Part 4 (1/2)
'There was a time when you were willing to try.”.
”That was a million years ago. I wasn't the same Laura I am now. I said that before I even met Beebowhen another girl was giving me h.e.l.l, and I was new to the game and to New York and so afraid of everything.”
”So now you know the ropes and you're absolutely sure you'd rather give your life away to the G.o.ddam tourists and a woman you don't love than come and live with a man you do love.”
”Jack, darling, I love you, but I don't love you with my body. I love you with my heart and soul but I could never let you make love to me.”
”I could never do it, either,” he said quietly ”You're no gayer than I am, Laura. If we married it would never be a physical union, you know that.” Somewhere far back in his mind the sweet shadow of that little dream child hovered, but he suppressed it, lighting a cigarette quickly. His fingers shook.
”If it wasn't a physical union, what would it be?” Laura asked. ”Just small talk and community property and family plan fares?”
He smiled. ”Sounds a little empty, doesn't it?”
”Jack,” Laura said, speaking with care so as not to hurt him, ”you're forty-five and life looks a little different to you now. I'm only twenty-three and I can't give up my body so casually. I could never make you promises I couldn't keep.”
”I wouldn't ask that promise of you, Laura,” he said.
”You mean I could bring girls home? To our home, yours and mine? Any girls, any time? And it would be all right?”
”Let's put it ibis way,” he said. ”If you fell in love with somebody, I'd be understanding. I'd welcome her to the house, and I'd get the h.e.l.l out when you wanted a little privacy. I'd keep strict hands off and just one shoulder for you to cry on. As long as you really loved her and it wasn't cheap or loud or dirty, I'd respect it.”
He knocked the ashes off the tip of his cigarette thoughtfully. ”...only,” he said, ”you'd be my wife. And you'd come home at night and tuck me in and you'd be there in the morning to see me off.” He sounded so peculiarly gentle and yearning that she was convinced that he meant it. But she was not ready to give in.
Laura smiled at him. ”What would there be in all this for you, Jack?” she said ”Just getting tucked in at night? Is that enough compensation?”
”n.o.body ever tucked me in before.” He said it with a grin but she sensed that it was true.
”And breakfast in the morning?”
”Wonderful! You don't know what a difference it would make.”
”That's nothing, Jack, compared to what you'd be giving me.”
”You'd be my wife, Laura, my honest-to-G.o.d lawful legal wife. You'd give me a home. You don't know what that would mean to me. I've been living in rented rooms since I was out of diapers. You'd give me a place to rest in and be proud of, and a purpose in life. What the h.e.l.l good am I to myself? What use is an aging f.a.g with a letch for hopelessly bored, hopelessly handsome boys? Christ, I give myself the creeps. I give the boys the creeps. And you know something? They're beginning to give me the creeps. I'm so low I can't go any place but up. If you'll say yes.”
”What if I did? What about Beebo?” Laura said softly, as if the name might suddenly conjure up her lover, jealous and vengeful.
”It would solve everything,” he said positively. ”She could still see you, but you wouldn't be her property any more. It's bad for her to have the idea she owns you, but that's the way she treats you. If you were my wife she'd have to respect the situation. It would be a kind way to break with her,” he added slyly. He was feeling too selfish to waste sympathy on Beebo now.
Laura thought it over. There was no one she respected more than Jack, and her love for him, born of grat.i.tude and affection, was real. But it was not the love of a normal woman for a normal man she felt for him, and the idea of marrying him frightened her.
”Do you think, if we married, we could keep our love for each other intact, Jack?” she asked.
”Yes,” he said.
”Even if I were having an affair?” She was thinking at that moment of Tris Robischon, the lovely, lithe Indian girl.
”Yes. I told you 'yes.'”
Laura finished her beer in silence, gazing into the mirror over the bar and pondering. She knew she would say no. But she didn't quite know how. ”I can't, Jack,” she said at last, in a small voice.
”Not now, maybe?” He wouldn't give up.
”Never.”
”Never say never, Mother. Say 'not now' or something.”
She did, obediently. But she added, ”We'd quarrel and we'd end up destroying our love for each other.”
”We'd quarrel, h.e.l.l yes. I wouldn't feel properly married if we didn't.”
”And there's always the chance that you'd fall in love. And regret that you married me.”
He turned to her with a little smile and shook his head. ”Never,” he said. ”And this once it's the right word.” He took her hands. ”Say yes.”
”No.”
”Say maybe.”
”No.”
”Say you'll think about it, Laura. Say it, honey.”
And out of love and reluctance to hurt him, she whispered, ”I'll think about it.”
Laura was walking up Greenwich Avenue, searching for number 251. She had a small white card in her hand to which she referred occasionally, although she had memorized the address. It was a hot day, late in the afternoon, and she had just come from work, wilted and worn and bored. The idea of going home right away depressed her and she had decided to walk a little.
She hadn't gone two blocks before she was daydreaming of Tris Robischon and suddenly s.h.i.+vering with the thought of seeing her again.
Beebo wouldn't be home until nine o'clock that evening, and Tris's studio address was only a short distance from the shop where Laura worked. All at once she was walking fast.
She found the address with no trouble at all. In fact it was almost too easy and before she knew it she was standing in the first floor hallway of the modest building reading the names on the mail boxes. TRIS ROBISCHON. There it was. Third floor, Apartment C. Laura climbed the stairs.
What will I say to her? she asked herself. How in G.o.d's name will I explain this visit? Ask her for a dance lesson? Me? She had to smile at herself. Her long slim legs would never yield to the fluid grace and discipline of dancing.
Laura stood uncertainly before the door of Apartment G, a little afraid to knock. She could hear the sounds of music insiderather sharp, tormented music. Laura glanced at the card once again. It had been almost three weeks since the Indian girl had given it to her. Perhaps she wouldn't even remember Laura. It might be embarra.s.sing for them both. But then Laura envisioned that remarkable face, and she didn't care how embarra.s.sed she had to be to see it once again. She knocked.
There was no response. She knocked again, hard. This time there was a scampering of feet and the music was abruptly shut off. Laura heard voices and realized with a sinking feeling that Tris wasn't alone.
Suddenly the door swung open. Laura was confronted with a young girl of twelve or so in a blue leotard. ”Yes?” said the little girl. There were three or four others in the room in att.i.tudes of relaxation, and then Tris appeared around a corner, wiping her wonderful face on a towel and coming quickly and smoothly toward the door. It was almost a selfconscious walk, as if she expected any caller to be a prospective pupil and had to demonstrate her talent even before she opened her mouth to speak.
She stopped behind the young girl and looked up. Laura waited, speechless and awkward, until Tris smiled at her, without having said a word. ”Come in,” she said.
”I hope I'm not interrupting a cla.s.s,” Laura said, hesitating.
”It does not matter. You are welcome. Please come in.” Laura followed her into the room and Tris waved her to a seat. It was only a bench, set in a far corner of the room, but Laura went to it gratefully and sat there while Tris collected her, charges and put them through a five-minute routine. It looked very pretty to Laura, although the Indian girl seemed dissatisfied.
”You can do much better than that for our visitor, girls,” she said in her dainty English that Laura had nearly forgotten. It was a strange accent, like none Laura had ever heard; very precise and softly spoken, but not noticeably British or any thing else. Laura puzzled over it, watching Tris move and demonstrate things to her students. She had on black tights and a small cotton knit bandeau that covered her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and shoulders but left her long supple midriff exposed. She was the same luscious tan from waist to bosom, and Laura, sitting there watching her, was helplessly fascinated by it; almost more by what she could see than by what she couldn't.