Free Whisper Their Love by Valerie Taylor Page B

bachelor who was on the governing board of the college, a wistful little man who wore the only male beret—red—in Henderson and was supposed to be a painter.
    "How can you?" Joyce demanded. "How can you go out with men? Do you like to?"
    "I like an evening out now and then," Edith said reasonably. She sat on the edge of her bed, smoking. She smoked a great deal in her own rooms, never in public.
    "It doesn't seem honest."
    "We can't be honest," Edith said simply. She dropped her cigarette into an ashtray. She sat with her hands in her lap, palms up—a characteristic pose. "We have to be careful."
    Joyce touched her shoulder with the tip of an inquiring finger. The first tentative gesture towards what might be, this time, the time. "I don't care. I'd like to tell everybody."
    "I care," Edith said sharply. "I like my job, apart from having to earn a living. You don't know how they crucify people like us, tear us limb from limb and laugh when we suffer." Her normally cool voice was a little shrill; she shivered. "Everybody hates us."
    "There can't be so many—"
    Edith sighed. "You'd be surprised how many. All shapes . and sizes." She moved her hand from under Joyce's and took another cigarette from the silver case with the initial G engraved on it. "If any of these brats found out—my God, how they'd love it. Your roommate would have a fine time with it, the little nympho." Her eyes narrowed.
    Joyce had no answer for that, because it was true. Mary Jean knew more case histories than Kinsey. Accurate or not, she had a lively interest in everyone's sex life, and she used words Joyce had never heard anyone else use, not even migrant hired men. But still she liked Mary Jean. Even if they couldn't swap clothes, they had fallen into a comfortable roommate-best-friend relationship. She stood between two loyalties, feeling clumsy and childish and frustrated, wanting to cry.
    Edith stood up, dropping her cigarette beside the other in the ashtray. She laid her cheek against Joyce's, their own special gesture of tenderness. "There isn't any future for us, Joy. You'll graduate, or maybe I'll get a better job. Or one of us will come to care for someone else."
    "I don't care about the future," Joyce said painfully. "I'm thinking about now."
    "A good idea," Edith said lightly. The wistful moment was gone. Her hand found Joyce's back and rubbed the tender spot between the shoulders. "I really place a great deal of confidence in you, darling."
    "Well, you can. I'd sooner die than hurt you." That was mushy, that was like a Grade B movie, and she felt her face redden. But the hand kept rubbing her back, gently, relaxingly, like someone stroking a sleepy cat. She buried her face on Edith's shoulder. "Really touch me."
    "Like this?"
    "Oh, yes."
    The times were too far apart and much too short. Like eating one salted peanut, Edith said smiling. Joyce didn't think that was funny. Between meetings she burned with desire—yes, she really ached all over, it was like the romantic sentimental poetry you had always laughed at, in the old small-print books. You sat in Spanish class and listened to the teacher going through vocabulary lists and the rules governing use of the dative, and it was only noise that had no meaning to it although your mind kept nagging you that you ought to remember this for future examinations. Looking out of the window, all you could think about was the touch and the mounting thrill and, afterwards, when it had been extra good, the complete relaxation that was like being asleep, only better. Much better.
    Late night. She crept downstairs after the building was asleep, after an endless- time of waiting. Nobody ever goes to bed in this damn place, she thought, looking across the moonlit strip of floor to Mary Jean's empty and unmade bed, listening to the snickers and clinkings next door where Marnie and Jo had smuggled in a couple cans of beer with the help of Marnie's boy friend. Two hours of rolling and turning, pulling the