Warm and Willing - Lawrence Block [50]
“I—”
“I’ve known for years.” The woman lowered her eyes. “I’ve wanted to talk to him now and then. It’s hard not to want to. He’s my son and I love him, of course. But he wouldn’t want me to know. It would bother him, and so I’ve never let him find out.” She nibbled her lower lip. “Of course I’d love to believe that you and Terry are lovers—but I’m afraid I know better. He’s with that boy Bernie, of course. Thank you for being such a good friend to Terry.”
She did not know what to say.
“And I suppose you—”
“Yes.”
“You and Roberta?”
She felt her face reddening. “Yes.”
“It’s very strange,” Mrs. Langer said. “I think my generation is a very awkward one. If we understood a little more, or even a little less, things might be simpler. We seem to know and understand just enough to be utterly confused. The awkward age, which is what we used to say about teen-agers. You won’t tell Terry about this, will you?”
“No.”
“I hope you won’t. I suppose I shouldn’t have said anything at all, but I felt that I wanted to. You’re a very sweet girl. If only—”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
The Langers did not stay long after that. When they left Terry offered to see her home.
“I can manage,” she said.
“Really, I don’t mind.”
“I can get home alone. But thanks.”
She called Bobbie, told her she was on her way. Then she went downstairs and walked to Broadway and took the subway home.
CHAPTER TWELVE
New Year’s Eve.
The touch-off party was at their apartment, just a handful of couples dropping by for a first drink or three to start the evening rolling. Peg and Lucia, Grace and Allie, Jan and Megan, Roz Merrimac and some nameless fragile blonde. There was a big party set for an apartment two gay boys were sharing over on Barrow Street, and they were just fitting in an opening get-together before they headed over there.
Rhoda played hostess. She mixed drinks while Bobbie sat in a corner and sulked. There was a lot of talk, a lot of laughter. Allie had just gotten back from Baltimore and she was giving a play-by-play of her reunion with her parents. They were very upset over the fact that she had not managed to get married yet, and were at the same time quite concerned that she was ruining her health in New York. Her mother thought she was leading an immoral life. “You mustn’t let men go too far with you,” she had told the girl. “If you lead them on too far, they’ll never marry you. But you can’t be cold, either, then they won’t be interested,” Allie imitated her mother’s voice. She had a talent for mimicry and everyone laughed.
Rhoda didn’t laugh. Neither did Bobbie. Rhoda went on being the perfect hostess. Bobbie went on sulking, hitting the scotch bottle a little heavy, and keeping to herself. Rhoda made a drink of her own and drained it quickly.
It was going to be one hell of a night, she thought. One perfect hell of an evening.
The day itself had been gruesome enough. They had stayed in the apartment, watching the Christmas tree—a skimpy two-dollar affair—lose its needles and turn slowly brown around the edges. The first flare of temper came before noon, some petty argument that she could hardly remember now. And the rest of the day followed along in predictable fashion.
“Are Jan and Megan coming?”
“It’s important to you, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you still love her.”
“The hell I do. I don’t—”
“You always loved her, damn you. You just took a flyer with me to hurt her. You don’t care who you hurt, Rho, do you?”
Or, “Bobbie, this is your party too, isn’t it?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You were the one who thought of it. You invited everybody.”
“So? Don’t you want them to come?”
“Yes, but—”
“You don’t like my friends.”
“I like them fine. But you just sit there all day while I’m supposed to get the place looking decent.”
“It’s about time you did something, Rho.”
“Oh, really? So you can sit around like a queen on your fat—”
“Fat!”
Each time they made up and each time they started in again flying at each other’s throat. Each argument got a little worse than the one before it. Once, when