Chapter II: Part 2

She sat down on a kitchen chair and sighed. “You know, if she loved me, Nix, I wouldn’t have to do it. You know that, don’t you? Sure you do. You’re the only one who does. Everybody else thinks I’m just turning into an old souse. But it’s not true. It’s because of Laura, you know that as well as I do. She makes me so miserable. She has my life in her hands, Nix.” She laughed a little. “You know, that’s kind of frightening. I wish I knew if she was on my side or not.”

There was a moment when she thought she would cry and she dumped Nix off her lap and quickly poured herself one more shot. It went down easier than number one, but she washed the shot glass out as before and put it and the bottle back on the shelf as if to tell herself: _That’s all, that’s enough._

Beebo turned and smiled at Nix. “Now look at me,” she said. “I’m more sober than when I’m really sober. My hands have quit shaking. And I’m not going to quarrel with her when she gets up. I’m going to say something nice. Come here, dog. Help me think of something....

“I’d sell my soul to be an honest-to-god male. I could marry Laura! I could marry her. Give her my name. Give her kids ... oh, wouldn’t that be lovely? So lovely....” Jack’s desire for a child didn’t seem grotesque to her at all any more.

“But Nix,” she went on, and her face fell, “she wouldn’t have me. My baby is gay, like me. She wants a woman. Would God she wanted me. But a woman, all the same. She’d never take a man for a mate.”

She felt the vile tears sneaking up on her again and shook her head hard. “She couldn’t take that, Nix. It’d be even worse than—than living with me.” And she gave a hard laugh.

Beebo heard the bedroom door open and she dropped Nix and went to the icebox. Within moments Laura entered the kitchen.

“’Morning,” she said.

“Good morning, Madam Queen. What’ll it be?”

“Soft boiled egg, please. Have to hurry, I’ll be late to work.” She had a job in a tourist trap over on Greenwich Avenue, where they sold sandals and earrings and trinkets.

Beebo busied herself with the eggs and Laura poured orange juice and opened the paper. She buried herself in it, moving just a little to let Beebo put her plate down in front of her. Beebo sat down opposite her and ate in silence for a minute, eating very little. She lighted a cigarette after a few minutes and sipped cautiously at her hot coffee.

“Laura?” she said.

“Hm?”

“Even in the morning, with your hair up and your nose in the paper and your eyes looking everywhere but at me ... I love you, Laura.” She said it slowly, composing it as she went and smiling a little at the effect. The liquor had loosened her up.

“What?” said Laura, her eyes following a story and her ears deaf.

“I have a surprise for you, Bo-peep,” Beebo tried again.

“Oh. Says here it’s going up to ninety today.... A surprise?” She lowered the paper a bit to look at Beebo.

“Um-hm. I didn’t get you an anniversary present. I thought we might get you a new dress tonight. Stores are open.”

Laura was embarrassed. It still upset her to have to accept gifts from Beebo. She felt as if each one was a bid for her love, a sort of investment Beebo was making in Laura’s good will. It made her resent the gifts and resist them. And still Beebo came home with things she couldn’t afford and forced them on Laura and made her almost frantic between the need to be grateful, the pity she felt, and the exasperation that was the result of it all.

“I don’t need a dress, honey,” Laura said.

“I want you to have one.”

“God, Beebo, if I bought all the clothes you want me to have we wouldn’t have money to eat on. We’d be broke. We’d be in hock for everything we own.”

“Please, baby. All I want to do is buy you an anniversary present.”

“Beebo, I—” What could she say? _I don’t want the damn dress?_

“I know,” Beebo said abruptly. “I embarrass you. You don’t like to be seen in the nice stores with me. I look so damn queer. Don’t argue, Bo-peep, I know it,” she said, waving Laura’s protests to silence. “I’ll wear a skirt tonight. Okay? I look pretty good in a skirt.”

It was true that Laura was ashamed to go anywhere out of Greenwich Village with her.... Beebo, nearly six feet of her, with her hair cropped short and her strange clothes and her gruff voice. And when she flirted with the clerks! Laura had been afraid more than once that they would call the police and drag Beebo off to jail. But it had never happened. Still, there was always a first time. And if she had a couple of drinks before they went, Laura wasn’t at all sure she could handle her.

“Why don’t you let me find something for myself?” Laura asked, pleading. “I know you hate to put a skirt on. You don’t have to come. I’ll pick out something pretty.” But she knew, and so did Beebo, that unless Beebo went along Laura would buy nothing. She would come home and say, “They just didn’t have a thing.” And Beebo would have to face the fact that Laura resented her little tributes.

So she said, “No, I don’t trust your taste. Besides, I like to see you try on all the different things.”

* * * * *

So it was that Laura met her at Lord and Taylor’s on Fifth Avenue after work. It had to be a really good store and Beebo had to pay more than they could afford, or she wasn’t satisfied. Laura anticipated it with dread, but at least it was better than another awful quarrel. If Beebo would just be quiet. If she would just keep her eyes—and her hands—off the cute little clerks in the dress departments. Laura always tried to find a stolid middle-aged clerk, but the shops seemed to abound in sleek young ones.

Still, Beebo, subdued perhaps by her plain black dress and by Laura’s nervous concern, kept quiet. Laura noticed a little whiskey on her breath when they met outside the store, but nothing in her behavior betrayed it.

“Do I stink?” she had asked, and when Laura wrinkled her nose Beebo took a mint out and sucked on it. “I won’t disgrace you,” she said. She was making a real effort.

They zigzagged around the Avenue, finding nothing that both looked right and could be had for less than a fortune. At Peck and Peck, near nine o’clock, Laura said, “Beebo, I’ve had it. This is positively the last place. I don’t want you to dress me like a damn princess. I’d much rather have one of those big enamel-ware pots—”

“Oh, goddamn the pots! Don’t talk to me of pots!” Beebo exclaimed and Laura answered, “All right, all right, all right!” in a quick irritated whisper.

She went up to the first girl she saw, determined to waste as little time as possible. “Excuse me,” she said. “Could you show me something in a twelve?”

The girl turned around and looked at her out of jade green eyes. Laura stared at her. She was black-haired and her skin was the color of three parts cream and one part coffee. In such a setting her green eyes were amazing. There was a tiny red dot between them on her brow, Indian fashion, but she was dressed in Occidental clothes. She gazed at Laura with exquisite contempt.

“Something in a twelve?” she repeated, and her voice had a careful, educated sort of pronunciation. Laura was enchanted with her, pleased just to look at her marvelous smooth face. Her skin was incredibly pure and her color luminous.

“Yes, please,” Laura said.

With a light monosyllable, unintelligible to Laura, the girl shrugged at a row of dresses. “Help yourself,” she said in clipped English. “I cannot help you.”

Laura was surprised at her effrontery. “Well, I—I would like a little help, if you don’t mind,” she said pointedly.

“Not from me. Go look at the dresses. If you see one you like, buy it.”

Laura stared at her, her dander up. “You just don’t care if I buy a dress or not, do you?” she prodded. The girl, who had begun to turn away, looked back at her in annoyance.

“Can you think of one good reason why I should?” she asked.

“You’re a clerk and I’m a customer,” Laura shot back.

“Thank you for the compliment,” she said icily. “But I am no clerk. And if I were, I wouldn’t wait on you.”

It was so royal, so precise, that Laura blushed crimson. “Oh,” she said in confusion. “Please forgive me. I—I just saw you standing there and I—”

“And you took it for granted that I must be a clerk? How flattering.” She stared at Laura for a minute and then she smiled slightly and turned away.

Laura was too interested in her just to let her fade away like that. She started after her with no idea of what to say, feeling idiotic and yet fascinated with the girl. She touched her sleeve and that lovely beige face swiveled toward her, this time plainly irritated. But before either of them could speak Beebo came toward them. She had a couple of dresses over one arm and she sauntered up with typical long strides, a cigarette drooping from one corner of her mouth. Laura saw her coming with a sinking feeling.

“I found these, Laura. Try them on,” she said, looking at the Indian girl. There was a small awkward silence. “Well?” Beebo said suddenly, smiling at the strange girl. “Friend of yours, Bo-peep?”

Laura could have slapped her. She hated that pet name. It was bad enough in private, but in public it was intolerable.

“No, I—I mistook her for a clerk,” Laura said. Her cheeks were still glowing and the girl looked from her to Beebo and back as if they were both dangerous. Laura’s hand fell from her arm and she stepped backwards, still watching them, as if she half-feared they would follow her.

“Don’t mind her,” Beebo told her, thumbing at Laura. “She thinks her best friends are clerks. She’s just being friendly.” Laura heard the edge in her voice and became uneasy.

But the Indian girl, if she was an Indian girl, unexpectedly relented a little and smiled. “It’s all right,” she said. She looked at Laura. “I’m not a clerk,” she said. “I’m a dancer.”

“Oh!” Suddenly an unwelcome little thrill flew through Laura. She couldn’t have explained it logically. The girl was very demure and distant. But she was also very lovely, and Laura had a brief vision of all that creamy tan skin unveiled and undulating to the rhythm of muffled gongs and bells and wailing reeds.

She must have looked incredulous for the girl said suddenly, “I can prove it.”

“Oh, no! No, that’s all right,” Laura protested, but the girl handed her a little card with a name printed on it, and Laura took it eagerly. “I did not mean I would demonstrate,” the girl said carefully.

Beebo laughed. “Go ahead,” she said. “We’re dance lovers. I don’t think Laura’d mind a bit, would you, baby?” She was mad at Laura for flirting and Laura knew it.

The little card read, _Tris Robischon_ and underneath, _Dance Studio_ and an address in the Village. “I just didn’t want you to think I was lying,” the girl said, somewhat haughtily. And before Laura or Beebo could answer her she turned and left them standing, staring after her.

Beebo turned to frown at Laura. “You made a hit, it seems,” she said acidly. “Let’s see her card.” She snatched it from Laura’s reluctant fingers.

“Take it. I don’t want it!” Laura said angrily, for she did want it very much. She turned away sharply, giving her attention to a row of dresses, but she knew Beebo wouldn’t let her off the hook so easily. There would be more nastiness and soon.

“You got her name out of her, at least. Pretty smooth.” Beebo’s voice was hard and hurt. “Tris Robischon. Doesn’t sound very Indian to me.”

“How would you know, swami?” Laura snapped. “If you throw a jealous scene in here I’ll leave you tonight and I’ll never come back, I’m warning you!” she added in a furious hiss, and Beebo glared at her. But she didn’t answer.

Finally Laura dragged some dresses off the rack and turned to her. “I’ll try these,” she said. Beebo followed her to the dressing room and watched her change into one and then another in angry silence.

At last Laura burst out, “I didn’t ask her for the damn card. I don’t know _why_ she gave it to me.”

“It’s obvious. You’re irresistible.”

Laura took two handfuls of Beebo’s hair and shook her head till Beebo stopped her roughly and forced her to her knees. Fury paralyzed them both for a moment and they stared at each other helplessly, trembling.

Laura wanted that card. She wanted it enough to soften suddenly and play games for it. “Beebo, be gentle with me,” she pleaded, her tense body relaxing. “Don’t hurt me,” she whispered. “I don’t know who the girl is and I don’t care.”

Beebo stared at her suspiciously till Laura reminded her, “We came to get a dress, remember? Let’s not spoil it. Please, Beebo.”

Beebo released her and sat staring at the floor. Laura tried on dresses for her, but Beebo wouldn’t look at them. No tender words, no coaxing, no teasing that would have been so welcome any other time worked with her tonight. When Beebo got jealous she was a bitch—irrational, unreasonable, unkind.

“I’m going to take this one,” Laura said finally, a little desperate. “Whether you like it or not.”

Beebo looked up slowly. “I like it,” she said flatly, but she would have said, “I hate it,” in the same voice.

Laura went over to her and took her face in both hands, stooped down, and kissed her petulant mouth. “Beebo,” she murmured. “You love me. Act like it.” It was so foolishly selfish, so unexpected, and so almost affectionate that it was funny, and Beebo smiled wryly at her. She took Laura’s shoulders and pulled her down for another kiss just as a clerk—a genuine clerk—stuck her face in and said, “Need any help in here?”

“No thanks!” Laura blurted, looking up in alarm. Beebo put her head back and laughed and the clerk stared, pop-eyed. Then she shut the door and sped away. Beebo stood up and swept Laura into her arms and kissed her over and over, all over her face and shoulders and ears and throat until Laura had to beg her to stop. “Let’s get out of here before that clerk makes trouble!” she implored.

When they left the dressing room Laura noticed that Beebo had put Tris Robischon’s card in the sand pail for cigarettes. It stuck out like a little white flag. Laura risked her purse—with $15.87, all they had for the next week—to get the card back. She left the purse on the chair as she followed Beebo out. And so it was that she was able to make an excuse to go back and retrieve them both, purse and card, while Beebo paid for the dress.

3

_It’s an awful thing about Jack_, Laura wrote in her diary, sitting on the floor by the closet door. _Such a nice guy, so bright and so—this will sound corny—so _fine_. But ever since Terry left him he’s been a little crazy. I was really afraid of how much he was drinking until tonight when we had a beer at Julian’s. Or rather, I had a beer. Jack’s on the wagon. Maybe that will straighten him out. _If_ he can stick with it. If he’d been straight I think he would have done something wonderful with his life. But is it fair to blame the failures on homosexuality? Is it, really? I’m selling junk here in the Village because Beebo wants me near her. She runs an elevator so she can wear pants all day. And Jack’s a draughtsman so he can be in an office full of virile engineers. What’s the matter with us? We don’t _have_ to spend our lives doing it. So why do we?_

She had asked Jack the same question at Julian’s little bar just off Seventh Avenue, earlier that evening. “Why do we do it, Jack? Throw our lives away?” she said.

“We like to,” he shrugged. “We all have martyr complexes.”

“We give away the best part of ourselves—our youth and our health are all just given away. Free.”

“What sort of profit did you expect to make on them?” he said. “You want to get paid for being young and healthy?”

Laura glared at him. “That’s not what I mean—”

“If you’re not giving, you’re not living, doll,” he said. “I quote the sob columns. Give yourself away, what the hell. What’s youth for? And health? And beauty, and the rest of it. Keep it and it turns putrid like everything else. Give it away and at least somebody enjoys it.”

“Jack, you know damn well I mean _wasting_ it. Wasting it all day long on costume jewelry or a push-button elevator or a slide rule. God, when I think of what you—”

“Don’t think of all the fine things I could have done with my life, Mother,” he pleaded. “You give me the shudders. I’m not happy, but I’d be worse off trying to live straight. I like men. My office is full of them.”

“You hate your work.”

“I never have to think about it. Purely mechanical. I just sit there and flip that little slip stick and I say, ‘Evens, Johnson is straight. Odds, he’s queer.’ If Johnson is queer on Tuesday—according to the slide rule—I make it a point to give him a kind word.”

“Johnson is straight and you know it. Every man in your office is straight. Why do you torture yourself?”

“No torture, Mother. When the whole world is black, pretend it’s rosy. Somewhere, in some little corner. If everybody’s straight, pretend somebody’s gay.”

“That’s a short cut to the bug house.”

“I wouldn’t mind the bug house. If they’d let me keep my slip stick.” He laughed to himself and leaned over the bar to order. “One whiskey and water,” he said.

“How about you, Mann?” Julian asked.

“Nothing.”

“Are you on the wagon?” Laura was stunned. When he nodded she said, “Just a beer for me. I’m drinking too much anyway.” Then she smiled. “You’ll never last, Jack. You know what you need?”

“Do I know? Are you serious?” He grinned at her, but it was a pained smile.

“You need a real man,” Laura said softly. “Not a bunch of daydreams at the office. That’s enough to drive anybody nuts. You worry me, Jack.”

“Good.” He smiled and squeezed her arm. “Now I’ll tell you what I really need.” He looked at her through his sharp eyes set in that plain face Laura had come to love and find attractive. “I don’t need a man, Laura,” he said. “I’m too damn old to run after pretty boys any more. I look like a middle-aged fool, which is exactly what I am. When Terry left me, I was through.”

“Do you still love him? Even after what he did?”

“I won’t talk about him,” he said simply. “I can’t. But he was the last one. The end. I want a woman now. I want you, Laura.” He turned away abruptly, embarrassed, but his hand remained on her arm.

Laura was touched. “Jack,” she said very gently. “I’m a Lesbian. Even if you renounce men, I can’t renounce women. I won’t even try.”

“There was a time when you were willing to try.”

“That was a million years ago. I wasn’t the same Laura I am now. I said that before I even met Beebo—when another girl was giving me hell, and I was new to the game and to New York and so afraid of everything.”

“So now you know the ropes and you’re absolutely sure you’d rather give your life away to the goddam tourists and a woman you don’t love than come and live with a man you do love.”

“Jack, darling, I love you, but I don’t love you with my body. I love you with my heart and soul but I could never let you make love to me.”

“I could never do it, either,” he said quietly. “You’re no gayer than I am, Laura. If we married it would never be a physical union, you know that.” Somewhere far back in his mind the sweet shadow of that little dream child hovered, but he suppressed it, lighting a cigarette quickly. His fingers shook.

“If it wasn’t a physical union, what would it be?” Laura asked. “Just small talk and community property and family-plan fares?”

He smiled. “Sounds a little empty, doesn’t it?”

“Jack,” Laura said, speaking with care so as not to hurt him, “you’re forty-five and life looks a little different to you now. I’m only twenty-three and I can’t give up my body so casually. I could never make you promises I couldn’t keep.”

“I wouldn’t ask that promise of you, Laura,” he said.

“You mean I could bring girls home? To our home, yours and mine? Any girls, any time? And it would be all right?”

“Let’s put it this way,” he said. “If you fell in love with somebody, I’d be understanding. I’d welcome her to the house, and I’d get the hell out when you wanted a little privacy. I’d keep strict hands off and just one shoulder for you to cry on. As long as you really loved her and it wasn’t cheap or loud or dirty, I’d respect it.”

He knocked the ashes off the tip of his cigarette thoughtfully. “... only,” he said, “you’d be my wife. And you’d come home at night and tuck me in and you’d be there in the morning to see me off.” He sounded so peculiarly gentle and yearning that she was convinced that he meant it. But she was not ready to give in.

Laura smiled at him. “What would there be in all this for you, Jack?” she said. “Just getting tucked in at night? Is that enough compensation?”

“Nobody ever tucked me in before.” He said it with a grin but she sensed that it was true.

“And breakfast in the morning?”

“Wonderful! You don’t know what a difference it would make.”

“That’s nothing, Jack, compared to what you’d be giving me.”

“You’d be my wife, Laura, my honest-to-God lawful legal wife. You’d give me a home. You don’t know what that would mean to me. I’ve been living in rented rooms since I was out of diapers. You’d give me a place to rest in and be proud of, and a purpose in life. What the hell good am I to myself? What use is an aging fag with a letch for hopelessly bored, hopelessly handsome boys? Christ, I give myself the creeps. I give the boys the creeps. And you know something? They’re beginning to give _me_ the creeps. I’m so low I can’t go any place but up. If you’ll say yes.”

“What if I did? What about Beebo?” Laura said softly, as if the name might suddenly conjure up her lover, jealous and vengeful.

“It would solve everything,” he said positively. “She could still see you, but you wouldn’t be her property any more. It’s bad for her to have the idea she owns you, but that’s the way she treats you. If you were my wife she’d have to respect the situation. It would be a kind way to break with her,” he added slyly. He was feeling too selfish to waste sympathy on Beebo now.

Laura thought it over. There was no one she respected more than Jack, and her love for him, born of gratitude and affection, was real. But it was not the love of a normal woman for a normal man she felt for him, and the idea of marrying him frightened her.

“Do you think, if we married, we could keep our love for each other intact, Jack?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Even if I were having an affair?” She was thinking at that moment of Tris Robischon, the lovely, lithe Indian girl.

“Yes. I told you ‘yes.’”

Laura finished her beer in silence, gazing into the mirror over the bar and pondering. She knew she would say no. But she didn’t quite know how. “I can’t, Jack,” she said at last, in a small voice.

“Not now, maybe?” He wouldn’t give up.

“Never.”

“Never say never, Mother. Say ‘not now’ or something.”

She did, obediently. But she added, “We’d quarrel and we’d end up destroying our love for each other.”

“We’d quarrel, hell yes. I wouldn’t feel properly married if we didn’t.”

“And there’s always the chance that _you’d_ fall in love. And regret that you married me.”

He turned to her with a little smile and shook his head. “Never,” he said. “And this once it’s the right word.” He took her hands. “Say yes.”

“No.”

“Say maybe.”

“No.”

“Say you’ll think about it, Laura. Say it, honey.”

And out of love and reluctance to hurt him, she whispered, “I’ll think about it.”

* * * * *

Laura was walking up Greenwich Avenue, searching for number 251. She had a small white card in her hand to which she referred occasionally, although she had memorized the address. It was a hot day, late in the afternoon, and she had just come from work, wilted and worn and bored. The idea of going home right away depressed her and she had decided to walk a little.

She hadn’t gone two blocks before she was daydreaming of Tris Robischon and suddenly shivering with the thought of seeing her again.

Beebo wouldn’t be home until nine o’clock that evening, and Tris’s studio address was only a short distance from the shop where Laura worked. All at once she was walking fast.

She found the address with no trouble at all. In fact it was almost too easy and before she knew it she was standing in the first floor hallway of the modest building reading the names on the mail boxes. TRIS ROBISCHON. There it was. Third floor, Apartment C. Laura climbed the stairs.

_What will I say to her!_ she asked herself. _How in God’s name will I explain this visit? Ask her for a dance lesson? Me?_ She had to smile at herself. Her long slim legs would never yield to the fluid grace and discipline of dancing.

Laura stood uncertainly before the door of Apartment C, a little afraid to knock. She could hear the sounds of music inside—rather sharp, tormented music. Laura glanced at the card once again. It had been almost three weeks since the Indian girl had given it to her. Perhaps she wouldn’t even remember Laura. It might be embarrassing for them both. But then Laura envisioned that remarkable face, and she didn’t care how embarrassed she had to be to see it once again. She knocked.

There was no response. She knocked again, hard. This time there was a scampering of feet and the music was abruptly shut off. Laura heard voices and realized with a sinking feeling that Tris wasn’t alone.

Suddenly the door swung open. Laura was confronted with a young girl of twelve or so in a blue leotard. “Yes?” said the little girl. There were three or four others in the room in attitudes of relaxation, and then Tris appeared around a corner, wiping her wonderful face on a towel and coming quickly and smoothly toward the door. It was almost a self-conscious walk, as if she expected any caller to be a prospective pupil and had to demonstrate her talent even before she opened her mouth to speak.

She stopped behind the young girl and looked up. Laura waited, speechless and awkward, until Tris smiled at her, without having said a word. “Come in,” she said.

“I hope I’m not interrupting a class,” Laura said, hesitating.

“It does not matter. You are welcome. Please come in.” Laura followed her into the room and Tris waved her to a seat. It was only a bench, set in a far corner of the room, but Laura went to it gratefully and sat there while Tris collected her charges and put them through a five-minute routine. It looked very pretty to Laura, although the Indian girl seemed dissatisfied.

“You can do much better than that for our visitor, girls,” she said in her dainty English that Laura had nearly forgotten. It was a strange accent, like none Laura had ever heard; very precise and softly spoken, but not noticeably British or anything else. Laura puzzled over it, watching Tris move and demonstrate things to her students. She had on black tights and a small cotton knit bandeau that covered her breasts and shoulders but left her long supple midriff exposed. She was the same luscious tan from waist to bosom, and Laura, sitting there watching her, was helplessly fascinated by it; almost more by what she could see than by what she couldn’t.

Tris gave two sharp claps with her hands suddenly. “That is all for today, girls,” she said, and they broke up quickly, running into another room to change their clothes. Tris turned to look at Laura. She simply looked at her without saying anything, a stare so frank and unabashed that Laura lowered her eyes in confusion, feeling the red blood come to her cheeks.

“What is your name?” Tris asked her then, and Laura answered, surprised, “Laura.” _Of course, I’d forgotten. She doesn’t even know my name!_

Laura looked up to find Tris studying her with a little smile. The girls began to file past saying goodnight to her. She smiled at one or another, touched their heads and shoulders, and spoke to some. In between little girls she watched Laura who felt rather like a specimen on exhibit.

The studio was bare except for the bench, a record player next to it on the floor by Laura’s feet, and mirrors. The mirrors were everywhere, long and short, all over the walls. Most gave a full view of you to yourself. The room where the children dressed was furnished as a bedroom. Laura could see parts of it, and there were more mirrors in there. There was a swinging door, shut now, which apparently led to a kitchen. Laura gazed around her, trying to appear interested in it, so she wouldn’t have to look at Tris.

The front door shut finally, rather conspicuously, and a small silence fell. They were alone.

“You like my little studio, then?” said Tris.

Laura dared to look at her then and found that the last child was certainly gone and the studio was empty. Awfully empty.

“Yes, I like it,” she said. She felt the need to excuse her presence and she began hurriedly, “I hope you won’t think I—”

But Tris never let her finish. “Shall I dance for you?” she said suddenly with such a luminous smile that Laura felt her whole body go warm with appreciation. She returned the smile. “Yes, please. If you would.”

Tris walked to the record changer beside Laura, knelt, and slipped a record into place. Then she looked up at Laura, her eyes larger and greener than Laura remembered, and infinitely lovelier seen so close. She waited there, looking at her visitor, until the music began to flow. It was not harsh like the music Laura had heard through the door, but languid and rhythmical, perhaps even sentimental.

Tris began to move so slowly at first that Laura was hardly aware that she was dancing. Her arms, long and tender and graceful, began to ripple subtly toward Laura, and then her head and body began to sway, and finally her strong legs, deceptively slim, moved under her and brought her, whirling slowly, to her feet.

It was a strange dance that flowed and undulated. This marvelous body seemed to float and then to sink like mist, and at one point Laura had to shut her eyes for a minute, too thrilled to bear it. She wanted terribly to reach out, put her hands on Tris’s hips, and feel the rhythm move through her own body.

The music stopped. Tris stood poised over Laura, looking down at her, and for a moment she remained there, balanced delicately and smiling. Laura felt a familiar surge of desire and she watched Tris like a cat watching a twitching string, ready to pounce if Tris made a sudden move. And yet afraid Tris might touch her and startle her passion into the open.

But Tris relaxed as the needle began its monotonous scratch, and she turned off the machine. She sat on the floor then, grasping her black-sheathed knees in her arms, one hand holding the wrist of the other.

“Did you like it?” she said, glancing up, and she seemed for a moment to be unsure and distant, as she had been in the dress shop.

“I thought it was wonderful,” Laura said, herself a little shy. “I didn’t know dancing could be like that.”

“Like what?” Tris demanded suspiciously.

“Well—like—I don’t know. It was like nothing I’ve ever seen ... as if you were floating. It was beautiful.”

Tris softened a little. “Thank you, Laura,” she said. And Laura felt a wild confusion of delight at the sound of her own name. “I dance very well,” Tris went on oddly. “There is no point in false modesty. I hate that sort of thing, don’t you? It’s so hypocritical. If you dance well, or do anything else well, say so. Be frank. I think men like a girl who is frank. Don’t you?”

Laura was taken aback. “Oh, yes,” she affirmed quickly. But she stared. _She can’t be straight!_ she thought to herself, in a sudden agony of doubt. From the first she had taken it for granted that the lovely Indian girl was a Lesbian. It seemed so right, perhaps only because Laura wanted it that way. And too, Laura always prided herself on being able to tell if a girl were homosexual or not. She was sick at the thought that Tris might love men.

Tris watched her, interested. “What are you thinking of?” she said.

“Nothing,” Laura protested uneasily.

“All right. I will not pry.” Tris smiled. “Will you have some tea with me?”

“Thank you.” Laura was glad to ease the tension a little. Tris got up and she followed her through the swinging door into the kitchen.

Tris made the tea while Laura watched her in a rapture of pleasure. “You moved so beautifully,” she blurted, and then blushed. “I—I mean, it shows in all your movements. Dancing, or walking, or just getting down the teacups.” She laughed. “I feel like a clumsy ox, watching you.”

“You are wrong,” Tris said. “I have been watching you, too. You move well, Laura. You could learn to dance. Would you like to learn?”

Laura looked away, confused and delighted but scared. “I’d be your worst pupil,” she said.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“It’s—probably very expensive.”

“For you ...,” Tris shrugged and smiled, “nothing,” she said.

Laura turned to look at her, surprised. “Nothing?” she repeated.

“Or perhaps your friend ... the big one,” Tris added softly. “Perhaps she would be interested?”

“Beebo?” Laura exclaimed. “Oh God no!”

Tris handed her a cup quickly, as if to make her forget the suggestion. “Do you like me, Laura?” she said, her green eyes too close and her sweet skin redolent of jasmine.

“Yes, Tris,” Laura said, saying her name for the first time and feeling the fine shivering return to her limbs.

“Good.” Tris grinned at her. “That is payment enough.” Laura felt suddenly like she had better sit down or she would fall down. “You say my name now, that means you feel closer to me, hm?” Tris asked.

“Yes. A little.” Laura gazed at her, completely confused, afraid to move, until Tris gave a little laugh.

“Come, we’ll sit in the other room,” she said, and Laura once again followed her across the bare studio into the bedroom.

The room was fitted up Indian fashion with rich red silk drapes on the bed. The bed itself was actually more of a low couch, very capacious, and covered with tumbled silk cushions. There were books and records scattered around, a couple of pillows on the floor to take the place of chairs, and a number of ashtrays.

“This is my bedroom, my living room, my den, my playroom—whatever you want,” Tris said smiling, and sat down on the bed. “Come, don’t stand there looking afraid of me,” she said, “sit down.” And she patted the bed beside her.

Laura came and sat there and as she did Tris lay back on the cushions and watched her. She put her tea on the floor while Laura held hers carefully, anxious about spilling it on the lush red silk.

“Are you—are you Indian, Tris?” she asked awkwardly, turning to look at her.

Tris crossed her black-sheathed legs. “Yes,” she said. “Half Indian, at least. My mother was Indian but my father was French.”

“Did you grow up in India?”

“Yes. In New Delhi. Have you been there?” Her clear eyes looked sharply at Laura.

“No. I’ve never been anywhere,” Laura said. “Except New York and Chicago. I was born in Chicago.”

“Is your family there?”

“Just my father. He’s all the family I have.”

“Do you see him often?”

“I never see him.” She looked away, suddenly overwhelmed with the thought of her father. She had not seen him for two years. Not since she had gone to live with Beebo and admitted to him that she was a Lesbian. There had been a terrible scene. And then Laura had fled and Merrill Landon, for all she knew, had gone back to Chicago.

“Is that where your roommate is from? Chicago?” Tris asked slowly.

“No. Milwaukee.” Laura turned to frown at her and Tris, sensing her reticence, changed the subject. “Would you like to see my scrapbook?” she said. Before Laura could answer she was off the bed and searching for it among some books and papers across the room. She came back and sat next to Laura, spreading the green leather book open over their knees and putting an arm around Laura’s waist.

“These were all taken six months ago,” she said. “This boy is German. Isn’t he handsome? I love blond hair. He’s wonderful looking.”

He was indeed. Jack would have appreciated the view more than Laura, for he was young and muscular and nearly naked. His body had been oiled so that every smooth ripple on arms and back and tight hips and long legs was highlighted. He had a shock of rich blond hair and particularly handsome features, and he was shown in a number of poses: some that looked like Muscle Beach shots and others that seemed like dance positions.

“He does dance,” Tris said, anticipating Laura’s question. “With me. He’s named Paul Cate. We have a lot of routines together. We are a sort of—_team_.”

“Are you engaged?” Laura asked. It sounded ridiculous once it was said, but she found herself unreasonably jealous of the boy.

Tris threw her head back and laughed. “Engaged!” she exclaimed. “He is a homosexual, Laura.”

“A homosexual?” It sounded like fake innocence, even to Laura.

But Tris was too amused to notice. “Yes, of course,” she said, still laughing. “Can you imagine two homosexuals getting married? Could anything be sillier? What would they do with each other?” And her laughter was too hard.

Laura was shocked at her crude dismissal of the possibility of a homosexual marriage, which made her feel instantly protective and tender about Jack. But she had said, “Two homosexuals,” and Laura’s heart rose. “Are you gay, Tris?” she asked, almost in a whisper, afraid to look at her.

“Not really.” Tris flipped the words at her casually, turning pages in the scrapbook and concentrating on them. Laura sensed embarrassment in her concentration.

“Either you are or you aren’t,” Laura said, more boldly.

“Then I’m not,” said Tris and startled her visitor. “If you force me to choose between black and white, I’m white,” she explained, and Laura thought she heard a double emphasis on the word “white.” “I like men. More than women.” Laura was cowed into bewildered silence.

There were many enticing photographs of Tris. “The photographer is a friend of mine,” she told Laura with a smile. “He always makes me look good.” There was a series of her with the German boy, in dance poses. Tris was so lovely that Laura felt the gooseflesh rise up on her with Tris’s breathing in her ear and her warmth touching Laura’s arms.

“You would think we were madly in love,” Tris said with a little laugh. “Oh, look at this one. This is my former husband.”

Laura did look, hard. “You were married?” she said, unwilling to believe it.

“Yes. To him. He is handsome, no?”

“Yes.” He was pictured lying on his side, very much of a young athlete, with curly hair and an honest sort of face, a little like Jack’s long-lost Terry. He looked Irish. “Was he gay, Tris?”

“Yes,” she said and the annoyance was plain in her voice. “It was an ugly mistake. We hated each other after we got married. Before that, we were the best of friends. So you see, I know what I am saying when I tell you gay marriages are hell.”

Laura considered this in silence while Tris turned pages.

“Have some dinner with me,” Tris said, piling the pictures on the floor at the foot of the bed.

Laura looked at her watch. It was only seven. Beebo wouldn’t be home for another two hours.

“I never cook,” Tris said, going across the room to pick up the phone. She began to order sandwiches, glancing at Laura for suggestions. “They bring them up from the corner shop,” she said when she hung up. Laura looked up at her from her seat on the bed, and Tris began to move slowly, undulating, as if she were musing on a dance.

“Where did you learn to dance, Tris?” Laura asked her.

“England. Where do you live?”

“Cordelia Street. One-twenty-nine.”

“With the big one? What did you say her name is?”

Laura felt uncomfortable at the mention of her lover, and resentful of Tris’s curiosity about her. “Her name is Beebo,” she said rather sullenly.

“Oh, yes—Beebo!” Tris laughed. “It almost sounds Indian,” she said. “Is she nice?”

Laura shrugged. “I guess she is.”

“You aren’t sure, hm?” Tris seemed amused. “Are you in love with her?”

Laura was reluctant to say no, but determined not to say yes. “I—I was,” she admitted finally.

“It is all over, then?”

Laura didn’t like her bright-eyed interest. “We still live together,” she said defensively.

“Does she still love you?”

“Yes. Yes, she does,” Laura said sharply, looking Tris square in the eye.

“I’m sorry,” Tris said softly, her gaze dropping. “I shouldn’t pry.”

“There are better things to talk about than Beebo,” Laura said.

The food came and they were both relieved to turn to something else.

When the food was gone a quiet little interlude fell when Tris simply sat on the bed and watched Laura and Laura wandered idly around the room.

There was a terrible growing excitement in Laura. She felt she must run, escape somehow, get out of the studio before she made a fool of herself and an enemy of Tris. She turned at last and looked down at Tris. There was only one lamp lit in the room, and in the pale pink light Tris looked even riper and lovelier than she did in bright daylight.

“Tris, I—I have to go,” Laura said. “It’s getting late. I had a lovely time....”

“Then why go?”

“I must. I shouldn’t have come, really.”

“Will Beebo be angry with you?”

“She isn’t home yet.”

“Then you don’t have to go yet. I’ll bet she has a fine temper.” She waited for an answer, but Laura ignored her remark. She was thinking only of the possibility of staying longer. Her heart fluttered with the temptation. She was afraid of Beebo and yet, in another way, even more afraid of Tris.

“Come sit beside me,” Tris urged her, whispering. And Laura, unable to refuse her, came slowly toward the bed, as if she were in a trance, and sat down. Tris leaned back into the pillows, her hand on Laura’s arm, and pulled Laura after her.

Laura lay on her back next to Tris for a while, breathing softly, nervously aware of the sound of her breath. She held herself in as if she expected to explode. She was tense and the sweat rolled down her body, and yet she was happy, very happy.

They lay that way for some time, silent, gazing at the ceiling, neither one speaking, yet neither able to relax. At last Tris took Laura’s hand in her own warm brown one and said, “You’re afraid of me, aren’t you, Laura?”

There was a slight pause, almost a panic, while Laura tried to collect herself. “Yes,” she mumbled at last.

“Why?”

“You’re so beautiful....” Laura fumbled.

“Does beauty frighten you?”

“Yes. I don’t know why. Maybe because I never had it.”

Tris chuckled, a sweet throaty sound, and said, “Who ever told you that?” And it occurred to Laura, strangely, that Tris spoke without any accent at all. It sounded clear and plain, like Laura’s own English. But it was only a quick impression and it passed. She thought Tris was teasing her, imitating her.

“Don’t kid me,” she said.

“Take your hair down, Laura,” Tris said, her fingers playing with the prim bun at the back of Laura’s head. Her hair had grown so long—Beebo wouldn’t let her cut it—that she was obliged to roll it up one way or another in the back. It hung nearly to her waist when it was loose. She took the pins out of it now, raising herself on one elbow to accomplish the job. Tris helped her and the roll of hair came free suddenly and fell around Laura’s shoulders like silk streamers, pale gold and scented. Tris took a handful of it, pressing it to her face.

“How lovely!” she exclaimed. “Lovely blond hair....”

She put her hands on Laura’s shoulders and pushed her down into the pillows, bending over her to study her face. “I think you’re very pretty,” she said, and made Laura smile.

“I don’t believe you,” she said.

“I’ll bet Beebo thinks you’re very pretty, too.”

“Please, Tris. Let’s not talk about Beebo.”

Tris leaned down and kissed her forehead very softly. “Now do you believe me?” she asked.

Laura stared at her, her heart suddenly pounding. “No,” she said in a whisper.

Tris kissed her cheeks, so lightly that Laura could hardly feel it. “Now?” she said.

“No,” Laura breathed.

And Tris kissed her lips. Laura lay beneath her, too thrilled to move, only letting the lovely shock flow through her body and closing her eyes to feel it better. At last Tris moved away—only a breath away—and she said, “Now?”

“Tris ...” she murmured and all the melody of suppressed passion sang in the name. Her hands went up to Tris’s bare arms, over the bandeau and down that silky midriff, and then they went around Tris’s waist and pulled her close and kissed her.

It was a long kiss, so leisurely, so lovely, that Laura never wanted it to end. And when it did she followed Tris, laughing, all over the bed, kissing her wherever she could reach her, feeling Tris’s fine body move beneath her hands and the fire of her own longing bursting in her bosom.

Suddenly Tris got off the bed and stood looking at Laura and trying to catch her breath. “No,” she said. “No! That’s enough! It’s late.”

Laura stared at her, amazed. “What do you mean?” she asked. “Tris, come here. Come to me. Don’t do this to me. Tris!”

But Tris pulled her off the bed with sudden strength.

“Tris, it’s only nine-thirty,” Laura said.

“Nine-thirty? Is it that late? Laura, you must excuse me.” She was transformed. All the play and warmth had gone out of her.

“But—” Laura began, but Tris interrupted sharply, “Time for you to go home to Beebo.” There was no smile on her face.

Laura looked at her incredulously a minute longer, her cheeks burning, and then she smoothed her clothes out with lowered eyes. She was too proud and too hurt to speak. She walked noiselessly to one of the mirrors, taking her purse with her, and ran a comb through her long hair.

She stared at herself—her flushed face and trembling fingers, her body so ready for love only moments ago and now weak with denial and outraged nerves. Two feet of unpinned hair hung down her back to remind her of Tris’s admiration. But it would take five minutes to get it up again properly.

Laura looked into the mirror over her own shoulder at Tris, who was standing on one foot and then the other, bent forward slightly and obviously waiting for Laura to get out of her way. What secret activities would occupy her as soon as she got rid of Laura? Her impatience was audible in her sharp breathing. Laura dared not risk her displeasure by taking the time to wind up her hair. She simply turned and walked out of the bedroom without a backward glance, without a word.

At the front door her heart jumped when Tris called after her. Laura turned to find her running lightly across the bare studio and she waited, holding her feelings in warily.

Tris stopped at the door. “I’m sorry,” she said self-consciously. “I didn’t know it was so late. I have something to do tonight, it slipped my mind.”

Laura looked at her haughtily. “Goodnight, Tris,” was all she said. When she turned to walk down the stairs Tris added, “Say hello to your bad-tempered roommate for me.”

Incensed, Laura almost ran out the door below.

4

Laura walked home as full of hope as of frustration and anger. Tris had treated her badly but she had treated her beautifully too. With a little start of alarm, Laura knew she was falling in love. Maybe it was worse than that already.

It was a dark soft night with no moon, only the dozens of quiet yellow streetlights. Her heels rang against the cement sidewalk as she turned down Cordelia Street and she left the world outside with regret when she opened her apartment door.

She knew Beebo would be there by now. _If she’s only not drunk_, she thought to herself. “Beebo?” she called aloud. She heard a little groan from the bedroom and went toward it with a sinking feeling. _She couldn’t be drunk already. She’d only been home forty-five minutes. Unless she cut work again. God forbid!_

Laura walked across the living room slowly, in no hurry to face the argument that would result if Beebo was full of whiskey and had been sitting there fuming because Laura was late. Beebo would have been phoning all over the neighborhood for her—a practice Laura abhorred but couldn’t break her of. She touched her long loose hair nervously, wondering what Beebo would say when she saw it.

Laura pushed open the bedroom door. The first thing she saw was Nix—Nix, lying on the floor with his belly slit open from jaws to tail. Beside him was a crimson chef’s knife. Laura recognized it from the kitchen.

She stared at him for a full ten seconds in a paralysis of horror. Then she screamed with a force she had never suspected in herself. She turned back to the wall with her hands over her face and sobbed with all her strength. And while her face was hidden she heard another groan and knew it was Beebo, and she was too terrified even to open her eyes and look.

“Beebo?” she whispered, and her voice was rough with fear. “Beebo?”

Another sickening groan, and suddenly Beebo’s voice saying confusedly, “Laura? Baby, where are you? Laura....” It faded out and Laura brought her hands away from her face quickly and looked around the room, carefully avoiding Nix. Beebo was on the bed.