Unlike Others by Valerie Taylor

unlocked, after missing the keyhole a couple of times. All the corny jokes, all the funny-paper gags, she thought wearily, sunk in the beginning of a familiar morning-after letdown. In the comics it's the young man who comes dragging in after a night on the town. What does that make me?
    She knew she was regressing. She'd overcome this shamed, abashed feeling a long time ago. But there were still moments when her bringing-up was too much for her.
    She pulled off her shoes and lay down on the bed, pulling up the spread for warmth. The early light of a cold September morning was just beginning to filter in under the drawn shades.
    At nine she was waked by a terrible crashing and jangling. She was out of bed, mouth dry and heart pounding, before she realized that it was only the telephone. It kept on ringing. She picked her way into the shadowy living room and lifted the handset. "Hello?"
    Betsy's voice came to her muffled and far-away. "Jo, can I come and see you? Something terrible has happened."
    She hesitated. The way she felt, if it were anybody else the answer would be a flat no. "I guess so," she said slowly, rubbing her eyes. "Do you know where I live?"
    Hanging up, she wondered what was the matter. Betsy was all right—at least, she was conscious and able to talk. For a second she considered the fantastic notion that old Mrs. Haxton had died while her son was in Cal City, making love to his assistant. That would look great in the papers.
    Or maybe the old lady's heart trouble was the real thing, and ran in the family. Maybe Stan had dropped dead in a motel and there would be a real scandal. Come on, she scolded herself, you've been reading too many drugstore novels.
    She shook her head, which still ached. Whatever it was, she'd have to wait until Betsy got there before she could do anything about it. She turned on the ceiling light in the kitchen and got out the percolator. The smell of the raw ground coffee made her gag, but she fixed up the pot and got it on the burner, then went into the bathroom to investigate the hot water situation. In the back of her mind a strange excitement began to stir. Betsy was in trouble, and had turned to her for help. Betsy was on the way over. Anything could happen.

CHAPTER 9
    By the time the doorbell chimed she'd showered, dusted herself with scented powder, pulled on clean pajamas and her plaid robe, and covered the worst of the bruises with lotion makeup. Not bad, she decided, looking at her reflection. She still looked tired, her eyes ringed with brown shadows, but that was natural in anyone who'd been dragged out of bed after four hours' sleep. She drank a cup of freshly-made coffee and waited for Betsy, not knowing where she was calling from or how long it would take her to get there.
    It seemed longer than it probably was, but at last the bell rang. Jo pushed the buzzer, opened the door a crack and stood waiting to be sure it was really Betsy and not a Sunday-morning prowler. No use taking chances. It got more dangerous every year to go out on the streets after dark.
    But it was Betsy who tiptoed up the stairs, making more noise than if she hadn't tried to be so quiet. She stood in the hall, looking around. Jo opened the door and hugged her, coat and all.
    "Jo, I thought I'd never get here."
    "Well, you're here now." Jo led her into the living room, latched the door, looked at her in the light from the desk lamp. Betsy's face was pale and her eyes swollen. She looked scared. Jo slipped the light coat from her shoulders and laid it across a chair. "You want some coffee?"
    "I'd love some. It's getting cold out."
    It was good to be doing something. Maybe if she kept her hands busy she could keep them off Betsy. She poured two cups of coffee and carried them back to the living room, turning off the kitchen light as she passed the dangling cord. "Sit down and drink it while it's hot."
    Betsy took the cup in shaking hands. It rattled against the saucer. When she carried it to her