by Ann Bannon
"Have you been looking for me all this time?” Laura said, and suddenly she was coy, teasing, needling Beth. “Was I so hard to find?"
"Not after I got to New York. I met Beebo Brinker in the Village. Beebo told me where you were."
"Oh.” Laura pulled the slip over her head and her act of dressing defied Beth. Laura was so breathtaking without her clothes. The fact that she was covering herself up was almost depressing, as if she were putting an end to the tenderness, the caresses of a little while ago. She was telling Beth, subtly and wittily, to go to hell, and Beth was stung. Laura's whole graceful body told her impudently, You took advantage of my surprise, my helpless love. Well, I'm not helpless any longer.
"Did you have any children, Beth?” Laura asked. Her questions were slow, bold, rather hopeful of offending. And yet there was still restraint in her. She had once loved Beth utterly, and her first reaction to Beth's presence had been a quick unreasoning surrender. Desire had made her weak. But desire was satisfied now; it remained to satisfy her wounded soul.
"No,” Beth snapped. “No children.” She was appalled at herself and at the same time angrily determined to deny that part of her life.
Laura gazed at her, aware from the tone and temper in Beth that she had touched an emotional sore. But then perhaps it was just Beth's disappointment in seeing Laura get dressed.
Beth, suddenly surly, got up and began to put her own clothes on. She stepped into her panties self-consciously and then, to her own surprise, broke down and began to cry. The chill between them was too much for her. She went to Laura humbly and embraced her.
"Laura, I want you,” she whispered. “I love you. Nothing else matters. The rest of my life doesn't matter, it didn't even happen, if you'll just take me back. Be good to me. Help me, please, help me."
But Laura couldn't be had that easily. “Help you what?” she said. “You mean, help you now the way you helped me nine years ago? Put you on a train and send you to hell? One-way trip?"
"Please—dear God—don't be sarcastic!” Beth implored her.
"It's a very educational trip, Beth,” Laura said softly.
For a moment it struck Beth as Nina's barbs had struck her. But she needed Laura's aid too much to risk antagonizing her. “I'm dead serious,” she said through her tears. “Help me find myself. Help me know myself,” she insisted, shaking Laura forcibly. “No one can help me but you."
And Laura, caught in Beth's strong urgent arms, began to understand, began to see through the clouds of passion and desperation that hung about Beth. She knew what Beth was there for. Not for love, not for Laura, not for nostalgia or passion or anything tender. She had come to find herself and was fanatically sure Laura could help. Laura was her tool, and, realizing it now, Laura smiled at her with pity.
"You're so lucky,” Beth said. “So damn lucky!” And she couldn't keep the little green flash of envy from showing. “You've got it both ways. A husband and a child and a home. And at the same time, women. You worked your life out right, Laura darling. I made a complete mess of mine. God, isn't it ironical? When I said goodbye to you and watched you climb on that train and go out of my life, I felt sorry for you. I pitied you because I thought you were already starting out on the wrong foot I thought nothing could set you right You'd just bungle along and botch the whole thing. I thought you'd be hurt.” She clung to Laura as she spoke, unconsciously rocking her as if the movement were a comfort.
"I thought you'd get lost, I thought you'd get taken, I thought the big city would devour you,” Beth cried, almost wishing, out of spite, that it had. “I thought living like an outcast, a Lesbian, would destroy you. All this time I've worried and wondered about you. And now at last I find you and—and—” she began to laugh a little hysterically—"and you're happy as a clam. You've got the world on a string. You're the one who did it right, who found the secret. Laura, let me in on it. I'm so damned miserable sometimes I feel like death. Like death.” And she shook Laura with the angry demand for sympathy.
It was not a generous speech. It was not the declaration of love reborn or of gratitude that she had meant to make. It was an accusation. It said, “You have no right to be happier than I!” Laura had it all, Beth had nothing, and Beth showed her grudge in a sudden uncontrollable outpouring of envy and unhappiness. It was not what she had come all this way to discover and it was too much to bear.
Laura understood this while Beth did not. Beth thought she was speaking of love, and she was chagrined when Laura moved out of her arms with a laugh.
Laura walked across the room in her slip, one nylon stocking on, one in her hand, and her laugh burned Beth like salt in a cut. Laura turned and looked at her then, still smiling.
"Beth,” she said, lingering over the name. “I still love you, Beth. God knows why. But now, for the first time in all these years, I can pity you too. It's a strange feeling. A little like being set free."
"No, Laura—"
"Don't talk. Listen! You need a little pity. You need a lot. You've spent so damn many years pitying me, Beth, don't begrudge me the same pleasure. It's my turn now."
Beth went over to the bed and collapsed on it. “How did you do it?” she begged. “Where did I go wrong? I never should have let you leave me."
"No? What would we have done together, you and I? Settled down in a vine-covered walk-up in the Village? Adopted a couple of kids?"
"I don't want kids, I never did!"
"You said you didn't have any."
"I don't!” Beth shrieked.
"Then don't get excited,” Laura said curiously. “You could have lived with me once, Beth. Don't forget that."
"Anything would have been better than Charlie!"
"Even me?” Laura couldn't help laughing again.
"No! No! Good God, Laura, Laura, please don't laugh like that. Don't laugh at me!” She sounded quite frantic and Laura took pity on her. She was not malicious, only human, and she needed to hurt Beth a little. It was healthy for her. It would clear away the murky, pent-up bitterness and misunderstanding.
"If you don't want me to laugh at you, don't be such a fool,” she said.
"Charlie was insufferable,” Beth gasped, clutching at her self-control.
"Charlie loved you, Beth,” Laura retorted. “I don't know what the situation is now, but you dismissed his love much too lightly a few minutes ago. It was a wonderful love, very deep and strong. If there were blind spots in it, they weren't weaknesses. He had enough love to smooth them over. I hated him but I respected him always. I knew how much he loved you."
"Are you saying that whatever happened between us must have been my fault? That I didn't love him enough?” Beth cried. And the frustrations of the last months colored her voice.
"No. I'm saying you couldn't have made a better choice than Charlie, if you wanted to get married. And Beth, you did want to. You were cocksure of yourself."
"Then why didn't it work? Why wasn't I happy?” Beth had lost control, even the desire for control. She wept noisy furious sobs like a child, her hands covering her face.
Laura watched her from across the room for a moment and then she went into the bathroom. She came back in a moment with a glass of cold water, walked up to Beth, and threw it in her face. She accomplished this quietly, experimentally, but with a certain satisfaction. She had never thought, in all her daydreams of Beth, that she would have the courage to treat her like another mere human being.
"I don't know why it didn't work, Beth,” she said. “Maybe you'll be happy now. I hope so."
With an outraged splutter, Beth stopped crying. There was a moment of palpable tension between them. The water clung to Beth's hair and dripped from her face and for a moment she thought she would explode with rage. But it came to her slowly that she could not get any angrier than she had just been. She hadn't the strength and there was no way to express it without behaving like a madwoman. She was not that kind.
Beth turned her wet, violet eyes and open mouth up to Laura, strugg
ling to find words, composure. But Laura, still smiling, spared her the necessity.
"Maybe the one thing you learned from living with a man is that you can't live with a man,” she told her. “It's a sad, common little lesson. But sometimes those are the hardest to learn."
After a full minute of wet humiliation Beth brought herself to say, “What if it had been somebody different?” Her voice was unsure of itself, rough. “What if it had been somebody like Jack, maybe, who understood?"
"You said you didn't understand yourself,” Laura reminded her, putting the empty glass down casually on the bed table. “Do you want to marry a psychiatrist who'll spend all his time explaining you to yourself?"
"No.” Laura's words made Beth vaguely aware of her own unreasonable thinking. “No, I wanted that from you. You grasp things others miss. I wanted you to tell me.” And she wanted Laura to apologize for that glass of water; it was obvious in every inflection of her voice. Redeem yourself: say you're sorry. Damn you!
But Laura was on top of the situation now. She could play it her way.
"Tell you what, Beth?” Laura said suggestively, and brushed cold water from Beth's breasts. Beth shied away from her and stood up.
"Tell me what to do,” she said through clenched teeth. “Who I am.” She gave a tortured little laugh through her sobs and said, “God it's funny. It's so funny. I thought I'd know just by looking at you. I thought all you'd have to do was walk through that door and I'd suddenly understand everything. Just the sight of you would make it all clear."
"You were always a great one for oversimplifying things,” Laura said. “I'm not the fortune teller who can read your palm. I'm not so easy to hurt any more either, or so easy to teach. I've learned to protect myself. You gave me my first lessons years ago. Tell me something, Beth. Why did you think you had to find me to find yourself?"
"I don't know,” Beth said and shook her head. Laura handed her some face tissue to wipe the last of the water off with and Beth snatched it from her haughtily. She blew her nose. “It sounds—crazy, now. Irrational, even. But a few hours ago it seemed like the most natural thing in the world."
"And now I've disappointed you, haven't I?” Laura said. She seemed privately pleased at the idea; it might show Beth the folly of oversimplifying things, of hurting other people to spare herself. “Poor Beth. Poor silly Beth. It was all going to be so easy, wasn't it?” she said sympathetically.
Beth was without dignity, without resources. She could only mumble, “I guess I expected too much."
"You expected the impossible,” Laura chided her. “And I thought at first you really wanted me. Really desired me again."
"I—I did."
"No, it was something completely different. Oh, not that you minded that part in bed a little while ago. But that was supposed to be the frosting on the cake. You could have done without that if you'd had to."
"Laura, don't persecute me,” she whimpered, sitting down in a stuffed chair by the window. “If I had only found a guy like Jack!” she said, pounding her legs harshly with her fists. “If only—"
"You aren't going to make things better by copying my life,” Laura said. “Even if you could, that's no answer."
"It was the answer for you,” Beth snapped.
"But you're not me,” Laura said. “Come on, Beth, you know that much."
"We're a lot alike,” Beth persisted.
"We're entirely different. We always were."
Beth stood up again, turning her back to Laura. She stood tall and angry, hurt and bewildered, but recovering her pride. “Are you telling me you won't help me?” she demanded. “You refuse? I'm not worth the trouble? Or am I just a hopeless case?"
"Not yet, but you're trying awfully damned hard to make yourself hopeless,” Laura exclaimed. “What right have you to get on your high horse with me? When you need help, Beth, you ask for it. You don't order it, like a meal. At least not from the people who don't owe you anything.” There was another blazing silence. The air between them seemed very heavy.
"Is there anything I can do?” Laura said finally, placatingly. “I doubt it. But if there is, tell me."
"I want you to tell me!” Beth cried, turning on her in near despair. “Why do you think I'm here? Why do you think I've given up everything just to find you? What do you think I've been saying to you all morning?” And to emphasize her anger, to avenge herself for that shameful glass of water, she picked up Laura's bed pillow and swung it hard against the table. It broke. Together, silent, they watched the feathers snow down. Beth was too mad to feel sorry. She was entitled to ruin something, after all Laura had put her through.
Laura nodded distantly at the mess. “That's right, Beth,” she said, and her composure infuriated Beth the more. “When things go wrong, throw a tantrum. When they aren't right, break them. You've always thought that way, haven't you? You're still a child. I guess that's the real cause of all your troubles."
"I'm a woman!” Beth cried. “A grown woman!"
"A grown woman would know herself, control herself. She'd know breaking a pillow wouldn't solve her problems. She'd know I couldn't change her whole life."
"You did once."
"I hardly touched it.” Laura bent over and picked up a goose feather, and Beth watched her, fascinated and angry. “I passed through your life, I loved you. And it didn't work out because you didn't love me. We parted, as we should have, and it was over. I yearned for you for a long time. And what did you do? Got married to a handsome, intelligent, affectionate s.o.b. you were in love with. Was it so godawful, Beth? Was it really as bad as all that? Or did you just begin to be bored with housewifery? Did you just want to play around again, the way you played around with me?"
"I loved you, Laura,” Beth said helplessly and suddenly went to her knees among the feathers. “I loved you, how can you think anything else?"
Abruptly, Laura's understanding, that wonderful understanding that Beth had needed and demanded and had traveled out of her life and over a continent to find, was unwelcome. It was painful and embarrassing, because it exposed the truth. Beth, on her knees, recoiled from it at the same time that she pleaded for it. It was a question which was worse: the endless wondering about herself, about her true sexuality, or knowing the truth and having the truth be ugly and selfish and pitiful.
"You loved what you couldn't have, Beth,” Laura said. “You still do."
"But I could have had you! I know that, we both know that!” Beth shouted passionately.
"The minute you found out you could have me, you didn't want me any more,” Laura said. She turned her back on Beth, who was still kneeling, and began to comb her marvelous hair. “I wonder if that isn't what happened between you and Charlie. Once he married you he was hooked. He was yours. It was all sewed up, legitimate and approved of, and maybe that's why it bored you."
Beth felt a terrible rage rising in her. She wanted to scream, “Look at me!” Instead she said in a shaking voice, “I'm on my knees to you, begging for help, Laura. Give it to me. I'm not a dog."
"Then get off the floor,” Laura said without turning around. “You stand there and comb your goddamn hair!” Beth shouted.
"My hair needs combing."
Beth wondered if she could stand it or if her brains would boil in her head. Laura controlled the situation by controlling herself. Every shriek that escaped Beth made her own position weaker and sillier. With a supreme effort she held herself in check. “Charlie said once that I could only love when love was forbidden,” she said. The admission gave her a little dignity; it was very adult.
"Then he sees what I see,” Laura said. “But you're wrong,” Beth whispered. “You're both wrong. I can love without that. It doesn't have to be wrong to be desirable. That's so—so childish."
"Yes, it is. But that isn't what you came all this way to tell me,” Laura said. “You didn't really come to see me at all. I think you're running away."
"No, I'm not. I'm facing things, Laura! For the first time
I'm facing the things I should have faced years ago, but didn't have the guts to. I love women. I love you. And if you think it was the easy flung for me to run away and leave my—” She broke off, afraid to mention her children now that she had denied their existence. “It took all my courage, everything I had,” she said, and her voice twisted with the enormity of it, the remembered pain.
"Beth, how long have you been divorced?” Laura stopped combing long enough to look at her. “That's none of your business!” Beth shot back. “You're making it my business. You're throwing your whole messed-up unhappy life in my lap. Listen, Beth,” she continued kindly, “no matter how fast you run you can't catch up with the past. You've found me, all right, but you haven't found our college days. You haven't found a dead romance and brought it back to life. We're two different people now; we can't capture the past and live in it as if it were the present. I tried to run away, too. For years. Believe me, it's the one sure way to get trouble to follow you.” Her voice was gentle; she meant what she said. Maybe it would help. She could see Beth had been pushed pretty far. But to Beth it was like being a naughty child again and getting lectured for misbehaving. She listened in pale anger.
"You're in love with all the things you can't have, Beth, with all the things you've never seen and never tasted. Once you do see them they lose their fascination for you. If you had to live with a woman, don't you think pretty soon you'd be hollering for a man?"
"You mean—” Beth gaped at her. “You mean it has nothing to do with sexuality? It has nothing to do with love and desire? It's just a compulsion for something new? Oh, no, Laura. Now you're the one who's oversimplifying."
"It has a lot to do with love and desire, but that's only part of it. You were never cut out to settle down and put out roots anywhere."
"Laura, for God's sake, are you telling me no matter what I do or where I turn I'll never be happy? I'll always make myself unhappy?” It was a cry of desolation and protest.
*Tm telling you what you're like now,” Laura said. “I'm not saying you can't change. Nobody has a right to say that to you but yourself."