The Beebo Brinker Omnibus

by Ann Bannon

  Laura was embarrassed. It still upset her to have to accept gifts from Beebo. She felt as if each one was a bid for her love, a sort of investment Beebo was making in Laura’s good will. It made her resent the gifts and resist them. And still Beebo came home with things she couldn’t afford and forced them on Laura and made her almost frantic between the need to be grateful, the pity she felt, and the exasperation that was the result of it all.

  “I don’t need a dress, honey,” Laura said.

  “I want you to have one.”

  “God, Beebo, if I bought all the clothes you want me to have we wouldn’t have money to eat on. We’d be broke. We’d be in hock for everything we own.”

  “Please, baby. All I want to do is buy you an anniversary present.”

  “Beebo, I—” What could she say? I don’t want the damn dress?

  “I know,” Beebo said abruptly. “I embarrass you. You don’t like to be seen in the nice stores with me. I look so damn queer. Don’t argue, Bo-peep, I know it,” she said, waving Laura’s protests to silence. “I’ll wear a skirt tonight. Okay? I look pretty good in a skirt.”

  It was true that Laura was ashamed to go anywhere out of Greenwich Village with her…Beebo, nearly six feet of her, with her hair cropped short and her strange clothes and her gruff voice. And when she flirted with the clerks!

  Laura had been afraid more than once that they would call the police and drag Beebo off to jail. But it had never happened. Still, there was always a first time. And if she had a couple of drinks before they went, Laura wasn’t at all sure she could handle her.

  “Why don’t you let me find something for myself?” Laura asked, pleading. “I know you hate to put a skirt on. You don’t have to come. I’ll pick out something pretty.” But she knew, and so did Beebo, that unless Beebo went along Laura would buy nothing. She would come home and say, “They just didn’t have a thing.” And Beebo would have to face the fact that Laura resented her little tributes.

  So she said, “No, I don’t trust your taste. Besides, I like to see you try on all the different things.”

  So it was that Laura met her at Lord and Taylor’s on Fifth Avenue after work. It had to be a really good store, and Beebo had to pay more than they could afford, or she wasn’t satisfied. Laura anticipated it with dread, but at least it was better than another awful quarrel. If Beebo would just be quiet. If she would just keep her eyes—and her hands—off the cute little clerks in the dress departments. Laura always tried to find a stolid middle-aged clerk, but the shops seemed to abound in sleek young ones.

  Still, Beebo, subdued perhaps by her plain black dress and by Laura’s nervous concern, kept quiet. Laura noticed a little whiskey on her breath when they met outside the store, but nothing in her behavior betrayed it.

  “Do I stink?” she had asked, and when Laura wrinkled her nose Beebo took a mint out and sucked on it. “I won’t disgrace you,” she said. She was making a real effort.

  They zigzagged around the Avenue, finding nothing that both looked right and could be had for less than a fortune. At Peck and Peck, near nine o’clock, Laura said, “Beebo, I’ve had it. This is positively the last place. I don’t want you to dress me like a damn princess. I’d much rather have one of those big enamelware pots—”

  “Oh, goddamn the pots! Don’t talk to me of pots!” Beebo exclaimed and Laura answered, “All right, all right, all right!” in a quick irritated whisper.

  She went up to the first girl she saw, determined to waste as little time as possible. “Excuse me,” she said. “Could you show me something in a twelve?”

  The girl turned around and looked at her out of jade green eyes. Laura stared at her. She was black-haired and her skin was the color of three parts cream and one part coffee. In such a setting her green eyes were amazing. There was a tiny red dot between them on her brow, Indian fashion, but she was dressed in Occidental clothes. She gazed at Laura with exquisite contempt.

  “Something in a twelve?” she repeated, and her voice had a careful, educated sort of pronunciation. Laura was enchanted with her, pleased just to look at her marvelous smooth face. Her skin was incredibly pure and her color luminous.

  “Yes, please,” Laura said.

  With a light monosyllable, unintelligible to Laura, the girl shrugged at a row of dresses. “Help yourself,” she said in clipped English. “I cannot help you.”

  Laura was surprised at her effrontery. “Well, I—I would like a little help, if you don’t mind,” she said pointedly.

  “Not from me. Go look at the dresses. If you see one you like, buy it.”

  Laura stared at her, her dander up. “You just don’t care if I buy a dress or not, do you?” she prodded. The girl, who had begun to turn away, looked back at her in annoyance.

  “Can you think of one good reason why I should?” she asked.

  “You’re a clerk and I’m a customer,” Laura shot back.

  “Thank you for the compliment,” she said icily. “But I am no clerk. And if I were, I wouldn’t wait on you.”

  It was so royal, so precise, that Laura blushed crimson. “Oh,” she said in confusion. “Please forgive me. I—I just saw you standing there and I—”

  “And you took it for granted that I must be a clerk? How flattering.” She stared at Laura for a minute and then she smiled slightly and turned away.

  Laura was too interested in her just to let her fade away like that. She started after her with no idea of what to say, feeling idiotic and yet fascinated with the girl. She touched her sleeve and that lovely beige face swiveled toward her, this time plainly irritated. But before either of them could speak Beebo came toward them. She had a couple of dresses over one arm and she sauntered up with typical long strides, a cigarette drooping from one corner of her mouth. Laura saw her coming with a sinking feeling.

  “I found these, Laura. Try them on,” she said, looking at the Indian girl. There was a small awkward silence. “Well?” Beebo said suddenly, smiling at the strange girl. “Friend of yours, Bo-peep?”

  Laura could have slapped her. She hated that pet name. It was bad enough in private, but in public it was intolerable.

  “No, I—I mistook her for a clerk,” Laura said. Her cheeks were still glowing and the girl looked from her to Beebo and back as if they were both dangerous. Laura’s hand fell from her arm and she stepped backwards, still watching them, as if she half-feared they would follow her.

  “Don’t mind her,” Beebo told her, thumbing at Laura. “She thinks her best friends are clerks. She’s just being friendly.” Laura heard the edge in her voice and became uneasy.

  But the Indian girl, if she was an Indian girl, unexpectedly relented a little and smiled. “It’s all right,” she said. She looked at Laura. “I’m not a clerk,” she said. “I’m a dancer.”

  “Oh!” Suddenly an unwelcome little thrill flew through Laura. She couldn’t have explained it logically. The girl was very demure and distant. But she was also very lovely, and Laura had a brief vision of all that creamy tan skin unveiled and undulating to the rhythm of muffled gongs and bells and wailing reeds.

  She must have looked incredulous for the girl said suddenly, “I can prove it.”

  “Oh, no! No, that’s all right,” Laura protested, but the girl handed her a little card with a name printed on it, and Laura took it eagerly. “I did not mean I would demonstrate,” the girl said carefully.

  Beebo laughed. “Go ahead,” she said. “We’re dance lovers. I don’t think Laura’d mind a bit, would you, baby?” She was mad at Laura for flirting and Laura knew it.

  The little card read, Tris Robischon and underneath, Dance Studio and an address in the Village. “I just didn’t want you to think I was lying,” the girl said, somewhat haughtily. And before Laura or Beebo could answer her she turned and left them standing, staring after her.

  Beebo turned to frown at Laura. “You made a hit, it seems,” she said acidly. “Let’s see her card.” She snatched it from Laura’s reluctant fingers.r />
  “Take it. I don’t want it!” Laura said angrily, for she did want it very much. She turned away sharply, giving her attention to a row of dresses, but she knew Beebo wouldn’t let her off the hook so easily. There would be more nastiness and soon.

  “You got her name out of her, at least. Pretty smooth.” Beebo’s voice was hard and hurt. “Tris Robischon. Doesn’t sound very Indian to me.”

  “How would you know, swami?” Laura snapped. “If you throw a jealous scene in here I’ll leave you tonight and I’ll never come back, I’m warning you!” she added in a furious hiss, and Beebo glared at her. But she didn’t answer.

  Finally Laura dragged some dresses off the rack and turned to her. “I’ll try these,” she said. Beebo followed her to the dressing room and watched her change into one and then another in angry silence.

  At last Laura burst out, “I didn’t ask her for the damn card. I don’t know why she gave it to me.”

  “It’s obvious. You’re irresistible.”

  Laura took two handfuls of Beebo’s hair and shook her head till Beebo stopped her roughly and forced her to her knees. Fury paralyzed them both for a moment and they stared at each other helplessly, trembling.

  Laura wanted that card. She wanted it enough to soften suddenly and play games for it. “Beebo, be gentle with me,” she pleaded, her tense body relaxing. “Don’t hurt me,” she whispered. “I don’t know who the girl is and I don’t care.”

  Beebo stared at her suspiciously till Laura reminded her, “We came to get a dress, remember? Let’s not spoil it. Please, Beebo.”

  Beebo released her and sat staring at the floor. Laura tried on dresses for her, but Beebo wouldn’t look at them. No tender words, no coaxing, no teasing that would have been so welcome any other time worked with her tonight. When Beebo got jealous she was a bitch—irrational, unreasonable, unkind.

  “I’m going to take this one,” Laura said finally, a little desperate. “Whether you like it or not.”

  Beebo looked up slowly. “I like it,” she said flatly, but she would have said, “I hate it,” in the same voice.

  Laura went over to her and took her face in both hands, stooped down, and kissed her petulant mouth. “Beebo,” she murmured. “You love me. Act like it.” It was so foolishly selfish, so unexpected, and so almost affectionate that it was funny, and Beebo smiled wryly at her. She took Laura’s shoulders and pulled her down for another kiss just as a clerk—a genuine clerk—stuck her face in and said, “Need any help in here?”

  “No thanks!” Laura blurted, looking up in alarm. Beebo put her head back and laughed and the clerk stared, pop-eyed. Then she shut the door and sped away. Beebo stood up and swept Laura into her arms and kissed her over and over, all over her face and shoulders and ears and throat until Laura had to beg her to stop. “Let’s get out of here before that clerk makes trouble!” she implored.

  When they left the dressing room Laura noticed that Beebo had put Tris Robischon’s card in the sand pail for cigarettes. It stuck out like a little white flag. Laura risked her purse—with $15.87, all they had for the next week—to get the card back. She left the purse on the chair as she followed Beebo out. And so it was that she was able to make an excuse to go back and retrieve them both, purse and card, while Beebo paid for the dress.

  Chapter Three

  IT’S AN AWFUL THING ABOUT JACK, Laura wrote in her diary, sitting on the floor by the closet door. Such a nice guy, so bright and so—this will sound corny—so fine. But ever since Terry left him he’s been a little crazy. I was really afraid of how much he was drinking until tonight when we had a beer at Julian’s. Or rather, I had a beer. Jack’s on the wagon. Maybe that will straighten him out. If he can stick with it. If he’d been straight I think he would have done something wonderful with his life. But is it fair to blame the failures on homosexuality? Is it, really? I’m selling junk here in the Village because Beebo wants me near her. She runs an elevator so she can wear pants all day. And Jack’s a draughtsman so he can be in an office full of virile engineers. What’s the matter with us? We don’t have to spend our lives doing it. So why do we?

  She had asked Jack the same question at Julian’s little bar just off Seventh Avenue, earlier that evening. “Why do we do it, Jack? Throw our lives away?” she said.

  “We like to,” he shrugged. “We all have martyr complexes.”

  “We give away the best part of ourselves—our youth and our health are all just given away. Free.”

  “What sort of profit did you expect to make on them?” he said. “You want to get paid for being young and healthy?”

  Laura glared at him. “That’s not what I mean—”

  “If you’re not giving, you’re not living, doll,” he said. “I quote the sob columns. Give yourself away, what the hell. What’s youth for? And health? And beauty, and the rest of it. Keep it and it turns putrid like everything else. Give it away and at least somebody enjoys it.”

  “Jack, you know damn well I mean wasting it. Wasting it all day long on costume jewelry or a push-button elevator or a slide rule. God, when I think of what you—”

  “Don’t think of all the fine things I could have done with my life, Mother,” he pleaded. “You give me the shudders. I’m not happy, but I’d be worse off trying to live straight. I like men. My office is full of them.”

  “You hate your work.”

  “I never have to think about it. Purely mechanical. I just sit there and flip that little slip stick and I say, ‘Evens, Johnson is straight. Odds, he’s queer. If Johnson is queer on Tuesday—according to the slide rule—I make it a point to give him a kind word.”

  “Johnson is straight and you know it. Every man in your office is straight Why do you torture yourself?”

  “No torture, Mother. When the whole world is black, pretend it’s rosy. Somewhere, in some little corner. If everybody’s straight, pretend somebody’s gay.”

  “That’s a short cut to the bug house.”

  “I wouldn’t mind the bug house. If they’d let me keep my slip stick.” He laughed to himself and leaned over the bar to order. “One whiskey and water,” he said.

  “How about you, Mann?” Julian asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Are you on the wagon?” Laura was stunned. When he nodded she said, “Just a beer for me. I’m drinking too much anyway.” Then she smiled. “You’ll never last, Jack. You know what you need?”

  “Do I know? Are you serious?” He grinned at her, but it was a pained smile.

  “You need a real man,” Laura said softly. “Not a bunch of daydreams at the office. That’s enough to drive anybody nuts. You worry me, Jack.”

  “Good.” He smiled and squeezed her arm. “Now I’ll tell you what I really need.” He looked at her through his sharp eyes set in that plain face Laura had come to love and find attractive. “I don’t need a man, Laura,” he said. “I’m too damn old to run after pretty boys anymore. I look like a middle-aged fool, which is exactly what I am. When Terry left me, I was through.”

  “Do you still love him? Even after what he did?”

  “I won’t talk about him,” he said simply. “I can’t. But he was the last one. The end. I want a woman now. I want you, Laura.” He turned away abruptly, embarrassed, but his hand remained on her arm.

  Laura was touched. “Jack,” she said very gently. “I’m a Lesbian. Even if you renounce men, I can’t renounce women. I won’t even try.”

  “There was a time when you were willing to try.”

  “That was a million years ago. I wasn’t the same Laura I am now. I said that before I even met Beebo—when another girl was giving me hell, and I was new to the game and to New York and so afraid of everything.”

  “So now you know the ropes and you’re absolutely sure you’d rather give your life away to the goddamn tourists and a woman you don’t love than come and live with a man you do love.”

  “Jack, darling, I love you, but I don’t love you with my body. I love you with
my heart and soul but I could never let you make love to me.”

  “I could never do it, either,” he said quietly. “You’re no gayer than I am, Laura. If we married it would never be a physical union, you know that.” Somewhere far back in his mind the sweet shadow of that little dream child hovered, but he suppressed it, lighting a cigarette quickly. His fingers shook.

  “If it wasn’t a physical union, what would it be?” Laura asked. “Just small talk and community property and family-plan fares?”

  He smiled. “Sounds a little empty, doesn’t it?”

  “Jack,” Laura said, speaking with care so as not to hurt him, “you’re forty-five and life looks a little different to you now. I’m only twenty-three and I can’t give up my body so casually. I could never make you promises I couldn’t keep.”

  “I wouldn’t ask that promise of you, Laura,” he said.

  “You mean I could bring girls home? To our home, yours and mine? Any girls, any time? And it would be all right?”

  “Let’s put it this way,” he said. “If you fell in love with somebody, I’d be understanding. I’d welcome her to the house, and I’d get the hell out when you wanted a little privacy. I’d keep strict hands off and just one shoulder for you to cry on. As long as you really loved her and it wasn’t cheap or loud or dirty, I’d respect it.”

  He knocked the ashes off the tip of his cigarette thoughtfully. “…Only,” he said, “you’d be my wife. And you’d come home at night and tuck me in and you’d be there in the morning to see me off.” He sounded so peculiarly gentle and yearning that she was convinced that he meant it. But she was not ready to give in.

  Laura smiled at him. “What would there be in all this for you, Jack?” she said. “Just getting tucked in at night? Is that enough compensation?”

  “Nobody ever tucked me in before.” He said it with a grin but she sensed that it was true.

  “And breakfast in the morning?”

  “Wonderful! You don’t know what a difference it would make.”

  “That’s nothing, Jack, compared to what you’d be giving me.”