Beebo Brinker Chronicles 2 - I Am A Woman, In Love With A Woman

by Ann Bannon

  "I do. I saw that musical last week."

  "I don't mean with me. Or other girls. I mean with boys."

  Laura loathed conversations like these. She felt as if she had spent her whole life justifying herself to somebody-mostly Merrill Landon, but others too. As if everything she did or didn't do had to be inspected and approved. If it wasn't approved it stuck in her craw somewhere and came up now and then to make her sick.

  "I'm new in New York,” she said. “I don't know anyone yet."

  "How about Dr. Carstens? You said he was good-looking."

  "He's married."

  "Well, the other one, then?"

  "He's practically married."

  "Well, how about the big shot?"

  "He's a grandfather.” She said it sarcastically. Marcie threw her hands up and laughed. “Laura, I'm going to have to do something about you."

  "Don't do anything about me, please, Marcie.” Something about the tone of her voice sobered Marcie up. “Why not?” she said.

  "I-I just don't want to be a bother, that's all."

  "A bother!” Marcie came and sat beside her on the bed, wearing only the bottoms of a pair of blue jersey pajamas, cut like slim harem pants. Her breasts were high and full and unbearably sweet. “Laura, I like you. We're living together. We're friends. I guess I've made a bad impression on you with Burr and everything, but I want you to know I really like you. You're no bother.” She smiled. “I'll get Burr to fix you up with Jack Mann. We'll go somewhere together. We need to get out. Maybe we'd quit quarreling if we didn't sit around this apartment all the time.” She paused, and Laura tried not to look at her. “How about it?” Marcie said.

  Laura was in a familiar situation. She'd been in it before, she'd be in it again, there was no escaping it. This is a heterosexual society and everybody plays the game one way or another. Or pretends to play it for appearances’ sake. “I'd love to,” Laura said. “Good! What night?"

  "Any night.” Laura wanted to shove her off the bed, to throw the covers at her; anything to cover up her gleaming bosom. She felt herself go hot and cold by turns and it exasperated her. She wondered how obvious it was. But even in her discomfort she knew it didn't show as much as it felt. She finally climbed past Marcie and out of the bed, making a hasty way to the bathroom.

  "I'll call Burr,” Marcie called after her. Laura closed the bathroom door and leaned heavily against it, panting, her arms clasped tight around herself, rocking back and forth, her eyes shut. Spasms went through her and she shook herself angrily. Her hands stole downward in spite of herself and suddenly all her feeling was fixed in one place, clarified, shattering. There was a moment of suppressed violence when she clapped one hand over her mouth, helpless in her own grasp, and her imprisoned mouth murmured, “Marcie, Marcie, Marcie,” into her hand. And then came relief, quiet. The trembling ceased, the heaving breath slowed down. She relaxed utterly, with only just enough strength in her legs to hold her up, depending on the door to do the rest. “Damn her,” she said in a faint whisper. “Damn her.” It was the first time she realized how strong her “friendly” feelings for Marcie really were and she was dismayed.

  Laura went quickly to the washbowl and turned on the tap. She ought to be making some noise. People don't disappear into bathrooms for ten minutes in utter silence. At least not in this bathroom where every pipe had its own distinct and recognizable scream. In a few seconds Marcie was calling at her through the door. “Laura? Can I come in?"

  "Of course."

  "We're going to make-it for Friday. We'll see a show."

  "That sounds fine."

  "It'll be fun."

  1 will not look at her,

  Laura told herself, and buried her face in a washcloth. She scrubbed herself assiduously while Marcie chattered. Damn her anyway, I won't look at her. She has no claim on me, that was a silly fool thing I did. I'll pretend it didn't happen. It didn't happen, it didn't happen. She was afraid that if she did look it might happen again. She rinsed her face slowly and careful in water from the groaning tap, and still Marcie stood there talking.

  Laura reached for a towel and dried her face. She hung the towel up again and turned to walk out of the bathroom, ready to ignore Marcie. But Marcie had slipped into pajama tops and looked quite demure. Except for her extraordinarily pretty face. Laura stared at her, as she had known she would, as she did more and more lately.

  "We'll take in a show in Greenwich Village, because it's easier to get tickets-at least to this one-and besides, Burr knows-what's the matter, Laura?"

  "What? Oh, nothing. Nothing."

  "You looked kind of funny."

  "Did I? I didn't mean to. That sounds fine, the show I mean.” She hurried past Marcie into the bedroom.

  In bed she cursed herself for an idiot. I'm just an animal, she berated herself. I hardly know Marcie. I won't start feeling this way, I won't!

  Out of the past rose the image of another face, a face serenely lovely, a face whose owner she had loved so desperately that she had finally been forced to leave school because of her.

  Why, they look alike!

  she thought, startled. Why didn't I see it before? I must be blind. They look alike, they really do. In the dark she pictured Marcie's face beside the other, matching, comparing, regretting. It tore at her heart to see them together. She wished the morning would never come when she would have to get up, bright and cheerful and ordinary, like every other morning, and look at Marcie's face again. And Marcie's breasts.

  * * * *

  Morning came, as mornings will, and it went the same way. It was not intolerable. Laura was secretly on guard against Marcie now. Or rather, on guard against herself. She wasn't going to fall. Marcie loved a man-men, anyway-and Laura wasn't in any hurry to go through hell with her.

  A curious change had come over Laura since the days of the terrible, and wonderful, college romance with a girl named Beth. She had been so frightened then, so lost, so completely dependent on Beth. She had no courage, except what Beth gave her; no strength except through Beth; no will but Beth's. She had loved her slavishly; adored her. And when Beth left her for a man, when she told Laura it had never been real love for her at all, Laura was wounded clear through her heart.

  All these things were unknown to Merrill Landon; unknown and unsuspected. They would remain forever in the dark corners of Laura's mind, where she heaped her old hurts and fears.

  She had thought of killing herself when she left school and went home to face her father. But she was young and her youth worked against such thoughts. Perhaps the very fact that she had loved so deeply and so well prevented her. She had learned to need love too much to think seriously about death.

  Beth had left scars on Laura. But she had been a good teacher too, and some of the things she taught her lover were beginning to assert themselves, now that Laura was on her own and time was softening the pain. Laura walked tall. She felt tall. It wasn't the simple physical fact of her height. It was a curious self-respect born of the humiliation of her love. Beth had taught Laura to look within herself, and what she found was a revelation.

  CHAPTER 4

  The following evening Laura got home rather early after seeing a show with Sarah. She rode home on the subway with a dirty gray little man, repulsively anxious to be friendly. He kept saying, “I see you're not married. You must be very careful in the big city.” And laughed nervously. Laura turned away. “You mustn't ignore me, I'm only trying to help,” he whined. He babbled at her about young lambs in a den of wolves until she got off. He got off with her, still talking.

  Laura wasn't afraid-just mad. She turned suddenly on the little gray man at the subway entrance and said, “Leave me alone or I'll call the police."

  He smiled apologetically and began to mumble. Laura's eyes narrowed and she turned away contemptuously, walking with a sure swift gait that soon discouraged him. Something proud and cold in her unmanned him. At last he stopped following and stood gaping after her. She never looked back.r />
  Laura arrived home, her cheeks warm with the quick walk with the victory over the little man. God, if I could do that to my father! she thought wistfully. She walked up the flight of stairs from the twelfth floor to the penthouse and swung open the front door. The living room was lighted and so was the kitchen. The bedroom door was open, the room showing a cool blue beyond the loud yellow kitchen. Laura walked in, swinging her purse, thinking of the ugly little man and proud of the way she had trounced him.

  She stopped short with a gasp at the sight of Burr and Marcie naked together in Marcie's bed. “I'm sorry!” she exclaimed, and backed out, closing the door behind her. She collapsed on a kitchen chair and cried in furious disgust for half a minute. Then she stood up and went to the refrigerator, pretending to want a glass of milk just for an excuse to move, to ignore the hot silence in the next room.

  For a while no sounds issued from the bedroom. Laura poured the milk busily and carried it into the living room. She was just putting a record on when the bedroom door opened and Marcie slipped out in her bathrobe. Laura had put her milk down. Just the sight of it was enough to make her feel green. She turned to Marcie.

  "Hi,” she said, too brightly. “Sorry I had to go and break in."

  Marcie burst out laughing. “That's okay. Damn him, I told him to go home. I knew you'd get home early. I just had a feeling.” She went up to Laura, still laughing, and Laura turned petulantly away. Marcie didn't notice. “We took your advice, Laura,” she said. “We haven't said a word to each other tonight. Well-I said when he came in-'All right, we're not going to argue. Don't open your mouth. Not one word.’ And he didn't. He didn't even say hello!” And her musical laughter tickled Laura insufferably.

  Burr came out of the bedroom, looking rather sheepish, rather sleepy, very satisfied. He smiled at Laura, who had to force herself to wear a pleasant face. He was buttoning his shirt, carrying his coat over his arm, and all he said was, “Thanks, Laura.” He grinned, thumbing at Marcie. “We're not speaking. I hear it was your idea.” He swatted Laura's behind. “Good girl,” he said. He kissed Marcie once more, hard, drew on his coat, and backed out the door, still smiling.

  Marcie whirled around and around in the middle of the living room, hugging herself and laughing hilariously. “If it could always be like that,” she said. “I'd marry him again tomorrow."

  Laura brushed past her without a word, into the kitchen, where she poured the milk carefully back into the bottle, closed the refrigerator door, went into the bedroom, and got ready for bed.

  Marcie followed her, laughing and talking until Laura jot into bed and turned out the light. She wouldn't even look at Marcie's rumpled bed. But it haunted her, and she didn't fall asleep until long after Marcie had stopped whispering.

  Jack Mann was small, physically tough, and very intelligent. He was a sort of cocktail-hour cynic, disillusioned enough with things to be cuttingly funny. If you like that kind of wit. Some people don't. The attitude carried over into his everyday life, but he saved his best wit especially for the after work hours, when the first fine careless flush of alcohol gave it impetus. Unfortunately he usually gave himself too much impetus and went staggering home to his bachelor apartment under the arm of a grumbling friend. He was a draftsman in the office where Burr worked as an apprentice architect and he called his work “highly skilled labor.” He didn't like it. But he did like the pay. “Why do you do it, then?” Burr asked him once.

  "It's the only thing I know. But I'd much rather dig ditches."

  "Well, hell, go dig ditches then. Nobody's stopping you."

  Jack could turn his wit on himself as well as on others. “I can't,” he told Burr. “I'm so used to sitting on my can all day I'd be lucky to get one lousy ditch dug. And then they'd probably have to bury me in it. End of a beautiful career."

  Burr smiled and shook his head. But he liked him; they got along. Jack went out with Burr and Marcie before and after they got married. And after they got divorced. He was the trouble shooter until he got too drunk, which was often.

  When he arrived with Burr on Friday night Laura was irked to find that she was taller than he was. She had made up her mind that she wasn't going to enjoy the evening-just live through it. She'd have to spend the time mediating for Marcie and Burr and trying to entertain a man she didn't know or care about. So she was put out to discover that she did like Jack, after all. It ruined her fine gloomy mood.

  Marcie introduced them and Jack looked up at her quizzically. “What's the matter, Landon?” he said. “You standing in a hole?"

  Laura laughed and took her shoes off. It brought her down an inch. “Better?” she said.

  "Better for me. Very bad for your stocking.” He grinned. “Have you read Freud?"

  "No."

  "Well, thank God. I won't have to talk about my nightmares."

  "Do you have nightmares?"

  "You have read Freud!"

  "No, I swear. You said—"

  "Okay, I confess. I have nightmares. And you remind me of my mother."

  "Do you have a mother?” said Burr. “Didn't you just happen?"

  "That's what I keep asking my analyst. Do I have to have a mother?"

  "Jack, are you seeing an analyst?” Marcie was fascinated with the idea. “Imagine being able to tell somebody everything. Like a sacred duty. Burr, don't you think I should be analyzed?"

  "What will you use for a neurosis?” Jack asked. “Do I need one?"

  "How about Burr?"

  "I'm taken,” Burr said. “Besides, you talk like a nitwit, honey. You don't go to an analyst like you go to the hairdresser."

  Marcie's eyes flashed. “Thanks for the compliment,” she said. “I'm not as dumb as I look."

  "Come on, Mother.” Jack took Laura's arm and steered her out the door. “I see a storm coming up."

  But it was dissipated when Marcie grabbed her coat and hurried after them.

  * * * *

  After the play they walked down Fourth Street in the Village, meandering rather aimlessly, looking into shop windows. Laura was lost. She had never been in the Village before. She had been afraid to come down here; afraid she would see someone, and do something, and suddenly find herself caught in the strange world she had renounced. It seemed so safe, so remote from temptation to choose an uptown apartment. And .yet here she was with her nerves in knots, her emotions tangled around a roommate again.

  Laura pondered these things, walking slowly beside Jack in the light from the shop windows. She was unaware of where she walked or who passed by. It startled her when Jack said, “What are you thinking about, Mother?"

  "Nothing.” A shade of irritation crossed her face.

  "Ah,” he said. “I interrupted something."

  "No.” She turned to look at him, uncomfortable. He made her feel as if he was reading her thoughts. “Don't lie to me. You're daydreaming."

  "I am not! I'm just thinking.” He shrugged. “Same thing."

  She found him very irritating then. “You don't say,” she said, and looked away from him. “You hate me,” he said with a little smile. “Now and then."

  "I messed up your daydream,” he said. “I'm rarely this offensive. Only when I'm sober. The rest of the time, I'm charming. Someday I suppose you'll daydream about me.” Laura stared at him and he laughed. “At least, you'll tell me about your daydreams."

  "Never."

  "People do. I have a nice face. Ugly, but nice. People think, ‘Jesus, that guy has a nice face. I ought to tell him my daydreams.’ They do, too.” He smiled. “What's the matter, Mother, you look skeptical."

  "What makes you think you have a nice face?"

  "Don't I?” He looked genuinely alarmed. “It wouldn't appeal to just anyone."

  "Ah, smart girl. You're right, as usual. A boy's best friend is his mother. Only the discriminating ones, my girl, think it's a nice face. Only the sensitive, the talented, the intelligent. Now tell me-isn't it a nice face?"

  "It's a face,” said Laura. “Eve
rybody has one."

  He laughed. “You're goofy,” he said. “You need help. My analyst is very reasonable. He'll stick you for all you've got, but he's very reasonable."

  Burr, who was walking ahead of them with Marcie, turned around to demand, “Somebody tell me where I'm going."

  "Turn right at the next corner,” said Jack. “You're doing fine, boy. Don't lose your nerve."

  "I just want to know where the hell I'm going."

  "That's a bad sign. Very bad."

  "Cut it out, Jack,” said Marcie. “Where are we going?"

  "A little bar I know. Very gay. I go there alone when I want to be depressed."

  It sounded sinister, not gay, to Laura. “What's it called?” she said.

  "The Cellar. Don't worry, it's a legitimate joint.” He laughed at her long face.

  Marcie laughed too, and Laura's heart jumped at the sweetness of the sound. It made her hate the back of Burr, moving with big masculine easiness ahead of her in a tweed topcoat, his bristling crew cut shining.

  A few minutes later Jack led them down a few steps to a pair of doors which he pushed in, letting Laura and Marcie pass.

  Laura heard Burr gay, behind her, in an undertone, “It is gay,” and he laughed. “You bastard.” She was mystified. It looked pretty average and ordinary. They headed for a table with four chairs, one of the few available, and Laura looked around.

  The Cellar was quite dark, with the only lights placed over the bar and glowing a faint pinky orange. There were candles on the tables, and people crowded together from one end of the room to the other. Everybody seemed reasonably cheerful, but it didn't look any gayer than any other bar she had been in. She looked curiously at Burr, but he was helping Marcie out of her coat.

  "No table service,” Jack said. “What does everybody want?"

  They gave him their orders and Laura tried to catch his eye, hoping for more information about the place. She was curious now. There were checkered table cloths, fish nets on the wall, a lot of people-all rather young-at the tables and bar. The juke box was going and somebody was trying to pick up a few bucks doing pencil portraits, but no one seemed very interested. The customers looked like students. There were girls in cotton pants, young men in sweaters and open-collared shirts. “They all look like students,” she said to Burr.