I am a woman
“Jesus, she has a screw loose,” he said.
“She said you were talking about me before I got home. Thanks, Jack.”
“Listen, Mother,” he said. “Let’s get this straight. I want her to think
we’re nuts for each other. I also think you’re a pretty girl, and I said
so. But I didn’t say it to get Marcie all steamed up.”
“Well, I don’t care why you did it. She is steamed up.”
“You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”
“Oh, Jack, be nice to me! I’m in love, for God’s sake!”
“Okay, you’re in love. I believe you. Worse things have happened. I’ll
have to work a drastic cure on you.”
She laughed at him. “Too late,” she said.
“You’re not going to get stabbed like I was, Laura.”
She recalled the defenseless mushroom with a little shiver of distaste.
“Don’t be morbid,” she said.
“I’m a realist.”
“You’re blind. She’s falling for me. I can tell. She must be, or she
wouldn’t—” Here Sarah walked in. “Jack, I’ll call you back,” she said.
“I dare you to. Call me back this afternoon, when you’re hung over to
your knees, and tell me how much you’re in love.”
“I’m telling you now!”
“You talk like a fish. Go on, type your damn reports. Send some poor
bastard up for TB. Or enlarged heart. At least it’ll be a normal
disease.”
She hung up with a smack. _He’s a morbid miserable old man_, she
thought. _I’m not that cynical yet._
“Was that your friend?” Sarah said. “Jack?”
“Yes.” She put paper and carbons into her machine.
“He’s giving you the rush, hm?”
“I guess so.”
“That’s one of us, anyway.”
Laura looked at her, and caught an expression of frustration on her face
that made Laura’s problems seem smaller. Sarah was plain. She was
unremarkable. But so nice. It was depressing. Laura put a hand on her
arm. It would cheer her up if she could cheer someone else. “Maybe Jack
could fix you up with a friend of his,” she said. “We could make it a
foursome.”
Sarah shook her head. “They all want to know ‘Is she pretty?’ Never mind
if she’s nice or wants a man so badly she could ... excuse me, Laura, I
sound like an old maid already. I haven’t given up yet.”
* * * * *
Laura studied her on the way down in the elevator. She ached to say the
things she thought, but she didn’t know Sarah well enough. They were
walled up in themselves. _Poor plain Sarah_, she thought. _I’m not
beautiful either. But I’ve been loved. I know love and I can tell you,
you don’t have to be a beauty to feel passion. Sometimes it helps if
you’re not. I wonder if you know that already._
“I’ll talk to Jack,” she said as they walked out.
“That’d be awfully nice, Laura.” She laughed diffidently. “At
twenty-eight you begin to feel kind of frantic,” she said.
Outside she left Sarah and walked toward the subway station. All the way
she noticed the women, as she never had before. She was at a loss to
explain it. Before, she had always hurried, on her way somewhere, with a
deadline to beat, somebody to meet, things on her mind. Now—perhaps it
was the fatigue that made her slow—she sauntered, looking at the women.
Looking at their faces: sweet, fine-featured, delicate, some of them;
others coarse, sensual, heavily female. They all appealed to her, with
their soft skirts, their clicking heels, their floating hair. It caught
in her throat, this aberration of hers, in a way it never had until that
moment. It suffused her. She surrendered quietly to her feelings,
walking slowly, looking without staring but with a warm pleasure that
made her want to smile. She had trouble controlling her mouth.
_God, I love them_, she thought to herself, vaguely surprised. _I just
love them. I love them all. I know I’m nuts, but I love them._ She
stopped by a jewelry window where an exquisite girl was admiring a group
of rings. She was all in gray, as fine and soft as twilight. Gray silk
graced her slim legs, gray suede pumps with the highest heels were on
her feet. A gray suit, impeccably tailored, terribly expensive—gray
gloves—a tiny gray hat. Laura had never liked gray much before, but
suddenly it was ideal on this cool dainty little creature, with her
small nose and moist pink lips. She was extremely pretty. She looked up
to find Laura gazing at her, collected herself with pretty confusion,
and went off, pulling a recalcitrant gray poodle after her. Laura had
not even noticed it till it moved. She looked after the girl for a
minute with a foolish smile.
When she finally reached the subway she collapsed on a seat, exhausted.
She wanted to get home and into bed so badly that she could hardly wait.
She was late getting home but even so, Marcie had not arrived. She
wanted very much to see her, but there was no help for it. She would
have to wait. She fell on her bed, meaning to rest for a minute before
she took her bath. But so tired was she that before five minutes had
passed she was asleep. She woke up to hear small sounds in the bedroom,
and it seemed like perhaps half an hour had passed.
She opened her eyes and found herself all tangled up in her clothes, her
shoes still on, her dress wrinkled. There was a light on, the small
table lamp between the beds. She pulled herself up and turned around.
Marcie was standing in the bathroom door, with a frame of light around
her, holding her toothbrush and smiling at Laura. She was all in white
lace, in a short gown that barely reached her thighs. Laura smiled at
her and blinked, shaking her head slightly.
“Know what time it is?” Marcie said.
“About seven.”
“Quarter of twelve.” Marcie laughed at her surprise. She walked over
to her bed and stood beside her for a moment. She smelled
gorgeous—intoxicating, sweet and clean, faintly powdered, warm and damp
from her bath. She looked sleepy, soft, very feminine. Laura began to
tremble, desperate to touch her, afraid even to look.
“You must have been awfully tired, Laur. You’ve been asleep for hours.”
“I could sleep till Monday and never wake up,” Laura murmured. She spoke
without looking at Marcie. She couldn’t. The scent of her was trouble
enough.
“Burr and I went out for dinner. We didn’t want to bother you.”
“Did you have a nice big fight?” Irresistibly Laura’s eyes traveled up
Marcie to her face.
Marcie sighed. “We always have a nice big fight.”
“You must enjoy them.”
Marcie sat down beside her. “Don’t talk that way, Laur,” she said. “I
wish I could get interested in books, like you.”
Laura smiled at her, so close, so distant.
“Help me, Laura,” she said.
“How?” Laura felt herself on very shaky ground.
“I don’t know how,” Marcie said impatiently. “If I knew I could help
myself. There must be something in life besides fights, Laur.”
“Don’t call me Laur.”
Marcie looked at her in surprise. “Why not?”
“Somebody else used to call me that. It still hurts a little.”
“I’m sorry. I remember, you told me about him.”
Laura felt confession working itself urgently into her thoughts. She
wanted to clasp Marcie to her and say, “Not ‘him’. Her. _Her._ It was a
girl I loved. As I love you.” _No, not as I love you. I can’t love you
that way, not even you._ To her sudden disgust the face of a handsome
arrogant girl named Beebo came up in her mind. She frowned at her,
trying not to see.
“What’s the matter, Laur? Laura?” Marcie smoothed Laura’s hair off her
hot forehead. “You must have loved him a lot.”
In a sudden convulsion of desire, Laura threw her arms around Marcie,
pressing her hard, tight, in her arms. Her need was terrible, and a sort
of sob, half ache and half passion, came out of her. Marcie was
frightened.
“Laura!” she said, pushing at her. Laura was always so docile; now
suddenly she was strange and violent. “Laura, are you all right?” Laura
only clung to her the harder, wrestling against herself with all her
strength.
For a moment, Marcie tried to calm her, whispering soothingly and
rubbing her back a little. But this only aggravated Laura.
“Marcie, don’t!” she said sharply. Panic began to well up in her. “Oh,
God!” she cried, and stood up abruptly, shaking all over. She covered
her face with her hands, trying to force the tears back with them.
Marcie watched her, astonished, from the bed.
With a little gasp Laura turned and ran out. Marcie rose to her feet and
called after her, but it was too late. She heard the front door slam as
she ran toward it. She pulled it open but Laura was in the elevator a
floor below her and on her way out. Marcie stared into the black
stairwell, feeling shocked and confused.
She slipped back into the apartment and into her bed, but she couldn’t
sleep. She simply sat there, her eyes wide and staring, oscillating
between a fear of something she couldn’t name and bewildered sympathy
for Laura. For whatever it was that tortured her. She shivered every
time she thought of Laura’s near-hysterical embrace, returning to it
again and again. It gave her a reckless kick, a hint of shameless fun,
like the night she kissed the bum in the park. She didn’t know why it
recalled that to her mind. But it did. Laura had scared her; yet now she
felt like giggling.
* * * * *
Laura ran all the way to the subway station, three blocks off. She fell
into a seat gasping, trembling violently. People stared at her but she
ignored them, covering her face with her hands and sobbing quietly. She
rode down to the Village and got off at Tenth Street. She had managed to
control herself by this time, but she felt bewildered and lost, as if
she didn’t quite know what she was doing there. She stood for a moment
on the platform, shivering with the chilly air. It was nearly the end of
April, but it was still cold at night. She had run out in nothing but a
blouse and skirt, with a light topper over them—the clothes she had
fallen asleep in. She was aware of the cold, yet somehow didn’t feel it.
Resolutely she began to walk, climbing the stairs and then starting down
Seventh Avenue. She walked as if she had a goal, precisely because she
had none and it frightened her. It was Friday night, and busy. People
were everywhere. Young men turned to stare at her.
Within five minutes she was standing in front of The Cellar, rather
surprised at herself for having found it so quickly. There was a strange
tingling up and down her back and her eyes began to shine with a
feverish luster. She walked down the steps and pulled the door open.
Almost nobody noticed her. It was too crowded, at this peak hour of one
of the best nights of the week. She made her way through the crowd to
the nearest end of the bar. She had to squeeze into a corner next to the
juke box and it was work to get her jacket off. It was sweaty and close
after the chill air outside.
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 self-consciously. When