by Ann Bannon
“You’d be my wife, Laura, my honest-to-God lawful legal wife. You’d give me a home. You don’t know what that would mean to me. I’ve been living in rented rooms since I was out of diapers. You’d give me a place to rest in and be proud of, and a purpose in life. What the hell good am I to myself? What use is an aging fag with a letch for hopelessly bored, hopelessly handsome boys? Christ, I give myself the creeps. I give the boys the creeps. And you know something? They’re beginning to give me the creeps. I’m so low I can’t go any place but up. If you’ll say yes.”
“What if I did? What about Beebo?” Laura said softly, as if the name might suddenly conjure up her lover, jealous and vengeful.
“It would solve everything,” he said positively. “She could still see you, but you wouldn’t be her property anymore. It’s bad for her to have the idea she owns you, but that’s the way she treats you. If you were my wife she’d have to respect the situation. It would be a kind way to break with her,” he added slyly. He was feeling too selfish to waste sympathy on Beebo now.
Laura thought it over. There was no one she respected more than Jack, and her love for him, born of gratitude and affection, was real. But it was not the love of a normal woman for a normal man she felt for him, and the idea of marrying him frightened her.
“Do you think, if we married, we could keep our love for each other intact, Jack?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Even if I were having an affair?” She was thinking at that moment of Tris Robischon, the lovely, lithe Indian girl.
“Yes. I told you ‘yes.’”
Laura finished her beer in silence, gazing into the mirror over the bar and pondering. She knew she would say no. But she didn’t quite know how. “I can’t, Jack,” she said at last, in a small voice.
“Not now, maybe?” He wouldn’t give up.
“Never.”
“Never say never, Mother. Say ‘not now’ or something.”
She did, obediently. But she added, “We’d quarrel and we’d end up destroying our love for each other.”
“We’d quarrel, hell yes. I wouldn’t feel properly married if we didn’t.”
“And there’s always the chance that you’d fall in love. And regret that you married me.”
He turned to her with a little smile and shook his head. “Never,” he said. “And this once it’s the right word.” He took her hands. “Say yes.”
“No.”
“Say maybe.”
“No.”
“Say you’ll think about it, Laura. Say it, honey.”
And out of love and reluctance to hurt him, she whispered, “I’ll think about it.”
Laura was walking up Greenwich Avenue, searching for number 251. She had a small white card in her hand to which she referred occasionally, although she had memorized the address. It was a hot day, late in the afternoon, and she had just come from work, wilted and worn and bored. The idea of going home right away depressed her and she had decided to walk a little.
She hadn’t gone two blocks before she was daydreaming of Tris Robischon and suddenly shivering with the thought of seeing her again.
Beebo wouldn’t be home until nine o’clock that evening, and Tris’s studio address was only a short distance from the shop where Laura worked. All at once she was walking fast.
She found the address with no trouble at all. In fact it was almost too easy, and before she knew it she was standing in the first floor hallway of the modest building reading the names on the mailboxes. TRIS ROBISCHON. There it was. Third floor, Apartment C. Laura climbed the stairs.
What will I say to her! she asked herself. How in God’s name will I explain this visit? Ask her for a dance lesson? Me? She had to smile at herself. Her long slim legs would never yield to the fluid grace and discipline of dancing.
Laura stood uncertainly before the door of Apartment C, a little afraid to knock. She could hear the sounds of music inside—rather sharp, tormented music. Laura glanced at the card once again. It had been almost three weeks since the Indian girl had given it to her. Perhaps she wouldn’t even remember Laura. It might be embarrassing for them both. But then Laura envisioned that remarkable face, and she didn’t care how embarrassed she had to be to see it once again. She knocked.
There was no response. She knocked again, hard. This time there was a scampering of feet and the music was abruptly shut off. Laura heard voices and realized with a sinking feeling that Tris wasn’t alone.
Suddenly the door swung open. Laura was confronted with a young girl of twelve or so in a blue leotard. “Yes?” said the little girl. There were three or four others in the room in attitudes of relaxation, and then Tris appeared around a corner, wiping her wonderful face on a towel and coming quickly and smoothly toward the door. It was almost a self-conscious walk, as if she expected any caller to be a prospective pupil and had to demonstrate her talent even before she opened her mouth to speak.
She stopped behind the young girl and looked up. Laura waited, speechless and awkward, until Tris smiled at her, without having said a word. “Come in,” she said.
“I hope I’m not interrupting a class,” Laura said, hesitating.
“It does not matter. You are welcome. Please come in.” Laura followed her into the room and Tris waved her to a seat. It was only a bench, set in a far corner of the room, but Laura went to it gratefully and sat there while Tris collected her charges and put them through a five-minute routine. It looked very pretty to Laura, although the Indian girl seemed dissatisfied.
“You can do much better than that for our visitor, girls,” she said in her dainty English that Laura had nearly forgotten. It was a strange accent, like none Laura had ever heard, very precise and softly spoken, but not noticeably British or anything else. Laura puzzled over it, watching Tris move and demonstrate things to her students. She had on black tights and a small cotton knit bandeau that covered her breasts and shoulders but left her long supple midriff exposed. She was the same luscious tan from waist to bosom, and Laura, sitting there watching her, was helplessly fascinated by it; almost more by what she could see than by what she couldn’t.
Tris gave two sharp claps with her hands suddenly. “That is all for today, girls,” she said, and they broke up quickly, running into another room to change their clothes. Tris turned to look at Laura. She simply looked at her without saying anything, a stare so frank and unabashed that Laura lowered her eyes in confusion, feeling the red blood come to her cheeks.
“What is your name?” Tris asked her then, and Laura answered, surprised, “Laura.” Of course, I’d forgotten. She doesn’t even know my name!
Laura looked up to find Tris studying her with a little smile. The girls began to file past saying goodnight to her. She smiled at one or another, touched their heads and shoulders, and spoke to some. In between little girls she watched Laura who felt rather like a specimen on exhibit.
The studio was bare except for the bench, a record player next to it on the floor by Laura’s feet, and mirrors. The mirrors were everywhere, long and short, all over the walls. Most gave a full view of you to yourself. The room where the children dressed was furnished as a bedroom. Laura could see parts of it, and there were more mirrors in there. There was a swinging door, shut now, which apparently led to a kitchen. Laura gazed around her, trying to appear interested in it, so she wouldn’t have to look at Tris.
The front door shut finally, rather conspicuously, and a small silence fell. They were alone.
“You like my little studio, then?” said Tris.
Laura dared to look at her then and found that the last child was certainly gone and the studio was empty. Awfully empty.
“Yes, I like it,” she said. She felt the need to excuse her presence and she began hurriedly, “I hope you won’t think I—”
But Tris never let her finish. “Shall I dance for you?” she said suddenly with such a luminous smile that Laura felt her whole body go warm with appreciation. She returned the smile. �
�Yes, please. If you would.”
Tris walked to the record changer beside Laura, knelt, and slipped a record into place. Then she looked up at Laura, her eyes larger and greener than Laura remembered, and infinitely lovelier seen so close. She waited there, looking at her visitor, until the music began to flow. It was not harsh like the music Laura had heard through the door, but languid and rhythmical, perhaps even sentimental.
Tris began to move so slowly at first that Laura was hardly aware that she was dancing. Her arms, long and tender and graceful, began to ripple subtly toward Laura, and then her head and body began to sway, and finally her strong legs, deceptively slim, moved under her and brought her, whirling slowly, to her feet.
It was a strange dance that flowed and undulated. This marvelous body seemed to float and then to sink like mist, and at one point Laura had to shut her eyes for a minute, too thrilled to bear it. She wanted terribly to reach out, put her hands on Tris’s hips and feel the rhythm move through her own body.
The music stopped. Tris stood poised over Laura, looking down at her, and for a moment she remained there, balanced delicately and smiling. Laura felt a familiar surge of desire and she watched Tris like a cat watching a twitching string, ready to pounce if Tris made a sudden move. And yet afraid Tris might touch her and startle her passion into the open.
But Tris relaxed as the needle began its monotonous scratch, and she turned off the machine. She sat on the floor then, grasping her black-sheathed knees in her arms, one hand holding the wrist of the other.
“Did you like it?” she said, glancing up, and she seemed for a moment to be unsure and distant, as she had been in the dress shop.
“I thought it was wonderful,” Laura said, herself a little shy. “I didn’t know dancing could be like that.”
“Like what?” Tris demanded suspiciously.
“Well—like–I don’t know. It was like nothing I’ve ever seen…as if you were floating. It was beautiful.”
Tris softened a little. “Thank you, Laura,” she said. And Laura felt a wild confusion of delight at the sound of her own name. “I dance very well,” Tris went on oddly. “There is no point in false modesty. I hate that sort of thing, don’t you? It’s so hypocritical. If you dance well, or do anything else well, say so. Be frank. I think men like a girl who is frank. Don t you?”
Laura was taken aback. “Oh, yes,” she affirmed quickly. But she stared. She can’t be straight! she thought to herself, in a sudden agony of doubt. From the first she had taken it for granted that the lovely Indian girl was a Lesbian. It seemed so right, perhaps only because Laura wanted it that way. And too, Laura always prided herself on being able to tell if a girl were homosexual or not. She was sick at the thought that Tris might love men.
Tris watched her, interested. “What are you thinking of?” she said.
“Nothing,” Laura protested uneasily.
“All right. I will not pry.” Tris smiled. “Will you have some tea with me?’
“Thank you.” Laura was glad to ease the tension a little. Tris got up and she followed her through the swinging door into the kitchen.
Tris made the tea while Laura watched her in a rapture of pleasure. “You moved so beautifully,” she blurted, and then blushed. “I—I mean, it shows in all your movements. Dancing, or walking, or just getting down the teacups.” She laughed. “I feel like a clumsy ox, watching you.”
“You are wrong,” Tris said. “I have been watching you, too. You move well, Laura. You could learn to dance. Would you like to learn?”
Laura looked away, confused and delighted but scared. “I’d be your worst pupil,” she said.
“I find that hard to believe.”
“It’s—probably very expensive.”
“For you…,” Tris shrugged and smiled, “nothing,” she said.
Laura turned to look at her, surprised. “Nothing?” she repeated.
“Or perhaps your friend…the big one,” Tris added softly. “Perhaps she would be interested?”
“Beebo?” Laura exclaimed. “Oh God no!”
Tris handed her a cup quickly, as if to make her forget the suggestion. “Do you like me, Laura?” she said, her green eyes too close and her sweet skin redolent of jasmine.
“Yes, Tris,” Laura said, saying her name for the first time and feeling the fine shivering return to her limbs.
“Good.” Tris grinned at her. “That is payment enough.” Laura felt suddenly like she had better sit down or she would fall down. “You say my name now, that means you feel closer to me, hm?” Tris asked.
“Yes. A little.” Laura gazed at her, completely confused, afraid to move, until Tris gave a little laugh.
“Come, we’ll sit in the other room,” she said, and Laura once again followed her across the bare studio into the bedroom.
The room was fitted up Indian fashion with rich red silk drapes on the bed. The bed itself was actually more of a low couch, very capacious, and covered with tumbled silk cushions. There were books and records scattered around, a couple of pillows on the floor to take the place of chairs, and a number of ashtrays.
“This is my bedroom, my living room, my den, my playroom—whatever you want,” Tris said smiling, and sat down on the bed. “Come, don’t stand there looking afraid of me,” she said, “sit down.” And she patted the bed beside her.
Laura came and sat there and as she did Tris lay back on the cushions and watched her. She put her tea on the floor while Laura held hers carefully, anxious about spilling it on the lush red silk.
“Are you—are you Indian, Tris?” she asked awkwardly, turning to look at her.
Tris crossed her black-sheathed legs. “Yes,” she said. “Half Indian, at least. My mother was Indian but my father was French.”
“Did you grow up in India?”
“Yes. In New Delhi. Have you been there?” Her clear eyes looked sharply at Laura.
“No. I’ve never been anywhere,” Laura said. “Except New York and Chicago. I was born in Chicago.”
“Is your family there?”
“Just my father. He’s all the family I have.”
“Do you see him often?”
“I never see him.” She looked away, suddenly overwhelmed with the thought of her father. She had not seen him for two years. Not since she had gone to live with Beebo and admitted to him that she was a Lesbian. There had been a terrible scene. And then Laura had fled and Merrill Landon, for all she knew, had gone back to Chicago.
“Is that where your roommate is from? Chicago?” Tris asked slowly.
“No. Milwaukee.” Laura turned to frown at her and Tris, sensing her reticence, changed the subject. “Would you like to see my scrap-book?” she said. Before Laura could answer she was off the bed and searching for it among some books and papers across the room. She came back and sat next to Laura, spreading the green leather book open over their knees and putting an arm around Laura’s waist.
“These were all taken six months ago,” she said. “This boy is German. Isn’t he handsome? I love blond hair. He’s wonderful looking.”
He was indeed. Jack would have appreciated the view more than Laura, for he was young and muscular and nearly naked. His body had been oiled so that every smooth ripple on arms and back and tight hips and long legs was highlighted. He had a shock of rich blond hair and particularly handsome features, and he was shown in a number of poses: some that looked like Muscle Beach shots and others that seemed like dance positions.
“He does dance,” Tris said, anticipating Laura’s question. “With me. He’s named Paul Cate. We have a lot of routines together. We are a sort of—team.”
“Are you engaged?” Laura asked. It sounded ridiculous once it was said, but she found herself unreasonably jealous of the boy.
Tris threw her head back and laughed. “Engaged!” she exclaimed. “He is a homosexual, Laura.”
“A homosexual?” It sounded like fake innocence, even to Laura.
But Tris was too amused to notice.
“Yes, of course,” she said, still laughing. “Can you imagine two homosexuals getting married? Could anything be sillier? What would they do with each other?” And her laughter was too hard.
Laura was shocked at her crude dismissal of the possibility of a homosexual marriage, which made her feel instantly protective and tender about Jack. But she had said, “Two homosexuals,” and Laura’s heart rose. “Are you gay, Tris?” she asked, almost in a whisper, afraid to look at her.
“Not really.” Tris flipped the words at her casually, turning pages in the scrapbook and concentrating on them. Laura sensed embarrassment in her concentration.
“Either you are or you aren’t,” Laura said, more boldly.
“Then I’m not,” said Tris and startled her visitor. “If you force me to choose between black and white, I’m white,” she explained, and Laura thought she heard a double emphasis on the word “white.” “I like men. More than women.” Laura was cowed into bewildered silence.
There were many enticing photographs of Tris. “The photographer is a friend of mine,” she told Laura with a smile. “He always makes me look good.” There was a series of her with the German boy, in dance poses. Tris was so lovely that Laura felt the goose-flesh rise up on her with Tris’s breathing in her ear and her warmth touching Laura’s arms.
“You would think we were madly in love,” Tris said with a little laugh. “Oh, look at this one. This is my former husband.”
Laura did look, hard. “You were married?” she said, unwilling to believe it.
“Yes. To him. He is handsome, no?”
“Yes.” He was pictured lying on his side, very much of a young athlete, with curly hair and an honest sort of face, a little like Jack’s long-lost Terry. He looked Irish. “Was he gay, Tris?”
“Yes,” she said and the annoyance was plain in her voice. “It was an ugly mistake. We hated each other after we got married. Before that, we were the best of friends. So you see, I know what I am saying when I tell you gay marriages are hell.”
Laura considered this in silence while Tris turned pages. “Have some dinner with me,” Tris said, piling the pictures on the floor at the foot of the bed.