“Laura, I’m speaking to you from my heart,” Beth said, her voice straining. “I’m telling you the absolute truth the very best I can. Don’t turn your back to me.”
But Laura had kept her resentment in check too many years not to give herself the luxury of loosing it now. Just once. Just to let Beth know how it had been. That was all she wanted. “You turned your back on me often enough,” she said, facing away from the bed and looking through her dresser drawers.
Beth looked down at her bare thighs in confusion and covered them with part of the sheet. “Never on purpose,” she protested.
Laura laughed. She knew better. “Only for Charlie’s sake,” she said. “That it? He forced you. You never would have turned me out on your own. Where is Charlie now?” She pulled a gauzy slip from one of the drawers, and still her back was turned and her eyes ignored her lover.
And Beth knew from the toss of Laura’s head, from the sweep of her smooth arm, that Laura meant to punish her.
“He’s in California,” Beth said darkly.
“How long has he been out there?”
“A long time. Years.”
“Were you there with him?”
“No.”
“He must be worried sick about you. Or does he know where you are?” And now, as from a great height, Laura’s cornflower eyes swept over her curiously. Those eyes had lost their innocence through the years, but Beth loved them still.
“No, he doesn’t know. I doubt if he’s in any mood to give a damn, either. He thinks I’m in Chicago.”
“Are you still married?” Laura said.
“No. Divorced. Oh, it was a long time ago, Laura. Don’t ask me about it.” She sped through the lie as if afraid of stumbling over it. But Laura’s eyes, grown knowing and sharp, saw the shadow of uncertainty on Beth’s face.
“Have you been looking for me all this time?” Laura said, and suddenly she was coy, teasing, needling Beth. “Was I so hard to find?”
“Not after I got to New York. I met Beebo Brinker in the Village. Beebo told me where you were.”
“Oh.” Laura pulled the slip over her head and her act of dressing defied Beth. Laura was so breathtaking without her clothes. The fact that she was covering herself up was almost depressing, as if she were putting an end to the tenderness, the caresses of a little while ago. She was telling Beth, subtly and wittily, to go to hell, and Beth was stung. Laura’s whole graceful body told her impudently, You took advantage of my surprise, my helpless love. Well, I’m not helpless any longer.
“Did you have any children, Beth?” Laura asked. Her questions were slow, bold, rather hopeful of offending. And yet there was still restraint in her. She had once loved Beth utterly, and her first reaction to Beth’s presence had been a quick unreasoning surrender. Desire had made her weak. But desire was satisfied now; it remained to satisfy her wounded soul.
“No,” Beth snapped. “No children.” She was appalled at herself and at the same time angrily determined to deny that part of her life.
Laura gazed at her, aware from the tone and temper in Beth that she had touched an emotional sore. But then perhaps it was just Beth’s disappointment in seeing Laura get dressed.
Beth, suddenly surly, got up and began to put her own clothes on. She stepped into her panties self-consciously and then, to her own surprise, broke down and began to cry. The chill between them was too much for her. She went to Laura humbly and embraced her.
“Laura, I want you,” she whispered. “I love you. Nothing else matters. The rest of my life doesn’t matter, it didn’t even happen, if you’ll just take me back. Be good to me. Help me, please, help me.”
But Laura couldn’t be had that easily. “Help you what?” she said. “You mean, help you now the way you helped me nine years ago? Put you on a train and send you to hell? One-way trip?”
“Please—dear God—don’t be sarcastic!” Beth implored her.
“It’s a very educational trip, Beth,” Laura said softly.
For a moment it struck Beth as Nina’s barbs had struck her. But she needed Laura’s aid too much to risk antagonizing her. “I’m dead serious,” she said through her tears. “Help me find myself. Help me know myself,” she insisted, shaking Laura forcibly. “No one can help me but you.”
And Laura, caught in Beth’s strong urgent arms, began to understand, began to see through the clouds of passion and desperation that hung about Beth. She knew what Beth was there for. Not for love, not for Laura, not for nostalgia or passion or anything tender. She had come to find herself and was fanatically sure Laura could help. Laura was her tool, and, realizing it now, Laura smiled at her with pity.
“You’re so lucky,” Beth said. “So damn lucky!” And she couldn’t keep the little green flash of envy from showing. “You’ve got it both ways. A husband and a child and a home. And at the same time, women. You worked your life out right, Laura darling. I made a complete mess of mine. God, isn’t it ironical? When I said goodbye to you and watched you climb on that train and go out of my life, I felt sorry for you. I pitied you because I thought you were already starting out on the wrong foot. I thought
