by Ann Bannon
"You're blind. She's falling for me. I can tell. She must be, or she wouldn't—” Here Sarah walked in. “Jack, I'll call you back,” she said.
"I dare you to. Call me back this afternoon, when you're hung over to your knees, and tell me how much you're in love."
"I'm idling you now!"
"You talk Eke a fish. Go on, type your damn reports. Send some poor bastard up for TB. Or enlarged heart At least it'll be a normal disease."
She hung up with a smack. He's a morbid miserable old man, she thought. I'm not that cynical yet. “Was that your friend?” Sarah said. “Jack?"
"Yes.” She put paper and carbons into her machine. “He's giving you the rush, hm?"
"I guess so."
"That's one of us, anyway."
Laura looked at her, and caught an expression of frustration on her face that made Laura's problems seem smaller. Sarah was plain. She was unremarkable. But so nice. It was depressing. Laura put a hand on her arm. It would cheer her up if she could cheer someone eke. “Maybe Jack could fix you up with a friend of his,” she said. “We could make it a foursome."
Sarah shook her head. “They all want to know ‘Is she pretty?’ Never mind if she's nice or wants a man so badly she could ... excuse me, Laura, I sound like an old maid already. I haven't given up yet."
Laura studied her on the way down in the elevator. She ached to say the things she thought, but she didn't know Sarah well enough. They were walled up in themselves. Poor plain Sarah, she thought. I'm not beautiful either. But I've been loved. I know love and I can tell you, you don't have to be a beauty to feel passion. Sometimes it helps if you're not. I wonder if you know that already. “I'll talk to Jack,” she said as they walked out.
"That'd be awfully nice, Laura.” She laughed diffidently. “At twenty-eight you begin to feel kind of frantic,” she said.
Outside she left Sarah and walked toward the subway station. All the way she noticed the women, as she never had before. She was at a loss to explain it. Before, she had always hurried, on her way somewhere, with a deadline to beat, somebody to meet, things on her mind. Now-perhaps it was the fatigue that made her slow-she sauntered, looking at the women.
Looking at their faces: sweet, fine-featured, delicate, some of them; others coarse, sensual, heavily female. They all appealed to her, with their soft skirts, their clicking heels, their floating hair. It caught in her throat, this aberration of hers, in a way it never had until that moment. It suffused her. She surrendered quietly to her feelings, walking slowly, looking without staring but with a warm pleasure that made her want to smile. She had trouble controlling her mouth.
God, I love them, she thought to herself, vaguely surprised. I just love them. I love them all. I know I'm nuts, but I love them. She stopped by a jewelry window where an exquisite girl was admiring a group of rings. She was all in gray, as fine and soft as twilight. Gray silk graced her slim legs, gray suede pumps with the highest heels were on her feet A gray suit, impeccably tailored, terribly expensive-gray gloves-a tiny gray hat Laura had never liked gray much before, but suddenly it was ideal on this cool dainty little creature, with her small nose and moist pink lips. She was extremely pretty. She looked up to find Laura gazing at her, collected herself with pretty confusion, and went off, pulling a recalcitrant gray poodle after her. Laura had not even noticed it till it moved. She looked after the girl for a minute with a foolish smile. When she finally reached the subway she collapsed on a seat, exhausted. She wanted to get home and into bed so badly that she could hardly wait.
She was late getting home but even so, Marcie had not arrived. She wanted very much to see her, but there was no help for it. She would have to wait. She fell on her bed, meaning to rest for a minute before she took her bath. But so tired was she that before five minutes had passed she was asleep. She woke up to hear small sounds in the bedroom, and it seemed like perhaps half an hour had passed.
She opened her eyes and found herself all tangled up in her clothes, her shoes still on, her dress wrinkled. There was a light on, the small table lamp between the beds. She pulled herself up and turned around. Marcie was standing in the bathroom door, with a frame of light around her, holding her toothbrush and smiling at Laura. She was all in white lace, in a short gown that barely reached her thighs. Laura smiled at her and blinked, shaking her head slightly. “Know what time it is?” Marcie said. “About seven."
"Quarter of twelve.” Marcie laughed at her surprise. She walked over to her bed and stood beside her for a moment. She smelled gorgeous-intoxicating, sweet and clean, faintly powdered, warm and damp from her bath. She looked sleepy, soft, very feminine. Laura began to tremble, desperate to touch her, afraid even to look.
"You must have been awfully tired, Laur. You've been asleep for hours."
"I could sleep till Monday and never wake up,” Laura murmured. She spoke without looking at Marcie. She couldn't The scent of her was trouble enough.
"Burr and I went out for dinner. We didn't want to bother you."
"Did you have a nice big fight?” Irresistibly Laura's eyes traveled up Marcie to her face. Marcie sighed. “We always have a nice big fight."
"You must enjoy them."
Marcie sat down beside her. “Don't talk that way, Laur,” she said. “I wish I could get interested in books, like you.” Laura smiled at her, so close, so distant below her and on her way out. Marcie stared into the black stairwell, feeling shocked and confused.
She slipped back into the apartment and into her bed, but she couldn't sleep. She simply sat there, her eyes wide and staring, oscillating between a fear of something she couldn't name and bewildered sympathy for Laura. For whatever it was that tortured her. She shivered everytime she thought of Laura's near-hysterical embrace, returning to it again and again. It gave her a reckless kick, a hint of shameless fun, like the night she kissed the bum in the park. She didn't know why it recalled that to her mind. But it did. Laura had scared her; yet now she felt like giggling.
Laura ran all the way to me subway station, three blocks off. She fell into a seat gasping, trembling violently. People stared at her but she ignored them, covering her face with her hands and sobbing quietly. She rode down to the Village and got off at Tenth Street. She had managed to control herself by this time, but she felt bewildered and lost, as if she didn't quite know what she was doing there. She stood for a moment on the platform, shivering with the chilly air. It was nearly the end of April, but it was still cold at night She had run out in nothing but a blouse and skirt, with a light topper over them-the clothes she had fallen asleep in. She was aware of the cold, yet somehow didn't feel it.
Resolutely she began to walk, climbing the stairs and then starting down Seventh Avenue. She walked as if she had a goal, precisely because she had none and it frightened her. It was Friday night, and busy. People were everywhere. Young men turned to stare at her.
Within five minutes she was standing in front of The Cellar, rather surprised at herself for having found it so quickly. There was a strange tingling up and down her back and her eyes began to shine with a feverish luster. She walked down the steps and pulled the door open.
Almost nobody noticed her. It was too crowded, at this peak hour of one of the best nights of the week. She made her way through the crowd to the nearest end of the bar. She had to squeeze into a corner next to the juke box and it was work to get her jacket off. It was sweaty and close after the chill air outside.
Laura stood quietly in her corner, looking at all the faces strung down the bar like beads on a necklace. They were animated, young for the most part, attractive ... There were a few that were sad, or old, or soured on life-or all three. Across the room the artist, with his sketch pad, was drinking with some friends.
Laura felt alone and apart from them all somehow. There were one or two faces she might have recognized from the night before, people Jack might have introduced her to, but she couldn't be sure. She had been too drunk to be sure of anything last night.
God, was it only last night?
she wondered. It seemed like a thousand nights ago. She didn't really want to be noticed now. She only wanted to watch, to be absorbed in these gay faces, in the idioms, the milieu.
"What'll you have?” She realized the bartender was leaning stiff-armed on the bar, looking at her.
"Whisky and water,” she said, wondering suddenly how much it would be. She pulled out a dollar and put it on the counter self-consciously. When he brought her the drink she gulped it anxiously. Marcie kept coming into her thoughts; Marcie's face, her shocked voice saying, “Laura-don't!"
The bartender took her dollar and brought some change. It meant she could have another drink. Drinking your dinner. Where had she heard that? One of her father's friends, no doubt. She gazed at the ceiling. She wanted to talk to Jack, but she was ashamed to call him. She thought of her father again, and it gave her a sort of bitter satisfaction to imagine his face if he could see her now, alone and unhappy, disgracing him by drinking by herself, in a bar-a gay bar. Gay-that would strike him dead. She was sure of it. She smiled a little, but it was a mirthless smile.
After a moment, she ordered another drink. She counted her change fuzzily. There might be enough for a third. She slipped it back in her pocket and looked up to find a young man forcing himself into a place beside her.
Damn!
she exclaimed to herself. As if I didn't have enough on my mind. Her slim arresting face registered subtle contempt and she turned away. It would have frozen another man, but this one only seemed amused. “Hello, Laura,” he said.
At this, she looked at him. Her mind was a blank; she couldn't place him. “Do I know you?” she said.
"No.” He grinned. “I'm Dutton. This is for you.” He held out a piece of paper and she took it, curious. On it was a devilish reproduction of her own features mocking her from the white page. “You're the artist,” she accused him suddenly. “Thanks for the compliment."
"I don't want it."
"Keep it."
"I won't pay for it."
"You don't have to.” He laughed at her consternation. “It's paid for, doll. Take it home. Frame it. Enjoy it.” Laura stared at him. “Who paid for it?"
"She said not to tell.” He laughed. “You're a bitch to caricature. You know? Look me up sometime, I'll do a good one. I like your face.” And he turned and wriggled out of the crowd.
Laura was left standing at the bar with the cartoon of herself. She was suddenly humiliated and angry. She felt ridiculous standing there holding the silly thing, not knowing who paid for it. Her glance swept down the bar, looking for a face to accuse, but she recognized no one. No one paid her any attention.
She studied the sketch once more. It was clever, insolent; it made a carnival curiosity of her face. Quietly, deliberately, with a feeling of satisfaction, she tore the sketch in half. And in half again. And threw it down behind the bar where the bartender would grind it into the wet floor. Then she picked up her glass and finished her drink.
"What did you do that for?” said a low voice, so close to her ear that she jumped and a drop of whisky ran down her chin. “It was a damn good likeness."
Laura looked up, gazing straight ahead of her, knowing who it was now and mad. She pulled a dune out of her pocket and smacked it on the bar in front of her.
"I owe you a dime, Beebo. There it is. Thanks for the picture. Next time don't waste your money."
Beebo laughed. “I always get what I pay for, lover,” she said. Laura refused to look at her, and after a pause Beebo said, “What's the matter, Laura, ‘fraid to look at me?"
Laura had to look then. She turned her head slowly, reluctantly. Her face was cold and composed. Beebo chuckled at her. She was handsome, like a young boy of fourteen, with her smooth skin and deep blue eyes. She was leaning on her elbows on the bar, and she looked sly and amused. “Laura's afraid of me,” she said with a quick grin.
"Laura's not afraid of you or anybody else. Laura thinks you're a bitch. That's all."
"That makes two of us."
Under her mask-like face Laura found herself troubled by the smile so close to her; the snapping blue eyes. “Where's your guardian angel tonight?” Beebo said.
"I suppose you mean Jack. I don't know where he is, he doesn't have to tell me where he goes.” She turned back to the bar. “He's not my guardian angel. I don't need one. I'm a big girl now."
"Oh, excuse me. I should have noticed."
Laura's cheeks prickled with embarrassment. “You only see what you want to see,” she said.
"I see what I want to see right now,” Beebo said, and Laura felt her hand on the small of her back. She straightened suddenly. “Go away,” she said sharply. “Leave me alone."
"I can't."
"Then shut up."
Beebo laughed softly. “What's the matter, little girl? Hate the world tonight?” Laura wouldn't answer. “Think that's going to make it any prettier?” Beebo pushed Laura's whisky glass toward her with one finger.
"I'm having a drink for the hell of it,” Laura said briefly. “If it bothers you, go away. You weren't invited, anyway."
"Don't tell me you're drinking just because you like the taste."
"I don't mind it."
"We aren't strangers.” She put an arm around Laura and squeezed her a little. Laura was embarrassed and grateful at the same time. It felt good, so good. Beebo sighed at her silence. “I'm a bitch, you're right about that,” she admitted. “But I didn't want to be. It's an attitude. You develop it after a while, like a turtle grows a shell. You need it. Pretty soon you live it, you don't know any other way."
Laura finished her drink without answering. She put it down on the bar and looked for the bartender. She wouldn't care what Beebo said, she wouldn't look at her, she wouldn't answer her. She didn't dare.
"You don't need to tell me about it,” Beebo went on. “Because I already know. I've lived through it, too. You fall in love. You're young, inexperienced. What the hell, maybe you're a virgin, even. You fall, up to your ears, and there's nobody to talk to, nobody to lean on. You're all alone with that great big miserable feeling and she's driving you out of your mind. Every time you look at her, every time you're near her. Finally you give in to it-and she's straight.” She said the last word with such acid sharpness that Laura jumped. “End of story,” Beebo added. “End of soap opera. Beginning of soap opera. That's all the Village is, honey, just one crazy little soap opera after another, like Jack says. All tangled up with each other, one piled on top of the next, ad infinitum. Mary loves Jane loves Joan loves Jean loves Beebo loves Laura.” She stopped and grinned at Laura.
"Doesn't mean a thing,” she said. “It goes on forever. Where one stops another begins.” She looked around The Cellar with Laura following her gaze. “I know most of the girls in here,” she said. “I've probably slept with half of them. I've lived with half of the half I've slept with. I've loved half of the half I've lived with. What does it all come to?"
She turned to Laura who was caught with her fascinated face very close to Beebo's. She started to back away but Beebo's arm around her waist tightened and kept her close. “You know something, baby? It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. You don't like me, and that doesn't matter. Someday maybe you'll love me, and that won't matter either. Because it won't last. Not down here. Not anywhere in the world, if you're gay. You'll never find peace, you'll never find Love. With a capital L."
She took a drag on her cigarette and let it flow out of her nostrils. “L for Love,” she said, looking into space. “L for Laura.” She turned and smiled at her, a little sadly. “L for Lust and L for the L of it. L for Lesbian. L for Let's-let's,” she said, and blew smoke softly into Laura's ear. Laura was startled to feel the strength of the feeling inside her.
It's the whiskey, she thought. It's because I'm tired. It's because I want Marcie so much. No, that doesn't make sense. She caught the bartender's eye and he fixed her another drink.
Beebo's arm pres
sed her again. “Let's,” she said. “How about it?” She was smiling, not pushy, not demanding, just asking. As if it didn't really matter whether Laura said yes or no.
"Where did you get that ridiculous name?” Laura hedged. “My family."
"They named you Beebo?"
"They named me Betty Jean,” she said, smiling. “Which is even worse."
"It's a pretty name."
"It's a lousy name. Even Mother couldn't stand it. And she could stand damn near anything. But they had to call me something. So they called me Beebo."
"That's too bad."
Beebo laughed. “I get along,"’ she said.
The bartender set Laura's glass down and she reached for her change. “What's your last name?” she said to Beebo.
"Brinker. Like the silver skates."
Laura counted her change. She had sixty-five cents. The bartender was telling a joke to some people a few seats down, resting one hand on the bar in front of Laura, waiting for his money. She was a dime short. She counted it again, her cheeks turning hot.
Beebo watched and began to laugh. “Want your dime back?” she said. “It's your dime,” Laura said haughtily.
"You must have left home in a hurry, baby. Poor Laura. Hasn't got a dime for a lousy drink."
Laura wanted to strangle her. The bartender turned back to her suddenly and she felt her face burning. Beebo leaned toward him, laughing. “I've got it, Mort,” she said.
"No!” Laura said. “If you could just lend me a dime."
Beebo laughed and waved Mort away.
"I don't want to owe you a thing,” Laura told her.
"Too bad, doll. You can't help yourself.” She laughed again. Laura tried to give her the change she had left, but Beebo wouldn't take it. “Sure, I'll take it,” she said. “And you'll be flat busted. How'll you get home?"
Laura went pale then. She couldn't go home. Even if she had a hundred dollars in her pocket. She couldn't stand to face Marcie, to explain her crazy behavior, to try to make herself sound normal and ordinary when her whole body was begging for strange passion, for forbidden release.