. She wanted to slap him. But why should she bother? It would only prove his point.

He watched her closely, his expression blank. "And you," he concluded, "ran out in the rain to find somebody and get even with her."

What could she say when he was so right? She sighed and covered her face with her hands. "You make it sound pretty stupid," she mumbled.

He laughed. "Well, isn't it?" Then his face sobered and he took her hand. "Carolyn, do you still believe that Angie loves you?"

For a moment she hesitated. She was almost afraid to answer, for fear he would laugh in her face. Then she lifted her chin defiantly and glared at him. "I know that she needs me," she said.

Walter laughed, as she had known he would. "That's not love," he said. "That's greed."

She felt suddenly as though all the air had gone out of her lungs. She folded herself together, pressing away from him. She could not deny or even argue with anything he had said. But knowing that he was right didn't help a bit.

Too much of her still belonged to Angie. She knew that much of her always would.

She heard him move. Then he was close beside her, his arms around her, pulling her against his shoulder. She did not try to resist, just let herself relax against him, needing the warmth of him to comfort her.

He tilted her chin up and made her look at him. "What happened last night, Carolyn?"

She tried to turn her face away.

He held her tight. "Where did you go?"

"Downtown."

"Did you find what you wanted?"

She tried to twist away from him. He held onto her arms, not hurting her, but insistent. He peered at her relentlessly.

"Did you?"

She shook her head.

He took a deep breath and released her. "I wish you had come to me," he said.

Startled and completely confused, she sat up and peered at him closely. She realized what the statement implied.

But she couldn't imagine...

"Walter?" she said weakly.

"Never mind," he said, standing. "I'll find some clothes and take you home."

"Walter..." The word was a wail.

Walter grinned. "Don't worry," he said. "It wasn't a proposition. I intend to marry you."

He went off to the bathroom and left her standing there as though he had said nothing more than a simple "good afternoon."

She had never been proposed to before, but it had certainly been different in the books she had read as a kid. She didn't expect him to get romantic and mushy all of a sudden. They had known each other too long and too well for that. He could have kissed her. The very least he could have done was wait for an answer.

Curious, almost amused, she trailed after him.

He stood at the closet, rifling through pairs of summer slacks. Lifting out a pair of faded denims, he turned to face her. "These are tight on me," he said. "They ought to fit pretty well." He held the hanger toward her.

She did not reach to take it and he laid the slacks on the bed.

She watched him open a bureau drawer and search for a shirt. His movements were precise, meticulous.

When he faced her again, she smiled. "Am I to assume that was a proposal?" she said.

He smiled back and cocked an eyebrow. "You might call it that," he answered.

"What would you call it?"

"Well," he said, "actually it was simply a statement of fact."

She nodded. "That's what I've always liked about you, Walter. You know all the answers."

He put the shirt on the bed beside the slacks. "I didn't mean to upset you," he said. "There's no rush. Even if you and Angie are finished, as you say, I don't imagine you're ready to get involved immediately. Take your time. Think all you want." He grinned. "But I still intend to marry you."

She had nothing to say. She had never dreamed that Walter felt that way about her. He had never given any sign.

He had picked a bad moment to say it. She was still miserable about the man on the barge, still confused and unhappy about Angie. Yet there was something about him now, as always, that comforted her. She did not know if it was love she felt for him. She didn't care. She needed the warmth, the comfort, the assurance he had to give her.

He came toward her and she half-closed her eyes, waiting, wanting him to take her in his arms.

When he spoke again, it was from behind her, at the doorway. "Get dressed," he said. "You need some sleep.

You've had a rough night." He went out and shut the door behind him.

Walter, she thought, you pick the damndest times to be considerate.

She sighed then and reached for the shirt.

CHAPTER 9

An hour later, Carolyn let herself into the quiet apartment. As she entered the hall, Bridgit scooted out of the bedroom to met her. She stooped to lift the cat and, stroking its ears, tucked it into the crook of her arm. The cat was rigid against her, not purring at all.

"What's the matter?" she murmured, nuzzling into the soft neck. "Did she fight with you, too?"

Still holding the cat and trying to soothe it, she wandered into the livingroom.

On the floor where she had left her, and still naked, was Angie. For just a moment she thought the girl was asleep.

Then, stepping closer, she saw that the eyes were open and staring.

"Angie, for God's sake," she said angrily. "Get up and put on some clothes."

The girl appeared not to hear her. "Angie!"

Angie, apparently, had found a new game to play.

Carolyn did not know what the girl was trying to accomplish, but she was beginning to get annoyed.

Sighing, Carolyn set the cat on the couch and squatted down beside the girl. She looked at the empty face and for the first time, realized that the girl was not beautiful at all. There was something cruel and stupid about the mouth and the eyes were much too small. She reached out and touched the girl gently on the shoulder. "Angie," she said,

"wake up."

The girl continued to stare.

Remembering her friend's addiction to sleeping pills and the several attempts at suicide, Carolyn began to panic.

She grabbed Angie's arm and shook her.

"Angie, answer me, dammit!"

"Kill me," Angie droned. "I don't care." Her voice held the echo of a tomb.

Startled, not sure of what she had heard, Carolyn stared at her. "What?"

"Kill me," the girl repeated in a deadly whisper. "I want to die."

Carolyn giggled. "Oh, that's perfect," she said. Too relieved to care how Angie might respond, she began to laugh.

"That's just perfect."

She laughed till she fell over backwards onto the rug, gasping, clutching her throat. Bridgit hung over the edge of the couch, watching her.

When she had gained control of herself, she lay on her back and glanced cautiously at the girl. Angie was sitting up, glaring at her, her fists making dents in her fleshy hips.

Carolyn felt a smile tugging at the corners of her lips but she tried hard to keep a straight face. It would be easier to deal with Angie if she did not antagonize her any further.

"Just what is so damned funny, may I ask?" Angie said, her eyebrows drawing together into a menacing line.

Carolyn couldn't resist. She leaned forward and pinched Angie's cheek. "You are, my pet," she said. "What were you supposed to be this time, Angie? Juliet on the altar of love? It wasn't half bad, except that you forgot the candles.

And the poison."

She stood up and extended her hand. "Anyway, take a bow, baby. It was a good try."

"Oh, come off it, Carol," Angie said disgustedly. "You know perfectly well I was serious."

Carolyn shook her head. "No, Angie. This time you come off it," she said. "I'm through. You should have known that when I walked out on you last night."

She turned her back on the girl and stalked off to the bedroom. She lay on the bed with her hands clasped behind her head, watching a fly walk across the ceiling. She knew she was in for a battle with Angie but this time she was ready. No matter what the girl tried now, she would be able to laugh. She wasn't sure she could have if it hadn't been for Walter. She had learned to depend on Angie almost for her very life. But that was all over now. She had Walter. He loved her and wanted to marry her. He had offered her a way to get free.

In less than five minutes Angie was standing at the foot of the bed. Carolyn heard her come in but did not look at her.

"Carol?" Angie said in a tiny voice.

"Hmm?"

"Did you mean it?" She sounded like she had been crying.

Carolyn ignored the quaver in Angie's voice. She knew that tears came easily to the girl. She lowered her glance to meet Angie's. "Yes," she said evenly. "I meant it, Angie. I'm through."

"You want me to leave?"

"Yes. I want you to leave."

"Now?"

Carolyn did not flinch. "Right now," she said firmly. "Pack and go."

Without another word, Angie went to the closet and dragged down the battered blue valise she had brought over with her from England. She spread it open on the floor. Then, carelessly, not bothering to fold, she began dumping shirts and underthings into it.

She went into the bathroom to dress and when she came back, carried bottles and brushes and tubes which she stuffed in along the edges.

Watching her, Carolyn frowned uneasily. She knew something must be terribly wrong. Nothing involving Angie could be this simple. She steadied herself, prepared for a sneak attack.

Angie slammed the lid down and leaned on the valise with one knee.

Carolyn rolled onto her stomach and shut her eyes. She heard Angie fumbling with the catch on the bag.

In a moment, Angie would be gone. That's all it ever took, a moment. After six months or sixty years. And then there would be nothing, as there had been before. But it had to be that way. It was best for both of them.

She heard the squeak of the handle as Angie lifted the valise.

This is it, she thought. The end. And I'm glad.

Glad? She felt numb and heavy. There was no joy in her. And in her heart she wished Angie had not been so anxious to leave.

Even as she realized it, she hated herself for the weakness. She no longer loved the, girl. Still, in a way, she needed her. She felt like a fool, after all they'd been through. And she knew that Walter would disapprove. But she could not deny that it hurt, having the girl leave this way. It was almost as though she didn't care, as though she never had. And Carolyn did not want to believe that.

Angie stood the case on its spine and approached the bed. "Well, I'm all ready," she said. Her voice lilted pleasantly, as though she were off for a happy vacation. "Aren't you going to kiss me goodbye?"

"You sure were in a hell of a rush," Carolyn exploded. She rolled over to face the girl. "What's the matter, can't wait to see Jimmy?" She felt sorry for the words before they were out of her mouth. Yet she wanted to hurt Angie, still needed to get back at her. Angie had taught her about getting even and Angie should appreciate her need. But she knew that Angie would not.

Angie simply looked at her and smiled patiently. "You told me to go," she said.

"Yes, I did," Carolyn said, sitting up and looking back at Angie defiantly. "And I meant it. But I didn't realize you were in such a hurry to get away from me. Why have you bothered all this time, Angie? Why didn't you take off long ago?"

Angie shook her head sadly. "I don't know what's the matter with you, Carol," she said quietly. "I love you. You know I wouldn't be leaving now if you hadn't told me to go."

"Don't hand me that," Carolyn said. "You don't give a damn about me. You never did." She knew she must sound like a fool, yet she couldn't stop the angry words pouring out of her. She hated Angie, yet at the same time she loved her. It was always that way.

Angie smiled down at her like a tolerant parent at a grimy child.

"Damn it, don't look at me that way," she said. "If you loved me at all, you wouldn't be sleeping around behind my back." She watched the temper burn in Angie's cheeks and felt a tremor of satisfaction. "You don't fool me, Angie. I know all about you. And as far as I'm concerned, you're nothing but a tramp.'

"Are you any better?" Angie flared. "Just look at yourself, Carol." She gestured angrily at Carolyn. "You don't even come home in your own clothes."

Carolyn suddenly had nothing more to say. She had not taken a good look at herself, but she could imagine what a picture she must make with her Up still swollen and wearing an old shirt and pair of slacks of Walter's. She stood up and walked away from the girl. Angie stalked after her relentlessly. "At least you know what I've been doing," she said. "I haven't tried to hide it. But what do I know about you? I've never stayed out all night."

"All right, all right," Carolyn said. "You've made your point, Angie." She saw the smug smile on Angie's face. "Just go away and let me alone."

Carolyn leaned her fists on the windowsill and pressed her forehead against the glass. She felt sick of herself and of Angie, tearing at each other, wanting to hurt. Why did it always happen this way? She knew it was not love on Angie's part, perhaps not on her own. It was dependence and self-pity and—what had Walter called it? —greed. Yet giving it all its nasty names did not dispel it. She wanted Angie out of her life. She was tired of the insecurity, the shame. But something inside her still could not let the girl go. Despising herself for her weakness, Carolyn accepted the fact that she was not yet ready to live without the girl. "Angie!" She whirled from the window.

Angie was right behind her, as though she had been expecting Carolyn to turn. "I'm still here," she said. "I was waiting to say goodbye."

She could not fathom the expression on Angie's face, but she knew there was a hint of triumph. "I..." she started, then felt flustered and confused. What had she meant to say? She tried again. "I was just wondering where you’ll be staying. In case any mail comes from your family," she added quickly.

Angie sat down on the edge of the bed. "Well, you know I haven't got much choice," she said. "I've only got about twenty dollars in the bank and I don't want to have to borrow."

"You mean you're going to Jimmy," Carolyn said flatly. "Do you want to?"

"Of course not," Angie said. "I told you before I don't really care about Jimmy. The only reason I called him in the first place..."

"It doesn't matter now," Carolyn interrupted. She hesitated, almost afraid to say what she had in mind. She knew how Angie would interpret it. She wasn't even sure Angie would be wrong. "Angie..." Thoughtfully, she ran her fingers through her hair and looked away from the girl.

Finally Angie leaned forward to touch her arm. "What is it, Carol?"

Carolyn glanced at her quickly and then away. "Well, I was just going to say that you could stay here for awhile.

Just till you got a little money saved. If you can put up with a few changes."

Angie frowned. "What kind of changes?"

Nervously, Carolyn rubbed the palm of her hand against her hip bone as though both of them itched. She knew Angie would have a fit, but she had to find out sometime. If she were going to stay, it might as well be now.

"I have to tell you something," she said abruptly. "Walter asked me to marry him. I haven't given him an answer yet but I know marrying him would be the best thing in the world for me, Angie. I'm going to say yes."

Angie didn't fly into a temper as she had expected her to. She merely snorted disgustedly. "You laughed when I said you might want to marry Walter."

"Not quite," she said. "I just said it hadn't occurred to me." She smiled. "Funny, Walter admitted it hadn't occurred to him either until you came along and started monopolizing my time. It's true, we used to be together most of the time, almost like we really were married. We just never made it legal."

This time Angie smirked. "Most wives aren't virgins after they've been married ten years," she said. "Walter must be quite a man."

Carolyn could have slapped her. "Apparently you tried to find out," she said sharply.

Angie blushed, but she said nothing.

"Oh, I didn't mean that," Carolyn said quickly. "I've got no reason to yell at you. Besides, you're right. I've never been to bed with Walter." She frowned. "I don't know why, really. It just never happened, that's all."

"Uh huh," Angie said sarcastically. "And this is what you're going to marry?" She laughed. "That's funny, Carol, coming from you."

"There are more important things in life..." Carolyn began piously.

"Oh, Carol, please!" Angie moaned. "Don't philosophize at me."

Carolyn expelled a long breath and sat down on the bed beside the girl. There was a painful amount of truth in Angie's words. She felt her enthusiasm about marrying Walter begin to ebb. She loved him deeply as a friend. But how did she feel about him as a man?

She realized she had not thought about it. Walter had seemed so safe, so secure after Angie. She had forgotten that she had never found him attractive physically.

Maybe she could learn to love him that way. He was so right for her in every other respect. And sex wasn't the most important part of a relationship, after all. At least...

She remembered suddenly that only a few horns before she had decided that she could never go back to a life without physical gratification. Angie, even with her aversion to sex, had taught her its importance. She recalled vividly the thrill she had felt the first time Angie had kissed her. Every nerve tingled, her stomach tied in knots.

Then Angie had kissed her all over, her tongue probing, teasing, finding little oases of shock and pleasure Carolyn had never known she had. And then the ecstatic moment of completion.

It hadn't been the same for them since that first night. She supposed maybe it never was. Yet even the little they had was the thing that made all the suffering worthwhile. That and the hope of repeating the initial sensation.

It would be different with a man. Maybe better, maybe worse. Maybe just different. She had no way of judging. She thought for a moment of the man on the barge. But just for a moment. Already she realized that her decision never to let a man touch her was foolish. It wouldn't be the same with Walter, with any other man. She knew she had not been revolted just because he was a man, but simply because of the circumstances. Anyone would have been.

Still, a little part of her rebelled against the idea of being touched the way a man would touch her. She glanced at Angie and even in a glance realized that she was still much attracted to the girl. She had been since the first time she saw her and she had known even then that she had wanted her. She had never felt that way about Walter.

Maybe she never would. But she needed to be involved again, so she could forget Angie, could become herself again.

Maybe if she gave herself a chance...

Angie put her hand on Carolyn's knee and squeezed it. "I'm sorry, puss," she said quietly. "I didn't mean anything."

You know I'm just jealous."

The purring voice grated sharply across Carolyn's nerves. But she was sunk too deeply into her own thoughts to respond. She had a lot to learn about herself and her feelings, a lot to consider. She knew she had no right to marry Walter in the state she was in. Maybe, with his help, it would be all right. But she had to be sure before she made another mistake like Angie.

Oddly, at the moment she was not concerned with Angie, except as something to be expunged from her life. Yet she realized that Angie did not sense her lack of interest. She felt the girl's hand slide across her shoulders and down her back, soothing her, setting her up for the kill. Still she did not respond, feeling the caress only slightly and not aroused by it at all.

"If you're going to marry Walter, I guess you'll be going out with him a lot," Angie murmured. Her voice was hardly louder than a whisper and as soothing as her hands.

"I guess so," Carolyn said, not really paying attention. "I have a date with him tomorrow night."

Angie pulled Carolyn's shirttail out of her pants and slid her hand in under the material. Her fingers circled lightly, continuing to massage. "Well, I suppose I can put up with that," she said. "Though I won't be going out," she added piously. "I've already told Jimmy I won't be seeing him anymore."

Carolyn understood then what Angie was trying to do. She wanted none of it. If Angie were going to stay, it would have to be on Carolyn's terms. No more playing games.

"Look," she said gently, "it's no good, Angie. You know that. It's not the same with us anymore. I don't mind if you stay here, but don't expect..."

"Carol!" Angie said indignantly. "I didn't ask you for anything." She stuck out her lower Up, pouting. "You can do anything you want. I'll even sleep on the couch, if you want me to."

Carolyn stared at the girl for a moment, not really trusting her, yet caught off guard by the earnestness of her tone.

She knew better than to believe anything that Angie said, yet part of her still wanted to.

She lifted Angie's hand out from under her shirt, held the hand between her own palms, and peered anxiously into the girl's eyes.

"Angie," she said, "I meant it about Walter." Angie smiled. "You meant it about me, too, an hour ago," she said.

"I don't think you know what you want, Carolyn. Do you?"

"Angie..." she said desperately.

Pulling her hand out of Carolyn's grasp, Angie twisted suddenly toward her. She caught her across the ribs and pushed her down on the mattress. She leaned over her, holding her down by the arms.

Carolyn knew it was no use. She tried to break away but Angie had her pinned down.

Then Angie's lips mashed against her own. She felt the wound reopen and tears came to her eyes. Her arms went around the girl as Angie released her. Their tongues met and teased.

Angie's hand was at her belt.

"Angie, don't," she whimpered. "Please don't."

Angie opened the buckle. "I owe you this one," she whispered. "Then we'll be even."

Carolyn heard the words but they made no impression. She was aware only of the fire that raced through her at Angie's touch. That much had not changed. It was still Angie she wanted, only Angie who thrilled and could satisfy her. She made a last feeble attempt to resist, then she relaxed and offered herself to the girl.

Her body arched eagerly to meet the girl's lips, aching with the need to be fulfilled.

Angie caressed her slowly, lovingly with her lips and Carolyn felt as though she were being consumed by flames.

She caught her breath and waited.

Suddenly, Angie retreated and held herself away, not touching Carolyn's body with hers, but trailing a fingertip across Carolyn's stomach and down to her thigh.

Carolyn reached out to pull her close, but Angie stopped her hand.

"Carol," Angie murmured, "do you love me? Do you still love me?"

"Oh, Angie," Carolyn groaned. She felt an exquisite agony shiver through her.

"Do you love me?" Angie insisted.

She didn't know anymore what she felt about the girl or how sorry she might be tomorrow. But right now she needed her. Desperately.

"Yes, yes," she whispered. "I love you." Angie caressed her then, expertly and torturously slow. Craving raced through her. It circled in her belly and spread long fingers of desire downward. The center of her being began to swim.

When it was done, Carolyn lay cradled in Angie's arms, serene, content, depleted. She knew Angie had won again but she no longer cared. If they could have moments like this, nothing else mattered. Blindly, yet willingly, she entrusted her life to Angie's hands.

She put her arms around the girl and snuggled her face against Angie's belly.

"My baby," Angie crooned.

"I love you," Carolyn whispered.

Angie kissed her tenderly and rocked her in her arms. "My baby. My own darling Carol."

CHAPTER 10

The days that followed were the happiest of their life together. Angie behaved like an angel, rushing home from work to cook dinner, being affectionate, attentive and kind. Not for an instant did she give Carolyn reason to doubt her sincerity.

Carolyn tried at first to maintain a clear perspective. But holding Angie close at night, feeling her respond with the fervor of a bride, she soon turned a deaf ear to experience. She found herself completely beguiled, as she had been at the start of their relationship. When Angie asked her on Wednesday not to see Walter again, Carolyn flatly refused. But by bedtime Thursday, she had made the promise.

It took Carolyn the better part of Friday to get up the courage to call Walter. She had been awake most of the night, planning what she should say. She knew that nothing she said would matter, really. Walter would still be deeply hurt. He didn't deserve that from her after all they had meant to each other. He would probably tell her as much.

And she knew that it was shame as much as concern for his feelings that kept her from calling. Still, she had promised.

She was painfully aware that she hadn't been fair to Walter all week, since he had proposed. She had seen him every night and never once had she mentioned her reconciliation with Angie. Partly it was purely selfish. In the beginning she had been afraid that it might not last and she would need him to help her put the pieces back together. But partly it was something else. She knew that he would be disappointed in her, that he would not understand how she could go back after all that Angie had done.

She had tried sincerely to give Walter an equal chance. He had still made no attempt to approach her as a lover, but she had not really expected him to. She had known he would take things slowly. She enjoyed his company and their evenings were pleasant. Not exciting, not thrilling, but pleasant.

Still, when he brought her home, she found that she was almost glad to see him go. For Angie was waiting, already in bed, soft and sweet and willing. And when five o'clock came and she had to get up, they had sometimes not slept at all.

She could not tell Walter these things, could not even tell him that she needed sexual gratification. It wasn't something to talk about, like politics. It was something you felt and acted upon.

Yet she would have to tell him something.

The more she thought about it, the less sorry she felt that she had promised Angie she would not see him again.

She still loved him as a friend, she always would. But he no longer thought of her that way. He took for granted that she belonged to him. But she had chosen to belong to Angie. She knew that if she continued seeing him, it would simply make it more difficult for him later.

She deviled herself with the problem all afternoon. Finally, after she had fouled up an experiment she had been working on for three months, she gave up and went to the phone.

She reached him at his office. He did not seem at all surprised to hear from her, though she almost never called him at work. He even seemed to know what she was going to say. He listened without interrupting while she told him she had gone back to Angie.

When she had finished, he said simply, "So I won't be seeing you anymore." There was no hint of his feelings, just the plain statement of fact.

He waited for her to answer and when she didn't, went on. "Only one comment, Carolyn. I think this whole business with Angie is pretty stupid, as you know. But it's not up to me to tell you how to live. You've just made that perfectly clear. I only hope you get out of it before it's too late."

She heard the click as he hung up on her. She stood for a long while staring at the phone. Then she put down the receiver and went back to the lab. Very calmly, she cleared away the mess she'd left on her table and prepared to begin the experiment again.

She had expected him to say more. She knew she was a little disappointed that he had not yelled at her and told her how he really felt. It would have eased her conscience.

After work, she drove directly to Brooklyn for. her usual evening with the folks. She had promised Angie that she would be home by ten and throughout dinner she was nervous and withdrawn, glancing often at her watch. When her father suggested poker at a neighbor's, Carolyn hesitated for just a second, then begged off with a headache.

Seeing the disappointment in her father's eyes, she felt a flash of guilt, but she had made her choice and she stuck by it.

It was barely eight thirty when the Renault charged through the Battery Tunnel into Manhattan.

On a whim, she turned off the highway at Fourteenth Street and drove crosstown to a dingy East Side street. In a cellar shop, smelly with fried onions and bubbling grease in deep vats, she waited while a man in a filthy apron finished drinking a beer.

He came forward, wiping the foam off his mouth onto a hairy arm. "Yeah?"

"Fish 'n' chips," she said. "Large."

He took a section of newspaper and rolled it into a long cone. With a tin ladle, he scooped bits of greasy fish and puffy french fries out of one of the vats.

She dropped coins on the counter and took the cone, carefully tucking in the corners to keep the contents warm.

When she reached the car, the paper was already glazed and drippy with grease. She found Kleenex in her purse, spread it on the back seat and laid the cone on it gently.

Hummmg and happy, she proceeded uptown. She had never before felt as she had the past few days. Something inside her knew that it could not last forever. But she ignored the little voice. Her love for Angie was blind. When she had spoken to Walter on the phone that afternoon, he had called it stupid as well. She knew she had hurt him deeply. Just as she had hurt her parents. But there was nothing she wouldn't do now to keep the girl happy. Her parents would forgive her. So would Walter, in time, But if she lost Angie, she would never forgive herself.

She parked on Columbus Avenue, half a block from home. Almost running, she turned in at the driveway. She saw instantly that the tenth floor apartment directly above the lobby was dark. She counted up the rows of windows to be sure.

Feeling fear reach out to grip at her heart, she ran into the house. Surely there would be a note, some kind of explanation.

As she came out of the elevator, Carolyn heard Bridgit scratching at the inside of the apartment door. It was not a friendly sound. She recognized the symptom. The cat had not been fed. It was Angie's job to feed it every Friday night.

Cautiously she inched open the door. Bridgit's nose appeared in the crack.

"You silly animal," Carolyn said, grabbing the cat as it tried to squeeze out. She picked the cat up and it swatted at the paper cone. She pulled it out of Bridgit's reach. "You're as bad as Angie," she scolded. "Always trying to sneak away behind my back."

She frowned as she heard the words come out of her, not yet willing to admit that Angie was gone. Switching on lights as she went, clutching the paper cone in one hand and the cat under her arm, she stalked through the apartment, seeking some token of the girl.

There was nothing, not even the usual morning mess. Everything was neat, tidy, almost pristine. As this peculiar fact dawned on her, Carolyn became increasingly sure of something that bothered her more. Angie had obviously not gone to work that morning. Though she switched jobs often, it was Angie's special point of pride that she was never absent. And if she had stayed home, what had she done? Where had she gone?

Bridgit, by now half delirious with the odor of grease and fish, took another swat at the package and clawed Carolyn across the back of the hand. Startled, Carolyn loosened her grip. The cat leaped away from her and fled into the kitchen.

Slowly, miserably, Carolyn sank down on the edge of the couch, holding the cone clenched between her hands like a shy suitor's bouquet. It was not easy for her to admit that she had done this thing to herself. Yet this time she could not really blame Angie. She had known what Angie was, had learned not to trust her. And she had deliberately allowed herself to be blinded to the truth by her desire for the girl.

She no longer even thought of it as love.

It was not pity she felt for herself but, finally, contempt. She heard the cat noisily pushing her empty plate across the kitchen floor. She could hardly expect the animal to realize that the bottom had just fallen out of her world. Still, the sound annoyed her. It only compounded her guilt. Lately she had been ignoring all the important things, like Bridgit, her parents, Walter. And for what? For Angie? Because the girl loved her so?

It was too late now to go back and start over. She had already done the damage.

But maybe—

She shoved herself off the couch. In the kitchen she dumped the paper cone into the garbage bag and rinsed out Bridgit's dish. The cat crouched on top of the refrigerator, watching her open a can of cat food.

Carolyn squatted beside the dish and spoke gently to the cat, luring it down to the floor. She picked up a wad of cat food on her fingertips and held it out.

Bridgit eyed her suspiciously, then, rubbing hunchbacked along the wall, moved in on the food. Carolyn kept her arm perfectly still for the first mouthful. On the second, she held her hand closer to her body.

By the time the plate was empty, the cat was sitting on Carolyn's foot and pushing its head against her legs. She held it for a moment and stroked it. The cat began to purr.

"I'm glad you're easy to please," Carolyn murmured. "That was good for my morale."

Unemotionally then, she considered what she had to do. Another scene with Angie would be ridiculous. Angie would neither listen to nor understand her now any more than she had in the past. And things would wind up just as they had before. She understood now that she did not really love the girl, that she no longer even desired her. But Angie would never believe it. If anybody was going to leave, she would have to do it herself.

She went into the bedroom and dragged down two valises and opened them on the floor. Most everything she could leave behind. She would not need souvenirs to remind her. She could stay with her parents for a while. Maybe find a new place. Maybe marry Walter, if he would still have her. Whatever happened, so long as Angie was not involved, it would be good. She smiled, enjoying the rosy future stretched out ahead of her.

It wouldn't be all pleasure, she was aware of that. And at times she would even miss the girl. In between the miseries, there had been moments of bliss. She would not forget them, she didn't want to. But with Angie, one never dared think of the future. The girl had never known what she wanted, from life, from a lover, even from herself. She lived, not a day at a time, but a moment. Without Angie, there was hope.

Whistling, she went quickly about the business of sorting, packing some things, discarding others. She did not pause over pictures or theater programs or even the pressed rose from their anniversary. As she moved through the apartment, Bridgit hugged her heels, as though to make sure she would not be left behind.

Carolyn was thankful now that she had not let Angie force her to get rid of the cat. They'd fought about it more than once. Yet Carolyn had known from the beginning that Bridgit would still be there long after Angie had gone. And it amused her to know that Bridgit would be as happy as she to be rid of the girl.

She had no idea how long she had been working, but when she stopped to make herself a cup of tea, it was already past midnight.

Coming back into the livingroom, she was surprised to see Bridgit suddenly scoot away from her and run to hide behind a leg of the couch. Alerted, she strained to hear any sound from the hall or outside.

Quite clearly, Angie's high pitched, nervous laugh drifted up from the parking lot. Carolyn watched the cat's back arch and the hackles rise along its spine.

She set the cup down on the table and crossed quickly to stand at the edge of the window, hidden behind the curtain. Carefully she pulled aside the yellow burlap and peered out. Below, spotlighted in the hazy glow of a street lamp, was Angie. She stood with her back to the house, watching Jimmy jot something into a small notebook.

Realizing she would not be noticed, Carolyn pushed out the window as far as it would go and leaned over the sill.

She saw Jimmy snap the notebook shut and drop it into the side pocket of his jacket. He appeared to be angry.

Abruptly, he made a movement to leave. Angie called him back.

Then Carolyn watched Angie turn on the charm, luring Jimmy as she had so often lured Carolyn herself. It was almost pathetic, watching Angie from a distance, knowing exactly what she would do next. And she knew that Jimmy, like herself in the past, didn't stand a chance.

Jimmy stood aloof, legs spread, head high, as Angie moved in. The girl stepped close to him, gazing up into his eyes, her hands sliding up the backs of his arms. Carolyn could almost hear the cooing voice. Imperceptibly almost, he began to lean forward like a flower drawn to the sun, till Angie was in his arms.

Carolyn watched Angie move in still closer, rubbing herself against him. His hands gripped Angie's buttocks. He lifted her off her feet and they clung in a tight embrace.

Carolyn had seen enough. She backed away from the window, her fists clenched at her sides.

She remembered this morning, before she got out of bed, how Angie had grabbed her and held her. Even remembering, she felt a shudder of desire go through her. The girl had been more passionate than ever, eager in her love making, demanding fulfillment again and again.

Priming herself, Carolyn thought, for Jimmy.

Surely the girl had made arrangements ahead of time. She knew Angie too well to believe that she had stayed out of work on a whim, on the chance that she might be able to see him, Angie didn't work that way. She planned her deceits well in advance. She had probably made the date with him last weekend, before she had talked Carolyn into letting her stay.

That's what hurt the most, knowing that Angie had used her all week to get herself worked up for Jimmy. She couldn't blame him. He didn't know what was going on. But it was a sure thing that Angie did, every inch of the way. If she hadn't been blinded by her own desire, Carolyn could have figured out why Angie had been so attentive.

The girl had probably failed miserably in her first attempt with Jimmy. It took a lot to get her aroused and he didn't look like he would waste time on preliminaries. This time, Angie had let Carolyn take care of that. A simple arrangement, to Angie's mind, and probably a successful one.

She stood for a long moment, staring blindly, hearing the sound of Angie's cooing voice, whispering lies of love.

Once she had believed her. She had always wanted to. Now she could only wonder if Angie ever had loved her, really. Or had she always been merely used?

She shook herself free of the mood. She should probably thank Angie for what she had just seen, rather than hate her. For it was the final blow to Carolyn's ego and, she knew, probably the one that would save her life. She could not possibly be tempted to take Angie back again. And one problem that had often bothered her had finally been resolved: she knew that she had not failed with Angie. Angie had been lost from the start.

She turned and walked quickly into the bedroom, shut and fastened the valises. One at a time, she carried them into the livingroom. Finally she got Bridgit's carrying case out of the hall closet and set it on the floor. She called gently to the cat.

It was always an ordeal, getting Bridgit into the case. She unzipped the flap of the opening and let it hang. On all fours, she crawled toward the cat, calling it softly, clicking her fingers. Bridgit backed away from her along the wall till she had trapped herself in a corner. Carolyn lunged. Bridgit ducked under her outstretched hand and ran for the closet.

"Damn!" Carolyn breathed, standing up and brushing lint from the rug off her skirt. She turned toward the closet and found herself staring into Angie's icy blue eyes.

Carolyn hesitated only long enough to take a deep breath. Then she took a determined step forward. Angie moved to block the hall.

Carolyn didn't stop. "Excuse me," she said, squeezing past the girl. "I have to catch Bridgit."

Angie stood aside. She watched Carolyn grab Bridgit by the scruff and lift her out of the closet. She did not say a word but the pointed toe of her shoe began to tap out her irritation.

Shoving the cat inside the case, Carolyn pulled the flap up quickly and zipped it shut. "There," she said, aloud but to herself. "We're all set."

Angie spoke with deadly calm. "Are you going somewhere, Carol?"

"Yes. I'm going to Brooklyn," Carolyn said lightly. "Why?"

Angie ignored the question. "You were just there," she said. "What's the idea?"

Carolyn picked up the carrying case and started toward the hall door. "I love my family," she said.

Stepping quickly in front of her, Angie put her hand on Carolyn's arm. "Stop being funny," she said. "Where do you think you're going?"

Carolyn shrugged off Angie's hand. "I told you," she said. "Brooklyn." She set the case just inside the door and started back for a valise.

Angie breathed an exaggerated sigh. "All right," she said. "If that's what you want..."

Carolyn felt her temper snap. "Oh, just shut up, will you?" she flared. "You've put me through the treatment for the last time, Angie. It won't work anymore. So don't waste your breath."

Angie smirked and Carolyn could have killed her. But she knew instantly that, in a sense, Angie was right. As long as she was angry and not indifferent, she remained wide open to Angie's mode of attack.

She had not let Angie trap her that way for a long time and she didn't intend to have it happen now. She had found out a long time ago that she could not cope with Angie when she was angry. And Angie knew it, too. She would provoke Carolyn deliberately, then gradually wear her down.

She felt the anger fizzle and die. Even now Angie was getting the better of her. If she wanted out of this business alive, Carolyn knew she had better get hold of herself fast. She glanced quickly at the girl. Angie was watching her narrowly, waiting for her to make a move. It felt almost as though the girl were daring her to do something. Carolyn laughed to herself, keenly aware now of Angie's method and prepared to beat her at her own game.

Instead of picking up the valise, she sat down into one of the sling chairs and calmly lit a cigarette.

Angie watched her restlessly.

"If you'll just sit down for a minute," Carolyn said, "I’ll give you the vital details."

She watched the play of emotion in Angie's eyes, the curiosity, the smugness, the contempt. In a way, she couldn't blame the girl for what she felt. She had certainly let Angie make a fool of her often enough. But this time it was going to be different. She had never been so calm nor so sure of herself. Nothing Angie could do would touch her.

When Angie had settled herself on the couch, Carolyn went on. "The rent's due on the first," she said. "I left you the agent's address. And I would appreciate it if you would forward my mail. I'm expecting..."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Angie screamed. "I can't pay the rent on this place. Are you crazy?" Her eyes were wide, her face contorted with rage and frustration.

Carolyn smiled. "Not anymore, Angie. Anyway, I've been trying to get you out of here for quite a while and, for some reason, you never wanted to leave. So I figured I might just as well let you have it." She winked. "Besides, I'm sure Jimmy will be glad to help."

"Oh, God! You're such a bore sometimes," Angie said in a voice calculated to kill. "How can you be jealous of a man, Carol? Don't you understand that Jimmy has nothing to do with us?"

Carolyn raised her eyebrows. "You have a strange set of values, old girl."

"Why? It makes sense, doesn't it? You can love a woman and live with her. Just like we have. But you can't marry her and have children. That takes a man." She gestured impatiently. "It just isn't the same thing at all. I don't know why you can't see it."

Sadly, Carolyn shook her head. "All I can say is, I'm glad, frankly, that I couldn't marry you. Then look what a mess I'd be in." She stood up and stubbed out her cigarette. "Well, that's it, Angie. I'm sure you can take care of yourself without any help from me."

She walked to the valise and bent to pick it up.

Suddenly the cushion off the couch hit her squarely in the back of the head. Off balance, she jerked forward and grabbed at the valise for support. Leaning heavily on one knee, she swore silently and waited till she got control of herself before facing Angie.

"You asked for that!" Angie screamed. "You're a bitch, walking out on me like that. You're a bitch!"

Fists clenched at her sides, Carolyn approached her slowly, stalking her down as she had done with the cat. Like Bridgit, Angie backed away.

"Angie, it's time you learned a lesson," Carolyn said quietly. "I'm tired of you pushing me around."

When Angie reached the corner, she knew she was trapped. She began to panic. Angie, in panic, always got sly.

Carolyn could almost hear the wheels clicking in Angle's head, she knew her so well. And, finally, she understood how to stop the girl completely.

As Angie advanced, Carolyn deliberately allowed herself to be wooed by the crooning voice, the pleading eyes. She let Angie move them out of the corner, into the center of the room.

"You know it's you I love," Angie murmured. "Always."

Carolyn listened but did not speak.

"I was just saying goodbye to Jimmy. Like you promised to do with Walter. I thought you'd want me to. That's all, Carol. Saying goodbye."

Carolyn felt the couch against the backs of her knees and braced herself for the final play.

"Baby, haven't I been good to you? Haven't we been happy all week?"

This time, as Angie's hands moved to caress her, Carolyn felt no response. There was neither pleasure nor pain in Angie's touch. Angie's hands were only hands, no longer needles pricking her with desire. She closed her eyes in secret relief and joy.

Angie, taking her lowered eyelids to signal the final bursting of passion, pushed Carolyn gently onto the couch and began the ritual of seduction. Knowing her weaknesses, she used Carolyn's body expertly, tickling her neck with her tongue and fondling her breasts.

Carolyn did not even pretend to be aroused. She didn't have to. Angie was so positive of her power that she did not need to be encouraged. Carolyn opened her eyes just wide enough to see the triumph on Angie's face. Then, as the girl's mouth lowered to meet her own, she laughed, hard and cruelly.

Shocked, Angie sat upright and stared at her.

"I have news for you," Carolyn said lightly. "It didn't work this time."

She watched the shock become sickness as the girl's composure disintegrated. She did not know what demon she had unleashed in Angie's mind, but she knew with brutal certainty that she had done more damage than she realized. She felt the perspiration break out across her back and her hands trembled, yet she did not reach out to comfort the girl. She simply stared at her, horrified at what she had done, knowing it was already too late to help Angie.

Angie opened her mouth and tried to speak but the sounds that came out were not words. They were shrill squeaks, cries of pain like a dog makes when its tail gets stepped on. And then she was beating on Carolyn's arms and head and shoulders with her fists, crying, screaming hysterically, wanting to kill.

Carolyn twisted away from her toward the edge of the couch, covering her head with her arms. As she rolled, Angie shoved her and she pitched off the couch. Her head hit the floor. For a second she was too numb to move.

She heard Bridgit cry out in terror as Angie kicked the carrying case out of the way. The hall door slammed. Then there was silence.

Carolyn got to her feet slowly, blinking, rubbing her shoulder where it had crashed into the coffeetable. Every muscle ached. She felt like she had been beaten with a club. Still dazed, she stood looking at the closed door, angry, wanting to hit back. The scene on the couch came to her. As she remembered the wild, wild look in Angie’s eyes, she felt the terror growing inside her. She started after the girl.

She stopped just long enough to right Bridgit's upturned prison and open the flap. Then she banged out into the hall.

The elevator door slid shut in her face. She watched the numbers click through the dial. Going down. Stopping at one.

She breathed a sigh of relief. At least Angie wasn't going to throw herself off the roof. But still… She went back inside for the keys to the car.

CHAPTER 11

When Carolyn reached the corner, she searched frantically for a glimpse of Angie. The sidewalk appeared deserted in both directions as far as she could see. She had no idea which way Angie had gone but she knew she couldn't have gotten far. Without her purse, which she had left in the apartment, Angie would have to walk wherever she was going. And that was no problem. Angie had never willingly walked three consecutive blocks in her life.

But, worried as she was about the girl's state of mind, Carolyn was even more concerned about Angie wandering alone through the neighborhood. Hovering as it did on the edge of a crime-ridden slum area, it was no place for a woman to take an early morning stroll. The development they lived in had round-the-clock guards. Yet she knew that Angie, who rarely stopped to consider anything, had never questioned why the guards were there. Her mind already filled with visions of stumbling across Angie's raped and mutilated body, Carolyn hurried up the block to the little Renault.

She drove down Columbus Avenue slowly, peering ahead and into the shadows on both sides. At Eighty Sixth Street she stopped for a red light.

On her left, running out in the street, turning as she ran to look behind her, was Angie, apparently headed for Central Park. As a cab came up the street toward her, Angie waved. The cab made a sharp U-turn and halted beside her. Angie climbed in.

Carolyn couldn't be bothered waiting for the light to change. She veered around the corner and took off after the cab.

They did not go into the park but turned right on Central Park West, heading downtown. The street was empty except for a bus and an occasional cab and, lagging two blocks behind, Carolyn kept the green and white vehicle easily in sight. She could see Angie's curly head silhouetted against the back window, rigid, staring straight ahead.

At the Museum of Natural History, the cab slowed and pulled over to the corner. A block behind, Carolyn drew in to the curb but left the motor running, not knowing what the girl might do next.

Angie leaped out of the cab on the park side and, without looking, ran across the street and disappeared into the tree-shaded entrance to the drive. The cabbie leaned out the window and shouted to her. If she heard him at all, Angie did not stop. The driver got out and stood beside the cab, peering after the girl.

Carolyn eased the car away from the curb and drove up beside the man. She leaned across to the far window, a dollar bill in her hand.

"Here," she said, shaking it at him impatiently. "It's for her."

He stared at her for a second, scratching the bald spot on top of his head, then smoothing a few hairs to cover it.

"Bunch of queers," he muttered disgustedly. He took the bill.

Carolyn turned into the park and onto the drive beside the lake. It was dark under the trees. She glimpsed the pale pink of Angie's cotton dress as the light of a street lamp touched it. She moved in just close enough to keep the girl in full view.

Angie walked rapidly, as though she had been used to doing so always. She seemed to know exactly where she was going, not hesitating once in her headlong course. Finally, at the very end of the lake, she turned off the sidewalk and strode into the brush. She vanished into the darkness as though into a cave.

Afraid that if she left the car beside the road it would attract attention, Carolyn speeded up around the bend and into the parking lot a hundred yards further on. She leaped out of the car and ran back towards the lake. From the top of a huge rock jutting out over the water, she peered into the moonlit shadows until she found Angie just stepping out of the woods.

For a moment she stood indecisively, then crouched down to watch.

Angie stepped deliberately out onto a broad, flat stretch of ground, right down to the edge of the water. She posed there dramatically, her face turned to the starlit heavens, hands clasped to her breast. Then, instead of hurling herself into the lake, she sat down on a stone and began to take off her shoes.

Watching her, Carolyn suddenly laughed aloud and clamped her hand over her mouth so that Angie would not hear.

It was typical of Angie, somehow. She realized that the girl had come to this secluded spot to take the fatal plunge.

Yet she also knew that she had carefully chosen to do so in three inches of water. She should have known better than to take her seriously. Even as a suicide, Angie could not be sincere.

Angie folded her stockings ceremoniously and tucked them into the toe of one shoe. Then she set the shoes straight, as though lining them up in a closet. Still sitting, she stretched a leg toward the water, slowly, almost as though it pained her.

Instantly she withdrew her foot. She hugged her legs close to her chest and her head sagged against her knees. For a long time she sat there, stooped, defeated. Then, still slumped and obviously miserable, she unrolled the stockings and began to dress.

Carolyn got up stiffly and dusted her hands on her skirt. For an instant, she paused. She knew that whatever fit Angie had had was subsiding now into depression. And she felt reasonably sure that Angie would never go through with a suicide, that the water would always be too cold or the ground too far away. Still she felt guilty about what she had done to her. Once she had loved the girl. She started climbing down the side of the rock.

Picking her way carefully over loose stones, Carolyn got down to the edge of the lake. She could see Angie quite clearly now, standing, gazing out over the water. As quietly as she could, she moved along the water toward the girl.

Out of the shadows behind Angie emerged the figure of a man. Carolyn started to shout a warning. Then the words stuck in her throat as she recognized the blue uniform of the park patrolman.

The policeman called out to Angie before he reached her. Angie whirled, then answered him. They stood close together, talking quietly. Side by side they started back toward the road.

Carolyn could not hear what either said, but glancing ahead of them, she saw the prowl car with another cop seated in it parked beside the walk.

When they were out of earshot, she turned and made her way quickly out of the brush and ran to the parking lot.

She kept a safe distance behind the prowl car as it drove slowly toward the Fifty Ninth Street exit. The policeman put out his hand and hailed a cab. She didn't know what story Angie had told him, but it must have been a good one.

Almost before it stopped, Angie had jumped out of the patrol car and was opening the door of the taxi. It took off like a shot, with Carolyn close behind.

By now it was after three and traffic was light. Even as they drove through Times Square, Carolyn had no trouble keeping Angie in sight. She had no idea where the girl might be going but as long as she had started this chase, she was determined to see it through. If the girl went to Jimmy, she would not worry any more about her. But in the condition she was in, she might be going just about anywhere.

Finally the cab pulled up in front of a dingy side street bar. Carolyn parked half a block behind.

The cab waited while Angie went inside. She was gone for quite some time. When she came out, she handed money to the driver, then flounced back into the bar.

Carolyn stayed in the car for a long time, watching the door of the bar. A couple of drunks staggered out and reeled off down the street. A guy stopped out front and peered in the window, then went on his way. The bartender came out for a breath of air. There was no sign of Angie.

She found a stale cigarette in her purse and lit it. It burnt her throat and she stubbed it out in the ashtray. A pulse beat steadily in her right temple and her palms were slippery with sweat. She glanced at her watch, then held it to her ear to make sure it was running. What the hell could Angie be doing in that bar, anyhow? She never drank, except occasionally at home. And it didn't look like a place where Jimmy would take a girl.

Finally she could sit still no longer. She slammed the door of the car behind her and crossed quickly in the middle of the block.

Leaning close to the soot smeared windows, Carolyn peered into the bar. It was like dozens of others she had seen, a long, smoke-filled room with a wooden bar and half a dozen tables. There was an open phone on the wall in the corner, right next to the ladies' toilet. The man she had seen in the doorway stood behind the bar, polishing glasses on a dirty towel. The only light came from a cluster of bulbs framing a mirror above the cash register.

But she could make out easily enough the figures lined up along the bar, hunching forward over their drinks. There was only one woman and she wasn't Angie.

Carolyn pushed open the swinging door and went inside. The bartender glanced up and stopped polishing the glass.

One quick look reassured her that Angie was nowhere in the room. She hesitated, seeing the bartender eye her curiously, then walked through to the john.

The door was locked. She allowed herself one second of hope. If only Angie were inside...

Leaning against the wall, she waited, keeping an eye on the bar and the front entrance. The bartender went back to polishing glasses.

After what seemed like hours the door creaked open. A frowsy blonde with puffy eyes and vomit stains down the front of her red satin dress sagged out of the john almost into Carolyn's arms. She reeled back against the wall, standing in Carolyn's way.

Carolyn held herself away from the woman as best she could and peered past her shoulder into the cubby hole. It was a one-seat affair with a tiny sink and no paper, the floor slippery with the mess the blonde had left behind her.

Angie was certainly not there.

Gagging from the smell of the toilet and of the woman, Carolyn tried to ease past the drunken blonde. The woman would not let her go. She leaned across the narrow passage and propped herself against the wall.

"What's the matter, honey?" she mumbled. "Stinks too much for you?"

Carolyn took another step forward. "Let me through, please."

"You're in a hurry? Why're you in a hurry, honey?"

Carolyn tried to keep a tight rein on her temper. She knew the woman was too drunk to make sense. "I'm looking for somebody," she said. "A girl."

"Well, well, well!" The blonde laughed raucously. "You don't say!" She put her arms around Carolyn's neck and hung there like a stone.

Carolyn put her hands against the blonde's shoulders and gave a shove. The woman did not move.

"Let me go," Carolyn said desperately. "I have to find somebody."

The blonde laughed again. "What for?" she said. "You have me."

Carolyn stared at her stupidly, not knowing what to say.

" 'Sall right," the blonde mumbled. "I play the field. Not particular." She winked.

In any other mood, Carolyn would have laughed. But right now she did not feel like wasting time on a drunken whore. Glancing past the woman, she looked around for someone to help her get rid of her. She saw the look on the bartender's face and the faces of the others along the bar, all of them turned to watch. She knew that none of them would help, that they were getting too much of a kick out of her distress. Besides, they obviously thought she was enjoying it. She realized instantly that she could not get away from the woman without causing a scene. For the moment the lesbian stopped amusing them, the men would side with the blonde.

Carolyn sighed. Angie made unpleasant complications even when she wasn't around.

She put her hand on the woman's arm. "Look," she said. "Let's get out of here. This is no place..."

"Buy me a drink first," the woman said.

Carolyn shook her head.

"Buy me a drink." Her voice got louder with each word.

"You've had too much already," Carolyn said quietly, trying to calm her down.

The woman opened her big mouth and spoke in a roar. "No drink, no..."

Carolyn clapped her hand over the woman's mouth and held it there. "All right, all right," she said. "I'll buy you a drink. Just shut up, will you?"

She followed the woman to one of the tables along the wall. She heard one of the men laugh, a nasty, obscene sound that sent shivers along her spine. She sat down on a chair with her back to the lecherous, laughing faces.

The woman made a sign to the bartender and he reached for a bottle of scotch.

She sat down next to Carolyn and leaned forward, her heavy breasts flattening against the table top. She took Carolyn's hand. "You're a nice girl," she said. "A real nice girl."

Carolyn drew away from the woman's touch, slowly, gently, so that the siren wouldn't scream again. She watched the woman watching the bartender pour their drinks. It occurred to her then that the blonde had probably been at the bar when Angie came in. She was not sure that the woman would remember Angie or tell her if she did. But maybe, if she got her into an agreeable mood, the woman could tell her what had happened to the girl. As long as she was stuck for the time it took the woman to down her drink, she might as well get something out of it.

The bartender served them and brought Carolyn change. He didn't say a word more than he had to but it was obvious enough what he thought. The blonde whore he knew from way back. And he figured he had Carolyn pegged, too.

She ignored the expression on his face and turned her attention to the woman. She watched glumly as the blonde sipped from her drink. She knew that a couple more would put the blonde out cold. And before things got that far, she had to find out what she could about Angie.

The woman took another swallow, then burped. She put the back of the hand across her mouth and giggled. Then she leaned forward, ready to turn on the charm, to start paying for her drink. Carolyn forced herself not to retreat from the stench of the woman's breath and tried to ignore the leering smile and blackened teeth.

She felt the woman's hand on her leg, fumbling at the edge of her hem. She did not reach to stop her. Instead she said, "Are you feeling any better?"

"I'm feeling fine, honey," the blonde croaked hoarsely. "How about you?" Her hand went under Carolyn's skirt, caressing her thigh.

Carolyn hunched forward over the table, hiding her face from the men at the bar. She knew she was flushed. She felt feverish and ready to retch. The hand crept up her leg.

"I could make you feel better," the woman whispered.

Carolyn put her hand under the table and grabbed the woman's. "Not here," she said, "for God's sake."

"I have a place. Down the block."

"In a minute," Carolyn said. She took a swallow of the straight scotch. It burned all the way down. She blinked the tears out of her eyes. "I'm waiting for someone. I told you. A girl. I was supposed to meet her an hour ago."

The woman's eyes narrowed to tiny slits in the puffy lids. "What for?"

"She's... a friend, that's all." She paused. "Maybe she came in before I got here?"

The woman's head rolled on her fat neck. "Nope." Her fingers started creeping once more along the inside of Carolyn's thigh. "Nobody came in before you got here, baby. Nobody." Her voice was husky.

She could stand it no more. Angie or no Angie, leering men or no leering men, she knew she was going to be sick if she didn't get away from this smelly slob.

She pushed roughly away from the table, slopping the scotch out of her glass. The blonde blinked up at her stupidly.

For a moment, Carolyn hesitated, not wanting to face the men watching her along the bar.

Then she flung herself away from the woman and out of the barroom.

On the street she slumped dismally against the side of a building and gasped for air until her stomach began to settle. It was the first time she had been exposed to that kind of a woman. She hadn't known they existed. She remembered how revolted she had been by the man on the barge. Her reaction to the woman had been no different.

She almost laughed to think what a fool she had been to believe that all women were gentle and good. God!

She had learned something in that bar tonight. But it was not what she had gone there to find. That was still missing.

Nervous, frightened, confused, she walked slowly back to the car. She might just as well leave. Angie had disappeared.

CHAPTER 12

When Walter finally answered the bell, Carolyn fell into his arms. He pulled her inside and let the door slam shut behind them.

Holding her against him, he gripped her elbows and tried to make her face him. She blubbered incoherently, trying to tell him about Angie. He shook his head and just held her.

When she had stopped shaking, he put an arm around her and steered her into the livingroom.

He sat her down on the couch. "You must lead a pretty exciting life," he said calmly. Then he left her and went into the kitchen.

She was in no mood to have Walter be sarcastic. Oh, he had every reason to be. As far as he could see, she had probably been behaving like an ass. But right now she wanted him to be the good, gentle Walter she loved and who always helped her. Not a spoiled child with hurt feelings. That pose went better with Angie.

She settled on the cushions where he had deposited her and waited for him to come back. When he did, he was carrying a bottle of brandy and two exquisite crystal glasses. He set them on the end table and stood there looking down at her, his expression half smile, half frown. She could not tell what he was feeling but something about the way he looked at her made her itchy all over.

"Walter, I know I owe you an explanation," she began. "An apology, I suppose. But…"

"No," he interrupted. "I owe you one. I shouldn't have let you get away with shoving me back on the shelf. I couldn't expect you to know this would happen again. But I did." He poured her a shot of brandy.

She took the glass and sipped from it, using it to hide behind, to conceal the unhappiness in her eyes. Of all the things she had to be ashamed of, Walter hurt the most. She did not know what to say that would make him forgive her. "I'm sorry, Walter. Please believe me," she said. "I don't know why you should understand."

"I don't understand," he answered. "But I do love you, Carolyn."

"Still?"

"Of course." He sat down beside her and took her hand. "Now, what did she do this time?"

While she told him everything that had happened, Walter listened with interest but with no show of concern. She could not understand his change of attitude and she found herself becoming annoyed with him, with his placid acceptance of tragedy. She had always known that he did not care for Angie but it was not like him to wish anyone ill.

Finally, when she had finished her story, Walter calmly offered her a cigarette and took one for himself.

"Well, what am I going to do?" she asked impatiently. She could not bear the way he sat there, smugly, while Angie might be dead or dying. Couldn't he see that...

He put his hand over hers and held it tightly. "First of all,” he said quietly, "you're going to calm down and face the fact that Angie is perfectly capable of taking care of herself."

It felt like a slap in the face. Yet maybe that was exactly what she needed. And he was right, after all. She had forgotten that about Angie, that she always took care of herself.

And there she sat with Walter, asking him to help her because he loved her, and thinking of nothing but Angie. She felt like a fraud. She wanted to fling herself at him, to be in his arms where it was safe, where she could forget about Angie, forget about herself.

Yet she knew she would not be free to give herself to Walter, to anyone, until she had gotten the poison that was Angie out of her system.

She shook her head sadly. "I can't calm down, Walter. I just can't. You don't know. You didn't see her."

"I didn't see her, Carolyn, but I spoke to her."

She frowned. "When?"

"I was on the phone with Angie when you rang the bell," he said quietly. "That's why it took me so long to answer."

She looked at him for a long time, hating the smug assurance on his face.

He put his cigarette out and leaned toward her. "Now, just let me tell you the other side of this story, Carolyn. Then maybe you'll understand why I'm not worried."

She backed away from him into the corner of the couch, not wanting him near her, afraid of the tone in his voice.

She knew she did not want to hear what he had to say. But she made no attempt to quiet him.

"According to Angie," he began, "you came home late tonight and for no reason tried to kill her. She managed to knock you down. She fled out of the apartment, running for her life. She's with a friend, she says, but she wouldn't tell me where."

"Why did she call you?"

"Well, I gather, she left everything, even her money, behind. She said she tried to call you and got no answer, so she called to see if you were here. She's scared to come back herself. But she wants you to pack her stuff and her friend’ll pick it up in the morning." He shrugged. "With a little luck, you might be rid of her for good this time.

Though I wouldn't count on it. I don't believe anything that girl says anymore."

She heard the disappointment in his voice. She knew that he didn't care what happened to Angie but he had expected more of the girl he loved. He had every reason to be ashamed of her. She wasn't very proud of herself.

"Look," he said, "it's not all that bad, is it? Sure, you've had a rough time with this girl—but we've got a lifetime ahead of us, Carolyn. You'll forget Angie and everything that's happened between you. After we're married, you won't have time—"

"Oh Walter, for God's sake, stop talking like a man!" she exploded. "I won't forget Angie. I don't even want to. I've loved Angie very much, Walter. Very much. And I don't give a damn if she is rotten." She watched the shock widen his eyes, then his mouth tightened into a thin line. She smiled. "That upsets you? It shouldn't. I wouldn't be of much use to you as a wife if I fell out of love every time we disagreed."

He raised his eyebrows. "You're not making much sense, little girl. Try that again."

She pushed herself up off the couch and took a few quick paces away from him. Then she turned to face him squarely. "I'm not sure I know myself, Walter. Oh, I'm finished with Angie, that's sure enough. But I can't say that I'll never be sorry. Or that I won't think about her now and then. It wouldn't be normal if I didn't. If you can't accept the simple facts, we might as well find it out right now."

He stood up close to her, his eyes serious, his mouth still drawn. He put his hands on her shoulders and peered at her. She saw that he was deeply concerned and she was sorry for an instant that she had lashed out at him. Yet something was not quite right about the whole picture.

"There's only one thing I care about," he said. "And that is if you'll marry me and give us a fair chance. I know how involved you've been with Angie and I'm not enough of a fool to overlook it. But I think we can work things out between us." He smiled gently. "Anyway, I'd like to give it a try."

He was the old familiar Walter again, soothing her, reassuring her. Yet, somehow, it didn't feel the same anymore.

Always, in the past, he had seemed to know what she was feeling before she said a word. But she knew in her heart that he didn't really understand how she felt about Angie, that he probably never had.

She glanced at the tight line of his mouth. So proper. So unforgiving. It would never occur to Walter that her love for Angie had been deep and sincere. Not because he didn't believe her capable of love. He would expect her to feel that way about him. But simply because he could not really approve of the love of woman for woman. And because he did not approve, he refused to allow for the existence of it.

No wonder he had always known how she felt! She had gotten so used to him telling her everything that she had come to accept his word. He told her what to think about plays, what to think about books, whom she ought to vote for. And she had listened. Listened to everything except the one thing that really mattered. He had not been able to tell her who or how to love. Her feeling for Angie was pure and entirely her own.

She stepped back and took a good look at him. It was as though she had never seen him before. How could she have been so wrong about so many things? Why hadn't she been able to see him for what he really was before?

Good, dear, gentle Walter, her beloved friend—a stuffed shirt and a prig. And he claimed to love her. In his own way, he was no different from Angie. Or maybe he was worse Angie at least made a try. But sex with Walter would be a dull, sterile, hopeless thing. She did not need that. She needed someone who could thrill her, bring her alive.

She could just imagine what marriage with Walter would be like. He would rule her life completely, pulling the strings that made her walk and talk, speaking of love in academic abstractions to hide his own incompetence. By his standards, that would be fine. It was only wrong when Angie did it.

She could have slapped his smug, prim face. Yet she did not really despise Walter for being himself. She despised him for making her feel like a fraud when he was the guilty one. And for what he thought of Angie. It would take a lot of man to make her forget the joy she had known in Angie's arms. Walter was a fool if he thought he could do it.

Obviously he did. Suddenly she had to prove to him that he was wrong. It would mean the end of everything for them. Still, she knew it would have to be that way. It was the only language he would understand.

She leaned close to him and looked into his eyes. "Walter," she said cagily, "do you know you've never even kissed me?"

He looked astonished. "Well, of course I know," he said. "I thought..."

"You're not supposed to think. If you feel like it, just go ahead and do it."

She put her arms around his neck and drew his head down to hers. She saw that he was flushed and his breath was warm against her lips.

"Like this," she whispered.

She kissed him hard, her tongue forcing his lips apart and darting into his mouth. He held her primly, like a maiden aunt. She put her hands on his behind, pulling herself against him. She felt his body go tense and try to draw away.

She would not let him go.

By now she was furious with him but determined to make him take her. Holding him tight, she rubbed herself against him, forcing him to respond.

It was Walter who got them to the couch and he who pushed up her skirt. But it was Carolyn who did the rest. She stopped his fumbling hands and led him to her.

It was as dull, as uninspired as she had known it would be. She lay there, wretched and immobile, hoping he would soon be satisfied.

He withdrew his weight from her and snuggled beside her on the couch. His eyes were closed, the smile on his lips triumphant.

She watched his face with interest, seeing him even more clearly now than she had before. When he stirred and opened his eyes, she winked at him and trailed a fingertip around his lips.

"Was it good?" she murmured.

"Hmm," he sighed.

"I'm glad," she said. She sat up then and reached for her panties. "It's the first time I've been to bed with a virgin."

He didn't say anything, didn't move, just sat looking as if he were going to be ill. She had wanted to jolt him, to shake the complacency right off his face. And she had certainly succeeded. She felt no pity for him. Like Angie, he would not change as a result of the experience, not really.

With her back to him, she slipped into the panties and stood up. She adjusted her skirt and smoothed down her hair. Then she finished the brandy in her glass with one swallow and prepared to leave.

He leaned forward and grabbed her arm. "What are you trying to do?" he said harshly. He was on the verge of tears.

"I'm not trying anything," she said. She pulled away from his grasp. "You're the one who's been playing games, Walter. My friend. My bosom buddy. You've had me right where you wanted me for ten years and I didn't have the sense to realize what was going on. If it hadn't been for Angie, I never would have found out." She shook her head.

"You don't want a wife, Walter."

She watched a spot of color flare in his cheeks. She knew he wanted to strangle her. Yet he tried to remain calm, rational.

"That's not true," he insisted. "I want to marry you, Carolyn. You know that."

She reached out and patted his cheek. "I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man on earth, Walter."

He raised an eyebrow. "You went to bed with me," he said. "Why?"

She shrugged. "You weren't the first person," she said. "Or the last, thank heaven. I usually enjoy sex." She was being deliberately cruel but she didn't care.

"And, of course, you didn't enjoy it with me," he said, his eyes narrowed with satisfaction. "So, you are a lesbian, then. Angie was right."

Carolyn laughed in his face. "No. Just a woman," she said. "But you don't like women, do you, Walter? They're all either queers or whores, aren't they? And, I suppose, by your standards, I'm both."

He stood up, towering over her, murder in his eyes.

She knew he could kill her easily, but she didn't think he'd dare. She did not back away. "What do you with your desires, Walter? Read dirty books? Or maybe you don't have any sexual needs."

He slapped her then, a stinging blow across the cheek.

She didn't flinch. "I suppose that's as good a way as any to get your kicks," she said.

"Get out of here," he muttered. His voice was dry and hoarse. "Get out and don't come back. You deserve Angie.

You don't deserve anybody that's decent."

She laughed again and reached out to pat his arm. "I certainly don't deserve you, if that's what you mean."

He took a step toward her.

She held up her hand. "Never mind," she said. "I was just on my way out."

She turned and walked rapidly away from him, her steps quickened by the fury bursting inside her. He made no move to stop her.

Without looking back, she slammed out of the apartment.

CHAPTER 13

Carolyn drove through the park at Eighty Sixth Street and headed uptown toward home.

Her anger had already begun to wane. She felt not the slightest twinge of regret for what she had done to Walter.

He had it coming to him, after all. After what he had been doing to her all these years, he deserved at least that much. It wasn't that she had been getting even. It wasn't like it was with Angie. She simply couldn't allow her life to be ruined again. And Walter would have done that, if she had let him. She was glad she had been able to make a clean break with him—instead of dragging it out as she had done with Angie. She knew she and Walter would never see each other again.

Still, she felt far from pleased with herself. Her experience with Walter had done more than open her eyes to his faults. It had forced her to recognize her own. She had always believed that people got out of life exactly what they bargained for. And if Walter and Angie were the best she could do, it was not her place to condemn them. She knew she had better get busy patching up the pieces of her life, make new friends, find a new love—before it was too late.

She locked the car and strolled casually along the street toward the house. Already the rosy highlights of another dawn reflected off the picture windows of top floor apartments. From a terrace drifted down the dying merriment of an all-night party. The boy from the apartment below hers was out walking his poodle.

It was like any other weekend morning. Yet for Carolyn this one felt different. For she was coming home to an empty apartment and for the first time, she felt glad instead of lonely.

In the elevator she kicked off her shoes and rubbed an exploring thumb over the blister forming on her right heel.

She wondered if there were any part of her that had not been battered during the past week. She sighed gratefully, believing that the ordeal with Angie was finally through. In stocking feet she crossed the hall and opened the door to her apartment.

She knew even before she switched on the light that something was wrong.

Her first thought was that the place had been ransacked. The chairs had been overturned, the couch pulled away from the wall. Practically everything she owned, all the junk that had been crammed into two valises, was strewn across the couch and floor. The valises, she suddenly realized, were gone.

She picked up a paisley scarf that was now in tatters and, holding it, sank down onto the couch. Lines of fatigue etched across her forehead and around her mouth. All the joy and sense of release she had felt fizzled out of her and she felt suddenly very old.

She could understand the missing suitcases. Angie would have taken them to pack her own things. But the disorder of the room, the torn scarf made no sense at all.

Angie wouldn't have bothered: her destruction was of a subtler kind. She liked to mete out punishments she felt suited the crime. And for what Carolyn had done to her, it would be a real dilly. Already she had made a halfhearted attempt at suicide. If she had sincerely wanted to get even, she would more likely have slashed her wrists and draped her lacerated (but carefully bandaged) body across the couch. It was not Angie's custom to be piddling about her dramatic effects.

For an instant she thought of Walter. There was something petty enough about torn lingerie to be his doing. God, how her attitude toward him had changed! Still, she knew it could not possibly have been he. He could not have gotten back to the apartment before her. Besides, he couldn't have gotten in. Angie was the only other person who had a key.

More curious now than annoyed, she got up and wandered into the bedroom. It too was dishevelled, but not as completely as the livingroom. Drawers hung open, the closet had been cleared out, the bureau stood bare. Even Angie's stack of beauty magazines had disappeared.

Yet the bed was still neatly made, with Angie's pink satin mules poking out from under the edge of the spread. If she had left everything else, Angie would have taken the slippers. They had been a birthday gift from Mums and Daddy.

When she realized that Angie had, after all, sent Jimmy to collect her things, Carolyn was more than annoyed, she was furious. Not that she had wanted another scene with the girl. That she wanted to avoid at almost any cost. They had already done all the damage to each other that either of them could take. It would only be a repetition of all the scenes that had gone before. A furious, impassioned struggle, emotional murder to both of them.

But the idea of Jimmy wrecking her apartment, tearing her clothes was outrageous. And poor Bridgit! She must be terrified.

It occurred to Carolyn that, for the first time since she had picked the cat up sick and starving in the street, Bridgit had not come running to welcome her home. She had been so concerned about her own problems that she had completely overlooked Bridgit. Now, she was worried. Quickly, she began to open doors and poke into corners, calling to the cat.

When she had finished one round of the apartment, she began again, more slowly. Ten minutes later she gave up the search. Bridgit, like Angie, like the valises, had disappeared. The valises and Angie she could live without. But this time, somebody had gone too far.

Not bothering to think what she intended to do, Carolyn put on a pair of sandals and slammed out of the apartment.

Too nervous to wait for the elevator, she ran down ten flights of fire escape steps to the ground floor.

The little Renault leaped forward. She hardly noticed the lights. On Thirty Eighth Street she turned and slowed down as she neared the bar where she had last seen Angie.

Directly across the street, she parked and turned off the engine.

For a few minutes she simply sat in the car, smoking a cigarette and wondering what to do. She knew that Angie (and probably Jimmy, too) was somewhere in the neighborhood. Yet she had no idea where Jimmy lived or where he might have taken the girl. She didn't even know what she wanted from them if she found them, except to find out what they had done with Bridgit. If anything had happened to that cat as a result of Angie's stupidity... Well, she didn't know in exactly what manner but Angie would pay for it somehow.

Now that she had come this far, she couldn't just sit still and wait for something to happen. But she didn't quite know where to begin. The bar, of course, was closed. She had not expected to find anything there. But Angie had gone into the bar and vanished. Obviously there must be an exit other than the main door and it was her business to find out where it led to.

She got out of the car and stood leaning against it, smoking and examining the front of the building across from her. Five floors of corroded sandstone, some of its windows curtained, others with white X's splashed across them.

It looked like any tenement anywhere in the city. Following the scattering of X's, she discovered that the building was one of three about to be torn down and replaced. None of the buildings had an obvious front entrance. Their ground floors all seemed to be commercial sites. But near the corner, at the end of the last building, an alleyway made a narrow slit between two stores.

She felt a tremor of elation. Quickly she ground the cigarette under her heel and started across the street.

Almost running, she took the last few steps to the alleyway and plunged into the entrance. It was dark and smelly in the narrow passage. Creeping sideways to avoid overflowing garbage cans and the mucky filth down the center of the alley that sucked at her feet, she worked her way through to an open courtyard crisscrossed by clotheslines and frayed electric wires. A dim light bulb hung from a pole in the center of the yard.

She walked directly to the middle building, the one that housed the bar, and into the damp, gloomy hallway.

Despite the growing light outside, she could see only a few feet beyond the doorway. But it was enough to convince her she had been right.

At the end of the hall was a narrow door that must be the back entrance to the bar. Set into the wall beside it, a bank of mailboxes flaky with rust. Lighting matches, she scanned the name plates. Under 5D, a piece of adhesive splotchy with ink and the imprint of a thumb carried the name J. Turner. There were no bells. She walked back to the stairs and started to climb.

When she reached the top floor, she felt winded and filthy and perspiration itched across her back. She rapped loudly on the door of apartment D.

Before she could rap again, the door swung open.

Jimmy stood just inside, wearing only shorts, and by the expression on his face, she knew he had been expecting someone else.

Practically naked and outlined clearly in the doorway, he looked gigantic. Carolyn wondered fleetingly what she had intended to do. Beat him to a pulp? Maybe kick him in the shins?

She found herself grinning foolishly and mumbling Angie's name.

It was a moment before he recognized her. Then he shrugged. "I don't know where the hell she is," he said. "She's not here."

"She was here," Carolyn said.

"So she was here. She's not here now." He started to shut the door. Carolyn wedged herself in the doorway. He looked annoyed, but he let go of the handle and walked away from her.

She trailed into the apartment after him. "I know she was here. I followed her."

He picked up a can of beer and took a gulp from it. "What do you want from me?" he said. He took in the tiny room with a wide sweep of his arm. "Do you see her?"

She didn't even bother to look. She knew by his attitude what had happened. Angie had run out on him, too.

He paid her no further attention while he finished the can of beer and started on another one.

She sat down on a kitchen chair that, with a bed and table, furnished the room. Both windows were open wide but not a breath of air filtered in. The place was dusty but neat, not from tidiness so much as from lack of clutter.

Carolyn marvelled that Angie preferred this airtight box to the air conditioned comfort of Columbus Avenue. It had been because of Angie that Carolyn had left the old brownstone she loved. Angie was terrified of cockroaches, revolted by dingy apartments. At least, that's what she said. Glancing about her, Carolyn realized that there were many things about the girl she had never found out. She was sure she would not have liked most of them.

But it did not surprise her that the girl should be drawn to Jimmy. He had all the qualifications Angie demanded in a man: he was tall, dark and handsome, built like the "after" part of a Charles Atlas ad, and not bright enough to give her a hard time. Another one Angie could twist around her little finger. Observing him, Carolyn felt a twinge of pity for herself as well as for Jimmy. Angie had run out on them both tonight. They had a lot in common.

But she had not come here to commiserate with Jimmy. She had come for information, perhaps for bad news. And she had a feeling that her sympathy for the man would be short-lived.

She leaned forward and took a cigarette out of the pack lying open on the table. She held it, unlit, between her fingers.

She looked up at Jimmy. "Did you go to my apartment for Angie's clothes?" she asked quietly.

He glanced at her warily. "Why?"

"Somebody did," she said. "Was it you?"

He shrugged. "She sent me," he said. "Damn stuffs in the closet." He indicated a curtained, coffin-sized projection from the wall. "When I got back here, she was gone. No note. Nothing."

"You'll get used to it," Carolyn said. "She does it quite often."

He looked at her oddly for a moment, his eyes narrowed. She knew that his confidence in the girl had already been badly shaken. She couldn't tell if he had admitted it to himself, but even so, he didn't intend to let her know it.

"She'll get over it," he said and his tone was confident. The bedsprings groaned under his weight. He put his feet up and crossed his arms behind his head. "After we're married."

Carolyn did not bother with a rebuttal. "That's your problem," she said. "I didn't come here to talk about Angie, anyhow. All I want to know is, what happened to Bridgit?"

"Who the hell is Bridgit?" He was staring at the ceiling, his face in shadows.

She could not see the expression on his face but she had the feeling that he was afraid to meet her glance.

"Bridgit's the cat," she said patiently. "My cat. She was in the apartment when I left. She's not there now. Where is she, Jimmy?"

He turned toward her now and she knew instinctively that he would lie. The falseness of his concern was as obvious as the "tilt" on a pin ball machine. She waited calmly for him to speak.

"It ran out when I opened the door," he said. "I tried to catch it but I couldn't even get close." He shook his head. "I don't know what happened to it."

Carolyn snapped the cigarette between her fingers. "Have you ever had a cat, Jimmy?"

He looked at her strangely. "No. Why?"

She nodded. "I thought so," she said. "You don't seem the type. Angie doesn't like them either. Cats are interesting creatures. They develop peculiar habits. Mine, for instance, always hides in the hall closet when a stranger comes to the door. And she always knows when it's a stranger."

She watched Jimmy begin to understand and saw a flush creeping up his face, his eyelids squinting half closed. She kept her voice steady, almost conversational. "If anybody except me tries to get her out of there, she puts up quite a fight." She paused to let it sink in. "I imagine she scratched you?"

He stared at her for a long time. Then he sat up slowly and held his arms into the light. The undersides were streaked with scratches. "About twenty times," he said. "I threw her against the wall." He stopped and when she said nothing, went on. "I had to, dammit. She was after my eyes."

He sat for a long time with his face in his hands. She watched him, but she had nothing to say.

Finally he finished. "Her neck broke, I guess. Anyway..." He shook his head.

"What did you do with her?" she asked quietly.

"The incinerator. In the hall."

Carolyn sighed. She felt very tired, more tired-than she had ever been in her life. And she felt sorry for Jimmy. She couldn't really blame him for the cat and she knew he was genuinely ashamed. She couldn't even blame Angie, though it had been the girl's fault that Jimmy had gone to the apartment. The guilt was entirely her own. If she had been strong enough to get rid of Angie a long time ago, this would never have happened.

"Well, at least Angie will be glad," she muttered. "She never did get along with Bridgit."

"What about Angie?" he said. "She doesn't know what happened. She was gone..."

"She will," Carolyn said.

She saw a spark of interest light his dark eyes. "Then you know where she is," he said.

"Not at the moment. But if she's not here, she's probably at my place now. Where else would she go?"

She waited but he did not answer. He seemed distracted and confused. "Well?"

He shrugged. "Probably."

She stood up and brushed crumbs of tobacco off her skirt. "Well, put on some clothes," she said.

"What for?"

"I want you to come with me," she said, "and bring Angie back here." She started toward the door. "I can't be bothered anymore. It's your turn."

CHAPTER 14

Angie swung open the door and greeted them both warmly. She did not appear in the least surprised at seeing them together. She told them to sit while she made tea.

True to form, Angie had taken over the apartment as though she had never left it. The livingroom was in order, the furniture back where it belonged and the debris carted off. She wore her favorite apron and, Carolyn noticed, the pink satin mules. As she bustled about making tea, she hummed the same song she always hummed in the kitchen and she sounded perfectly contented.

Carolyn sat limply on the edge of the couch, facing Jimmy, but not daring to meet his glance. Once, sneaking a peek at him, she saw his puzzled frown and averted eyes and knew he was as self-conscious as she. They had come racing uptown, prepared to take Angie by storm—and Angie had refused to be taken.

Carolyn felt like a fool, sitting like a guest in her own apartment, twiddling her thumbs and waiting for Angie to boil a pot of water. She knew she ought to get up and kick her out the front door. Yet, considering the picture she and Jimmy must make, she had to admit a grudging admiration for the ease with which Angie had cut them both down to size.

As though trained in the Queen's drawing room, Angie made a ritual out of serving them tea and slices of hot buttered toast. She took a cup for herself and sat down beside Carolyn on the couch.

It was truly a farce, the way they posed there: Jimmy and Carolyn avoiding each other's eyes, Angie smiling expectantly at them both.

Carolyn gave up first.

Taking a deep breath, she faced Angie squarely. "You might as well know right now," she said, "that Jimmy's here to take you home."

"Oh?" Angie murmured, Her eyebrows went up. "I thought this was my home."

"It was once," Carolyn answered the silky tone. "You're the one who spoiled that, Angie. Not me."

"You mean because of last night? Oh, Carol, you knew I'd come back."

Carolyn smiled. "I hoped you wouldn't this time."

Jimmy looked from one to the other of them curiously, listening, not yet grasping what he heard.

Carolyn glanced at him, knowing that Angie would say too much for her own good, yet aware that she could not prevent her from doing so. She felt sorry for him still, realizing he was too involved with Angie to give her up and would be too revolted to keep her. He couldn't cope with Angie any better than she had.

Angie, apparently, neither knew nor cared how he might respond. She focused all of her charm and warmth on Carolyn, ignoring Jimmy completely. Leaning close, she crossed her hands on Carolyn's knee and peered into her eyes. "Must we fight?" she cooed. "It's such a waste of time."

"No, we mustn't," Carolyn said. "In fact, we won't. Just drink your tea and..." she flicked her fingers toward the door, "...scram."

Angie tilted her head and pursed her lips. "Don't you know that I can't. Every time I try to leave you, I bounce right back."

Carolyn laughed. Angie was playing right into her hands. "I know," she said. "Just like a rubber ball. Bounce, bounce, all over the city. Central Park, Thirty Eighth Street, calls to Walter." She watched the fire creep into Angie's cheeks. "And now, here you are, many moons later, expecting me to believe you've been waiting here for hours."

She shook her head slowly. "No, no, no, Angie. It just won't do."

Suddenly Angie turned on Jimmy. "You're a fool," she said. "Why did you tell her?"

He looked like he wished she hadn't remembered he was there. But he did not try to contradict her.

"He didn't tell me anything," Carolyn said. "I followed you when you ran out of here. I was stupid enough to believe you might... well, hurt yourself. Maybe it's too bad you didn't." She paused, then, frowning, went on. "But I really thought you had had enough this time. Why did you come back, Angie?"

Angie put everything she had into one last pitch. "Because I love you," she whispered.

It was almost convincing. Jimmy, at least, took it to heart. He got up and stalked away to the window, his back to them, his hands clenching on the sill. Both of them ignored him.

"I love you," Angie repeated.

Carolyn shook herself loose from the spell. She had heard it so often before. "It's such an empty word," she murmured, "the way you say it. I don't suppose you ever meant it." She peered into Angie's eyes. "Why did you really come back?"

Angie lowered her glance. "I remembered about Bridgit. The way she hides in the closet."

"Hid," Carolyn corrected.

"Hid. I told Jimmy not to forget my shoes, on the floor in there. When I remembered, I came back here right away.

I was afraid you might make trouble for Jimmy if anything happened to that cat. But I was too late. He was gone and so was Bridgit."

"Down the incinerator, if you care," Carolyn said.

Angie shuddered. "I knew you'd blame me," she said.

Carolyn shook her head. "You're wrong, Angie. I don't blame you. I know it's my fault that Bridgit's dead and you're still alive. I should have disposed of you a long time ago."

"Carol!"

"Yeah," Jimmy chimed in, stepping away from the window. "That's pretty rough."

Carolyn raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" she said. "Well, if you really think so, I'll apologize. To you. As far as Angie's concerned, I'm sure she understands what I mean." She turned to face the girl. "Don't you, Angie?"

Angie looked at her for a long moment. Then, without another word to Carolyn, she stood up and crossed to stand beside Jimmy. "Let's go home," she said.

Carolyn heard the defeat in Angie's tone and knew that she had finally won. Angie had tried every trick but one: this time, she had not tried to seduce her. She knew it wasn't because of Jimmy. Angie had no qualms about such things. It was because Angie understood that her body no longer held the answer and she did not have the courage to face a second rejection.

"Go on," Carolyn said, looking at Jimmy. "Take her home. She's all yours. At least until she gets bored."

Jimmy glanced down at the girl, leaning so close, yet hardly aware of him. He looked like he wanted to cry.

Resignedly, he put his arm around her shoulders and turned her toward the door.

Carolyn watched them leave, aware of the sloppy way Angie walked in the slippers, the way his arm hung loosely around her. They would make each other wretched, those two. It didn't matter about Angie, she would be wretched no matter whom she was with. But Jimmy didn't know what he was getting into. Maybe he'd be lucky. Maybe he'd destroy her before she ruined him.

Wearily, Carolyn collected the tea things and carried them out to the kitchen. Full cups, already cold. Soggy toast that Bridgit would have loved. Loved? Yes, Bridgit had been capable of that. And probably Jimmy. She believed she was, too.

She ran water into the sink and soaped the sponge. It was good, having the house to herself for a moment. But only for a moment. There was too much of life outside to lock herself up the way she had been... before Angie.

Before Angie. It was easy to say that now, it no longer hurt. At least not much. There would always be a little ache for the old loves behind the joy of the new, a little loneliness for the bits of herself she had already given away. Yet, in having given, she had grown rather than been depleted. She had more of a self to offer. To a man. To a woman.

To someone who would love her in return.

She picked up Bridgit's plate and scrubbed it. Then she dried it and set it carefully on the shelf.

~ ~ ~

AFTERWORD

A new revolution was underway at the start of the 1940s in America—a paperback revolution that would change the way publishers would produce and distribute books and how people would purchase and read them.

In 1939 a new publishing company—Pocket Books—stormed onto the scene with the publication of its first paperbound book. These books were cheaply produced and, with a price of twenty-five cents on their light cardboard covers, affordable for the average American.

Prior to the introduction of the mass-market paperback, as it would come to be known, the literary landscape in America was quite different than what it is today. Reading was primarily a leisure-time pursuit of the wealthy and educated. Hardcover books were expensive and hard to find, so purchasing books was a luxury only the rich living in major metropolitan areas could afford. There simply weren’t many bookstores across the country, and only gift shops and stationary stores carried a few popular novels at a time.

The Pocket Books were priced to sell, however, and sell is what they did… in numbers never before seen. Availability also had a great effect on sales, in large part due to a bold and innovative distribution model that made Pocket Books available in drugstores, newsstands, bus and train stations, and cigar shops. The American public could not get enough of them, and before long the publishing industry began to take notice of Pocket Book’s astonishing success.

Traditional publishers, salivating at the opportunity to cash in on the phenomenal success of the new paperback revolution, soon launched their own paperback ventures. Pocket Books was joined by Avon in 1941, Popular Library in 1942, and Dell in 1943. The popular genres reflected the tastes of Americans during World War II—mysteries, thrillers, and “hardboiled detective” stories were all the rage.

Like many of the early paperback publishers, Dell relied on previously published material for its early books, releasing “complete and unabridged” reprints under different titles by established authors. Within a couple of years it was focused exclusively on mysteries, identifiable by the Dell logo on the cover—a small keyhole with an eye looking through it. Many of the Dell mysteries also featured a colored map on the back cover representing the various locations pertaining to the story’s crime. These “mapback” editions became extremely popular and by 1945, Dell was publishing four new books a month.

The new paperback industry was faced with some difficult challenges during World War II. In particular, the War Board’s Paper Limitation order placed serious restrictions and rations on the use of paper. Publishers began to worry whether they would have enough paper to satisfy both the civilian and military appetite for paperbacks. Manpower shortages and transportation difficulties were also proving to be difficult challenges. In response, some publishers—

Pocket Books, for instance—reduced their publication schedules and reset their books in smaller type thereby reducing the number of pages per book. Others simply rejected longer books in favor of shorter ones.

In the end, World War II proved to be a boon to the emerging paperback industry. During the war, a landmark agreement was reached with the government in which paperbound books would be produced at a very low price for distribution to service men and women overseas. These books—Armed Services Editions, as they were called—were often passed from one soldier or sailor to another, being read and re-read over and over again until they literally fell apart. Their stories of home helped ease the soldier’s loneliness and homesickness, and they could be easily carried in uniform pockets and read anywhere—in fox holes, barracks, transport planes, etc. Of course, once the war was over millions of veterans returned home with an insatiable appetite for reading. They were hooked, and their passion for reading these books helped launch a period of unprecedented growth in the paperback industry.

The reading tastes of these veterans were directly reflected in the popularity of certain genres at the turn of the decade. In the mid-to late 1940s, mysteries, romance, thrillers, and hardboiled detective stories seemed to sell better. In the early 1950s new genres—science fiction, westerns, gay and lesbian, juvenile delinquent and “sleaze”, for instance—gained in popularity as readers were presented with stories never before seen in print. Publishers also came to realize that sex would sell books… lots of books. In a competitive frenzy for readers, they ditched their conservative and straightforward cover images for alluring covers that frequently featured a sexy woman in some form of undress, along with a suggestive tag line that promised stories of sex and violence within the covers. Before long, books with sensational covers had completely taken over the paperback racks and cash registers. To this day, the cover art of these vintage paperback books are just as sought after as the books themselves were sixty years ago.

Science fiction titles reflected the uncertain times during which they were written. The Cold War was just beginning, the threat of nuclear annihilation was on everyone’s mind, governments in Eastern Europe were falling to Communists, and Senator Joseph McCarthy was looking for “un-American activities” everywhere in the United States. Many science fiction stories in the early days of the paperback revolution were little more than soap operas or westerns set in space—good guys taking on bad guys while rescuing damsels in distress—that were short stories taken from the pulp magazines. In 1952, however, Ballantine Books changed all that by becoming the first paperback publisher to release novel-length science fiction stories that were sophisticated, intelligent and thematically serious. In 1953, Ballantine Book No. 41 was released—Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451—and the paperback’s science fiction genre launched like a rocket heading to Venus.

The popularity of this new genre wasn’t lost on new paperback publisher, Ace Books, which became known primarily for its publication of sci-fi titles. Not content with publishing one science fiction novel at a time, Ace came up with an interesting gimmick—the double novel. Priced at thirty-five cents, the “Ace Double” featured two paperback novels bound back-to-back with the back cover appearing upside-down in the racks. The stories contained within these

“double” paperbacks were novellas or long short stories, rather than novels, but the reading public didn’t care—they loved getting two books for the price of one! The format also worked to the advantage of Ace Books, as they were able to combine the work of an unknown (and, therefore, less expensive) writer with that of a prominent and popular author. As a result, the careers of more than a few aspiring science fiction writers were launched via the innovative “Ace Double.”

Science fiction would not be the only genre with titles flying off the shelves in the early 1950s, however. And, it is unlikely that even Gold Medal Books knew, in 1950, just how successful its first lesbian-themed paperback original novel— Women’s Barracks—would be. Written by Tereska Torres, and based on her experiences in London with the French Resistance movement during World War II, the book was not intended to launch an entire lesbian genre—it was a story about women during wartime, some of whom happened to be romantically involved with other women.

The story simply resonated with men and women alike—both straight and gay—and by the end of 1950 had sold more than a million copies for Gold Medal.

Women’s Barracks also caught the attention of the government, unfortunately, and was singled out by the Gathings Committee as an example of how the paperback industry was subverting the morals of America. The threat of fines and incarceration made the paperback industry skittish about publishing anything that could be considered

“indecent” and before long, a sort of self-censorship was in full swing. Many stories featuring characters that lived their lives outside the rules of the prevailing morality of the times soon became dark and punishing, as there could be no happy endings for those who defied convention. Still, the lesbian titles were enormously popular and soon paperback publishers—beginning with Gold Medal—realized sales would skyrocket if they moved from reprints to

“paperback originals.”

This move toward of the publication of original fiction by paperback companies created an immediate and strong demand for writers and provided unprecedented opportunities for women writers in particular. While it is true that some of the lesbian titles during the 1950s were written by men using female pseudonyms, a good number were written by women, many of whom were lesbians themselves. And although they were still required to write within the prescribed moral guidelines set by their editors, quite a few were able to portray the lesbian lives of their characters with a significant degree of honesty and compassion.

For lesbians across the country, especially those living isolated lives in small towns, these books provided a sense of community they never knew existed… a connection to women who experienced the same longings, feelings and fears as they did—the powerful knowledge that they were not alone. With the birth of the lesbian-themed pulp novel, women who loved women could finally see themselves—their experiences and their lives—represented within the pages of a book. They finally had a literature they could call their own.

We are excited to make these wonderful paperback stories… these pulp novels, as they have come to be known, available in ebook format to new generations of readers. We present them in their original form, with very little modification, so as to preserve the tone and atmosphere of the time period. In fact, much of the language—the slang, the colloquialisms, the lingo, even the spellings of some words—appear as they were written fifty or sixty years ago. We hope you will enjoy this nostalgic look back at a period in American history when dames were dangerous, tough-guys were deadly and dolls were downright delicious.

—Kathryn James, Editor

* * *

For more classic pulp ebooks, visit us online at www.vintage-pulp-ebooks.com!

Love the book cover? Get fabulous gift products featuring pulp cover art at our online store, Vintage Pulp Cover Art (http://www.cafepress.com/pulpcoverart) – mugs, refrigerator magnets, t-shirts, notecards and more!

For more classic lesbian pulps in ebook format, visit www.shewinked.com.

Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14