by Ann Bannon
She looked at him through welling tears.
“You don’t need to be loved right now, my darling,” he said, and she frowned in wonderment. “You are, but that’s not the point. You don’t need to be loved one half so much as you need to love, Beth. And you need to love a man…and you do.”
They stared at each other for a long time while her tears slowed and stopped and his face came into focus and his strength held her fast and warmed and thrilled her.
“Charlie?” she said.
He kissed her wet cheeks and her lips for a long lovely while, cradling her body against his own, letting her forget a little, find her courage and will again, pressed hard against the clean friendly power of himself. And then he pushed her firmly away.
“Your train leaves in half an hour,” he said. “I’ll drop you off at the station.”
He picked up her bag and led her out of the room. She followed him in confusion, her mind in an alarming uproar, her heart in knots. They left the Union and walked half a block to his car without saying anything. She got in and settled herself, trying at the same time to settle her frantic nerves.
They drove to the station. He stopped at the corner, some distance from the entrance, in case Laura should be there waiting. Beth hesitated, her hand on the door handle. Charlie watched her.
“It’s your decision, Beth,” he said.
She closed her eyes and clamped her teeth together, and pushed the handle down. The door gave a little, and still she waited, agonized.
“It’s five o’clock. Better get going,” he said. “Train leaves at five-fifteen.”
“Charlie—” She turned her tortured face to him. “Charlie—”
“I’m going over to Walgreen’s and get a cup of coffee,” he said. “I’ll be there until five-thirty.”
Slowly she got out of the car, pulling her bag after her. She gave him a long supplicating look and then shut the car door and watched him drive off. He didn’t look back. She turned and walked up the steps and along the station to the entrance and went in. Laura saw her instantly.
“Oh, Beth!” she said thankfully. “For a minute I—I—oh, never mind. You’re here. Thank God, you’re here.”
Beth tried to smile at her. “Laura, I—” she began.
“I got your ticket, darling. It got so late, I—What happened, Beth? Why are you so late?”
“I—I got held up at the Union.” Could she never tell the truth?
“Oh,” Laura laughed. “I nearly had heart failure. It got later and later and—Well, anyway, you’re here. We’d better go on up if we want seats. The train’s loading.” She gave a little tug at Beth’s sleeve.
“Laura—wait—Wait. I—” She stopped, unable to talk, hardly able to face Laura.
With a forced, frightened calm, Laura took Beth’s bag from her and led her to a wooden bench near the ticket windows. She made her sit down and then she took her hands and said, with inexplicable dread, “What is it, Beth?” Far away inside her it was turning cold.
“Laura—” Beth’s cheeks were hot with a needling shame and uncertainty.
“Beth, you’ve been crying. What’s the matter?”
“Oh, Laura….” Beth couldn’t find her tongue. Her voice was rough with sorrow.
“Don’t you want to go, darling?” Laura sounded unbelievably sad and soft and sweet.
“Laura, couldn’t we—couldn’t we wait till June? I—”
Laura shook her head gravely. “No, we can’t wait, Beth. We have to go now, or we’ll never go. You know that.”
She did know it, but she couldn’t come right out and admit it. “No, Laur, we could do it later. Couldn’t we?” For the first time she was asking Laura instead of telling her.
Laura shook her head and murmured, “No, Beth, tell me the truth. We haven’t much time. What’s the matter?”
“Laura—darling—I just can’t do it. I just can’t. Oh, Laura—hate me. Hate me!” And she put her head down against the bench and wept, unable to look at Laura, pulling her hand free to cover her face.
Laura held the other one hard. When Beth was quieter she raised her eyes and saw Laura’s face, white and heartbreakingly gentle, and there was a curious new strength in it, and a most awesome dignity that Beth, in her distress, lacked completely.
“Laura, stay with me,” she said a little wildly. “Stay here. We’ll go back to the house. It’s only another month or so. Please—”
“No,” said Laura. “I have to go.” She was cold all over now, but the frost brought clarity as well as suffering. She began to understand. She heard Beth start to implore her and she stopped her.
“Beth, I have only a few minutes. Listen to me. Tell me one thing—only one. Do you love Charlie? Is that what’s the matter?” Beth started to shake her head, but Laura said, “Don’t try to protect me any more, Beth. I want to know the whole truth. Do you love him?”
Beth was surprised and touched by her self-command, and she gazed at her a moment before answering, “Yes.”
“Then I’ll go. And you’ll stay.”
“No—”
“Listen to me!” Beth was startled into silence. Laura’s voice dropped. “Beth, I love you. I’m not like other people—like most people. I can never love more or better than I love you—only more wisely maybe, some day, if I’m lucky. It can never be any other way for me. What I mean is—there can never be a man for me, Beth. I’ll never love a man like I love you.”
Her voice never lost its steady softness, her eyes never lost their deep hurt, her hand never relaxed its tight constriction over Beth’s. She talked fast, racing the clock.
“It’s different for you, Beth. I guess I’ve known all along, when you met Charlie and everything. I just wanted you so much, so terribly, so selfishly, that I couldn’t admit it. I couldn’t believe it. But you need a man, you always did. Emmy was right, she understood. If I’d only listened. I was the one who was wrong, about you and her. But I’m not wrong about myself, not any more. And not about you, either.”
“Oh, Laura, my dear—”
“We haven’t time for tears now, Beth. I’ve grown up emotionally as far as I can. But you can go farther, you can be better than that. And you must, Beth, if you can. I’ve no right to hold you back.” Her heart shrank inside her at her own words.
“Laura, I misjudged you so. I thought you were such a baby, such a—”
“We’ve both made mistakes, Beth.”
“Can you forgive me? I’ve been so—”
“You taught me what I am, Beth. I know now, I didn’t before. I understand what I am, finally. It’s not a question of forgiving. I’m grateful. I can face life, my family, everything now, knowing. That’s terribly important. I couldn’t before. Don’t you see?” She couldn’t cry; there were no tears potent enough to relieve her grief. Her control was almost involuntary.
“But I—I’ve deceived you so. I—”
“It was just an accident, the whole thing, Beth.” The train whistle blew. Laura drew nearer, her eyes profound and wise and wounded. Only five minutes left. “Don’t you see what happened, Beth? We were in the same place at the same time and we both needed affection, darling. If it hadn’t been that way, I wouldn’t have known, I wouldn’t have learned about myself, maybe not for a long time. And then it could have been a brutal, terrifying lesson. You made it beautiful, Beth.
“I guess that’s all loving ever is—two people in the same place at the same time who need it. Only sometimes, for one, love has all the answers. For the other, it’s just a game, a beautiful game. That’s what happened to us, Beth. Neither of us willed it that way, it just happened. For you it was an accident, a sort of lovely surprise, and you took it that way. You took me for the little girl you thought I was. It was that little girl you wanted, not me. I had to be that little girl to keep you. I should have faced it then, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t even think about it.
“You see, for me it was love. A revelation, a forever sort of thing. Only nothing
lasts forever. You told me that once.”
The whistle called again. Laura got up from the bench and walked swiftly toward the exit. Beth ran after her.
“Oh, Laura, Laura, please don’t go, not like this. Please.”
“I have to, Beth.”
“You’re running away.” She followed her outside as Laura hurried toward the stairs up to the train platform.
“No, I’m facing it,” Laura said. “I know what I am, and I can be honest with myself now. I’ll live my life as honestly as I can, without ruining it. I can’t do that here and I can’t do it with you. That’s over now.”
Beth listened to her words, feeling for the first time the maturity in them; knowing Laura was right and admiring her with a sudden force because Laura had the courage to say these things, these truths, and the strength to do what she knew was right. Beth rushed along beside her, holding her arm, knowing that when she released it, she would release Laura forever; she would never see her or touch her again—and yet knowing that it had to be that way. She would come to Charlie chastened with the knowledge Laura had given her; she would come to him wiser, older, and richer in love because of Laura.
“Laura,” she said as they made their way down the platform, “I’m the one who’s been acting like a baby, who’s been childish about the whole thing. I never dreamed you were so—so brave.” She couldn’t think of a more fitting word. “Laura, I know I’m not making much sense, but I—you do mean so much to me, Laur. So very much. I want you to know. You’re not the only one who’s learned and who’s grateful.”
They reached the last car and Laura turned to her. There was the shade of a smile on her face. The pain was awful but the wound was clean. It would heal.
“Beth, I’m not angry. I thought I’d be bitter. I thought I’d hate Charlie if this ever happened. I thought I’d hate you more than anyone else on earth. But I’ve thought about it a lot, when you were seeing him so much and so happy with him, and I was spending those long nights at home alone. Even now, when you were late getting to the station, I kind of imagined what it would be like. I knew it would hurt, but—somehow I guess I always knew it would happen. It had to; you can’t need men and spend the rest of your life with a girl. I knew you weren’t—queer—like I am.”
The word slapped Beth cruelly in the face. “Laura—” she protested.
“I knew as well as you did that it wouldn’t last. Only I couldn’t admit it, because I love you.”
“Oh, Laura, darling—”
The conductor shouted, “All aboard!”
Laura put her bag on the steps and took Beth’s hands again. “Beth, you’re meant for a man. Like Charlie. I’m not. I’m not afraid to go, I’m not sorry. It hurts, and I love you—” Her eyes dropped and she almost faltered. “I love you—” she whispered. And Beth felt the pressure of her hands as the train gave a preliminary jerk.
“Laura!” Beth cried, walking by the train, and Laura looked up again.
“But I wouldn’t have the strength to face it if I didn’t.”
Beth reached for her and pulled her head down and kissed her, there on the train platform in the late afternoon sun with the train inching away from her and all Champlain free to watch.
“Laura, I love you,” she said, letting Laura slide from her arms as the train pulled her away. And she meant it, for the first time. She loved her; not as Laura would have wanted her to, but sincerely, honestly, the best love she could offer.
She leaned exhausted against a post and watched the train pull out and her eyes never left Laura’s. She stood with quiet tears stinging her cheeks and watched till the train wound its way out of sight.
Then she turned and walked slowly back down the steps and over to the station. She picked up her bag where Laura had left it and walked outside into the sunshine, set it down, and looked at her watch. There was a sudden flutter of new joy in her heart.
She had to hurry; it was almost five-thirty.
I Am a Woman
I Am a Woman
by Ann Bannon
Copyright © 1959 by Ann Bannon
Introduction © 2002 by Ann Bannon
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, or television reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published in the United States by Cleis Press Inc.,
P.O. Box 14684, San Francisco, California 94114.
Printed in the United States.
Cover design: Scott Idleman
Text design: Karen Quigg
Cleis Press logo art: Juana Alicia
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Introduction
Many years ago, when this book was in its final creative stages, I had a lucky invitation to come to New York and finish it in the home of friends of friends. They were young career women, living in a very small apartment in a very old building on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, near Columbia University. Luckier still, they were on the top floor, and in the hallway outside their front door stood a dubious flight of stairs that took one to the roof. There I repaired when I got stuck, or the typewriter fought back, or the coffee ran out, and gazed out at marvelous Manhattan. I especially liked going up there after dark, when the great city was spread out like a carpet of sparklers, brilliant with promise. I had just invented Beebo Brinker for this book, and with the intensity of youth, I imagined her real-life counterpart out there somewhere, down in the Village going about her business, while I, on my roof, was trying to capture her story. I spent a fair amount of time leaning on the crumbly old parapets, staring deep into the lights and wondering if there were a real Beebo on this planet. If there were, would I ever meet her? Would she be like the woman I had contrived out of sheer need so she would at least exist somewhere in the world, even if only in the pages of my book? Was there anybody like her anywhere? Big, bold, handsome, the quintessential 1950s buccaneer butch, she was a heller and I adored her.
Not once did it occur to me to wonder if other people would ever know or care about Beebo Brinker. Not once did I ask myself if other women would fall under her spell, if readers would be amused and engaged by her, if she would develop a life of her own that would carry her across the decades until I would find myself sharing her with the rest of the world. What I wanted to know was, Would she be there for me, more real than reality? Would she rescue me from the frustration and isolation of a difficult marriage, from the impatience to be my own person before circumstances made it possible, from all the personal needs deferred in the interests of cherishing my children and finding my way in this life? It was a lot to dump on a fictional character. But she was my creature, my fantasy—and once conceived, she stood up and, with her broad shoulders, helped me lift my burdens.
Up there on that long-ago rooftop, I didn’t foresee Beebo’s future, but I did try to glimpse my own. Looking out at all those bright electric blooms spread at my feet, I pondered, If each one were a reader, how many would remember the name of Ann Bannon? Would I ever come back to Manhattan some day to acclaim? Reluctantly I acknowledged the realities: I was writing paperback pulp fiction. The Beatles had yet to glamorize the “Paperback Writer.” The stories were ephemeral; even the physical material of the books was so fragile that it hardly survived a single reading. The glue dried and cracked, the pages fell out, the paper yellowed after mere months, and the ink ate right through it anyway. The covers shouted “Sleaze!” The critics ignored the books in droves, and “serious” writers were going to the hardback publishers. Of course, we did have readers. People were grabbing the pulps off drugstore shelves and bus station kiosks, and reading them almost in a gulp. But then they tossed them in trash cans and forgot them. Given this precarious bit of fleeting notoriety, I had not yet even mustered the courage to acknowledge my authorship to friends and family, much less to the
public. No, there was no immortality here for Ann Bannon.
So I worked on I Am a Woman under no illusions about the prospects for enduring fame. That I am sitting down to share this with my readers forty-five years and five editions later is a true astonishment. But the perdurable appeal of the butch-femme dichotomy is not. It has, however, undergone some interesting changes.
When I was writing I Am a Woman, the unquestioned role choices open to lesbians were two: butch or femme. As Robin Tyler has observed, even if you weren’t sure which one you were, you wanted to be butch, because they didn’t have to do the dishes. Well, maybe it wasn’t that simple for everyone, but women generally were not nearly as experimental with those roles as they later became. Butches were strong, tough, heroic, romantic. They fought battles in back alleys over femmes and were quite capable of ruling the roost. The femmes, by contrast, could be more girly; some were, in a way, early examples of “lipstick lesbians.” They might appear seductive, compliant, even pretty. It was almost a mirror image of mainstream society: the guy-gals and the gal-gals. It was exciting, sexy, and dramatic. But it was also confining, and as the Women’s Movement unfolded in the ’60s and ’70s, it began to seem rigid and outdated. This was no way to run a romantic partnership, with one member always on top, one always on the bottom.
As so often happens when the pendulum swings, it swings the old ways right out of the ballpark. The butch-femme dichotomy was rejected altogether for a while, replaced with more egalitarian liaisons. But it always exerted a tug on the heart, propelled by the sheer charisma of the archetypal bulldyke: independent, sensual, provocative, and more than a little dangerous. Today, among young women, it seems to have a place again, as long as it is recognized as a choice. But when Laura met Beebo in that lesbian bar called The Cellar all those years ago, both women were already locked into the paradigm. Laura was feminine in the traditional way. Her defenses, her fear of emotional entanglement, quickly melted under the laser of Beebo’s sexual focus. And on her side, Beebo was intrigued by Laura’s beguiling femaleness.