It was a long time before either of them heard the phone ringing. Finally Beebo stood up, looking down at Laura, watching her. Laura turned her face away, pulling her knees up and feeling the tears come. Beebo knelt beside her then, the hardness gone from her face.
“Don’t cry, baby,” she said, and kissed her gently. “Laura, don’t cry. I know you don’t want to make love to me, I know you have to. Damn that phone! It’s not your fault. Laura, baby, you make beautiful love. God grant me a passionate girl like you just once in a while and I’ll die happy.”
“Please don’t touch me. Don’t talk to me.” She was overwhelmed with shame.
“I have to. I can’t help myself any more than you can. I had no idea you’d be like this—Jesus, so hot! You look so cool, so damn far above the rest of us. But you’re not, poor baby. Better than some of us, maybe, but not above us.”
Laura turned her face to the wall. “Answer the phone,” she said.
Beebo left her then and went into the living room. Laura could hear her voice when she answered.
“Hello?” she said. “How are you, doll? Fine. Laura’s fine. No, I didn’t rape her. She raped me.” Laura sat straight up at this, her face flaming. Beebo was laughing. “Tell her what? It’s all fixed up? You mean I can send her home to Marcie?” Her voice became heavily sarcastic. “Well, isn’t that too sweet for words. Okay, Jack, I’ll tell her. You what?…With who?…Oh, Terry! Yeah, I’ve seen him. You got a live one there, boy. Hang on to him, he’s a doll…Okay, don’t mention it. It’s been a pleasure. Most of it. She’s lovely…So long.”
When Beebo returned to the bathroom, Laura was standing at the washbowl, rinsing her face, trying to compose herself.
“What did he say?” she asked Beebo.
“It was Jack.”
“I heard.”
Beebo put her arms around Laura from behind, leaning a little against her, front to back, planting kisses in her hair while she talked. “He says you’re forgiven. He handed Marcie some psychological hocus pocus about a neurosis. You are neurotic, love. As of now. As far as Marcie’s concerned, you have attacks. She should have a few herself.”
“Don’t be so sarcastic, Beebo. If you knew what I’ve been through—how scared I was—”
“Okay, no more sarcasm. For a few minutes at least. God, you’re pretty, Laura.” Like Jack, like Marcie, like many others, she realized it slowly. Laura’s singular face fit no pattern. It had to be discovered. Laura herself had never discovered it. She didn’t believe in it. She grew up convinced she was as plain as her father seemed to think, and when she looked into the mirror she didn’t see her own reflection. She saw what she thought she looked like; a mask, a cliché left over from adolescence. It embarrassed her when people told her she was pretty.
“Don’t flatter me,” she said sharply to Beebo. “I hate it.”
Beebo shut her eyes and laughed in Laura’s ear. “You’re nuts,” she said. “You are nuts, Bo-peep.”
“I’m sane. And I’m plain. There’s a poem for you. Now let me go.”
“There’s no rush, baby.”
“There is. I want to get home.” She twisted away from Beebo, turning around to face her.
Beebo let her hands trail up the front of Laura. “Home to Marcie?” she said, and let them drop suddenly. “Okay. Go home. Go home, now that you can stand it for another couple of days. And when the pressure gets too great, come back down again. Come back to Beebo, your faithful safety valve.”
“You said you wouldn’t be sarcastic.”
Beebo wheeled away, walking into the bedroom. “What do you want me to do, sing songs? Write poems? Dance? Shall I congratulate you? Congratulations, Laura, you’ve finally found a way to beat the problem. Every time Marcie sexes you up, run down to Beebo’s and let it off. Beebo’ll fix you up. Lovely arrangement.”
She turned to Laura, her eyes narrowed. “Laura gets loved up for free, Beebo gets a treat, and Marcie stays pure. Whatever happens, let’s not dirty Marcie up. Let’s not muss up that gorgeous blonde hair.”
“Don’t talk about her!” Laura had followed her in the bedroom.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, Bo-peep. I’m not complaining. You’re too good to me, you know. You give me your throw-away kisses. I get your cast-off passion. I’m your Salvation Army, doll, I get all the left-overs. Throw me a bone.” She was sitting on the edge of her rump on her dresser, legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded on her chest—a favorite stance with her.
Laura was suddenly ashamed of the way she had used Beebo. Beebo was hurt. And it was Laura’s fault.
“Everything’s my fault, Beebo,” she said. “I’m sorry.” There was silence for a minute. Laura was acutely aware that “I’m sorry” was no recompense for what she was doing to Beebo.
Beebo smiled wryly. “Thanks,” she said.
“I am, Beebo. Really. I didn’t come to you last night just because of Marcie.” It was suffocatingly hard to talk. She spoke in fits and starts as her nerve came and left her.
“No?” Beebo remained motionless with a “tell-me-another” look on her face.
“No. I came—I came because—” She covered her face with her hands, stuck for words and ashamed.
“You came, baby. That’s enough,” Beebo finished for her, relenting a little. “You came and I’m not sorry. Neither are you, not really. The situation isn’t perfect.” She laughed. “But last night was perfect. It isn’t like that very often, I can tell you.”
Laura looked at her again. Then she moved toward her clothes, afraid to stay naked any longer, afraid the whole thing would start over again.
Beebo came toward
