"Thursday."
"All the visitors do make an effort to look their best, and its very tender, itssweet as hell, the way the women wear their prettiest everything, I mean the oldones and the really poor ones too, they make the dearest effort to look nice andsmell nice too, and I love them for it. I love the kids too, especially the colored ones.
"Its too gruesome."
Still it was irresistible: "Whats gruesome about Thursday?"
"Nothing. Except that I can never remember when its coming. You see, onThursdays I have to catch the eight forty-five. Theyre so particular about visitinghours, so if youre there by ten that gives you an hour before the poor men eatlunch. Think of it, lunch at eleven. You can go at two, and Id so much rather, but helikes me to come in the morning, he says it sets him up for the rest of the day. Ivegot to stay awake," she said, pinching her cheeks until the roses came, "there isnttime to sleep, Id look consumptive, Id sag like a tenement, and that wouldnt befair: a girl cant go to Sing Sing with a green face."
"Incidentally," she said, "do you happen to know any nice lesbians? Im lookingfor a roommate. Well, dont laugh. Im so disorganized, I simply cant afford a maid;and really, dykes are wonderful home-makers, they love to do all the work, younever have to bother about brooms and defrosting and sending out the laundry. Ihad a roommate in Hollywood, she played in Westerns, they called her the LoneRanger; but Ill say this for her, she was better than a man around the house. Ofcourse people couldnt help but think I must be a bit of a dyke myself. And of courseI am. Everyone is: a bit. So what? That never discouraged a man yet, in fact itseems to goad them on. Look at the Lone Ranger, married twice. Usually dykes onlyget married once, just for the name. It seems to carry such cachet later on to becalled Mrs. Something Another. Thats not true!" She was staring at an alarm clockon the table. "It cant be four-thirty!"
The window was turning blue. A sunrise breeze bandied the curtains.
"Is that the end?" she asked, waking up. She floundered for something more tosay. "Of course I like dykes themselves. They dont scare me a bit. But stories aboutdykes bore the bejesus out of me. I just cant put myself in their shoes. Well really,darling," she said, because I was clearly puzzled, "if its not about a couple of oldbull-dykes, what the hell is it about?"
"Too dirty?"
"Whiskey and apples go together. Fix me a drink, darling. Then you can read me astory yourself."
But I was in no mood to compound the mistake of having read the story with thefurther embarrassment of explaining it. The same vanity that had led to suchexposure, now forced me to mark her down as an insensitive, mindless show-off.
"Thursday." She stood up. "My God," she said, and sat down again with a moan.
"Maybe Ill let you read one sometime."
I was tired enough not to be curious. I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes.
Very few authors, especially the unpublished, can resist an invitation to readaloud. I made us both a drink and, settling in a chair opposite, began to read to her,my voice a little shaky with a combination of stage fright and enthusiasm: it was anew story, Id finished it the day before, and that inevitable sense of shortcominghad not had time to develop. It was about two women who share a house,schoolteachers, one of whom, when the other becomes engaged, spreads withanonymous notes a scandal that prevents the marriage. As I read, each glimpse Istole of Holly made my heart contract. She fidgeted. She picked apart the butts in anashtray, she mooned over her fingernails, as though longing for a file; worse, when Idid seem to have her interest, there was actually a telltale frost over her eyes, as ifshe were wondering whether to buy a pair of shoes shed seen in some window.
"I suppose not." The anger I felt at her over my story was ebbing; she absorbedme again.
"What is today?"
