"Wow!" she said. "We'd better take it easy."
Anne nodded and followed her back to the sofa. Cora was there.
"Hi! Swell, isn't it?" she said.
"Lovely," Anne said.
"Skippy, go bring more drinks, will you?" Cora said. "I drank that one up."
"Sure thing," she saluted. "Be right back."
Anne was left alone with Cora and in the quiet atmosphere she did not seem so terrible. She even seemed a little old and tired and quite human.
"Where else have you been? The Oval? Paradise?"
Anne nodded. As yet she had not been able to say one syllable to Cora.
"What the hell are you doing here?" she asked roughly.
"Trying to meet women," Anne said. She returned Cora's rough glance with amused defiance.
"Skippy's not your type," Cora said. "Don't mess her up."
"Why not?" Cora's tone had been very much like Dad's. Anne resented being told.
"She's a good kid," Cora said. Her tone was quiet and friendly now. "She goes overboard too easy."
"Why should it concern you?"
"She's a good bartender." Cora tried to seem cold but that was a poor try. "I don't want her on another drunk, hear?" She stopped for a moment, became personal. "You don't belong here. You're out for kicks. Pick on someone your size."
"What do you mean?" Anne was puzzled.
"I mean you're not queer," Cora said bluntly. "You're just a crazy mixed-up kid still in love with Mother."
"You think I'll get over it?" Anne's tone was sarcastic now. Cora must think her quite young: a virgin afraid to sleep with men and choosing masculine women instead—like some of the girls at the Oval.
"You know," Cora went on, "a girl could get in a lot of trouble talking to strangers and going to rough places. She could be inviting the undertaker. She can expect to be robbed, roughed up. Your parents know where you go?"
Anne laughed. "I left home some time ago."
"Why?"
Anne paused; she couldn't easily say why. "For one thing, I didn't like being bossed," she decided.
Cora ignored this and sighed. "I'd like you to meet my son sometime," she said. "He's just about your age."
Somehow Anne had known that Cora was a mother. It might be what made her beautiful despite her coarseness and her occupation. She wondered how Cora had become a mother and decided it had been an early mistake—like Mark had been for her.
"I guess I'd better go home," Anne said.
"Do that," she said, "and don't come back for a while—not till I find a new girl for Skippy." She rose now and punched her shoulder lightly. "Thanks."
Anne smiled and gave a slight salute. "Don't mention it, Mom." Cora laughed and walked away.
Skippy had came up with the drinks and stood there. "I guess she bought us a drink," she said, and sat down next to Anne. She put the drinks on the coffee table.
Anne sat up and drank it quickly.
"Hey, take it easy," Skippy said. "I'll have to drag you home."
"No, Skip," Anne said. "I'm sorry, but I think I should leave."
"Why?" she was puzzled. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No," Anne smiled. "But as you said before, I'm not really your type—so I'd better go now."
Skippy shrugged. "There goes a good try."
Anne finished her drink and rose. Skippy rose too and said "I'll find a cab for you."
There was a dark hallway before the outside door and Skippy stopped a moment and took Anne in her arms. Anne did not want to resist and let herself be kissed. Skippy's mouth was sweet and tender and she thought for a moment, I want to take her home. And then Skippy let her go and opened the outside door and the air cleared their heads of the smoke and the liquor. There was a taxi at the end of the block and Skippy waved to it. When it pulled up in front of them, Anne got in.
"Come again," Skippy saluted.
"I will," Anne said.
The cab moved off, and the night air cleared her lungs and cooled her face. She was sad and there was a fierce longing in her thighs, but she felt free and full of life, and aware, so much aware of the world.
CHAPTER 4
The telephone woke Anne the next morning. It was 11 A.M. and the sun had tried to wake her for hours. She covered her eyes against the light and reached for the receiver. It was Jacques.
"I was worried sick last night," he said. "I went over to Paradise after you and heard you'd left with a derrick for Cora's."
"A derrick?" Anne was trying to clear her throat and her mind.
"A drag butch," he clarified. "Honestly, Mary, I can't leave you alone for a minute!”
Anne wished Jacques would not swish so early in the day. It was hard enough to bear in the evening. But she reasoned that she must be broadminded about his peculiarity.
"I had a lovely time at Cora's," she said. She was amused because she knew this would make Jacques groan. "As a matter of fact, those 'derricks' aren't as bad as I thought," she added teasingly. "It takes all kinds, you know."
Jacques groaned again, much to Anne's amusement, "I never thought you'd go for that trade!"
"They're all right," Anne said, "for a night." She knew she was imitating Beth now—Beth's love of all new experience.
"Anyway," Jacques continued, "get dressed. I'm coming right over to pick you up. We're supposed to have lunch at Carl's."
"Carl's?" The name was familiar, but Anne could not remember who he was.
"You know," Jacques reminded her, "Esther's John."
"Oh?" Anne sat up with interest. "Will Esther be there too?"
"Not likely," he said. "But you'll like meeting Carl."
Anne yawned. "I don't see how meeting him is going to get me anywhere with Esther, but all right. Just give me time to brush my teeth with yesterday's coffee."
He said okay and goodbye and she hung up.
She rose lazily, stretched the sleep out of her shoulders and scratched her head. A hangover could sometimes be pleasant and there was something wonderful about this being Saturday morning. Most of all, she was secretly happy about going to lunch at a stranger's house in order to learn more about Esther. She had been in a lonely world of no friends since Mark and now her new world seemed to be filled with interesting people whom she was scheduled to meet.
She wondered what sort of man Carl might be and why he was supporting Esther. What could he possibly hope to gain? Whatever it was, it was of small importance. Nothing might come of seeing Esther again—if Anne did see her again—but Esther was a symbol. Esther was Downstairs Paradise, and Anne by no means preferred Cora's. Esther was a beginning with the right crowd, and meeting Carl was the way to see Esther again.
She turned on the fire under the coffee and then proceeded to dress. She wondered what she should wear. She wanted to wear the black slacks of the night before, but she was going visiting and that might not be appropriate. Let me see, she thought, Jacques always seems to flip over my flared skirt. She decided to look feminine, and put on pounds of jewelry.
She had barely finished with her makeup when Jacques rang the doorbell.
"Alice, you're not going to wear that!" he exclaimed.
Anne laughed, embarrassed. She had made the wrong choice. "Will Carl mind terribly if I wear a dress?"
He shrugged. "Not really, I guess."
Anne turned and picked up her purse. She wasn't going to change after all that preparation. She ushered him out the door and then locked it.
"Wait till you see my new car," Jacques told her as they went down the stairs. He was happy this morning, as if he was anxious to see Carl for himself. Anne smiled inwardly, knowing herself to be Jacques' excuse to lunch with Carl.
"What sort of man is he?" she said.
"He's a sort of semi-invalid. Drinks a lot."
They reached his car, a very old Ford, and Jacques proudly opened the door. "Do enter my Royal Model Q," he said.
Anne smiled and slid onto the front seat. Jacques had been elaborate about the in
side decorations—there were authentic plastic leopard-skin seat covers from authentic plastic leopards; proudly, at the center of the windshield, he had hung a white Madonna figurine.
"Mary, this is too much!" she laughed.
"Crazy," Jacques agreed. She sat back and waited for him to start the motor.
"You were telling me about Carl," she said when the car was moving.
"Oh, yes," Jacques said absent-mindedly, trying to avoid an Austin that was angling to get his parking spot. "Well, he's gay, you know."
"That's a relief," Anne said, "but what is he doing supporting Esther?"
"He likes to have attractive women around—father complex, maybe." Jacques had successfully avoided the smaller car and now drove down the street, damp and slippery from the water of a recent sanitation truck. They cut through Washington Square and proceeded uptown on Fifth Avenue.
"But then you're sure there's nothing between them," Anne said. She wanted to see the situation clearly.
Jacques laughed slightly. "Carl couldn't do anything if he wanted to. But wait till you see him. He's so attractive."
Now Anne laughed. "You look at him—I'll think of Esther."
She sat deep in the seat and closed her eyes. She wanted never to forget Esther's image—her deep-set eyes and pale, silken skin. It was an image that did not exactly belong in the world. She seemed ageless and sexless and all mind, the pale, wan intellectual. Anne had always found that type irresistible. Perhaps it was her long hands that were so beautiful, the way they held things, each finger sensitive and independent. But no, it was Esther's whole self.
Beth's body was very womanly. Her breasts were full and her thighs round and soft-muscled. But Esther's fines were jagged—with the nose of a Semite and the bearing of a medieval falconer, and yet the ever-present grace and nakedness of youth. Even with clothes Esther was naked. She wore clothes as if they did not matter, as if they were not fastened but merely draped about her in perfect balance, easily slipped off and yet remaining.
Again Anne laughed at herself. She was romanticizing. But it was fun to describe someone in her mind, and to fall in love with that description. Particularly now, when she would have to forget Beth. At all costs she would have to forget Beth.
A small shiver grew within her and she determinedly pushed away fear. Beth was becoming a legend in her life. Beth's scrapbook was in her keeping and she pasted clippings that she sent her—Beth's picture in a local newspaper, Beth's name mentioned in a column. And always Beth's note accompanying them: How are you? I worry. Do write, love, Beth. Anne had not yet written her. She was afraid because of what she wanted to put in the letter, what must go in the letter if she wrote. She did not want to burden Beth with love.
Again she forced herself to think of Esther and she wanted to cry.
They had reached the Fifties and Jacques turned off Fifth Avenue and parked. Carl's house was white and had three floors. A wrought-iron gate had to be passed before the steps to the front door could be reached. Behind the gate a beautiful fountain surrounded by ivy plants immediately took them away from the heart of the city.
"What a waste," Jacques sighed. "He lives in all of it and won't even rent me the attic!"
Anne laughed. "Why should he? It's marvelous that he can live in a whole house in the middle of the city."
Jacques rang the doorbell timidly and they waited, feeling awkward in such impressive surroundings. The iron door finally opened and a small and quiet maid recognized Jacques and let them in.
The inside was very dark and smelled of lemon-oil polish on old oak. At the end of a long hallway they saw an open door and a light.
"He's in the study," the maid said to Jacques, led the way to that door and immediately disappeared when she had done so.
From the study they heard Carl shout, "Do come in. Don't just stand there."
They entered timidly and saw books from floor to ceiling and a Jackson Pollock on a white wall. Carl was on a ladder, replacing a book. The hi-fi set's turntable was revolving silently at the end of a record.
"Do come in," Carl repeated. "I just want to put this away."
He wore a dressing gown of pure silk, Arabian in its rich design and very likely authentic. "Darlings, I'm so glad you came," he said, climbing carefully down the ladder. "I thought I was doomed to an afternoon of drink." He walked slowly and carefully to two leather easy chairs and motioned for them to sit. "Now at least I'll have company. What'll you have?"
They both said scotch and he poured three and brought them on a tray to where they were sitting.
He is handsome, Anne decided, lean and sickly, but handsome.
"How nice of you to come," Carl said to her, smiling warmly although it distorted his face. "I hope Jacques warned you that Esther isn't home."
Anne nodded: "We came to visit you."
"That's nice, that's very nice," he said, handing them the drinks. Then he sat down on the carpet between them, looking quite Oriental in his many-patterned robe. Anne noticed that his feet were bare. He had left his slippers by the French windows.
"Jacques, will you put another album on the hi-fi?" he said. Jacques immediately rose and went to the record section. He was being so obedient, Anne thought with amusement.
Jacques put on some Cesar Franck and returned to his chair. There was a long silence. Finally Carl said, "What sort of girl are you, Anne?"
"She's gay," Jacques volunteered, thinking to clear the air. But it did nothing to further the conversation.
Carl smiled and winked at Anne. "I meant, what do you do?"
"I paint," Anne said.
"She acts, too," added Jacques. "It's too bad she's given it up."
"It wasn't my calling in life," Anne smiled. "What do you do?"
"I drink," Carl said. He put the glass to his lips wickedly and then sat looking down at his toes.
Anne decided that he was not as old as he seemed, perhaps not more than thirty-five. But he seemed older, perhaps because of bad health. She wondered what was making him ill.
"He was a captain in the Navy," Jacques said after a pause.
"Please let's not talk about my past," Carl exclaimed with faint annoyance, "let's talk about you, Anne." He leaned forward. "Jacques didn't tell me you were so pretty."
"I'm not," Anne said. Inwardly she rebelled at this remark. She always rebelled when men complimented her.
"She's a mad bull inside," Jacques laughed. "You haven't seen her in drag!"
"My mistake," Carl smiled. "I saw the dress and thought she was femme." They were both playing for laughs and it irritated Anne. She rose impatiently and went to look out the French windows.
Cesar Franck was now quite loud and the two men let it create a pause in the conversation, and then Carl turned to Jacques and asked him how he had been.
Anne looked out of the windows. The garden outside seemed larger than it was and filled with sweet-smelling roses, ferns and moss like those of a cloister. There was enough space between the buildings for her to see the skyscrapers reflecting the sun. She was impatient for Esther. She did not belong in this room full of men.
"Are we boring you?" Carl broke into her thoughts.
"I was thinking of Esther," Anne said.
"A pity she can't be here," Carl said, "but at least let me try to entertain you. Would you like to see the rest of the house?"
Anne nodded, being innately polite. Carl reached for the bell and rang for the maid. A few seconds later the thin, small servant appeared at the door.
"Will you show them where the elevator is?" Carl said. "I want them to see the house." The maid nodded and waited for Jacques and Anne to follow her.
"Jacques, you take her around," Carl said. "I'll stay here and see about lunch being served."
Jacques took Anne's arm and they followed the maid.
They went through the dark hallway again and reached the small, coffin-like elevator, where the maid left them after giving instructions about running it. Jacques and Anne crowded in
and traveled slowly to the top floor.
"How do you like him?" Jacques said excitedly.
"You like him more than I do," Anne teased. Then she added, "He's really quite rare."
"I wish to hell he didn't drink so much," Jacques said. "He's really quite ill."
"Is that why he left the Navy?" Anne asked.
"No," he said, "he was kicked out. For being gay." There was a short pause and then he added, "His father was an admiral."
They reached the top floor and began systematically to look at all the rooms.
Carl's house was not uniformly decorated. He had a blue room, a red room, a Chinese room with all its hideous ornateness, a medieval room of simplicity, a colonial room, an ultra-modern room, a Victorian, a Louis XIVth like a huge museum—and not one room for living. Finally they reached the very back of the house and Jacques paused meaningfully. "That's Esther's room," he said.
Anne was bursting with curiosity, but she decided it would not be right to enter; she would wait until Esther invited her. They moved on, finally finding their way back to the first floor, and followed their noses to the dining room.
Anne was more impatient than ever. Esther's room, Esther's door, such a plain door, not in keeping with the other decor, had made her restless. She wanted to leave, to walk a long distance by herself—to do anything but be with Carl and Jacques when she wanted so much to be with Esther. But Carl was fussing with the table, making lunch ready for them; she could not leave.
"Seen everything?" he greeted their return.
"Just about," Jacques said.
"Good, soup's on," he said, and sat with great appetite at the head of the oak table. Anne let herself be helped into the chair by the small maid and Jacques sat too, each on either side of Carl.
The dining room was even more elaborate than the rest of the house, with antique silver gleaming on the magnificently carved, many-drawered side-board standing with majestic and dark severity between red velvet curtains. The room was somber and the chandelier above the dining table gave light which was largely absorbed by the demands of ancient tapestries on the walls around them.
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