Beth withdrew her money from the bank. There was nearly four thousand dollars. That was plenty. She felt extravagantly rich with the money her parents had left her lined up neatly in traveler’s checks in her wallet. She took the precaution of getting the funds before she broke the news to Uncle John. Not that he could have stopped her; the money was hers, free and clear. But he could have slowed things down, and she wanted to be able to go now, at once.
“I’ve been thinking,” she told him the next day, “that I’d like to take a trip.”
“A trip?”
“Yes. To forget. To think about something else. I want to see some new places, Uncle John. I want to roam a little. I think it’ll do me good.”
He appeared unconvinced. He was a cautious man by nature and a provincial. If you could stay at home with your own comfortable bed and the food you liked, why go anywhere? His days of patient silence weighted his spirits down, too, and he suddenly asked his niece, with straightforward concern, “Beth, what about your children? How can you go traveling and just leave them?”
“They’re all right,” she said, looking away.
“How do you know? How long do you intend to be away from them? Is that good for children? Damn it, you haven’t explained any of this to me yet. I don’t like it.”
“Uncle John, quit worrying!” she cried irritably. “The kids are with their father. They’re better off with him, you must understand that.”
“Why don’t you take them away from him? You’re their mother, for God’s sake. If you’re going to divorce Charlie you’d better start doing something about it instead of running around the country. Are you going to go through life married to a man who’s unworthy of you, who won’t let you keep your own children?”
“That has nothing to do with it. I told you it was all my fault!” she cried.
“What did you do, then? Just what, exactly, did you do? What’s the matter with you, Beth? I have a right to know. I’m feeding you and sheltering you—I’m supporting you. Your husband should be doing this.”
“You mean if I don’t tell you everything you don’t want me here?” she demanded, stunned.
“I mean you owe me an explanation!” he said, and she saw that his slow temper was finally roused. His balding head reddened. “Are you in love with some other man?”
“No!”
“Did you disgrace yourself? Or Charlie?”
“No!”
“Do you want your children, do you love your children?”
“Yes!” She was furious. Her voice broke.
“Then why in God’s name don’t you get them? It’s unnatural! How is it that Charlie can keep them from you?”
“I gave them up!” she shouted. “I gave them up in exchange for my freedom. There! Make sense out of that if you can!”
She ran upstairs to her room and began to pack.
* * *
She made a one-way reservation to New York City and then she sat down and wrote a letter to Nina Spicer, the writer whose books about Lesbian life in New York had attracted her. She had almost forgotten Nina until her talk with Merrill Landon. Now, suddenly, the writer appeared to her as a possible starting place in her search. Nina knew New York; you could tell that from the books she wrote. She knew the Village, and she knew gay life both in and out of the Village. There was no reason to suppose she knew Laura, but perhaps she knew of her, knew where she could be found.
Beth had been candid, in a way, with Nina. She pretended she was gay, even when she wasn’t sure of it herself. She painted a picture of herself as beautiful, lost, misunderstood, yearning for a passionate romance with any compatible female. When she wrote the words she believed them true and her belief carried conviction, for Nina answered her with a certain condescending kindness and sympathy.
So Nina Spicer had a passel of half-facts from which to form an opinion of Beth. And Beth knew even less of Nina—only what she could guess from the books: a half-dozen violent, lively, coarse stories, loaded with deaths and beatings and perversities. They had some of the interest of good newspaper reporting, with a sort of gusto in the gory details and a lot of tormented screwballs for characters. Occasionally the love scenes were moving; more often, blunt case histories, skillfully dissected.
Beth pictured her as a casual hard-headed girl, fast to take up an affair, fast to drop it; hard to know and only partly worth the effort. But she was grateful, terribly grateful, to Nina for her letters. She wished there were some way to know her without having to meet her, for she sensed a bridgeless difference between herself and Nina that might make enemies of them. But she needed help now and Nina was the only person she knew who could give it to her.
* * *
Beth escaped at mid-afternoon the next day, taking a bus from the Conrad Hilton on Michigan Boulevard to the airport. It was that simple. No one even saw her leave the house.
There was no crushing despair, no gnawing panic and indecision this time. This time she was on the last leg of the journey, the all-consuming quest to find Beth Cullison Ayers and make a human being out of her. Laura was at the other end.
But Laura was not in the Manhattan directory when Beth checked it at the airport.
What if she died? What if she got sick and died, or left the country, or went to jail? What if she can’t stand the sight of me? But she banished such painful musings as fast as they came up. She couldn’t really believe in them or there would be more point in jumping out of the plane than riding it to New York.
* * *
She went directly to the Beaton Hotel on First Avenue near the U.N. Building. She remembered the name from the time she and Uncle John and Aunt Elsa had stayed there when she was a youngster of ten. It had seemed like the marvelous castle in the fairy tales to her then, and the name remained in her memory.
They gave her a room on the fourth floor. She took the least expensive one they had, the kind where you share the bathroom with two or three other rooms. Perhaps it was an unnecessary economy, but she had Merrill Landon’s sardonic warnings about money ringing in her ears and she wasn’t going to be caught spending hers foolishly.
She unpacked a few things and hung them in the closet, and all the while her heart was high and going a little faster than it should have. She was in New York. Laura was in New York. Things would work out, they had to.
And what if they did? What if Laura could be found, and fast? And what if she fell into Beth’s arms as though the nine years between them didn’t exist, their lives apart didn’t exist? Then what?
Then, Beth thought, almost timidly, divorce. I’ll have to divorce Charlie. I’ll never get the children back. My children. My babies. My own flesh. But I’ll have Laura again. Was it worth it? It had to be.
Quickly she went to the phone book, the Manhattan directory, and looked for Laura Landon. Maybe the one in Chicago was wrong. After following her shaking finger down several columns she got the answer she secretly expected; the answer the phone book at the Chicago airport had already given her: no listing. She sighed and lighted a cigarette. It was not going to be a cinch, this strange mission of hers. She checked the book again for Nina Spicer’s name.
Nina was there. With relief and some trepidation she dialed the number. It was ten-thirty in the morning, but the voice that answered was obviously newly roused from sleep. It was a low pleasant feminine voice, almost sultry. Beth liked it. It made her curious to meet the owner, curious to see what she looked like.
“Nina Spicer, please,” she said.
“This is Nina.”
“This is Beth Ayers, Nina. Do you remember me?”
“How could I forget? The girl with all the problems.”
“I’m sorry I woke you up.”
“Sure.” Her breezy lack of courtesy threw Beth for a moment.
“Did you get my note?” she asked.
“I did.”
“Could we meet for lunch?” Damn, I sound like a question box, Beth thought. But Nina was playing things her way. Beth had to go along.
“Let’s make it dinner. I’m tied up at noon,” Nina said.
“Okay. You’ll have to name the place. New York is all new to me.”
“Where are you?”
“The Beaton.”
“Good enough. They have a decent bar on the top floor. I’ll pick you up in the lobby about four-thirty. We can go on from there.”
“Fine.” Beth was both repelled and attracted by the girl on the phone. The voice was lovely, but the attitude was hardly warm and welcoming. Curious, amused, a little supercilious, somewhat intimidating.
Beth hung up. She wasn’t afraid of Nina, just on her guard. And she was so eager to meet her, to ask her about Laura, that the day dragged unbearably. She was too excited to rest. She ended up writing letters, one to Merrill Landon, one to Cleve.
“Did you have much trouble with Vega?” she asked Cleve reluctantly. “Tell me everything’s okay. It would mean so much. I’ll send you a box number in a day or two. Don’t know how long I’ll be in New York.”
When there was nothing left to write and no one to write to, she walked. She saw the United Nations buildings and she poked around the shops. A tailor across the street from the Beaton sewed a button on for her and told her about his international clientele.
She was in her room by four, in case Nina should come early, but Nina was late. It was a quarter to five when she called Beth’s room, and Beth, almost beside herself with impatience, went down to the lobby to meet her. She looked for a light blue linen suit, which was Nina’s description of herself, and found her standing by a square pillar near the desk.
Beth walked straight to her and took her hand, pleased to see that her directness threw Nina offstride slightly. Nina expected to have that effect herself, mainly by fixing people with a go-to-hell stare. But Beth was not interested in Nina for Nina’s sake and it made her less susceptible to Nina’s notions of who was running the show.
They went directly up to the bar, speaking softly, feeling their ways with one another. They ordered Martinis.
“How long will you be in New York?” Nina asked.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“A lot of things. You, maybe.”
Nina smiled at her Martini glass. She was not a pretty girl, though her eyes were green and well shaped, and she wore her brown hair long in a soft bob. Her nose was too sharp and prominent and her mouth too small and irregular to be pretty, but she had a nice figure. Unusually nice, Beth had noticed on the way up in the elevator.
“What have I got to do with how long you stay in New York?” Nina asked, sizing her up silently. “You don’t even know me.” She spoke suggestively, with the hint of a smile on her face, as if she had only to keep leading a little and Beth would soon take a pratfall.
“I’m looking for someone,” Beth said. “I thought you might be able to help me find her.”
“Oh. Romance?”
“No,” Beth lied, speaking briefly and annoyed at Nina’s tone of voice.
“You’re not at all horsey, are you?” Nina said, changing the subject suddenly and grinning.
“Horsey?” Beth stared at her. “Should I be?”
“Frankly, yes. I got the impression from your letters.”
“It’s not the impression I meant to give.” Beth didn’t like Nina’s expression. It was too cocksure, too well acquainted with all the ins-and-outs of gay life in New York City that Beth yearned to know herself. She felt suddenly reluctant to bring Laura’s name up. Maybe later in the evening, if Nina got more congenial.
“So you’re leaving your husband, hm?” Nina said. It was part of her technique with people to startle them, embarrass them, leave them stammering.
“I didn’t say that,” Beth protested.
“You don’t need to. Your letters said enough. He isn’t here in New York, is he?”
“No. But that doesn’t mean I’m leaving him.”
“From the things you wrote me, I’d say you could hardly wait to ditch him.”
“I haven’t written you for a while,” Beth said in a chilly voice. “Things change.” Beth was being played with, to see if she would snap or take it in stoic silence. She was aware of this, aware that no matter how she reacted Nina wouldn’t care—just as long as there was some reaction. Nina didn’t give a damn for anything else. It was seeing people squirm, seeing them enmeshed in their own poor little problems that amused her. Beth was a good case history. And she was new and different to Nina. She would help to pass the time. She might even show up, slightly distorted, in Nina’s next novel.
Beth made up her mind to ignore it. Nothing mattered but finding Laura, and if Nina could help, Nina would have to be catered to.
They had another Martini and then Nina took her out to dinner. It was a little place down in the Village, but expensive; the tourist trade had discovered it. But the food was excellent. Beth ate gladly. The lack of rest and the Martinis made a bad combination, and she felt a little slap happy.
“I want to learn my way around down here,” Beth said. “I want to get to know the Village.” Just being in it gave her a tingle of hope, of excitement. The Village. The end of the rainbow. How she had wondered about this place! And Laura had lived here; Laura knew it, too. Perhaps better than Nina.
“Sure,” Nina said. “Sure you would. Just like the rest of the tourists.”
“I have a special reason.”
“What’s her name?”
Beth finished the drink beside her, distinctly nettled. “She may not even be here,” she said tightly. “I lost track of her years ago. The last I heard she was in New York.”
Nina put her head back and laughed and Beth knew, with tongue-tied resentment, that she was being laughed at again.
“So you gave up your husband and kids to come on a wild goose chase after your long lost love,” Nina said. “How romantic! That’s why you wanted to meet me, I suppose. So I could lead you to her.”
She laughed again and Beth thought with disappointment that she could never like this peculiar girl. It was apparently not possible for Nina to be friendly. You made her acquaintance and then you either knuckled under to her or else you had to drop her. One way or the other she got a good show, and that was all she wanted out of life, besides a few affairs. She didn’t need friends and she didn’t especially want them. Lovers, yes. Friends, no. Lovers kept boredom out. Friends let it in. At least, that was the way Beth sized her up.
Somehow the mere idea of exposing Laura’s name to the malicious laughter of this worldly girl who faced her over the dinner table disheartened Beth. She couldn’t do it; not just then. She looked at the writer, feeling sure that Nina would tolerate her good humoredly as long as Beth was still “new,” still good for laughs. And Nina looked back at her, always with her mocking little smile, so different from Jean Purvis’s endless good-hearted grin.
Physically Nina and Beth pleased each other. Nina took in her visitor’s long strong limbs, well shaped and smooth, and her intense violet eyes. She was ever so slightly, even fashionably, boyish. And Nina laughed softly to herself at the idea of filling Beth full of moonshine and bull and letting her find her way out of the mess.
After dinner Nina took Beth around to some Lesbian bars. It was the first time in her life that Beth had ever been in such places. They recalled scenes from Nina’s novels to her and she asked ingenuous questions, unaware of the fact that her voice carried too far, far enough to make one or two other customers smile.
“Not much noise tonight,” Nina said, after shushing her. “Monday night,” she explained. “Always dead.”
Beth was thinking, What if Laura’s here somewhere? At least she’s been here before. Did she meet people here? Fall in love?
They took in three places. The first was another tourist trap. There was a long dark bar in front and a dining room with sketchy floor shows in the back. No show on Monday nights. But the waitresses were interesting. Beth found herself staring at them in fascination, as they lounged against the walls waiting for the sparse crowd to fill out. She even wondered if they drank orange juice in the morning like everybody else. It shocked her to realize how far out of her depth she was, how far removed from her collegiate sophistication. She wondered how obvious it was to Nina, but a glance at her revealed only the supercilious little smile.
Nina watched her closely and her scrutiny made Beth nervous. She wants me to put my foot in my mouth, Beth thought, and it made her stammer a little. But it didn’t stop her from asking questions.
Beth was surprised to see so many men sitting at the bar. “Who are they?” she asked. “Johns?” She remembered the word from one of Nina’s novels and she asked her question in a firm clear voice that made Nina duck and laugh.
“Quiet, for God’s sake, they’ll think we’re cops,” she said. “Or a couple of gaping hayseeds.”
“Well, are they?” Beth said. “Do they hang around gay girls all the time?” But she lowered her voice.
“Um-hm,” Nina said, her eyes wrinkled at the corners.
In the next place there were only women, except for the man behind the bar, and he apparently enjoyed the confidence of the girls he served. There was only a handful of young women there when Beth and Nina arrived, and Beth looked them over quickly, always with Laura’s lovely face in her mind. But Laura wasn’t there.
Nina seemed to know everybody. She was getting more gregarious as she had more drinks. Not loud at all, just bold; bold in the way she looked at people, in the things she said.
“So you want to go back to your husband,” she needled Beth.
“I didn’t say that, either.”
“You don’t say much, do you?” Nina laughed. “What’d you get married for in the first place if you’re gay?” she said. “Think it would cure you?”
“I didn’t know I was gay,” Beth said.
“You seemed to in your letters.”
“They were easier to write that way.”
Nina laughed at her and called one of the waitresses over. “This is Billie,” she said to Beth, and the girl sat down and talked with them. She was extremely pretty; very small and dainty-looking, but with cropped hair and a decidedly aggressive swing in her walk. She spoke softly, however, almost timidly, and left the bulk of the conversation to Beth and Nina.
“Beth is looking for her long lost love,” Nina said, pleased to see the consternation her announcement created in Beth. “What’s her name again?” She glanced at Beth.
“Maybe she comes in here,” Billie said helpfully. “I know them all.”
“I doubt it,” Beth said.
“Come on, her name,” Nina demanded.
“She’s not here,” Beth said, feeling cornered and stubborn. She hated the phrase “long lost love,” so lightly, even sarcastically, spoken.
“So maybe she comes in other times,” said Billie, innocently unaware that Beth and Nina were sparring with each other.
“Bring us another drink, will you, Billie?” Nina said, still staring Beth down. As soon as the girl had left their table she leaned over and said confidentially to Beth, as if making it up to her a little, “Do you like her?”
“I don’t know her,” Beth said warily.
“She likes you,” Nina said. “She’s been cruising you like mad since we came in.”
“Cruising me?”
“Looking you over, sizing you up.”
Beth didn’t believe her. Nina only wanted a rise out of her.
“She wants to be a boy,” Nina said. “She boards with a family on Bleecker Street. She thinks they think she’s a boy. She always wears pants.”
“She had on a skirt tonight.”
“That’s because she has to wear one in here. City ordinance. No women in bars in pants. But she won’t wear the skirt to work. She carries it in a paper bag and changes in the john.”
“She’s crazy if she thinks she can pass for a boy,” Beth said seriously. “She can’t be over five-feet-three. And she’s so pretty. Her features are very feminine.”
And again Nina laughed at her. And again Beth realized she was being made a fool of. Was any of it true? Was Billie so blind as to think she could transform herself into a boy with a pair of pants? Or was Nina showing her at least part of the truth, a sad, even pitiful, intensely interesting little corner of life, cut from the Village pattern?
At the last bar there were other men, but they never seemed to join the girls at the tables. They rather intrigued Beth, who wondered why they spent all their free time sitting quietly on bar stools watching the flirtations, the loves, the dancing and socializing of these women they could never touch. Some of them seemed to know the girls and were greeted affectionately with a nickname or a slap on the back. But they never presumed to follow a girl or to talk before they were spoken to. It was their solitary pleasure simply to watch, and now and then to be permitted a few words, a little sharing of this odd way of life.
Beth observed one who seemed particularly pathetic. He was overweight by quite a bit, balding, and with blue pockets under his eyes, and he looked not only sad but outright bored—something none of the others did. She wondered why he bothered to come by at all if it depressed him so. His face stuck in her mind later, and she pitied him. This third and last place they were in had a larger clientele than the others, probably because it was eleven o’clock by the time they got there.
Beth was absorbed by it. She wanted to wander all night around the Village, look into all the windows and share all the secrets. Behind some curtain, in some doorway or shop window, she might find Laura.
But when she stood up suddenly to go to the ladies’ room she realized with a start that she was drunk. Quite drunk. Nina had been telling her to quit for some time.
“You don’t want to be hung over tomorrow,” she said.
But it was so condescending, so solicitous for the “country cousin,” that Beth had defiantly ordered another. And another. She knew now, gripping the table with both hands, that Nina was right, aggravating though her attitude was. Beth should have stopped early in the evening.
Nina appraised her skillfully. “You’re going to feel like hell in the morning,” she said. “Too bad. I was going to take you out for lunch, too. One of my favorite places.”
“I’ll make it,” Beth said. She would feel rotten, all right—that was a cinch. But she’d go. She had to learn her way around here somehow, and doing it with Nina, however embarrassing or even upsetting, seemed safer than going it alone.
They drove home in a taxi, and Beth was disconcerted to find that the warmth and closeness of Nina’s body in the rear seat pleased her. Nina said nothing and that made it easier to enjoy her. When she opened her mouth it threw Beth on her guard automatically and destroyed the sensual pleasure.
Beth left her with a queer feeling of dislike and desire that disturbed her sleep, tired as she was. She couldn’t fathom Nina and the only thing she thought it was safe to count on was that Nina was playing the game only for herself. She had no special favors to grant Beth Ayers, and when Beth ceased to interest her, that would be the end. Kaput. End of guided tour through the Village, and end of information, such as it was. Beth thought fuzzily that she had better ask Nina about Laura, whether Nina laughed at the idea or not, before Nina got it into her head to drop her. For, strangely, on this first night of their acquaintance, she felt the break coming. It was inevitable with a girl like Nina. Things never last, things aren’t meant to last. That would be her way of seeing it. So why not break it off as soon as it bores you? And Nina’s philosophy, Beth was soon to learn on her own, was typical of many a weary Greenwich Villager. It was not the attitude that comes with sophistication, but the attitude of boredom and disappointment.