Part 8

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.