Beggar of Love Part 7

"I've been nuts about you for a long time."

"About me? Why? How didn't I know?"

"You haven't found out there are other ways to dance?"

She could hear Ginger's startled intake of breath.

"What?" Jefferson asked.

"I never dreamed-"

"You're ful of dreams."

"But not of this-of-"

"Your knight in s.h.i.+ning armor being a woman?"

"Sure. There was never a woman-"

"In your dreams." She pul ed Ginger to herself, pressed her cheek to the side of her coppery hair, and experienced something she didn't recognize.

She'd been in love before, of course. Angela was stil like ivy entwining her heart that some day would leave impressions, fossils of love, but her sensations now moved inside those ivied wal s. She smiled as she pul ed away from Ginger.

Ginger raised one eyebrow, gazed on Jefferson.

Jefferson told her, "I'm having a heart attack, girl. You're attacking my heart."

"I don't know. I don't know. Who are you? You make me wonder-who am I?"

"Come on home. I'l show you."

Ginger looked around again. "Do I belong here?"

She saw what Ginger saw. A smal , crowded room where cigarette smoke was as loud as the music, the frequent laughter sounded brittle, as if alcohol was parching the drinkers, and the women looked strained, like this was al such hard work. Her gloom threatened to reappear. She was relieved when Ginger fol owed her outside, relieved that she didn't see any cabs, relieved at the silence and the darkness and the cold that caught and intimately mingled the vapored breaths from their mouths, relieved to be with Ginger Quinn, the woman she would make it her business to be with until, she clearly remembered thinking that first night, death do us part.

Chapter Twelve.

Jefferson stood naked, feeling strong and powerful. The curtains of her dormitory window were parted slightly so that she could see the morning beyond them. It was her junior year. The fal light was golden, buoyant, the day so intensely clear that everything shone with the remnants of the night's moisture. She could hear a few cars out early Sat.u.r.day below on the street. In the suburbs of New York leaves would be burning; here in the city chestnuts roasted in a cart somewhere on the avenues. Was it possible winter wouldn't come this year? The city seemed to waver before her eyes, so magical, so ful of promising corners and storefronts and signs she felt confused and excited at al the choices, like riches, before her.

A day to celebrate, she thought, ful of her cheerfulness, her youth, her powers. She jogged down the hal to the communal bathroom. It smel ed of mint toothpaste and disinfectant. The tile floor of the shower stal was cold under her bare feet, but she bore this discomfort stoical y, like al others. Under a sharp hot spray she lathered and shampooed her athlete's body vigorously, roughly, from short hair to wel -fleshed but neatly formed b.r.e.a.s.t.s, to solid muscled legs.

"Jefferson!"

Ginger's voice fil ed her with a warmth as steamy as the shower. They continued to spend hours in each other's arms imagining their lives together after graduation, recordings of music she borrowed from her parents' col ection playing softly, music that Ginger loved but had never owned, music she'd heard while learning dance. Over and over Jefferson dwelt on how perfect Ginger was for her, how lucky she was to have found her. But at times she'd feel frightened at how irritable she could be with Ginger and by her own compulsive flings with other women. Today she felt so good she only chuckled.

Marriage, as she thought of moving in together after graduation, would cure her of those urges, she was sure of it.

She turned the shower off. "This is going to be one d.a.m.n fine day, Ginge."

She could hear Ginger's toothbrush.

"You want to climb the Empire State Building with me?" Jefferson cal ed out. "Or how about taking a boat trip around Manhattan?" Dry, robed, she joined Ginger at the sinks. "What a face," she told her. "You know you're my princess, don't you?"

"Oh, Jefferson."

"Did I make you blush?" She stepped back and bowed, robe and al . "Would my princess accompany me to the park so I can count your royal freckles?"

Ginger smiled broadly at her in the mirror, green eyes fil ed with light. "Again?"

"I didn't finish last time." Her spirits were so high she had to bounce up and down. Shoot baskets into the toilet booths. Surely her blood was being carbonated with excitement as it coursed through her body. It'd cal for a lot of wine to level her out this day. She wished she could hug Ginger hard, but they'd be drummed out of the PE Department in an hour if they got caught.

Ginger turned to her, brus.h.i.+ng her shoulder-length coppery hair, a long-fingered hand curved around her brush. The occasional, prized touch of those hands was a gift Jefferson had found in no other woman, including those more generous with touching. Ginger shook her head, eyes amused and sad at the same time. "You've forgotten midterm exams are next week."

She had. "Hel , we're uppercla.s.smen, we don't have to study." She kept smiling and began to clip her nails. She enjoyed her hands and thought they looked solid and capable. She didn't want Ginger to worry about her grades, didn't want Ginger to think she was no good, and last night was to have been the final party before she buckled down. She had to get her grade-point average up this semester if she wanted to graduate on time.

"Sure we do. We'l make it fun, Jef. We can go study in the park. I'l help you."

"No, baby, you have your own work to do. I'l get by. I always do." She gave Ginger what she imagined was her most rea.s.suring, charming smile.

Ginger, from a working-cla.s.s Bronx family, had come to col ege with hardly an ounce of self-confidence. Jefferson, who'd grown up with wel -to-do parents almost two hours north of the Bronx, had learned to exude confidence and prosperity whether she felt them or not. And she knew her own self- possession always rea.s.sured Ginger.

Half an hour later Ginger was in Jefferson's arms. Always, Jefferson thought, hands firmly, familiarly caressing Ginger, the touch of this woman was like winning the World Series. "You take my breath away."

Ginger moved her face for a kiss. "I love you."

"Open the window." Jefferson reluctantly let her go. "Tel me you can resist a day like this."

Ginger pul ed a long Hunter T-s.h.i.+rt over her head and crossed to the window in nothing but that and her flip-flops. Jefferson had been astonished to see the floor of Ginger's closet covered in rubber beach thongs of every hue. Ginger had explained about foot freedom, as she cal ed it. When she was in her room, not dancing, not walking far, she loved to treat her feet to barefoot freedom and at the same time protect them from harm. Hence, the flip-flops.

She ma.s.saged her feet with perfumed lotions, soaked them, and decorated them with flip-flops of every color and design she could find in Woolworths, Kresge's, May's, and corner drugstores. Ginger pressed her forehead against the screen while Jefferson admired her profile. She could see Ginger inhale a deep breath of the air. "It's gorgeous."

"Your accent's showing," she said, moving to Ginger.

The occasional harshness that remained in Ginger's accent grated on Jefferson, who'd been raised to sound like a cla.s.s, not a location, but she thought she was good at keeping the irritation from her corrections. Ginger wanted to succeed out there in the world, after al .

"Sorry," Ginger said quickly. "Gorgeous," she repeated, this time in open tones.

A warm breeze seemed to swirl into the room and wrap around them both. Jefferson was dressed in a faintly pink oxford cloth s.h.i.+rt, a red V-neck sweater, sharply pressed white slacks, and white moccasins. She stepped behind Ginger and pressed herself ful -length to her back, reaching around to touch her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "We could go out to Long Island Sound and rent a sailboat."

Ginger turned and moved her eyes down her lover's body. "You're irresistible, that's the problem."

"Am I pressuring you, baby?" she asked. "I thought it would be something you'd like to do."

"It would, Jef. I'm not convinced it's a good idea this weekend."

"We won't go." She was disappointed-crushed-but unwil ing to upset Ginger.

"Oh, Jef. Does it mean that much to you?"

Jefferson slumped, body and mind quickly swal owed by gloom. She laid her head on Ginger's shoulder. "Not if you're going to worry al day."

"You feel so smal when you're sad," said Ginger, her tone remorseful, her arms comforting, her hands, those magical hands, soothing. "You turn sad so suddenly."

Jefferson snuggled against the beloved body, feeling, for the moment, safe and free from her own demanding wil . At the same time, she realized she was clutching at Ginger. The power of her love was also the power of her need and that, she was learning, frightened some women.

"I wouldn't worry al day," Ginger said.

Jefferson straightened, stil holding her. "You mean you'l go on a holiday with me?"

"I didn't say that," Ginger warned with a laugh. "I guess I'm trying to say I don't want you thinking you can wrap me around your little finger."

She began to twist away from Jefferson, but weakly. They tussled, then fel laughing onto the unmade bed.

Jefferson's good cheer returned as she realized that Ginger real y would spend the day with her. But was this so important? More important than grades and Ginger's peace of mind? How many days like this did one person get in a lifetime? Ginger's gentle fingers were in her stil -wet hair, her lips soft, nibbling, biting her own lips, tasting like mint.

"Ginger, Ginger, wil you play hooky with me?"

"Lock the door," came Ginger's dry-voiced answer.

"Wil you?" she repeated after she returned. She knelt at the edge of the bed, Ginger's feet against her shoulders, and rubbed her cheeks along those soft inner thighs. "I could die happy here."

"Not quite yet," Ginger whispered, rubbing back against her. "Not til you finish what you started."

Her lips pressed against Ginger's soft mound, stil moistly hot from the shower. She parted the cleft slowly with her tongue, then asked against her, "Wil you?"

"Ohh, I like that," said Ginger, pressing back. "But Jef, I want to graduate with a three point five-"

"I'l give you a four point oh-"

"Oh, Jefferson, oh." Ginger cleared her throat as if to gain control of herself. "I'm not majoring in s.e.x."

"You should. You're real good, baby."

She loved Ginger's spicy yet sweet taste. No matter how many girls she went out with on the sly, her moral code insisted that she go down only on Ginger. If Ginger ever found out about the others, maybe she wouldn't be as hurt.

As Ginger's thighs hugged her head she pictured herself, this beautiful woman proudly on her arm, standing on the sidelines of a field-hockey game.

Her old team would be more spirited because she, a school hero, watched. Ginger would be happy and secure, holding her hand. Always, Ginger would like visiting with the coach and teachers, like being her girl where that counted most. And Jefferson, al in white, a white crock of wine in her hand, would feel that mel ow high only Sat.u.r.day afternoons on a playing field and a few drinks could give her.

She rose, fel with Ginger's hips, her tongue no longer roving, but strumming the slick ful flesh over and over on the same spot. She'd check the schedule, maybe there was a game today. Ginger would have a great time. She'd make certain of that.

They drove to the suburban Westchester County town north of the city where Jefferson's old team was scheduled to play that day. The golden light was softer and spread a romantic haze over the oranges, reds, and yel ows of the trees, over the light greens of the playing field, and over the young women in short plaid skirts, intent on their game. Jefferson fil ed her lungs with balmy air that carried on it the scent of dozens of backyard leaf piles gloriously, briefly blazing. The thwack of the girls' wooden hockey sticks as they clashed to defend their goals stirred more than prayers or anthems. This was winterless fal , sweet nostalgia; this was living at its best.

"Having a good time?" she asked Ginger, her heart celebrating.

"Sure. I love sharing this part of your life." Ginger's face was flushed, her absorption in the game obvious.

"Want to come back to the parking lot with me?"

"Jef, don't you care that your team is losing?" Ginger clapped as the Bluejays made a goal and cheered with the other bystanders. The coach, an old cla.s.smate of Jefferson's, ran to hug the scorer.

Jefferson watched the players a few more minutes. They seemed distanced by the hazy light, as if they were ghosts floating back and forth across the field. This could al be a pleasant dream. How could she explain to Ginger that it wasn't the winning, the losing, or the playing? It was the feeling of wel - being that was important. The ease of a day blessed by such indulgent light that she felt free of the strictures a normal day would bring. Wasn't it like getting drunk? Life stopped being so hard.

She strode toward the parking lot in her whites. Inside her old Mustang were a picnic basket and supplies. Before leaving the city she and Ginger had stocked the car with rol s, cold meats, and a cooler ful of cheesecake, soda, and wine. She lowered the car's tailgate and pul ed out her whiskey bottle with stealth, pouring a slug into a paper cup and downing it, then replacing it and grabbing one of the white crocks of wine. This was not an Ivy League footbal game, and tailgating, especial y with drinking, was not a custom. But she'd thought it would please Ginger to invite the team for a snack after the game. And the teachers were always glad for something convivial to pour into their cups of soda.

"Hi, Taffy," she said, and lounged against the car with her white bottle.

She remembered Taffy from other games, a cute little senior from the Academy who'd always been especial y attentive.

The girl reached for the bottle. Team manager, she wore her short-skirted uniform like cheerleader garb. She definitely hadn't reached drinking age.

Taffy fel , laughing, against Jefferson's chest as she wrestled for the bottle. Jefferson regretted three impa.s.sable years between them. But it didn't matter anyway. I know right from wrong, she reminded herself. I have a wil of my own. Sometimes she seemed compel ed to do crazy things, but she wouldn't let herself today. This would be a perfect day for Ginger.

"I'm eighteen, Jeffy, honest."

"Since when? And don't cal me Jeffy." The nickname came natural y to the private-school crowd. They seemed to mock her with it, watering her down so they could tolerate her half-hidden gay self. It sounded like something they would name a pet Labrador retriever.

"Since last week. I started school late."

"Looks like everything else was on time," she commented in a wry tone, surveying the body bursting with adolescence. A few years from now the girl would stil be pretty, but nothing like this-the shoulder-length bouncing hair, the large b.r.e.a.s.t.s newly ful , the face without makeup. And she spoke easily, in Jefferson's unaccented tones. They could have been raised in the same family. Jefferson gave in, handed over the bottle.

"Thanks, sport," Taffy said, and drank.

They sat and talked, legs dangling from the tailgate. The cheering receded. She was deeper into this dreamy day. There wasn't harm, surely, in flirting with this kid?

"I real y thought Jody would break your record this year, Jeffy."

Jefferson tried not to show her pride that no one had scored more goals in one game than she and moved to rest her back against the inside of the wagon. She was aware of her pose as she raised her knees and held the white crock between them, her gold ID bracelet hanging loosely from one wrist, on the other an expandable watch band glinting in the sun.

Taffy reached for the bottle again.

"I don't want to get you in trouble," Jefferson said, withholding it as Taffy's smal er hands played at prying hers off. She should have brought more.

"I have gum to cover the smel ."

She surrendered the bottle. There were plenty of liquor stores nearby.

Taffy bragged, "I've been drinking since I was fourteen."

She clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, trying to be disapproving. "Me too," she admitted with a smile, proud of her precocity. "What else did you start at fourteen?"