The first thing Laura did when she got to work was to call Marcie.
“Where were you?” Marcie demanded. “I was just going to call you. I was worried sick.”
“You were?” She felt a momentary relief from her headache.
“Are you all right?”
“I think so. It got so late. We were talking. I finally spent the night—” It suddenly occurred to her, as if a brick had dropped on her tender head, that she had spent the night in a man’s apartment. For the first time in her life. Never mind that it was an innocent stay, or a short one. Or that the man had no designs on her. It was the idea of the thing.
“I spent the night with Jack,” she blurted. Marcie was silent, having suspected as much, but not sure what to say. And it was then Laura realized that she had said the best possible thing. Even if it hadn’t happened it would have been the best thing to say. Marcie didn’t know either of them was gay. She only knew they were man and girl and they had spent a night together. What could sound more normal, more straight? Immoral, maybe, slightly immoral. But straight.
Marcie laughed finally.
“Is it funny?” Laura said.
“I’m sorry,” Marcie said through her giggles. “I never dreamed you and Jack would hit it off like this. He must really like you, Laur.” She sobered suddenly. “He never took much to the other girls we fixed him up with.”
Laura squirmed a little.
“But he talked you up for half an hour before you got home last night. He thinks you’re very pretty.”
Laura felt grateful to him. He must have done it to enhance her in Marcie’s eyes, even if he did disapprove of her infatuation.
“Did he say that?” she said, pleased.
“He did. And he’s right.”
Laura was taken aback. Then she said quickly, “You’re both crazy.”
“No, you are. We’re right. You never looked at yourself, you silly girl. You don’t know what you look like.”
“Do you?” It sounded stupid, but it came out in spite of her.
“Sure. I’ve looked at you when you weren’t noticing.”
When could that have been?
“I think you have a fascinating face.”
“But not pretty.”
“Lovely.”
“Marcie, listen to me, I—” She was shaky, mixed up from the hangover and the unexpected flattery. She should have said something terrible, something intimate, if Dr. Hollingsworth hadn’t come in early. He nodded at her as he walked through the office. Sarah was still in the wash room putting on her face.
“’Morning, my dear,” said the doctor with a sort of modified bow as he sailed past.
She returned the greeting and Marcie said, “I’ll get you in dutch. You’d better hang up. Will you be home tonight?”
“Yes. I’ll be home.”
“Good girl. See you at six.”
Laura hung up bewildered. She felt good and she felt lousy. Her head was throbbing but her heart was high. She wanted to talk to Jack. She didn’t care who caught her. She picked up the phone and dialed his office.
“I just talked to Marcie,” she said, unable to keep the pleasure out of her voice.
He sensed her excitement. “Did she propose?” he said, wryly amused.
“No, you idiot!” Laura burst out laughing. “She said I was beautiful.” Unconsciously she exaggerated.
“Jesus, she has a screw loose,” he said.
“She said you were talking about me before I got home. Thanks, Jack.”
“Listen, Mother,” he said. “Let’s get this straight. I want her to think we’re nuts for each other. I also think you’re a pretty girl, and I said so. But I didn’t say it to get Marcie all steamed up.”
“Well, I don’t care why you did it. She is steamed up.”
“You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”
“Oh, Jack, be nice to me! I’m in love, for God’s sake!”
“Okay, you’re in love. I believe you. Worse things have happened. I’ll have to work a drastic cure on you.”
She laughed at him. “Too late,” she said.
“You’re not going to get stabbed like I was, Laura.”
She recalled the defenseless mushroom with a little shiver of distaste. “Don’t be morbid,” she said.
“I’m a realist.”
“You’re blind. She’s falling for me. I can tell. She must be, or she wouldn’t—” Here Sarah walked in. “Jack, I’ll call you back,” she said.
“I dare you to. Call me back this afternoon, when you’re hung over to your knees, and tell me how much you’re in love.”
“I’m telling you now!”
“You talk like a fish. Go on, type your damn reports. Send some poor bastard up for TB. Or enlarged heart. At least it’ll be a normal disease.”
She hung up with a smack. He’s a morbid miserable old man, she thought. I’m not that cynical yet.
“Was that your friend?” Sarah said. “Jack?”
“Yes.” She put paper and carbons into her machine.
“He’s giving you the rush, hm?”
“I guess so.”
“That’s one of us, anyway.”
Laura looked at her, and caught an expression of frustration on her face that made Laura’s problems seem smaller. Sarah was plain. She was unremarkable. But so nice. It was depressing. Laura put a hand on her arm. It would cheer her up if she could cheer someone else. “Maybe Jack could fix you up with a friend of his,” she said. “We could make it a foursome.”
Sarah shook her head. “They all want to know ‘Is she pretty?’ Never mind if she’s nice or wants a man so badly she could ... excuse me, Laura, I sound like an old maid already. I haven’t given up yet.”
* * *
Laura studied her on the way down in the elevator. She ached to say the things she thought, but she didn’t know Sarah well enough. They were walled up in themselves. Poor plain Sarah, she thought. I’m not beautiful either. But I’ve been loved. I know love and I can tell you, you don’t have to be a beauty to feel passion. Sometimes it helps if you’re not. I wonder if you know that already.
“I’ll talk to Jack,” she said as they walked out.
“That’d be awfully nice, Laura.” She laughed diffidently. “At twenty-eight you begin to feel kind of frantic,” she said.
Outside she left Sarah and walked toward the subway station. All the way she noticed the women, as she never had before. She was at a loss to explain it. Before, she had always hurried, on her way somewhere, with a deadline to beat, somebody to meet, things on her mind. Now—perhaps it was the fatigue that made her slow—she sauntered, looking at the women.
Looking at their faces: sweet, fine-featured, delicate, some of them; others coarse, sensual, heavily female. They all appealed to her, with their soft skirts, their clicking heels, their floating hair. It caught in her throat, this aberration of hers, in a way it never had until that moment. It suffused her. She surrendered quietly to her feelings, walking slowly, looking without staring but with a warm pleasure that made her want to smile. She had trouble controlling her mouth.
God, I love them, she thought to herself, vaguely surprised. I just love them. I love them all. I know I’m nuts, but I love them. She stopped by a jewelry window where an exquisite girl was admiring a group of rings. She was all in gray, as fine and soft as twilight. Gray silk graced her slim legs, gray suede pumps with the highest heels were on her feet. A gray suit, impeccably tailored, terribly expensive—gray gloves—a tiny gray hat. Laura had never liked gray much before, but suddenly it was ideal on this cool dainty little creature, with her small nose and moist pink lips. She was extremely pretty. She looked up to find Laura gazing at her, collected herself with pretty confusion, and went off, pulling a recalcitrant gray poodle after her. Laura had not even noticed it till it moved. She looked after the girl for a minute with a foolish smile.
When she finally reached the subway she collapsed on a seat, exhausted. She wanted to get home and into bed so badly that she could hardly wait.
She was late getting home but even so, Marcie had not arrived. She wanted very much to see her, but there was no help for it. She would have to wait. She fell on her bed, meaning to rest for a minute before she took her bath. But so tired was she that before five minutes had passed she was asleep. She woke up to hear small sounds in the bedroom, and it seemed like perhaps half an hour had passed.
She opened her eyes and found herself all tangled up in her clothes, her shoes still on, her dress wrinkled. There was a light on, the small table lamp between the beds. She pulled herself up and turned around. Marcie was standing in the bathroom door, with a frame of light around her, holding her toothbrush and smiling at Laura. She was all in white lace, in a short gown that barely reached her thighs. Laura smiled at her and blinked, shaking her head slightly.
“Know what time it is?” Marcie said.
“About seven.”
“Quarter of twelve.” Marcie laughed at her surprise. She walked over to her bed and stood beside her for a moment. She smelled gorgeous—intoxicating, sweet and clean, faintly powdered, warm and damp from her bath. She looked sleepy, soft, very feminine. Laura began to tremble, desperate to touch her, afraid even to look.
“You must have been awfully tired, Laur. You’ve been asleep for hours.”
“I could sleep till Monday and never wake up,” Laura murmured. She spoke without looking at Marcie. She couldn’t. The scent of her was trouble enough.
“Burr and I went out for dinner. We didn’t want to bother you.”
“Did you have a nice big fight?” Irresistibly Laura’s eyes traveled up Marcie to her face.
Marcie sighed. “We always have a nice big fight.”
“You must enjoy them.”
Marcie sat down beside her. “Don’t talk that way, Laur,” she said. “I wish I could get interested in books, like you.”
Laura smiled at her, so close, so distant.
“How?” Laura felt herself on very shaky ground.
“I don’t know how,” Marcie said impatiently. “If I knew I could help myself. There must be something in life besides fights, Laur.”
“Don’t call me Laur.”
Marcie looked at her in surprise. “Why not?”
“Somebody else used to call me that. It still hurts a little.”
“I’m sorry. I remember, you told me about him.”
Laura felt confession working itself urgently into her thoughts. She wanted to clasp Marcie to her and say, “Not ‘him’. Her. Her. It was a girl I loved. As I love you.” No, not as I love you. I can’t love you that way, not even you. To her sudden disgust the face of a handsome arrogant girl named Beebo came up in her mind. She frowned at her, trying not to see.
“What’s the matter, Laur? Laura?” Marcie smoothed Laura’s hair off her hot forehead. “You must have loved him a lot.”
In a sudden convulsion of desire, Laura threw her arms around Marcie, pressing her hard, tight, in her arms. Her need was terrible, and a sort of sob, half ache and half passion, came out of her. Marcie was frightened.
“Laura!” she said, pushing at her. Laura was always so docile; now suddenly she was strange and violent. “Laura, are you all right?” Laura only clung to her the harder, wrestling against herself with all her strength.
For a moment, Marcie tried to calm her, whispering soothingly and rubbing her back a little. But this only aggravated Laura.
“Marcie, don’t!” she said sharply. Panic began to well up in her. “Oh, God!” she cried, and stood up abruptly, shaking all over. She covered her face with her hands, trying to force the tears back with them. Marcie watched her, astonished, from the bed.
With a little gasp Laura turned and ran out. Marcie rose to her feet and called after her, but it was too late. She heard the front door slam as she ran toward it. She pulled it open but Laura was in the elevator a floor below her and on her way out. Marcie stared into the black stairwell, feeling shocked and confused.
She slipped back into the apartment and into her bed, but she couldn’t sleep. She simply sat there, her eyes wide and staring, oscillating between a fear of something she couldn’t name and bewildered sympathy for Laura. For whatever it was that tortured her. She shivered every time she thought of Laura’s near-hysterical embrace, returning to it again and again. It gave her a reckless kick, a hint of shameless fun, like the night she kissed the bum in the park. She didn’t know why it recalled that to her mind. But it did. Laura had scared her; yet now she felt like giggling.
* * *
Laura ran all the way to the subway station, three blocks off. She fell into a seat gasping, trembling violently. People stared at her but she ignored them, covering her face with her hands and sobbing quietly. She rode down to the Village and got off at Tenth Street. She had managed to control herself by this time, but she felt bewildered and lost, as if she didn’t quite know what she was doing there. She stood for a moment on the platform, shivering with the chilly air. It was nearly the end of April, but it was still cold at night. She had run out in nothing but a blouse and skirt, with a light topper over them—the clothes she had fallen asleep in. She was aware of the cold, yet somehow didn’t feel it.
Resolutely she began to walk, climbing the stairs and then starting down Seventh Avenue. She walked as if she had a goal, precisely because she had none and it frightened her. It was Friday night, and busy. People were everywhere. Young men turned to stare at her.
Within five minutes she was standing in front of The Cellar, rather surprised at herself for having found it so quickly. There was a strange tingling up and down her back and her eyes began to shine with a feverish luster. She walked down the steps and pulled the door open.
Almost nobody noticed her. It was too crowded, at this peak hour of one of the best nights of the week. She made her way through the crowd to the nearest end of the bar. She had to squeeze into a corner next to the juke box and it was work to get her jacket off. It was sweaty and close after the chill air outside.
Laura stood quietly in her corner, looking at all the faces strung down the bar like beads on a necklace. They were animated, young for the most part, attractive ... There were a few that were sad, or old, or soured on life—or all three. Across the room the artist, with his sketch pad, was drinking with some friends.
Laura felt alone and apart from them all somehow. There were one or two faces she might have recognized from the night before, people Jack might have introduced her to, but she couldn’t be sure. She had been too drunk to be sure of anything last night.
God, was it only last night? she wondered. It seemed like a thousand nights ago. She didn’t really want to be noticed now. She only wanted to watch, to be absorbed in these gay faces, in the idioms, the milieu.
“What’ll you have?” She realized the bartender was leaning stiff-armed on the bar, looking at her.
“Whisky and water,” she said, wondering suddenly how much it would be. She pulled out a dollar and put it on the counter self-consciously. When he brought her the drink she gulped it anxiously. Marcie kept coming into her thoughts; Marcie’s face, her shocked voice saying, “Laura—don’t!”
The bartender took her dollar and brought some change. It meant she could have another drink. Drinking your dinner. Where had she heard that? One of her father’s friends, no doubt. She gazed at the ceiling. She wanted to talk to Jack, but she was ashamed to call him. She thought of her father again, and it gave her a sort of bitter satisfaction to imagine his face if he could see her now, alone and unhappy, disgracing him by drinking by herself, in a bar—a gay bar. Gay—that would strike him dead. She was sure of it. She smiled a little, but it was a mirthless smile.
After a moment, she ordered another drink. She counted her change fuzzily. There might be enough for a third. She slipped it back in her pocket and looked up to find a young man forcing himself into a place beside her.
Damn! she exclaimed to herself. As if I didn’t have enough on my mind. Her slim arresting face registered subtle contempt and she turned away. It would have frozen another man, but this one only seemed amused.
“Hello, Laura,” he said.
At this, she looked at him. Her mind was a blank; she couldn’t place him. “Do I know you?” she said.
“No.” He grinned. “I’m Dutton. This is for you.” He held out a piece of paper and she took it, curious. On it was a devilish reproduction of her own features mocking her from the white page.
“You’re the artist,” she accused him suddenly.
“Thanks for the compliment.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Keep it.”
“I won’t pay for it.”
“You don’t have to.” He laughed at her consternation. “It’s paid for, doll. Take it home. Frame it. Enjoy it.”
Laura stared at him. “Who paid for it?”
“She said not to tell.” He laughed. “You’re a bitch to caricature. You know? Look me up sometime, I’ll do a good one. I like your face.” And he turned and wriggled out of the crowd.
Laura was left standing at the bar with the cartoon of herself. She was suddenly humiliated and angry. She felt ridiculous standing there holding the silly thing, not knowing who paid for it. Her glance swept down the bar, looking for a face to accuse, but she recognized no one. No one paid her any attention.
She studied the sketch once more. It was clever, insolent; it made a carnival curiosity of her face. Quietly, deliberately, with a feeling of satisfaction, she tore the sketch in half. And in half again. And threw it down behind the bar where the bartender would grind it into the wet floor. Then she picked up her glass and finished her drink.
“What did you do that for?” said a low voice, so close to her ear that she jumped and a drop of whisky ran down her chin. “It was a damn good likeness.”
Laura looked up, gazing straight ahead of her, knowing who it was now and mad. She pulled a dime out of her pocket and smacked it on the bar in front of her.
“I owe you a dime, Beebo. There it is. Thanks for the picture. Next time don’t waste your money.”
Beebo laughed. “I always get what I pay for, lover,” she said. Laura refused to look at her, and after a pause Beebo said, “What’s the matter, Laura, ’fraid to look at me?”
Laura had to look then. She turned her head slowly, reluctantly. Her face was cold and composed. Beebo chuckled at her. She was handsome, like a young boy of fourteen, with her smooth skin and deep blue eyes. She was leaning on her elbows on the bar, and she looked sly and amused. “Laura’s afraid of me,” she said with a quick grin.
“Laura’s not afraid of you or anybody else. Laura thinks you’re a bitch. That’s all.”
“That makes two of us.”
Under her masklike face Laura found herself troubled by the smile so close to her; the snapping blue eyes.
“Where’s your guardian angel tonight?” Beebo said.
“I suppose you mean Jack. I don’t know where he is, he doesn’t have to tell me where he goes.” She turned back to the bar. “He’s not my guardian angel. I don’t need one. I’m a big girl now.”
“Oh, excuse me. I should have noticed.”
Laura’s cheeks prickled with embarrassment. “You only see what you want to see,” she said.
“I see what I want to see right now,” Beebo said, and Laura felt her hand on the small of her back. She straightened suddenly.
“Go away,” she said sharply. “Leave me alone.”
“I can’t.”
“Then shut up.”
Beebo laughed softly. “What’s the matter, little girl? Hate the world tonight?” Laura wouldn’t answer. “Think that’s going to make it any prettier?” Beebo pushed Laura’s whisky glass toward her with one finger.
“I’m having a drink for the hell of it,” Laura said briefly. “If it bothers you, go away. You weren’t invited, anyway.”
“Don’t tell me you’re drinking just because you like the taste.”
“I don’t mind it.”
“You’re unlucky in love, then. Or you just found out you’re gay and you can’t take it. That it?”
Laura pursed her lips angrily. “I’m not in love. I never was.”
“You mean love is filth and all that crap? Love is dirty?”
“I didn’t say that!” Laura turned on her.
Beebo shrugged. “You’re a big girl, lover. You said it yourself. Big girls know all about love. So don’t lie to me.”
“I didn’t ask you to bother me, Beebo. I don’t want to talk to you. Now scram!”
“There she stands at the bar, drinking whisky because it tastes good,” Beebo drawled, gazing toward the ceiling and letting the smoke from a cigarette drift from her mouth. “Sweet sixteen and never been kissed.”
“Twenty,” Laura snapped.
“Excuse me, twenty. Your innocence is getting tedious, lover.” She smiled.
“Beebo, I don’t like you,” Laura said. “I don’t like the way you dress or the way you talk or the way you wear your hair. I don’t like the things you say and the money you throw around. I don’t want your dimes and I don’t want you. I hope that’s plain because I don’t know how to make it any plainer.” Her voice broke as she talked and toward the end she felt her own crazy tears coming up again. Beebo saw them before they spilled over and they changed her. They touched her. She ignored the hard words Laura spoke for she knew enough to know they meant nothing.
“Tell me, baby,” she said gently. “Tell me all about it. Tell me you hate me if it’ll help.”
For a moment Laura sat there, not trusting her, not wanting to risk a word with her, letting the stray tears roll over her cheeks without even brushing them away. Then she straightened up and swept them off her face with her long slim fingers, turning away from Beebo. “I can’t tell you, or anybody.”
Beebo shrugged. “All right. Have it your way.” She dinched her cigarette and leaned on the bar again, her face close to Laura’s. “Try, baby,” she said softly. “Try to tell me.”
“It’s stupid, it’s ridiculous. We’re complete strangers.”
“We aren’t strangers.” She put an arm around Laura and squeezed her a little. Laura was embarrassed and grateful at the same time. It felt good, so good. Beebo sighed at her silence. “I’m a bitch, you’re right about that,” she admitted. “But I didn’t want to be. It’s an attitude. You develop it after a while, like a turtle grows a shell. You need it. Pretty soon you live it, you don’t know any other way.”
Laura finished her drink without answering. She put it down on the bar and looked for the bartender. She wouldn’t care what Beebo said, she wouldn’t look at her, she wouldn’t answer her. She didn’t dare.
“You don’t need to tell me about it,” Beebo went on. “Because I already know. I’ve lived through it, too. You fall in love. You’re young, inexperienced. What the hell, maybe you’re a virgin, even. You fall, up to your ears, and there’s nobody to talk to, nobody to lean on. You’re all alone with that great big miserable feeling and she’s driving you out of your mind. Every time you look at her, every time you’re near her. Finally you give in to it—and she’s straight.” She said the last word with such acid sharpness that Laura jumped. “End of story,” Beebo added. “End of soap opera. Beginning of soap opera. That’s all the Village is, honey, just one crazy little soap opera after another, like Jack says. All tangled up with each other, one piled on top of the next, ad infinitum. Mary loves Jane loves Joan loves Jean loves Beebo loves Laura.” She stopped and grinned at Laura.
“Doesn’t mean a thing,” she said. “It goes on forever. Where one stops another begins.” She looked around The Cellar with Laura following her gaze. “I know most of the girls in here,” she said. “I’ve probably slept with half of them. I’ve lived with half of the half I’ve slept with. I’ve loved half of the half I’ve lived with. What does it all come to?”
She turned to Laura who was caught with her fascinated face very close to Beebo’s. She started to back away but Beebo’s arm around her waist tightened and kept her close. “You know something, baby? It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. You don’t like me, and that doesn’t matter. Someday maybe you’ll love me, and that won’t matter either. Because it won’t last. Not down here. Not anywhere in the world, if you’re gay. You’ll never find peace, you’ll never find Love. With a capital L.”
She took a drag on her cigarette and let it flow out of her nostrils. “L for Love,” she said, looking into space. “L for Laura.” She turned and smiled at her, a little sadly. “L for Lust and L for the L of it. L for Lesbian. L for Let’s—let’s,” she said, and blew smoke softly into Laura’s ear. Laura was startled to feel the strength of the feeling inside her.
It’s the whiskey, she thought. It’s because I’m tired. It’s because I want Marcie so much. No, that doesn’t make sense. She caught the bartender’s eye and he fixed her another drink.
Beebo’s arm pressed her again. “Let’s,” she said. “How about it?” She was smiling, not pushy, not demanding, just asking. As if it didn’t really matter whether Laura said yes or no.
“Where did you get that ridiculous name?” Laura hedged.
“My family.”
“They named you Beebo?”
“They named me Betty Jean,” she said, smiling. “Which is even worse.”
“It’s a pretty name.”
“It’s a lousy name. Even Mother couldn’t stand it. And she could stand damn near anything. But they had to call me something. So they called me Beebo.”
“That’s too bad.”
Beebo laughed. “I get along,” she said.
The bartender set Laura’s glass down and she reached for her change. “What’s your last name?” she said to Beebo.
“Brinker. Like the silver skates.”
Laura counted her change. She had sixty-five cents. The bartender was telling a joke to some people a few seats down, resting one hand on the bar in front of Laura, waiting for his money. She was a dime short. She counted it again, her cheeks turning hot.
Beebo watched and began to laugh. “Want your dime back?” she said.
“It’s your dime,” Laura said haughtily.
“You must have left home in a hurry, baby. Poor Laura. Hasn’t got a dime for a lousy drink.”
Laura wanted to strangle her. The bartender turned back to her suddenly and she felt her face burning. Beebo leaned toward him, laughing. “I’ve got it, Mort,” she said.
“No!” Laura said. “If you could just lend me a dime.”
Beebo laughed and waved Mort away.
“I don’t want to owe you a thing,” Laura told her.
“Too bad, doll. You can’t help yourself.” She laughed again. Laura tried to give her the change she had left, but Beebo wouldn’t take it. “Sure, I’ll take it,” she said. “And you’ll be flat busted. How’ll you get home?”
Laura went pale then. She couldn’t go home. Even if she had a hundred dollars in her pocket. She couldn’t stand to face Marcie, to explain her crazy behavior, to try to make herself sound normal and ordinary when her whole body was begging for strange passion, for forbidden release.
Beebo watched her face change and then she shook her head. “It must have been a bad fight,” she said.
“You’ve got it all wrong, Beebo. It wasn’t a fight. It was—I don’t know what it was.”
“She straight?”
“I don’t know.” Laura put her forehead down on the heel of her right hand. “Yes, she’s straight,” she whispered.
“Well, did you tell her? About yourself?”
“I don’t know if I did or not. I didn’t say it but I acted like a fool. I don’t know what she thinks.”
“Then things could be worse,” Beebo said. “But if she’s straight, they’re probably hopeless.”
“That’s what Jack said.”
“Jack’s right.”
“He’s not in love with her!”
“Makes him even righter. He sees what you can’t see. If he says she’s straight, believe him. Get out while you can.”
“I can’t.” Laura felt an awful twist of tenderness for Marcie in her throat.
“Okay, baby, go home and get your heart broken. It’s the only way to learn, I guess.”
“I can’t go home. Not tonight.”
“Come home with me.”
“No.”
“Well ...” Beebo smiled. “I know a nice bench in Washington Square. If you’re lucky the bums’ll leave you alone. And the cops.”
“I’ll—I’ll go to Jack’s,” she said, suddenly brightening with the idea. “He won’t mind.”
“He might,” Beebo said, and raised her glass to her lips. “Call him first.”
Laura started to leave the bar and then recalled that all her change was sitting on the counter in front of Beebo. She turned back in confusion, her face flushing again. Beebo turned and looked at her. “What’s the matter, baby?” And then she laughed. “Need a dime?” She handed her one.
For a moment, in the relative quiet of the phone booth, Laura leaned against a wall and wondered if she might faint. But she didn’t. She deposited the dime and dialed Jack’s number. The phone rang nine times before he answered, and she was on the verge of panic when she heard him lift the receiver at last and say sleepily, “Hello?”
“Hello, Jack? Jack, this is Laura.” She was vastly relieved to find him at home.
“Sorry, we don’t want any.”
“Jack, I’ve got to see you.”
“My husband contributes to that stuff at the office.”
“Jack, please! It’s terribly important.”
“I love you, Mother, but you call me at the God-damnedest times.”
“Can I come over?”
“Jesus, no!” he exclaimed, suddenly coming wide awake.
“Oh, Jack, what’ll I do?” She sounded desperate.
“All right now, let’s get straightened out here. Let’s make an effort.” He sounded as if he had drunk a lot and just gotten to sleep, still drunk, when Laura’s call woke him up. “Now start at the beginning. And make it quick. What’s the problem?”
She felt hurt, slighted. Of all people, Jack was the one she had to count on. “I—I acted like a fool with Marcie. I don’t know what she thinks,” she half-sobbed. “Jack, help me.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing—everything. I don’t know.”
“God, Mother. Why did you pick tonight? Of all nights?”
“I didn’t pick it, it just happened.”
“What happened, damn it?”
“I—I sort of embraced her.”
There was a silence on the other end for a minute. Laura heard him say away from the receiver, “Okay, it’s okay. No, she’s a friend of mine. A friend, damn it, a girl.” Then his voice became clear and close again. “Mother, I don’t know what to say. I’m not sure I understand what happened, and if I did I still wouldn’t know what the hell to say. Where are you?”
“At The Cellar. Jack, you’ve just got to help me. Please.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes. No. I’ve been talking to Beebo, but—”
“Oh! Well, God, that’s it, that’s the answer. Go home with Beebo.”
“No! I can’t, Jack. I want to come to your place.”
“Laura, honey—” He was wide awake now, sympathetic, but caught in his own domestic moils. “Laura, I’m—well, I’m entertaining.” He laughed a little at his own silliness. “I’m involved. I’m fraternizing. Oh, hell, I’m making love. You can’t come over here.” His voice went suddenly in the other direction as he said, “No, calm down, she’s not coming over.”
Then he said, “Laura, I wish I could help, honest to God. I just can’t, not now. You’ve got to believe me.” He spoke softly, confidentially, as if he didn’t want the other to hear what he said. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll call Marcie and get it straightened out. Don’t worry, Marcie believes in me. She thinks I’m Jack Armstrong, the all-American boy. The four-square trouble-shooter. I’ll fix it up for you.”
“Jack, please,” she whimpered, like a plaintive child.
“I’ll do everything I can. You just picked the wrong night and that’s the God’s truth, honey. Where’s Beebo? Let me talk to Beebo.”
Laura went out of the booth to get her, feeling half dazed, and found her way back to the bar. “He wants to talk to you,” she said to Beebo, without looking at her.
Beebo frowned at her and then swung herself off her seat and headed for the phone. Laura sat down in her place, disturbed by the warmth Beebo left behind, twirling her glass slowly in her hand. She was crushed that Jack had turned her down.
Perhaps he had a lover, perhaps this night was so important to him that he couldn’t give it up, even though she had all his sympathy. These things might be—in fact, were—true. But Laura could hardly discern them through her private pains.
Beebo came back in a minute and leaned over Laura, one hand on the bar, the other on Laura’s shoulder. “He says I’m to take you home,” she said, “feed you aspirins, dry your tears, and put you to bed. And no monkey business.” She smiled as Laura looked slowly up into her face. It was a strong interesting face. With a little softness, a little innocence, it might have been lovely. But it was too hard and cynical, too restless and disillusioned. “Come on, sweetie pie,” Beebo said. “I’m a nice kid, I won’t eat you.”
They walked until they came to a small dark street, and the second door up—dark green—faced right on the sidewalk. Beebo opened it and they walked down a couple of steps into a small square court surrounded by the windowed walls of apartment buildings. On the far side was another door with benches and play areas grouped in between on the court. Beebo unlocked the other door and led Laura up two flights of unlighted stairs to her apartment.
When they went inside a brown dachshund rushed to meet them and tried to climb up their legs. Beebo laughed and talked to him, reaching down to push him away.
Laura stood inside the door, her hands over her eyes, somewhat unsteady on her feet.
“Here, baby, let’s get you fixed up,” Beebo said. “Okay, Nix, down. Down!” she said sharply to the excited little dog, and shoved him away with her foot. He slunk off to a chair where he studied her reproachfully.
Beebo led Laura through the small living room to an even smaller bedroom and sat her down on the bed. She knelt in front of her and took her shoes off. Then, gently, she leaned against her, forcing her legs slightly apart, and put her arms around Laura’s waist. She rubbed her head against Laura’s breasts and said, “Don’t be afraid, baby.” Laura tried weakly to hold her off but she said, “I won’t hurt you Laura,” and looked up at her. She squeezed her gently, rhythmically, her arms tightening and loosening around Laura’s body. She made a little sound in her throat and, lifting her face, kissed Laura’s neck. And then she stood up slowly, releasing her.
“Okay,” she said. “Fini. No monkey business. Make yourself comfortable, honey. There’s the john—old, but serviceable. You sleep here. I’ll take the couch. Here! Here, Nix!” She grabbed the little dog, which had bounded onto the bed and was trying to lick Laura’s face, and picked him up in her arms like a baby. She grinned at Laura. “I’ll take him to bed, he won’t bother you,” she said. “Call me if there’s anything you need.” She looked at Laura closely while Laura tried to answer her. The younger girl sat on the bed, pale with fatigue and hunger, feeling completely lost and helpless. “Thanks,” she murmured.
Beebo sat down beside her. “You look beat, honey,” she said.
“I am.”
“Want to tell me about it now?”
Laura shook her head.
“Well ...” she said. “Goodnight, Little Bo-peep. Sleep tight.” And she kissed her forehead, then turned around and went out of the bedroom, turning out the light on her way.
Laura had gotten off the bed without looking at her, but feeling Beebo’s eyes on her. She shut the door slowly, until she heard the catch snap. Then she turned, leaning on the door, and looked at the room. It was small and full of stuff, with yellowed walls. Everything looked clean, although the room was in a state of complete confusion, with clothes draped over chairs and drawers half shut.
All of a sudden, Laura felt stronger. She undressed quickly, taking off everything but her nylon slip, and pulled down the bedclothes. She climbed in gratefully. She didn’t even try to forget Marcie or what had happened. It would have been impossible. Mere trying would have made it worse. She relaxed on her back in the dark, her arms outflung, and waited for the awful scene to come up in her mind and torture her.
Her mind wandered. The awful embrace was awful no longer—only wrong and silly and far away. The damage was irreparable. She stared at the ceiling, invisible in the dark, and felt a soft lassitude come over her. She felt as if she were melting into the bed; as if she could not have moved if she tried.
Time flowed by and she waited for sleep. It was some time before she realized she was actually waiting for it. It didn’t come. She turned on her side, and still it eluded her. Finally she snapped the light on to squint at her watch. It said five of four. She switched it off again, her eyes dazzled, and wondered what the matter was. And then she heard Beebo turn over in the next room, and she knew.
An old creeping need began to writhe in Laura, coming up suddenly out of the past and twisting itself around her innards. The pressure increased while she lay there trying to ignore it, becoming more insistent. It began to swell and fade with a rhythm of its own; a rhythm she knew too well and feared. Slowly the heat mounted to her face, the sweat come out on her body. She began to turn back and forth in bed, hating herself and trying to stop it, but helpless with it.
Laura was a sensual girl. Her whole being cried out for love and loving. It had been denied her for over a year, and the effects were a severe strain on her that often brought her nerves to the breaking point. She pretended she had learned to live with it, or rather, without it. She even pretended she could live her whole life without it. But in her secret self she knew she couldn’t.
Beebo turned over again in the living room and Laura knew she was awake, too. The sudden realization made her gasp, and she could fool herself no longer. She wanted Beebo. She wanted a woman; she wanted a woman so terribly that she had to put her hand tight over her mouth to stop the groan that would have issued from it.
For a few moments more she tossed feverishly on her bed, trying to find solitary release, but it wouldn’t come. The thought of Beebo tortured her now, and not the thought of Marcie. Beebo—with her lithe body, her fascinating face, her cynical shell. There was so much of Beth there. At that thought, Laura found herself swinging her legs out of bed.
Moonlight glowed in two bright squares on the living room floor. Laura could see the couch, draped in blankets. She wondered whether Beebo had heard her and waited breathlessly for some sign. Nix lifted his head but made no sound, only watching her as she advanced across the room on her tiptoes, her white slip gleaming as she passed through the light.
Laura stood and hovered over the couch, uncertain what to do, her heart pounding hugely against her ribs, Beebo was on her side, turned toward Laura, apparently asleep. Nix was snuggled into the ditch between the back of Beebo and the back of the couch.
Beebo stirred slightly, but she didn’t open her eyes. “Beebo,” Laura whispered, dropping to her knees and supporting herself against the couch with her hands. “Beebo?” she whispered again, a little louder. And then, sensing that Beebo had heard her she bent down and kissed her cheek, her hands reaching for her. Beebo was suddenly completely roused, coming up on her elbow and then falling back and pulling Laura with her.
“Laura?” she said huskily. “Are you all right?” And then she felt Laura’s lips on her face again and a shock of passion gripped her. “Oh, God—Oh, baby,” she said, and her arms went around Laura hard.
“Hold me,” Laura begged, clinging to her. “Oh, Beebo, hold me.”
Beebo rolled off the couch onto Laura and the abrupt weight of her body fired Laura into a frenzy. They rolled over each other on the floor, pressing each other tight, almost as if they wanted to fuse their bodies, and kissed each other wildly.
Laura felt such a wave of passion come up in her that it almost smothered her. She thought she couldn’t stand it. And then she didn’t think at all. She only clung to Beebo, half tearing her pajamas off her back, groaning wordlessly, almost sobbing. Her hands explored, caressed, felt Beebo all over, while her own body responded with violent spasms—joyous, crazy, deep as her soul. She could no more have prevented her response than she could the tyrannic need that drove her to find it. She felt Beebo’s tongue slip into her mouth and Beebo’s firm arms squeezing her and she went half out of her mind with it. Her hands were in Beebo’s hair, tickling her ears, slipping down her back, over her hips and thighs. Her body heaved against Beebo’s in a lovely mad duet. She felt like a column of fire, all heat and light, impossibly sensual, impossibly sexual. She was all feeling, warm and melting, strong and sweet.
* * *
It was a long time before either of them came to their senses. They had fallen half asleep when it was over, still lying on the floor, where Nix, after some trepidation, came to join them. When Laura opened her eyes the gray dawn had replaced the white moonlight. She was looking out the window at a mass of telephone and electric wires. She gazed slowly downward until she found Beebo’s face. Beebo was awake, watching her—no telling for how long. She smiled slightly, frowning at the same time. But she didn’t say anything and neither did Laura. They only pulled closer together, until their lips touched. Beebo began to kiss Laura over and over, little soft teasing kisses that kept out of the way of passion, out of the way of Laura’s own kisses as they searched for Beebo’s lips. Until it was suddenly imperative that they kiss each other right. Laura tried feebly to stop it, but she quickly surrendered. When Beebo relented a little it was Laura who pulled her back, until Beebo was suddenly crazy for her again.
“No, no, no, no,” Laura murmured, but she had asked for it. A year and a half of abstinence was too much for her. At that moment she was in bondage to her body. She gave in in spite of herself, rolling over on Beebo, her fine hair falling over Beebo’s breasts in a pale glimmering shower, soft and cool and bringing up the fire in Beebo again.
Once again they rested, half sleeping, turning now and then to feel each other, reassure themselves that the other was still there, still responsive. Now and then Beebo pushed Nix off Laura, or out from between them, where he was anxious to make himself a nest.
It was Saturday afternoon before they could drag themselves off the floor. It was Laura who pulled herself to her knees first by the aid of a handy chair, and squinted at the bright daylight. For a few moments she remained there, swaying slightly, trying to think straight and not succeeding. She felt Beebo’s hand brush across her stomach and looked down at her. Beebo smiled a little.
An elusive feeling of shame slipped through Laura, disappeared, came back again, faded, came back. It seemed uncertain whether or not to stay. She swallowed experimentally, looking at Beebo. After a minute Beebo said, “Who’s Beth?”
“Beth?” Laura was startled.
“Um-hm. She the blonde?”
“No. That’s Marcie.”
“Well, baby, seems to me like it’s Beth you’re after, not Marcie.”
Laura frowned at her. “I haven’t seen Beth for almost a year. She’s married now. It’s all over.”
“For her, maybe.”
“I won’t discuss it,” she said haughtily, getting up and walking away from her, while Beebo lay on the floor admiring her body, her head propped comfortably on her hands. “It happened long ago and I’ve forgotten it.”
“Then how come you called me Beth all night?”
Laura gasped, turning to look at her, and then her face went pink. “I—I’m sorry, Beebo,” she said. “I won’t do it again.”
“Don’t count on it.”
Laura stamped her foot. “Damn you, Beebo!” she said. “Don’t talk to me as if I were an irresponsible child!”
Beebo laughed, rolling over and nearly crushing Nix, who reacted by licking her frantically and wagging his tail. Beebo squashed him in a hug, still laughing. Laura turned on her heel to leave the room, looking back quickly to grab her slip, and went into the bedroom, slamming the door. Within seconds it flew open again and Beebo leaned against the jamb, smiling at her. She sauntered into the room.
“Now, don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy yourself last night, Little Bo-peep,” she said.
Laura ignored her, moving speedily, suddenly embarrassed to be naked. In the heat of passion it was glorious, but in the morning, in the gray light, in the chill and ache of waking up, she hated it. Her own bare flesh seemed out of place. Not so with Beebo, who sprawled on the bed on top of the underwear Laura wanted to put on.
“Did you?” said Beebo. “Enjoy yourself?”
“Get up, Beebo, I want to get dressed.”
“After all, it was your idea, baby.”
“Don’t throw that in my face!” she exclaimed angrily, ashamed to remember it.
“Why not? It’s true. Besides I’m not throwing it in your face, I’m just saying it.”
Laura turned away from her, unbearably conscious of her own slim behind, her dimpled rump, and her long limbs. She yearned to be shrouded in burlap. “Beebo, I—I couldn’t help myself last night.” She worked to control her voice, to be civilized about it. “I needed—I mean—it had been so long.”
“Since Beth?”
Laura fought down a sudden impulse to strangle her. “I was a fool,” she said, and her voice trembled. “A fool with my roommate and now with you. It got so I couldn’t stand it at home. It got intolerable.”
“So you came down here. And I was a nice convenient safety-valve.”
“I didn’t mean that!” she flared.
“Doesn’t matter what you mean, baby. It’s a fact. Here you were, desperate. And here was I, ready and willing. You knew I wouldn’t turn you down.”
Laura’s face began to burn. She had a wild idea that her back was blushing with her cheeks.
“What would you have done if I had turned you down, Laura?” Beebo spoke softly, insinuatingly, teasing Laura, enjoying herself.
But Laura was too humiliated to tease back. “I don’t know,” she exclaimed miserably. “I don’t know what I could have done.” And she covered her face with her hands.
“I’ll tell you, then. You’d have begged me. You’d have gotten down on your knees and begged me. Sometime you will, too. Wait and see.”
Laura whirled toward her, insulted. “That’s enough!” she said harshly. She pulled her underthings forcibly from under Beebo, but Beebo caught the shoulder strap of her brassiere and hung on to it with both hands, her heels braced against the floor, laughing like a beautiful savage while Laura yanked furiously at it.
“You’re going to get about half,” she said. “If you’re lucky. I’ll get the other half. Half isn’t going to hold much of you up, baby.”
Laura let go suddenly, and Beebo fell back on the bed, grinning at her.
“Laura hates me,” she said. “Laura hates me.” She said it slowly, singsong, daring Laura to answer her.
Laura glared at her, defiant and fuming. “You’re an animal!” she hissed at her.
“Sure.” Beebo chuckled. “Ask Jack. That’s his favorite word. We’re all animals.”
“You’re nothing but a dirty animal!”
“What were you last night, Miss Prim? You were panting at me like a sow in rutting season.”
Laura’s eyes went wide with fury. She grabbed the nearest thing—a hairbrush—and flung it violently at Beebo. Beebo ducked, laughing again at her young victim, and Laura turned and fled into the bathroom. She slammed the door so hard it bounced open and she had to shut it again. With frantic fingers she tried to turn the lock, but Beebo was already pushing on the other side. Laura heaved against it, but Beebo got it open and she fell back against the wall, suddenly frightened.
“Don’t touch me!” she spat at her.
Beebo smiled. “Why not? You didn’t mind last night. I touched you all over. Did I miss anything?”
Laura shrank from her. “Let me go, Beebo.”
“Let you go? I’m not even touching you.”
“I want to leave. I want to get out of here.” Laura tried to push past her but Beebo caught her, her strong hands pressing painfully into Laura’s shoulders, and threw her back against the wall.
“You’re not going anywhere, Bo-peep,” she said. And began to kiss her. Laura fought her, half sobbing, groaning, furious. Beebo’s lips were all over her face, her throat, her breasts, and she took no notice of Laura’s blows and her sharp nails. Laura grabbed handfuls of her hair, wanting to tear it out, but Beebo pulled her close, panting against her, her eyes hypnotically close to Laura’s. And Laura felt her knees go weak.
“No,” she whispered. “Oh, God no. Oh, Beebo.” Her hands caressed Beebo’s hair, her lips parted beneath Beebo’s. All the lonely months of denial burst like firecrackers between her legs. Once it had started her whole body begged for release. It betrayed her. She clung sweating and heaving to Beebo. They were both surprised at the strength and insistence of their feelings. They had felt the attraction from the first, but they had been unprepared for the crescendo of emotion that followed.
It was a long time before either of them heard the phone ringing. Finally Beebo stood up, looking down at Laura, watching her. Laura turned her face away, pulling her knees up and feeling the tears come. Beebo knelt beside her then, the hardness gone from her face.
“Don’t cry, baby,” she said, and kissed her gently. “Laura, don’t cry. I know you don’t want to make love to me, I know you have to. Damn that phone! It’s not your fault. Laura, baby, you make beautiful love. God grant me a passionate girl like you just once in a while and I’ll die happy.”
“Please don’t touch me. Don’t talk to me.” She was overwhelmed with shame.
“I have to. I can’t help myself any more than you can. I had no idea you’d be like this—Jesus, so hot! You look so cool, so damn far above the rest of us. But you’re not, poor baby. Better than some of us, maybe, but not above us.”
Laura turned her face to the wall. “Answer the phone,” she said.
Beebo left her then and went into the living room. Laura could hear her voice when she answered.
“Hello?” she said. “How are you, doll? Fine. Laura’s fine. No, I didn’t rape her. She raped me.” Laura sat straight up at this, her face flaming. Beebo was laughing. “Tell her what? It’s all fixed up? You mean I can send her home to Marcie?” Her voice became heavily sarcastic. “Well, isn’t that too sweet for words. Okay, Jack, I’ll tell her. You what?... With who?... Oh, Terry! Yeah, I’ve seen him. You got a live one there, boy. Hang on to him, he’s a doll ... Okay, don’t mention it. It’s been a pleasure. Most of it. She’s lovely ... So long.”
When Beebo returned to the bathroom, Laura was standing at the washbowl, rinsing her face, trying to compose herself.
“What did he say?” she asked Beebo.
“It was Jack.”
“I heard.”
Beebo put her arms around Laura from behind, leaning a little against her, front to back, planting kisses in her hair while she talked. “He says you’re forgiven. He handed Marcie some psychological hocus pocus about a neurosis. You are neurotic, love. As of now. As far as Marcie’s concerned, you have attacks. She should have a few herself.”
“Don’t be so sarcastic, Beebo. If you knew what I’ve been through—how scared I was—”
“Okay, no more sarcasm. For a few minutes at least. God, you’re pretty, Laura.” Like Jack, like Marcie, like many others, she realized it slowly. Laura’s singular face fit no pattern. It had to be discovered. Laura herself had never discovered it. She didn’t believe in it. She grew up convinced she was as plain as her father seemed to think, and when she looked into the mirror she didn’t see her own reflection. She saw what she thought she looked like; a mask, a cliche left over from adolescence. It embarrassed her when people told her she was pretty.
“Don’t flatter me,” she said sharply to Beebo. “I hate it.”
Beebo shut her eyes and laughed in Laura’s ear. “You’re nuts,” she said. “You are nuts, Bo-peep.”
“I’m sane. And I’m plain. There’s a poem for you. Now let me go.”
“There’s no rush, baby.”
“There is. I want to get home.” She twisted away from Beebo, turning around to face her.
Beebo let her hands trail up the front of Laura. “Home to Marcie?” she said, and let them drop suddenly. “Okay. Go home. Go home, now that you can stand it for another couple of days. And when the pressure gets too great, come back down again. Come back to Beebo, your faithful safety valve.”
“You said you wouldn’t be sarcastic.”
Beebo wheeled away, walking into the bedroom. “What do you want me to do, sing songs? Write poems? Dance? Shall I congratulate you? Congratulations, Laura, you’ve finally found a way to beat the problem. Every time Marcie sexes you up, run down to Beebo’s and let it off. Beebo’ll fix you up. Lovely arrangement.”
She turned to Laura, her eyes narrowed. “Laura gets loved up for free, Beebo gets a treat, and Marcie stays pure. Whatever happens, let’s not dirty Marcie up. Let’s not muss up that gorgeous blonde hair.”
“Don’t talk about her!” Laura had followed her into the bedroom.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, Bo-peep. I’m not complaining. You’re too good to me, you know. You give me your throw-away kisses. I get your cast-off passion, I’m your Salvation Army, doll, I get all the left-overs. Throw me a bone.” She was sitting on the edge of her rump on her dresser, legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded on her chest—a favorite stance with her.
Laura was suddenly ashamed of the way she had used Beebo. Beebo was hurt. And it was Laura’s fault.
“Everything’s my fault, Beebo,” she said. “I’m sorry.” There was silence for a minute. Laura was acutely aware that “I’m sorry” was no recompense for what she was doing to Beebo.
Beebo smiled wryly. “Thanks,” she said.
“I am, Beebo. Really. I didn’t come to you last night just because of Marcie.” It was suffocatingly hard to talk. She spoke in fits and starts as her nerve came and left her.
“No?” Beebo remained motionless with a ‘tell-me-another’ look on her face.
“No. I came—I came because—” She covered her face with her hands, stuck for words and ashamed.
“You came, baby. That’s enough,” Beebo finished for her, relenting a little. “You came and I’m not sorry. Neither are you, not really. The situation isn’t perfect.” She laughed. “But last night was perfect. It isn’t like that very often, I can tell you.”
Laura looked at her again. Then she moved toward her clothes, afraid to stay naked any longer, afraid the whole thing would start over again.
Beebo came toward her, pulling the slip from her hand and dropping it on the floor. “There’s no hurry,” she said.
“I’m going, Beebo. Don’t try to stop me.”
For a moment Beebo didn’t answer. Then she scooped up some of Laura’s clothes on her foot and flung them at her. “Okay, baby,” she said. “But next time, you don’t get off so easily. Clear?”
“There won’t be a next time.” Laura concentrated on dressing, on getting her body covered as quickly as possible. “I’m grateful to you, but I’ll never do it again. It isn’t fair, not to you.”
Beebo laughed disagreeably. “Don’t worry about being fair to me, baby. It didn’t bother you last night.”
“I couldn’t think last night! You know that.”
“Yes. I know that. I’m glad. I hope I drive you out of your mind.” Beebo’s eyes bored into her and made her rush and stumble. She was afraid to confront her, and when she had her clothes on she caught her jacket up with one hand and headed for the door without looking back.
Nix pranced after her. Before she got the front door open, Beebo caught her and turned her around. “Goodby, Beebo,” she said stiffly.
Beebo smiled, upsetting Laura with her nude closeness. “You’ll be back, Little Bo-peep. You know that, don’t you.” It was a statement, not a question.
I’ll never come back, she told herself. I’ll never open this door again.
And, confident that she meant what she said, she turned and walked away. Within minutes she was riding uptown on the subway. In less than half an hour she was climbing the flight of stairs to the penthouse, her heart pounding.
* * *
The door was open. Laura went in, feeling her legs start to shake. There didn’t seem to be anyone around. She walked through the apartment: no-one. She slipped her jacket off and went into the kitchen to find something for breakfast. Out on the roof she could hear people laughing, while competing portable radios squeaked from different corners. The population of the apartment building had taken to sunning itself on the roof on fair weekends.
Laura ate some toast and orange juice, sitting quietly, on the kitchen table. She’s out there on the porch. I know she’s out there, she told herself. She was afraid to face her, afraid to go looking for her. She wanted to fall into bed and sleep, but she knew she would never rest until the thing was straightened out.
Laura emptied her orange juice glass and put it down resolutely on the table. She set her chin and slipped off the table, heading for the door. She bumped flat into Jack as he came in.
Laura gave a little scream and jumped backwards. “Oh,” she said, shutting her eyes for a minute to let her heart come back to normal. “It’s you.”
“Say it like you’re glad to see me, Mother,” he said, smiling wistfully.
“I am,” she exclaimed, coming toward him then and taking his hands. “Oh, Jack, I am. I don’t know what I would have done—”
“Now you’re embarrassing me,” he said. “They’re out on the roof sunbathing, by the way.”
“They?”
“Burr’s here.”
Laura started for the door, but Jack caught her sleeve. “Are you cracked?” he said. “This isn’t the time. Wait till Burr leaves.” Laura stopped, unsure. “You don’t want to go out there and try to explain it to her now, do you?” Jack said.
“I just want to get it over with.”
“It’ll keep. Don’t be pushy.”
Laura rubbed her forehead. “You’re right,” she said. “I can’t talk to her in front of Burr.” She laughed a little. “I am cracked. People have been telling me that all day.”
“You don’t have to say much anyway,” Jack said. “I did a smooth patch job. She thinks you’re a little goofy. But harmless.”
Laura smiled at him in relief. But as they gazed at each other the ghost of Beebo came up in her mind and she was suddenly blushing without Jack’s having said a word. “I—I think I’d better go in and lie down, if you’ll excuse me,” she said, anxious to get away from him.
“Didn’t get much sleep last night?” he said.
“Not much.” She looked at the floor, not quite forgiving him for leaving her in the lurch the night before. “You sent me home with her,” she reminded him.
“I didn’t send you to bed with her. I gave her orders. I told her no monkey business. She promised to behave.” He was still smiling, curious to hear her defend herself.
Laura wondered quickly whether she could get away with a lie, ashamed as she was of the truth. But she knew her hot cheeks would betray her. They always did.
“She did behave, Jack.” His eyebrows went up skeptically. “She—what I mean is—it was me.”
He looked at her sideways. “You mean you just sort of fell into each other’s arms?”
“Well, sort of.”
“By mistake? In the dark?”
“I—I—”
“You’re fibbing. I know Beebo. Who made who?” He opened the ice box and fished out a beer. “Do I have to say it, or are you going to tell me?”
“Well, damn it, who are you?” she exclaimed. “You have no right to know anything.”
“Okay. I’ll get it from Beebo. She says you raped her.”
“She’s a liar! I heard her say that. Damn!”
Jack laughed, opening the beer. He sniffed it. “God, what awful stuff,” he remarked. “I only drink it before noon. Cheers.” He drank, and held the can toward her. “Want some?”
“At this hour?”
“Your stomach doesn’t know what time it is.”
“Your stomach, maybe.”
“Did Beebo jump you, Laura? If she did I’ll break her head.” He asked it suddenly and quietly, and she saw that he meant help and comfort to her. He had to stick a few pins in her, only to pull them out and offer first aid. It was the way he did things.
“She didn’t—no,” Laura said, turning away. “Jack, don’t make me talk about it.”