I Am A Woman. Ann Bannon
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penthouse,” Marcie said. “It’s not locked. You have to walk up the last flight.”
“A penthouse?” Laura said, taken aback. “Jean said—”
“It’s not as fancy as it sounds,” Marcie laughed. “In fact it’s falling apart. That’s how I can afford it. But it has a wonderful view. Come over tonight. I’ll give you some dinner. I may be late, though, so I’ll leave a key for you under the doormat.”
“Thanks, Marcie, I’d like to.” Laura wondered, when she hung up, if Marcie’s hospitality was always so impulsive.
It was dark and getting windy when Laura got off the subway at 99th Street. She walked the two blocks up Broadway to 101st, holding her coat collar close around her throat.
The apartment building was a block off Broadway, up a hill at the corner of West End Avenue. It had been a chic address once, some years ago, when West End was an exclusive neighborhood. But it was deteriorating now, quietly, almost inconspicuously, slipping into the hands of ordinary people—families with lots of kids and not much money, students, working girls. And the haut monde was quietly slipping out and heading for the other side of town.
Laura entered the vestibule. It looked like the reception hall in a medieval fort. The only light came from a small bare bulb on a desk in one corner. The whole hall was full of heavy shadows.
Laura found the elevator tucked into a corner and pressed the button. She swung slowly around on her heels to look at the hall while she waited. It gave her the shivers.
She climbed into the elevator with misgivings. It looked well used and little cleaned. There was a paper sticker plastered on the wall above the button panel saying that it had passed inspection until June of that year. Laura looked it up and down and wondered if it would last till June. She reached the twelfth and last floor and walked out into a hall. To the right of the elevator she found a pair of swinging doors, and beyond them a steel staircase. She climbed the stairs, her heels ringing, and found herself in a short dark hall with two doors in it: one to the penthouse, one to the roof. Laura went out on the roof for a look.
She walked over the red tiling toward a stone griffin carved on the railing and looked over it to the city. Below her, around her on all sides, sparkled New York. It honked and shouted down there, it murmured and sighed, it blinked and glittered like a gorgeous whore waiting to be conquered. Laura breathed deeply and smiled secretly at it. She could live with a dank front hall and patched-up elevator for a view like this.
It was ten minutes before she went into the dark corridor again and found the penthouse door. She rang twice, and when there was no answer she fumbled in the darkness for the key under the mat and unlocked the door. It opened into an unlit living room. Laura went in, shut the door behind her, and stumbled around looking for a light switch. She knocked something off a table and heard it break before she discovered a lamp in a far corner and pulled the cord.
The room was small and furnished with bamboo furniture—a couch, an easy chair, a round cocktail table. There was a console radio against one wall, and books were lying around on the floor and furniture. There were a couple of loaded ashtrays and one lay shattered on the floor—Laura’s fault.
Laura found the switch in the kitchen. It was long and narrow, painted a garish yellow. Beyond that was the bedroom, with two beds and two dressers jammed into it, and some shoes and underwear scattered around. It was bright blue, with two big windows opening onto the roof. The bathroom was enormous, almost as big as the bedroom, and the same noisy yellow as the kitchen. All the pipes were exposed and the plumbing looked as if it were full of bugs.
Laura walked back into the living room and sat down stiffly. She began to have serious misgivings. This was no place for a civilized girl to live. Surely in this tremendous city there was an apartment for a girl that didn’t have an astronomical rent. And where she could eat in private out of cans.
Suddenly the door burst open and Marcie came in. And Laura forgot her discomfort.
Marcie smiled. “I’m Marcie. Hi.”
Laura cursed the shyness that tied knots in her tongue.
“How do you like this crazy little palace?” Marcie said, gesturing grandly around her.
“It’s very nice.”
Marcie laughed, and Laura was struck with the sweet perfection of her features. Her lips were full and finely balanced; her nose was of medium length and dainty. Hair with a true gold hue that no peroxide can imitate framed her face and hung nearly to her shoulders. She had the lucky black lashes and eyebrows that sometimes happen to blondes, and high color in her cheeks. She was, in short, a lovely looking girl. Laura smiled at her.
“It’s a hole,” said Marcie. “Don’t be polite. The rent is one thirty a month.”
Laura gasped.
“I know. It sounds awful. But that’s only sixty-five apiece. And it includes maid service—so-called. The maid doesn’t pick up a damn thing. Did you see the rest of the place?”
Laura nodded.
“Discouraged?”
“A little.” Laura followed Marcie awkwardly into the kitchen.
“You’d better know the worst right off,” Marcie went on. “Three other girls have called wanting to share this place with me.” Laura’s incredulous face made her laugh. “It’s not that the place is irresistible,” she explained. “It’s just that apartments are hard to get in this town. Sit down, Laura.” Laura obeyed her, finding a chair at the kitchen table while Marcie fussed at the stove. “Have you been here long?”
“Three weeks.”
“Where did you come from?”
“Chicago.”
“Oh, that place. I was there once with Burr. He was my husband.”
“Oh,” Laura said softly, almost sympathetically, as if Marcie had announced his demise.
“Well, don’t put on a long face,” Marcie said with a sudden laugh. “He’s divorced, not dead. It was final last November.” Her face became serious again and she gave Laura a plate of vegetables and hamburger. “He’s very nice to know,” Marcie mused. “But hell to live with. Laura, do you cook?”
“I can’t boil water.”
“Well, I can do that much.”
Marcie lapsed into silence then, her burst of charming vitality spent. She ate quietly, as if unaware of Laura’s presence, gazing at the tablecloth and forking her food up mechanically. She had withdrawn suddenly and soundlessly into a private corner where fatigue and secret thoughts absorbed her.
Laura felt more awkward than ever. She was afraid to interrupt Marcie’s reverie, but like all shy people she was convinced that if you can just keep the other person talking, everything will be all right. It was an urge she couldn’t resist After a few false starts she said, “Have you been in New York long, Marcie?”
Marcie looked at her, mildly surprised to find her still there. “Yes. Since we were married.” She spoke absently, turning to her plate.
“When was that?”
“Three years ago.” She came suddenly back to the present. “Laura, did you ever love a man and hate him at the same time?”
Laura was nonplussed. This was more than she counted on. “Well—I don’t know exactly.” She wasn’t sure if she had ever loved Merrill Landon. She knew well enough how she hated him.
“I shouldn’t throw my problems in your face like that, before you get your dinner down,” Marcie smiled. She reached out and gave Laura’s arm a pat that made Laura jump a little. “It’s just that that damn character proposed to me again today. I don’t know what to do with him. I thought maybe you could give me some advice. Have you ever been married?”
“Me? No,” said Laura