Laura stood quietly in her corner, looking at all the faces strung down the bar like beads on a necklace. They were animated, young for the most part, attractive… There were a few that were sad, or old, or soured on life—or all three. Across the room the artist, with his sketch pad, was drinking with some friends.
Laura felt alone and apart from them all somehow. There were one or two faces she might have recognized from the night before, people Jack might have introduced her to, but she couldn’t be sure. She had been too drunk to be sure of anything last night.
God, was it only last night? she wondered. It seemed like a thousand nights ago. She didn’t really want to be noticed now. She only wanted to watch, to be absorbed in these gay faces, in the idioms, the milieu.
“What’ll you have?” She realized the bartender was leaning stiff-armed on the bar, looking at her.
“Whisky and water,” she said, wondering suddenly how much it would be. She pulled out a dollar and put it on the counter selfconsciously. When he brought her the drink she gulped it anxiously. Marcie kept coming into her thoughts; Marcie’s face, her shocked voice saying, “Laura—don’t!”
The bartender took her dollar and brought some change. It meant she could have another drink. Drinking your dinner. Where had she heard that? One of her father’s friends, no doubt. She gazed at the ceiling. She wanted to talk to Jack, but she was ashamed to call him. She thought of her father again, and it gave her a sort of bitter satisfaction to imagine his face if he could see her now, alone and unhappy, disgracing him by drinking by herself, in a bar—a gay bar. Gay—that would strike him dead. She was sure of it. She smiled a little, but it was a mirthless smile.
After a moment, she ordered another drink. She counted her change fuzzily. There might be enough for a third. She slipped it back in her pocket and looked up to find a young man forcing himself into a place beside her.
Damn! she exclaimed to herself. As if I didn’t have enough on my mind. Her slim arresting face registered subtle contempt and she turned away. It would have frozen another man, but this one only seemed amused.
“Hello, Laura,” he said.
At this, she looked at him. Her mind was a blank; she couldn’t place him. “Do I know you?” she said.
“No.” He grinned. “I’m Dutton. This is for you. He held out a piece of paper and she took it, curious. On it was a devilish reproduction of her own features mocking her from the white page.
“You’re the artist,” she accused him suddenly.
“Thanks for the compliment.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Keep it”
“I won’t pay for it.”
“You don’t have to.” He laughed at her consternation. “It’s paid for, doll. Take it home. Frame it. Enjoy it.”
Laura stared at him. “Who paid for it?”
“She said not to tell.” He laughed. “You’re a bitch to caricature. You know? Look me up sometime, I’ll do a good one. I like your face.” And he turned and wriggled out of the crowd.
Laura was left standing at the bar with the cartoon of herself. She was suddenly humiliated and angry. She felt ridiculous standing there holding the silly thing, not knowing who paid for it. Her glance swept down the bar, looking for a face to accuse, but she recognized no one. No one paid her any attention.
She studied the sketch once more. It was clever, insolent; it made a carnival curiosity of her face. Quietly, deliberately, with a feeling of satisfaction, she tore the sketch in half. And in half again. And threw it down behind the bar where the bartender would grind it in the wet floor. Then she picked up her glass and finished her drink.
“What did you do that for?” said a low voice, so close to her ear that she jumped and a drop of whisky ran down her chin. “It was a damn good likeness.”
Laura looked up, gazing straight ahead of her, knowing who it was now and mad. She pulled a dime out of her pocket and smacked it on the bar in front of her. “I owe you a dime, Beebo. There it is. Thanks for the picture. Next time don’t waste your money.”
Beebo laughed. “I always get what I pay for, lover,” she said. Laura refused to look at her, and after a pause Beebo said, “What’s the matter, Laura, ’fraid to look at me?”
Laura had to look then. She turned her head slowly, reluctantly. Her face was cold and composed. Beebo chuckled at her. She was handsome, like a young boy of fourteen, with her smooth skin and deep blue eyes. She was leaning on her elbows on the bar, and she looked sly and amused. “Laura’s afraid of me,” she said with a quick grin.
“Laura’s not afraid of you or anybody else. Laura thinks you’re a bitch. That’s all.”
“That makes two of us.”
Under her masklike face Laura found herself troubled by the smile so close to her; the snapping blue eyes.
“Where’s your guardian angel tonight?” Beebo said.
“I suppose you mean Jack. I don’t know where he is, he doesn’t have to tell me where he goes.” She turned back to the bar. “He’s not my guardian angel. I don’t need one. I’m a big girl now.”
“Oh, excuse me. I should have noticed.”
Laura’s cheeks prickled with embarrassment. “You only see what you want to see,” she said.
“I see what I want to see right now,” Beebo said, and Laura felt her hand on the small of her back. She straightened suddenly.
“Go away,” she said sharply. “Leave me alone.”
“I can’t.”
“Then shut up.”
Beebo laughed softly. “What’s the matter, little girl? Hate the world tonight?” Laura wouldn’t answer. “Think that’s going to make
