The New York winter chill disappeared when Jean entered the lobby of Maxine Elliott’s Theater, crowded with women. It was Jean’s fourth matinee since November 20th, when The Children’s Hour premiered.

She hadn’t returned for the play, but for the largely female audience, and more to the heart, for the maddening crush she had on one usherette who seated her in the second balcony.

In the last few years, Jean had scoured through journals on sexuality in the public library. Doctors called her condition inverted, depraved, a mistake of nature. Was it any wonder Martha killed herself at the end of The Children’s Hour?

Jean escaped into books, museums, theaters, and music recitals. For a few hours, the stranglehold of her homosexuality vanished into a novel by Pearl Buck, a painting by Matisse, a musical by Cole Porter, or a recital of Gershwin.

When she accepted what doctors described as a perversion, Jean abandoned all her friends and moved from her parents’ home.

The suffocating fear of being found out grew more intense each year. She suffered headaches in her teens and now stomach problems in her twenties.

So with shocking delight Jean found herself in a Broadway theater surrounded by women. She guessed the majority were lesbian. She saw mannish women in fedoras with violets pinned to the lapels of their suits; feminine women with the purple flower attached to their wide fur collared coats, their hats shaded over one eye like Greta Garbo. Under the crystal chandeliers, Jean gloried in the freedom of knowing there were others like herself.

Yet sitting through the play became torture. Didn’t Lillian Hellman understand the effect Martha’s suicide would have? Killing herself because she was homosexual? What irony, that the play brought out lesbians to meet, mingle, and flirt.

On her secretary’s salary, Jean could only afford afternoons in the top gallery. Today, would be her last matinee. Her father had lost his job, like so many other men. Any additional money, she’d give to her parents.

To her right, the winding staircase led to the balconies and to her electrifying encounters with the girl whose name tag said “Rebecca.” With a dash of exotic, perhaps she was Jewish or Italian.

When they first locked eyes, Jean had what one journal called “homosexual recognition,” a knowing that was inherent in the third sex.

On Jean’s second visit to the theater, did she really see the flush of the girl’s cheeks when they glanced at one another? Or the sensuous curve of her lips that followed?    When Rebecca took Jean’s ticket, their fingers touched, sending sparks through Jean’s body. She had never felt so alive. As the lights dimmed and Rebecca waited for the arrival of latecomers, Jean imagined unbuttoning Rebecca’s jacket stretched tantalizingly across her breasts.  

On Jean’s third matinee, she pinned a violet to her brown coat—a daring act for her. Rebecca greeted her at the top of the stairs. Jean saw her eyes move to the violet. Rebecca smiled.

“What’s your name?” Rebecca asked.

“Jean. I’ll be here next week. Maybe afterwards we—”

“Young lady, I can’t find my seat,” interrupted an elderly woman.

Rebecca glanced at Jean and nodded.

That night, Jean fantasized unzipping Rebecca’s dress, of slipping it down over curvaceous hips, of Rebecca lying naked in her bed, of pleasing the girl into ecstasy, of whispers and laughter, going on picnics, drinking champagne, and sharing sunrises over Manhattan. Jean felt a torrent of sexuality sweep through her being. How could such an exquisite feeling be wrong? Who did it hurt?

For this, her final visit, Jean slipped on her favorite coat, the sporty navy wrap with a cinched belt and a faux-fur collar. Over her light-brown hair, she wore a matching blue beret. She applied rouge and lipstick to add color to her fair skin. Jean even curled her hair. She readied herself as if going before the MGM cameras.

For the last three weeks, Rebecca ruled her world. Jean looked anxiously at the staircase to the balconies. She couldn’t wait to see her but hated to once again endure the gunshot at the end of the play.

After taking the first couple of steps, Jean turned and relished all the women in the lobby—their dynamic sexual energy, the flirting, the sideway glances, a light caress that lingered down an arm, a bond invisible to heterosexuals. It was a delicious secret, an affront to those who wished her kind dead.

When Jean arrived on the landing that led to the first balcony, the lights flickered for people to take their seats.

She hurried up the staircase. On arriving at the second landing, she drew her ticket from her pocket. At the curtain, leading into the gallery, Jean saw a new usherette. 

“Where’s Rebecca?” Jean asked.

“She has the day off. Can I take your ticket?”

“I know where to sit,” she said too sharply.

Slumping in her seat, Jean tried to compose herself from the shattering truth that she’d always be alone. She had been certain Rebecca would be there. Jean twisted the sterling ring on her finger, a gift from her mother for high school graduation. She dug through her purse for tissues as tears streamed down her face.

The lights dimmed.

Jean dabbed her eyes.

A girl in a red coat and slouch hat walked down the aisle. Taking the empty seat next to Jean, she smelled of jasmine and rose.

The girl leaned against her.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Rebecca said.

“You’re here!”

“Shh,” said a voice behind them.

Jean couldn’t contain her joy and pressed her knee against Rebecca’s thigh.

“You must really like the play,” Rebecca murmured, rubbing up against Jean’s shoulder.

“I don’t like it at all,” Jean said.

“Neither do I,” Rebecca giggled.

“Be quiet,” a woman admonished.

“Want to leave?” Jean asked in a low voice.

Rebecca’s lips brushed her ear as she whispered, “I know a really good kosher deli down the street.”

– DC Diamondopolous