by Ann Bannon
Beth began to see what a tyrannical hold Mrs. Purvis, in spite of her debilities, had on her children.
"Vega and I understand each other,” Cleve said. “We're both contemptible."
For a moment it seemed like he was begging for sympathy and Beth said, rather sharply, “Oh, you're not so bad. When you're tight."
Cleve gave a dispirited little laugh. “We know each other better than we know ourselves,” he said. “Someday you'll understand us, too,” he said, looking into his glass. “If you keep on running around with Vega.” He sounded almost jealous. He sounded almost like a man warning another man away from his wife, not a friend warning another friend of his sister's emotional quirks.
Beth cautiously steered him back to finances. “Why is she going broke?” she asked. “She has a nice studio, lots of students."
"Not so many, not any more. Their mothers are worried about them. There was a scandal a couple of years ago."
"I never heard about it,” Beth declared, as if that proved it a deliberate fib.
"You don't hear about everything in the Purvis family,” he retorted, and silenced her. “One of the girls had an affair with one of the others. Vega knew about it and she didn't exactly discourage it. And then some of the others found out and told their parents. Vega should have quit then and there and tried somewhere else, but she hates that kid who started it all and she wants to stay here and make a go of it in spite of what happened. Show everybody. Show the girl herself most of all. Damn!” he said, and finished another drink.
Beth thought suddenly of the strange tough little blonde with no makeup and a cigarette drooping from her mouth in the caffe espresso place. “Who was the girl?” she asked.
"P.K. Schaefer is her name. Vega hates everybody but she hates P.K. worse than poison."
"Is she sort of a beatnik type? I mean, does she hang out in the coffee houses, does she dress like—"
"Like a goddamn boy,” he finished for her, with the sound of his mother's disapproval plain in his voice. “Always has a cigarette hanging out of the corner of her mouth, as if that would make a male of her. As if that would take the place of—oh, hell.” He ordered another drink, staring moodily at the floor.
And Beth knew it was P.K. she had seen. Did Vega love her or hate her? Or, as with the other important people in her life, did she feel both emotions for her? Beth felt a spark of jealousy.
"Vega doesn't hate everybody, Cleve,” she said. “Maybe you two have had some bad arguments, maybe life with her wasn't all sugar candy when you were growing up, but, my God, she's a nice girl. She's fun, she's a lovely person. If you think you're going to make me drop her just by throwing a few old scandals and half-baked suspicions in my face, you're wrong. We get along fine and I enjoy her. After all, it wasn't Vega who had the affair, it was her students. She's not making any passes at me. And from what she's said about Lesbians I think she'd put the whole damn clan in jail if she had her way."
"Ah, she's had you over to The Griffin to see P.K.,” he said, shocking her. “Exhibit A. She works fast, I have to say that for her."
"How did you know that?” She was mad again.
"She's given you her famous lecture on the beastly Lesbians."
Beth blushed. “Thanks for the drinks, Cleve,” she said sharply, starting to rise, but he caught her wrist and pulled her down again. “Why do you think she talks about them if she doesn't have it on her mind all the time?” he said fiercely, his face close to hers. There was a high pink of excitement in his cheeks, as if he really, secretly, hated these women who were rivals for his sister's affection; as if he were admonishing Beth, for his own selfish reasons, not to become one of them.
"You said she didn't even know she was—gay, herself,” Beth protested.
"Right,” he said. “She'd quit spouting all that crap about putting them in jail if it meant she'd be going along with them.” He sighed and gazed intently at her, and she smelled the whiskey on his breath. “Beth, you're a damn nice girl,” he pleaded. “You're a lovely girl. You're bored as all hell with your life, it sticks out all over you. You stumble across my sister and she's charming, she's different, she shocks you a little and interests you a lot. You're looking for kicks; you're sick of that little house and that great big husband and those noisy kids, and Vega looks like heaven. She's got all the sophistication, all the glamour anybody could want. Hell, yes, I can understand it."
And Beth, thunderstruck, only gazed at him in silence, too surprised even to wonder when he had been observing her, when it began to matter to him what she did. Not until Vega began to matter to me, she thought, full of wonderment.
"Beth, she's nuts. Please believe me. She's goofy and she's pure trouble. I know; nobody knows like I know. I nurse her through her emotional storms; I have all our lives. She gets these desperate crushes she won't admit, or can't admit, or doesn't understand, and I go through hell with her. I don't want it to happen with you. Life has been too pleasant these past few months. No complications. Vega's been getting along so well."
"Why do you fight with her so much?” Beth said softly. “If all you're trying to do is help her. That is what you're trying to do, isn't it?"
"Yes,” he said, and looked away. “God knows I love her. I just fight with her when I find out what she's done."
"Like what?” She felt as if he was almost on the verge of a confession of some kind to her.
"Like socking Mother right out of her chair. It's the only way she has of getting back at Mother for dominating her life. Or like getting stewed at seven in the morning when she's supposed to be at a Chamber of Commerce meeting that'll mean jobs for her girls. Like bugging me all the time about the money situation. And that goddamn blind spot of hers a mile square! If she'd only admit what she is and arrange her life accordingly. At least maybe she could live like other human beings then."
"How? What do you mean?"
"I mean face the fact there are two things she can't live with—whiskey and women. Put them out of her life. Get back to normal.” He sounded bitter.
"But Cleve, you're normal, and you drink."
"Not like she does,” he said quickly, untruthfully. “I can go to sleep at night without a bottle by my bed.” There was pride in his tone.
"Is it that bad?” Beth said. Oh, Vega! It made her want to nurse her, comfort her.
"She's sick,” he said. “I don't mean the TB, I mean up here,” and he tapped his head at the temple. “You can't provoke her, you can't cross her. She comes unglued. You haven't seen that side of her yet. You keep after her, you will."
"You've accused her of some pretty ugly things this afternoon, Cleve,” she said quietly.
"I'm not accusing her of anything. I'm trying to show you what she's like. What she's capable of. I'm telling you not to let yourself get mixed up with a woman like that."
"You don't think I can handle myself, do you?” she said.
He shrugged. “I don't know. But Vega can't handle herself, that's certain. She leaves it up to me.” He laughed, looking at his drink, but the laugh was mirthless. “Maybe it's from being so spoiled all her life, from being a favorite child and a worshipped wife who kept two husbands out of her bedroom for years."
Beth wondered, looking at him, his face dark and brooding, why he had really asked her there. Was he just trying to forewarn her of her potentially unhappy situation? Or was he threatening her? Beth eyed him suspiciously.
"You're warned now, Beth, and that's all I can do,” he said. “Except, thank you for listening. And—ask you not to mention it to anyone."
"Are you afraid Charlie'd think you're as daffy as I think you are?” she said.
He laughed again, a short sad noise. “I'm afraid Charlie knew that years ago,” he said. He leaned across the table and took her hands. “Beth, why in hell do you suppose I went to all this trouble for you? Exposed myself and my shameful family to you? Because I want to get laughed at. because I want to hear you say how buggy I am?"
"I do
n't know why you're doing it, Cleve. I really don't."
"You don't need to freeze up,” he told her, his voice softening. “I just don't want to see you hurt, Beth. Jesus, I know you're normal. Don't get the idea I brought you down here to make you feel uncomfortable. You're as wholesome as cherry pie, you're no neurotic self-blinded Lessie. You're sweet and healthy. I guess I just like you that way. I guess I just don't want to see Vega change you.” But Beth had the uncanny feeling that what he really wanted was to keep them apart, keep her away from Vega. Why?
"She won't change me, Cleve. I am what I am. It's too late for her to make me over, even if she tried."
"Thanks,” he said, as if she had promised him she would never see his sister again. And then he let her go.
Vega's lips met hers a half hour later and this time Beth felt none of the resentment she had the first time, no desire to scold her and run. Instead, it was Vega who was irritable, rushed and nervous. She was preparing for a fashion show that night at the Hollywood Knickerbocker Hotel, and there were clothes and girls all over the studio.
Beth knew, without being told, that there was no time for her today, and it aroused a keen hunger in her for Vega's company. She watched the lovely woman glide smoothly about, her excitement showing only in her eyes, and Beth experienced an unwelcome qualm of jealousy for the second time that day. The girls, the young models, were so lithe and fresh. She found herself imagining their sweet young bodies full of tender untried places, and a sort of fever came over her.
It came as a shock when Vega asked her to leave. She pulled Beth aside and said in a warm whisper, “Darling, really, I'm up to my ears in this. I forgot all about it Tuesday. I just forgot everything Tuesday, all I could think of was you.” And Beth wanted suddenly, urgently, in a sweat of fear and delight, to put her arms around Vega and kiss her indecently until her desire was satisfied.
"I hate to ask you,” Vega said, “but—well, let's put it off till next week. I've got so much to do. Beth, don't look so disappointed!” She smiled like an angel of the devil and Beth said, almost humbly, “Don't kick me out, Vega. Can't I help? I'll do anything."
"No, you don't know a damn thing about it. I've got to do if myself. Now go, darling. Be a good girl and go.” And she gave Beth a kiss on the cheek. Beth nearly suffocated for one lovely moment with the urge to pull Vega back into the shadows and tell her how beautiful she was, how unfairly beautiful.
But Vega left her and Beth was soon completely alone in the swirl of frenetic activity. Girls in tulle, girls in tights, girls in skin-fitted sheathes—all so young, all so feather-headed with excitement. Beth watched them a moment, enjoying the practiced movements, the bursts of nervous giggling, the fascinated preening at mirrors. Until she was jostled once too often and felt her solitude in the inconvenience she caused.
Shortly afterward she left. But she spent the whole evening in a misty fantasy of Vega that even Charlie could not penetrate with his grumblings about Cleve.
"I think he was out somewhere swilling booze this afternoon,” he said. “He came in about five and he was loaded. If it happens again I'm going to raise the roof."
"Why does he do it?” Beth asked vaguely. “He's happy with Jean, isn't he?"
"I guess so. At least she never complains. He could shove a knife in her ribs and all she'd do is hand him that same old smile. But that isn't it. Something is bugging the guy. Always has been, since I first knew him, like he'd committed murder and gotten away with it, and then discovered he couldn't live with his conscience. It almost seems sometimes like he's trying to tell you about it. But he just ends up telling you to be careful."
Beth looked up at this, remembering her afternoon with Cleve. “Be careful of what?” she said.
Charlie shrugged. “Who knows? He never gets it said."
Chapter Seven
BETH AND CHARLIE both jumped when the phone rang at one-thirty in the morning. Charlie grumbled, “I'll get it,” but Beth had a sudden premonition and said, “Oh, never mind. I'll go."
Willingly he turned over, muttering, “Probably a wrong number. Some drunk, or something."
It was Vega and she sounded hysterical. “Beth! Oh, darling, thank God you're there."
"Where else would I be at this hour of the morning?” she said, keeping her voice low so Charlie wouldn't hear the conversation. She was both thrilled and alarmed to hear that cautious smooth voice, charged now with desperation.
"Beth, you've got to help me. I'm in a ghastly predicament. I'm just frantic."
"Where are you?” Beth asked.
"At the Knickerbocker."
"The hotel?” Beth was relieved; the trouble couldn't be too serious.
"Yes. It got so late. Some of the girls wanted to stay, so I said it was okay. Oh, I called their mothers and everything. You have to be so damn careful with them, with all these repulsive conventioneers around. It's like trying to smuggle a hoard of diamonds through a convention of international jewel thieves. And if anything happens to any one of my angels—holy God, it'd ruin me! I'd be run out of town on a rail.” She stopped talking suddenly, as if to catch her breath, as if the tension in her had drained her resources.
"Vega, tell me what happened!” Beth demanded, worried.
"Well, I—we—” For a moment Beth feared Vega would burst into tears. Her honeyed voice broke and Beth grasped the phone in sweating hands, imagining the worst.
"Vega, did some bastard try to—” she began but Vega interrupted.
"No, nothing like that, I just—Beth, darling, would you mind driving over here?"
In the astonished silence Charlie called out, “Beth, for the love of God. Who is it?"
"It's Vega. And shut up, you'll wake up the kids,” she hissed at him.
"Vega!” he spluttered. “What does she want?"
"I don't know. Please shut up."
"Well, tell her to go cram it, and come to bed."
"Beth, I need you. Will you come down?” Vega asked, her voice rough and soft and tantalizingly near to Beth. Beth stood in the dark, feeling her heart skip and a queer concentrated pleasure flash through her body. Beg me, Vega, beg me, she thought. Work for me. I want you so. “It'll take an hour,” she hedged.
"Not at this time of night. Oh, darling, I'm so miserable. Please come to me. I haven't got a single cigarette and those s.o.b's at the desk won't send any up. I haven't even got enough whiskey for a lousy nightcap. You will come, won't you? And bring me some groceries?"
And Beth understood then why she was calling. Cleve had already warned her: Vega couldn't sleep without a bottle by the bed. There was a moment of acute disappointment when she wanted to throw the phone down and smash it. And then it came to her suddenly that Vega could have called somebody else, even Cleve. But she chose her instead.
"I'll come,” Beth said weakly. “I'll come, Vega."
"Bless you, Beth, you're wonderful. I swear, nobody else is crazy like I am but you. I knew you'd do it. Darling, you make me feel so much less lonesome."
"I'll be there as fast as I can,” Beth said, and hung up.
Beth tried to find her clothes in the dark without waking Charlie. But he was listening for her. Suddenly he switched on the reading light over the bed. For a second or two they were both blinded: Beth on one-foot in the closet, pulling on a stocking, and Charlie leaning on his elbow against the pillow. When he opened his eyes and saw her he got out of bed and went to her without a word. Beth felt him come toward her and she was afraid of him; really afraid. He was a big man with a hard body and a strong streak of jealousy in him. His love for her was still alive but it was uncomfortable and a little the worse for wear and disappointments over the years. He was in no mood to deal gently with her.
She felt his angry hands close on her arms and jerk her forward so that her face snapped up to his. “Now what's all this about?” he said.
"I'm going downtown,” she said.
'To Vega's?"
Beth looked away. “Let go of me, Charlie
."
"Answer me, Beth!” He had no intention of letting go until she confessed what she was up to. And maybe not then.
"Vega's downtown, at the Knickerbocker. She wants some cigarettes and things, and I told her—"
"Cigarettes!” he flared. “And things! What things?” When she refused, panting with indignation, to tell him, he said disgustedly, “And booze I suppose. And you're going all the way into Hollywood in the middle of the night to take them to her. Good God, Beth, I didn't know it had gone this far."
"What's that supposed to mean!” she cried. “I haven't done anything wrong! You have no right to hint that I have.” She was furious with the strength of her fear; the fear that always rose in her like a red wall at the suggestion of abnormality and shut off her judgment and good sense. Her voice stirred the children, asleep in the next room.
"You haven't done anything wrong yet,” he amended. “But you go down there tonight and you will.” He was so cold, so bitter, so chagrined that she quailed at the sight of him. The moment his hands dropped from her arms, as if she were too wretched for him even to touch, she turned and fled from him, snatching up a coat from the hall closet. The liquor and cigarettes were ready in a paper bag on the hall table and she grabbed them on the way out.
In the bedroom Polly woke up and began to cry. Beth heard her when she started the car, and she wondered at every panicky second why Charlie didn't stop her, why he didn't run after her and shake her till her bones came loose, or strangle her. She could feel his fury like a tangible thing wafting to her through the mild night air. Backing out the driveway with dangerous haste she felt that if she had not been fighting mad herself, desperate and determined, his anger would have swallowed her up and subdued her.
She drove down the Pasadena freeway and into Hollywood, her mind stewing. If Charlie hadn't made such a fuss there wouldn't be any trouble. I'll be home in the morning, the kids don't ever need to know the difference. And if he could only realize—oh, God, make him realize—how happy I can be if I just have somebody to love. To have fun with. Somebody like Vega. Why doesn't he understand how good I can be to him? How patient with the kids? If he could only share me, just a little bit, just once in a while, with ... with a woman.