"She will," he said with cockiness. "Are you sure you'll be all right here alone?"
"Perfect place to study lines," she said.
He went to the bedroom and took another five minutes to dress and then he was ready for the opera.
"Kiss Beth for me, will you?" Anne joked. She had learned to joke about her feelings.
Mark laughed, then blew her a kiss and said "Done."
Anne knew he wouldn't. He would kiss Beth for himself and sleep with her. She thought nothing of sleeping with Mark. She had no feelings, only a jolly attitude toward everything, as if sex was only the proper way to end an evening.
The door closed after Mark and he would not return until late.
Now Anne was left to the four walls—well-decorated walls but lifeless all the same—and she could not concentrate on her script. It had been three months since that foolish day and she had begun to notice again the fresh air and gold sunlight, remembering how good it felt to live. Talking about Beth to Mark had helped, but there was something terribly lacking from the world, and even Mark's fun would not fill that gap. Mark's dating Beth made it worse. She could not help feeling jealous and it was pain to sit memorizing lines longing all the while to be sitting next to Beth in Mark's seat at the opera.
She tried to analyze her state. It was natural for her to react this way to Beth. Mark had told her so. Mom had never given her affection; she had no sense of belonging to her family; it was natural for her to respond to someone older whom she admired, who was beautiful and who cared enough about her to scream "For God's sake, Anne, grow up!"
But there was something else—a fierce unhappiness that she had known all her life. And there was something else again—she could never remember when she had not longed for some woman—first Mom and then teachers. Never, not once had she longed for or sought the company of men. Not even Mark made her feel alive, and Mark was the closest because he could talk to her and she to him, freely.
She decided to leave the script and dream of Beth. She fell asleep on the day couch, where Mark found her when he came home.
"My God, they'll think I slept with you!" she said the next morning.
Mark jabbed another piece of toast in his mouth. "You did."
"I mean, you know—" she was embarrassed. "I didn't, did I?"
He laughed, "No, dammit." And then he paused, still laughing, "Perhaps I should be worried. How old are you?"
"Nineteen," she said.
He sighed with false relief. "Safe!"
"Mark," she said slowly, "if we had slept together, would anything be different?"
"Sure," he said, concentrating on his eggs.
"How?" she persisted.
He shrugged. "You'd be grown up."
"Mark," she pleaded, "no one's ever sat down and actually told me about sex."
He stopped eating breakfast and looked at her. "What are you driving at?"
She paused and looked down. "I can't go home this morning. I won't be able to explain it to Dad."
"Tell him you stayed at Beth's," he said unconcerned.
"It's not that." She shook her head. "I've just decided not to go home again. I can't bear it there anymore. I'm up against a wall, Mark. I don't know which way to turn."
He put his napkin down, stood up and went to her side of the table. He took hold of her shoulders and rubbed away at the tightness there.
"Has the time come, Anne?" he said softly.
"I don't know," she said. She rose and walked away from him.
"Did you have a nice time with Beth?"
"Uhuh," he nodded, watching her.
Anne turned and gazed at him. "I'm terribly jealous of Beth," she said. "I can't bear the thought of your being near her. I do love her, Mark. There's nothing I've been able to do about it."
He gave her a look of impatience and sat down again to his breakfast.
She turned and traced the lines of a vase with her fingers.
"Mark, just exactly what do you want of me?"
"I couldn't begin to explain it to you," he said with an air of boredom.
"How does one go about having sex?" she persisted.
"Why do you want to know?" he said.
"Does Beth like you? Is she pleased?" Anne insisted.
"Yes." He was growing impatient.
"Mark," she said. There was great strain in her voice and she turned from the vase to look at him. He turned, summoned by her cry, and looked at her.
"What exactly do you want of me?" she repeated.
"I want to please you," he said seriously.
"In coarse terms," she insisted.
"Why do you want to know?" he repeated.
"I want to know so that I'll be able to please Beth," she said.
He laughed, a wild laugh aimed at her. "You can't do that," he said. "It's impossible."
"Nothing is impossible," she replied.
She returned quietly to the breakfast table and slowly buttered her toast. She felt him watching her through the whirlpool that splashed her and felt the cold steel of the knife in her hand. It was a dull knife. In the bathroom there was Mark's razor. She closed her eyes and put down the toast, gripping the knife desperately. Somewhere there must be life, somewhere beyond the whirlpool. Somewhere there was Beth. You can always talk to me. Beth's words sounded in her ears. But there wasn't time to talk to Beth. Anne had to do something, now. She had to be sure of herself, of what she was.
"Mark," she managed to choke through the whirlpool, "Mark, come here. It's time."
He still watched her, his eyes carefully studying her face. She saw the knife in her hand and dropped it. It lay on the table, reflecting the light bulb, a simple, dull thing that symbolized the razor in the bathroom.
She forced herself to see again and rose, facing him. "What are you waiting for?"
He rose too and faced her, then took her firmly.
As if a part of her were standing off and watching, Anne felt his arms come around her and pull her to him. She felt the roughness of his beard, his clothes, and finally the warmth of his body pressed against her own. The tip of his tongue moved down her neck and niggled in her ear. Absurdly, it tickled and she had an impulse to giggle. But when she felt his fingers opening her blouse and the cool air touching her warm skin the giggle changed to a pang of fear. And when the wetness of his mouth moved over the mounds of her breasts, the fear mounted to the edge of panic. She raised her hands to stop him.
"Mark, no."
He pushed her hands aside and in a moment she felt her blouse come off and the straps of her bra being slid from her shoulders. And then there was the cold shock of his mouth on her breast.
She did not want him, she wanted him to stop. But she had asked him. And she knew it was too late now. She knew what she had done.
* * *
The cast spent lunch and afternoon free time across from the theater at a cafe called The Florentin, where one cup of coffee, priced twenty-five cents, was sufficient to hold a table reserved all day through a series of shifts. The management did not complain because its reputation depended upon the "arty" atmosphere which drew many tourists, and the cast was certainly part of that atmosphere.
Anne surveyed the group. Each was involved with himself and this strange process of transition to adulthood. Each had a problem; each was experiencing some form of love—or desire—or need that could not be fulfilled except by children's magic; and each was past the age of magic.
Jacques belonged to the group, effeminate yet unaware, followed incessantly by the fat simpering and servile Carol. Then there was Marcel, who played the lute and sang old folk songs and who was vainly trying to grow a medieval beard; and Jennie, whose voice was high-pitched and whose mind efficiently catalogued cliches, snatching bits of culture from others' conversations, repeating them at the best times; Ronnie, the big tall fat boy, who had a magnificent talent for acting and who played King Lear and made everyone cry—he too was affected like Jacques, but was ashamed of it and went to great
lengths to prove he was manly.
Yesterday, Anne had been one of these. Today, Mark had separated her. Today she had become one alone. Today the world was colorless and all dreams were gone. She sat quietly in her corner by the large window and watched them, not listening to their talk, not drinking her coffee. She felt tired, so completely, through all her limbs, and her eyes saw only black and white shadows.
"Anne, you look ghastly," Jennie said, stopping her incessant flow of words to look at her. "You must be sick."
"Just a cold," she lied. She wanted so much to tell them the truth, but it would have been awkward and silly. She was glad that later she might go home to rest. She wondered how Moms would react to her having been out all night. No matter—she would not be living at home for long; she planned to find a job and move out within the month.
Then Beth and Mark arrived, snatching a short ten minutes, and Beth sat next to her. Immediately Anne was aware of new strength and her pulse quickened. Beth regarded her with meaningful eyes and Anne wondered if Mark had told her. No, Mark had not told her. She was concerned only about the rings under Anne's eyes. "You ought to get more beauty sleep," Beth said. Anne nodded and smiled embarrassedly. She could not look at her eyes. Mark was a great wall between them.
Mark was regarding her too, with a firm, quiet gaze. "How are you, trooper?" he said.
"Okay," she smiled.
In a few minutes she slipped away quietly. But at the end of the street Mark caught up with her and took her arm.
"Where do you think you're going?" he asked protectively.
"Home," she sighed. She stopped and regarded him. "I'm sorry if I seem cold. I can't be warm."
He walked with her, his hands in his pockets, and looked at the ground. "You make me feel responsible. Is this really the first and last time?"
"I'm sorry," she said.
"Look," he spun her around, "you're not giving it a chance. It takes time to get used to the idea."
She smiled sadly. "You've already got Beth. You don't need me, Mark."
He looked down again and did not answer. They walked quietly to her subway.
"Look," he said with his steady glance, "I want to see you again. Beth is not the only woman in my life. I'm free as a bird. I want to see you again."
Again she smiled sadly and shook her head. "I'm very grateful, Mark, but there are some things I just can't feel. Please let's just be friends—as we were."
He held her shoulder and would not let her turn, regarding her firmly. "Look, Anne, there's nothing wrong with you. You're every bit normal. Please help me prove it to you. Please give me time."
"Poor Mark," she smiled. "Don't feel so guilty. Give me a week or so to think."
He pinched her cheek and straightened. "That's more like it."
She watched him walk away with a bounce and whistling and wondered why she felt so blank about him. Deeply she knew that watching Beth would have been different.
* * *
The day was lingering an extra hour on the tops of trees .and Anne thought as she walked home: How right it is that it is spring. Spring was the time for moving and shaking dust out of old corners. Tomorrow she would look for a job and an apartment; tonight, she would leave home, suddenly.
It had to be a sudden move, so sudden that her parents would be too overcome with shock to try to stop her. Once she had escaped there would be time and opportunity to ease their feelings. With the coolness of thought that springs from unpleasant necessity, she laid out her plans. She would pack her belongings in light suitcases and paper bags and her treasures in a small trunk—her sketches, attempts at poetry, uncompleted books and plays, all her efforts at trying to find herself through self-expression. For three years they had collected in secret places, hidden from Dad's criticism and Mom's concern. Ever since the day Dad put his foot down:
"You cannot go to Bennington."
"But the scholarship—"
"Scholarship. Another word for charity. No."
He was difficult to speak to for he spoke in terms of an old-world culture and had no respect for American educational advantages, especially for women. "Your mother needs you here. You have enough to learn here about becoming a wife."
Now Anne unlocked the front door. Portia the cat greeted her with a meow and Anne bent to pet her. The soft fur felt good in her hands and she felt the strain in them ease slightly. No one was home. They went to movies on Sunday nights, and would be gone quite late. She hurried upstairs to pack.
For three years she had worked and saved money and to escape home she had taken night classes with the Circle Players where she had met Mark—and Beth. Her bank account held nearly a thousand now and she felt secure enough to leave. She had never had a problem finding good jobs, and apartments could be found somewhere. There remained only for her to take her belongings. She could not wait another day. It had to be done now.
There were many things that would not fit in bags— her books and childhood keepsakes. But they would be safe until she could come back for them. She would take the essential things. The rest if need be she could replenish from scratch. But she had to leave now—secretly, or she would be stopped. Particularly after having been out all night. She could never explain why to them so that they would understand.
When everything was packed she brought the bag down and called a cab that would drive into the city. Then she began to write a note: "Dear folks, I guess I've run away from home." She paused. It sounded childish. How could she explain about Beth or Mark, about not wanting to marry and have children? She could not even reason out her revulsion at the parades of young men to whom she had been subjected at Saturday night gatherings. All these things seemed such strange motives for leaving home, for wanting to be left alone to face a world full of no other places to hide.
She tore up the note. It would be better to call them and assure them by telephone that she was safe and well and then to arrange a meeting with them in some public place where she could try to explain to them that she had grown up.
Her cab arrived and with the help of the driver they loaded it with her things. Only Portia remained to meow goodbye. Anne paused, cursing mildly under her breath, and took the cat in her arms. "Come along, I can't leave you," she said.
CHAPTER 2
Three weeks had passed and the decorating was nearly done. Anne and Portia found themselves alone, sitting by the telephone with its unlisted number, waiting for it to ring. She had found a perfect place—a year's sublet with adequate furniture, and convenient to The Florentin and the Players. Now she was ready for guests, but no one knew where she lived or how to contact her. Whom should she call first?
She thought of Beth and then rejected the idea with great effort. There was Mark—but seeing him might be too great a strain just now. What a pity they could not just be friends.
It was not that she had felt revulsion, not even fear— just a nothing feeling that broke all illusions and put it blankly to her that somehow she must be different, immune to all men, even Mark.
She decided not to sit and brood about this and picked up her white telephone. She would call Jacques; he was safe, possibly even gay. She wondered whether he knew women who were and if they were not all hideous-looking perverts.
"Hi, stranger," she heard him say, "where have you been? Your folks have been hounding me."
"I'm sorry," Anne said. "Want to come see my new place?"
"Anytime," he said. "I'm free tonight so better hurry."
"All right, tonight." Anne laughed.
"The address please, and the telephone number.”
Anne hesitated. "You won't give it out—"
"Hell, no," he said.
She paused for another moment, then laughed at herself. She couldn't go on being a recluse, not when she wanted her telephone to ring so badly. She gave him the number and the address and told him to give her an hour to get things tidy.
The apartment grew real and each ashtray took on new purpose. Anne felt that the drea
m had passed and that she was alive, in a different world full of new things to do and think, free from parents and children's games. She gained new courage; she would call Beth.
She dialed her number then waited, barely able to speak from the excitement that welled in her. Then Beth's voice, unaltered by the telephone, forced her to reply. "Beth? Hi."
"Well, hi," Beth said. "We've missed you. Your Dad's been frantic."
"I moved away from home," Anne said. "Want to come up and see my new apartment?"
"Sure." Beth turned away from the receiver and said, "Hey, Mark—it's Anne."
Anne's heart sank. So now Mark would know where she lived, too. She had hoped Beth was alone.
"When do you want us over?" Beth said.
"Tomorrow night?" Anne stammered. At least Beth would be with him. He would be easier to handle. And it was better if she did not see Beth alone. She knew somehow that it would be better.
"Okay, around eight, but only for an hour," Beth laughed.
Anne gave her the address and then too soon the conversation was over and the telephone receiver was down again, silent.
Anne remembered Jacques and began putting away paint cans and underwear for his arrival, patting Portia as she went back and forth. She called the corner grocery and ordered beer and snacks. Then she sat down and waited.
Jacques did not live very far away and he arrived soon, rang the doorbell eight times in rhythm and leaped two steps at a time up the five flights to where she stood in the hallway waiting.
"Annie," he embraced her playfully, "so what are you doing living in the Village?"
She gave a Sphinx smile and led him in, displaying her interior decoration. She had rearranged and spread the furniture with new cloth so that it had lost its middle-class look and her sketches hung on the walls reflected the sublet's new tenant.
"What you can do with nothing," he whistled.
"Beer or what?" she asked, efficiently going to the refrigerator.
"The 'or what,' " he said. She poured scotch in a kitchen glass for him and then came back to sit on the day couch.
"Boy, what a location," he said, "straight across from The Oval."
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