Stranger on Lesbos

Valerie Taylor

Description

A neglected 1950s housewife discovers the delights and degradations of a forbidden loveand is forced to choose between safety and freedom.When Frances becomes bored with her suburban life and enrolls in a class at the local community college, she doesnt expect muchbut then she meets Blake, a butch lesbian, and everything changes. In thrall to a forbidden world of martini lunches, late nights at queer bars, and a sexual passion she never knew was possible, Frances must choose between the safety of heterosexual marriage or the dangers of life on the edge of society.Femmes Fatales restores to print the best of womens writing in the classic pulp genres of the mid-20th century. From mystery to hard-boiled noir to taboo lesbian romance, these rediscovered queens of pulp offer subversive perspectives on a turbulent era. Enjoy the series: Bedelia; Bunny Lake Is Missing; By Cecile; The G-String Murders; The Girls in 3-B; Laura; The Man Who Loved His Wife; Mother Finds a Body; Now, Voyager; Return to Lesbos; Skyscraper; Stranger on Lesbos; Stella Dallas; Women's Barracks.

Informations

• Publié par: The Feminist Press at CUNY
• Date de parution: 03 juillet 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781558618008
• Langue: English

Extrait

Stranger on Lesbos
VALERIE TAYLOR
AFTERWORD BY MARCIA M. GALLO
THE FEMINIST PRESS
AT THE CITY UNIVERSITY NEW YORK
NEW YORK CITY
Published by the Feminist Press at the City University of New York The Graduate Center 365 Fifth Avenue, Suite 5406 New York, NY 10016
feministpress.org
First Feminist Press edition
Text copyright © 1960 by Valerie Taylor
Afterword copyright © 2012 by Marcia M. Gallo Originally published by Gold Medal Books in 1960
No part of this book may be reproduced, used, or stored in any information retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the Feminist Press at the City University of New York, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover and text design by Drew Stevens
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Taylor, Valerie, 1913-1997.
Stranger on Lesbos / Valerie Taylor.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-55861-800-8 I. Title.
PS3570.A957S87 2012 813’.54--dc23
2012004437
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
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Afterword
About the Author:Valie Taylor
Also Available from the Feminist Press: Femmes Fatales
About the Feminist Press
1 STANDING IN THE DOORWAY OF THE ENGLISH CLASSROOM , Frances had a crazy feeling that the last twenty years had dissolved and she was fifteen again, hesitating on the threshold of the County High under the critical eyes of the town students. She glanced down, half expecting to see cotton stockings and the cheap thick-soled oxfords from the company store, and was reassured by the sight of her polished loafers.
She stepped into the room, already half-filled with students and buzzing with voices. Kids are all alike, she thought, dropping into the first empty chair and arranging her purse and books on the flaring arm. Even in a great university whose methods were studied by educators from all over the world, somebody had scratched initials into the wood.
The feeling of unreality swept over her again. The years of her marriage were a dream, compressed into the time between the mine hooter’s shriek and the sizzling of fatback in the skillet. In a minute she would wake, facing the newspaper-covered wall, get up and wash in a tin basin, then sit down to biscuits and gravy.
She looked around nervously, trying to orient herself, beginning to panic. This time her gaze fell on her well-tended hands. The past was over and gone, thank God.
She tried to concentrate on the other students. For the most part they were young, with a thin sprinkling of middle-aged men and women. Like me, Frances thought, and rejected the idea. No! I’m still young. I haven’t really started to live yet.
The violence of her reaction frightened her. She took off the glasses she had lately begun to wear for reading, and blinked.
Her look slid over the rows of youngsters in sweaters and came to rest on a dark-haired woman in the tier of seats below her. The woman caught her eye and smiled slightly, then opened a paper-covered book and started to read. Frances studied her, ready to look away if she turned around again. She was in the late twenties, with hair more black than brown, cut short and casual. She was sturdily built, and wore her tailored white shirt as though clothes didn’t interest her. The sleeves were rolled up over tanned arms. Frances thought she looked alert and intelligent, perhaps a trifle sulky, but definitely more interesting than any of the kids.
A thin graying man came in, dropped an armful of books on the lectern, and looked around the room. “My name is Kemper,” he said. “In this course we are going to explore some trends in literature in the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth century, beginning with the works of D. H. Lawrence.” He smiled. “Why Lawrence? Not because some of you may have heard that Lady Chatterly’s Lover is a shocking book. But because his books, which seem so overrated and perhaps sentimental to today’s critics, were the first to state in plain language the effect of human behavior of certain physical and psychic phenomena not generally conceded to exist at the time when he began to publish. Those were the good old days before Freud or at least before the Freudians.”
Some of the students laughed.
“My assistant will pass out the mimeographed reading lists at the end of the hour, but first if you will note these titles ”
Notebooks flipped open. The buzz of voices dwindled to a light hum. There was a scratching of pens.
Frances sat looking around the room, trying to adjust to this atmosphere from which she had been absent for so long.
She had been lukewarm when Bill had suggested that she register for classes at the university. “You always used to say you were going back some day to get your degree. Why don’t you start now?”
“Haven’t thought about it in years.” She had reached up to disconnect the electric toaster, begun to stack the breakfast dishes.
“I get the feeling you’ve been bored ever since we moved to Chicago. Women don’t have enough to do around the house anymore. All these gimmicks.” He looked around the sunny kitchen, frowning. “Now that Bob’s in high school ”
Oh God, Frances thought, if it were only that simple. She focused on the opposite wall: refrigerator and freezer, built-in washer and dryer, all Bill’s purchases, and all bought on installments. Her eyes smarted. If things were the way they used to be with us. If we ever had any time together. If we could sit down and talk things over the way we used to.
“We’re doing all right,” Bill said. “That last raise is going to put us in a higher tax bracket, I’m afraid.” He grinned. “You can get yourself some culture if you want to.”
“All right.”
“Good girl.” He glanced at the wall clock, snatched his attaché case from the work counter, and gave her a perfunctory kiss. “Don’t forget, I may be late tonight. Big deal, buyer from Pittsburgh. Don’t wait up.”
He would have enough to drink before he got home not enough to make him sodden, but too much for balance. And she would lie awake hour after hour, hearing the chimes from the Catholic church down the street and wondering miserably if, this time, entertaining an important customer would mean women. There was a class of buyer to whom a Chicago trip was an excuse for raw, commercial sex. Others were satisfied with a steak dinner, a few dirty stories, too many drinks. She’d never had any real reason to believe that Bill was unfaithful to her, but she had heard enough innuendo at parties and enough complaining from the morning coffee drinkers in the neighborhood to know what sometimes went on the expense account under “entertainment.” It was a thought she couldn’t push out of her mind at one in the morning.
She would lie there, dozing and waking by turns, until the late night air grew cool and pale. And finally the car would turn into the drive, headlights sweeping across the bedroom wall as they always did, and Bill’s key would fumble at the front door. She would lie taut, pretending to be asleep while he undressed in the dark and crawled into bed beside her. Whether he touched her tentatively or fell at once into a heavy alcoholic sleep would depend on how much he’d had to drink and whether the customer was about ready to sign on the dotted line.
Lately he had been staying on his own side of the bed. Sometimes it seemed to her that the whole business of her marriage lay in one word: diminishing. Bill cares less for me, she thought, makes love to me less often, puts less meaning into it, and gives me less pleasure when he does. It’s a gradual lessening. And with the slacking off of love (explainable on the ground of Bill’s increasing preoccupation with business and his fatigue, but who can be comforted by explanation?) we’re losing everything else: books, music, the practical details of learning to live together and be parents even the nagging worry over money. Maybe it’s a good thing to be broke, she thought wryly, keeps you from fretting over more important things.
She sat looking at the blank face of the back door, dimly hearing the car back out of the garage. I’ll do it, she thought suddenly. I’ll go over to the university this morning and get a catalogue, and maybe talk to the registrar or somebody. Why not?
She felt light and buoyant as she ran upstairs to wake Bob, their fifteen-year old son. As soon as he gets off to school, she planned, I’ll shower and take the I.C. to the Midway. Bill had talked about buying a cheap secondhand car for her use and she had discouraged him, feeling that every spare dollar had to go into Bob’s college account. Now she half regretted it. If I had a secondhand car, she thought, I could get to my classes without any trouble.
It felt good, having something to plan for. She caught herself humming as she zipped her skirt.
The grounds of the University of Chicago had never seemed like a campus to her, as she glimpsed it from the windows of a bus or a train. A college ought to be a green tree-shaded expanse shut away from towns, with ivy-covered buildings and a cloistered atmosphere. Here, a series of quadrangles were flanked by the Illinois Central tracks on the east, hemmed in by grimy apartment buildings, surrounded by moldering slums of a great industrial city. But there was the same feeling of youth and optimism that had overlaid, like sunshine, the small denominational college of her youth.
She wondered which building housed the library, the old hunger for books stirring within her like a physical appetite. I belong here, she thought.
So here she was, tuition paid, a student again. It wasn’t what she wanted out of lif