Beebo Brinker Chronicles 1 - Odd Girl Out (23 page)

"Emmy,” he said, “I love you. If only there were something I could do."

"There is,” she said, nervously determined. “Don't you remember?"

He looked at her in puzzlement.

"Marry me, Bud,” she said.

He dropped his glance and stared at the table for a minute and then he took her hands and nearly crushed them in his. “I will, Em,” he said. “If that's what you want, I will.” He looked up at her.

"Oh, Bud,” she said, and began to smile a real smile for the first time since their disaster. “If I could know that—if I could look forward to that—"

He kissed her hands.

"When?” she urged him.

He shook his head. “I don't know.” And seeing her face cloud over again he added, “June, maybe. Or Easter. I don't know."

"Oh, Bud, darling,” she whispered, and the world steadied a little.

BETH BROODED FOR days. She didn't want to see Charlie, she didn't want to go out, she didn't want to do anything. Her every bitter thought had a wicked stinger in it: she and Charlie had done the same as Emily and Bud, and got away with it.

Beth felt a wave of irresistible disgust with herself, her little duplicities, her evasions. In a restless temper she got up and paced the room fretfully. Laura watched her anxiously, wanting to talk to her, to help, but afraid to. Beth pulled the window open and stood in the wash of early April air, chill and dark and soft, and thought of the sorrows that a man can heap on a woman. She thought of Charlie's complicity, she thought of Bud's worthless charm and useless contrition, and she hated them briefly, with violent energy.

The phone on the desk rang. Laura picked it up, watching Beth all the while.

Hello?” she said, and she frowned. Beth shook her head without a word, and then shut her eyes tight as if that might eliminate the sound of Laura's voice.

"No, Charlie, she's not here. I'm sorry—please, Charlie—I don't know, but—” And she listened a moment longer and hung up. She looked at Beth apologetically. “I hung up on him,” she said. “I didn't know what else to do. He sounded sort of—frantic. I didn't know what else to do.” She watched Beth hopefully, tenderly, afraid to go near her. Beth leaned against her dresser and stared out the window again, silent.

"Beth? Laura said softly. Beth turned toward her suddenly and pulled her hard and close against her and put her head down against Laura's. Her hot hands probed and pushed back and forth across Laura's shoulders, the small of her back, her hips, catching in her clothes, rumpling them, and finally her arms tightened around the younger girl and she whispered, “Laura. Look at me."

Laura looked up and Beth kissed her full on the lips, a yearning kiss, warm and deep and slow. She didn't stop for a long while, not until Laura was shivering wildly in her embrace, answering Beth's passion with her own.

"Oh, Laur,” Beth said into Laura's ear, “what a fool I am. What a simpleton."

"Beth, I love you,” said Laura, clinging to her and letting the delicious tremors shake her body, wondering where this revival of desire came from, but not caring. It had happened; Beth wanted her again the way she had in the beginning.

"Laura,” Beth said. “Oh, I hate them! God damn them all, I hate them!” Laura didn't have to be told that “they” were men; she knew it and her heart expanded joyously and floated in her chest.

"You can't trust them,” Beth muttered. “You can't trust them. God, I don't know why I ever bothered with them. All they know how to do is hurt. They all want the same damn thing.” She hugged Laura tighter and Laura's hope bloomed again like a forced flower. “I'm sick and tired of it,” Beth went on. “I'm sick and tired of the whole thing. If you get caught they treat you like a slut, they kick you out. If you don't get caught your conscience gives you hell. I've had enough, Laura. It makes me sick the whole damn business—authority—stupid, stuffy, blind authority—men, deans, school, everything. I want to get out of here.” They whipped Emmy in public, she thought; I'll whip myself in private. Exile myself. It was the only way to square with her conscience.

"What about Charlie?” Laura's voice was faint and frightened.

"Charlie can go to hell. Charlie's as guilty as Bud. You don't know how guilty Charlie is. You don't know.” She put her head down again.

"Beth, would you really leave school?"

"Yes. Yes, I would, damn it. I would!"

"Will you let me come with you?"

Beth pulled away from her a little and started to shake her head.

"Beth!” Laura cried, “I want to go wherever you go. You said we weren't any better than Bud and Emily; you said we were doing the same thing. Well, we haven't any more right to stay here than she does, then."

"Your family?” Beth said.

"Oh, my family...” Laura said, making the word curdle with her contempt. “My family doesn't care what happens to me, just so they have something to tell their friends."

"They won't like it, Laur."

"I won't ask them to like it. There's nothing they can do about it, Beth. I'm of age, in this state anyway. Oh, Beth, you can't ask me to stay here without you—you can't!” She clung tightly to her. Laura was aware that Beth couldn't resist her at that moment, and she made the most of it.

Furious with men and intensely sympathetic for a girl, angry with herself, yet in need of reassurance, Beth turned to Laura again with all the unreasoning joy of their early romance. She said weakly, “I don't know..."

Laura said quickly, “Beth, darling, I wouldn't be afraid of anything as long as you were with me."

Beth laughed gently at her, flattered, seeing the exaggeration and yet enjoying it too much to deny it. “I can't do everything,” she whispered.

"Yes you can,” said Laura positively.

Beth looked down at her with a spellbound smile. “Laura,” she said, with her lips against Laura's cheek, drifting over her face toward her lips. “I love you.” Laura's arms tightened about her and brought her desire hot to the surface. Beth pulled her over to the couch and down beside her.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, completely, Laura had Beth again. Whatever the sorcery that won her, it was potent, and it lasted. A week passed and they made plans in secret to leave the house. Every night, in defiance of chance, they slept together in the room, and strangely enough, nobody noticed. Nobody barged in on them. Nobody suspected anything.

Beth laughed at their luck. “Wouldn't you know,” she said. “We might as well be kicked out as leave by ourselves. Might even be more honorable. But as long as we don't give a damn we're perfectly safe. They'd never dream of anything amiss in this room. Lightning never strikes twice in the same place."

Laura laughed with her.

Charlie was getting desperate. He called, and almost never spoke to Beth. When he did, she was brusque with him. He saw her at the Union, where she couldn't escape him, and she gave him only a few cursory minutes in public. He tried to pick her up after classes and she ignored him or took refuge in the ladies’ room.

He was aching to explain, to talk, to hold her and to restore the love and logic to his world. Every time he saw her he felt a frantic need to touch her, to force her to listen. Nothing was sensible any more. He stopped her in the hall at the Union one day and said, “Beth, this has gone far enough. For God's sake, talk to me."

She eyed him coolly. “I have nothing to say to you, Charlie."

"Well, I've got something to say to you."

She folded her arms patiently. All right,” she said.

"Here?” His voice was hard.

"This is as good as any place."

He studied her for a minute in silence. “Not quite, Beth,” he said finally, and walked off and left her alone. It was the first time he had done it, and he caught Beth by surprise. She stared after him for a minute and then went down the hall in the opposite direction. Charlie went off tormented and angry, wild with impatience and doubt, afraid he might never reach her, never touch her again, and the idea made him half mad.

He went home to the empty apartment, poured himself a stiff drink, and threw himself into a chair. He fixed the wall with an angry stare while he finished the drink and poured another. And then he said to himself, Why? What the hell's wrong with the girl? And then he said it out loud, as if he expected an answer from the listening wall: “What the hell is wrong with her?"

He stood up, glass in hand, and began to walk slowly up and down the room. “I'll tell you what's wrong with her,” he told himself aloud. “She doesn't want to see you.” He turned sharply around and demanded sarcastically, “Does that mean there's something wrong with her?” He emptied his glass and then glared balefully at the wall, filling the glass again. “Be sensible, be sensible...” he admonished himself. “Okay, we'll be sensible,” he said. “We'll be logical. We'll start with her family. Anything wrong there? No, she gets along fine with them."

He fortified himself with a swallow. “Now,” he said. “Friends. First category: men. God, let's see. Men.” He sat down suddenly. “Damn them,” he murmured. “God damn them all.” When she had told him about the others, he had taken it in stride. He had been full of her, warm and passionate and wildly in love. He had her in his arms, and she had made a brave and painful confession to him. It had stunned him, but he rallied. It was easy to forgive her; she loved him, she needed him, she hated the others as much as he did. But now, thinking of them, with Beth remote and icy, with the same room they had made love in cold and lonely and haunted with Bud and Emily's sorrows as well as his own—he broke down, enraged.

"Oh, God,” he snarled through closed teeth, “send every one of those stinking bastards straight to hell.” His voice subsided to a whisper. “And as for her—as for her—” He drank a little more, and then dropped his head in his hands. “Make her love me,” he said in a broken voice. “Just make her love me."

After a few minutes he straightened up again and refilled his glass. “Men,” he said softly. “I know she has no other men. I'd know that right away—Mary Lou would tell Mitch and he'd sure tell me."

He drank. It was becoming rather difficult to pursue the logical approach. He tried to retrace his steps. “Family,” he muttered. “Friends. Men. Women.” He laughed a little and lifted his glass and then put it down again on the table. He shook his head to clear it. “God, how drunk am I?” he said, looking at the glass and then at the bottle. After a long pause he said it again, aloud but very quietly, “Women? And then he took a long swallow. He stood up again and walked uncertainly around the room, pulling at his chin, rubbing his head, squinting with concentration. Finally he walked up to the wall and stopped, leaning against it. From months past came a hazy argument with Beth. He remembered gazing at her over the top of a diner table. He was saying, “I can tell when a person has a crush on me. Can't you? Laura doesn't."

"Well, she does,” Beth had said. She had said it several times, insisted on it. Charlie raised his clenched fists over his head, his whole body relying on the wall. “Laura?” he whispered, and the strength seemed to go out of him. He sagged against the wall. “If I weren't so drunk,” he told himself sternly. He slid slowly to the floor and fell asleep where he lay.

While Charlie got drunk that afternoon, Beth began, for the first time, to have doubts about leaving school with Laura. When she got back to the sorority house that evening she, quite unconsciously, gave herself away by saying to Laura, “I wonder if we're doing the right thing?"

"Beth!” Laura exclaimed. She grasped Beth's hands and held them tight. “Of course we are. What a thing to say!"

"I guess so, but—I don't know. As time goes by, I begin to wonder."

"Beth, don't you remember what you said? Don't you remember what they did to Emmy? What they'd do to us if we got caught? Beth, you promised me. Oh, darling—we were going to be so happy, all to ourselves with no house rules, no deans, no men to worry about. Beth...” She pulled her hands up and pressed them to her lips and Beth watched her with a warm feeling in her chest. Laura looked up. “Beth, you promised. You said whatever happens. I said it, too. It's like an oath. You can't break it. Oh, Beth, my love!” She threw her arms around her.

"Yes,” Beth whispered. “Yes. Oh, Laur, I'm just—I don't know. I'm crazy. Don't listen to me, I don't know what I'm saying."

"Then we will go?"

"Yes. We'll go."

But if she could calm Laura she couldn't do as well by herself. Laura could believe in Beth and lean on her, depend on her for everything. But Beth had no one to look to and she was suddenly responsible not just for herself but for Laura as well. It was unnerving. She hadn't expected Laura to take to her idea with such enthusiasm; to take so seriously and so finally what began in Beth's mind as a private emotional revolt. The thing seemed somehow foolhardy and stupid. And yet, when she looked into Laura's face and saw the endless warm love in it, all hers, her reservations faded away.

Laura said, “Beth, when will we go? Let's go soon.” She knew if they postponed the thing much longer, Beth wouldn't go at all. The main thing was to get Beth out of Champlain before she changed her mind. And Laura had a sure idea that Charlie was behind Beth's doubt.

"Did you see Charlie today?” she asked.

Beth looked surprised. “Yes,” she said.

Laura stroked Beth's cheek with her finger. “He always upsets you, Beth,” she said.

Beth kissed the finger. “He reminds me of things I'd rather forget. Laura, you're adorable."

Laura smiled gratefully at her. “When shall we go?” she said, capitalizing on Beth's mood.

"Oh..."

"Beth, tell me."

"Oh, I don't know. When do you want to go? Your eyes are such a pretty blue. Where'd you get such blue eyes, Laur?"

"Let's go Friday."

"This Friday?"

"Yes.” She watched her hopefully, with parted lips. Beth kissed them.

"Isn't that kind of soon?"

"We have to, Beth. It's now or never,” she added truthfully.

Beth kissed the corner of Laura's mouth. “Is it?” she murmured.

"Yes. Beth, answer me."

"Kiss me.” Beth's eyes were bright, teasing.