Odd Girl

Artemis Smith

First published in 1959.

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

To Willyum

CHAPTER 1

Anne left the subway and dug her hands in her raincoat pockets. She hurried past the crowds on Fourteenth Street, heading toward the quiet block and the brownstone house where the Circle Players met for rehearsal. She was happy—it was her day to work with Beth.

Anne knew what she felt for her. She had had crushes before—painful and wonderful infatuations with women who were older and lovely or kind. But now she was twenty, so this must be more than a crush; it had to be love. It was an idea she barely dared say aloud even in her own mind.

"Anne!" She heard Mark call her and half turned, sorry that he was catching up with her, and allowed him to walk beside her.

"Hey, how about lunch?" he said, taking hold of her elbow. "You can't turn me down again."

"Sorry," she said. "We're not stopping for lunch."

They reached the house and he ran up the stairs and opened the door for her.

"Then supper?" he insisted.

"Sorry," she said, as she walked past him.

"Okay," Mark shouted after her, running upstairs to his class, "but I'm not giving up."

She entered the room with the makeshift stage and flung her coat down on one of the benches and combed the rain out of her long hair. Beth would not be here yet. Anne always came too early. She kicked off her heels and put on her dance slippers and then went to the small dressing room to put on tights. She wanted nothing to go wrong with the scene—she wanted it to be perfect so that Beth would be proud of her. It had been perfect at home.

The mounting nervousness came and she did not know where to put herself. Beth was coming at any minute and Anne felt her heart could not take the shock of seeing her after a week of doing without her.

"Waiting long, Anne?"

Anne whirled and saw her and at once felt weak. "Not long," she managed to say. Beth was earlier today; the rain must have hurried her. Her silver hair was under a kerchief and she wore no makeup.

Anne remained standing, seemingly composed, waiting for Beth to take off her coat. She was wearing black tights underneath, which fit snugly around her small, perfect body.

"How have you been?" Beth said, smiling with her mouth and eyes. Anne wondered briefly if Beth knew what her eyes did to her, wondered if Beth knew that she was trembling.

"Okay," Anne said, "and you?" She tried not to seem too interested.

"So-so," she said. They walked back to the large room and Beth jumped on the stage. Standing in front of Anne, she asked, "Got the script?"

Anne forced her hand to steadiness and gave her the sheets of paper.

"Know it by heart?"

Anne nodded. But now she could not remember the first line.

"Sit over by the table," Beth said, "and don't move till you finish the first line."

Anne nodded and obeyed awkwardly. Sitting would make it easier. She began. "Oh, Alfred."

"Say, Beth." Mark was standing in the doorway now, munching an apple.

Anne stopped and watched Beth turn.

"Hi, Mark." She waved. "We’re working."

"Come here a minute," he gestured.

"Not now, Mark," she answered, sounding annoyed.

But Mark wouldn't be put off. He stepped into the room and went to Beth and lifted her from the stage. "I said I want to talk to you." He whirled Beth around and down and then dragged her by the hand to the hallway.

Anne felt a tearing inside her. Mark was doing it again—taking Beth away from her. She wanted to fling something at him. But she knew she had no right to be angry. He had a right to Beth; she did not.

He was whispering to her in the hallway and laughing and Anne could hear Beth laughing along with him.

Anne jumped down from the stage and walked toward them as their laughter became louder. Then she heard Beth say, "Stop it Mark! Stop it!"

She had broken away and ran back into the room, Mark following. Both almost bumped into Anne.

"Oh, Anne," Beth blushed self-consciously. "Come on, honey, let's start that scene."

She pushed a stray lock of silver hair from her face and firmly took Anne's hand and looked back at Mark. "Damn you!" she said.

Again Anne mounted the stage with her, all the while trembling at the touch of Beth's hand; trembling because she did not dare hold it tightly; trembling because she had to keep her own hands limp.

"Oh, Alfred," Anne began again, this time reading from the script.

"Not with the script," Beth stopped her.

Mark was watching them. The tearing in Anne's stomach was unbearable. She gulped and put the script down and tried to remember the first line.

"Oh, Alfred," she said, and could go no further.

"Perhaps you'd rather stand up," Beth said. "It might be easier for you."

Anne stood, sneaking a look at the first sentence from the script. "Oh, Alfred—"

"No, honey, not that way," Beth interrupted. "If you're going to stand, put your legs together. You're standing like a man."

"Let her stand like a man," Mark said from the rear. "She makes a wonderful Joan. You're wasting her on Candida."

"Oh, go mind your speech class," Beth said. "Anne needs to learn poise."

Anne's forehead throbbed. She could not stand on the stage anymore, not with Mark and Beth there.

"Please excuse me," she said. "I feel sick."

Anne ran from the stage and back to the small toilet, slammed the door behind her. She sat down and sobbed violently. She had to stop thinking of Beth. She had to stop behaving this way. She had to stop.

"Anne, Anne." Beth's voice came from behind the door, and then the door was flung open and Beth grabbed hold of her. "What are you doing here, you crazy kid?" She folded Anne into her arms and let her cry as she walked her to the small office and sat her down. "Mark's not worth all that. He's not even handsome."

It's not Mark, not Mark, it's you! But Anne's throat choked with sobs and she had no more strength.

Beth stroked her head and put her soft cheek to Anne's temple and it was soothing so that Anne's sobs grew quiet and her eyes and head let themselves rest on Beth's chest.

Beth was talking strangely, as if she did not believe what she said but said it loudly so that others could hear. "You mustn't take Mark seriously. He flirts with everyone. He likes to prove he's a man."

She knows it's not Mark. She's protecting me. But that was too much to hope for. Beth wasn't really aware.

Mark stood in the doorway now, broad-shouldered and careless, and looked down at them. "Mustn't take who seriously? I've been trying to date her for weeks."

"Oh, go away," Beth said.

But he stood there persistently, looking down, with his constant look of laughter.

The regular class was beginning to arrive and Beth sighed, patted Anne and gently made her let go.

"There goes our lesson," she said. "Come tomorrow, Anne."

Anne's grip tightened on Beth's shoulder. Afraid to leave her so soon, she choked a new sob. "I—I guess so."

Beth held her firmly one more moment, giving her strength, and Anne felt again, vaguely, that Beth was aware of her in a way controlled and full of friendship. It made the world stop turning.

"Tomorrow, Anne," Beth repeated. Her eyes had met Anne's and were strong and definite. Anne saw them and realized that Beth knew, and recognized in them a strong determination to help her fight against it.

"Thank you," Anne said. She quickly rose and ran back to the dressing room.

"Hey," Mark called after her, "how about that lunch?" The door slammed on his question. The dressing room was small and shared by both sexes with a curtain in the middle that was constantly violated. When Anne entered, Marcel was fastening Jennie's bra while she was busy painting her eyebrows.

"That was some scene you threw out there," he whistled. "What's Mark got, anyway?"

"Absolutely nothing," Anne said. She turned around and took off her tights and replaced them with a dress in the same motion.

She bent over Jennie to glance in the mirror and dabbed her face with a damp towel. Her hair needed combing but she would let that go. She had to leave quickly. She couldn't bear another moment.

But when she opened the door Mark blocked her way. He was smiling and confident and offered her his arm. "So accept a free lunch," he said. "Or was it me that really upset you?"

A cold fear splashed through Anne. He was forcing her to go out to lunch. He knew she wouldn't embarrass Beth. She set her jaw and limply took his arm. He led her quietly across the street to Frank's and then to a corner table and sat her close to him.

"Say, I've been trying to talk to you for days," he said. His perennial friendly look exposed itself to her with all its charm. Anne remained silent. "Say, Anne—" he tried again, putting his hand on hers. She drew it away. He shrugged and stopped smiling to become serious. "Anne, you don't have to act this way. I'm just trying to help you. I know what's wrong." He broke a crumb on the table with his nail.

Her expression was lifeless. She did not want to talk to him.

"You love Beth," he said.

It was a simple statement, not an accusation. She knew he had been going to say it but it startled her all the same. She could not answer.

"You crazy kid," he put his hand firmly on hers and would not let her pull away. "You need to talk to someone about it. There's nothing really wrong with you."

Anne looked at him. Without his smile Mark was a different person. Truly handsome, even likeable. She was a fool not to like him. Everyone else thought so. She might at least try.

"Look," he went on, "it's safe to talk to me, Anne. I'm A-l understanding, honest." His silly smile came back and then went again.

She looked steadily at him and then forced herself to nod. "All right, Mark, I'll talk to you."

He straightened, feeling that he had won a step forward, and broke another crumb on the table, more happily.

"How about going out with me some night?" he said. "I get free passes to all the off-Broadway shows."

She smiled and then began to laugh. He was so persistent. Perhaps she might be able to endure him if they were both watching a play.

Frank brought them the veal and peppers and they both lay down their arms for a truce. They were starved.

But Anne could not rid herself of Beth's presence. She dreaded going back tomorrow, to face her again. Beth would behave as if nothing had happened today and Anne would again watch her from the corner of her eye, conscious always of a wish to hold her and a horrid burning frustration. Perhaps Mark was right. She would someday get over it. She had to get over it.

She looked desperately up at Mark. He sensed her glance and met her eyes.

"All right, Mark," she said, "I'll go out with you—on one condition."

"Shoot," he said.

"What happened today," she said, "can we pretend that it was because of you?"

He laughed. "That's a twist. I don't know if I can take it."

"I'm sure your ego will survive," she answered bitterly.

"All right," he shrugged, laughing. "But before I'm through, you will feel that way about me!”

She laughed. Somehow that was very funny.

Later, he walked her to the subway and they stopped the entrance.

"Look," he said, "seriously, let's be friends. I'm harmless—and passive." He put up his hands to show her. "I can wait until you decide you like me."

She smiled. He was doing his best to be sweet and it was gaining ground for him. She needed a friend, and perhaps Mark might do. She had no other friends.

"All right," she said, "we'll call a truce." She extended her hand to him and they shook, then she turned to go down the stairs following the sign that said TO QUEENS.

She lived with her family in an old part of the suburb where forty-year-old houses, none exactly alike, were crowded side by side. Tall trees stood in front of them on poorly kept sidewalks. The smell of fresh rain on wet leaves was ever-present even on clear days and the sun could scarcely shine through branches that had been allowed to grow until they touched the branches of trees across the narrow one-way street. At the end of the block, a new apartment project had begun to sprout on the treasured empty lot of her childhood. She loved the old neighborhood, but she loathed going home. There was something missing there—nowhere was home except near Beth.'

She reached her house and let her key turn the front lock. She hoped she would not be heard. She wanted to run directly upstairs and shower and change, without being talked to. She wanted to be alone and think of Beth.

She entered and listened. Mom could be heard in the kitchen. The French doors of the living room opened to the hall, revealing the television set standing dark and silent. Dad had not yet come home. Boots was out on a dinner date. There was no one in her way. Relieved, Anne went upstairs, her thoughts full of Beth.

The shower cooled her, taking off the sweat of dancing and rehearsal. She wiped her skin sensuously with the wash cloth full of perfumed soap, then rinsed and repeated the ritual another time, finally wiping herself dry and spraying herself with cologne. She folded the long white towel around her like a toga and looked at herself in the full-length mirror. She let the towel fall and surveyed herself critically. There was nothing wrong with her body. Her skin, white and sensitive, was unblemished; her muscles were taut and shapely. She was a woman. There could be no doubt of that. Once she had been sad about it. As a child she had strapped her breasts tightly, hoping they would not grow. She had insisted on wearing slacks and jeans to school despite bad marks in grooming. She had snipped her hair in fits of rage despite Mom's attempts to make it grow. And most of all, she had refused to play with girls.

Anne came close to the mirror and looked at her face, first one profile and then the other; then she held her long hair up, the hair that had finally grown and now was her pride. Her face was beautiful and feminine—not the face of a Lesbian, she thought.

Yes, she knew that word. She had always known that word. She could not remember when she had first heard it. But recently it had become a popular word. The kids in the cast used it indiscriminately. Marcel or Jennie would point to someone on the street and say "She's a Lesbian," or, "Look at that queer!" And they joked with each other, imitating effeminate men or burly women. Anne knew the faces of Lesbians. They were fat and ugly and cruel. And then panic returned to her. If I let myself go on thinking of Beth this way, I'll be like them!

She snatched up the towel and ran from the mirror, out into the hall to her room.

She had barely dressed for dinner when Mom called her from the bottom of the stairs. "Anne, are you there?" Anne sighed. She would have to answer. She came out her room and to the head of the stairs. "Yes, Mom?" "Telephone for you," Mom said. Her hands were full of meatloaf and she returned to the kitchen.

Anne hurried downstairs to the living room. She seldom got calls and wondered who it might be. The living room was dark except for the dull light of the television set. Dad was sitting in his usual chair, smoking his pipe.

She went to the telephone and answered shyly.

"Anne?" It was Beth. Anne paled. Beth seldom called and each time Anne had been paralyzed with fear. She hoped her excitement would not show on her face, hoped Dad would not look up from the screen.

"Anne, I'm worried sick about you," she said. Beth paused, "Can you talk?"

"No—" Anne managed to answer. A wonderful whirlpool was again flowing round her. Beth cared.

Then the thoughts in front of the bathroom mirror gripped her and filled her with terror. I don't want Beth! I will not be a Lesbian!

"It's all right, Beth," she whispered shakily. "Mark and I had a talk. Everything's fine."

"So it was Mark." There was a sound of disbelief in Beth's voice. "I'm glad."

"Yes, it's Mark," Anne lied shakily. "We're just friends now. I'm sorry it happened. I didn't mean to come between you two."

Beth paused for a long time and then said clearly, "There's nothing between us, Anne. I want you to know that. He's all yours." There was another long silence and Anne did not know what to say. Beth's voice came through the phone again, full of concern and warmth.

"Anne, be careful. Don't go off again. Call me if you're in trouble."

"Thank you," Anne whispered. "I'll be all right. I promise." She hung up quickly. She could not talk to Beth another minute.

"Who was that?" Dad's voice spoke innocently above the laughter from the screen.

Anne whirled, frightened. "Just Beth," she stammered, then rushed toward the stairs.

"Who is Beth?" he called after her.

"Just a friend," she shouted back.

* * *

Mark did not sing in the shower; he recited Sophocles —so seriously it made Anne laugh as she listened in his living room, marking movements on her script.

"You'll never make Oedipus," she shouted.

"Ah, well," he laughed, "maybe you will."

He put on his shorts and came in, wiping his face, and let her inspect him.

"How do you like the new cologne?" he said.

"Perfect," she said. "Beth will love it."

"She will," he said with cockiness. "Are you sure you'll be all right here alone?"

"Perfect place to study lines," she said.

He went to the bedroom and took another five minutes to dress and then he was ready for the opera.

"Kiss Beth for me, will you?" Anne joked. She had learned to joke about her feelings.

Mark laughed, then blew her a kiss and said "Done."

Anne knew he wouldn't. He would kiss Beth for himself and sleep with her. She thought nothing of sleeping with Mark. She had no feelings, only a jolly attitude toward everything, as if sex was only the proper way to end an evening.

The door closed after Mark and he would not return until late.

Now Anne was left to the four walls—well-decorated walls but lifeless all the same—and she could not concentrate on her script. It had been three months since that foolish day and she had begun to notice again the fresh air and gold sunlight, remembering how good it felt to live. Talking about Beth to Mark had helped, but there was something terribly lacking from the world, and even Mark's fun would not fill that gap. Mark's dating Beth made it worse. She could not help feeling jealous and it was pain to sit memorizing lines longing all the while to be sitting next to Beth in Mark's seat at the opera.

She tried to analyze her state. It was natural for her to react this way to Beth. Mark had told her so. Mom had never given her affection; she had no sense of belonging to her family; it was natural for her to respond to someone older whom she admired, who was beautiful and who cared enough about her to scream "For God's sake, Anne, grow up!"

But there was something else—a fierce unhappiness that she had known all her life. And there was something else again—she could never remember when she had not longed for some woman—first Mom and then teachers. Never, not once had she longed for or sought the company of men. Not even Mark made her feel alive, and Mark was the closest because he could talk to her and she to him, freely.

She decided to leave the script and dream of Beth. She fell asleep on the day couch, where Mark found her when he came home.

"My God, they'll think I slept with you!" she said the next morning.

Mark jabbed another piece of toast in his mouth. "You did."

"I mean, you know—" she was embarrassed. "I didn't, did I?"

He laughed, "No, dammit." And then he paused, still laughing, "Perhaps I should be worried. How old are you?"

"Nineteen," she said.

He sighed with false relief. "Safe!"

"Mark," she said slowly, "if we had slept together, would anything be different?"

"Sure," he said, concentrating on his eggs.

"How?" she persisted.

He shrugged. "You'd be grown up."

"Mark," she pleaded, "no one's ever sat down and actually told me about sex."

He stopped eating breakfast and looked at her. "What are you driving at?"

She paused and looked down. "I can't go home this morning. I won't be able to explain it to Dad."

"Tell him you stayed at Beth's," he said unconcerned.

"It's not that." She shook her head. "I've just decided not to go home again. I can't bear it there anymore. I'm up against a wall, Mark. I don't know which way to turn."

He put his napkin down, stood up and went to her side of the table. He took hold of her shoulders and rubbed away at the tightness there.

"Has the time come, Anne?" he said softly.

"I don't know," she said. She rose and walked away from him.

"Did you have a nice time with Beth?"

"Uhuh," he nodded, watching her.

Anne turned and gazed at him. "I'm terribly jealous of Beth," she said. "I can't bear the thought of your being near her. I do love her, Mark. There's nothing I've been able to do about it."

He gave her a look of impatience and sat down again to his breakfast.

She turned and traced the lines of a vase with her fingers.

"Mark, just exactly what do you want of me?"

"I couldn't begin to explain it to you," he said with an air of boredom.

"How does one go about having sex?" she persisted.

"Why do you want to know?" he said.

"Does Beth like you? Is she pleased?" Anne insisted.

"Yes." He was growing impatient.

"Mark," she said. There was great strain in her voice and she turned from the vase to look at him. He turned, summoned by her cry, and looked at her.

"What exactly do you want of me?" she repeated.

"I want to please you," he said seriously.

"In coarse terms," she insisted.

"Why do you want to know?" he repeated.

"I want to know so that I'll be able to please Beth," she said.

He laughed, a wild laugh aimed at her. "You can't do that," he said. "It's impossible."

"Nothing is impossible," she replied.

She returned quietly to the breakfast table and slowly buttered her toast. She felt him watching her through the whirlpool that splashed her and felt the cold steel of the knife in her hand. It was a dull knife. In the bathroom there was Mark's razor. She closed her eyes and put down the toast, gripping the knife desperately. Somewhere there must be life, somewhere beyond the whirlpool. Somewhere there was Beth. You can always talk to me. Beth's words sounded in her ears. But there wasn't time to talk to Beth. Anne had to do something, now. She had to be sure of herself, of what she was.

"Mark," she managed to choke through the whirlpool, "Mark, come here. It's time."

He still watched her, his eyes carefully studying her face. She saw the knife in her hand and dropped it. It lay on the table, reflecting the light bulb, a simple, dull thing that symbolized the razor in the bathroom.

She forced herself to see again and rose, facing him. "What are you waiting for?"

He rose too and faced her, then took her firmly.

As if a part of her were standing off and watching, Anne felt his arms come around her and pull her to him. She felt the roughness of his beard, his clothes, and finally the warmth of his body pressed against her own. The tip of his tongue moved down her neck and niggled in her ear. Absurdly, it tickled and she had an impulse to giggle. But when she felt his fingers opening her blouse and the cool air touching her warm skin the giggle changed to a pang of fear. And when the wetness of his mouth moved over the mounds of her breasts, the fear mounted to the edge of panic. She raised her hands to stop him.

"Mark, no."

He pushed her hands aside and in a moment she felt her blouse come off and the straps of her bra being slid from her shoulders. And then there was the cold shock of his mouth on her breast.

She did not want him, she wanted him to stop. But she had asked him. And she knew it was too late now. She knew what she had done.

* * *

The cast spent lunch and afternoon free time across from the theater at a cafe called The Florentin, where one cup of coffee, priced twenty-five cents, was sufficient to hold a table reserved all day through a series of shifts. The management did not complain because its reputation depended upon the "arty" atmosphere which drew many tourists, and the cast was certainly part of that atmosphere.

Anne surveyed the group. Each was involved with himself and this strange process of transition to adulthood. Each had a problem; each was experiencing some form of love—or desire—or need that could not be fulfilled except by children's magic; and each was past the age of magic.

Jacques belonged to the group, effeminate yet unaware, followed incessantly by the fat simpering and servile Carol. Then there was Marcel, who played the lute and sang old folk songs and who was vainly trying to grow a medieval beard; and Jennie, whose voice was high-pitched and whose mind efficiently catalogued cliches, snatching bits of culture from others' conversations, repeating them at the best times; Ronnie, the big tall fat boy, who had a magnificent talent for acting and who played King Lear and made everyone cry—he too was affected like Jacques, but was ashamed of it and went to great lengths to prove he was manly.

Yesterday, Anne had been one of these. Today, Mark had separated her. Today she had become one alone. Today the world was colorless and all dreams were gone. She sat quietly in her corner by the large window and watched them, not listening to their talk, not drinking her coffee. She felt tired, so completely, through all her limbs, and her eyes saw only black and white shadows.

"Anne, you look ghastly," Jennie said, stopping her incessant flow of words to look at her. "You must be sick."

"Just a cold," she lied. She wanted so much to tell them the truth, but it would have been awkward and silly. She was glad that later she might go home to rest. She wondered how Moms would react to her having been out all night. No matter—she would not be living at home for long; she planned to find a job and move out within the month.

Then Beth and Mark arrived, snatching a short ten minutes, and Beth sat next to her. Immediately Anne was aware of new strength and her pulse quickened. Beth regarded her with meaningful eyes and Anne wondered if Mark had told her. No, Mark had not told her. She was concerned only about the rings under Anne's eyes. "You ought to get more beauty sleep," Beth said. Anne nodded and smiled embarrassedly. She could not look at her eyes. Mark was a great wall between them.

Mark was regarding her too, with a firm, quiet gaze. "How are you, trooper?" he said.

"Okay," she smiled.

In a few minutes she slipped away quietly. But at the end of the street Mark caught up with her and took her arm.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked protectively.

"Home," she sighed. She stopped and regarded him. "I'm sorry if I seem cold. I can't be warm."

He walked with her, his hands in his pockets, and looked at the ground. "You make me feel responsible. Is this really the first and last time?"

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Look," he spun her around, "you're not giving it a chance. It takes time to get used to the idea."

She smiled sadly. "You've already got Beth. You don't need me, Mark."

He looked down again and did not answer. They walked quietly to her subway.

"Look," he said with his steady glance, "I want to see you again. Beth is not the only woman in my life. I'm free as a bird. I want to see you again."

Again she smiled sadly and shook her head. "I'm very grateful, Mark, but there are some things I just can't feel. Please let's just be friends—as we were."

He held her shoulder and would not let her turn, regarding her firmly. "Look, Anne, there's nothing wrong with you. You're every bit normal. Please help me prove it to you. Please give me time."

"Poor Mark," she smiled. "Don't feel so guilty. Give me a week or so to think."

He pinched her cheek and straightened. "That's more like it."

She watched him walk away with a bounce and whistling and wondered why she felt so blank about him. Deeply she knew that watching Beth would have been different.

* * *

The day was lingering an extra hour on the tops of trees .and Anne thought as she walked home: How right it is that it is spring. Spring was the time for moving and shaking dust out of old corners. Tomorrow she would look for a job and an apartment; tonight, she would leave home, suddenly.

It had to be a sudden move, so sudden that her parents would be too overcome with shock to try to stop her. Once she had escaped there would be time and opportunity to ease their feelings. With the coolness of thought that springs from unpleasant necessity, she laid out her plans. She would pack her belongings in light suitcases and paper bags and her treasures in a small trunk—her sketches, attempts at poetry, uncompleted books and plays, all her efforts at trying to find herself through self-expression. For three years they had collected in secret places, hidden from Dad's criticism and Mom's concern. Ever since the day Dad put his foot down:

"You cannot go to Bennington."

"But the scholarship—"

"Scholarship. Another word for charity. No."

He was difficult to speak to for he spoke in terms of an old-world culture and had no respect for American educational advantages, especially for women. "Your mother needs you here. You have enough to learn here about becoming a wife."

Now Anne unlocked the front door. Portia the cat greeted her with a meow and Anne bent to pet her. The soft fur felt good in her hands and she felt the strain in them ease slightly. No one was home. They went to movies on Sunday nights, and would be gone quite late. She hurried upstairs to pack.

For three years she had worked and saved money and to escape home she had taken night classes with the Circle Players where she had met Mark—and Beth. Her bank account held nearly a thousand now and she felt secure enough to leave. She had never had a problem finding good jobs, and apartments could be found somewhere. There remained only for her to take her belongings. She could not wait another day. It had to be done now.

There were many things that would not fit in bags— her books and childhood keepsakes. But they would be safe until she could come back for them. She would take the essential things. The rest if need be she could replenish from scratch. But she had to leave now—secretly, or she would be stopped. Particularly after having been out all night. She could never explain why to them so that they would understand.

When everything was packed she brought the bag down and called a cab that would drive into the city. Then she began to write a note: "Dear folks, I guess I've run away from home." She paused. It sounded childish. How could she explain about Beth or Mark, about not wanting to marry and have children? She could not even reason out her revulsion at the parades of young men to whom she had been subjected at Saturday night gatherings. All these things seemed such strange motives for leaving home, for wanting to be left alone to face a world full of no other places to hide.

She tore up the note. It would be better to call them and assure them by telephone that she was safe and well and then to arrange a meeting with them in some public place where she could try to explain to them that she had grown up.

Her cab arrived and with the help of the driver they loaded it with her things. Only Portia remained to meow goodbye. Anne paused, cursing mildly under her breath, and took the cat in her arms. "Come along, I can't leave you," she said.

CHAPTER 2

Three weeks had passed and the decorating was nearly done. Anne and Portia found themselves alone, sitting by the telephone with its unlisted number, waiting for it to ring. She had found a perfect place—a year's sublet with adequate furniture, and convenient to The Florentin and the Players. Now she was ready for guests, but no one knew where she lived or how to contact her. Whom should she call first?

She thought of Beth and then rejected the idea with great effort. There was Mark—but seeing him might be too great a strain just now. What a pity they could not just be friends.

It was not that she had felt revulsion, not even fear— just a nothing feeling that broke all illusions and put it blankly to her that somehow she must be different, immune to all men, even Mark.

She decided not to sit and brood about this and picked up her white telephone. She would call Jacques; he was safe, possibly even gay. She wondered whether he knew women who were and if they were not all hideous-looking perverts.

"Hi, stranger," she heard him say, "where have you been? Your folks have been hounding me."

"I'm sorry," Anne said. "Want to come see my new place?"

"Anytime," he said. "I'm free tonight so better hurry."

"All right, tonight." Anne laughed.

"The address please, and the telephone number.”

Anne hesitated. "You won't give it out—"

"Hell, no," he said.

She paused for another moment, then laughed at herself. She couldn't go on being a recluse, not when she wanted her telephone to ring so badly. She gave him the number and the address and told him to give her an hour to get things tidy.

The apartment grew real and each ashtray took on new purpose. Anne felt that the dream had passed and that she was alive, in a different world full of new things to do and think, free from parents and children's games. She gained new courage; she would call Beth.

She dialed her number then waited, barely able to speak from the excitement that welled in her. Then Beth's voice, unaltered by the telephone, forced her to reply. "Beth? Hi."

"Well, hi," Beth said. "We've missed you. Your Dad's been frantic."

"I moved away from home," Anne said. "Want to come up and see my new apartment?"

"Sure." Beth turned away from the receiver and said, "Hey, Mark—it's Anne."

Anne's heart sank. So now Mark would know where she lived, too. She had hoped Beth was alone.

"When do you want us over?" Beth said.

"Tomorrow night?" Anne stammered. At least Beth would be with him. He would be easier to handle. And it was better if she did not see Beth alone. She knew somehow that it would be better.

"Okay, around eight, but only for an hour," Beth laughed.

Anne gave her the address and then too soon the conversation was over and the telephone receiver was down again, silent.

Anne remembered Jacques and began putting away paint cans and underwear for his arrival, patting Portia as she went back and forth. She called the corner grocery and ordered beer and snacks. Then she sat down and waited.

Jacques did not live very far away and he arrived soon, rang the doorbell eight times in rhythm and leaped two steps at a time up the five flights to where she stood in the hallway waiting.

"Annie," he embraced her playfully, "so what are you doing living in the Village?"

She gave a Sphinx smile and led him in, displaying her interior decoration. She had rearranged and spread the furniture with new cloth so that it had lost its middle-class look and her sketches hung on the walls reflected the sublet's new tenant.

"What you can do with nothing," he whistled.

"Beer or what?" she asked, efficiently going to the refrigerator.

"The 'or what,' " he said. She poured scotch in a kitchen glass for him and then came back to sit on the day couch.

"Boy, what a location," he said, "straight across from The Oval."

"The Oval?" Anne was puzzled. "What's so special about it?"

Jacques flipped. "Don't you notice?" It was amusing to watch him. He took pride in being effeminate and the whole cast was used to it.

"No, seriously," Anne said. "Is that a queer place too?"

"For butches," he nodded. "Strictly rough trade." He sat back and looked at her. "You've changed. What's happened to you? Why the sudden move?"

Anne paused for a moment, fingering her beer can, then looked directly at him. "Can I be frank with you?"

He nodded, returning her glance and leaned forward.

"I had to move," she continued, "because I think— somehow I know—that I'm queer." She looked at him and waited. He paused for a moment then laughed heartily.

"Welcome to the club."

Now they both laughed, Anne embarrassedly, but relieved. She sat nearer to him and said, "Tell me more about the Oval. Do girls really go there?"

"Mostly drag," he nodded.

"Drag?" she had often wanted to ask what he meant by that. The rest of the cast seemed to know.

"With men's clothes on. You know—tough," he said.

Anne smiled. "Now I know another word."

They both felt that they were friends and Jacques spoke more freely of himself. He was in love with a boy named Gene who would have nothing to do with him. Jacques chased him from one bar to the next and made good friends along the way. Then he spoke of other things, news of-the cast and how Anne had been missed at rehearsals and how her replacement was just a dog. And then there was a long silence again and Anne spoke slowly. "Do you know of better places than the Oval?"

He shook his head. "I'm the wrong one to ask—brave the joint some night and ask one of the waitresses."

"Thanks," she said, "I guess I'll work up the courage one of these days."

When he was gone she looked out of her window for a while, toward the Oval, trying to make out in the dark whether the figures entering were men or women.

* * *

"Hi, there!" Beth came first up the stairs and took both Anne's hands and looked at her. "You look wonderful." Mark, coming behind her, looked approvingly up and down and said, "What's your tonic?"

"Freedom," Anne said. "Come on in." Indeed, she felt free. Her talk with Jacques the day before had given her new assurance and she had prepared for their visit with great calm—a new sensation for her; she was usually paralyzed with expectation.

"This is a wonderful place, Anne," Beth said. She seemed more excited than usual—Anne wondered if Mark had told her about them. She was making a great effort to be friends.

"Just a sublet," Anne said, then took their coats.

"Only a block from the theater," Mark noticed. "It's tailor made. Gosh, Anne, I hope you're coming back."

"No," she said, "I don't want to act anymore."

"Hey, that's a shame." Beth went to her, took her hands again and squeezed them tightly. "You've got real talent."

"I'm sorry," Anne said. She avoided looking at Beth's face. "Can I pour you drinks?"

They nodded and went to sit on the day couch, but on opposite sides instead of closely. Anne felt Beth knew about Mark. She behaved as if she knew and had decided to leave Mark for her—as if Anne were in greater need of him. How awful, Anne thought, I don't want him. How can I tell her this? And how can I convince Mark?

She brought their drinks and they chatted and Beth laughed more than usual. Her composure was tarnished at the edges, Anne thought. She also drank four martinis within the allotted hour of their stay and when she got up to straighten her skirt and say "Well, let's go," she was wobbling slightly.

"Come back soon." Impulsively Anne took her hands and looked deeply into her eyes. Beth looked away and said, "Thanks."

Mark brought their coats and there was nothing more for Anne to say except the usual goodbyes. Mark gave her a meaningful glance as they left.

Now the door was shut and Anne was alone and she felt a dreadful tearing in her stomach and she knew the reaction had finally come. Beth still attracted her, despite Mark and the talk with Jacques, and even despite Beth.

There could be no relief. She would lie in bed all night with her eyes fixed on the ceiling, picturing Beth, in the way she had dreamed in adolescence, of arms and thighs locking in long embraces. There could be no relief.

The phone's ringing startled her from her reverie. She knew it was Mark.

"It's late to call, Mark," she said.

"When can I see you?" he insisted.

"I don't want to hurt Beth," she said.

"Beth and I are through," he said emphatically.

"I don't want you, Mark," she sighed.

"I want to see you," he said. "Be right over."

Before she could answer him he had hung up, and in a matter of minutes he was in the apartment. She tried to explain, though she knew it was futile.

"Look, just because you satisfy me doesn't mean you satisfy me." This was a riddle to him. "Mark, when a man craves mushrooms and you fill him up with steak until he can't eat another bite, he might still crave mushrooms."

He laughed. "I'll be glad to serve your steak with mushrooms anytime." And then he grew more serious and held her tightly so that her arms felt bruised. "Anne, I can do anything and everything a Lesbian can—and better."

"You don't understand." She pushed him away. "It has nothing to do with doing; it's being. Your stunts don't impress me at all." A memory would quickly flash of lying on his bare, hard chest and finding it alien, of pawing at his chest and trying to make it full and soft and hearing him laugh, "What the hell are you doing?" And when he held her she was made sick by the odor of his flesh and the taste of his mouth.

He left soon, without understanding, and as the weeks went by he made himself convenient. He was fun to drive with and swim with and to have around her at parties, and his body became a habit with her so that she would ask for him. But she felt only half there when she was with him and nothing could keep her mind from wandering to Beth. But Beth herself was gone. Mark no longer spoke of her and Anne did not mention her. She had gone on the road with a musical and had sent one post card.

"When are we getting married?" Mark said one night.

"Not ever, Mark," she said.

"I want the wedding in June," he said.

"I don't want to marry you, Mark," she repeated.

"You'll marry me if I have to make you pregnant," he said.

He assumed they were engaged and for the benefit of her parents she played the game with him, but she insisted it was a game.

And then one evening, when the party was especially wild, they both drank heavily—Anne to escape Mark, and Mark to have fun. And after six martinis Mark proposed again and Anne thought, What the hell, and said yes.

He pulled her right up then and made her say good night and took her to the car and they drove through the night to Maryland and woke up a Justice of the Peace.

* * *

When she woke the next morning she remembered and thought, What have I done?

Mark lay next to her in a sweat, wrapped and knotted in the sheets, groaning as he did with a hangover. She looked around. It was a motel room. She knew that what she remembered was true.

Her head hurt. She rose and went to the bathroom and wet the two face cloths and put one on his head and one on hers and then waited for him to wake up.

When he was awake enough to talk she said, "Mark, I want a divorce."

He looked at her, "Now wait a minute. So we were high. That doesn't change things."

"I don't want to be married to you, Mark." She was firm and controlling impatience.

He sat up more and put the wash cloth down. "Look, you don't make sense. You've been perfectly happy being a mistress. Does being a wife change things?"

"You'll never understand." She rose and paced back and forth, "There's no way I can explain it to you. You refuse to believe me."

"Anne, stop this foolishness. Grow up." He rose and went to her and took hold of her arms. "There's nothing wrong with you."

"We're incompatible," she said.

"Not sexually," he insisted.

"Emotionally, mentally!" she said. Now she tried to push him away but he held her tightly.

"Anne, I'm not going to let you go." He was impatient, treating her like a child.

"I want a divorce, Mark," she said firmly. "If you refuse to give me one, I'll get a separation."

"Stop being foolish." He held her tighter and tried to take her lips.

"Mark, please—I don't want to be cruel. Look, I don't like the feel of your flesh, your kisses repel me, our minds don't jibe—I might as well be married to Lassie!"

"Lassie be damned!" he said and squeezed her to him and forced her to take his mouth.

"I don't want you," she tried to say, but he was too strong. He had a right to her body and she was helpless.

They drove back to New York a short while later and Mark let her off at her door.

"Start packing. You're moving in with me," he said.

But when he drove off she called her attorney and he began separation proceedings for her.

A week later, Mark received the summons and came to her apartment. "My God, Anne, why can't we talk this over?"

"I tried, Mark, you wouldn't listen." She was quiet but near to tears. She could not bear another night with him and yet she felt that she must let him in, to try again to explain.

"Anne, I'm going to fight this," he said. "There's something wrong with you. You're sick. I'm not going to let you go."

"Do what you like," she said. "Nothing I say seems to matter to you." She buried her face in her hands and cried.

He took a cigarette and went to the refrigerator and poured scotch for them and came back and put the glass in her hand. Then he stood by the window and waited and smoked;

She wept quietly and then dried her tears and sipped the scotch. Everything was still. The television upstairs had been shut off and the hi-fi next door was silent. Then the telephone rang. Mark seemed to expect it and took the receiver.

"Hi, Beth," he said. "Come on over."

Anne raised her head. Beth was calling. Her show must have folded. She was back in town.

A new strength surged through her. She was impatient with the four walls and with Mark. She wanted to take the telephone from him. How dare he go on speaking to her. Beth had called her!

"Beth, you're the first to be told," Mark was saying. "Anne and I got married."

"Give me that phone!" Anne suddenly knew rage. "How dare you!" She tried to take it from him but he held it high.

"Come on over for a toast," he said. Then he hung up and looked at Anne. "She called me this morning and I told her to call us tonight." His face was hard and his mouth had a curve of meanness. "Anne, I'm going to spoil your dream."

Anne gripped her glass, feeling helplessly weak. This was not the Mark she had once known. Without wanting to she had done something to his pride and now he was hitting back, through Beth. There was nothing for her to do but sit and wait in quiet rage.

For nearly a half hour they drank in silence, and then the doorbell rang.

"Answer it," Mark said.

Anne sat. "It's your show," she said.

He crushed his cigarette and rang the buzzer. Then Beth came up the stairs and he waited for her at the door.

"Hi, kiddies," she said. She wore a bright smile. "Happy honeymoon and what's the idea of not telling me this afternoon?"

"A surprise," Mark said and took her coat. His sullenness was cast off and he was being social. Anne sat quietly, seeing through his mask.

"Anne," Beth turned to her, "you're pale. Are you sick?"

"I'm fine, Beth," Anne said. Seeing Beth gave her new strength.

Beth handed her a small package. "It's all I could find for a house warmer," she said.

Anne took it gratefully and held it in her hand. Somehow it seemed a peace offering. Beth had forgiven her.

"I'm so happy for the both of you, really I am," Beth continued. She squeezed Anne's hand warmly and Anne held the warmth in her palm. It gave her strength to blurt out quickly, "Thanks—but we're getting a divorce."

Beth's smile disappeared and her face grew serious. "Oh no! What's happened?"

Mark came in with drinks and spoke before Anne could. "She's got a fool notion about wanting to be free."

"We got drunk one night, Beth," Anne blurted out, trying to make her understand. "It was an accident."

"I don't get it." Beth shook her head, fumbling for a cigarette. "I thought you two were in love."

"We are," Mark interrupted, "but Anne thinks she's—"

"Mark, shut up!" Anne rose and shouted. "Don't you dare tell her!" She was full of anger and she gripped her glass ready to throw it. No one else had the right to tell Beth how she felt about her.

"Tell me what?" Beth said.

Mark shrugged. "We'd better forget it."

Anne sat again and looked at her glass. She had tipped it in her anger and spilled her drink. She went to get another and then came to sit down.

Mark had changed the subject and was asking Beth about the show.

"It hasn't folded," Beth said. "As a matter of fact, I called you this morning to tell you there might be a part in it for you. We lost a few in the cast and we're back in New York for more rehearsals and replacements."

"Thanks." Mark fingered his glass. Anne knew that at any other time he would have whooped with joy.

"Please take it, Mark," Anne said.

"I'm sorry." He shook his head. His jaw was determined and his eyes were stubborn. "I'm staying here." Then he changed again and refilled Beth's glass and said, "Tell us more about the show."

Beth began a long soliloquy and they listened, laughing at her imitations of the stars at rehearsals and the gossip about the director's mistress and the two fairies in the men's chorus.

Mark was getting high, determinedly and with a touch of meanness. Anne alone noticed it, because he was making Beth high with him, filling her glass and mixing her drinks. Beth always drank a lot and it was easy. With distaste, Anne saw the end of the night's game and wanted to leave; but it was her own apartment and she had nowhere else to go.

Mark suddenly sat close to Beth and began to kiss her; she was too drunk to notice and responded instinctively. Then she remembered and brought up her hand to push him away. "What the hell are you doing, Mark?"

"It's all right, Beth," Anne said, then took her coat and left.

Outside, the clock on the tower said five of two. She walked through the chill air to the park and then decided it was not safe to sit on the benches at that hour. She counted her money. There was enough for a hotel room. The Oval was next to a hotel. She would go there, but first she would walk away her sadness.

Mark had thought to prove something to her tonight, in a cruel way to hurt her, too. But she was beyond being hurt by him. She expected Beth to react normally to him—Anne had never hoped differently. He could never understand how her mind worked. She would never hope to attract a woman who was happy with men—that would have been equivalent to what Mark wanted to do with her.

Somehow she hoped that Mark would rediscover Beth and that Beth would be pleased with him. But that too would not happen. Mark didn't want a woman who wanted him. That was too simple. He was determined to hold on to Anne just because she didn't want him. Ridding herself of Mark promised to be a messy business. She hoped that Beth would not be hurt in the fray.

Her walking had led her back to the hotel and she stood outside of it, surveying the Oval and the people inside through the large windows. It was crowded and darkly lit and somehow she did not have the strength to brave it that night. Then a girl in men's clothes staggered out of the door and paused, stepped on her cigarette and looked at Anne blankly. A cold fear gripped Anne and she hurried into the hotel lobby, almost as if to escape.

* * *

She woke late in the morning and was grateful that it was Saturday and that she did not have to go to work. Daylight was filling the room, making it seem less dingy and moth eaten. The wild sounds of the night were gone and only the maid's vacuum cleaner was heard next door. She rose and put on her clothes and went outside to call her apartment from the telephone booth. There was no answer. Beth and Mark had left.

With a feeling of freedom and happiness about the sunny morning she ran across the street and up the stairs to her door. It was such a relief not to have spent the night with Mark. It almost made up for the loss she felt over Beth. But in the apartment the gloom overtook her again. There were the empty glasses of last night and the full ashtrays, and the rumpled bed—suddenly she realized that all night she had burned with an intense jealousy and that now she hated Mark completely, because he had dared to take Beth, because Beth should belong to Anne, because Anne would not misuse Beth the way Mark had —as a tool to make someone jealous. She sat on the chair, not wanting to sit on the bed where they had lain, and cried. "Beth, Beth, no one loves you like I do!"

Much later, the telephone rang.

"Anne?" It was Beth's voice, searching and timid, not the sure voice that had always greeted her.

Anne's heart swelled. There was so much she wanted to tell her.

"I'm sorry about last night," Beth continued, "I was dead drunk—"

"Beth, don't—" Anne found it hard not to cry. "It's all right, really it is."

"What a horrid mess!" Beth did not listen to her. "How can you ever forgive me!"

"Please don't, Beth—" Anne said. "Look, come on up now and we'll talk. I have so much to tell you, in my own words, not Mark's."

"All right." Beth's voice was still timid, lost. "I'll grab a cab."

Now Anne put down the receiver and changed to jeans. She marvelled at the calmness with which she gathered the glasses and emptied the ashtrays. She had begun to grow up, she decided. She was expecting Beth, in order to comfort her. This was a new experience. She was no longer the lost young kid who cried on Beth's shoulder. Now she felt strong and able to protect and to provide for someone weaker than herself.

When Beth came, the apartment was clean and breakfast was almost ready to be served.

"Hi!" Anne was cheerful as she took Beth's jacket, hoping to make her feel at ease.

Beth's face was tired and she wore no makeup. Her hair was tied away from her face in a kerchief and she was dressed in dance tights.

Anne handed her a Bloody Mary and said, "Hair of the dog."

Beth said thanks and took it, then went to a chair and fumbled with cigarettes. She looked at the bed with discomfort. Then Anne came in with eggs and toast and coffee on a tray and set it down on the table, sitting carelessly on the bed, feeling it her own again.

"Mark means nothing to me," Anne said, searching Beth's face for a reaction. "Please believe me, Beth."

"I believe you." Beth looked at her. Anne knew now that it was not discomfort that Beth had felt, but distaste. Mark had behaved disgustingly and Beth felt soiled.

"Exactly why have you two broken up?" Beth asked.

"Mark didn't tell you last night, did he?"

Beth shook her head. How like Mark, Anne thought, too possessive to let Beth know Anne loved her.

Anne rose and paced, choosing her words carefully.

"Beth, you once said I could talk to you," she began. "How I wish I really could have talked to you." Anne stopped. It was so difficult to explain. It had been simple to tell Jacques, but now it was difficult.

"Beth, you remember that day in the theater—when I behaved so foolishly and cried?"

"Yes," Beth nodded, "over me."

The statement was so simple. Beth had known the truth all along.

"I thought you had gotten over that, Anne." Beth added softly.

Anne shook her head. She could barely speak. Beth knew and understood everything and it brought the whirlpool back and the weakness in her knees. She was no longer in control of herself.

Beth rose from the chair and went to sit next to her on the bed.

"Anne," she began, "I'm glad you took the long way round."

Anne looked at her, puzzled. "I don't understand."

Beth smiled, brushing her hair with a finger. The morning sunlight made the platinum shine and Anne thought her even more beautiful.

"If you had talked to me months ago," Beth started, "I would have done my best to help you get over it, to go out with Mark. But you found Mark all by. yourself and you've decided all by yourself that you don't want Mark. I'm glad I had nothing to do with it."

"Beth," Anne forced the words because she had to know, "are you a Lesbian?"

Beth smiled and rose. "No." She walked to the window and looked out to the street below.

Anne's heart sank. Beth understood, but Beth did not desire her.

"Anne, I wish I could explain myself to you," Beth said. "I don't feel capable of love. I've always been a good-time Charlie. Even my affair with Mark has always been strictly for laughs. Last night, if you had stayed, if the three of us had been involved—it wouldn't have been a new thing for me. What disgusts and upsets me is that Mark used me to hurt you."

She turned now and looked at Anne and Anne knew that Beth was waiting for her to say something. Anne said, "More coffee?"

Beth nodded and looked outside again. The sunlight bathed her figure. Anne paused to look at her from the kitchen, holding back the trembling that still threatened to overpower her. Then she controlled herself and brought back a fresh cup. Beth was still staring at the street.

"Anne," she said finally, "are you terribly unhappy?"

Anne nodded and forced a "Yes."

Beth pulled the shade down and stood looking through the slit in the window. "Come here," she said.

The same cold nervousness gripped Anne and she could barely move, but she came to stand beside Beth at the window.

"Take my hand," Beth said quietly.

Trembling, Anne reached out and took Beth's slender hand. The long fingers wound around hers tightly and for a moment Anne could not breathe as she felt the touch of Beth surging through her body.

"Back in school," Beth said, "my best friend was gay. We had an affair but I outgrew it. She has a roommate now and they're very happy. Some Lesbians are happy because it's natural for them to be Lesbians. You may or may not be one of those." She turned now and looked at Anne. "No one in the world can make you a Lesbian, Anne," Beth said. "The same way that Mark couldn't make you like him. The same way that I couldn't possibly love a woman for very long." She stopped again and gripped Anne's hand more tightly than before. "Can you bear my going away afterward? Anne, afterwards I won't want to see you again, not for months.”

"I can't bear not having known you," Anne said.

"Once and only once, Anne," Beth said.

Anne nodded, unable to let go of her hand, unable to move. Beth neared her, taking her in her arms slowly and tenderly. A shaft of pleasure went through Anne. Now she knew it was pleasure and not pain, and was conscious only of a superb softness and an unbearable attraction that would not let her body stop touching Beth's. Beth's flesh was familiar; Beth's mouth was sweet. Anne clung to her mouth, not wanting ever to let go. And then, Beth forced her to let go and brought her mouth to Anne's breast, gently removing the folds of clothing that separated their bodies until they lay naked, somehow having found the bed through the whirlpool, and Anne could not bear to wait anymore and cried for Beth to come and please her.

* * *

The ringing of the phone jarred Anne from her exhausted, peaceful sleep. She kissed Beth softly before she rose to answer.

It was Mark. He called to let her know, he said, that he had told her parents that she was abnormal. "For your own good. Because you're sick. You need help, Anne."

She slammed the phone down in fury and went back to the bed.

Beth lay next to her, her head on her breast and fitting so well in her arms and Anne knew that there was nothing wrong with her. She felt right for the very first time, and all she could think was, Poor Dad, what a shock.

"The bastard," Beth said. "I could wring his neck." Anne thrilled at her indignation, but she said, "Please don't bother," and raised Beth's head so that their lips could touch.

"There's one thing I can do," Beth said. "I can testify for your divorce.”

The thought was devilish and they both laughed over it. But Anne said she didn't think it would be necessary and Beth agreed; they would threaten him with that if he tried to make things difficult. And they both knew that Mark might become difficult too easily.

Beth sat up and they kissed once more, and Anne responded hungrily. Beth pushed her away gently. "I'm going to have to leave," she said.

Anne accepted it and said nothing and lay on the bed hugging her pillow. It had grown dark outside and Beth put on the small lamp to dress by. She was upset and moved slowly. Finally she said, "You think I'm being cruel."

Anne shook her head. She was choking back tears; she couldn't speak.

"Anne—" Beth went to her and put her hands on her shoulders, "Look, my resolutions are never very strong. If you came to me one night I wouldn't turn away from you—I couldn't."

Anne turned to look at her. She was very beautiful in the half-light and she resisted the impulse to kiss her once again.

"Look," Beth went on, "it would be hell if this went on. You'd grow too fond of me and then there'd be a bloody mess."

"It's all right, Beth," Anne managed to say. "I understand. You feel about me as I felt about Mark. You're right. It's best if we stop now."

Beth pressed her head against Anne's. "You'll be okay, won't you?"

"I'm fine," Anne said.

Beth moved away from her again and put on her blouse hurriedly and took her coat. She paused at the door one last time and said, "Show's going on the road in two weeks. I'll look you up again six months from now."

"That will be fine," Anne said.

"I'll send you post cards—" Beth said.

"Thanks." Anne could no longer hold her tears now and she cried on the pillow. "Thanks, Beth."

Beth paused another moment and then left, closing the door softly behind her.

CHAPTER 3

With strong determination Anne prepared herself for the Oval. It was the next Friday night and Jacques sat on her day couch, drink in hand, approving her outfit.

"Alice, whatever you do, don't speak to strange men," he said, "but do speak to strange women."

Anne laughed and spun around to let him see how she looked. She wore a pair of colorful slacks and a Mexican shirt.

Jacques whistled. "They'll sure know you're femme in that."

"But I'm not," Anne laughed. "I can't stand those butches. I'm out after the girls."

He roared. "Well, Mary, don't pick up a drag queen by mistake."

"I'll know the difference," Anne replied with a smile.

She felt so free. Once in a while she thought of Beth and cried for her, but still she felt free. She was out to look for a new Beth, one that would stay with her and love her and accept her love—somewhere in that strange new world across the street.

"Don't stay in the Oval," Jacques was warning her. "Find out where the better bars are and get the hell out to them. I don't think that place is safe."

"All right, Mother," Anne said.

"Are you sure you don't want me along?" he asked again.

"No, I'll be all right." She smiled. "Besides, I like to walk into lions' dens alone."

He laughed. "It's more a cat lair than a lion's den.”

"Very funny," she said. "Now let's cut the conversation and get on over there."

He got up and took his coat and went out with her.

"I'll be in the Florentin if you need me," he said.

He left her in front of the bar and waited as she climbed the steps to the door. It was early and the rough crowd had not gathered yet. It seemed fairly safe.

Anne was afraid but walked in through the swinging door and stood, surveying the inside. The Oval was round like its name, dark and painted red with overt drawings of half-men, half-women dancing together and drinking. The bar was peopled like the drawings and Anne's unskilled eye had difficulty determining the separate sexes. She walked to a table in the corner and sat down.

There seemed to be no waitress and she sat there, waiting. Her eyes were becoming more accustomed to the darkness and she was able to distinguish the sex of several of those at the bar. They were mostly girls in men's clothes. One particularly, a tall young man-girl at the end of the bar, dressed in jeans and lumberjacket, had seemed to notice her. She was looking at Anne through the corner of her beer glass and then turned to look at her through the mirror behind the bar.

Her hair was black and slicked back, but her face was ghost-pale even in the red light. Anne did not find her active, and yet there was something likable about her. Anne marvelled at her own lack of fear—the fear that had seized her when the girl had come out of the Oval a week ago. Beth has wrought a change in me, she thought. Then a man sat at her table and broke in on her thoughts. She turned to him angrily. "I'm sorry, this table is taken."

"That's all right, baby," he said, "I don't mind." He was drunk and tried to pat her hand. She withdrew it quickly and looked for the bartender. She was at the other end of the bar. Anne felt trapped. She had sat in the corner and there was no way to get up from the table without going past him.

"What'll you have?" he asked.

"Nothing," she answered, trying to get up and past him. He pushed her down again and her anger flared.

"Get your hands off me," she said and hit him.

"So you want to play rough," he said, grabbing her hands.

"That's enough, mister," a dark voice said. It was the girl at the end of the bar. She had come over, holding her beer bottle. "Let go of her," she said. Her eyes were hard and her expression strong.

"What's the idea?" he said, not getting up.

"Moe," the girl called, not turning. Moe appeared, a heavy-set man over six feet tall. Anne had noticed him sitting at the door.

"He's annoying a customer," the girl said.

"Back to the bar," Moe motioned to him.

"What's the idea?" the man repeated. But Moe motioned again and he got up reluctantly, cursing.

"Yeah? The same to you, too!" the girl shouted after him.

"The management is sorry," Moe said in his best manner.

"Thanks," Anne said. He went back to his post.

So this was a bouncer. Anne was amused.

"Can I get you a drink?" the girl said. "I work here."

"Scotch and coke," Anne said. The girl turned and shouted to the bar, "Hey, Toots—a cola 69!" Toots saluted and poured out a shot of scotch and let it slide down the bar. The girl put it on her tray with the glass of soda that followed and came back to Anne's table. "Straight or in?" she asked.

"Mixed," Anne said. She poured the shot into the coke and put it on the table. Then she stopped and waited. "Will that be all?"

Anne nodded. "Guess so. Won't you join me?" she added.

The girl smiled and said thanks and pulled up a chair across from her. "I'm Skippy. What's your name?"

"Anne," she said.

"Gay?"

"Think so." Anne remembered Jacques' terms and laughed to herself. Why couldn't she have said, "Are you homosexual?"

Now that Skippy had spoken to her she did not seem so strange. She was even attractive. Again Anne marvelled at herself. An unattractive man did not grow attractive when she spoke to him, only more repulsive, and yet Skippy made her feel at ease.

"Hey, don't you belong in Paradise?" Skippy said.

"Is that a compliment or a place?"

"Both," Skippy laughed. "It's across the park. Only girls allowed in there."

"Is it in the telephone book?" Anne asked.

"Yep, Downstairs Paradise. You won't have trouble finding it."

Skippy sat up and looked at her warmly. "This your first time in a bar?"

Anne blushed; she had hoped to seem more sophisticated.

"Tell you what," Skippy said, "if you want to hang around until I get off, I'll go with you."

"How long will that be?" Anne said.

"Couple of hours."

"That would be very nice."

"Fine." Skippy saluted and rose and went back to the bar with her tray and watched her from the mirror as she spoke to Toots.

Anne sat back and waited. The juke box was playing wild rock and roll and she listened, watching the people at the bar. She still did not feel comfortable there, as if someone might approach her again at any moment and Moe or Skippy would have to rescue her. Somehow she sensed there was danger in the Oval, from a drunk, or a man with a knife, because the place seemed to attract men who hated women. She was glad Moe was nearby.

Then Skippy came back and set her tray down on her table and said, "Do you rock?"

Anne listened to the music. It was a drum rock. It was compelling. "Sometimes," she said, "but I like to lead."

Skippy laughed. "That's a turn. Okay." She extended her hand and helped Anne slide around the booth. They walked to the inner room to the middle of the floor where the tables had been arranged so that there was dance space. It was still early—they were the only couple on the floor.

"Okay, let's," Skippy said, falling into the rhythm.

Anne was a good dancer. It had been part of her drama training and she often led Jacques in a rock and roll. Now she let herself loose and soon lost Skippy who swung to the side and watched her, shouting "Whahoo!" This made her self-conscious and she slowed down, dancing with Skippy again.

"Now let me lead," Skippy said. "I can't follow that."

Anne laughed. "All right."

Skippy pulled her close so that their bodies touched and this slowed up the rhythm. Anne realized she had wasted time. This was much better. Skippy's arms were long and sure, but they were soft, like Beth's, and her cheek was smooth in the same way. Anne knew that it was not only Beth who could make her thrill, that she could feel the same yearning for another woman. It dawned upon her then that this was the purpose of dancing closely. She had never been able to understand why Mark wanted to dance closely—what could possibly be so exciting about it? She had preferred to exhibit and to let loose—and yet now she knew that she preferred to dance closely, that awareness of the partner was the purpose of dancing.

"Do you mind going so slow?" Skippy whispered in her ear.

"No, it's fun," Anne said. Deep inside of her she was slightly shocked at her own ability to enjoy it. Skippy was a stranger, someone who could never be her type emotionally or culturally; yet she was a woman and this made her exciting—for one evening only, perhaps, but still exciting. Then convention won over her and she broke away.

"I'm sorry," she said. "We shouldn't go on."

Skippy smiled. "Forget it. My technique's too fast." They walked back to Anne's table and sat down.

Anne was silent. She did not want to be Skippy's date for the evening. It would have been simple to let that happen, but there would be no point to it. Skippy was not the Beth she sought. She would sit for a while and would find Paradise alone. She wondered how she might explain, but Skippy spoke for her.

"Look, I know I'm not your type," she said, "but taking you to Paradise was just a friendly offer. Honest." Anne looked at her. She was smiling with great understanding and Anne knew that despite her apparent coarseness she was sensitive and aware of others’ thoughts and feelings in a way that was rare. Jacques was that way too, and Anne; but Beth was not, nor was Mark.

"What makes you think I'm not your type?" Anne said. She did not want to hurt her.

"Experience," Skippy responded.

Anne smiled and their eyes met in friendship. Jacques came through the swinging door and broke their glance. "Doll, there you are! I've got someone for you to meet. She's at the Florentin now." He tugged her arm, but when he saw Skippy he apologized.

"It's all right," Skippy said. "You run along. Maybe we'll see each other-later, at Paradise."

"It's a date," Anne said. She let Jacques lead her out of the bar.

"Mary, you picked the weirdest trade," Jacques said to her when they were on the sidewalk. "I thought you could handle yourself."

"It's not the women I have to be careful of," Anne laughed. "She's really a damned nice kid."

"Well, come and meet Esther." He was impatient. Anne observed with amusement that Jacques really couldn't stand masculine women any more than masculine women could stand feminine men.

"Just a minute." She stopped him before they entered the coffee shop. "Exactly who is Esther?"

Jacques gave an impatient sigh. "She lives with Carl, who is one of my lovers, in a penthouse. She's Kosher French and spent her childhood in convents hiding from the Nazis. I think she was also in the Resistance. Anyway she's hard as nails but simply dashing."

He would say no more but pulled her by the wrist into the Florentin and through the maze of tables in a direct line toward the back. But Anne could not just walk into the Florentin without the usual ritual and they were hindered first by Marcel who ran up and embraced her and said "Princess, where have you been?" and then Jennie who extended her hand and said "Hi, femme fatale," and then Carol who tried to stop Jacques. But Jacques would not let them be stopped and pulled her onward until finally they had reached the rear of the coffee shop and stopped at a small table. Then Anne saw her. A girl—no, a woman—ageless-looking, thin and pale, with slender fingers and short, black hair, deep-set, pitchblack eyes.

"Esther," Jacques called.

Esther turned and the full depth of her eyes struck Anne. "Hello," she said. Her voice was low and matched her eyes and contrasted dramatically with her pale skin.

Anne let their glances touch and smiled.

"This is Anne," Jacques said. He pulled chairs for the two of them and then made Anne sit down.

"Hello, Anne," Esther said. She had a half-smile and her mind seemed fogged with other thoughts and yet her black eyes seemed to burn clear through to Anne's spine, making Anne dizzy and weak.

"Hello, Esther." She forced herself to speak. This was silly; she was behaving like a child again. She ought to have better control. She forced the dizziness to fade and brought the Florentin right-side up again.

"Jacques tells me you're looking for Lesbian bars," Esther said.

"Yes," Anne said; she was unable to make conversation.

"Have you tried Paradise?"

Anne nodded, "Someone offered to take me there tonight. I do want to go."

"I'm on my way there now," Esther said. "We can walk together if you like."

"That will be fine," Anne said. She hoped that she did not seem too anxious.

Esther regarded her with an amused half-smile. Her eyes were studying Anne, who did not allow her expression to change, though she could barely keep her lips from trembling. Finally she said, "I hear you were in the Resistance."

Esther laughed. "Who told you that?"

"Jacques said he thought you were."

"I was eleven years old." She looked away to the front of the shop and fingered her coffee cup. Jacques seemed to have left them and joined the cast at the other table. "Shall we go?" Esther said.

Anne rose and followed her out of the Florentin.

The night air was clear and they walked slowly, not speaking, through the park. Esther's long legs unconsciously took longer strides that would take her ahead of Anne and then she stopped and waited for her to catch up—and yet they were walking slowly. When she was ahead of her Anne could see and admire her, her tasteful clothes and slender ankles. She wore sandals because her feet were beautiful, like her hands and her face. There was a warmth around her despite her outward coldness. Anne wondered if Jacques had seen it. But she decided it was only for women's eyes.

"How old are you?" Esther said.

"Twenty."

"That's too bad," she said and smiled.

"Why?" Anne said.

"Not twenty-one."

"What happens at twenty-one that doesn't already happen at eighteen?"

Esther laughed and stopped to sit on a bench, her slender legs apart, and looked at the ground.

"How old are you?" Anne said.

"Twenty-four."

"Too bad," she chuckled. "Not twenty."

"Are you really gay?" Esther said.

"No, I'm terribly sad," Anne replied. "I can't find a Lesbian anywhere!"

Esther did not laugh. "Seriously—how do you know?"

Anne grew serious too. "I'm certain, I think. When I'm with men I don't feel alive, but with women—"

"Have you slept with men?" Esther interrupted.

"Just Mark—my husband," Anne explained.

"And with women?"

"Yes, once." She was quiet. She did not want to discuss Beth. She could talk about Mark but Beth was sacred.

"And you don't like Mark," Esther said after a while.

"No," Anne said.

"You weren't compatible."

"Oh, no, that wasn't it," Anne said. She felt that she had to explain and yet it was so difficult. "I just didn't feel alive or happy with him. I could have gotten the same results from an electric vibrator."

Esther laughed loudly. "But you were happy with this woman."

"Yes."

Esther did not speak but sat looking off in the distance for a while. Then suddenly she got up and said, "Come."

They resumed their walk and reached the other side of the park and went down one of the side streets to a place with a half-lit sign. It said PARADISE. It was downstairs, over a dark set of steps, through an obscure red door.

The bouncer challenged them at the door and asked that they prove their age. Esther took out her driver's license and Anne her learner's permit. This satisfied him and he let them pass. Anne wondered if his name was Peter.

Paradise was clean, not like the Oval, and painted blue. It might have passed for a favorite college hangout near some campus. The customers were ivy-league sorority types and the waiters were men dressed like waiters are on Park Avenue. *

Esther headed for the bar and Anne followed her. Her eyes were searching the dark corners for someone. Absentmindedly she told the bartender to bring two beers.

"Are you meeting someone?" Anne asked.

Esther nodded. "I have three dates tonight. It depends which of them shows up first." Then she looked up at Anne and smiled. "Tell me about Mark," she said. "Are you still married?"

"Our annulment's in the works," Anne said.

There was another long silence and then Esther said, "Do you enjoy art?"

Anne nodded. "I've even gone back to painting lately."

Esther was not impressed, but she said, "Come with me to the museum sometime."

"When?" Anne asked. She had decided to be bold.

"Perhaps next Saturday." She took out a card with her name on it and wrote down her telephone number.

"Carl had these made up to amuse me," she said. "Call on us, will you? And bring Jacques."

Anne took the card and put it carefully in her wallet. "I'd like to very much," she said.

Esther became silent. Anne knew that she had done with talking and so she sat silently too and inspected the bar. More women were coming in and Anne watched them. Each one was different and some were attractive; most were masculine but there were no distinctively masculine or feminine types; each might have passed for either with the proper clothing. Then a girl came in, alone. She was a massive girl and nearly stooped to fit through the door. She wore a pair of paint-stained jeans and an man's old shirt which somehow made her look quite beautiful. Her hair was close-cropped and her face was classic. Anne thought first of Michelangelo and then of a Greek vase depicting Orpheus.

Esther turned then, saw her, and waved. The girl came toward them, wiping perspiration from her forehead.

"Hi," she said to Esther. "Sorry I'm late. I got involved. I've got to go back to it soon, though—but you can sit there and watch me."

"That will be fine," Esther said. She turned to Anne and said to her. "Do use that card."

Anne nodded. The two turned from her and walked toward the back to a table behind a pillar and Anne thought as she watched them—So that's my rival; funny, they're both so attractive either one would do.

But she had no time to pine for them. A familiar voice said behind her, "Can I buy you a drink?"

Anne turned and saw Skippy. She was smiling happily because they had met again; Paradise made her look less sinister.

She was a plain girl now, perhaps from the Lower East Side, with only a little high school education. Anne smiled and said "Hi. I'll buy you one."

Skippy laughed. "There you go again. Okay." She ordered beer and Anne switched to scotch.

"Did you meet your friend?" Skippy asked.

"Uh-uh," Anne grunted with a sigh.

"Oh." Skippy paused. "I guess that means you're alone for the eve."

Anne looked down at her glass. "Yes."

Skippy laughed and slapped her back. "Cheer up—there are lots of others."

Anne laughed. "Are you looking for someone too?"

"Me?" Skippy looked down. "Naw, not yet. I just got off a ten-day drunk over the last one."

"Why?"

"A long story," she said. "I used to work at Cora's—up to two weeks ago."

"What's Cora's?" Anne became interested. Skippy was becoming "people" and she wanted to know what made her tick.

"A dive way over west," she said. "It's better than the Oval, but not as good as here."

"Why did you break up?"

"She likes men," Skippy said; now she seemed annoyed and irritated and she drank her beer more determinedly.

Anne put her hand on Skippy's wrist and stopped her from lifting the glass again. "Want to dance?"

Skippy looked at her and laughed. "Oh, no," she said, "you're dynamite."

Anne smiled. "I'd never danced that way before—with a girl."

"I should've known," Skippy said. "Where are you from, anyway?"

"New York, mostly. I was born in Austria."

"Yeah? You don't sound like a foreigner."

Anne laughed. "I've lived here all my life. And you?"

"New York," she said, "three generations American. From Italy." They both laughed and Skippy drank some more.

Anne looked toward the back to see if Esther was still there. The two had gotten up and were paying their check. A sudden loneliness gripped her. There was no reason to remain in Paradise. She watched them leave and wanted to follow.

"Want to come to Cora's?" Skippy seemed to read her mind. "It's noisy there and wild, but it's safe if you're with me."

"Sure," she said.

They waited a moment for Skippy to finish her beer and then went into the air again. A little rain had fallen and it made the cars swish as they passed and the trees smell sweet. Anne took Skippy's arm and they walked slowly.

Skippy said, "This girl you were meeting—know her long?"

Anne shook her head. "I met her tonight. It'll probably come to nothing."

"Aw, don't say that," Skippy said. "There's no reason why you can't make out. You've got all it takes."

Anne smiled. "Thanks."

A late full moon pointed their way back across the park and past the Oval toward downtown and west. The park and the street beyond it were filled with tourists now, mostly rough young men and servicemen out to pick up girls. Skippy and Anne walked past them and endured the wisecracks and dodged the hands and bodies that tried to block their way.

"They ought to put a cop on this street," Skippy said. "We could use some real police protection instead of all the plainclothesmen they've got out trapping queens."

"Do they really trap homos?" Anne asked. She had heard that it was so but it seemed such a silly waste of time.

"Every once in a while, before elections mostly," Skippy said; then with a slight damn, "primaries are due soon."

They walked further, past the crowd, and Anne asked her why she had left Cora's for the Oval.

"She kicked me out till I got sober," Skippy said.

"Then you're going back tonight?"

"Yeah," she said. There was a sadness in her voice as if going back to Cora's would bring back the past. And yet she seemed somehow to be drawn back, as if it were home.

"Do you like working in bars?" Anne asked.

"There's nothing like it," Skippy said. "You're free to be what you damn please. The pay's lousy, though."

They were on a lonely street now and in the night it seemed a cold and concrete world, as if someone had poured cement over the whole earth. Skippy quickened her steps and Anne followed her, conscious of the danger of a lonely street. Then at the far corner they saw a crowd of loud young men.

"Come in here," Skippy said, and pulled her into a doorway. They went half-way up the stairs and waited.

"What's the matter?" Anne asked.

"I don't like their looks," she said. Soon the crowd had passed the doorway and they waited a while longer. Then Skippy took her down again and they resumed their walk. After a while she explained, "They like to rough up queers in this neighborhood."

"I don't understand," Anne said. "Then why does Cora have a bar here?"

"No cops either," Skippy said.

This seemed logical in a strange way and Anne followed Skippy's quick steps around a corner and to the middle of the block where a red sign said CORA'S.

They quickly entered and were greeted by another bouncer who resembled Moe but not the man in Paradise.

"Hi, Sol," Skippy said. "Cora here?"

"Skippy, baby!" He held her hands. "Sure, come right in."

Anne followed them through the next door and was immediately overwhelmed by smoke and loud music. Cora's was a cellar painted dirty yellow and crowded like Coney Island on a Saturday and Sunday combined. Wild dancers barred their way in.

"Some joint, hey?" Skippy said to her. "Come on, let's find Cora."

She took Anne's hand and pulled her through the dancers and then through spaces in the tables to the back where an older woman, eating spaghetti, sat in a booth with a crowd of long-haired girls wearing scoop blouses and mascara.

"Hi, Cora," Skippy waved.

Cora put her fork down a minute and looked up groggily. "You sober?" Her skin was a yellow tan and there were streaks of white in her hair. She was not ugly; in fact, Anne found her attractive in a way that frightened her. Her eyes were large and green, her mouth full. She might have been forty, but a trim forty, with a woman's breasts and slender waist. Her hands were small and strong and had the same yellow tan. She was dressed in a brown and obviously expensive suit, but her voice was low and tough, strictly Lower East Side.

"Like a judge," Skippy said. "I want you to meet Anne." She pulled Anne forward.

"Move, kids," Cora said to the girls in the booth. They slid off, smiling and waving at Skippy, and went to dance with each other. "Sit down," Cora motioned to Anne.

Skippy helped Anne slide in the booth and then sat beside her. Her eyes were bright and full of admiration for Cora and she seemed very young now.

"I just canned Mary," Cora said. "You were right, fella."

"You bet," Skippy said. "I've had it too. No more!"

Cora laughed and swallowed more spaghetti. There was something coarse about her table manners and yet she was not repulsive. She enjoyed what she ate unselfishly, offering Antipasto and wine as she talked.

"Where'd you get this babe?" she said to Skippy.

"I found her in heaven," Skippy said. "Wait till you talk to her. She doesn't know from nothing."

"That's not quite true," Anne said. She wished she might assert her own experience, but Skippy and Cora preferred to think of her as innocent and so it did no good.

"How do you like the joint?" Cora said proudly, gazing into Anne's eyes. "Terrific, hey? I been all over Europe and there's none like it."

Anne smiled and nodded shyly. The place was beginning to wear on her nerves—the noise and the smoke, the wet tables and dirty floors. She felt a sudden urge to leave.

Cora sensed this immediately and stopped eating for a moment. "What's the matter, kid? Too much atmosphere?"

Anne looked down in embarrassment.

"Hey, Skip, did you take her upstairs yet?" Cora said, punching Skippy's shoulder. Skippy shook her head.

"Hey, what's the matter with you? What kind of hostess are you anyway?" Cora said. "Take her up, stupid."

Skippy smiled, "Okay."

"You start work tomorrow," Cora said.

Skippy's face beamed, "Okay!"

"What's upstairs?" Anne said. She felt a tinge of fear. Memories of books darted quickly in her mind, of opium dens and white slave markets, of extortionists and pimps. Cora might be all of these; upstairs might be a trap.

"That's where the party is," Skippy said. "There's less of a crowd."

"Don't be scared, kid," Cora said, "it's legit."

Anne laughed at herself. Cora was no villain; she was too open and her gaze too honest.

She let Skippy pull her past the dancers again and through a door that read NO ADMITTANCE, smiling as she noticed another sign over the bar that said no dancing. Apparently, all signs that said "No" meant "Yes."

She followed Skippy up a flight of steps to another door which opened to a darkened room. It was red, like the Oval, but the murals were discreet. The floor was clean and instead of booths there were plush sofas and low coffee tables. Not many people were here; the juke box was mellow and the dance floor was almost empty.

Anne looked at the couples. She could not distinguish in the darkness whether there were men there, or only women dressed as men and she supposed the crowd was mixed.

"Swell layout, hey?" Skippy said.

Anne agreed. "Terrific."

They found an empty sofa and sat in it, waiting for the waitress. When she came Skippy ordered scotch and beer. They sat back and relaxed.

"Cora'll be up later," she said. "She gives every new customer a grand welcome."

"That's nice," Anne said. "I like Cora."

"Ain't she swell?" Skippy sat up eagerly. Anne wondered if Skippy had a girlish crush on her.

The juke box began to play an old favorite and Skippy stopped to listen to it, twisting with the melody. "Dance?" she said finally.

Anne hesitated. She wanted very much to dance, and yet she did not. It would be the same as at the Oval and she was afraid. Skippy sensed her reluctance and pulled her up gently.

"A yard away," she said.

Anne followed and they danced apart until they both laughed at themselves and Anne pressed closely to her. It was a good feeling. A warmth grew in the pit of Anne's stomach. Skippy's breasts were pressed to hers and their thighs touched. She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek to Skippy's and remembered Beth. Then the music stopped and Skippy slowly let her go.

"Wow!" she said. "We'd better take it easy."

Anne nodded and followed her back to the sofa. Cora was there.

"Hi! Swell, isn't it?" she said.

"Lovely," Anne said.

"Skippy, go bring more drinks, will you?" Cora said. "I drank that one up."

"Sure thing," she saluted. "Be right back."

Anne was left alone with Cora and in the quiet atmosphere she did not seem so terrible. She even seemed a little old and tired and quite human.

"Where else have you been? The Oval? Paradise?"

Anne nodded. As yet she had not been able to say one syllable to Cora.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she asked roughly.

"Trying to meet women," Anne said. She returned Cora's rough glance with amused defiance.

"Skippy's not your type," Cora said. "Don't mess her up."

"Why not?" Cora's tone had been very much like Dad's. Anne resented being told.

"She's a good kid," Cora said. Her tone was quiet and friendly now. "She goes overboard too easy."

"Why should it concern you?"

"She's a good bartender." Cora tried to seem cold but that was a poor try. "I don't want her on another drunk, hear?" She stopped for a moment, became personal. "You don't belong here. You're out for kicks. Pick on someone your size."

"What do you mean?" Anne was puzzled.

"I mean you're not queer," Cora said bluntly. "You're just a crazy mixed-up kid still in love with Mother."

"You think I'll get over it?" Anne's tone was sarcastic now. Cora must think her quite young: a virgin afraid to sleep with men and choosing masculine women instead—like some of the girls at the Oval.

"You know," Cora went on, "a girl could get in a lot of trouble talking to strangers and going to rough places. She could be inviting the undertaker. She can expect to be robbed, roughed up. Your parents know where you go?"

Anne laughed. "I left home some time ago."

"Why?"

Anne paused; she couldn't easily say why. "For one thing, I didn't like being bossed," she decided.

Cora ignored this and sighed. "I'd like you to meet my son sometime," she said. "He's just about your age."

Somehow Anne had known that Cora was a mother. It might be what made her beautiful despite her coarseness and her occupation. She wondered how Cora had become a mother and decided it had been an early mistake—like Mark had been for her.

"I guess I'd better go home," Anne said.

"Do that," she said, "and don't come back for a while—not till I find a new girl for Skippy." She rose now and punched her shoulder lightly. "Thanks."

Anne smiled and gave a slight salute. "Don't mention it, Mom." Cora laughed and walked away.

Skippy had came up with the drinks and stood there. "I guess she bought us a drink," she said, and sat down next to Anne. She put the drinks on the coffee table.

Anne sat up and drank it quickly.

"Hey, take it easy," Skippy said. "I'll have to drag you home."

"No, Skip," Anne said. "I'm sorry, but I think I should leave."

"Why?" she was puzzled. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No," Anne smiled. "But as you said before, I'm not really your type—so I'd better go now."

Skippy shrugged. "There goes a good try."

Anne finished her drink and rose. Skippy rose too and said "I'll find a cab for you."

There was a dark hallway before the outside door and Skippy stopped a moment and took Anne in her arms. Anne did not want to resist and let herself be kissed. Skippy's mouth was sweet and tender and she thought for a moment, I want to take her home. And then Skippy let her go and opened the outside door and the air cleared their heads of the smoke and the liquor. There was a taxi at the end of the block and Skippy waved to it. When it pulled up in front of them, Anne got in.

"Come again," Skippy saluted.

"I will," Anne said.

The cab moved off, and the night air cleared her lungs and cooled her face. She was sad and there was a fierce longing in her thighs, but she felt free and full of life, and aware, so much aware of the world.

CHAPTER 4

The telephone woke Anne the next morning. It was 11 A.M. and the sun had tried to wake her for hours. She covered her eyes against the light and reached for the receiver. It was Jacques.

"I was worried sick last night," he said. "I went over to Paradise after you and heard you'd left with a derrick for Cora's."

"A derrick?" Anne was trying to clear her throat and her mind.

"A drag butch," he clarified. "Honestly, Mary, I can't leave you alone for a minute!”

Anne wished Jacques would not swish so early in the day. It was hard enough to bear in the evening. But she reasoned that she must be broadminded about his peculiarity.

"I had a lovely time at Cora's," she said. She was amused because she knew this would make Jacques groan. "As a matter of fact, those 'derricks' aren't as bad as I thought," she added teasingly. "It takes all kinds, you know."

Jacques groaned again, much to Anne's amusement, "I never thought you'd go for that trade!"

"They're all right," Anne said, "for a night." She knew she was imitating Beth now—Beth's love of all new experience.

"Anyway," Jacques continued, "get dressed. I'm coming right over to pick you up. We're supposed to have lunch at Carl's."

"Carl's?" The name was familiar, but Anne could not remember who he was.

"You know," Jacques reminded her, "Esther's John."

"Oh?" Anne sat up with interest. "Will Esther be there too?"

"Not likely," he said. "But you'll like meeting Carl."

Anne yawned. "I don't see how meeting him is going to get me anywhere with Esther, but all right. Just give me time to brush my teeth with yesterday's coffee."

He said okay and goodbye and she hung up.

She rose lazily, stretched the sleep out of her shoulders and scratched her head. A hangover could sometimes be pleasant and there was something wonderful about this being Saturday morning. Most of all, she was secretly happy about going to lunch at a stranger's house in order to learn more about Esther. She had been in a lonely world of no friends since Mark and now her new world seemed to be filled with interesting people whom she was scheduled to meet.

She wondered what sort of man Carl might be and why he was supporting Esther. What could he possibly hope to gain? Whatever it was, it was of small importance. Nothing might come of seeing Esther again—if Anne did see her again—but Esther was a symbol. Esther was Downstairs Paradise, and Anne by no means preferred Cora's. Esther was a beginning with the right crowd, and meeting Carl was the way to see Esther again.

She turned on the fire under the coffee and then proceeded to dress. She wondered what she should wear. She wanted to wear the black slacks of the night before, but she was going visiting and that might not be appropriate. Let me see, she thought, Jacques always seems to flip over my flared skirt. She decided to look feminine, and put on pounds of jewelry.

She had barely finished with her makeup when Jacques rang the doorbell.

"Alice, you're not going to wear that!" he exclaimed.

Anne laughed, embarrassed. She had made the wrong choice. "Will Carl mind terribly if I wear a dress?"

He shrugged. "Not really, I guess."

Anne turned and picked up her purse. She wasn't going to change after all that preparation. She ushered him out the door and then locked it.

"Wait till you see my new car," Jacques told her as they went down the stairs. He was happy this morning, as if he was anxious to see Carl for himself. Anne smiled inwardly, knowing herself to be Jacques' excuse to lunch with Carl.

"What sort of man is he?" she said.

"He's a sort of semi-invalid. Drinks a lot."

They reached his car, a very old Ford, and Jacques proudly opened the door. "Do enter my Royal Model Q," he said.

Anne smiled and slid onto the front seat. Jacques had been elaborate about the inside decorations—there were authentic plastic leopard-skin seat covers from authentic plastic leopards; proudly, at the center of the windshield, he had hung a white Madonna figurine.

"Mary, this is too much!" she laughed.

"Crazy," Jacques agreed. She sat back and waited for him to start the motor.

"You were telling me about Carl," she said when the car was moving.

"Oh, yes," Jacques said absent-mindedly, trying to avoid an Austin that was angling to get his parking spot. "Well, he's gay, you know."

"That's a relief," Anne said, "but what is he doing supporting Esther?"

"He likes to have attractive women around—father complex, maybe." Jacques had successfully avoided the smaller car and now drove down the street, damp and slippery from the water of a recent sanitation truck. They cut through Washington Square and proceeded uptown on Fifth Avenue.

"But then you're sure there's nothing between them," Anne said. She wanted to see the situation clearly.

Jacques laughed slightly. "Carl couldn't do anything if he wanted to. But wait till you see him. He's so attractive."

Now Anne laughed. "You look at him—I'll think of Esther."

She sat deep in the seat and closed her eyes. She wanted never to forget Esther's image—her deep-set eyes and pale, silken skin. It was an image that did not exactly belong in the world. She seemed ageless and sexless and all mind, the pale, wan intellectual. Anne had always found that type irresistible. Perhaps it was her long hands that were so beautiful, the way they held things, each finger sensitive and independent. But no, it was Esther's whole self.

Beth's body was very womanly. Her breasts were full and her thighs round and soft-muscled. But Esther's fines were jagged—with the nose of a Semite and the bearing of a medieval falconer, and yet the ever-present grace and nakedness of youth. Even with clothes Esther was naked. She wore clothes as if they did not matter, as if they were not fastened but merely draped about her in perfect balance, easily slipped off and yet remaining.

Again Anne laughed at herself. She was romanticizing. But it was fun to describe someone in her mind, and to fall in love with that description. Particularly now, when she would have to forget Beth. At all costs she would have to forget Beth.

A small shiver grew within her and she determinedly pushed away fear. Beth was becoming a legend in her life. Beth's scrapbook was in her keeping and she pasted clippings that she sent her—Beth's picture in a local newspaper, Beth's name mentioned in a column. And always Beth's note accompanying them: How are you? I worry. Do write, love, Beth. Anne had not yet written her. She was afraid because of what she wanted to put in the letter, what must go in the letter if she wrote. She did not want to burden Beth with love.

Again she forced herself to think of Esther and she wanted to cry.

They had reached the Fifties and Jacques turned off Fifth Avenue and parked. Carl's house was white and had three floors. A wrought-iron gate had to be passed before the steps to the front door could be reached. Behind the gate a beautiful fountain surrounded by ivy plants immediately took them away from the heart of the city.

"What a waste," Jacques sighed. "He lives in all of it and won't even rent me the attic!"

Anne laughed. "Why should he? It's marvelous that he can live in a whole house in the middle of the city."

Jacques rang the doorbell timidly and they waited, feeling awkward in such impressive surroundings. The iron door finally opened and a small and quiet maid recognized Jacques and let them in.

The inside was very dark and smelled of lemon-oil polish on old oak. At the end of a long hallway they saw an open door and a light.

"He's in the study," the maid said to Jacques, led the way to that door and immediately disappeared when she had done so.

From the study they heard Carl shout, "Do come in. Don't just stand there."

They entered timidly and saw books from floor to ceiling and a Jackson Pollock on a white wall. Carl was on a ladder, replacing a book. The hi-fi set's turntable was revolving silently at the end of a record.

"Do come in," Carl repeated. "I just want to put this away."

He wore a dressing gown of pure silk, Arabian in its rich design and very likely authentic. "Darlings, I'm so glad you came," he said, climbing carefully down the ladder. "I thought I was doomed to an afternoon of drink." He walked slowly and carefully to two leather easy chairs and motioned for them to sit. "Now at least I'll have company. What'll you have?"

They both said scotch and he poured three and brought them on a tray to where they were sitting.

He is handsome, Anne decided, lean and sickly, but handsome.

"How nice of you to come," Carl said to her, smiling warmly although it distorted his face. "I hope Jacques warned you that Esther isn't home."

Anne nodded: "We came to visit you."

"That's nice, that's very nice," he said, handing them the drinks. Then he sat down on the carpet between them, looking quite Oriental in his many-patterned robe. Anne noticed that his feet were bare. He had left his slippers by the French windows.

"Jacques, will you put another album on the hi-fi?" he said. Jacques immediately rose and went to the record section. He was being so obedient, Anne thought with amusement.

Jacques put on some Cesar Franck and returned to his chair. There was a long silence. Finally Carl said, "What sort of girl are you, Anne?"

"She's gay," Jacques volunteered, thinking to clear the air. But it did nothing to further the conversation.

Carl smiled and winked at Anne. "I meant, what do you do?"

"I paint," Anne said.

"She acts, too," added Jacques. "It's too bad she's given it up."

"It wasn't my calling in life," Anne smiled. "What do you do?"

"I drink," Carl said. He put the glass to his lips wickedly and then sat looking down at his toes.

Anne decided that he was not as old as he seemed, perhaps not more than thirty-five. But he seemed older, perhaps because of bad health. She wondered what was making him ill.

"He was a captain in the Navy," Jacques said after a pause.

"Please let's not talk about my past," Carl exclaimed with faint annoyance, "let's talk about you, Anne." He leaned forward. "Jacques didn't tell me you were so pretty."

"I'm not," Anne said. Inwardly she rebelled at this remark. She always rebelled when men complimented her.

"She's a mad bull inside," Jacques laughed. "You haven't seen her in drag!"

"My mistake," Carl smiled. "I saw the dress and thought she was femme." They were both playing for laughs and it irritated Anne. She rose impatiently and went to look out the French windows.

Cesar Franck was now quite loud and the two men let it create a pause in the conversation, and then Carl turned to Jacques and asked him how he had been.

Anne looked out of the windows. The garden outside seemed larger than it was and filled with sweet-smelling roses, ferns and moss like those of a cloister. There was enough space between the buildings for her to see the skyscrapers reflecting the sun. She was impatient for Esther. She did not belong in this room full of men.

"Are we boring you?" Carl broke into her thoughts.

"I was thinking of Esther," Anne said.

"A pity she can't be here," Carl said, "but at least let me try to entertain you. Would you like to see the rest of the house?"

Anne nodded, being innately polite. Carl reached for the bell and rang for the maid. A few seconds later the thin, small servant appeared at the door.

"Will you show them where the elevator is?" Carl said. "I want them to see the house." The maid nodded and waited for Jacques and Anne to follow her.

"Jacques, you take her around," Carl said. "I'll stay here and see about lunch being served."

Jacques took Anne's arm and they followed the maid.

They went through the dark hallway again and reached the small, coffin-like elevator, where the maid left them after giving instructions about running it. Jacques and Anne crowded in and traveled slowly to the top floor.

"How do you like him?" Jacques said excitedly.

"You like him more than I do," Anne teased. Then she added, "He's really quite rare."

"I wish to hell he didn't drink so much," Jacques said. "He's really quite ill."

"Is that why he left the Navy?" Anne asked.

"No," he said, "he was kicked out. For being gay." There was a short pause and then he added, "His father was an admiral."

They reached the top floor and began systematically to look at all the rooms.

Carl's house was not uniformly decorated. He had a blue room, a red room, a Chinese room with all its hideous ornateness, a medieval room of simplicity, a colonial room, an ultra-modern room, a Victorian, a Louis XIVth like a huge museum—and not one room for living. Finally they reached the very back of the house and Jacques paused meaningfully. "That's Esther's room," he said.

Anne was bursting with curiosity, but she decided it would not be right to enter; she would wait until Esther invited her. They moved on, finally finding their way back to the first floor, and followed their noses to the dining room.

Anne was more impatient than ever. Esther's room, Esther's door, such a plain door, not in keeping with the other decor, had made her restless. She wanted to leave, to walk a long distance by herself—to do anything but be with Carl and Jacques when she wanted so much to be with Esther. But Carl was fussing with the table, making lunch ready for them; she could not leave.

"Seen everything?" he greeted their return.

"Just about," Jacques said.

"Good, soup's on," he said, and sat with great appetite at the head of the oak table. Anne let herself be helped into the chair by the small maid and Jacques sat too, each on either side of Carl.

The dining room was even more elaborate than the rest of the house, with antique silver gleaming on the magnificently carved, many-drawered side-board standing with majestic and dark severity between red velvet curtains. The room was somber and the chandelier above the dining table gave light which was largely absorbed by the demands of ancient tapestries on the walls around them.

"I hope you don't mind turtle soup," Carl said, serving from the bowl that the maid had brought in.

"Not at all," Anne said. He had revived her interest. She wondered if homemade turtle soup was better than the soup in cans. Eating had always been one of the pleasures of life for her and now it almost compensated for the lack of Esther. She tried a spoonful and said, "It's very good."

"Fine," Carl said. "You must come to lunch often." Then he added, "As a matter of fact, why not tomorrow? Esther will be here, and we can all hear Bach."

Anne was pleasantly surprised and said thank you. Jacques winked at her reassuringly. "Where is Esther now?" she asked.

"With her aunt," Carl said briefly.

So, Esther had some sort of family. Carl's house was a place for her to escape to, like Mark's apartment had been a retreat for Anne. At once Anne felt a kinship with Esther and wondered again in what way Carl fit into her life. There had to be more to their relationship than Jacques had seen. People were more complex than that.

"Tell me about Esther," she said to Carl. Hearing his opinion of her would give some clue.

"What would you like to know?" Carl asked.

"Is she gay?" Anne said seriously, "I mean, really so?" She knew this was a loaded question to ask—Carl's answer would betray his own feelings for Esther.

Carl looked up at her and searched her face with his eyes and then looked down and took another spoonful of soup. Anne thought he seemed disturbed by her question. Finally he said, "She thinks so. Let's put it that way." He almost mumbled this and quickly swallowed more soup.

"Then you think it's mostly psychological, even curable," Anne said, pursuing his answer.

Carl paused for a long moment and then looked up at her. "Yes," he said, challenging her.

Anne took another spoonful of soup and dropped the subject.

They finished and the maid came in again with the main course. Carl proudly carved the steak which was bathed in mushrooms and red wine.

Anne ate with less appetite. Carl's attitude toward Esther had soured her meal. He was, fundamentally, the same as Mark. He refused to admit to others or to himself that Esther's preferring women to men was anything more than a temporary state of mind. Anne wondered why he felt this way. Surely he was not the same as Mark—he did not seem to be interested in women as Mark was. Then why was he interested in Esther? Was it because Esther, in being unobtainable, fulfilled a double purpose—an opportunity to assert his normalcy, and yet no obligation to follow through? Anne decided she would have to watch Carl carefully. He was not about to let Esther slip away from him; he was not about to let Anne or anyone else make a lasting impression on her.

They had finished the steak in silence and part of the dessert of brandied cherries before Carl decided to break the quiet.

"I hope you two planned to stay all day," he said. "I have first editions dying to be shown, and records itching to be heard." Then he added, almost pleadingly, "It gets so lonely here day after day. I'm crammed full of things to tell you."

Anne looked at Jacques and sighed. Carl was pitifully alone, with his dull house and his dull books and records. She prepared herself for a tedious afternoon. Her one consolation was that Jacques at least would find it interesting.

And so they rose from the table and went back to the study and sat, and allowed themselves to be shown things that were in their own way magnificent; but in the present setting, in Anne's present mood—her impatient mood of hoping that Esther would come home—they were oppressively boring.

Carl was leaving a wide berth between himself and Anne, addressing everything indirectly to Jacques. He seemed afraid of her, and yet determined to be friends, determined to play a harmless—or nearly harmless—game with her where Esther was the prize. It was a strange, strained afternoon. And then Esther did come.

It was about five o'clock and the conversation had died. Anne was holding an eleventh-century manuscript asserting the existence of Pope Joan, encased in plastic and difficult to read. The hi-fi set had just finished blasting a chorus of castrati and the arm was revolving defiantly, despite its pretense of being automatic. The heavy wrought-iron door to the outside world opened with a creak and shut with the determination of a vault. Anne looked up and saw Esther. There was a long pause and then Esther's black velvet voice said hello.

She stood directly below a chandelier and the dull light made her ghostly. Her skin was stark white and her hair raven black. She wore a dress this time, a many-colored Indian print. There was a wide, suggestive belt around her waist.

"We've been waiting for you," Carl said as if he had expected to see her. Anne wondered if he had kept them there for that reason.

"I couldn't get away," she said coldly. Now she stepped out of the light, kicked off her shoes, and sat on the sofa opposite Anne. "Nice to see you again, Anne."

Anne did not reply. She was studying Esther. Esther in a dress was a different person, self-assured, almost cruel, in many ways very much like Beth. Esther in a dress seemed somehow to belong to Carl.

Esther laughed, feeling uneasy at Anne's gaze. "What are you staring at?"

Anne looked down in embarrassment. She had been caught. "Just studying you," she said. "I paint, you see." She felt she had to add the last in order to give an excuse.

Esther smiled victoriously. "I'm glad you came. I'm sorry I got here so late."

"Carl has kept us well entertained," Jacques interrupted. "I told Anne she might visit tomorrow if she wanted," Carl said.

"That's very nice." Esther's eyes were looking far into the corner of the room. "You must come tomorrow, Anne." She rose and walked to the doorway. "Please excuse me. Unfortunately, I have a date."

Esther was gone again, and Anne found herself unable to make the adjustment between her having been there and having left. She rose abruptly and said, "It's getting late."

Jacques rose, reluctantly, and Carl came to them and shook their hands, this time not detaining them. "Until tomorrow," he said to Anne.

"Thank you," Anne said. She shook his hand with a firm grasp, and realized how weak he was. The sickness of his touch made her shiver.

Anne had exhausted her conversation for the evening; she could think only of seeing Esther tomorrow. They drove back silently in Jacques' Model Q. Anne's nerves were on edge, and she wondered if Jacques could see the tremor in her hands. Seeing Esther and spending the afternoon with Carl had upset her. She could not hate Carl, but now she was beginning to loathe his connection with Esther, however passive that connection might be. Esther did not mind having Carl near her, could tolerate his presence. But Anne could not tolerate Carl's presence—she could not tolerate the presence of any man. They smell, her mind repeated, with or without cologne, like animals of a different species. Men were like that—alien, unnatural to her life, to be experienced only at a distance.

"Shall I take you home?" Jacques said quietly. He had been leaving her to her thoughts.

"Yes, thanks," she said.

"Carl upset you?" Jacques said.

"I don't know what to think of Esther," she replied, skipping several spaces in thought. "She's so much like Beth."

"Alice, you'll be seeing Beth all your life!" he exclaimed, for a moment impatiently relapsing into gay terms. "Don't you ever expect to like someone else?"

Anne gave only a sad laugh in reply.

"Are you going tomorrow?" Jacques asked, now worried that it was not such a good idea.

"Why not?" she said. "She's good for a night."

He winced, and Anne was amused. Jacques was more easily shocked than it seemed. He was still so young; not half so experienced as he would have her think.

She sat back in the seat and closed her eyes. She was full of plans for meeting Esther tomorrow. Again she was feeling the excitement of courtship, and again the fear, the deep-down fear that all would go wrong—that Esther would come to mean as much as Beth; and then—like Beth—would leave, would prefer Carl, a man.

CHAPTER 5

Sheer will enabled Anne to sleep that night. The light from across the street, flashing on and off through the blinds, seemed to keep in time with her pulse and the throb in her forehead. It was not so much the expectation of Esther but the knowledge that Beth was near, in her apartment on the other side of town, waiting to go on the road. Anne ached to call her, had ached to call for two weeks. She had picked up the receiver many times and each time had stopped herself. Beth did not want to be called, for Anne's own good Beth did not want to be called. Beth doesn't love me. Beth can never love me, I'm strictly kicks to her.

But tonight the white telephone, so clearly defined in the dark of the room, was an alive, and tormenting thing. It sat waiting, ready to be used.

Dammit, Anne cursed, I won't fight with myself this way. She looked at her watch. It was past midnight, but Beth would still be awake. She picked up the phone roughly and dialed. Each second was full then as she heard the quiet ring in the receiver and then the phone was answered and it was like a splash of cold water on her face. She awakened from being half asleep and realized that Beth had answered, and that she, Anne, was being very foolish.

"I'm sorry, Beth," she said. "I shouldn't have called you. I'll hang up again." And before Beth could answer the white telephone was closed and perched on the table again like a fat little snowman, laughing.

She lay flat on the sheets, closed her eyes and tried to sleep—until a buzzing current in her ears made her eyes open slowly and see the room. It was the doorbell.

The full impact did not come to her. She rose automatically, wrapping a sheet around her, and went to the door. It was Beth, standing there in a raincoat, a kerchief around her hair. She looked very strong and concerned.

"Hello, sleepy," she smiled. It was the warm, loving smile that had thrilled Anne the first time she saw Beth. It woke her and she began to shiver. Beth covered her shoulders with her arm and closed the door behind them. It was so good to be in Beth's arms once more, so good, so comfortable and soothing, so much like home. Beth kissed her cheek and then her neck and then her breast, and then they sat on the bed and Anne let Beth take away the shivers with her hands.

"I've been such a fool," Beth said. "I should have known it would come to this."

Anne took her hand and kissed it fondly and rubbed her cheek against it to make herself aware that Beth was really there, was not just a dream.

"What am I going to do with you?" Beth sighed, taking away her hand and rubbing Anne's hair fondly.

"It's so good to see you again," Anne said, holding her tightly. "I had given up hope."

Beth lifted Anne's head gently by the hair and kissed her mouth and then pressed her cheek against Anne's cheek and kissed her ear and spoke softly into it. "I'm going to stay with you for a while."

Anne felt a surge of happiness that took away her breath. She held Beth tightly and cried. It was too much happiness all at once. "I love you, Beth. I'll always love you!" she said.

"No." Beth pulled her away gently and forced Anne to look at her face. "You won't always love me. I don't want you to love me." She smiled and held her and said again, "What am I going to do about you?"

Anne wanted to hold Beth, tightly, and yet Beth herself was making her let go; she did not want her. Anne was imposing on Beth. Anne was being like Mark. She forced herself saying the words. "Please go now."

"Please go, Beth," she pleaded. It did not sound like herself saying the words. "Please go now."

Beth looked at her, surprised for a moment, and then she looked even reluctant. Her hands continued to hold Anne's firmly.

Her hesitation gave Anne hope for a faint minute. Beth was deciding. Anne had not even hoped that it might come to a decision. She had thought Beth was sure of her feelings; there was hope. But only for a moment. Then Beth's brows curved seriously; she squeezed Anne's hands hard and then let go. Then, as quickly as she had come, she took her coat and left.

The sound of Beth leaving seemed so final, so much like a nightmare. She would not see Beth again, she would not touch Beth again, or hear her voice ever again, not for many years. The reaction did not come as a shock; it crept up on her through the darkness of the room. And she found she could scarcely cry.

* * *

She awoke Sunday morning to the sound of a Bach chorale playing next door, and the sunlight through the blinds told her that it was a beautiful day. She forgot Beth for the moment as she awoke, thought of the smell of fresh coffee and her own radio which should be turned on. And then she remembered Carl and Esther and her appointment with them.

It was better not to think of last night and put the problem of Beth away, far away. It helped to think of Esther; it eased the frightened feeling inside her stomach.

She sat up and let the streaks of sun touch her legs. Her legs seemed pale and thin in the light. She was nude and she felt pale and thin in the cool fall on Sunday morning.

But she felt somehow strong. Strength was in her chest and limbs. She rose and let all her body meet the sun.

She did not put on her clothes and made breakfast, feeling herself a child of nature with the sunlight streaking not through Venetian blinds but through the branches of trees. I am too drawn within myself, she thought; I must feel free and naked and not care so terribly much about what happens to me.

Again she thought of Esther, and then self-consciousness overtook her and she blushed. I wonder how Esther would react? Again the indecision. I mustn't care so terribly much about what happens.

The clock now said one. There was hardly enough time to dress and get there. Anne gulped the remaining coffee, gobbled one piece of toast and hurried to the shower. She let the warm water wake her and then half-dried herself and splashed on cologne.

There was no time to prepare properly for Esther, no time for exotic bubble baths, facials, manicures. Today she would be informal. Today she would tie her long hair in a pony tail and put on her Italian slacks. Tan shoes and a striped silk blouse finished the outfit. Anne paused to consider wearing lipstick and mascara and then decided not to. Esther would see her today as she had seen Anne that first evening at the Florentin.

She stopped to feed and pet Portia and then rushed out and hailed a taxi.

* * *

Carl's house was the only house out of the sun. It stood dark and cold, with its ominous front door, and the hollow sound of the doorbell gave Anne a chill. She shuddered for a moment at this contrast but would not allow herself to be frightened. She was here to meet Esther.

The small maid appeared, white in the dark of the hallway, bowing a welcome.

Anne knew the way to the library and walked past the dark to the dull light of the doorway and stood just as Esther had stood yesterday evening. Carl was sitting in his chair, a breakfast tray on his lap.

"Come in," he hailed, "and have some coffee, etcetera."

"Thanks," Anne said, "just coffee."

She waited at the door, hoping to see Esther.

"She's in the garden," Carl said, reading her thoughts.

Anne was embarrassed. Carl knew she distrusted him, knew she had not come to visit him. And then Esther entered.

"Hello," Esther smiled. She was dressed almost like Anne, with a striped shirt and dark slacks, and she wore no makeup. She was thin and tall and beautiful.

"Sit down and I'll get you coffee," she said.

Anne went to the sofa and waited impatiently for her to return. She did not wish to speak to Carl. She sensed an air of hostility in him today, worse than the one of yesterday. But perhaps it was her own hostility. She couldn't be sure. They were certainly not going to be friends.

"Relax," Carl said bluntly. "She likes you."

He was being sarcastic and now Anne knew why he was behaving this way. They had discussed her before she came, and Carl had lost—at least for today. Anne felt in a way sorry. She did not want Esther to hurt him. She smiled and winked at Carl and it brought a smile back to his face.

Now Esther returned with two mugs and sat on the sofa beside Anne and handed her one mug. "Milk's over there," she motioned.

Anne held her mug and looked at Esther. She was pale.

"Nice to see you," Esther said.

There was silence. Anne took a gulp of black coffee.

"Would you like me to play a Bach chorale?" Carl interrupted.

"Let's go to the park," Esther rose, not hearing him. Anne rose with her, imprisoned by her eyes, and then something made her remember her good manners and she broke away from their spell and turned to Carl.

"Excuse me—what did you say?"

Carl sighed. "Never mind, you can hear it after you come back."

Esther had taken her hand and was pulling her toward the door. "Come on," she said.

Anne allowed herself to be led and skipped quickly behind Esther to the sidewalk.

It was only half a block to the park and an entrance to it was another block away. Esther was being young and carefree, but it was forced. Anne made herself not notice.

They reached the path with new grass on either side and they ran further, letting themselves be hidden by the trees. Finally Anne stopped, pulling Esther's hand, and said "Wait."

They were both without breath. Esther laughed and walked slowly beside her, still holding Anne's hand in a tight knot.

Esther's whole body was tense. She was shivering, and the shivering was making her laugh.

"Let's sit," Anne said.

They found an unoccupied bench and sat, looking at the obelisk on the hill.

"Why are you upset?" Anne asked.

Esther was taken by surprise. "Is it that obvious?"

Anne nodded, lightly squeezing her hand. "Is it because of me?"

"In a way." Esther let go of her hand and hunched over the back of the bench, biting the knuckles of her own fist while thinking.

Anne watched her quietly. Esther was experiencing a conflict over something, and Anne did not know what to do to help her.

Finally Esther spoke. "Why are you here with me? I'm really an awful person."

"I didn't know," Anne laughed. "Why?"

"You're very beautiful," Esther answered.

Anne was silent. She wondered if Esther said that often.

Finally, Esther said, "What is it you want of me?"

It was a blunt question. Anne shrugged. "Someone to love, I guess," she said.

Esther laughed. "And I want someone to love me." She turned and looked intently at Anne. "There's a fundamental difference between us."

Anne paused to consider this. "Is it that you're not willing to love someone in return?" she asked.

Esther was silent. She stared outward for a while and then turned to Anne and brought her hand to her temple, pretending to brush back Anne's hair. "You are very beautiful," she repeated.

Anne blushed. Esther saw this and brought her face very close. Anne expected a kiss but there was none.

Esther laughed finally and said, "We'd better get out of this park."

Anne did not want to go back to Carl's but Esther's grasp was firm and she followed, through the iron gate and into the dark hallway again. The door thumped shut behind them and it was pitch black except for the stream of dim light from the library.

Esther stopped and pushed Anne gently to the wall. Her body was suddenly very close. Their thighs touched and Esther's arms wound tightly around Anne, sending a wave of excitement through her. Their breasts touched and Esther's warm lips brushed Anne's neck, paralyzing her.

"Don't be afraid," Esther said.

Carl's voice came from the library, "Back so soon?" They let go of each other quickly and whirled toward the light. He was not watching them. Esther paused a moment and then led the way into the room.

"It was too cold," she said.

"It must be," he said wryly. "Your cheeks are red.”

He returned to his chair and before he could sit he broke into a violent cough.

Esther whitened and rushed to him, helping him into the chair. Anne had never seen her so pale.

"Bring me that medicine," she motioned to Anne.

Anne hurried to the small table and took the bottle of pills and the pitcher of water and brought them to her. Carl was quieter now, but they gave him a pill to be sure.

When he could speak, he forced a smile and said for Anne's benefit, "It's not contagious—just bronchitis."

Esther covered him with his blanket and felt his forehead and then went again to sit on the sofa. She was upset. Anne sat beside her and tried to take her hand, but Esther was watching Carl. The music he had put on was filling the room.

The sound was oppressive, and Anne wanted to leave. And then the unexpected happened. Esther excused herself and left the room.

Anne had been deserted. She was forced to stay here with Carl, listening to his music, while Esther had gone elsewhere. Anne's good manners would not permit her leaving Carl.

Five minutes went by and the strain of listening was beginning to show in her eyes. She looked at Carl. He was turned toward the window. He would not see her leave. He would not miss her. She rose quietly and tiptoed out.

Esther had probably gone to her room, so Anne entered the small elevator and pressed the top-floor button. Slowly, the small basket took her away from the music, away from the dim lighting and up to the sunlit top of the house. She walked down the hallway toward the room that Jacques had pointed out. Her steps made the old boards creak.

"Anne?" She heard Esther's voice at the end of the corridor.

"Yes," Anne answered.

"Over here," Esther said. Now she appeared at the end of the hallway. It was hard to see her because of the sun, and then the window was passed and Anne saw her plainly. Esther was nude, her long and bony body, well built and strong, naked in the sun and white like marble.

Anne stopped, unable to go further; Esther laughed and disappeared through the doorway.

Anne followed her. She entered, and closed the door behind her. The room was different from the rest of the house—barren and painted white—showing due respect for bookshelves, a desk and files and a low, wide bed, unmade and streaked with sunlight.

As Anne stood there, Esther came out of the adjoining bathroom, a towel around her, and Anne could see that her hair was wet from the shower.

"I'm glad you decided to follow me," Esther said, sitting on the bed, drying herself. "Come here and sit by me."

Anne obeyed silently. The first paralysis of excitement was gone now, and she was able to be calm.

"I don't know you very well," Esther said. "Do you like books, music?" She motioned to the bookshelves and went to put a record on the phonograph.

"Not right now, thank you," Anne said. She rose and looked around the room. The desk caught her attention. It was quite untidy and full of typewritten sheets almost completely covering her typewriter. Anne went to it.

"Please, don't look there," Esther said. "It's not finished."

"What's not finished?" Anne asked.

"All of it," Esther said. "What I'm writing."

Anne smiled and turned—felt the same way about unfinished things, could not bear to show her paintings before they were completed. She took a book from the shelf instead and went back to the bed to look through it.

Esther wrapped a blanket around herself and sat next to Anne, curious at what she had picked out. It was a book of caricatures. Anne had chosen it because it would not require close attention. She was determined not to make the first move, determined to wait for Esther, and the book was her excuse for sitting on the bed.

It worked. Esther put her hand over the pages and Anne looked into her eyes. They were playful and unsure. Suddenly it struck her—Esther was waiting for her.

Anne put the book down and took Esther's hand. It was cold and knotted as before. All of Esther was knotted as before, and shivering.

"Lie down," Anne said to her quietly—and took her shoulders gently with her hands, stroking away the shivers with a gentle but firm grasp. Esther lay down, tangled in the blankets, and watched her. Anne kicked off her shoes and knelt by the bed. Slowly, patiently, her hands began unfolding the blanket. She found Esther's ankles, cold and white, and began to trace the blue veins upward toward the thighs. A strange power seemed to flow from her hands and grow through the rest of her body; then she moved to put her lips on Esther's.

* * *

There was something wrong with Esther. She would not speak. Anne watched her in the twilight as the orange sun spread its glow over her body. She only lay there, staring upward to the ceiling.

"Is anything wrong?" Anne asked.

"No," Esther said.

"I can't help feeling that you resent me," Anne said.

Esther laughed sadly. "I do."

"Why?"

Esther sat up and looked at Anne. Her eyes were deep and nervous. "Because you pleased me," she said.

"I don't understand," Anne said. Why should Esther resent her for that?

"Don't you?" Esther said cynically. She rose and paced the floor. "I think we'd better just be friends."

Now Anne began to understand, and it amused her. She had wounded Esther's vanity.

But inwardly, she resented Esther's attitude. It was no better than or different from a man's.

"No one else has ever pleased me," Esther said. She looked out the window silently and her fist, now clenched, thumped against the palm of her other hand.

Anne rose and came to her. Esther was nearly a head taller than she and her dark mood made Anne a little afraid. But she stood beside her at the window, careless about being seen.

"I'm sorry," Anne said, "all this is very new to me."

Now Esther turned her head to look at her and her eyes were wildly strong. She took Anne by the shoulders in a grip as tight as Mark's. Esther pressed Anne to her and forced Anne's mouth to accept hers. Anne was afraid. Esther was angry.

* * *

Anne did not know how long she slept. The tiredness of the night before had caught up with her and had made her collapse when all tensions were released, and now it was dark outside. She felt for Esther's body and found only a rumple of sheets. She remembered the lamp over the bed and turned it on.

The room was empty and the door closed so that the monastic white walls boxed her in threateningly.

Anne rose, covering her nakedness with the loose sheet, and looked, frightened, for her clothes. She was in a strange room in a strange house that was noisily quiet with the sound of her own mind. And then she forced indignation to replace fear and put on her clothes roughly and stepped determinedly into the hallway. Esther had left her alone, and Anne was angry.

Her determination intimidated the small elevator to work efficiently, and she now found herself downstairs, walking to the study, expecting to see Carl. But there was only the small maid, cleaning.

"Oh, it's you, miss," she said, a bit startled.

Anne wondered if the house was always so frightening at night.

"Is anyone home?" she asked.

"Mr. Carl is asleep," the maid said. "Miss Esther's gone." Now she stood, awaiting orders.

"Thank you," Anne said, and turned to the door.

Outside, the chill air humbled her; shivering, she hailed a taxi.

She's probably at Paradise, Anne thought. But she told the driver to take her home. When she left the cab, she went across to The Florentin. She was angry to the point of tears. Esther had left her alone. Esther had left her as Beth had left her.

The Florentin's windows were fogged with dampness. It looked warm and light inside. Anne opened the glass door, entered, and stood still, crossing the room with her eyes, inspecting faces for a friend.

"Hey, Alice," Jacques hailed her, "over here."

Anne smiled. The world was becoming all right again. Her friends were at a table. She went to the table and sat on an empty chair, and waited to greet them until Marcel had finished talking.

"...I insist," Marcel was saying, "sex and love are entirely different. I love a dozen girls and they're all still virgins."

"That's because they don't love you," Jennie giggled.

Their cups of coffee were stale, but they were broke this week and couldn't order others.

"Alice, what happened?" Jacques said. "Did you make out?"

"Never mind," Anne smiled sadly. Jacques' curiosity repulsed her now. She tried to tell herself that he was young.

"Something did happen," he laughed naughtily. "Mary, you're fast!"

"What's this all about?" Marcel asked, hearing a fragment.

"Nothing much," Anne said. And then an odd impulse took hold of her and she felt she had to tell them. "I've become a Lesbian."

Jennie giggled cleverly, "Chacun a son gout!" and Marcel and Jacques laughed. Anne smiled. They thought she was joking. Only Jacques really knew. She wondered how they would react if they had believed her. She wondered how the rest of the world, the rest of her friends would react. They would have to accept it, or Anne would drop them. She would not hide herself from them, not from her friends—her employers, perhaps—but not her friends. They would just have to accept it.

Suddenly the warmth of the Florentin was unbearable and the company dull. She could no longer bear Jacques, she could not communicate with Marcel or Jennie. She rose. She no longer belonged here.

"I'll talk to you tomorrow," she said to Jacques. "Right now I'm due at Cora's."

She left the Florentin, left Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart in full swing over the loudspeaker, left the discussion of Shakespeare, Strindberg and Sex—left the heat and the dampness and smell of fresh coffee and walked in the cold air past the crowds of men standing on the street, past the whistling crowds of violent men, past the last lights of safety and down the cold dark street, down the street of violent silence, down the only street that led to Cora's. Anne was going to get even, was going to spite Esther.

She was ready to immerse herself in noise, the noise of Cora's juke box. She was ready to exhaust herself in dancing. The noise in her own ears was ready to blend into Cora's. She ran down the steps and through the swinging door, and stopped.

Cora's had changed. The juke box was subdued, the No Dancing signs were larger and there was no one on the floor. The women were gone and only the truck drivers were standing at the bar.

"Hi, kid." Cora stopped her at the door. "Can you prove your age?"

Anne took out her wallet automatically. She was puzzled.

Cora glanced at her driver's license. "Okay."

"What's the matter?" Anne asked.

"Elections," Cora said. "Every place is watching its step this month. Why haven't you been in?"

"I thought you didn't want me to come back," Anne said.

"Did I say that?" Cora scratched her head. "I must have been drunk."

Now someone else entered and she had to stop them.

"Go sit down," she said to Anne. "I'll join you later."

Anne squeezed through the empty tables toward the back. She saw Skippy wave at her from behind the bar and she waved back. After Esther, Skippy did not seem very attractive. But Skippy's eyes were friendly and Anne was glad she had come to Cora's. She felt at home.

"What'll you have?" Skippy said.

"Vat 69 and coke," Anne said.

"Whoops," Skippy laughed, "I should have remembered."

She prepared a tray and put Cora's scotch and soda on it too and then Cora came and took it from the bar and brought it to Anne's table.

"It's great to see a female face around here," Cora said. "We'll be back in swing in a couple of weeks, though."

"Does this happen every year?" Anne asked.

Cora nodded. "Someone in the Department has it in for me."

Anne was tempted to ask Cora if she "payed off," but thought better of it.

"If I told you not to come back," Cora said, "what are you doing here?" She placed her hand fondly over Anne's.

Anne blushed with embarrassment. Cora was interested in her.

"I wanted excitement," she said.

Cora laughed and took her hand away. "You sure picked the wrong spot."

Cora was right. Anne looked toward the staircase and saw the door to the upstairs room was marked Closed. Nothing, but nothing was going on at Cora's.

"Excuse me." Cora rose again to stop more people at the door. Anne looked down at her drink. She was glad that Cora's was quiet after all. She had not really wanted noise. It might be nice just to be with Cora and Skippy tonight, and then to go home and rest. After all, tomorrow was a working day.

Just as she began enjoying the-lack of excitement, Cora came back with some people.

"I brought you some friends," Cora said. "Frenchy, Jane, Mel, this is Butch."

"The name's Anne," Anne corrected.

"It's Butch to me," Cora said. "I can't remember names."

"Hello." Frenchy was a very old man, a banker perhaps, but very old with gleaming false teeth.

"Hello," Anne smiled politely. She did not really want more people at the table.

"May we buy you a drink?" Mel asked, while helping Jane sit down.

"No, thanks." Anne looked at her scotch. "I've got one."

Cora left them again, to greet more newcomers.

"The next one," Mel insisted.

Anne submitted sadly to their intrusion, looking with nostalgia toward the bar where Skippy was occupied with several orders.

"What do you do?" Jane asked her.

"Office work," Anne said, hoping this might discourage them. They were plainly tourists out for kicks. "And what about you?" she looked at the men.

"We spend money," Frenchy smiled.

Mel laughed, "But only on women."

"I do hope Cora will join us again," Jane said. She was very blonde and very fake. Her dress was white and it was plain by the way it was cut that they had come by car.

"We're expecting another couple," Mel said. "I hope you're corning with us to the party."

"I don't know," Anne answered. She was feeling uncomfortable now and wished that Skippy would come over and protect her.

Skippy read her thoughts. She came over with a tray.

"Hi," she said to Anne, "mind if I join?"

"Please do," Anne said, moving over so that there would be room for her. But Cora immediately returned and Skippy had to get up again to give back her seat.

"How about some dancing, Cora?" Mel said. "It's after midnight. Should be safe."

"Okay," Cora said. She did not sit and abruptly took hold of Anne's wrist. "Come on."

Anne let herself be led to the dance floor and followed Cora's smooth but awkward step to a slow mambo.

"What are you doing with those birds?" she said.

"But you brought them over," Anne said.

"Never mind what I did," Cora said, "just don't walk out with them."

"I won't," she said. Anne was annoyed. No one in his right mind would walk out with a group of strangers from a bar like this.

"I'm taking you home," Cora announced. "You shouldn't be alone at this hour."

"What makes you so safe?" Anne said impatiently. She was not a child.

Her remark stopped Cora for a moment and then she laughed. "Honey, I don't need nobody. All the girls come to me." Then she softened and continued to dance, "Maybe you're not so dumb."

Cora's cheek was against Anne's now and Anne was amused. Cora was trying to act the Romeo, and it was refreshing to play her game. She pressed closer into what was now a fox trot and closed her eyes. If only Esther could be so uncomplicated.

When she opened her eyes again, they had danced near the table and Cora was ready to lead her back. The new couple had arrived and were standing there, waiting for introductions.

Anne froze. There was a tall handsome man—possibly an actor, and with him—almost behind him so that Anne had not seen her at first—was Beth, pale in a long black evening gown.

"What's the matter?" Cora said, feeling Anne's grip tighten on her hand.

"Nothing," Anne said, composing herself; she walked back to the table with Cora.

Mel made introductions. Anne did not hear the man's name, nor anything said. Her eyes were fixed on Beth's, and Beth's eyes were soft, embarrassed, full of concern, as startled as Anne's.

"Hello, Anne," she smiled, pretending to be introduced.

Anne nodded and sat, unable to listen or to speak. Inside of her a wave of resentment and anger was forming, anger against Beth's escort, and the breaking, the awful tearing in her stomach of the night before. There seemed to be no one else there but Beth. Anne could listen only when she spoke.

"Do you come here often, Anne?"

"No." She blushed. A great feeling of shame was also upon her. She did not want Beth to think her part of a place like Cora's.

"I've been trying to get her to come with us," Mel said. His voice pierced Anne's ears through a cushion.

She saw Beth pale, more so than before, and her eyes were disturbed.

"Are you coming, Anne?" she said.

"Maybe," Anne said. In a way she wanted to go with them now, to save Beth, to take her away from her escort and take her home, back where she belonged, in Anne's arms.

Beth started to say something and then stopped. She got up and addressed only Anne.

"Which way is the ladies' room?"

Anne took the chance. She rose abruptly and said, "I was about to go there."

They walked with great composure toward the back, toward the dirty little room that said LADIES.

"Anne." Beth closed the door behind her and went to hold her, to press her against the wall—but the wall was dirty and she stopped, and Anne stopped, and they looked at each other.

"You're all off to a party," Anne said.

"Please don't come with us," Beth replied.

"I won't," Anne said. She sensed something violently repulsive was about to happen between them. "What sort of party is it?" she asked carefully.

Beth looked away. "We'd better go back to the others."

Anne took her hand and made her stay where she was. Beth's hand was not familiar tonight—it seemed limp and artificial, and the nails were covered with polish.

"Beth, why are you this way?" Anne said.

Beth squeezed her hand and repeated, "We'd better go back."

Anne followed her back, past puzzled Cora and winking Skippy, and took her place at the table again.

"Is it safe in there?" Jane said playfully.

"Quite safe," Beth said, looking at her drink.

"Are you coming with us?" Mel said, trying to take Anne's hand. Anne took her hand away quickly and held her drink.

"I'm afraid not," she said. "Cora's taking me home."

"Pity," Frenchy said, "but why don't you both come?"

"No, thanks," Anne said determinedly.

"We'll be showing movies," Frenchy said in what was supposed to be a tempting tone.

Anne rose, not wishing to hear more. "Excuse me," she said. "It's getting late and I work tomorrow."

She went to the bar to pick up Cora. "Are you still taking me home?" she said.

Cora was surprised. She paused to think for a moment and then said, "Sure, baby, okay."

She stopped at the hatcheck closet to pick up her jacket and then ushered Anne out. From the back of the room, the party waved at her and Beth's eyes, desperate and anxious, followed her.

"What went on between you two?" Cora said when they were out in the night.

"Just an old flame," Anne said coldly.

Cora's car, a red convertible, was parked down the street. Anne was surprised. She thought they would have to walk.

"Neat," she said to Cora and watched her smile.

They got in and drove off.

"Where do you live?" Cora asked.

"Across from the Oval," Anne said. She did not want to give Cora the exact building number.

Cora stepped on the gas and, with expert disregard for speed limits, took her there in two minutes.

"We could have walked," Cora laughed.

"But this car is so impressive," Anne smiled. They sat with the top down in front of Anne's door and looked at the dark street. The crowds had gone and there were only the late drunks lying on the streets or stumbling home.

"This is no place for you to live," Cora said.

"I like it," Anne said.

Cora was silent for a minute and then asked "Do I see you again?"

"Perhaps," Anne said.

Cora pressed the button that put the top up and the black canvas roof covered them from the street.

"Are you going to kiss me?" Anne asked.

Cora sighed. "Don't ask questions." She reached over and found Anne's mouth with hers.

What a professional kiss, Anne thought. It's been thoroughly rehearsed.

Cora let her go and straightened her collar and turned on the motor again. "Go home and behave yourself," she said.

"Thanks," Anne said, then, impulsively, she kissed Cora's cheek. "Good night, Mother."

She got out and the convertible raced off again, leaving Anne alone on the street. She quickened her steps to her door and it was not until she reached it that the running of footsteps behind her pierced the silence.

"Anne—"

Anne turned, feeling a chill in her spine. All at once the street was filled and she was surrounded, made helpless, awkward.

Esther was running toward her.

CHAPTER 6

"I thought you'd never come!" Esther stopped in front of Anne, a little breathless. "I took time off for coffee. What's the matter? Surprised to see me?" She bent her head boyishly and smiled a guilty smile.

Anne tried not to seem clumsy. "But you left, and I thought—"

"I had an appointment," Esther said quickly, not letting her finish. "Sorry."

"How about another cup of coffee?" Anne said.

"Hell, no." Esther kicked a pebble. "Let's walk through the park."

"Now?"

"Best time," Esther said. "We can see-saw and sing madly. There's no one to hear."

"All right," Anne said. She was reluctant. The day had been a long one and she was tired. But Esther took her hand.

"Come on, sleepy. It's a lovely morning." They reached the small park and sat on a bench. Esther put her feet up and yawned.

"Are you high?" Anne asked.

"On coffee," she nodded, stretching. She folded her arms under her chin and gazed down from the back of the bench on the young grass. Anne watched her. Esther's skin matched the grays and whites of the buildings across the street and her eyes were like their dark windows, silent and peaceful.

"There's a mist that rises from the dew-kissed grass and the birds chirp!" Esther said wryly.

Anne could not help laughing. Esther's abstract mood had wakened her and now there was that tingle in her spine, that refreshing awareness of Esther and the perfume of her body.

Esther turned then, sensing Anne's look, and her own eyes rested fully on Anne. A slow smile began to form on Esther's lips; her eyes were softer than usual. All at once her entire figure became softness, her posture less erect, her head awkward but friendly. And then Anne saw for the first time something that was not male in Esther—something that was girlish and kind, and even gentle. It took away the chill of the night air, replaced it with a fire of dull aching longing.

Esther laughed, "Diddle, diddle, chimpanzidle. Man is mind and mind's a riddle. Burn inside yet play your fiddle."

"What's that?" Anne said.

"Just a poem," she smiled. Now she rose, pulling Anne up. "Let's walk on the grass. Take off your shoes." She bent down, removed her shoes and socks, and looked at Anne's feet, waiting for her to follow.

It was too great a temptation. Anne took them off.

Now both were barefoot. The grass was wet but they moved too quickly to feel cold. A new freedom had been won in going barefoot. It was as if hopping, running and walking had never been done before now—as if no one ever walked with shoes on.

In a moment, they were lying on the grass and Esther's elbow was touching Anne's shoulder. The church clock chimed six; there wasn't anyone anywhere except for a policeman on the other side of the large fountain. He could not see them.

Esther was humming a tune to herself and Anne was squinting at the sky, bright before sunrise. The light was making her eyes itch with sleep, making them water, and sleep was pressing her to the ground so that she could not move. Then Esther's face came between her and the sky.

Dawn, behind Esther, made her face dark and her features obscure. Slowly the dark face came forward until it had blocked out all of the sky and Esther's features were plain again, her deep-set eyes and white skin, her open, narrow mouth, open and tender, tender and near until it was not a mouth but a kiss, a kiss with more than Esther's mouth, a kiss with Esther's breasts, her hair, her hands, her thighs, a kiss that was more than a kiss and demanded more in return.

It was over too quickly and they turned away from each other and lay on the grass breathing hard. Esther said "Damn!"

"Let's go home," Anne said, forcing her tired back to lift her up. She looked around. No one had seen them. Esther rose quickly after her and they walked with pretended innocence, still breathing much too quickly, their eyes searching the ground, searching desperately for a place, just any place, a doorway, an alley, any place where they might be alone, might kiss again, but there was nowhere. They could only hold hands.

And then they were in Anne's hallway and Esther wanted to stop there but Anne pulled her forward, up the stairs to her door. There they fumbled for the keys, Esther searching Anne's pockets and making the fire in her body almost pain and worse. And then the door was opened and closed behind them and they were free to be together—and themselves.

* * *

The faint alarm of the clock by the bed rang unnoticed under the noise of the street, loud with the passing of trucks and the shouting of school children. And then the telephone rang.

"It's probably my office," Anne yawned.

Esther's hand reached for the receiver and brought it to Anne.

"Hello?" Anne said hoarsely, not taking her eyes from Esther. "Yes, I'm ill. I'll be in tomorrow." She hung up again and watched Esther smile. "Shouldn't you call Carl?"

"Why bother?" Esther stretched. "He knows where I am."

She was lying on her back, her head turned towards the blinds and the sunshine. Anne gazed at her calmly for a moment and then placed her head on Esther's shoulder. It was soft and familiar.

"It's too lovely a day out," Esther said. Anne's head on her shoulder had not made her move and she gazed directly into the sunlight. "It's like Paris, full of school children and nuns and flowers on the street corner and people coming out of shops with long bread loaves under their arms."

"Shall we go out?" Anne said.

"Yes," Esther said, rising eagerly.

"I'll lend you my hair brush," Anne laughed, going to the bathroom. From there she called out, "Where do you want to go?"

"Don't know," Esther yawned. "Church, maybe."

"Church!" Anne came out of the bathroom. Esther was dressing now and she went to the closet to get her own clothes.

"It's a day for churches," Esther laughed. "Paris is full of churches. Wherever they want to put something beautiful they put a church."

"There's one on Fifth and Tenth—" Anne said.

"Hell, no!" Esther buckled her belt, "Nothing short of Notre Dame, and only as Joan of Arc."

Anne laughed and threw Esther's jacket to her. "Come on, we'll go to the Florentin."

They were silent as they left, and thus they walked between the parked cars and across to the Florentin.

Marcel was seated near the window, tuning his lute. The Outdoor Art Show was bringing in much business and a group of tourists in the back had just bought him a cup of coffee. The echoes of "Partridge in a Pear Tree" were just fading.

Marcel was beautiful in a medieval way; he was wearing sandals and a suede shirt with laces at the neck.

"Darling, you must be unemployed!" he shouted to Anne as the two entered. "Congratulations!"

"Just for today," Anne laughed. "May we join you?"

He rose and bowed deeply. They sat, ordered coffee and sardine sandwiches.

"This is Marcel," Anne said to Esther, introducing them. Marcel studied Esther's face with his eyes. "And this is Esther," Anne finished. Esther nodded. It was plain she found him dull.

A strained feeling now began to grow in Anne. Esther did not like Marcel and they were stuck here because of sardine sandwiches.

"I'm working nights at Rudley's," Marcel said to Anne in an effort to break the silence. He did not like Esther either.

"That's nice," Anne said, trying to be enthusiastic.

Esther found a Manchester Guardian on the empty table next to them and rescued it.

Anne wondered why they did not like each other. Of course it was hard not to laugh at Marcel's affectations, but he was so young. And why did Marcel not like Esther? She realized that what she had expected had begun—the realization among her friends that she was different.

The Irish actress who waited on tables now brought them their order, and Anne proceeded to put her salad in with the sardines in a large Dagwood sandwich. It was her favorite breakfast. Esther put down the Manchester Guardian and watched her, amused. Then she followed Anne's example.

Marcel had begun to strum his lute, giving the Florentin a sleepy air of old Spain. Only an occasional Villager, stopping in front of the window and then hurrying on, reminded Anne of the outside world.

"Oh can you see yon little turtle dove sitting under the mulberry tree…" Marcel began. He had no training but did well in falsetto. "See how that he doth mourn for his true love as I, my love, should mourn for thee…

Through the window Anne now had a good view of "13 1/2" the rooming-house where most of the kids lived. It was sometimes nicknamed Belle-View because of its interesting windows. But on a Monday morning Belle-View didn't seem so colorful. Now only one head poked out of the ground-floor window; it was a girl with a G.I. haircut. Anne recognized her as a barmaid at the Oval.

Esther was back to the Manchester Guardian, almost as if her eyes were closed and sleeping under it.

"Ten thousand miles is very far away for me to find my way back, but before I am false to that maiden that I love the Noon-day shall turn black, my love…"

More coffee arrived and so did Jennie, skipping happily through the open door, her model's case around her arm.

Marcel stopped strumming and gave an exclamation, opening his arms to her. Jennie jumped gayly into them and touched her cheek to his.

"Now I live again," he said dramatically.

"But I've been gone only ten minutes," she laughed.

He kissed her hand in pantomime for Anne's and Esther's benefit and then helped her sit down. Esther had not looked up.

"Hi, Jennie," Anne yawned. The night before was beginning to catch up with her and her eyes were aching. The coffee was making her feel bloated.

"Hi," Jennie winked, then proceeded to try on a new pair of leather gloves. For a minute Anne watched her. She resembled Anne's sister, Boots, who seemed to do nothing but try on new clothes.

Esther put down the newspaper and looked toward the back at all the faces. Anne put her hand over Esther's, squeezed it impatiently. "Let's walk."

Esther rose, threw some money on the table, and they left the Florentin, going back into the sun, warm for November.

It's fun to wear slacks, one can put hands in the pockets and strut, feeling slim and tall and free. They walked this way through the last remnants of the Outdoor Art Show. They breathed deeply and nodded to familiar faces and strutted. The sunshine wakened them again, made them know it was morning.

"Do you like me?" Anne decided to break the silence that had fallen over them since the Florentin.

Esther smiled; she was less communicative now, more the way that she had been at Carl's house.

Anne stopped, feeling she must make Esther answer her.

"Don't ask me such questions," Esther said. "Of course I do."

Now it was Anne who was silent as they walked, aimlessly covering much ground, vaguely turning back toward Anne's apartment. Finally Esther spoke.

"I can't leave Carl," she said.

"Why not?" Anne countered.

"He's very ill," Esther sighed. "Besides, I'm not ready myself to leave him."

"You mean you're afraid," Anne said. "You don't really want to be a Lesbian."

Esther was silent and thought about this and finally said, "No, I don't want to be a Lesbian."

Esther was like Beth—she was afraid too. Beth was a Lesbian but she was afraid to be one, and the fear made her promiscuous with men—she was trying to prove she was a woman and was attracted to them. Esther was staying with Carl for the same reason. Anne suddenly wanted to get home quickly, to leave Esther, to be alone to think. She had allowed herself to care and now she had to be alone and begin not to care; she would have to consider Esther "just for kicks." But she knew it would be a very hard thing to do.

The siren announced noon when they were a block from Anne's house. Anne tried to tell herself that it had been a relaxing morning, that now she had that feeling of belonging—not to Esther, but to a special group, the group behind the windowpane. She told herself that at last she knew the lazy quietness of the girl-couples who ate breakfast at the Florentin—that she had never before understood how they could sit so quietly and normally, content with each other and with the world. But she was not content. She had been happy for a little while this morning, but now she was back where she started, alone—without Beth, and without Esther.

They stopped when they reached Anne's stoop and sat down.

"Coming up?" Anne said finally.

Esther sighed. "No, I'm due elsewhere."

Anne said nothing. There was something very young and very repentant about Esther now, as if she were a child who had done something wrong.

"But I’ll see you tomorrow?" Esther took her hand impulsively.

"I guess," Anne nodded. She stood up, feeling very tired and brought her hand up to Esther's cheek. She brushed it lightly.

Esther smiled and looked down, put her hands in her pockets, and began to walk toward Sixth Avenue.

It was not the way to Carl's house.

* * *

Anne walked heavily up the stairs to her door. She did not care at the moment where Esther had gone. She needed sleep. A sick, dizzy feeling was in her head. She needed to lie down and catch up on the night before. She reached her door and unlocked it.

"Hello, Anne." Mark was standing by the bookcase, a glass in his hand.

Anne entered silently and slammed the door shut. She felt too tired to be angry.

"What are you doing here?" she said, sitting on the bed.

He smiled and put his glass down. "You forget I have a key."

"I'll change the lock tomorrow," she said. "Now please get out."

"I just came to visit," he said. He was smiling.

"What about?" she sighed. She was so tired.

"I'd hoped that by this time you'd have dropped your, shall we say, peculiarity." His eyes defied Anne's and he continued to stand over her, smiling.

"I haven't," she said. She kicked off her shoes and lay down. "I'm too tired to talk to you, Mark," she said. "Please go or I'll have to call for help."

Mark went to the cabinet, unimpressed, and poured more of her scotch in his glass. "There's no law that says I can't visit my wife."

"There will be next week when I take you to court," she answered. "If you don't leave me alone I'll sue for alimony."

He sat on the bed and took her wrist, first gently and then firmly. "Anne, you can't do this to me. I love you."

Anne smiled and turned away. "Your pride's hurt, that's all."

"I'm not going to let some woman have you," he said.

"Mark, it's my life," she replied. "I have the right to choose, not you."

This made him angry. He tightened his grip on her wrist.

"Annie," he said, and his voice was hoarse, "tell me one thing. What do they use, huh? What do they use?"

His face was over hers. Anne could smell his breath, 100 proof. But it was not only his breath that repelled her—it was Mark, all of Mark after Esther.

"I'm going to remind you of what a real man feels like," he said.

He was twisting her wrist and the pain woke Anne and cleared her mind.

"Let go of me," she commanded.

But Mark took her with both hands. "That's not what you really want me to do."

Anne struggled against him weakly, knowing he was too strong.

"Mark, this is rape," she said. "I won't forget it."

"What, between husband and wife?" he chuckled.

"I've started divorce proceedings," she said, "and that legally separates us. You haven't any right to me now."

He laughed. "Wait till I tell the judge you're queer."

"You think that's going to make a difference?" She laughed. "You'd better leave, Mark, or I'll tell him about you and Beth. Anything you say against me will be taken only as slander."

"You wouldn't do that to Beth," he said.

"Beth volunteered," Anne replied. "If you don't believe it, call my lawyer."

She had found a flaw in him and had won; his grasp was less tight. "Mark, all I want is to be free of you," she said, "but if you don't leave me alone I'll make you pay for it the rest of your life."

She relaxed and waited. Mark wanted her to struggle, try to fight him off. But her coldness would be more effective. Whatever he did to her now would not matter, would be chalked up as just another unpleasant experience with Mark—but she would have the last laugh.

He let go of her sharply and she rubbed the soreness in her wrist and waited.

"You would do it, wouldn't you?" he said.

She nodded. "It'll be nice to have you support me for the rest of your life, particularly since I'm not going to marry again."

He went again to the scotch, took another glassful and gulped it down, then flung the glass across the room. Anne faced him and saw his expression, twisted in helpless rage, and she knew what to expect from him. She steeled herself.

Mark stood, his fist clenched, holding his breath. Anne did not take her eyes from his face.

"Go on, slap me and get out," she said.

She saw his hand come down in a flash of red and then there was nothing but pain.

* * *

Anne lay there, covering her face with her arm and dug deep into the pillow, riding the waves of anger and fatigue and pain. She was crying. She was crying because she had won. She was rid of Mark.

Anne closed her eyes and slept.

When Anne awakened, the room was dark with twilight. She had slept and now she was alive again. The pain in her cheek was almost gone and she could feel with her tongue the small bruise where her teeth had cut her flesh. It was healing even now. She sat up, feeling hungry and ready for the evening. She would go out to dinner. She had wanted to try the restaurants up this street. Afterwards she would go to Paradise—Esther might be there; if not, there would be someone else.

She got up and went to the shower. The water would wake her, and wash off Mark. Her cat, Portia, followed her and watched the process with the usual interest.

"Come on in," Anne laughed, "the water's fine."

Portia shrugged, shaking her long fur, and gave a loud purr. It was feeding time.

The telephone rang and Anne wondered if she should answer it. But it might be Esther. She turned off the water, grabbed a towel, and plodded wetly across the rug. The telephone still rang persistently.

"Hello?" Anne said, trying to stop the water dripping down her nose.

"Hello." The man's voice was familiar and it made Anne feel sick. "Is this Anna?"

"Yes," Anne said. "Father?"

"Hello," her father said again. His voice was uncertain and under great control. "Your voice sounds strange—are you with someone?" he asked.

"No, I just rushed out of the shower," Anne said. She was shivering now and dried herself where she could and sat on the bed, wrapping a blanket around her.

"How did you get my number?" she questioned, trying to seem casual. She knew what the phone call was about. It was Mark's doing. The last time he saw them Mark had told her parents about Beth and her. Now he had probably told them where Anne lived.

"It's a dreadful thing that your parents have to get your telephone number from a stranger," her father said, some of the anger breaking through his barrier of control.

"It's a dreadful thing that my parents won't let me live my own life and that I have to hide from them," Anne countered. She always had to be hard with her father. He walked right over her otherwise.

"I want you to come home.” he said, controlling himself again. "We have been worried sick over you."

"There is no reason to worry," Anne replied. "I've sent you letters, and you've always been able to reach me through Jacques, Father," she pleaded, "I'm over twenty-one now. I'm grown up."

"You are still my daughter," he shouted on the other end. "I don't care how old you are!"

"Anna—Anna—" Anne's mother had taken the telephone. She was crying. "We just don't want you to be a freak. My darling, come home, come home."

"I'm not a freak, Mother." Anne retained her composure. She did not want to hurt them this way. She cursed Mark for doing this. She could have broken the news to them more easily. "I can't come home. I'm not little any more."

"Anna," her father had the receiver again, "if you don't do as we say, I will have to use force." His tone was strong and had the same dictatorial tone that Anne had heard all her life. It made answering him easier.

"You can't use force," she responded in the same determined tone. "I'm over twenty-one and there's nothing you can do to me."

"I will stop you," his voice was high-pitched now. "No daughter of mine is going to be a—a Lesbian!" He said the word with intense hate.

"I'm afraid you have nothing to say about that," Anne said quietly.

"You're a victim of this—this awful woman," her father sputtered. "She has you hypnotized!"

"No, Father," Anne said. "I have always been this way. I won't be changed. This is the first time my life has really felt right and happy."

"You are breaking the laws of nature—" her father said.

"The law I'm breaking is against nature," Anne said. "That law will have to be changed."

She did not want to talk more. This could go on for hours. "I have nothing more to say, Father," she said. "If you want any connection with me, please try to see things my way."

"Anna, I'm coming up to get you," he said strongly.

"I won't be here," Anne said and hung up.

The room spun around her. She was cold despite the blanket and lay down, shivering. Portia was close to her face, meowing for supper. Anne wanted to cry but could not. She was too angry. She was angry at Mark for having done this, furious at the world for being so stupid and having done this. How dare the world deny her a place it? She was not hurting others by her existence; she had not harmed anyone, while Mark—Mark with the world on his side—had harmed her.

Portia's meows were becoming annoying and Anne forced herself up from the bed. "Come on," she said her, "soup's on."

She emptied the can of cat food in a clean bowl and watched Portia eat it carefully. The thought of food made Anne remember she was hungry. She would still go out. She brushed her hair quickly and then put on her slacks again and took her toothbrush. She might not come home again tonight. Her father might be here, waiting for her when she got back. She would spend the night in a hotel, if she did not find someone at Paradise.

She was unhappy about going out; felt driven out of her own apartment by Mark and her father. She would have to move in order to be free again. She put on her jacket with a sigh and left the apartment.

CHAPTER 7

The narrow street was busy with early evening shoppers. It was the most popular street in the Village and had its sidewalks crowded with racks and merchandise—Japanese baskets, modern furniture, paintings, pottery, fruit stands, all side by side. It was a street from the Paris Esther had described. Anne had never walked like this before, looking at everything closely as she went. Thanksgiving was Thursday and the street was particularly crowded in anticipation. Anne wished Esther were walking with her. She felt so much alone now, almost like calling Beth again, just to speak to someone, just to hide her head and cry.

I'm going to have fun, she said to herself, I'm going to find someone who likes fun and we'll have fun together. I'm going to forget everything and everyone and break loose.

She stopped in front of the small restaurant that was so expensive. She would eat here, by the window.

She opened the door and entered shyly, wondering if the management would object to her slacks. But they did not. Odd apparel was normal in the Village.

It was warm inside and dark, the room lit only by the candles on tops of tables. Anne turned toward the table at the window and then stopped, disappointed. Someone had taken it already, a tall woman also in slacks. Anne went to sit at the empty table next to her, hoping remotely to catch her eye.

She looked familiar. Anne could not place her at first—and then she remembered the tall girl that had met Esther at Paradise. Of course—this was the same one, that tall artist. What luck! Anne would have someone to talk to for a while. She broke through her wall of shyness and decided to try conversation. It was a strange thing for her to do—she never spoke first to anyone. But tonight was different. Tonight Anne was changing.

"Hello, there," she said, trying not to seem nervous.

The woman looked up vaguely at her and smiled slightly.

"Don't you remember?" Anne said. "We met the other night—I'm a friend of Esther's."

"Oh, yes," the woman smiled. She relaxed' and her eyes became friendly. "Is Esther joining you?"

"No, I'm here alone," Anne said. She felt embarrassed. She was glad she had said hello, but now everything was awkward. There seemed to be nothing else for her to say.

The waiter came to take her order. She glanced down at the menu and picked out next to the cheapest item. It was chopped sirloin. "And a Daiquiri," she said.

The waiter went away again and Anne again had nothing to do. She glanced sidewise at the woman and then back to her own hands on the table.

"Do you come here often?" the woman asked.

"I can't afford such luxury," Anne laughed, feeling relieved that she had been spoken to. "And you?"

"I'm celebrating, too," the woman said.

"Oh, I'm not celebrating," Anne said. "I'm consoling myself." It was easier to speak to her and Anne relaxed a little. "What are you celebrating?"

"I've sold a mural," she said with pride.

"Then you're an artist, as I thought," Anne said.

"A commercial artist," the woman corrected.

"Oh." Somehow this was disappointing to Anne. She had always scorned commercial art. "I paint," she said meekly.

There was a long pause now and then the woman said, "Won't you join me? It seems a shame to take up two tables."

Anne looked at her a moment. There was something wonderfully kind about her eyes; they were living eyes, more alive than Beth's, more alive than Esther's. They were eyes looking directly at Anne and not far away at the horizon. "Thank you," she said impulsively, "I will."

She moved over and sat across from her, by the window where she had wanted to sit before. "My name's Anne," she said.

"Mine's Johnson," the woman smiled. There was a faint touch of business-like masculinity about her that lent her assurance. It was Beth's kind of assurance.

"Have you had dinner yet?" Anne asked, not seeing a plate before her.

"I just ordered dessert," Johnson said, "but I’ll set a while on coffee."

Anne's waiter brought her Daiquiri and a new bread basket.

"How is Esther?" Johnson said carefully, playing with her spoon.

"What makes you think I've seen her since the other night?" Anne said, not wishing to give Esther away.

Johnson smiled. "I know her too well." She put the spoon down and looked at Anne. "Is your evening free?"

"More or less," Anne said. "I had planned to go to Paradise."

Johnson smiled again. "You must be a newcomer. I'm afraid Paradise is not too hopping on a Monday night."

Johnson was right. Anne remembered Jacques' telling her that Monday nights were a waste of time. Only drunks patronized the bars then.

"I'm going around the corner to a movie," Johnson said. "There's a science fiction film. Want to come?"

Anne looked at her. Johnson was attractive in the way that Beth was and yet somehow more wholesome.

"All right," Anne said. She had not been to a movie in months. It might be fun.

Anne's lentil soup arrived and Johnson watched her eat it. She seemed in a happy silence and Anne wondered what she might be thinking. The small candle flickering on their table was making her sandy hair silver. She's like Beth in many ways, Anne thought, but not really. Johnson was taller than Beth and stronger, and her eyes were not nervous.

"Are you a New Yorker?" Johnson said.

Anne nodded. "Mostly. I was born in Europe, though."

"Oh?" Johnson looked up in interest. "Where? I visited Europe last year."

"Austria, but I don't remember it," Anne said.

"Good," Johnson laughed. "I only spent three days in Vienna so I couldn't talk very much about it anyway."

There was something winning about all of Johnson. I do like her, Anne thought; I hope she likes me.

She had barely finished her soup when the waiter brought her chopped sirloin. She allowed herself to be hurried, not caring so much about the meal now.

There was silence for a moment as Anne took the first bite and then Johnson said, "What are you consoling yourself about?"

Anne looked up puzzled.

"You said you were dining out to console yourself," Johnson clarified.

"Oh," Anne said, "I guess it's because I have to move." She didn't really want to think about it now.

"Are you being evicted?" Johnson said.

"No, that's not it," Anne said. She lapsed into silence and thoughts of her parents and Mark.

Johnson saw her mood and did not question her further. Instead, she asked, "Do you paint for a living or are you studying?"

"Studying," Anne said, "only I'm not sure it's what I really want to do." She was sad now, quite depressed.

Johnson's dessert arrived, an overdressed pastry. She dug her fork in it. Her hands were beautiful, Anne saw. They were large, strong hands but smooth and unscarred, with sensitive white skin. Anne wondered how she kept them that way despite her work.

"I'd like to see your work," Johnson said. "If it's good, I might be able to help you."

"But I thought you did commercial art," Anne said.

"I have to make a living," Johnson laughed. "I have a shop around the corner. I mostly sell frames and decorative stuff. But I hang myself and my friends on the wall," she added with a smile.

Anne laughed. "I hope they don't mind hanging.”

Johnson winked amiably.

"I'd like to see your work," Anne said.

"That will be nice," Johnson said, and then added, "I even have the traditional 'etchings'."

"I'd love to see your etchings," Anne countered. She was being carefree and flirtatious, but it was fun to play Johnson's game.

"That can be arranged," Johnson said. Anne finished her food and looked for the waiter. She glanced at her watch before he came and saw it was almost time for the last show. Her dessert was a la carte.

"The check, please," she said to him.

"What? No coffee or anything?" Johnson said.

"I don't want to miss those Martian women," Anne said.

Johnson smiled and shrugged and then rose to help Anne out of her chair. As they stood next to each other, Anne thought—She's not too tall, just right. Johnson seemed taller than she was.

Anne paid the waiter hurriedly and Johnson did the same, neither waiting for her change.

It was brisk outside and they walked close together to the end of the block and then around toward the movie.

They stopped and looked at the marquee. The first film featured a female monster.

"Should be stimulating," Johnson said. She went to the ticket booth and paid for two. "I invited you, so I'm treating," she said, coming back to where Anne was waiting.

Anne protested slightly but allowed herself to be overruled.

They entered and since neither of them smoked they went to the orchestra.

"I like to be right on top of the picture, don't you?" Johnson said.

Anne nodded, sitting next to her. The newsreel was playing. "Funny," Anne said, "they used to show news in newsreels. Now it's mostly sports." A beautiful water skier jumped over their heads.

Johnson reached over and helped her remove her jacket. Anne-did the same for Johnson, not wishing to accept too feminine a role. They sat back then and looked at the screen.

Will she hold my hand? Anne wondered. Should I hold hers? She decided to wait, heeding the voice with the halo inside of her that was reminding her to be good. After all, all hope was not lost with Esther. Shouldn't she concentrate on her first? But Beth's love of fun had rubbed off on Anne and she was being cynical just now. It didn't seem as if anything or anyone could be permanent, so why not go on and enjoy life?

The credits for the first feature were now on the screen.

"I hope their heroine looks halfway decent," Johnson whispered. But of course she wasn't. The film was made to please men and so it starred a blonde with lots of makeup.

"They should have made her the monster," Anne whispered in Johnson's ear. Johnson laughed quietly.

Anne had leaned over when she spoke and found her arm now resting on Johnson's. She looked at Johnson. It was dark, but Johnson seemed to be blushing. Anne took her hand away and rested it in her lap.

Johnson's hand gripped the arm rest tightly. Anne watched it for a moment and impulsively brought her hand back. She filled the grooves between Johnson's fingers with her own and waited. Johnson's hand came to life impulsively and held Anne's. The touch sent a wave of pleasure through Anne and her own hand felt Johnson's palm sensuously. But then Johnson brought Anne's hand back to Anne's lap and left it there.

Anne was amused. Johnson wanted to see the movie. Or perhaps she was self-conscious about holding hands in public. The rules between women and women differed from those between men and women. Esther disregarded that difference but Johnson was discreet.

She watched the screen, following Johnson's example. The feature was dull, making the woman the villain in compliance with the new trend in Hollywood and television. She wanted to leave and walk somewhere instead and talk, but she didn't want to spoil Johnson's fun. She wondered if Johnson were really enjoying herself, if Johnson had a trite mind, or if she too wanted to get up and leave. Johnson must have read her mind. She bent over and whispered to Anne, "Do you really like this monstrosity?"

Anne shook her head. "But I can stand it, if you can."

"Let's get out of here," Johnson said.

They put on their jackets again and walked back into the air.

"Has this spoiled your evening?" Johnson said. They were walking toward the corner, their hands in their pockets, not bound for anywhere in particular.

"No—it's been nice to meet you again," Anne said.

"Thanks," Johnson said. They stopped to wait for the light. "Where do we go now?"

"I don't know." Anne paused for a moment. There were so few places to go. She wanted to suggest her apartment but then remembered her father. He might be waiting there for her. Then she remembered she had to spend the night somewhere and the voice with the pitchfork kicked her. "How about showing me your etchings?" she said.

Johnson laughed, blushed, and looked at the pavement. "All right," she said.

They turned back in the direction of the restaurant and went around another corner to a quieter street. It was a street full of loft buildings and studios. Johnson's shop was at the corner. It was in a small, slightly sagging building painted blue.

"It used to be a stable," Johnson said, "and the house next to it was where the family lived. I have half the yard." The building had only two floors and it was much like a doll's house, not a place where someone tall would live. "The rent's controlled," Johnson added.

The shop and Johnson's apartment above it were dark and Anne could only see a little behind the large window. There were paintings and frames and sculptures. "I make my living mostly on frames," Johnson continued.

Anne had said very little, observing the street and the house, and now she followed Johnson quietly up the creaking wooden steps.

"It's not much inside," Johnson apologized, "but there's lots of room."

Anne thought Johnson too modest. She had dreamed of finding just such a place to live.

The apartment was bare and divided into small rooms without doors. All but one of them were filled with equipment and half-finished work. One room was white and almost bare with comfortable canvas chairs, bookshelves and a studio couch.

"You can tell I'm a bachelor," Johnson laughed. "I've spent very little time on decorating."

Anne let Johnson help her with her jacket and then sat on the couch and watched her at the closet.

"Were you always a bachelor?" she asked.

"No," Johnson said quietly. Now she looked up and smiled and said, "How about that coffee you missed?"

"Fine," Anne said, and watched Johnson disappear into the small kitchen.

In her natural setting, Johnson was not as carefree and happy as she had been in the restaurant. There was a touch of sadness in her home, and it reflected in her eyes.

Johnson put the water on the fire and came back into the room. She sat on the floor beside the couch where Anne was sitting.

"Would you like music?" she asked.

Anne nodded and Johnson slid over to the phonograph and put on several records. The first was cool and modern, soothing. She slid back to her former place on the floor and looked at Anne.

"It wasn't Esther, was it?" Anne asked.

Johnson looked up, puzzled, and then smiled slightly. "No. Esther's just a friend." Then she resumed, "My roommate left me last year."

Anne felt sorry—Johnson seemed still to be in love with her. "How long had you been together?" she asked.

"Eight years," Johnson said, perhaps a little bitterly, "Her family lured her back."

"I'm sorry," Anne said.

"Now tell me about you," Johnson said, smiling again. "What made you sad in the restaurant?"

"My family's trying to lure me back too," Anne said. "I can't go home tonight because my father might be there."

"Do you live with your family?" Johnson was confused.

"No, I have a sublet about four blocks from here," Anne clarified, "but my parents want to force me to move back home."

"Are you over twenty-one?" Johnson said.

"Yes," Anne said. "There's nothing they can do to me, but I just don't want to face a bloody battle tonight. That's why I'm not going to go home."

"Do they know you're gay?" Johnson said after a moment.

Anne nodded. Now she wanted to tell Johnson about Mark and about Beth. It was a long story, but Johnson heard it, listening full of concern.

"And so I have to find a new place to live," Anne said.

Johnson sighed and thought for a while. Finally she said, "I could clear out a room for you here. It might help until you found another place."

"But you don't know me," Anne said.

Johnson laughed. "I take in stray cats—why not stray women?"

Anne laughed too and impulsively took Johnson's hand. "I like you, Johnson," she said.

Johnson blushed. "Would you like to see those etchings?" she asked.

Anne nodded and Johnson got up and went to the next room. She returned with a large portfolio and carefully untied the straps.

"Woodcuts, etchings, and scratchboard," she said, taking out the sheets of paper. It was advertising work mostly, plus book illustrations.

Anne was amused. Johnson's work was practical, and happy.

Johnson watched her and then said, "Here are my attempts at serious art."

She took out other sheets—lithographs and etchings that she had done with no thought to selling them. They were good, perfectly balanced and sensitive, and with none of the stark and depressing quality of neurotic art. They were original too, neither cubist nor surrealist but Johnson's own contribution to art.

"I like," Anne said, looking at several now spread out on the couch.

"I like praise," Johnson countered, but Anne saw that her compliment had meant a great deal. She was admitting that she liked encouragement. Johnson was real.

She gathered the sheets and put them back in the portfolio and tied it neatly once more.

"You surprised me," Anne smiled. "I doubted that you had etchings."

"Then why did you come?" Johnson said, putting the portfolio against the wall and coining back to sit on the floor near Anne.

"I thought it might be a nice way to spend the evening," Anne said.

The sound of the coffee percolating came into the room. Johnson rose and went back to the kitchen. She came back with two cups on a tray.

"Has it been?" she asked, handing Anne her coffee.

"I think so," Anne nodded, "Only, I wish—" She hesitated; the thought had bothered her all evening.

"What do you wish?" Johnson said.

"I wish you had another name," Anne said. She laughed a little in embarrassment. It was not a polite thing to say in most circumstances.

Johnson laughed a little too and asked why.

"Because Johnson's too masculine," Anne said.

Johnson looked down for a moment and thought about this, amused. "My first name's Prudence," she said finally.

What a dreadful admission, Anne thought at once. But she decided she liked the name.

"May I call you Prudence?" she said.

"Only if you don't try to shorten it," Johnson said.

They suddenly did not know what else to talk about. Anne felt they must talk or the evening would end. She wondered if Johnson would try to kiss her. She wanted it to happen. It was not desire—too much of Esther in the last day or so and too much of Beth had taken desire out of her—but Johnson was good; she would be a good playmate.

"How are you and Esther making out?" Johnson asked. It was not to pry, Anne decided. Johnson wanted to know because of this evening.

"Better than usual, I guess," she sighed, "but it's hard to fight Carl." She wanted to tell Johnson all that had happened but knew it was not fair to Esther.

"Are you in love with her?" Johnson asked bluntly.

"I like her," Anne admitted, "but I'm afraid to love her." Now she turned. Johnson was asking her too many questions and Anne barely knew anything about her yet.

"And just what, Prudence, is your problem?" she said.

"I have none," Johnson laughed. "I told you—I lost mine a year ago."

"How could you stay a whole year without someone?" Anne persisted.

The first record had finished and the room was quiet for a moment except for the hum of the phonograph. Johnson got up and turned it off. The complete silence made the room seem light and large.

"I haven't been without someone," Johnson said.

"I'm sorry," Anne said, looking down at her cup. "I thought for a moment you were unsophisticated."

Johnson smiled and ran a finger through her sandy hair. "Guess I'd better start making you a place to sleep," she said.

Anne looked at her. There was enough light here to study her face. It was a beautiful face, unwrinkled but serious, with light blue eyes.

"Prudence," Anne said, looking at her eyes.

"You're playing a game," Johnson said, perhaps amused.

"Yes," Anne said, "do you mind?"

"No," she said wisely. Now she neared Anne and bent down, touching her lips.

Anne felt a want growing in her again, despite Esther and Beth. It was a good game; it pleased her.

"Shall I go on?" Johnson asked.

Anne felt a wave of pleasure go through her. She could not speak. She nodded, serious now.

Johnson brought her head down again and kissed Anne's neck. It was another gentle kiss, not like Esther's tempestuous half-bite or Beth's studied nibble. But it brought the wave of pleasure as intensely and Anne waited, waited for Johnson to go on.

Johnson sat on the bed beside her and made her lie down, and Anne felt herself caressed by Johnson's eyes. Her breasts were aware, and her thighs, of Johnson's studying gaze. She wanted to tell her to go on, but forced herself to wait.

Slowly, Johnson began to unbutton Anne's blouse with her big and patient hands. Anne felt much like a child being undressed and put to bed. But Johnson's hands were not treating her as though she were a child. Johnson's hands moved and flowed over Anne's body. All Anne's flesh seemed pulsating and aware, alive. And yet her body turned boneless when she felt the warmth of Johnson's mouth move softly over the bulge of her belly.

Anne reached down to bring the girl's face up to hers. And then Johnson brought the length of her body down to meet Anne's and Anne received it, willingly.

* * *

"I love you," Prudence murmured in the gray light.

Anne awoke, feeling herself turned in the wrong direction, and then saw the room in the haze and remembered she was in Johnson's house and not in her own apartment. Prudence was murmuring "Helen" in her sleep. Anne held her tightly. Her flesh was warm in the gray light and her cheek soft on Anne's shoulder.

"A young Amazon," Anne whispered to herself out loud, "sleeping in my arms under the branches of a pine tree."

"Huh?" Johnson murmured, shifting slightly.

Anne kissed her forehead gently, and was filled with the smell of the warm body beside her, a woman's body, strong and young and naked, with no jagged corners like Esther's, limp, relaxed and tired, sleeping with confidence. Anne could feel the touch of Johnson's lips still on her, having claimed her as no other lips had before, having made her aware of herself, having made her know completely that she was a Lesbian.

She yawned and closed her eyes and folded herself over Prudence.

There was the alarm ringing and then Johnson was kissing her chin, her cheek and her ear. "Wake up, sleepy," she said.

Anne opened her eyes and yawned and closed her eyes again, pressing her ear against Johnson's lips.

"What time is it?" she whispered hoarsely.

"Seven," Johnson rang out cheerily, and pulled her up out of the warm sheet so that the air splashed Anne's bare skin. "Time to get ready for work."

"To hell with work," Anne said, trying to get under the sheet again.

"Come on, sleepy." Johnson pulled her again, this time to a sitting position.

Anne shivered and let herself be led, half blind, to the bathroom. The smell of coffee and fried eggs provided momentum for the rest.

"Scrambled or fried?" Johnson called out to her.

"Fried," Anne said, "up."

She braved the tepid shower for three minutes then dried herself and remembered that she had brought her toothbrush with her. What foresight, she laughed to herself.

The heat was coming through the old pipes now, taking the chill out of the house. Anne brushed her teeth then came back to the living room shyly, wrapped in a towel.

Johnson heard her and called out from the kitchen, "There's a skirt on the bed that should fit you."

Anne found her clothes spread neatly over the bed. Johnson had thought of everything. Anne's blouse and underthings would do for her office, even the knee socks and loafers; but not her slacks. Johnson's skirt, a brightly striped, flair skirt, fit her perfectly.

"Let me see," Johnson said, inspecting her. "I knew it would fit someone someday," she smiled. "Mother sent it to me from home. She's always sending the wrong size."

"Where is home?" Anne said. She had not had time to ask Johnson about her past.

"California," Johnson said. Now she turned back to the eggs and hastily took them off the fire. "Sit over there," she ordered Anne, "and start buttering toast."

Anne sat at the card table that Johnson had set and watched Johnson dish out the eggs. Johnson in the morning looked older than Johnson in bed, she thought. She was behaving like a big sister; and Anne didn't want her to be. Anne wanted to take care of her.

Johnson finished her chores, sat down and poured coffee. She was happy this morning. Her eyes were bright and she looked ready for a run around the block.

"Are you always so awake in the morning?" Anne laughed, trying to warm her chest with coffee.

Johnson nodded and put her cup down. "It's nice to have a guest for breakfast," she added.

Anne saw shyness in her eyes now. Johnson felt awkward, she realized.

"I'm having a lovely time," Anne said warmly. She let her eyes meet Johnson's and they looked at each other silently for a moment. Anne felt an undefined warmth come over her. It was not the warmth of love but of fondness and of gratitude. For the first time someone was paying attention, was caring about Anne.

"I hope you're coming back here after work," Johnson said. "I'll have that room ready for you."

Anne smiled. "I want to stay with you very much," she said. Impulsively she took Johnson's hand where it rested on the table and brought it to her lips. "Thank you for being so good."

Johnson squeezed Anne's hand with her own. "You're the first guest I've really wanted to make welcome since Helen left," she said. She quickly looked down at her eggs and ate silently.

Anne thought, I'm going to make her happy. I want to give myself to her in every way and make her happy. Anne knew it was gratitude that made her feel this way, but it was not a strained gratitude; the feeling came easily, spontaneously, and it was very much like love.

Anne finished her eggs and looked up, waiting for Johnson to speak.

"See you for supper?" Johnson said.

Anne nodded. "I'll bring it, though," she said.

Johnson smiled. "You can cook it too, if you want to. I'm not really good at that."

"Fine," Anne said. Somehow she looked forward to cooking for Johnson—it would be fun. She didn't mind being the woman of the house, not with Johnson.

"I guess we'd better walk you to that bus." Johnson stood, placing her napkin on the table.

Anne rose too. "I'll have to stop home before I come over tonight," she said. "I've a cat to feed."

"Bring her over," Johnson said. "I might as well take her in, too." She rubbed Anne's head fondly and took her hand, and they went to the closet for their jackets.

Anne watched Johnson nervously take them off the hangers. She was very conscious of Anne's nearness.

"Prudence, come here," Anne said, taking her collar.

Johnson dropped the jackets on the floor and put her arms around Anne. "Still like me this morning?" she smiled.

Anne smiled too and nodded and brought her lips up to meet Johnson's gentle kiss. "It's a pity you're sending me off to work," she said.

"You need your job now," Johnson said.

Anne nodded and sighed.

They were silent, with volumes of things to say as they walked to the bus stop. They waited quietly on the corner and smiled at each other in the light of the sun and the clear blue sky.

CHAPTER 8

Anne watched Johnson wave to her from the bus stop and then sat back in her seat by the window. The bus was always nearly empty at this stop, but when they reached 14th Street, people began to crowd on. Anne let herself be squeezed into the corner of her seat and tried to avoid an open newspaper now dangerously close to the tip of her nose. But no one could crowd out the fact that she was alive—and that she was happy.

At 55th Street she got off and walked the long block to Fifth Avenue, to her office. She had never been fifteen minutes early for work. She had always hurried to arrive two minutes before nine. But this morning she was early, and it gave her time to see the sun-filled sidewalk and time to look at the green of the small trees in front of the apartment buildings. She thought she heard birds and looked up and saw the pigeons. Does everyone love morning as I do? she wondered. Then she remembered Esther. Esther loved morning. What am I going to do about Esther? Anne thought.

She shrugged her shoulders and walked on in the same happy stride. "For once I'm going to be irresponsible," she said aloud.

Anne was a secretary in a publishing house that owned its own building. It was a white, new building with self-service elevators. Since everyone came late, Anne's elevator was empty. She pressed the button and rode quickly to her floor. Only the office manager was earlier than Anne and Anne waved to her on the way to her own desk.

"Good morning," the woman answered. She was romantically named Juliette and she was fat and middle-aged and still unmarried. She had worked for the firm eighteen years and still remembered its first crowded offices on Madison Avenue.

Anne hung up her jacket and then went to Juliette's desk. "Did Phil miss me very much yesterday?"

"I'll say," Juliette laughed. "He was a spoiled brat all day. How's your cold?"

"Almost gone." Anne cleared her throat. She had forgotten that was the excuse she had given over the telephone yesterday, when she had been with Esther.

"Hi, Anne, all better?" Alan, the office boy, called from the door. He was a small, bespectacled youth with a slight Brooklyn accent—almost an affected lisp. Anne always wondered about him; he seemed as if he might be gay.

"Much better," Anne said. She excused herself now and went to her desk. Alan and Juliette scarcely missed her, they were so anxious to start gossiping together.

They're both so tense, Anne thought. She pitied them. The firm was losing money and many people had been let go. Alan and Juliette were the only ones left of the original staff on Anne's floor. Alan had worked here six years—Anne wondered what kept him on here; she could understand Juliette's worrying—it would be hard for her to find another job—but Alan could find another one at his salary or better elsewhere.

She pulled the typewriter out of her desk and snapped it into place. Anne was a good typist, but there was hardly any opportunity to use her skills here. Phil, her boss, was fresh out of ivy league and the least busy of all the executives. He was axe-man for the President and spent most of his time chatting and planning with him, or dictating memos. Phil was in charge of the new staff-reduction policy and because Anne was his secretary, Juliette and Alan distrusted her.

Phil wouldn't be in until ten, and Anne had nothing to do until he came. She pretended to be busy with routine things but her thoughts were filled with Johnson and she really didn't want to work. She could hardly wait until the end of the day. Jacques might want the apartment, she thought; I'll call him. She looked at her watch. It was ten after nine. He would be in his office. She took up the telephone and dialed.

Jacques was working down in the Wall Street district this season. Anne heard the operator announce his shipping firm and asked for him. She was connected with Accounting. Again she asked for him and heard the young man who had answered call him to the phone.

"Hello?" she heard him say. His voice still sounded gay, but subdued in the office, and slightly hoarse.

"Good morning," Anne said, imitating Johnson's cheery voice.

"For God's sake," he spoke louder, "we've been trying to get you all night."

"Who's we?" Anne asked.

"Esther, Carl and I," Jacques said. "We had a ball at Carl's house."

At the mention of Esther, Anne hesitated a moment. What was she going to tell Esther about Johnson? "I've had to move suddenly," she said to Jacques. "I'll tell you where you can reach me later. Meanwhile, are you still interested in my apartment?"

"To live in? Sure!" Jacques said without hesitation. Long subleases with low rents were scarce. "But what's up?"

"Mark's told my parents where I live," Anne said. "I'm staying with a friend."

"A girl friend, I suppose," Jacques said naughtily. "Don't worry, I'll take care of Esther."

"No, don't do that," Anne said sternly. "I'll tell her myself."

"Oh, Alice!" Jacques said. Anne hoped the operator was not listening in.

"Meet me at my apartment at six," she said. "We can talk about everything then."

"Right," Jacques said, and hung up.

Anne put the phone down and thought a moment. It would be impossible to work today. Too many things were going on. She would have to speak to Esther and clear the air. And she had to go and pack at her apartment and see Jacques, and there was shopping to do for supper tonight with Johnson. And there was thinking to be done about Johnson, a lot of thinking.

Anne remembered Johnson vividly. The memory had been with her all morning, making her arms and legs, her whole body weak with after-pleasure. And now she was afraid of Johnson, afraid of falling in love too soon. Beth had been unsure, and Esther. Johnson seemed sure, but perhaps this was only a first impression. Perhaps all Lesbians were undependable, neurotic, incapable of prolonged feelings. Cora's crowd changed partners every six months and fell hard each time. Paradise was full of every-nighters. Only a few relationships seemed really permanent—and even Johnson's Helen had left, after eight years.

Remember the high incidence of divorce, she told herself. Men and women aren't making such a good average either—and more of the breaks are on their side: family approval, the law, church—even quiz programs and books on marriage and sex.

Anne shook off the fear. She would go slowly, would not turn Johnson into Beth, not for a while.

"You still look sick." Juliette was passing by with a ream of mimeograph paper in her hand.

"Do I?" Anne blushed. She decided lack of sleep was finally showing on her face.

"Better go right to bed after work," Juliette said.

Anne wondered if Juliette suspected her of having stayed overnight somewhere—perhaps with Mark. Mark had been a familiar sight around the office up to four weeks ago; she hadn't told anyone that they were married.

Anne laughed silently; at least Juliette wouldn't suspect the real reason for Anne's "cold." She wondered what would happen if Juliette knew. Would it change her attitude? Would she be afraid of Anne, or full of hate? Anne wanted to tell someone. She felt proud of being different. Like Jacques, she wanted people to know. She wanted now to cut her hair short and wear a tailored suit—like Miss Barnes, the woman at the far corner of the floor in the production department.

Miss Barnes is a handsome woman, Anne thought. I wonder if she's gay.

It was nearing ten now and Phil, Anne's boss, walked in with the Times under his arm. He was earlier than usual, perhaps because of the beautiful morning.

Phil is affected but he's not gay, Anne thought, looking from Miss Barnes to him. It showed in the way he walked and talked, in his favorite expressions, in the perpetual twist of his eyebrows like a puppy beaten by its master, full of hate.

"All better, Anne?" he said, concerned. He was sweet in the morning. It was only after two o'clock in the afternoon that he became tense and ill-tempered. Perhaps because he had seen the president.

"Almost well," Anne said again. "Just a cold."

"We've lots to do this morning so bring your pad in," he said, not really hearing her reply. He rolled up his Times into a stick and strode into his cubicle, hitting his hand with the paper. "Yes sir, lots to do."

Anne groaned silently. Oh well, she consoled herself, perhaps the day will go faster if I'm busy.

By noon she was so involved with work that she planned to have a sandwich sent up. But then Esther called. "Hi—free for lunch?" Esther said gayly. "A short one," Anne said, a bit afraid to see her. It would be hard to explain about Johnson.

"I'll walk over and meet you downstairs in ten minutes," Esther said.

Carl's house was nearby and only now Anne realized how convenient her office location could be—Esther could meet her for lunch often. But Johnson had appeared on the scene, and she really should break with Esther. Her call made Anne remember her more vividly and she knew it would be hard to break with her. Esther needed Anne more than Johnson needed Anne. Someone was needed to take her away from Carl.

She brought her attention back to the letter she was typing and finished it, then put it on Phil's desk for signing. He was already out for his two-hour lunch. She walked quickly to the closet and put on her jacket, then ran to catch the down elevator.

Esther was five minutes late. She arrived dressed in slacks. She looked beautiful, more so than in a dress, but Anne winced, hoping no one on her floor would be coming out of the elevators now.

"Let's eat in the Zoo," Anne said, taking her arm and quickly leading her out of the building.

"What's the rush?" Esther laughed, refusing to be hurried.

"Oh, nothing," Anne gave up. Esther had no feeling for her environment.

They walked up Fifth Avenue.

"What's this about your moving?" Esther said. "I called Jacques and he told me."

"A long story," Anne sighed. "Mark told my parents where I live." She didn't want to explain it now, none of it, particularly to Esther. Talking to Esther at this moment was difficult.

"Where are you staying?" Esther said.

"With a friend," Anne said cryptically.

Esther was silent and they walked until they reached the plaza with the fountain. They found an empty spot on the white steps and sat.

Esther impulsively took Anne's hand and squeezed it. "Do you like me?"

"Why do you ask?" Anne blushed.

"You're acting strangely," Esther said. "Are you angry at me?"

"No," Anne said, "I'm not angry. I guess I feel guilty, that's all." The best way to tell Esther was simply to tell her. "I met someone last night," she said. She didn't want to say it was Johnson; it might not be right to do that.

Esther looked at her innocently for a moment and then became concerned and said sadly, "Oh. Another girl?"

Anne nodded. "I felt awful when you left yesterday. I wanted to hit back at you for leaving me, for choosing Carl. I went a little too far last night and now I'm confused."

Esther paused for a moment and thought about this. Finally she said, "You like her."

"Yes," Anne said.

"But you also like me?" Esther said.

"Yes," Anne said again. Now she laughed, a little embarrassed. She had never thought such a situation would arise. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew she was hurting Esther, very much. She wanted to do something about it, but there was nothing to do.

Esther laughed boisterously and rubbed Anne's head fondly. "Don't take things so seriously. I haven't been reporting to you, have I?" She pretended not to have been reached by Anne's revelation, but she seemed very pale against the white steps.

"I can't help taking things seriously," Anne said. "I want to find someone I can take seriously."

"I guess I haven't made you feel very secure," Esther said quietly.

"I wasn't very secure to start with," Anne said. "It really wasn't your fault."

"And then there's Carl," Esther said.

"Yes, there's Carl," Anne said. Now she was silent and waited for Esther to speak.

"Let's walk," Esther said, getting up.

They started again toward the Zoo. There were many people out today, much traffic, and more pigeons. They crossed the plaza and came to the park and walked down the path to the crowds around the cages. On either side of them old men and women, the younger ones, some with baby carriages, occupied every inch of space on the benches.

Esther walked very close to Anne, holding her hand. Her nearness was pleasantly exciting, and Anne almost regretted Johnson for a moment.

"I don't know if I can explain Carl," Esther said, after a while. "I can only say I need him. I want to marry him, if I can bring myself to do it."

"Why?" Anne said, completely surprised.

"Because I don't want to be what I am," Esther said, disturbed at saying this. "I'm afraid."

"But why Carl?" Anne said. Someone younger and healthier would have been a better choice.

"Because I don't have to do anything with Carl," Esther said. "Don't you understand? I don't want to have to do anything with a man."

"And you think you can marry Carl and still be free to go to Paradise—and have his money and all that security, without giving anything in return," Anne said blankly. "You think that with Carl you can have something for nothing."

"You don't understand," Esther said, now highly upset. "That's not it at all."

"But I do understand," Anne said. The memory of her visits at .Carl's house was strong, the memory of the resentment in Carl's eyes. "You don't think Carl wants anything from you but he does. He wants to have all of you. You'll never have a life of your own with him. If anyone else dares to come near to you, dares to love you—or if you love—Carl will smash them, quietly, innocently, threatening you with his sickness, filling up your time with a dozen other people."

"No, that's not true," Esther said. They had stopped in the middle of the path now and her voice was quite loud.

"It is true," Anne said. "Wasn't it true with me? Wasn't I brought in to make you forget someone else you were interested in? Won't there be someone—isn't there someone right now—to replace me? Hasn't Carl invited someone else over for this Sunday morning?" She stared fixedly at Esther and took her wrists, pleadingly. "Esther, think—hasn't he kept you on a gay merry-go-round? Are you really happy?"

Esther turned away from her. "Let's not stop here. Let's walk," she said.

They went further into the Zoo and then out again and some benches were vacant. They found one and sat.

"Is someone else invited this Sunday morning?" Anne said. Her tone was softer this time. She did not want to hurt Esther or put her through some third degree. But she felt it was necessary to get things clear between them. It was necessary before she decided about Johnson.

"Yes," Esther said, sounding a little beaten, "someone is invited."

"I'm glad Carl is keeping you well amused," Anne said bitterly. Instantly she regretted her tone. "I've been very hard on you. I'm sorry."

"Sometimes the truth hurts," Esther smiled sadly. "Everything you've said is true, and I've known it for a long time. But I don't want to do anything about it yet."

“I know," Anne said. "I really shouldn't have spoken up. I somehow knew you knew it. But I had to get things clear."

Esther paused for a long time and tapped her foot on the pavement. "Will you give me some time?" she said.

"I don't know if I can," Anne said. "I want to, but I'm afraid."

"Are you seeing that other girl tonight?" Esther said guiltily.

"Yes," Anne said. "I'm staying with her for a while."

"When can I see you?"

"Sunday morning," Anne said.

"But I can't—" Esther said. She was plainly torn.

"Are you always going to do what Carl tells you to do?" Anne said.

Esther was silent and then said, "Maybe Sunday, then."

"I’ll wait at the Florentin from ten to eleven," Anne said.

They got up from the bench. It was time for Anne to go back to work.

"Are you walking me back?" she asked.

Esther looked at her watch. "I'm sorry, I can't."

"That's all right," Anne smiled. "See you Sunday." She extended her hand and Esther took it and held it tightly for a moment. Her eyes were unsure, elsewhere.

Anne forced herself to turn away and walk down the path. She would leave the park and take a taxi back. She was late.

CHAPTER 9

By late afternoon the work was cleared away and Phil left at four. Anne waited another half hour and then left. Juliette disapprovingly watched her leave but said nothing. Anne shrugged and mentally defended herself. She had often stayed in after quitting time when work was piled up.

She took the subway because it was faster and stopped first at the A&P for groceries and then hurried to her apartment. Before entering the front door she looked hastily around to see if her father's car was parked anywhere. It wasn't in sight. Cautiously she entered the house and climbed the stairs to her door and entered her apartment with the same care. Mark might have given her father a key. But the place was empty—only Portia was there, much surprised to see her and very hungry.

Anne put the groceries down, and petted her, and went to the refrigerator for cat food.

While Portia ate Anne hurried to the closet and got out her two suitcases. She would take essentials over to Johnson's; Jacques would help her carry everything.

The apartment frightened her now. It seemed dreadfully remote and easily stormed. She consoled herself that she could always leave by the fire escape if her father knocked at the door.

She asked herself why she was so terrified of meeting him. She realized it was because she wasn't sure she was right. So many things had happened too quickly, and no one in the world seemed quite to understand her way of seeing things. Mark had called her sick, mixed up, incapable of knowing what was best for herself, and her father had echoed him.

Deep inside of her she believed there could be no other way of life for her, but she didn't have it phrased in the words with which to answer her father. If he came now she would not know how to speak to him. That would further confuse her, as Mark had further confused her at first, about her feelings for Beth, and about life, and what was right for her.

And then there was the strong feeling of guilt within her, guilt that she was hurting her parents, guilt that she was not leading the life they had planned for her—and even guilt over Mark, although she was quick to remind herself that Mark deserved to be hurt, that he had asked for it from the very beginning.

She busied herself with unwashed dishes and unhung clothes trying to get rid of the feeling of fear and of guilt. She wanted the apartment to be clean for Jacques' inspection. She heard his familiar three buzzes and buzzed in return. She waited for him to climb the stairs and knock; then she opened the door and quickly shut it again behind him.

"Alice, you're really nervous," he said. "Already packing?" He looked at the suitcases on the sofa.

"Will you help me carry them?" she said. "I'm not moving far."

"Sure." Now he looked at the apartment with a new air of inspection. He had always liked it. "It's a shame you have to leave," he said.

"Wait till you see the place I'm moving to," Anne laughed. She was sad to leave but knew Prudence's house would make Jacques green. "Will your parents mind your leaving home?" she asked.

"I don't think so," Jacques said. "Things have been crowded for months."

He went into the kitchen and opened all the cupboards. "Do I have a free hand with the decorating?"

"Yes, but the furniture's not mine so don't re-do it. And don't use black paint." She suppressed a feeling of resentment. She had loved her apartment, and now Jacques was claiming it and making it his. "Come help me pack," Anne said. Jacques went to the closet and brought out her two best dresses and then went to the bureau and found her tailored shirts. But Anne took only slacks and skirts. This would last her at least a week, until she could come and get the rest of her things.

"Alice, look at these!" Jacques said, holding up a pair of nylon panties with ruffles. "Can you get me a pair?" He held them in front of him and wiggled. "Simply mad!"

"Cool down, Mary." Anne snatched them from him, suppressing a smile.

She stuffed the rest of the things in the suitcases and closed them and then went to the bathroom and cleared the shelves. "When are you moving in?" she asked.

"Tonight, of course," Jacques winked. "Only can I pay you the rent on Friday?"

"That'll be all right," Anne said. Now everything was ready and Anne put Portia's collar and leash on her, picked her up, and carried the groceries in the other arm. Jacques took the two suitcases and the small cosmetic case and followed her out of the apartment. There was still no sign of her father.

Cautiously, they reached the landing. Anne stopped and opened her mailbox. There were flyers, something about television, and Thanksgiving turkeys—and a letter from Beth. She gripped it in her hand and followed Jacques out of the building.

Jacques' car was illegally parked in front and they piled the baggage into it hurriedly; then Anne went around and got into the front seat with Portia. Jacques started the motor.

"Duck, Alice," he said suddenly.

Anne and Portia sank to the floor board and waited as Jacques started the motor.

"Did you see Dad?" she asked.

"No," he laughed. "I just wanted to see you cats dive.”

"Ouch," Anne winced. She wanted to kick him, but his foot was on the gas.

It was only four blocks to Johnson's, but all the streets went the wrong way and they had to circle around Seventh Avenue and back before they could get the car turned in the right direction. It took ten minutes.

"We should have walked it," Jacques said, turning into the street. But when he stopped in front of Johnson's store he ground the gears and said "Wow! Alice, what a trick. This setup's better than Esther's."

"Prudence isn't a trick," Anne said. Jacques was especially obscene today—things at his home must have been worse than usual. "Come on in and meet her, but mind your language," she said.

It was getting dark now and Johnson's shop was lit; it looked warm and inviting. Anne and Portia opened the glass door and heard it ring, then held it open for Jacques and the baggage.

"I'll be out in a minute," Johnson called from the back. Anne heard the buzz of an electric sander.

"I see she makes her own," Jacques said, trying out a chair on display. He had put the baggage in the only clear spot on the floor and watched Anne wrestle with Portia.

Anne looked at the shop. It was crowded with wrought iron sculpture, long mosaic slabs and paintings, stacked and hung. In one corner were two art tables, the type commercial artists use, with half-finished work on them. It was self-sufficient. Anne wondered suddenly if there really was a place for her here, if Johnson would have changed since this morning; perhaps she had even forgotten about her.

"May I help you?" Johnson said, coming to the front removing her work gloves. Then she saw Anne and stopped. "Why didn't you holler?" she said, and smiled.

At once Anne felt welcome. Johnson's eyes were kinder than she had remembered, and all of Johnson came back in her mind, even in the tips of her fingers. "Hi," she flushed. "I brought friends."

"So I see," Johnson said, coming near to pet Portia.

"This is Portia," Anne said, "and that's Jacques. He's taking my apartment."

"Hello, Jacques." Johnson turned and extended her hand.

"Hello," Jacques rose meekly, now slightly intimidated by Anne's admonition to behave himself, and also by Johnson's height and build.

She looks very male tonight, Anne thought. It made her feel a little strange. She wanted always to think of Johnson as a woman.

"Well, I guess I'd better be going," Jacques said, feeling awkward.

"Wait," Anne said, reaching in her pockets. "Here." She threw her keys to him. "Save my mail, will you?"

"Right, Alice." He winked and quickly exited.

"Hello, Portia," Johnson said, scratching the cat behind the ear.

"She likes you," Anne said. She looked up at Johnson now and enjoyed her nearness, felt calmed by her quiet eyes.

"What are we standing here for?" Johnson blushed. "Let's take everything upstairs." "But the store—" Anne began.

"Six o'clock," Johnson said, shutting the lights and locking the door, "closing time." She took the suitcases and Anne followed her with Portia and the groceries in her arms through the dimly lit hall upstairs.

Upstairs is cheerier this evening than last night, Anne thought; Johnson's been at work. She followed her toward the back to a room she remembered as crowded with things that morning. It was cleared and clean now, and brightly furnished with items from the store.

"Beautiful," Anne said, still holding Portia and the groceries.

"The bed's just for show," Johnson said. "Unless you want to be alone," she added, and smiled.

Anne blushed. She did not want to be alone, but she found saying this difficult after having seen Esther that afternoon. She wondered what she should do. She looked at Johnson and saw she was blushing, too. She didn't seem male now, only big and ivy-leaguish.

"I don't want to be alone," Anne said.

Johnson smiled and then laughed as she looked at Portia's twisted shape. "Well, put her down. She's going to have to get used to the place sometime."

Anne put the cat down and took off her collar. Portia immediately shied away from them and began to sniff the floor carefully.

"She'll probably find a mouse and then I'll be embarrassed," Johnson said.

"Portia's very polite," Anne said. "She doesn't speak to strange mice."

"I hope she doesn't feel like a stranger," Johnson said meaningfully. "I want her to be at home."

"Thank you," Anne said, letting Johnson's eyes find her own. She was trapped by Johnson's eyes and found it almost impossible to remember Esther. She didn't want to remember Esther.

She unbuttoned her jacket and threw it at Johnson, "Is the kitchen ready for me?"

"All shipshape," Johnson laughed, catching her jacket and swatting her with it. "Get in and cook, woman!"

Anne went to the kitchen. It was the first time she had looked in and she was pleasantly surprised. Johnson had a completely modern set of cabinets and appliances.

"You've put a lot of work in here," Anne said.

"One room at a time," Johnson nodded wearily. "If I had the time-and more money for materials, this whole use could be as modern."

"Perhaps I can help," Anne said. It made her feel good to say that. She wanted to help Johnson in some way.

Johnson smiled. "Much appreciated." Now she paused and remembered to entertain. "Would you like some, music?"

Anne nodded and put the groceries on the table. Johnson left her alone to go to the phonograph.

Anne had bought steak and frozen vegetables. Supper would be quick to prepare. She had bought sour cream and a cheese mix to dress the squash, parsley for the boiled potatoes; canned soup with added chopped garlic, onions and nutmeg would do for the first course and dessert would come out of an instant chocolate pudding package, aided by Anne's own topping of white of egg and honey. She surprised herself. It was a good menu for a first-time cook.

She waited until everything else was mixed and on the stove and then she lit the broiler.

"How do you like your steak?" she called out to Johnson who was now keeping Portia company on the couch.

"Steak!" Johnson exclaimed, "Well, I'll be. Rare, please."

Anne was pleased—she had surprised Johnson. "Okay, set the table," she called out.

"Already set," Johnson said.

"Soup's on, then," Anne said, coming in with the hot pan. She poured the soup into two bowls, then went back to take one last look at the vegetables and to put on the steak.

"It’s only canned," she said, coming back to sit at the gayly decorated card table.

Johnson smiled dumbly. "Is there another kind?" She dipped her spoon into it and tasted. It was too hot to eat "It is not canned," she said.

Anne smiled modestly. Johnson was surely being polite.

They ate hungrily then, anxious for the next course. Anne finished her soup quickly so that she might catch the steak rare. She came back with it on a serving plate and made another trip for the vegetables.

This time Johnson was silent, expressing pleasure in her eyes. She took the carving knife and fork and cut the biggest piece for Anne, then a small piece for herself.

"Half and half," Anne said, putting part of the steak back on Johnson's plate.

Johnson accepted it silently and they ate.

"You're not eating your squash," Anne said.

"Oh, is that what it is?" Johnson said guiltily, "What's that on top of it?"

"Sour cream and melted cheese," Anne said. "Don't you like squash?"

"I don't know," Johnson said. She eyed the dish suspiciously and took a bite of the vegetable. Anne held her breath.

"Delicious," Johnson said meekly, and began eating the rest of it slowly. "European?"

Anne nodded. "One of Mother's recipes." She smiled. Johnson didn't really like it—she was being polite.

"Want your dessert now?" she asked.

"Love it," Johnson said, letting her take away the half-finished squash.

Anne brought the pudding in and coffee.

"Let's have it on the bed," Johnson said. "I'm too full to sit up."

Anne put the tray on the small coffee table near the bed and sat, waiting for Johnson to join her. She petted Portia who was now cleaning her paw.

"That was good!" Johnson said, lying on the bed on the other side of Portia.

A creature of comfort, Anne thought. It was refreshing to see someone so utterly pleased at everything done for her.

Anne reached around Portia and took Johnson's hand. Johnson's hand responded, holding hers fondly.

"How was your day?" Johnson asked, staring calmly at the ceiling.

"Rotten," Anne said. She remembered Esther again and knew she should tell Johnson about it.

"I saw Esther," she said cautiously.

She felt Johnson's hand grip hers tighter for a moment. It made it easier.

"Let's not talk about that," Johnson said. She looked at Anne reassuringly. "Let's wait and see how things go."

It was excellent advice, if Anne could follow it. But this had to stop soon. She couldn't bear belonging to two people at once. Then, as if Johnson knew she needed to hear more, "I'm not ready to think of someone else yet either," she said.

So that was it. Johnson was not going to be so easy to get. Helen had hurt her too much. Johnson wasn't ready to love someone else.

"I hate Helen for hurting you," Anne said.

Johnson laughed. "She couldn't help herself. She was never happy with me."

"I think being happy with you is the easiest thing in the world," Anne said.

Johnson smiled and tugged warmly at her hand, "Are you spending Thanksgiving with Esther?"

"No," Anne said. "I may meet her Sunday morning, though."

"That leaves us the whole long weekend, doesn't it?" Johnson sat up. "Or do you want to spend it in Paradise?"

"You mean you want me around on Thanksgiving?" Anne said. It hadn't occurred to her that Johnson had no family to visit here. She felt overjoyed now, and almost wanted to cry. She hugged Johnson instead. "Prudence, you're family! That's what you are!"

Johnson laughed, holding Anne fondly, "Nonsense, I'm just shrewd. I'm dying to find out what you use to stuff turkey."

Anne let herself be held, feeling wonderfully comfortable in those strong arms. She didn't want to let go. But Johnson began to unwind her gently, saying, "Come on, we'll unpack you."

They walked, still tightly holding hands, to Anne's room. But when they reached the door they stopped and knew they didn't want to wait any longer. Johnson held Anne closely. It wasn't necessary for their lips to touch. Anne clung to her, trembling, feeling possessed without having been touched, possessed by the memory of Johnson's lips, possessed by expectation.

"I should have held you the minute you came in," Johnson said. "Why the hell did I wait so long?"

Anne was part of a mold now, joined to Prudence— for it was Prudence now, soft and womanly, not Johnson—their flesh, having met once, was now familiar.

"I love you," Anne said. She was crying and trembling, trembling because she belonged to Prudence and prying because she did not want to admit this out loud. "I love you."

"Steady," Prudence smiled, wiping Anne's cheek.

They walked back arm in arm to the larger room and slowly removed their clothes.

Anne waited for Prudence to shut the lights, leaving only the small candle lit near the bed. She was nude and sat unashamedly on the bed, feeling very much herself and older. She watched Prudence's bare body move across the room and waited, knowing pleasure with her eyes.

"I don't think you should ever wear clothes," Anne said.

Prudence laughed. "Do you want to share me with everyone else?"

"No," Anne smiled. "I do not." She watched Prudence finish preparing for the night and waited for her to come to bed.

"I feel different from last night," Anne said.

"In what way?" Prudence asked, sitting near her.

Anne took her hands and covered them with her own. "I don't know. It's as if I want to give you something more than I have already given."

Prudence brought Anne's hand to her lips gently. Anne lay down beside her, still holding her hand, and looked at the candle's reflection on the ceiling. She wasn't sleepy. The evening wasn't over.

She sat up again and looked down at Prudence's quiet face. Prudence was smiling, her strong, bare shoulders not covered by the sheet.

Anne brought her face down and kissed her lips softly. Excitement was beginning to grow in her again, but not the excitement of before. She kissed her once more. It made Anne feel strangely feminine.

Prudence took hold of her arms now and held them with her hands, gently but tightly.

Anne felt the excitement more intensely—Prudence wanted her to go on. She brushed her lips against Prudence's shoulder, feeling her flesh react in the same trembling, sensuous way her own had reacted before. And then the odor of musk made her weak and she melted, melted into a pool of water, turning from water into a hundred shapes, clinging, twisting, throbbing in space, in noisy and quiet space, until she heard the voice of a woman call her name from a distance so great and so near. And then there was only dark, warm sleep.

CHAPTER 10

Anne yawned and stretched, looking much like Portia, warm on the bed and comfortable, so comfortable. What a bright day outside. She knew she had forgotten something for a moment and then remembered. It was a working day.

Prudence was already up and somewhere else. The smell of coffee filled the room and Anne saw a place for her at the breakfast table. She got up and filled a cup and began to get dressed. She had overslept. She would have to call her office and say she would be in later.

"Sleep well?" Prudence entered, her face lit with a bright morning smile.

"Where have you been?" Anne said.

"Stoking the furnace," she smiled.

"I'm late for work," Anne said, hurrying back to the bathroom to finish brushing her hair.

"The hell with work," Prudence said. "You're spending the day with me."

"But yesterday—" Anne said, starting to remind her of the efficient way in which she had been hurried off to work yesterday.

"Yesterday was different," Prudence said. She stood, watching Anne.

She's right, Anne thought. Yesterday was different. Yesterday we weren't in love.

"What are we going to do today?" Anne asked.

"I'm closing the shop for the holiday," Prudence said. "We can picnic in the park or ride the Staten Island ferry. Would you like that?"

"But your shop—" Anne said, trying to be practical. She might lose her job if she stayed out today, and Prudence would certainly lose some holiday business. It wouldn't do for both of them to stop earning salaries.

"It'll be all right," Prudence smiled. "After all, aren't we entitled to a honeymoon?"

Anne laughed, "You're right. I'll call my office and tell them I won't be in." She went toward the telephone.

"But don't tell them you're sick," Prudence called after her. "Tell them you're eloping, and you'll be back next week to give notice."

"But—" Anne said.

"Or don't you want to work for me?" Prudence said. “I’ve been needing a partner to help with the work here—ever since Helen left."

Anne laughed. "Isn't this all too soon?"

"Is it?" Prudence met her eyes quietly.

No, it was not too soon. It was long delayed. Anne turned to follow instructions.

She heard Juliette's strained voice on the other end.

"Anne, are you sick again?"

"No," Anne laughed. "I'm eloping. I'm sorry it's so sudden."

"Eloping! Why, my goodness! With that nice young man?"

"No," Anne laughed again. It amused her to think that it was not with Mark. "It's no one you know," she said. "I'll be back Monday to give two weeks' notice."

"But wait—" Juliette sputtered.

"I've waited too long," Anne said. "See you Monday." She hung up and felt wonderfully free. Now Prudence brought her toast and coffee. "I've made sandwiches for us to take along," she said. "It'll probably be freezing out, but we'll try anyway." Anne gulped her coffee down and bit hurriedly into her toast, wanting to hurry out into the sunshine now. Prudence brought her jacket and Anne put it on.

"Better take a scarf and gloves," Prudence said.

Anne dug into her pockets for her gloves. She felt an envelope there and suddenly remembered. It was Beth's letter. A look of concern crossed her face.

"What's the matter?" Prudence said.

"Nothing," Anne said. "Just a letter. From Beth."

Prudence waited silently for her to open it. Anne was afraid. She tore at the envelope slowly, and they sat on the bed to read it together.

It was a hurried note, perhaps written before Beth had met Anne accidently at Cora's. It spoke about a man she had met. "Rick Hastings—you know, the producer. I'm going to marry him, Anne."

Anne stopped reading. Beth's escort at Cora's was named Rick. She shivered slightly at the memory. "I'm going to star in his play," the letter continued. "It's hitting Broadway in January."

So Beth had made good. Anne was happy about that.

"But we can still see each other, Anne." The tone of the last paragraph was urgent, the handwriting nervous. Anne wanted to put it down. She didn't want to read anymore. She crumbled the letter in her hands and bent over Prudence. But she could not force tears.

"Poor Beth," she said, "poor poor poor Beth!"

Prudence held her, their bulky jackets coming a little between them. "Let's go on that picnic," she said.

Anne smiled again, taking the letter up and folding it carefully. "I think I'm over Beth," she said.

"I'm going to hold you to that," Prudence said. They took the paper bags with their picnic lunches, and walked downstairs into the day.

It was warm for November and they were glad. They walked in the sun to the corner and then headed for Sixth Avenue.

"I'm glad I'm not working today," Anne said. "Even though I think you're being unrealistic about my stopping work."

"Terribly unrealistic," Prudence replied, "but I've been terribly frugal up to now, like a squirrel storing up nuts. Time to eat some of them."

Anne laughed. "Don't tell me you're now independently wealthy."

"Hell, no," Prudence laughed with her. "Do you mind our getting by on hamburger five times a week?"

"No," Anne said, "I love hamburger." She took Prudence's hand fondly and they walked with a happy step, breathing the crisp air and feeling sixteen. At the corner they ran to catch the bus heading for South Ferry. They got on and huddled together in the near-empty bus.

She's beautiful this morning, Anne thought. I wonder what color I could call her hair—dark blonde, wheat perhaps. She's part of a fall meadow—and also a statue, yes, she's more of a statue, but she's warm. "How old are you?" Anne said.

"Ages," Prudence laughed. "Twenty-eight. How old are you?"

"Twenty-one," Anne said. She looks thirty, Anne thought, but she also looks nineteen.

"Where are we going?" Anne said, watching the city blocks go quickly by.

"To Staten Island," Prudence said. "There's a beach there where we can picnic."

"A beach!" Anne laughed. "That's funny, yesterday I wanted so much to go to a beach."

"I guess we like the same things," Prudence said. "I didn't think anyone else would be crazy enough to like a beach in winter."

"I see nothing odd about it," Anne answered. Then she grew serious and looked at Prudence, who seemed to be shaking with nervous merriment. She's very sensitive, Anne thought; she can hardly believe she's happy. I can hardly believe I'm happy too. "I want to know all about you," Anne said to her. "You've said very little up to now.

'It won't be easy to get me to talk," Prudence smiled. "I've been strong and silent all year."

"You'll talk,' Anne said. She dug her fingers in Prudence's jacket pocket and took hold of her hand there. Prudence blushed and took Anne's hand out of her pocket and held it still until the bus made a stop.

"When did you get the shop?" Anne asked.

"Last year," Prudence said. "Helen and I were both working for an advertising agency. When we split I quit and rented the shop. She stayed on. I still do the art for her accounts—it pays the rent." A serious look formed on her face now and she lapsed into a silent mood.

Helen has tortured her all year, Anne thought, I think I hate her. "I'm going to take you away from Helen," she said.

Prudence said quietly, "I think you have already." She held Anne's hand tightly now in the empty bus and her eyes were happy again.

"Last stop," the driver called out to them.

Prudence rose, pulled Anne up and out the door with her. It was cold and windy. "Let's run," she said.

They ran, holding hands, from the bus stop to the ferry terminal and then ran up the steps to the turnstiles. Prudence had nickels ready, dropped them in the slot and pushed Anne through first.

It was cold in the waiting hall; Prudence put her arm over Anne's shoulders and took her to a corner.

"I didn't know it could be so cold," Anne laughed.

"Want to turn back?" Prudence asked. Anne shook her head. They stayed in the corner waiting for the ferry to dock.

"I love you," Anne whispered loudly.

Again Prudence blushed. "I'm glad I took you home with me the other night," she said.

Anne smiled. "Are you going to keep me or take me back to the store?"

"Keep you," Prudence said. She was very close to Anne now. "Do you want to be kept?"

"I want to live with you," Anne said. Prudence's lips were very close to hers. Anne wanted to kiss them. She fixed her eyes on Prudence. Prudence stopped smiling and bit her lips. She wants to kiss me too, Anne thought.

They turned away from each other now, forcing themselves to think of the ferry. The doors to the gangplank were opening now and people were crowding to them.

"Let's go," Prudence said, taking her hand again.

They followed the others through the entrance, up the gangplank and found a place on deck, deciding to brave the cold for a while and smell the salt air.

They watched the ferry leave the dock. It was warmer here than it was up front, facing the headwind, so they stood where they were, watched the seagulls follow them, watched Manhattan get smaller until the end of the island seemed a block of jagged rocks with windows, some reflecting the sun.

"They're quartz," Anne said, "not skyscrapers."

Everyone else had gone inside and they were the only ones on deck. They could speak loudly to each other without being heard by others. It was wonderful to be able to speak freely. It filled them with warmth and made the cold air seem distant.

"I'm so happy I'm a little afraid of it," Anne said.

"I am too," Prudence said. "Are you really happy?"

"I think so," Anne said. "Only some things still bother me. I worry about your wanting me to quit my job for instance. I don't want to be kept. What shall I do?"

Prudence only laughed. "I'll teach you to do art work so you can earn your keep."

"I'm serious," Anne said. She took Prudence's hand and looked at her. "I don't want a man-woman relationship. I'm afraid you think I do."

"I don't want that sort of relationship either," Prudence said. "I've had to turn down work the past few months because I've needed someone to help me. You say you like to do art work. I don't see any reason why you shouldn't work for me." She touched Anne's chin now and smiled reassuringly. "What else is troubling you. Esther?"

Anne nodded. "Yesterday both of you seemed to have an equal claim on me. Now I feel I only belong to you. What happened to me last night?" She looked at Prudence, desperately wanting to know.

Prudence smiled again with her quiet glance and said, "Let's go inside."

Anne followed her to the inside deck and they found a lonely bench, far from anyone else. It was warm inside. It cleared their minds and took some of Anne's fear away.

"You made love to me last night," Prudence stated. "Was it like being with Beth or Esther?"

"No," Anne shook her head. "It seems now as if I only began an act with them, never completed it. Why was it different with you?"

"Because you felt different with me," Prudence said. "Anne," she took her hand, "Helen never made love to me. She accepted my love because it pleased her, but nothing ever happened to her as it happened to you last night. Nothing ever made her want to give herself to me in return. You may not agree with me when I say this now, but I think Beth was the same way with you. I think she's waited for you to learn what it is she wants from you. She didn't make love to you that night. She was waiting for you to make love to her. Am I right?"

Anne thought a moment and then nodded sadly. "Yes, you're right. I was too paralyzed with happiness to realize I was only being caressed, that something more was expected of me."

"You could have Beth back now," Prudence said. "You could take her back and she'd stay with you, as Helen stayed with me. And it would be the same with Esther—only Esther is the opposite of Beth. Esther would love you, but she would deny you your right to love her in return."

"How do you know?" Anne said. "She was angry at me the other day. I made her furious by pleasing her."

Prudence smiled. "I know Esther." She continued to hold Anne's hand fondly. "You see," Prudence continued, "neither Beth nor Esther is really a Lesbian. They could be, if they weren't so full of fear about it. Instead, Beth—as you've told me—drinks; Esther breaks a new heart every week." Prudence paused now and waited for Anne to speak.

"How are you so positive?" Anne said. "Don't you think either of them could change?"

"I know Esther's changing," Pru answered. "She's in her second year of analysis. One of these days she'll marry—not Carl, but some young man or other—and then she'll be what she really was to start with, heterosexual. As for Beth, I can't say."

Anne looked at Prudence quietly, studying her face. It was not of stone now, but it tried to seem of stone. "You're saying I could leave you now and go back to Beth, and that I could change Beth."

"Yes," Prudence said, "I think you could. Perhaps six months from now, when she's a star and doesn't need men anymore to help her and make her secure. I think you could change Beth. I think she thinks you can. That's why she wrote to you. She wants to hold you." It was difficult for Prudence to say this and she turned her face to look out of the window at Manhattan, now only a small line on the horizon.

"And what about Esther?" Anne said. "Could I change Esther?"

"No," Prudence said. "I admit that here I'm trying to influence you, but I think that if you left me for Esther—if she shows up on Sunday morning—it won't make much difference. Sometime within the next few months one of you would get tired."

"You are influencing me, Johnson," Anne smiled. "You're making it easy for me to face Sunday. I don't think I will worry too much about telling Esther."

"About us?" Prudence smiled, looking back at Anne.

Anne nodded. "Unless you get tired of me by then.”

"I won't get tired of you," Prudence said. She straightened Anne's scarf, using the gesture as an excuse to touch her. "I'm going to be very brave about you, Anne," she said. "I'm going to let myself fall in love—even though I'm afraid because of Beth. But I feel that my love will be the one thing that will keep you from Beth. I think it'll be worth the gamble. And I think I have a good chance of winning."

Anne smiled. I love her beautiful eyes, she thought. A memory of the night before flashed through her mind, leaving a wave of pleasure, binding her body to Prudence's even now. "I am so much yours," she said.

Prudence smiled, and stood up. "We're about to dock. Let's walk up front."

They walked, trying out their sea legs on the slightly rocking floor. The dock was now only a few feet away.

"We're going to bump," Prudence said. She took hold of the doorway and wound her other arm around Anne. The ferry hit the first pole and jarred.

"I see," Anne said. "They slow the ferry down by bumping it against the sides of those logs."

Prudence laughed too. "You'd think they'd use rockets by this time…"

They held tightly again for the last bump and then the ferry was moored and people were coming out of the inner deck. Anne held Prudence's hand tightly, feeling both happy and very much afraid. She did not want to hurt Prudence, but even now Prudence was tense, only pretending to be happy.

"Let's go." Prudence pulled her hand. "There's another bus to catch."

They ran through the terminal to the last depot and waited on line with the others to enter the bus. It was a working day and there were few people.

"Under different circumstances," Anne said, "this would be an awfully long trip."

"Yes," Prudence replied, "it's the closest thing to going out of town."

Now they were in the bus and glad that it was warm. They sank into the seat together and held hands, looking out the window. They couldn't talk freely now, someone would hear them.

She felt Prudence's fond grasp and it made her feel not alone. She felt sad but she was happy. "Life is so real," Anne said. "For the first time, life is real."

Prudence smiled and looked at her. Her eyes were quiet now, and her face was the way it had been when they first met, calm and silent. "You really feel that?" It seemed to make her happy. "It's a good sign," she said.

"Why?" Anne asked.

"Because you're in the right world," Prudence said. "At least, that might be a reason for it. But maybe I'm too anxious to make you part of mine."

Anne squeezed her hand reassuringly. "I think I am in your world, and it is mine too."

The bus was going down a street with squat houses made of wood. The smell of water and cold wind blew in when the doors opened.

"Are we near the beach?" Anne asked.

Prudence nodded. "Just two more stops."

"You must come here often," Anne said.

"A few Sundays this fall," Prudence said. "I've come alone, or with Esther or someone else. Not to swim—just to sit."

"So, Prudence," Anne smiled, "others have come this way with you."

"Not as you've come," Prudence said. "I'll tell you the difference later."

Anne held her hand and watched her quiet face, half-covered by the heavy collar of her jacket, until the bus stopped and they got off.

A freezing and persistent wind hit them. There was snow and ice on the ground here and the setting was barren except for the makeshift summer cabins and empty amusement halls. Everything was boarded up, every window and door, against the wind and the sea air—except for a dingy pizzeria that seemed to be determined to stay open.

"Let's go there," Anne said, giving up all hope of seeing the beach.

They ran against the wind and entered the restaurant. It was a filthy place, reminding Anne of the Oval at the end of Friday night, with tables dirty and floor unswept and a smell of greasy sauce. The owner, a fat man with hairy arms, hailed them from the counter. "What would you like?"

"Charcoal and some starter fluid," Prudence said.

Anne looked at her, surprised. How could she have guessed Anne had wanted to leave again when she saw the place? Prudence looked at her and said, "We'll make a fire and eat on the beach."

The big man went to the back room and returned with a bag of charcoal and a can of fluid. He was amused. "Going to have another picnic, I see," he said. "What happened to the girl you took here last time? She get cold feet?"

"She survived quite well," Prudence said. She was not amused by the man; it was plain he guessed about them and hated Lesbians.

"That'll be a dollar," he said, dropping the bag on the counter. Prudence threw a dollar on the counter in return and picked up the two bundles.

"Wrap up tight this time," she said to Anne.

Anne put on her hood and pulled the string so that it fitted closely around her face, allowing no air to pass through. From top to bottom she was covered by desert boots, heavy socks and slacks, and finally her warm jacket. She was ready for the wind now. Prudence was ready too.

They opened the door, feeling at once the flying sand beat on them, and hurried down the road that led to the beach.

The sand was stiff under their feet, partly damp and partly covered with snow and ice. The wind was not blowing there, so close to the shore.

"It's always warmer down here somehow," Prudence said. "Perhaps because the sun is directly above us." She went to a dry spot and put the charcoal down and then gathered dry driftwood.

Anne stood, watching the beauty of the sea and the vast deserted beach. She knew now why they had come.

"It frightens me a little," Anne said.

"Like a big watchdog on a leash," Prudence said, putting down a log, "it's a friend only from a distance."

"Are you like that?" Anne said, turning to look at her.

"Are you still afraid of me, Anne?" she asked.

"A little," Anne said.

Prudence took her shoulders and drew her close. There was no one here to see them, and Anne held her tightly.

"Let's build that fire," Prudence said. She let go of Anne and bent down to stack the logs over the charcoal.

"You haven't told me why I'm different from all the others you've brought here," Anne said, watching her.

Prudence stopped making the fire and stood. "Let's walk by the shore and I'll tell you," she said. She took Anne's gloved hand and they walked down to the edge of the water, watching the foam on the small colored rocks and cracked shells of oysters. They stopped and Prudence started talking.

"Something happened to you last night that made you behave differently with me than with Esther. That same thing happened to me. Since Helen I've had no impulse to please anyone or even to be pleased until last night." Prudence paused and waited for Anne to speak.

"You mean you've pleased others just out of politeness," Anne said. "It's very like you." She smiled and took hold of Prudence's hand tightly.

Prudence laughed a little. "That's a new way of putting it, but I guess that is all it was." She let go of Anne's hand, took off her glove, and reached into her pocket.

"I have something for you," she said, "if you want to accept it." She took out a ring. "It's not very much, only silver." She stood silently and waited.

"Prudence," Anne said, "are you proposing to me?"

"Wouldn't the sea make a good Justice of the Peace?" Prudence said. She took Anne's hand. "It needn't be final, Anne, not until you've spoken to Beth again."

Anne paused a moment and looked at Prudence. I feel wholesome with her and close to life, she thought. With Beth things are more intense, even confused—I think Beth could destroy me. A feeling of self-preservation gripped her and she took the ring.

"Tentatively then, I accept," Anne said, "but only on one condition."

"What?" Prudence asked.

"I hate the thought of having a husband," Anne laughed. "Can we both be wives?"

Prudence laughed too. "Seconded," she said. "Now let's build that fire and eat our lunch and hurry up out of here. I didn't realize it would be so cold!"

They ran back together, laughing, pulling each other along on the hard sand, faces near enough to kiss but not touching, lips not touching because they preferred to wait, wait until they could be alone, in a warm house.

They walked back from the bus to the house holding hands in what was now a warm fall afternoon, far from the blast of the sea. Their faces were flushed and windblown and their jackets bulky, too heavy now for November in the city.

"I wonder what people think when we walk down a street holding hands," Anne said. She didn't really care. She looked up at Pru's face and felt happy, clean and alive.

"Most don't notice," Pru smiled, "like we don't notice them." Her face was both very red and very white now, and her hair was bleached by the sun and salt air. Anne wanted to kiss her cheek.

"You've got a sunburn," she said instead.

"So have you," Pru laughed. It was summer for a moment; they were coming home from the beach. "We'll go home and wash up and then go out and shop for tomorrow," she said.

CHAPTER 11

They walked more quickly, skipping happily down the narrow half block to Pru's house. All the shops were open now and it was not the stark and lonely street it seemed at night. Only Pru's shop was closed. A young couple was trying the door.

"We're closed today," Pru called, waving to them.

"But we came all the way from Brooklyn," the woman pouted. She was young and very pretty; the man seemed to be her husband. "Couldn't you open for a little while?"

Pru blushed and smiled and looked at Anne. Anne winked a yes. She was inwardly amused—Pru couldn't turn down a lady.

"All right, then," Pru said, unlocking the door to the shop. She let the couple in first and then Anne and then threw off her jacket on a nearby chair. Anne threw her jacket off too and waited. She was glad Pru had opened the shop; it made the day seem more responsible, more like life with Pru was going to be from now on.

Life with Prudence from now on—Anne liked the idea. She was becoming a part of the shop, learning' to love it and the things it represented, freedom and American enterprise, a place to play and work in, not alone but with someone who loved and cared, not only about Anne but about the whole world—someone who loved and cared enough about life to want to be happy.

Pru had made the sale now. The man was writing out a check. But they were not finished. The customers wanted to chat.

"How about a cup of coffee?" she said to them, joining Pru.

"Fine," the man said, looking first at his watch and then at his wife for approval.

"There's a kitchenette in the back room," Pru said to Anne, "you'll find everything there." She seemed to be relieved by Anne's interruption, as if she felt very uncomfortable when selling.

Anne patted her shoulder reassuringly and went to the back room. She found the room surprisingly neat for a workshop. There were long tables and machinery, and cans of this and that, but the room was large and everything had a place. The far corner was a makeshift but very clean kitchenette with an old stove and a homemade table and benches. A window with happy red curtains showed Pru's narrow strip of garden now brown with November except for some dark green ivy. I love it here, Anne thought. The shop reminded her of a comfortable old shoe and the upstairs was like the platform her father had built on an oak tree in the back yard long ago. She rolled up the sleeves of her sportshirt and busily made coffee, putting water to boil and filling a filter for the drip cone. She felt much like a little girl serving tea out of tiny cups—except she had never played with tea sets; they were for sissies.

Pru must have been in the habit of serving refreshments to customers; everything was here as she had said, even cookies. Anne put some on a dish and carried it out first.

The customers were seated in canvas chairs now, watching Pru show some paintings that she took from a rack and set on the floor for them to see. Anne put the cookie dish on a small table near the woman.

"Are you working here too now?" the woman said, turning from the conversation.

Anne nodded. "I was hired this morning."

"Oh?" The woman seemed pleasantly interested.

She's very nice, Anne thought. The platinum in her hair reminded Anne of Beth. She looked at the man and thought him quite handsome. She was glad the two were so well matched. They seemed happy. Anne wanted to be happy with Pru in the same way. Looking at Pru now, she knew it was possible.

She started back for the coffee and heard the door tinkle and knew someone else had come in. It's a good thing Pru opened up, she thought; it would have been a shame to lose so much business. She hurried to the back to bring out the coffee and then went to see if she could help the new arrival. It was Jacques.

"Hi," he said. "I just came by to deliver your mail."

"Hi," Anne smiled and went to the front of the shop so that their talking would not interfere with that of Pru's customers. She didn't feel uneasy with him this morning but she thought it would be a good idea to get him out of the store before he called her Alice. "I have to buy a turkey," she said, taking her jacket. "Walk me to the store."

"Sure," he said, opening the door again.

Anne put on her jacket and called out to Pru, "We're going to the store."

Pru smiled and waved. "Right. See you later."

"Bye now," Anne smiled at the couple and they nodded back.

She went outside with Jacques and felt she could talk freely.

"I tried to phone you at work," he said. "They said you were getting married. Alice, what a camp!" he laughed loudly and then stopped. "Esther's going mad. She called me three times today. She wants you to call her."

Anne darkened. The thought of Esther had bothered her since last night. She would have to speak to her. She turned Pru's ring nervously on her finger. She hated the thought of having to hurt Esther.

"Shall I tell her where you are?" Jacques asked and waited.

Anne thought for a moment. "Yes," she said finally.

"I guess that would be a good idea. Tell her to come by the shop. Tell her I'm with Prudence Johnson.”

He took Pru's name down to remember it and then put his address book back in his pocket.

He's more composed today, Anne thought, almost like he used to be. "Are you happy with the apartment?" she asked.

He nodded brightly. "What a relief not to have had to go home last night. I called Mom and told her about it. Not a whisper of resistance."

"I'm glad," Anne said. She remembered Jacques' father hated him. She was glad Jacques was safe from his violent temper now. She thought of her own father.

"Has Dad tried to call me again?" she asked.

"Gosh, Alice, I almost forgot," he hit his head. "He called last night and I spent an hour on the telephone with him. He's very angry."

"What did you tell him?" Anne said. She was no longer afraid of her father, only concerned that her family was being made to suffer this way. She didn't want to hurt them.

"I told him you were all right," Jacques said. "I spent an hour trying to convince him. He's been to the police trying to find you, but they said you were over twenty-one and wouldn't do anything. He's licked I think, Alice," he said.

"I'm sorry," Anne said. She resolved to see them sometime during Christmas. It would soften the blow. But she would have to meet them at a public place, where they wouldn't be able to hold her by force.

Christmas. The Christmas season was coming up. Anne walked quietly beside Jacques and looked at the mail he had brought her. Nothing but advertisements. She thought of Christmas and what it was going to be like with Pru. A huge tree and grog, no doubt—lying on the floor with Pru in front of the old fireplace that she would help Pru fix. And after Christmas there would be opening night for Beth's play. Anne looked forward to that, too. She wanted Pru to meet Beth.

Beth. Anne could not help thinking of what Pru had said: "You could have Beth back now. You could take her back and she'd stay with you, as Helen stayed with me."

That seemed unbelievable, and yet now Anne believed it was possible. It made her afraid. It left things unfinished in her mind. It left her feelings about Beth up in the air. She had given Beth up because there had seemed to be no hope, but now Pru had told her there was hope, and she was afraid because there was. She was afraid of Beth. She would have to face Beth again; before she could love Pru she would have to. Beth might take her from Pru, and Pru was sanity. With you the world is real, she told Pru in her mind and let a wave of fondness warm her chest. But the thought of Beth was not drowned.

They entered the supermarket and Anne took a basket and pushed it to the meat department.

"You're so quiet, Alice." Jacques said. "Anything wrong?"

"No." Anne smiled uneasily. She was letting the conflict show. She picked a large turkey and put it in the basket then went to get vegetables and stuffing mix. Jacques followed her silently. He was being quiet and obedient today, dependent somewhat. Being on his own was new and strange to him.

The store was crowded. Offices had closed early for the holiday and it was almost impossible to find a clear aisle. Anne gave up trying to push the basket and walked to the different shelves for what she wanted to get. She was fighting impatience and an impulse that was growing very strong. She wanted to see Beth. Tonight.

She had gathered enough for four days and the basket was now very full. She pushed it determinedly through the crowd to the long check-out line. She felt her face flushed and sweat forming around the rim of her collar. It was difficult to wait at the end of the line. She wanted to hurry back to Pru, before she began to think too much of Beth. It was mostly curiosity that plagued her—she had waited so long to win Beth, and Pru had told her it was possible. She needed to know for herself. She was not yet a person, until she knew.

She looked at Jacques. He was thinking of something else, perhaps the apartment. All at once she could not bear waiting on line. She wanted to run away. She could not bear waiting for the evening to wear on. She had to see Beth. She had to finish things before she could be with Pru. She took out her wallet and put twenty dollars in Jacques' hand.

"Will you pay for these and take them back to the house?" she asked.

Jacques snapped back to the present and looked at her. "Huh?"

"Would you?" Anne said.

"Sure," he said, a little puzzled.

"Got a pencil?" she asked, taking out paper from her pocket.

He gave her his pen and watched her begin to write.

"Will you give this to Pru?" she said, beginning to write, and then paused. What could she say? She was running away to see Beth. She had run away from Esther through Pru, and away from her father and Mark. Now she was running from Pru to see Beth. She hated her own cowardice and crumpled the paper.

"Never mind." She returned Jacques' pen. "I'll tell her in person."

"Alice, you're cracking up." He shrugged his shoulders in exasperation and gave back her twenty dollars.

"I'm sorry," Anne said. She felt embarrassed. Jacques was looking at her, wondering what was wrong. She forced herself to wait patiently for her turn on line.

* * *

They walked back, carrying the heavy shopping bags. It had become dark now and the lights of the shops guided them back to Pru's street. Pru had closed the store and Anne saw a light on in the upstairs apartment. She rang the doorbell and waited, letting the fresh air and the quiet of the street soothe the impatience she had felt at the supermarket.

Pru opened the door and took Anne's package. Her sleeves were rolled up and her hands full of soap. "Goodness," she said, "did you shop for the month?" She ran up the stairs with the package and Anne and Jacques followed. Anne was quiet. She could barely face Pru—she was ashamed of what she had intended to do before.

Pru brought the package into the kitchen and then took Jacques' bag and also brought it to the kitchen. She resumed her task of washing dishes. "Sit down. I'll be through in a minute," she called to them.

It was warm and cozy. Anne took off her jacket and helped Jacques with his and then went to the closet with them. Portia had recognized Jacques and now drew him to the sofa, rolling on her back and flirting with him.

"That was a fifty-dollar sale," Pru said, tinkling the silverware. "Are you a rabbit's foot, Anne?"

I love her, Anne thought, and felt worse.

"Jacques is staying for supper, isn't he?" Pru said.

"Yes, please stay." Anne turned to him. She hoped he would say no. She wanted to be alone with Pru now. She wanted to tell Pru what she had intended to do. She no longer wanted to see Beth, but she did want to tell Pru about it.

"I'd love it," Jacques said happily.

Anne groaned silently and resolved to make the best of the evening. She was determined to be hospitable. She had no right to burden Pru or Jacques with her conflict.

"Get out of the kitchen," she called to Pru. "I'm the cook around here."

Pru laughed, dried her hands and came back to the living room. "All yours."

She went to the card table and put it up. "Pick out a record, Jacques," she said. "I'll be right over." She got up again and caught Anne as she went toward the kitchen. "What's for supper?"

"Hamburgers," Anne said, not looking at her. She tried to break away but Pru's strong arms gently held her.

"What's wrong, Anne?" she said in a voice too soft to disturb Jacques' stream of thought.

Anne forced herself to meet Pru's eyes. "I thought of Beth for a while," she said, and waited.

Pru smiled and rubbed Anne's chin. "Don't worry about it. We can talk later."

Pru's eyes were kind and a relief. Anne pressed her head on Pru's shoulder for a moment and enjoyed the warm protective feeling of Pru's body near hers, then broke away and went to the kitchen.

Pru had put the groceries on the table and Anne began emptying the bags and putting most of the things in the refrigerator. She was fighting a headache. She hated the thought of cooking. She lit the broiler impatiently and decided to make meatloaf since Jacques was staying. It would be simple to prepare and then she could join Pru and Jacques in the living room while it cooked. She opened the window and let the fresh air soothe her. She wished she could take a long walk around the block.

"Need any help?" Pru called from the living room. She was sitting with Jacques on the sofa, listening to Jacques' choice for the phonograph.

"No thanks," Anne said. She had efficiently prepared every pot and now was chopping onions. She cursed herself for having been so irresponsible about tonight's supper. She had not planned for soup or dessert and she was out of parsley. I was thinking of Beth instead of concentrating on shopping, she scolded herself. But scolding did not make her thoughts behave. She was upset. She did not want to cook. She wanted to go out. Yes, the feeling was still there. She wanted to see Beth.

Pru came into the kitchen to look in all the pots. "Smells wonderful," she said, looking much like a little boy waiting for supper.

"It's miserable," Anne countered in a small moan, "just awful."

Pru laughed and came to pat her cheek. "I'm sure it's not."

"Don't be so damned sure!" Anne snapped, turning her face away from Pru's hand. She regretted her outburst immediately and mentally blamed it on the headache.

Pru put down the cover to the pot and took Ann's hands, pulling her close. "Am I making you into a housewife?" she said apologetically.

Anne hugged her tightly. "I like cooking for you, Pru. I'm just in a mean mood, that's all."

Pru held her tightly in return and stroked her hair. Anne let her own nervous body press against Pru's slightly trembling frame. "We're like two quivering cats," she said aloud.

Pru laughed slightly, holding her tighter. "I like you more than Portia." She became very serious and clutched Anne. "I need you very much," she said.

Those are the right words, Anne thought, holding Pru closer. She wanted to be needed. Beth needed her; that was why she wanted to see Beth now—because Beth had written and the letter sounded as if Beth were in need. But Pru had said she needed her too.

"Why do you need me?" Anne said. It was hard to believe Pru needed anyone. Pru seemed so self-sufficient.

Pru smiled. "Because you're family, too." She let go of Anne and rubbed the top of her head fondly. "I wish I had met you nine years ago, before Helen."

Anne laughed. "I would have been twelve years old."

"Whoops!" Pru chuckled. "Well, I guess I wouldn't have corrupted a minor."

"But I'm glad I'm here now," Anne said. The thought of Beth went away for a moment and she held Pru's hand, that familiar hand which fit so snugly in her own. Then she let go for a moment to put the meatloaf in the oven and walked out of the kitchen, still holding Pru.

"Alice, what a royal camp," Jacques said, looking up from a gay novel out of Pru's extensive collection. He had kicked off his shoes and was sitting with Portia on his lap on the sofa, completely at home. He seemed so very small and young on the sofa.

Pru sat on the floor and Anne sat in front of her, using Pru's body as a backrest.

"Yes, it's fit for a queen," Anne smiled. "I'm glad you like it," Pru said, kissing Anne's ear lightly. They felt at ease with Jacques. "What are your ambitions?" Pru asked him. She too thought him young and liked him in a protective way.

"I want to dance," he said, pleased that she had asked. "Alice and I were in the same theater group."

"Yes," Anne said. "That was how we met."

"Why do you call her Alice?" Pru asked, amused at Jacques' terms.

"It's some sort of gay expression," Anne said, feeling she had to defend Jacques a little.

"It's because she's in wonderland," Jacques said. "You know—meeting queens.”

Both Pru and Anne laughed loudly.

"I never realized that was why you called me that," Anne said. "I don't mind the name as much now."

"Tell me," Pru nudged Anne, "is his name really Jacques, or did he make that one up too?"

"It's Jonathan," Jacques confessed a bit ashamed. "My father's a retired missionary."

They would have laughed again but the telephone rang. Jacques was nearest to it so he answered.

"Esther!" he exclaimed, surprised. "How did you know I'd be here!" He was puzzled. "Who am I? Jacques, of course, who else? No, you didn't dial a wrong number."

"Dear me," Pru scratched her head, a bit red in her face, "I guess I'm being found out." She got up and went toward the telephone. "I think it's for me, Jonathan."

Anne watched her, amused and a bit nervous. Esther was calling Prudence and now she would know about Anne.

"Hello, Es," Pru said, "I'm here with Jacques and Anne. Yes—Anne. She's staying with me."

Anne listened intently, trying to imagine how Esther was taking it at the other end.

"Alice, what a triangle!" Jacques said, guessing the situation.

"Hush," Anne said, trying to listen to the conversation.

"Wait a minute," Pru said, "I'll put her on."

She handed the telephone to Anne and said, "Esther wants to speak to you."

Anne got up nervously and took the telephone. "Hello," she said shyly.

"Anne, why the hell didn't you say it was Johnson?" Esther exclaimed. Her voice was highly embarrassed.

"I'm sorry," Anne said, "I didn't know whether Prudence wanted me to tell you."

"Well, for God's sake!" Esther said, exasperated. "Am I seeing you Sunday?"

"I don't know," Anne said. And then she looked at Prudence quietly waiting and grew more determined. "I don't think so, Esther. I'm sorry."

"I see," Esther said. Her voice was hard now, stony. "Well, I guess I can't blame you. Johnson's a good catch. I've been trying myself all this time." She paused for a moment and then said coldly, "Goodbye, Anne."

Anne heard her hang up. Her face began to flush and she became upset. She had hurt Esther. She put the telephone down slowly and sat on the bed.

Pru came over and rubbed her neck. "Poor Anne, don't worry. She'll forget and forgive both of us next week."

"How do you know?" Anne snapped and turned away.

"She's right, Alice," Jacques said. "I know Esther. Nothing hurts her very badly."

Pru ignored him and looked at Anne. "I'm afraid I've neglected to tell you something about Esther," she said. "You see, that Sunday morning date she was breaking was with me." She waited, a little amused and embarrassed.

"Then she called you to call it off," Anne said.

"No, she did that yesterday afternoon," Pru said. "She asked me to postpone it until Sunday night. I asked her to call me back to confirm it. That's why she called now." Pru waited again, awkwardly, because Jacques had also heard this.

Anne walked away from the telephone. If only she could believe Pru, but now she did not trust her. Now she suspected Pru of being unfair, of having tricked Esther. And so the thought of Beth came back and she wanted to leave; she wanted to speak to Beth, to give her a fair chance.

"I think the meatloaf is burning," Anne said coldly, and went into the kitchen.

She came back and served them silently at the table, making no excuse for the simplicity of the meal. A stony silence had fallen on all of them and Pru broke it only to comment meekly on Anne's good cooking.

She knows I'm angry at her, Anne thought, and decided to remain angry. It was convenient to be angry at Pru. It gave Anne a good excuse to see Beth. But she also needed the anger, because it shielded her against the growing fondness which she seemed unable to deny. Yes, Pru was family. Anne had never met anyone, not even Beth, so completely like herself.

She looked at them while they ate. They both seemed somewhat like little children who had been scolded before dinner. Jacques was perhaps suffering more than Pru.

Anne's silence had made him insecure and he knew he was in the way. He was eating nervously, trying to hurry through the meal. Pru on the other hand was quiet, but still ate with the wholesome and all-devouring appetite. When she had cleaned her plate and finished all the bread she looked up and stretched and said, "Shall I run down and get ice cream?"

"I guess so," Anne shrugged, damning Pru's self-confidence.

But Jacques interrupted her. "No thanks," he said, "I have to get back. I told Peter I'd be in.”

"Peter?" Pru questioned.

"A boy I met last night." Jacques shifted uneasily, almost as if he were bluffing. He turned to Pru and seriously said, "I want to thank you and Alice for inviting me. I was a bit wary of that kitchen in Alice's apartment. I don't think I can even boil water."

Anne had to laugh. "It's all right, Jonathan. Come over again. I'll teach you."

"Thanks," Jacques said. He rose nervously and hesitated, then went to the closet for his coat.

Pru got up too and went to help him. "Please do come again," she said.

He nodded gratefully and then looked at Anne. "Well, good night, Alice."

Pru walked him to the head of the stairs and watched him leave. "He's very nice," she said when he had gone.

"He's a crazy mixed-up kid," Anne said dryly.

"We all are at first," Pru responded and stood, looking at her, studying her face.

Anne shifted uneasily on the bed. I'm being viciously mean tonight, she thought and felt a little sorry. "You think I'm mixed up too," she said.

"Yes," Pru smiled, still with that sad and all-wise look that made her eyes seem so kind. "I haven't put anything over on you, Anne," she said, more seriously. "I didn't want to tell you of my date with Esther because I wanted to give her a chance to behave differently with you. If she hadn't called to confirm Sunday night it might have meant that she had changed, her mind, that she felt serious about you."

"I guess you're right," Anne said. "You're always so right." But she was angry and silent. She did not want to be right. She wanted to be angry.

"You're still angry," Pru said, going to her. "Is it really about Esther?"

"No," Anne said, turning away. The room seemed stuffy now, constricting. She did not want to look at Pru.

Pru sighed and went to pour coffee. She came back with cup for Anne.

"It'll keep us awake," Anne said, looking at the cup blandly.

"We're going to stay awake," Pru said. She held the until Anne took it.

"If we stay up late we'll be too tired to enjoy Thanksgiving," Anne said, looking at her cup.

"I'm afraid we'll have to chance that," Pru said. She determined. "I'm going to make a speech, Anne, and then you can go."

"Go?" Anne looked up, surprised. The word frightened her.

"Yes. You want to go, don't you?" Pru asked.

Anne did not answer. She had the feeling Pru was scolding her. It helped her to stay angry.

"What an angry young woman," Pru said. "You don't need any excuse to leave me. You might just tell me you want to see Beth."

Anne looked at her, surprised and upset. Pru had seen through her mood.

"It's a pattern, Anne," Pru said. "I went through it too. I just want time to plead my case and then I'll take you to her."

She waited for Anne to speak. Anne looked down, feeling quite defensive. She didn't want Pru to be so superior; she was treating her like a child.

"I told you that you could have Beth," Pru said. "If you see her tonight you'll know I'm right. But if you keep her you'll make the mistake I made with Helen."

"Perhaps Beth's not like Helen," Anne rose to her defense.

"Perhaps," Pru said. "If so, I hope you'll both be very happy." She stared at Anne a little sadly now. "I need you too, Anne," she said, repeating the words with the same intensity as before, in the kitchen. "I know it seems as if Beth needs you more, and perhaps she does. Beth certainly needs someone. But I need you too and I think I can appreciate you more than Beth can. I think Beth is selfish about you. She doesn't want to give up anything for you as I do."

"What do you want to give up for me, Johnson?" Anne looked at her. It was hard to be angry at Pru, even when convenient.

"All of me, which is bad and would hurt you," Pru said. "Don't think that's an easy thing to do. Many people—and I think Beth especially—wouldn't know where to start."

"I guess not," Anne said. "I wouldn't know either."

"But you do," Pru said. She neared Anne now and took her hand. "You're rare, Anne, because you're so honest with yourself. That's why I need you. I've looked and looked for someone like you." She stopped and sighed. "I guess I'd better stop talking and take you to Beth." She took up the telephone and handed it to Anne. "Better see if she's home."

"I don't want to call her," Anne said, avoiding the telephone as if it were a vicious thing.

"Yes, you do," Pru said. "Eventually you'll want to call her. It might as well be now."

She's so beautiful, Anne thought, wanting now to embrace Pru. They were alone and Anne felt desire awakening. Perhaps because she's being cold to me, she thought.

"I don't want to see Beth," Anne said, getting up and facing Pru. "Hold me," she pleaded.

"No," Pru said, turning away, "I can't. You still belong Beth." She handed the telephone to Anne. "Please call her now."

"I don't want to call her," Anne said, again avoiding the receiver. "I'm not ready yet."

"Tomorrow I won't be ready to let you call her," Pru said.

"If I see Beth tonight I'll probably make love to her," Anne said coldly, trying to discourage Pru. "Do you want that?"

"I'm prepared to forgive it," Pru said. She turned away. I want you to make love to her, Anne. It's the only way you'll be sure about her. I want you to know whether you enjoy being treated like a man."

"What do you mean?" Anne said, puzzled and embarrassed.

"Helen pretended, I was a man for eight years," Pru said. "She really wanted men, but she was afraid of them. I was a convenient substitute."

"And you think Beth wants men too," Anne said. "I think Beth wants to be pure," Pru answered. "She's had too many men and being with you will make her feel young again. She'll make you into a young boy."

"I can't believe that," Anne said and turned away. "You're saying Beth wants me to be a butch, like the ones at Cora's."

"Perhaps," Pru nodded. "And then again perhaps I’ve misjudged her."

"I think you have," Anne said coldly. She was annoyed at Pru now. She was attacking Beth's motives, was comparing Beth to one of the cheap girls at Cora's. Anne went to the telephone and took it angrily. "I guess I'll have to prove it to you."

She dialed Beth's number roughly, feeling a wonderful new freedom, almost sadistic, making her strong with rage and no longer afraid of Pru, no longer afraid of Beth. She stared intently at Pru, not stopping even when Beth answered the telephone.

"Beth?" she said, a little hoarse; and then she cleared her throat. "Beth, I want to see you tonight. May I come over?" She was doing what she had wanted to do at the A&P—calling Beth. But she felt cold about it, and about Pru, felt cold about the whole world, felt only rage.

She heard Beth's startled pause on the other end. "Yes, of course," she said. "Rick's here, but I'm sure he'll understand."

"I want to see you alone," Anne said. The mention of Rick made her even more angry.

Beth paused again for a long moment and then said, "All right, I'll send him out for a couple of hours. Come up in twenty minutes." She hung up without a goodbye.

Anne put the receiver down slowly. A feeling of distaste was beginning to creep over her rage. Beth was with Rick, would see Rick again after Anne. She didn't want to see Beth like that. But she would, to spite Rick.

Pru looked at her. Her eyes were quiet, stoic. "I'll drop you off in a taxi," she said.

Anne stood, still feeling the wonderful freedom of before, the freedom of being able to do what she wanted, of feeling unashamed of rage and selfishness. Selfishness—that was it. She had hidden her selfishness even from herself, and now Pru had let her be selfish, had let her be reckless and cruel, had made her free.

Now Pru brought Anne's jacket and helped her with it. Anne let her automatically and then followed her downstairs, out into the damp cold air. It was drizzling slightly. The wetness took some of Anne's rage away. But she was not flesh and blood now, she was back somewhere, to some old and strange half-sleeping mood, part robot, in a world of stone.

"Come on, butch," Pru said wryly. "You’ll be late."

"Why are you calling me that?" Anne said.

"Because that's what you're being, young 'un," Pru said. She smiled a little now. "You won't look as bad as some in short hair, though." She couldn't help being amused at Anne now, almost laughing at her, although she was still sad.

Anne thought of Skippy again and it made her angry that Pru was putting her in that category. She was not like that. "I'll never cut my hair," she said.

"Well, perhaps Beth won't let you," Pru smiled again, teasing. "It might make you too obvious."

When they reached the corner Pru hailed a cab and let Anne enter first.

"Fifth and Twelfth Street," Anne said.

They sat back, Pru shut the door, and the cab raced down the lonely street to catch the changing light.

Anne twisted Pru's ring around her finger. It was forming a blister.

"Psychological," Pru said, watching her hands. "You can take it off, Anne. I'll keep it for you in case you come back."

Anne looked at her, a little frightened again. She didn't want to break with Pru. But she also wanted to see Beth. She felt very confused. "I'll keep it on," she said, pushing the ring far back on her finger.

It was not far to Twelfth Street and the cab driver turned in, reached Fifth Avenue, and stopped.

"There you are," Pru said. She opened the door for Anne to get out and then looked at the street. "Paradise is near here," she said. "You can find me there until closing time."

Anne got out quietly, fighting a mounting fear in her chest. The lonely street and the thought of leaving Pru panicked her. She took Pru's hand and held it tightly.

Pru squeezed Anne's hand fondly for a moment and then withdrew. "Goodnight, Alice," she said, imitating Jacques a little, then shut the door.

Anne watched the cab drive off and turned toward Beth’s house.

CHAPTER 12

Anne had never been in Beth's apartment. She had come to see the house, to mark it in her mind as the place where Beth lived, but she had never been upstairs. It was a small brownstone, bursting with old Washington Square tradition, on what was in daylight a very lovely street. She walked down three steps to the front door and rang the bell.

Beth buzzed back quickly. She lived on the top floor. Anne walked up the three flights slowly. Unreality was making her dizzy. At the top she heard Beth open the door timidly.

"Anne?"

Anne hurried the last few steps to the door and stood. Beth was very beautiful, her platinum hair forming a halo around her face. Desire and intensity began to wear away the unreal feeling, making Anne not flesh again exactly but aware of her body, her robot body, now strong and tall and very hard.

"Come in," Beth said hurriedly, stepping back from the door to give Anne room.

Anne entered and looked around. It was a pretty apartment, overly decorated with conventional furniture, almost like Carl's study, but in light colors instead of Carl's dark red leather. It was dainty, like Beth.

Anne let Beth take her jacket and waited for her to come back from the closet. "I got your letter," she said finally.

"My God, Anne," Beth said, "is that all you came to say?" She was upset and went to the cabinet for a glass of scotch. "It was very embarrassing to ask Rick to leave."

"Yes, it must have been embarrassing," Anne said. She felt the rage inside of her grow again. Beth was being weak. She went to the cabinet and took the scotch away from Beth's hand. "Has Rick touched you tonight?"

Beth turned away. "We had just gotten in when you called. I sent him right out again. What do you want, Anne?"

Anne pulled her close and forced Beth to look at her. "I've come to take you away from him," she said.

"Don't be insane," Beth turned. "I can't leave yet. We'll have to wait."

"I won't wait," Anne said. "I don't want you after Rick."

"Please, Anne." Beth tried to break away. Anne held her wrist tightly and took her shoulder with her other hand. The feeling for Beth was not the same now. It was an aware feeling, but a hard, dull awareness, with cool and calculated passion. She felt Beth melt and cling to her. Beth seemed overcome with warm and helpless wanting. Her body met Anne's, willing and impatient.

Anne lifted Beth up gently, surprised at her own strength, and carried her to the sofa. Then Anne sat on the rug, watching her.

"You're different tonight," Beth said. "I like you very much this way."

"I'm grown up," Anne said.

"Please don't stop," Beth said. She seemed very helpless as she lay on the sofa.

"I won't," Anne said. She continued, coldly, apart from the scene, like someone watching. She wondered what was happening to her. It wasn't as it had been with Beth before—this woman did not seem special any more. And it wasn't as it had been with Pru. She had forgotten herself with Pru, and here she was apart from herself, almost contemptuous. Yes, it was contempt; she resented Beth's helplessness and her weak passion. She was pleasing Beth now and in anger only.

But she was suddenly ashamed to feel this way. She forced herself to be part of the scene, forced herself to bring back what she had felt with Pru. She succeeded for moment—but then Beth brought her back.

Beth had forgotten Anne. She was lost in passionate desire, but it was not for Anne. Anne was only there by accident. Beth was enjoying a man, was making Anne a man. It filled Anne with disgust and she wanted to stop, but she could not stop. Beth needed her. Anne could not stop. She had to complete what she had started. Pru, where are you, she screamed in her mind. Only Beth's tortured voice answered her, saying, "More butch."

* * *

The radio's sound filled the air with noisy static, making the soft-lit room seem to flicker with the light of a fireplace. Anne turned around—there was a fireplace. She got up wearily and went to the radio to turn it off. The immediate silence cleared her head. She went back and stood over Beth on the sofa. Beth had turned her head and closed her eyes. She wasn't sleeping, but nearly so. Anne wanted to leave now, perhaps in the same way that Esther had left Anne three day ago; Anne wanted to leave without a word. But she did not. She owed Beth something. She knelt down again and kissed Beth's hand.

"I'm going now, Beth," she said, and waited for Beth speak.

Beth turned her head slowly and looked at Anne. Beauty was back in her face, the nervousness gone and the worry, Her light gold hair was slightly mussed but still clinging around her head in gracious lines.

"Don't go yet," Beth said. "We have until one.”

"I have to go," Anne said. She felt cold. Beth hadn't changed at all. She was still expecting Rick. Anne couldn’t be angry, but something in her had died.

"Please don't go," Beth repeated. "Not yet."

"I can't stay," Anne sighed. She turned and paced the floor. It was difficult still to deny Beth. "I don't think I can ever come back."

Beth looked at her, puzzled. "Why?" she said in a soft voice. "Have I done something wrong?"

"No," Anne said. She knew now Beth had done nothing that was wrong for herself. "It's just that I'm not a man and you're not a Lesbian, Beth." Anne looked at Beth sadly now. It was a hard thing to say.

"But I love you now, Anne," Beth said. It was a difficult thing for Beth to admit. "I love you."

Anne appreciated how difficult it was for Beth to say that. And Anne had wanted Beth to say it for two years. She had dreamed of the moment that Beth would say it, would have the courage to say it. But the words only made Anne sad. She swallowed the feeling in her throat that was making her want to cry.

"You don't love me, Beth," she said, kissing her hand again and then getting up, still holding it. "You feel safe with me. Because I'm not a man, only a harmless facsimile thereof." She paused now and looked a long time at Beth, feeling very close to Pru, even very much like her.

"Please stay," Beth said softly, turning away. "I need you."

"I'm bad for you," Anne said. "You need Rick—or someone else." The room was a prison now and Beth a symbol of Anne's selfishness—selfishness because she did not want to listen to her, did not want to have pity, selfishness because now she wanted to be happy and happiness did not include Beth.

"I guess you are," Beth said. She got up slowly. Her whole body reflected sadness. "You'd better go before Rick comes back."

Anne stood. Beth was freeing her and now her feet were of stone, not able to move.

Beth went to the closet and brought Anne's jacket. They stood near each other and Anne looked at her. The love for Beth had not gone, only the desire. And then Anne understood what it had been all along. Beth was like Mother. That was why the feeling had been so intense, so paralyzing. And also why it had ended so quickly. Anne had grown up. She no longer needed Mother—but she loved her.

"I'll send you tickets for opening night," Beth said. She was hard in that same assured way that Anne had first responded to. The weakness was gone from her eyes. Anne had taken it away.

"I want the whole gang to come see me be a star." Beth dared to brush Anne's cheek lightly with her hand. "I want you to come especially."

Anne could not bear the touch of Beth's hand. She took it and kissed it sweetly, and then pressed Beth very close. The tables had turned. Beth had once held her, protected her. Now Anne was holding Beth and Beth was hiding tears.

"Don't marry Rick," Anne said, brushing her lips against Beth's forehead. "You can get what you want without his help."

Beth smiled and pulled away from her and patted her cheek. "This isn't the right time for me to reform," she said. "In six months I'll be famous, and then I’ll do what I want. I've dissipated for so long now I think I can stand it a while longer."

Anne smiled too. That was so much like Beth. She liked life to come easily. And perhaps it was right for Beth that it should. Rick would not be hurt; he was only her partner in crime.

"Come back stage after the show," Beth said, going to the cabinet for her glass of scotch. "We'll all have a ball."

Anne put on her jacket slowly. Beth was making a curtain speech for her benefit. Anne had one of her own. "I'll with someone," she said hesitantly. She did not want to be cruel but the cut had to be final. "A girl I met the other day. I think I'm beginning to love her."

She waited for Beth to answer and saw for a moment the hurt in Beth's eyes and then at once admired her for her quick recovery. "Any friend of yours is a friend of mine," Beth said, and tipped her glass.

Anne let Beth's be the last line and turned toward the door.

She ran down the steps and outside, letting Rick brush past her, hurrying on his way to Beth's door. There was no anger or jealousy for him. She was not in the same world.

It had rained and now the street was shiny and full of the hissing of cars on wet pavement—a clean sound, like the air. Anne walked, hearing the hollow sounds of her shoes, and felt not alone on the empty street. Paradise was just around the corner.

Pru, how did you know so well? Anne addressed her loudly in her mind. But Anne knew how Pru had known. Anne was full of the same clarity, the same freedom that made the world seem simple and all hers. She could do what she wanted and knew why she wanted to do things. And she knew how not to be cruel. She knew that cruelty thrived in people who did not dare seize happiness by the horns. It thrived in people who denied themselves the right to live the way they needed to live.

Pru would be waiting at Paradise. Anne hoped she would be there—perhaps she's given up, flashed quickly in her mind. She ran, perhaps hoping to save a few seconds, ran to the door and hurried into Paradise, brushing past Manny, through the crowd of Thanksgiving revelers.

It was hard to see because of the smoke. She made her way toward the back, looking everywhere. Remotely she saw Esther dancing with a pretty young girl, and Skippy, passed out at the bar. It was wild in Paradise.

And then she saw Pru. She was sitting behind a pillar, at a little table hidden from the crowd. She was alone, a cup of coffee before her.

Anne made her way to her and through her joy she had to laugh.

“Johnson, you’re not even drunk.”

Pru looked up sleepily and smiled, “I’m too big for you to carry home,” she said.

THE END

AFTERWORD

A new revolution was underway at the start of the 1940s in America—a paperback revolution that would change the way publishers would produce and distribute books and how people would purchase and read them.

In 1939 a new publishing company—Pocket Books—stormed onto the scene with the publication of its first paperbound book. These books were cheaply produced and sold in numbers never before seen, in large part due to a bold and innovative distribution model that soon after made Pocket Books available in drugstores, newsstands, bus and train stations, and cigar shops. The American public could not get enough of them, and before long the publishing industry began to take notice of Pocket Book’s astonishing success.

Traditional publishers, salivating at the opportunity to cash in on the phenomenal success of the new paperback revolution, soon launched their own paperback ventures. Pocket Books was joined by Avon in 1941, Popular Library in 1942, and Dell in 1943. The popular genres reflected the tastes of Americans during World War II—mysteries, thrillers, and “hardboiled detective” stories were all the rage.

World War II proved to be a boon to the emerging paperback industry. During the war, a landmark agreement was reached with the government in which paperbound books would be produced at a very low price for distribution to service men and women overseas. These books were often passed from one soldier or sailor to another, being read and re-read over and over again until they literally fell apart. Their stories of home helped ease their loneliness and homesickness, and they could be easily carried in uniform pockets and read anywhere—in fox holes, barracks, transport planes, etc. Of course, once the war was over millions of veterans returned home with an insatiable appetite for reading. They were hooked, and their passion for reading these books helped launch a period of unprecedented growth in the paperback industry.

In the early 1950s new subgenres emerged—science fiction, lesbiana, juvenile delinquent and “sleaze”, for instance—that would tantalize readers with gritty, realistic and lurid stories never seen before. Publishers had come to realize that sex sells. In a competitive frenzy for readers, they tossed away their staid and straightforward cover images for alluring covers that frequently featured a sexy woman in some form of undress, along with a suggestive tag line that promised stories of sex and violence within the covers. Before long, books with sensational covers had completely taken over the paperback racks and cash registers. To this day, the cover art of these vintage paperback books are just as sought after as the books themselves were sixty years ago.

With the birth of the lesbian-themed pulp novel, women who loved women could finally see themselves—their experiences and their lives—represented within the pages of a book. They finally had a literature they could call their own. Of course, that’s not what the publishers of the day intended—these books were written primarily for men… indeed shamelessly packaged and published to titillate the male reading public.

Some of the books were written by men using female pseudonyms and were illustrated by cover artists who never read the content between the covers. However, a good number were written by women, many of whom were lesbians themselves. For lesbians across the country, especially those living isolated lives in small towns, these books provided a sense of community they never knew existed… a connection to women who experienced the same longings, feelings and fears as they did—the powerful knowledge that they were not alone.

We are excited to make these wonderful paperback stories available in ebook format to new generations of readers. We present them in their original form with very little modification so as to preserve the tone and atmosphere of the time period. In fact, much of the language—the slang, the colloquialisms, the lingo, even the spellings of some words—appear as they were written fifty or sixty years ago. The stories themselves reflect the time period in which they were written, reflecting the censorship, sensibilities and biases of the 1950s and early 1960s. Still, these lesbian pulp novels are a treasure in our collective literary history and we hope you will enjoy this nostalgic journey back in time.

Table of Contents

DEDICATION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

AFTERWORD