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 attitudes 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
self-conscious 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 class,” 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 anything 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 breasts
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.
Tris gave two sharp claps with her hands suddenly. “That is all for
today, girls,” she said, and they broke up quickly, running into another
room to change their clothes. Tris turned to look at Laura. She simply
looked at her without saying anything, a stare so frank and unabashed
that Laura lowered her eyes in confusion, feeling the red blood come to
her cheeks.
“What is your name?” Tris asked her then, and Laura answered, surprised,
“Laura.” _Of course, I’d forgotten. She doesn’t even know my name!_
Laura looked up to find Tris studying her with a little smile. The girls
began to file past saying goodnight to her. She smiled at one or
another, touched their heads and shoulders, and spoke to some. In
between little girls she watched Laura who felt rather like a specimen
on exhibit.
The studio was bare except for the bench, a record player next to it on
the floor by Laura’s feet, and mirrors. The mirrors were everywhere,
long and short, all over the walls. Most gave a full view of you to
yourself. The room where the children dressed was furnished as a
bedroom. Laura could see parts of it, and there were more mirrors in
there. There was a swinging door, shut now, which apparently led to a
kitchen. Laura gazed around her, trying to appear interested in it, so
she wouldn’t have to look at Tris.
The front door shut finally, rather conspicuously, and a small silence
fell. They were alone.
“You like my little studio, then?” said Tris.
Laura dared to look at her then and found that the last child was
certainly gone and the studio was empty. Awfully empty.
“Yes, I like it,” she said. She felt the need to excuse her presence and
she began hurriedly, “I hope you won’t think I—”
But Tris never let her finish. “Shall I dance for you?” she said
suddenly with such a luminous smile that Laura felt her whole body go
warm with appreciation. She returned the smile. “Yes, please. If you
would.”
Tris walked to the record changer beside Laura, knelt, and slipped a
record into place. Then she looked up at Laura, her eyes larger and
greener than Laura remembered, and infinitely lovelier seen so close.
She waited there, looking at her visitor, until the music began to flow.
It was not harsh like the music Laura had heard through the door, but
languid and rhythmical, perhaps even sentimental.
Tris began to move so slowly at first that Laura was hardly aware that
she was dancing. Her arms, long and tender and graceful, began to ripple
subtly toward Laura, and then her head and body began to sway, and
finally her strong legs, deceptively slim, moved under her and brought
her, whirling slowly, to her feet.
It was a strange dance that flowed and undulated. This marvelous body
seemed to float and then to sink like mist, and at one point Laura had
to shut her eyes for a minute, too thrilled to bear it. She wanted
terribly to reach out, put her hands on Tris’s hips, and feel the rhythm
move through her own body.
The music stopped. Tris stood poised over Laura, looking down at her,
and for a moment she remained there, balanced delicately and smiling.
Laura felt a familiar surge of desire and she watched Tris like a cat
watching a twitching string, ready to pounce if Tris made a sudden move.
And yet afraid Tris might touch her and startle her passion into the
open.
But Tris relaxed as the needle began its monotonous scratch, and she
turned off the machine. She sat on the floor then, grasping her
black-sheathed knees in her arms, one hand holding the wrist of the
other.
“Did you like it?” she said, glancing up, and she seemed for a moment to
be unsure and distant, as she had been in the dress shop.
“I thought it was wonderful,” Laura said, herself a little shy. “I
didn’t know dancing could be like that.”
“Like what?” Tris demanded suspiciously.
“Well—like—I don’t know. It was like nothing I’ve ever seen ... as if
you were floating. It was beautiful.”
Tris softened a little. “Thank you, Laura,” she said. And Laura felt a
wild confusion of delight at the sound of her own name. “I dance very
well,” Tris went on oddly. “There is no point in false modesty. I hate
that sort of thing, don’t you? It’s so hypocritical. If you dance well,
or do anything else well, say so. Be frank. I think men like a girl who
is frank. Don’t you?”
Laura was taken aback. “Oh, yes,” she affirmed quickly. But she stared.
_She can’t be straight!_ she thought to herself, in a sudden agony of
doubt. From the first she had taken it for granted that the lovely
Indian girl was a Lesbian. It seemed so right, perhaps only because
Laura wanted it that way. And too, Laura always prided herself on being
able to tell if a girl were homosexual or not. She was sick at the
thought that Tris might love men.
Tris watched her, interested. “What are you thinking of?” she said.
“Nothing,” Laura protested uneasily.
“All right. I will not pry.” Tris smiled. “Will you have some tea with
me?”
“Thank you.” Laura was glad to ease the tension a little. Tris got up
and she followed her through the swinging door into the kitchen.
Tris made the tea while Laura watched her in a rapture of pleasure. “You
moved so beautifully,” she blurted, and then blushed. “I—I mean, it
shows in all your movements. Dancing, or walking, or just getting down
the teacups.” She laughed. “I feel like a clumsy ox, watching you.”
“You are wrong,” Tris said. “I have been watching you, too. You move
well, Laura. You could learn to dance. Would you like to learn?”
Laura looked away, confused and delighted but scared. “I’d be your worst
pupil,” she said.
“I find that hard to believe.”
“It’s—probably very expensive.”
“For you ...,” Tris shrugged and smiled, “nothing,” she said.
Laura turned to look at her, surprised. “Nothing?” she repeated.
“Or perhaps your friend ... the big one,” Tris added softly. “Perhaps
she would be interested?”
“Beebo?” Laura exclaimed. “Oh God no!”
Tris handed her a cup quickly, as if to make her forget the suggestion.
“Do you like me, Laura?” she said, her green eyes too close and her
sweet skin redolent of jasmine.
“Yes, Tris,” Laura said, saying her name for the first time and feeling
the fine shivering return to her limbs.
“Good.” Tris grinned at her. “That is payment enough.” Laura felt
suddenly like she had better sit down or she would fall down. “You say
my name now, that means you feel closer to me, hm?” Tris asked.
“Yes. A little.” Laura gazed at her, completely confused, afraid to
move, until Tris gave a little laugh.
“Come, we’ll sit in the other room,” she said, and Laura once again
followed her across the bare studio into the bedroom.
The room was fitted up Indian fashion with rich red silk drapes on the
bed. The bed itself was actually more of a low couch, very capacious,
and covered with tumbled silk cushions. There were books and records
scattered around, a couple of pillows on the floor to take the place of
chairs, and a number of ashtrays.
“This is my bedroom, my living room, my den, my playroom—whatever you
want,” Tris said smiling, and sat down on the bed. “Come, don’t stand
there looking afraid of me,” she said, “sit down.” And she patted the
bed beside her.
Laura came and sat there and as she did Tris lay back on the cushions
and watched her. She put her tea on the floor while Laura held hers
carefully, anxious about spilling it on the lush red silk.
“Are you—are you Indian, Tris?” she asked awkwardly, turning to look at
her.
Tris crossed her black-sheathed legs. “Yes,” she said. “Half Indian, at
least. My mother was Indian but my father was French.”
“Did you grow up in India?”
“Yes. In New Delhi. Have you been there?” Her clear eyes looked sharply
at Laura.
“No. I’ve never been anywhere,” Laura said. “Except New York and
Chicago. I was born in Chicago.”
“Is your family there?”
“Just my father. He’s all the family I have.”
“Do you see him often?”
“I never see him.” She looked away, suddenly overwhelmed with the
thought of her father. She had not seen him for two years. Not since she
had gone to live with Beebo and admitted to him that she was a Lesbian.
There had been a terrible scene. And then Laura had fled and Merrill
Landon, for all she knew, had gone back to Chicago.
“Is that where your roommate is from? Chicago?” Tris asked slowly.
“No. Milwaukee.” Laura turned to frown at her and Tris, sensing her
reticence, changed the subject. “Would you like to see my scrapbook?”
she said. Before Laura could answer she was off the bed and searching
for it among some books and papers across the room. She came back and
sat next to Laura, spreading the green leather book open over their
knees and putting an arm around Laura’s waist.
“These were all taken six months ago,” she said. “This boy is German.
Isn’t he handsome? I love blond hair. He’s wonderful looking.”
He was indeed. Jack would have appreciated the view more than Laura, for
he was young and muscular and nearly naked. His body had been oiled so
that every smooth ripple on arms and back and tight hips and long legs
was highlighted. He had a shock of rich blond hair and particularly
handsome features, and he was shown in a number of poses: some that
looked like Muscle Beach shots and others that seemed like dance
positions.
“He does dance,” Tris said, anticipating Laura’s question. “With me.
He’s named Paul Cate. We have a lot of routines together. We are a sort
of—_team_.”
“Are you engaged?” Laura asked. It sounded ridiculous once it was said,
but she found herself unreasonably jealous of the boy.
Tris threw her head back and laughed. “Engaged!” she exclaimed. “He is a
homosexual, Laura.”
“A homosexual?” It sounded like fake innocence, even to Laura.
But Tris was too amused to notice. “Yes, of course,” she said, still
laughing. “Can you imagine two homosexuals getting married? Could
anything be sillier? What would they do with each other?” And her
laughter was too hard.
Laura was shocked at her crude dismissal of the possibility of a
homosexual marriage, which made her feel instantly protective and tender
about Jack. But she had said, “Two homosexuals,” and Laura’s heart rose.
“Are you gay, Tris?” she asked, almost in a whisper, afraid to look at
her.
“Not really.” Tris flipped the words at her casually, turning pages in
the scrapbook and concentrating on them. Laura sensed embarrassment in
her concentration.
“Either you are or you aren’t,” Laura said, more boldly.
“Then I’m not,” said Tris and startled her visitor. “If you force me to
choose between black and white, I’m white,” she explained, and Laura
thought she heard a double emphasis on the word “white.” “I like men.
More than women.” Laura was cowed into bewildered silence.
There were many enticing photographs of Tris. “The photographer is a
friend of mine,” she told Laura with a smile. “He always makes me look
good.” There was a series of her with the German boy, in dance poses.
Tris was so lovely that Laura felt the gooseflesh rise up on her with
Tris’s breathing in her ear and her warmth touching Laura’s arms.
“You would think we were madly in love,” Tris said with a little laugh.
“Oh, look at this one. This is my former husband.”
Laura did look, hard. “You were married?” she said, unwilling to believe
it.
“Yes. To him. He is handsome, no?”
“Yes.” He was pictured lying on his side, very much of a young athlete,
with curly hair and an honest sort of face, a little like Jack’s
long-lost Terry. He looked Irish. “Was he gay, Tris?”
“Yes,” she said and the annoyance was plain in her voice. “It was an
ugly mistake. We hated each other after we got married. Before that, we
were the best of friends. So you see, I know what I am saying when I
tell you gay marriages are hell.”
Laura considered this in silence while Tris turned pages.
“Have some dinner with me,” Tris said, piling the pictures on the floor
at the foot of the bed.
Laura looked at her watch. It was only seven. Beebo wouldn’t be home for
another two hours.
“I never cook,” Tris said, going across the room to pick up the phone.
She began to order sandwiches, glancing at Laura for suggestions. “They
bring them up from the corner shop,” she said when she hung up. Laura
looked up at her from her seat on the bed, and Tris began to move
slowly, undulating, as if she were musing on a dance.
“Where did you learn to dance, Tris?” Laura asked her.
“England. Where do you live?”
“Cordelia Street. One-twenty-nine.”
“With the big one? What did you say her name is?”
Laura felt uncomfortable at the mention of her lover, and resentful of
Tris’s curiosity about her. “Her name is Beebo,” she said rather
sullenly.
“Oh, yes—Beebo!” Tris laughed. “It almost sounds Indian,” she said. “Is
she nice?”
Laura shrugged. “I guess she is.”
“You aren’t sure, hm?” Tris seemed amused. “Are you in love with her?”
Laura was reluctant to say no, but determined not to say yes. “I—I was,”
she admitted finally.
“It is all over, then?”
Laura didn’t like her bright-eyed interest. “We still live together,”
she said defensively.
“Does she still love you?”
“Yes. Yes, she does,” Laura said sharply, looking Tris square in the
eye.
“I’m sorry,” Tris said softly, her gaze dropping. “I shouldn’t pry.”
“There are better things to talk about than Beebo,” Laura said.
The food came and they were both relieved to turn to something else.
When the food was gone a quiet little interlude fell when Tris simply
sat on the bed and watched Laura and Laura wandered idly around the
room.
There was a terrible growing excitement in Laura. She felt she must run,
escape somehow, get out of the studio before she made a fool of herself
and an enemy of Tris. She turned at last and looked down at Tris. There
was only one lamp lit in the room, and in the pale pink light Tris
looked even riper and lovelier than she did in bright daylight.
“Tris, I—I have to go,” Laura said. “It’s getting late. I had a lovely
time....”
“Then why go?”
“I must. I shouldn’t have come, really.”
“Will Beebo be angry with you?”
“She isn’t home yet.”
“Then you don’t have to go yet. I’ll bet she has a fine temper.” She
waited for an answer, but Laura ignored her remark. She was thinking
only of the possibility of staying longer. Her heart fluttered with the
temptation. She was afraid of Beebo and yet, in another way, even more
afraid of Tris.
“Come sit beside me,” Tris urged her, whispering. And Laura, unable to
refuse her, came slowly toward the bed, as if she were in a trance, and
sat down. Tris leaned back into the pillows, her hand on Laura’s arm,
and pulled Laura after her.
Laura lay on her back next to Tris for a while, breathing softly,
nervously aware of the sound of her breath. She held herself in as if
she expected to explode. She was tense and the sweat rolled down her
body, and yet she was happy, very happy.
They lay that way for some time, silent, gazing at the ceiling, neither
one speaking, yet neither able to relax. At last Tris took Laura’s hand
in her own warm brown one and said, “You’re afraid of me, aren’t you,
Laura?”
There was a slight pause, almost a panic, while Laura tried to collect
herself. “Yes,” she mumbled at last.
“Why?”
“You’re so beautiful....” Laura fumbled.
“Does beauty frighten you?”
“Yes. I don’t know why. Maybe because I never had it.”
Tris chuckled, a sweet throaty sound, and said, “Who ever told you
that?” And it occurred to Laura, strangely, that Tris spoke without any
accent at all. It sounded clear and plain, like Laura’s own English. But
it was only a quick impression and it passed. She thought Tris was
teasing her, imitating her.
“Don’t kid me,” she said.
“Take your hair down, Laura,” Tris said, her fingers playing with the
prim bun at the back of Laura’s head. Her hair had grown so long—Beebo
wouldn’t let her cut it—that she was obliged to roll it up one way or
another in the back. It hung nearly to her waist when it was loose. She
took the pins out of it now, raising herself on one elbow to accomplish
the job. Tris helped her and the roll of hair came free suddenly and
fell around Laura’s shoulders like silk streamers, pale gold and
scented. Tris took a handful of it, pressing it to her face.
“How lovely!” she exclaimed. “Lovely blond hair....”
She put her hands on Laura’s shoulders and pushed her down into the
pillows, bending over her to study her face. “I think you’re very
pretty,” she said, and made Laura smile.
“I don’t believe you,” she said.
“I’ll bet Beebo thinks you’re very pretty, too.”
“Please, Tris. Let’s not talk about Beebo.”
Tris leaned down and kissed her forehead very softly. “Now do you
believe me?” she asked.
Laura stared at her, her heart suddenly pounding. “No,” she said in a
whisper.
Tris kissed her cheeks, so lightly that Laura could hardly feel it.
“Now?” she said.
“No,” Laura breathed.
And Tris kissed her lips. Laura lay beneath her, too thrilled to move,
only letting the lovely shock flow through her body and closing her eyes
to feel it better. At last Tris moved away—only a breath away—and she
said, “Now?”
“Tris ...” she murmured and all the melody of suppressed passion sang in
the name. Her hands went up to Tris’s bare arms, over the bandeau and
down that silky midriff, and then they went around Tris’s waist and
pulled her close and kissed her.
It was a long kiss, so leisurely, so lovely, that Laura never wanted it
to end. And when it did she followed Tris, laughing, all over the bed,
kissing her wherever she could reach her, feeling Tris’s fine body move
beneath her hands and the fire of her own longing bursting in her bosom.
Suddenly Tris got off the bed and stood looking at Laura and trying to
catch her breath. “No,” she said. “No! That’s enough! It’s late.”
Laura stared at her, amazed. “What do you mean?” she asked. “Tris, come
here. Come to me. Don’t do this to me. Tris!”
But Tris pulled her off the bed with sudden strength.
“Tris, it’s only nine-thirty,” Laura said.
“Nine-thirty? Is it that late? Laura, you must excuse me.” She was
transformed. All the play and warmth had gone out of her.
“But—” Laura began, but Tris interrupted sharply, “Time for you to go
home to Beebo.” There was no smile on her face.
Laura looked at her incredulously a minute longer, her cheeks burning,
and then she smoothed her clothes out with lowered eyes. She was too
proud and too hurt to speak. She walked noiselessly to one of the
mirrors, taking her purse with her, and ran a comb through her long
hair.
She stared at herself—her flushed face and trembling fingers, her body
so ready for love only moments ago and now weak with denial and outraged
nerves. Two feet of unpinned hair hung down her back to remind her of
Tris’s admiration. But it would take five minutes to get it up again
properly.
Laura looked into the mirror over her own shoulder at Tris, who was
standing on one foot and then the other, bent forward slightly and
obviously waiting for Laura to get out of her way. What secret
activities would occupy her as soon as she got rid of Laura? Her
impatience was audible in her sharp breathing. Laura dared not risk her
displeasure by taking the time to wind up her hair. She simply turned
and walked out of the bedroom without a backward glance, without a word.
At the front door her heart jumped when Tris called after her. Laura
turned to find her running lightly across the bare studio and she
waited, holding her feelings in warily.
Tris stopped at the door. “I’m sorry,” she said self-consciously. “I
didn’t know it was so late. I have something to do tonight, it slipped
my mind.”
Laura looked at her haughtily. “Goodnight, Tris,” was all she said. When
she turned to walk down the stairs Tris added, “Say hello to your
bad-tempered roommate for me.”
Incensed, Laura almost ran out the door below.
4
Laura walked home as full of hope as of frustration and anger. Tris had
treated her badly but she had treated her beautifully too. With a little
start of alarm, Laura knew she was falling in love. Maybe it was worse
than that already.
It was a dark soft night with no moon, only the dozens of quiet yellow
streetlights. Her heels rang against the cement sidewalk as she turned
down Cordelia Street and she left the world outside with regret when she
opened her apartment door.
She knew Beebo would be there by now. _If she’s only not drunk_, she
thought to herself. “Beebo?” she called aloud. She heard a little groan
from the bedroom and went toward it with a sinking feeling. _She
couldn’t be drunk already. She’d only been home forty-five minutes.
Unless she cut work again. God forbid!_
Laura walked across the living room slowly, in no hurry to face the
argument that would result if Beebo was full of whiskey and had been
sitting there fuming because Laura was late. Beebo would have been
phoning all over the neighborhood for her—a practice Laura abhorred but
couldn’t break her of. She touched her long loose hair nervously,
wondering what Beebo would say when she saw it.
Laura pushed open the bedroom door. The first thing she saw was Nix—Nix,
lying on the floor with his belly slit open from jaws to tail. Beside
him was a crimson chef’s knife. Laura recognized it from the kitchen.
She stared at him for a full ten seconds in a paralysis of horror. Then
she screamed with a force she had never suspected in herself. She turned
back to the wall with her hands over her face and sobbed with all her
strength. And while her face was hidden she heard another groan and knew
it was Beebo, and she was too terrified even to open her eyes and look.
“Beebo?” she whispered, and her voice was rough with fear. “Beebo?”
Another sickening groan, and suddenly Beebo’s voice saying confusedly,
“Laura? Baby, where are you? Laura....” It faded out and Laura brought
her hands away from her face quickly and looked around the room,
carefully avoiding Nix. Beebo was on the bed.
Her clothes were torn—what few she still had on. Her shirt was in shreds
and the jacket appeared to be ripped down the back, though she was lying
on most of it and Laura couldn’t be sure. She had nothing on from the
waist down and there were several ugly bruises on her body. Laura felt
nausea well in her. Beebo’s face was not so badly hurt. There was a cut
over one eye that was beginning to swell but that seemed to be all.
Laura clapped her hands over her mouth and stood weaving by the bed,
afraid to leave and afraid to stay, feeling the sandwiches she had just
shared with Tris like a load of poison in her stomach. Until Beebo
opened her eyes and looked at her.
“Laura!” she said, with such passionate relief that Laura went to her
instantly and threw her arms around her and wept.
She could feel Beebo’s tears on her face and she hugged her tight in a
frenzy of sympathy and sorrow and whispered over and over, “Beebo,
darling. Beebo, darling.”