Chapter III: Part 3

“No, I don’t. Not anymore. But I still like to be with him. I like to watch them fight.” He smiled at her. “You do too.”

She felt embarrassed, as if he were looking through her clothes to her naked feelings.

“However,” he went on, “I’m not under any lovely illusions about him being an intellectual giant. Or Marcie either. And I know damn well he won’t give me a tumble if I just stick around long enough.” He gave her a piercing look. “Those are your illusions, Mother,” he said. “I suggest you drown them.”

“What does that mean?”

“You can set Marcie’s hair till the moon turns blue and she’s not going to crawl into your bed to thank you for it.”

“I don’t expect her to.”

“Sure you do. It’s a mark of our breed. We’re hopeless optimists. Otherwise we’d all commit suicide. We get a crush on somebody, and if he’s straight we figure we’ll just love him so much he’ll _have_ to turn gay. It doesn’t work that way. Marcie isn’t going to start kissing you just because you want her to.”

Laura was incensed. “She already has,” she snapped.

Jack’s eyebrows went up. “When?” he said.

“The night we got back from The Cellar. She said she felt funny in there with all those girls staring at her. She said she used to touch tongues with a girl when she was in her teens, and she wanted to do it again. And she did. You—you—” She didn’t know what to call him. “You had to call me up right in the middle, just when I thought—” She stopped herself. “Oh, this isn’t like me,” she moaned. “I never talk like this.”

“Only to yourself, hm?” He laughed. “I mess up your daydreams and your affair. God! What more can I do? I’m becoming the Man in your Life, Mother.” His laughter fizzled slowly, and Laura could tell he was quite drunk from the way he let his head hang for a minute. “You know,” he said and wagged a finger at her, articulating cautiously, “I never have trouble thinking when I’m drunk. But my tongue gets sloppy.” He laughed a little. “I say what I want to say, that’s one good thing. But it sounds sloppy as hell.” He finished the drink in front of him. Laura started to get up, but he caught her wrist and said, suddenly very serious again, “You’re in trouble, Laura. Marcie’s straight. Accept that. It’s a fact. If she’s playing games with you, she’s doing it for private kicks, not to give you a thrill. And her kicks have nothing to do with being gay. They have to do with going out on a limb, with acting nuts once in a while. Maybe she’s just pushing _you_ out on a limb to see if you’ll fall off. And you’ll fall all right. Flat on your can.” He stopped for a minute to focus his gaze on her. “Marcie’s about as queer as Post Toasties, Laura. Take my advice: move out.”

“But I can’t! I won’t!” she exclaimed defensively. “Why should I? I’ve done nothing wrong!”

“I hadn’t either when Joe gave me the glad news.”

“I’m not you. I’ve done nothing I’m ashamed of.”

“No, but you will. If you hang around, feeling like you feel. You were saved by a phone call Friday night. What if my timing isn’t so good next time?”

“I don’t want to move out.” She said it stubbornly like a thwarted child.

“All the more reason why you should.”

Laura got indignant. “I’ve got more will power than you give me credit for and I’m not going to be scared out.”

“What are you going to do for will power if she gets cold some night and crawls into your bed to keep warm? Or you take a shower together? Or she feels like pulling your nerves out by the roots one by one again, and makes you play let’s-touch-tongues just for the hell of it? Just to see if she can get you sent up for sodomy? Be thankful you’re female, Mother. At least your passion won’t stand up and salute her.”

“I’ve had enough from you tonight!”

“Okay, okay. But I advise you to find a nice butch somewhere and set up housekeeping in the Village. Or at least, cultivate a few lovelies down there so you’ll have a place to let off steam when Marcie feels like playing games.”

“You’re drunk and repulsive.”

“I know what I am, Laura. Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m going home.”

“I’m coming with you.” He got up unsteadily and followed her toward the door. Outside he stopped her. “Don’t hate me, Laura,” he said. And she couldn’t, looking at him there in the pink glare of neon, short and plain, brilliant and miserable, offering her his curious stinging sympathy.

“I wish I could,” she said and shook her head.

He smiled at her. “I’ll walk you home,” he said.

“You don’t need to. Why don’t you get a taxi and get yourself home?”

“Are you suggesting I can’t walk?”

“No.” She laughed.

“You are. Just for that I’m going to walk you home whether you like it or not. To prove I can.”

“All right.” But she had to lead him most of the way. Jack could talk better than he could navigate when he was high. When they reached the apartment she hailed a cab for him and put him in it. She stood there watching it pull away down West End Avenue, watching it till it was indistinguishable from the sea of red tail lights traveling with it. And she felt an awakening affection for him.

Chapter Seven

It was hard to get up the next day. Not impossible, just hard. Discouraging. Her head ached, and she was dissatisfied with herself. For the first time she wanted to cut work. But she went and she did her job. It wasn’t until the middle of the afternoon that she jumped to hear Sarah ask, “What’s the matter, Laura? A little under the weather?”

Laura looked up at her. _Do I look that bad?_ she wondered. “I’m a little tired. Why?”

“The reports are piling up,” Sarah said, nodding at them.

Laura rubbed her forehead. “I’m sorry, Sarah. I’ll catch up. I’ll work late.”

“Don’t be silly!” Sarah laughed good-naturedly. “Catch up tomorrow. There’s not that much of a rush.”

But the next day she didn’t quite catch up; she got farther behind, in fact. Burr and Marcie had kept her up. It was partly the quarrel and partly the torturing silence that followed it. She went to work still more tired than the day before. Dr. Carstens came in to tell her a story about one of his woman patients, and she was frankly irritated. He picked himself up from her desk, where he was sitting, and huffed out, offended. “Okay, don’t laugh,” he said. “The others thought it was funny.”

Laura drove herself almost crazy with her errors that afternoon. When her phone rang she jumped half out of her chair. It was Jack.

“Good afternoon, Mother,” he said. “I’m selling used tooth brushes. Interested?”

“No. I’m very busy. Goodby.”

“I’ll see you at eight.”

“No.”

“Eight-fifteen.”

“No.”

“Eight-thirty.”

“All right! All right! All right! Goodby!” She slammed the receiver down and Sarah stared at her.

* * * * *

Laura decided to work late, and it was close to eight-thirty when she got up to go. The reports, though fewer, were still not done.

At the elevator the boy said, “Nice evening.”

“Is it?” She answered him apathetically, involved in her own world.

“Yes, ma’am. It’s really spring tonight.” He smiled at her.

He was right. The air was soft and gentle, lavender and clear. It even smelled good, right there in mid-Manhattan, although that was probably an hallucination. Laura smiled a little. She hated to go underground to the subway, but it was late, and she wanted to get home in a hurry. It would really be gorgeous out on the roof tonight.

* * * * *

She walked in to find Jack and Burr playing checkers. Marcie was cross-legged on the floor, in velvet lounging pants and a silk shirt, humming while she covered the top of the round cocktail table with a plastic veneer treated to look like marble.

She smiled up at Laura, who paused to admire her. “Alcohol proof,” Marcie said, rattling the table cover. “Mr. Marquardt gave it to me. We’re advertising it for a new client, and they passed some around today. It sticks by itself. How do you like it?”

“It looks wonderful,” Laura said. So did Marcie, her cheeks pink with enthusiasm.

“You’ve had it, Mann,” Burr said, and Laura heard a checker smacking triumphantly over the board in a devastating series of jumps. “Touché, boy.”

“Why don’t you take up tiddly winks? I could beat you at tiddly winks.” Jack sat with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hand. He looked up at Laura without raising his head and smiled. She looked at him, absorbed in the idea that he had once been infatuated with the man beside him, and Burr had never known it. Burr thought he was as normal as himself. But of course, they had never roomed together. Suddenly Laura recalled that she had agreed to go out with Jack.

“Jack—” she began, but he cut her off.

“I see I have less allure than your typewriter,” he said. He cocked an eye at her. “Well, never mind, I don’t have so many friends I can afford to be jealous of their typewriters.”

“Thanks, Jack,” she said with a little smile. She turned to go into the kitchen, but he jumped up and followed her.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“Straight to the icebox. I’m starved.”

“We have a date. I’m taking you out to dinner.”

“Why don’t we just stay here?” she pleaded.

But all he said was, “No,” and she understood that he had made his mind up and had something planned.

She was reluctant to leave Marcie, who looked so pretty. But the prettier Marcie looked, the worse Laura suffered. Maybe it would be better just to talk about her tonight. Talk to Jack about her. It sounded good.

“Okay, but let’s get home early. I’m beat, I really am,” she said.

“Whatever you say, Mother.” He smiled, and she felt suddenly that it was terribly good to have him for a friend.

When they got outside she said, “Let’s go over to Hempel’s. It’s only a block.”

“No. We’re going to The Cellar.”

“Oh, God no! It’s miles away. We wouldn’t get home till midnight.”

“A friend of mine wants to meet you.”

“Who?”

“The name wouldn’t mean anything. It would just scare you away, probably. She saw you when we were there last week. She likes your face.”

“Oh, that’s ridiculous. Come on, I’m starving. I’ve got to eat or I’ll faint.”

“This is a very interesting girl. She could teach you a lot.”

“I know everything I want to know.” He laughed, but she went on, “Jack, I’m not going to the Village with you.”

But when they reached Broadway he hailed a cab and she let him put her in it, as she knew she would. “I can’t. I won’t. I’m tired and hungry,” she said. But she got in. “I’ll fall asleep over my typewriter tomorrow,” she moaned.

When they reached the Cellar she felt a lift of excitement in spite of herself. They arrived after the kitchen had closed, but Jack was a regular customer, and they were willing to fix him up.

They followed a waitress to a table. Laura walked with a strange light queasiness in her stomach and sat down with Jack feeling terribly self-conscious and looked-at, as if every pair of eyes in the room was inspecting her. Jack laughed, waving at somebody. “All my friends’ll think I’ve gone straight,” he said. He gave the waitress an order and she scuttled off. He leaned back in his chair to look at Laura then. “Sorry you’re here?” he asked.

“No. But I wish it was Friday night.”

“Relax. We’ll leave when you say the word.”

She began to feel adventurous and crazy. Jack went up to get them both a drink. She eyed it with suspicion, but then she picked it up and drank half of it down, and it hit her like a bomb, a big soft lovely explosion of warmth in the pit of her stomach. She blinked at Jack, who only smiled, knowing the feeling.

“How would you like to be in here some night,” he said slowly, “with Marcie beside you? And sit alone together at that little table over there? And tell her you love her?” Laura took another gulp of the drink and almost finished it. “And hear her say the same thing?”

Laura put the glass down with trembling hands. “Oh, Jack, you bastard,” she said, her insides aflame. “Cut it out.”

“You want it so badly,” he said, “that it’s tearing your guts out. And it’s never going to happen. So open your eyes. Look around. There are some beautiful women here tonight. There’s one as pretty as Marcie.” He squinted over her shoulder. Laura turned around indignantly to look, and saw a charming face framed in short brown curls smiling at a table partner. She looked up at the sudden sight of Laura’s own face, pale and compelling.

“Nobody’s as pretty as Marcie,” Laura told him.

“Somebody was,” Jack said, with his peculiar intuition taking him straight to the point.

“What do you mean?” Laura said defensively, and finished her drink.

“Whenever you know damn well what I mean,” he said with a smile, “you ask ‘what do I mean.’ As if I were nuts. Well, I’m not. Give me your glass.” He took it and got up. “Never thought you’d beat me to the bottom, Mother.” He peered into it with one eye and then left to get it refilled.

Laura leaned back in her seat and shut her eyes. After all, what did it matter if she were here? She felt wonderful. She had put in a terrific day’s work, she had a right to a little fling. Her body glowed through its whole length. Marcie loomed in her mind like a lovely apparition, not quite real.

_I’ll have her someday_, Laura thought. _No matter what he says._

She looked around her, half consciously searching for someone. But the girl in the black pants wasn’t there. The crowd was much the same as before, but thinner. The artist was walking around with his sketch pad, stopping to talk to tablesful of friends. The bar was crowded, more than the tables.

Jack came back, put a fresh glass in front of her, and sat down. “Now. What was her name?” he said.

Laura opened her eyes slowly. “Who?”

“Number one.”

She wrinkled her nose in some disgust. “Jack, she wasn’t a number. Or an animal. Or part of a collection.”

“What was she?”

“She was a wonderful girl.”

“Beautiful like Marcie?”

“No. Beautiful—but not like Marcie. They have some features in common. But Beth was taller. She was quite boyish.” She felt a little embarrassed suddenly, putting it this way. “Marcie’s very feminine.”

“What are you?”

Laura stared at him over the rim of her glass. “What am I?” she repeated, confusedly. “Do I have to be anything? I don’t know.”

“You’ll find out fast enough,” he said. “Beth probably taught you a lot. The one who brings you out always does.”

“Yes, she did,” she said dreamily. Beth had loosened her up wonderfully when they were together. She had taken her by the hand and led her to herself. She had also abandoned her there. But Laura couldn’t hold anything against her. That had been a sacred love and always would be in her memory, like all loves that are broken off in full passion. If they had been together till it had worn off a little, Laura might have left her without any desperate regrets and loneliness. She might have been able to see Beth as a whole person, not as an ideal. But it hadn’t happened that way, and Beth still looked like a goddess to her.

Now, in a new world, with new people, she wasn’t sure what she was. With Marcie she felt aggressive and violent. Here, in the Cellar, with so many eyes on her, she felt timid.

Jack grinned at her. “You’re a boy,” he said. “With Marcie, anyway. My friend won’t like that.”

Laura put her glass down. “I’m a girl,” she said. “Don’t look at me that way.”

Jack put his head back and laughed. “Correction,” he said. “You’re a girl. Why don’t you move down here where you don’t have to be either?”

“Everybody has to be one or the other.”

“You’re too literal, Laura. Cut off your hair. Wear those pants you look so nice in. Get some desert boots, a car coat and some men’s shirts, and you’re in business.”

“Jack,” she said, “You are positively revolting.”

“That’s the uniform,” he said. “Can’t join the club without it.”

“I don’t want to join.”

“Yes you do. You feel good in pants. You swagger.”

“I do not!” But she was laughing at him. At herself.

“Shhh!” he said softly. “Or they’ll cut you off. Here comes dinner.”

The presence of the waitress made it impossible to talk. She set a delectable dinner in front of Laura. But somehow, after the first few bites, it lost its appeal. She sat gazing at the plate, wondering where her enormous appetite had gone, pushing a mushroom dreamily from one side to the other. Jack smiled, watching her. He leaned over the table on his elbows and picked up her knife.

“Laura,” he said, pointing at her mushroom. Then he pushed another one slowly across the plate from the other side. “Marcie,” he said, nodding at it. The two mushrooms made contact south of the fried potatoes, and Laura felt crazy, watching it. It made her smile; she thought it was ridiculous. It made her want to laugh, and it brought a warm, unwanted, urgent feeling up in her legs at the same time. She pushed “Laura” behind the steak.

“Ah,” said Jack. “Laura’s afraid of Marcie. But Marcie’s not afraid of anything. Marcie’s a little heller. Here she comes.” And he pushed his mushroom after hers. Laura felt her cheeks get hot.

“I’m not going to run away,” she said, and took a large swallow from her drink, letting “Laura” stay put.

“Okay, be a hero,” said Jack. “Make it easy for her. Look at that little bitch!” and he scooped “Marcie” over “Laura,” back and forth, the passage facilitated by the gravy. “She’s nuts. She’s on a kick. She wants you to make a fool of yourself.”

Laura wouldn’t watch. She finished her drink for an excuse not to look.

“But look at Laura,” Jack went on. “She can’t stand it. Where Marcie goes, Laura goes.” And he pushed “Marcie” and “Laura” around the plate together.

“Stop it, Jack. Get me another drink.”

“Here’s where Laura goes crazy.”

“Now stop it!”

He crammed the two mushrooms into the potatoes, helter skelter, one over the other. “Laura got what she wanted,” he said, after a minute, looking up at her briefly. “But see what happens to her.” And with one sudden cruel stroke he sliced “Laura” in half. Laura gave a little start. “‘Marcie’ got bored with the game,” he explained.

Laura laughed nervously. “Now cut it out and get me a drink,” she said.

He got up smiling, without a word, and went to the bar. Laura couldn’t look at the plate. She signaled the waitress, who came over with a water pitcher.

“Will you take this out please?”

“Something wrong with it?”

“I can’t eat mushrooms.”

“Well, why dincha say so!” She took the plate with an angry “Jeez!” muttered under her breath.

Jack came back to find her laughing. “Couldn’t take it, hm?” He nodded at the vacant space where the plate was, and then looked at Laura. “Want to leave?”

“No. I don’t want to go anywhere, Jack. Let’s just sit here a while and talk.”

“About Marcie?”

“About Marcie.” She laughed again.

“By Jesus, you’re a pretty girl,” he said quietly. “I didn’t realize it till now. You ought to get soused more often.”

“I’m not soused, I’m in love.”

He gave a snort of disbelief. “Okay not-soused and in-love. You’re headed straight blind for misery. You know that.”

“My eyes are wide open. She’ll never love me.”

“Don’t tell me. Tell yourself. Believe yourself.”

“I do.”

He shook his head and laughed a little. “I see it coming and I tell you ‘Look out, she’s murder’ and you say ‘You’re absolutely right’ and then off you go to slit your own throat.” He leaned over the table seriously. “Leave her, Laura,” he pleaded, and took her by surprise with his earnestness. “It’s no good falling for a straight one. Believe me.”

“I won’t leave her,” she said stubbornly. “I know what I’m doing.”

He leaned back with a sigh. “Then at least look at somebody else,” he said. “Look at Beebo. She’s cruising you like mad.”

“Who’s Beebo? I wouldn’t look at anybody with such a ridiculous name. What’s cruising?”

“Beebo’s a friend of mine. And cruising—well—you’ll catch on.” He grinned.

Laura turned warily around. At the bar sat the handsome boyish girl she had admired the week before. She was gazing boldly, but without great interest, at Laura. When Laura turned to see her she smiled, very slightly.

Laura turned back to Jack. “Is that Beebo?” she asked. “In the black pants?”

Jack laughed at her. “You mean tan shorts?”

Laura looked again. “Well, she had on black pants last time.”

“Did she?” He grinned. “She says you had on a blue dress with a white collar. You did, too. I remember it. She liked it.”

Laura stared at him and then got indignant. “What’s she doing, remembering my clothes like that? That’s silly.”

“So are you. You noticed hers.”

“I just—oh, damn! She followed us into the john.”

“I know. She talked to me before she went after you. I told you, Mother. She likes your face.”

“She likes Marcie’s. That’s why she followed us,” she snapped.

He shook his head “no.”

“How do you know?” Laura flared, the jealousy working in her.

“I know Beebo,” he chuckled.

Laura was getting curious. She finished her drink in three big swallows, which made Jack laugh. “Is she a friend of yours?” she said.

He shrugged. “More or less. I keep running into her at parties. For years we ran into each other before we finally got acquainted. I like her. She’s a hellion, but I like her. She’s a cynic like me.”

“What a pity.” Laura feigned unconcern, running a wet finger around the edge of her glass. “She looks like Beth,” she said. “A little.”

Jack blew smoke through his nostrils from a freshly lighted cigarette. “That means you like her,” he said.

Laura refused to honor such nonsense with an answer. She was rather drunk now. She turned again to look at Beebo. Beebo was still gazing at her, and she winked, with that faint private smile still on her face. Laura turned quickly back to Jack. “Is she coming over?” she said, feeling slightly elated.

Jack was grinning past her at Beebo and nodding. At her words he glanced at her. “No,” he said. “She’s an uppity bitch.”

Laura was disappointed.

“Another drink?”

“One more. That’s all. What time is it?”

“Eleven-thirty.”

“No!” She tried to collect her thoughts, to right her time sense, while Jack fetched the drinks. When he came back she said, “How many drinks have I had?”

“Jesus, Mother, what a thing to ask a man. I can’t even keep track of my own.”

“I’m lost,” she said. “I’ve lost count.”

* * * * *

“Shall we take off, Mother mine?” Jack said, very carefully.

Laura tried to clear her head by shaking it and pressing her eyes shut. “I guess we’d better,” she said.

“I guess we _have_ to. It’s four o’clock. They’re closing.”

“Four!” Laura came half awake at this.

“Four o’clock,” he repeated elaborately.

“Oh, God. Oh, my head.”

“Never mind, Mother, you can stay with me tonight. I’ll try to keep my hands off you.” He laughed to himself.

Laura saw Jack looking up at somebody with a grin and heard him say, “Hi, doll. I want you to meet my mother. Mother, look alive.” He squinted at her doubtfully. “If possible,” he added.

Laura looked up and saw a startlingly handsome face gazing down at her: black hair, pure blue eyes, a slight smile that widened a little when Laura turned her face up.

“Hello,” Beebo said. “Laura.” Her smile gave emphasis to the way she said Laura’s name.

Laura put her hands to her head dizzily. “You look just like Beth,” she murmured.

At which Beebo grinned, turning to Jack. “Three aspirins and some warm tomato juice,” she said. “First thing when she gets up. She’ll live.”

Laura watched her, fascinated, half smiling.

Beebo turned back to her and returned the smile. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out a dime. She flipped it in the air and then dropped it insolently in front of Laura. “Here’s a dime, sweetheart,” she said. “Call me sometime.” And with a little grin at Jack, she turned and left them.

Laura stuck her chin out indignantly. She was not too drunk to be insulted. “Well, thanks a bunch, your majesty!” she said sarcastically to Beebo’s back. She could hear Beebo laughing but she wouldn’t turn around. She was already headed for the door.

Laura let Jack drag her to his apartment, three blocks away. He took her up a few stone steps into a long dim hall, and opened the first door on the left. He steered her to his bed and pushed her till she collapsed backwards on it. She fell asleep at once. Jack pulled her shoes off and her skirt, with total unconcern for her femininity, and got her under the covers.

Laura slept like a stone, a deep almost motionless sleep that could have lasted far into the next day. But Jack got her up at seven-thirty. She had three and a half hours sleep, on virtually no dinner and eight or ten stiff drinks. She felt strange new pains all over. Jack was used to such excesses, though he tried to ration himself to one or two a week. He took it pretty well in stride, but Laura felt awful. Her first words when Jack shook her were, “Oh, God! What time is it?”

“Seven-thirty.”

She turned over on her stomach and put her head down on the pillow. “Where’s Marcie?”

“At home. Where else?”

“What time is it? Oh, I asked you that. My head hurts.”

“Take these, Mother,” he said, handing her some aspirin and a glass of water.

“I don’t think I can swallow.”

“That’s a chance you’ll have to take. Here we go.” He popped the pills into her mouth and gave her the water. She gulped them convulsively. “That’ll see you through till—” He looked at his watch. “—about noon. After that, take three more and a No-Doz tablet. And hit the sack tonight about six. It’s Friday. You can sleep for two days.”

“I will, too.” She rolled gingerly to a sitting position, and looked at Jack with aching eyes. “You did this to me,” she said mournfully.

“Be fair, Mother. I said I’d go whenever you wanted to. I kept asking and you kept saying no.”

She stared at him, disbelieving. “Jack, you louse. You should have dragged me out, you knew I—what’s that?” There was a dime on the bed table.

Jack grinned at her. “Beebo’s calling card,” he said.

Laura remembered it in a flash, although the rest of the evening was little more than a blur. She picked it up and threw it angrily across the room. “Give it back to her for me,” she said. “All I remember about last night is that awful girl and those awful mushrooms! God!”

Jack went out of the room laughing.

Chapter Eight

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.

“Help me, Laura,” she said.

“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.