"Do you come here often, Anne?"
"No." She blushed. A great feeling of shame was also upon her. She did not want Beth to think her part of a place like Cora's.
"I've been trying to get her to come with us," Mel said. His voice pierced Anne's ears through a cushion.
She saw Beth pale, more so than before, and her eyes were disturbed.
"Are you coming, Anne?" she said.
"Maybe," Anne said. In a way she wanted to go with them now, to save Beth, to take her away from her escort and take her home, back where she belonged, in Anne's arms.
Beth started to say something and then stopped. She got up and addressed only Anne.
"Which way is the ladies' room?"
Anne took the chance. She rose abruptly and said, "I was about to go there."
They walked with great composure toward the back, toward the dirty little room that said LADIES.
"Anne." Beth closed the door behind her and went to hold her, to press her against the wall—but the wall was dirty and she stopped, and Anne stopped, and they looked at each other.
"You're all off to a party," Anne said.
"Please don't come with us," Beth replied.
"I won't," Anne said. She sensed something violently repulsive was about to happen between them. "What sort of party is it?" she asked carefully.
Beth looked away. "We'd better go back to the others."
Anne took her hand and made her stay where she was. Beth's hand was not familiar tonight—it seemed limp and artificial, and the nails were covered with polish.
"Beth, why are you this way?" Anne said.
Beth squeezed her hand and repeated, "We'd better go back."
Anne followed her back, past puzzled Cora and winking Skippy, and took her place at the table again.
"Is it safe in there?" Jane said playfully.
"Quite safe," Beth said, looking at her drink.
"Are you coming with us?" Mel said, trying to take Anne's hand. Anne took her hand away quickly and held her drink.
"I'm afraid not," she said. "Cora's taking me home."
"Pity," Frenchy said, "but why don't you both come?"
"No, thanks," Anne said determinedly.
"We'll be showing movies," Frenchy said in what was supposed to be a tempting tone.
Anne rose, not wishing to hear more. "Excuse me," she said. "It's getting late and I work tomorrow."
She went to the bar to pick up Cora. "Are you still taking me home?" she said.
Cora was surprised. She paused to think for a moment and then said, "Sure, baby, okay."
She stopped at the hatcheck closet to pick up her jacket and then ushered Anne out. From the back of the room, the party waved at her and Beth's eyes, desperate and anxious, followed her.
"What went on between you two?" Cora said when they were out in the night.
"Just an old flame," Anne said coldly.
Cora's car, a red convertible, was parked down the street. Anne was surprised. She thought they would have to walk.
"Neat," she said to Cora and watched her smile.
They got in and drove off.
"Where do you live?" Cora asked.
"Across from the Oval," Anne said. She did not want to give Cora the exact building number.
Cora stepped on the gas and, with expert disregard for speed limits, took her there in two minutes.
"We could have walked," Cora laughed.
"But this car is so impressive," Anne smiled. They sat with the top down in front of Anne's door and looked at the dark street. The crowds had gone and there were only the late drunks lying on the streets or stumbling home.
"This is no place for you to live," Cora said.
"I like it," Anne said.
Cora was silent for a minute and then asked "Do I see you again?"
"Perhaps," Anne said.
Cora pressed the button that put the top up and the black canvas roof covered them from the street.
"Are you going to kiss me?" Anne asked.
Cora sighed. "Don't ask questions." She reached over and found Anne's mouth with hers.
What a professional kiss, Anne thought. It's been thoroughly rehearsed.
Cora let her go and straightened her collar and turned on the motor again. "Go home and behave yourself," she said.
"Thanks," Anne said, then, impulsively, she kissed Cora's cheek. "Good night, Mother."
She got out and the convertible raced off again, leaving Anne alone on the street. She quickened her steps to her door and it was not until she reached it that the running of footsteps behind her pierced the silence.
"Anne—"
Anne turned, feeling a chill in her spine. All at once the street was filled and she was surrounded, made helpless, awkward.
Esther was running toward her.
CHAPTER 6
"I thought you'd never come!" Esther stopped in front of Anne, a little breathless. "I took time off for coffee. What's the matter? Surprised to see me?" She bent her head boyishly and smiled a guilty smile.
Anne tried not to seem clumsy. "But you left, and I thought—"
"I had an appointment," Esther said quickly, not letting her finish. "Sorry."
"How about another cup of coffee?" Anne said.
"Hell, no." Esther kicked a pebble. "Let's walk through the park."
"Now?"
"Best time," Esther said. "We can see-saw and sing madly. There's no one to hear."
"All right," Anne said. She was reluctant. The day had been a long one and she was tired. But Esther took her hand.
"Come on, sleepy. It's a lovely morning." They reached the small park and sat on a bench. Esther put her feet up and yawned.
"Are you high?" Anne asked.
"On coffee," she nodded, stretching. She folded her arms under her chin and gazed down from the back of the bench on the young grass. Anne watched her. Esther's skin matched the grays and whites of the buildings across the street and her eyes were like their dark windows, silent and peaceful.
"There's a mist that rises from the dew-kissed grass and the birds chirp!" Esther said wryly.
Anne could not help laughing. Esther's abstract mood had wakened her and now there was that tingle in her spine, that refreshing awareness of Esther and the perfume of her body.
Esther turned then, sensing Anne's look, and her own eyes rested fully on Anne. A slow smile began to form on Esther's lips; her eyes were softer than usual. All at once her entire figure became softness, her posture less erect, her head awkward but friendly. And then Anne saw for the first time something that was not male in Esther—something that was girlish and kind, and even gentle. It took away the chill of the night air, replaced it with a fire of dull aching longing.
Esther laughed, "Diddle, diddle, chimpanzidle. Man is mind and mind's a riddle. Burn inside yet play your fiddle."
"What's that?" Anne said.
"Just a poem," she smiled. Now she rose, pulling Anne up. "Let's walk on the grass. Take off your shoes." She bent down, removed her shoes and socks, and looked at Anne's feet, waiting for her to follow.
It was too great a temptation. Anne took them off.
Now both were barefoot. The grass was wet but they moved too quickly to feel cold. A new freedom had been won in going barefoot. It was as if hopping, running and walking had never been done before now—as if no one ever walked with shoes on.
In a moment, they were lying on the grass and Esther's elbow was touching Anne's shoulder. The church clock chimed six; there wasn't anyone anywhere except for a policeman on the other side of the large fountain. He could not see them.
Esther was humming a tune to herself and Anne was squinting at the sky, bright before sunrise. The light was making her eyes itch with sleep, making them water, and sleep was pressing her to the ground so that she could not move. Then Esther's face came between her and the sky.
Dawn, behind Esther, made her face dark and her features obscure. Slowly the dark face came forward until it had block
ed out all of the sky and Esther's features were plain again, her deep-set eyes and white skin, her open, narrow mouth, open and tender, tender and near until it was not a mouth but a kiss, a kiss with more than Esther's mouth, a kiss with Esther's breasts, her hair, her hands, her thighs, a kiss that was more than a kiss and demanded more in return.
It was over too quickly and they turned away from each other and lay on the grass breathing hard. Esther said "Damn!"
"Let's go home," Anne said, forcing her tired back to lift her up. She looked around. No one had seen them. Esther rose quickly after her and they walked with pretended innocence, still breathing much too quickly, their eyes searching the ground, searching desperately for a place, just any place, a doorway, an alley, any place where they might be alone, might kiss again, but there was nowhere. They could only hold hands.
And then they were in Anne's hallway and Esther wanted to stop there but Anne pulled her forward, up the stairs to her door. There they fumbled for the keys, Esther searching Anne's pockets and making the fire in her body almost pain and worse. And then the door was opened and closed behind them and they were free to be together—and themselves.
* * *
The faint alarm of the clock by the bed rang unnoticed under the noise of the street, loud with the passing of trucks and the shouting of school children. And then the telephone rang.
"It's probably my office," Anne yawned.
Esther's hand reached for the receiver and brought it to Anne.
"Hello?" Anne said hoarsely, not taking her eyes from Esther. "Yes, I'm ill. I'll be in tomorrow." She hung up again and watched Esther smile. "Shouldn't you call Carl?"
"Why bother?" Esther stretched. "He knows where I am."
She was lying on her back, her head turned towards the blinds and the sunshine. Anne gazed at her calmly for a moment and then placed her head on Esther's shoulder. It was soft and familiar.
"It's too lovely a day out," Esther said. Anne's head on her shoulder had not made her move and she gazed directly into the sunlight. "It's like Paris, full of school children and nuns and flowers on the street corner and people coming out of shops with long bread loaves under their arms."
"Shall we go out?" Anne said.
"Yes," Esther said, rising eagerly.
"I'll lend you my hair brush," Anne laughed, going to the bathroom. From there she called out, "Where do you want to go?"
"Don't know," Esther yawned. "Church, maybe."
"Church!" Anne came out of the bathroom. Esther was dressing now and she went to the closet to get her own clothes.
"It's a day for churches," Esther laughed. "Paris is full of churches. Wherever they want to put something beautiful they put a church."
"There's one on Fifth and Tenth—" Anne said.
"Hell, no!" Esther buckled her belt, "Nothing short of Notre Dame, and only as Joan of Arc."
Anne laughed and threw Esther's jacket to her. "Come on, we'll go to the Florentin."
They were silent as they left, and thus they walked between the parked cars and across to the Florentin.
Marcel was seated near the window, tuning his lute. The Outdoor Art Show was bringing in much business and a group of tourists in the back had just bought him a cup of coffee. The echoes of "Partridge in a Pear Tree" were just fading.
Marcel was beautiful in a medieval way; he was wearing sandals and a suede shirt with laces at the neck.
"Darling, you must be unemployed!" he shouted to Anne as the two entered. "Congratulations!"
"Just for today," Anne laughed. "May we join you?"
He rose and bowed deeply. They sat, ordered coffee and sardine sandwiches.
"This is Marcel," Anne said to Esther, introducing them. Marcel studied Esther's face with his eyes. "And this is Esther," Anne finished. Esther nodded. It was plain she found him dull.
A strained feeling now began to grow in Anne. Esther did not like Marcel and they were stuck here because of sardine sandwiches.
"I'm working nights at Rudley's," Marcel said to Anne in an effort to break the silence. He did not like Esther either.
"That's nice," Anne said, trying to be enthusiastic.
Esther found a Manchester Guardian on the empty table next to them and rescued it.
Anne wondered why they did not like each other. Of course it was hard not to laugh at Marcel's affectations, but he was so young. And why did Marcel not like Esther? She realized that what she had expected had begun—the realization among her friends that she was different.
The Irish actress who waited on tables now brought them their order, and Anne proceeded to put her salad in with the sardines in a large Dagwood sandwich. It was her favorite breakfast. Esther put down the Manchester Guardian and watched her, amused. Then she followed Anne's example.
Marcel had begun to strum his lute, giving the Florentin a sleepy air of old Spain. Only an occasional Villager, stopping in front of the window and then hurrying on, reminded Anne of the outside world.
"Oh can you see yon little turtle dove sitting under the mulberry tree…" Marcel began. He had no training but did well in falsetto. "See how that he doth mourn for his true love as I, my love, should mourn for thee…
Through the window Anne now had a good view of "13 1/2" the rooming-house where most of the kids lived. It was sometimes nicknamed Belle-View because of its interesting windows. But on a Monday morning Belle-View didn't seem so colorful. Now only one head poked out of the ground-floor window; it was a girl with a G.I. haircut. Anne recognized her as a barmaid at the Oval.
Esther was back to the Manchester Guardian, almost as if her eyes were closed and sleeping under it.
"Ten thousand miles is very far away for me to find my way back, but before I am false to that maiden that I love the Noon-day shall turn black, my love…"
More coffee arrived and so did Jennie, skipping happily through the open door, her model's case around her arm.
Marcel stopped strumming and gave an exclamation, opening his arms to her. Jennie jumped gayly into them and touched her cheek to his.
"Now I live again," he said dramatically.
"But I've been gone only ten minutes," she laughed.
He kissed her hand in pantomime for Anne's and Esther's benefit and then helped her sit down. Esther had not looked up.
"Hi, Jennie," Anne yawned. The night before was beginning to catch up with her and her eyes were aching. The coffee was making her feel bloated.
"Hi," Jennie winked, then proceeded to try on a new pair of leather gloves. For a minute Anne watched her. She resembled Anne's sister, Boots, who seemed to do nothing but try on new clothes.
Esther put down the newspaper and looked toward the back at all the faces. Anne put her hand over Esther's, squeezed it impatiently. "Let's walk."
Esther rose, threw some money on the table, and they left the Florentin, going back into the sun, warm for November.
It's fun to wear slacks, one can put hands in the pockets and strut, feeling slim and tall and free. They walked this way through the last remnants of the Outdoor Art Show. They breathed deeply and nodded to familiar faces and strutted. The sunshine wakened them again, made them know it was morning.
"Do you like me?" Anne decided to break the silence that had fallen over them since the Florentin.
Esther smiled; she was less communicative now, more the way that she had been at Carl's house.
Anne stopped, feeling she must make Esther answer her.
"Don't ask me such questions," Esther said. "Of course I do."
Now it was Anne who was silent as they walked, aimlessly covering much ground, vaguely turning back toward Anne's apartment. Finally Esther spoke.
"I can't leave Carl," she said.
"Why not?" Anne countered.
"He's very ill," Esther sighed. "Besides, I'm not ready myself to leave him."
"You mean you're afraid," Anne said. "You don't really want to be a Lesbian."
Esther was silent and thought about this and finally
said, "No, I don't want to be a Lesbian."
Esther was like Beth—she was afraid too. Beth was a Lesbian but she was afraid to be one, and the fear made her promiscuous with men—she was trying to prove she was a woman and was attracted to them. Esther was staying with Carl for the same reason. Anne suddenly wanted to get home quickly, to leave Esther, to be alone to think. She had allowed herself to care and now she had to be alone and begin not to care; she would have to consider Esther "just for kicks." But she knew it would be a very hard thing to do.
The siren announced noon when they were a block from Anne's house. Anne tried to tell herself that it had been a relaxing morning, that now she had that feeling of belonging—not to Esther, but to a special group, the group behind the windowpane. She told herself that at last she knew the lazy quietness of the girl-couples who ate breakfast at the Florentin—that she had never before understood how they could sit so quietly and normally, content with each other and with the world. But she was not content. She had been happy for a little while this morning, but now she was back where she started, alone—without Beth, and without Esther.
They stopped when they reached Anne's stoop and sat down.
"Coming up?" Anne said finally.
Esther sighed. "No, I'm due elsewhere."
Anne said nothing. There was something very young and very repentant about Esther now, as if she were a child who had done something wrong.
"But I’ll see you tomorrow?" Esther took her hand impulsively.
"I guess," Anne nodded. She stood up, feeling very tired and brought her hand up to Esther's cheek. She brushed it lightly.
Esther smiled and looked down, put her hands in her pockets, and began to walk toward Sixth Avenue.
It was not the way to Carl's house.
* * *
Anne walked heavily up the stairs to her door. She did not care at the moment where Esther had gone. She needed sleep. A sick, dizzy feeling was in her head. She needed to lie down and catch up on the night before. She reached her door and unlocked it.
"Hello, Anne." Mark was standing by the bookcase, a glass in his hand.
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