For a protracted interval, Beth and Mary Anne sat facing each other. Finally Beth lit a cigarette, leaned back, and asked: "Did you ever find a bra you could wear?"
"No," Mary Anne said. "But it's my fault. I'm too thin."
"Don't be silly. In another couple of years you won't feel that way.
"Really?"
"Of course not. I felt the same way-everybody does. You get over it; you'll put on more weight than you care to drag around like me."
"You look okay," Mary Anne said.
"I looked better in '48."
"Was that when it happened?"
"It was in Washington, DC. In the dead of winter. I was twenty-four years old, not much older than you. So you're not the first."
"He told me," Mary Anne said. "About the cabin on the canal."
Across from her, the heavy blonde stiffened. "Did he?"
Why did you go with him? Did you love him?"
"No," Beth said.
"Then I don't understand it."
"I was laid," Beth said. "Like you. So let's face it: we have something in common."
"Thanks," Mary Anne said.
"You want to know the circumstances? We can compare notes."
"Go ahead," she said.
"Maybe you'll learn something." Beth put out her cigarette.
"I don't know what he used with you. The job, probably. But in those days, Joe didn't have a record shop; he was in the publishing end."
"Allison and Hirsch."
"He told you that, too? In those days I-but you heard one of them. My songs."
"'Where We Sat Down,'" Mary Anne said with aversion.
"Well, there's not a lot more to tell. I wanted them published.
One day Joe showed up at the apartment. I was painting a chair in the kitchen-I remember that. He stood around and we had a couple of drinks and talked. We talked about art, music, that sort of thing."
"Get to the point."
"He had looked over my songs. But he couldn't publish them. Not enough water had gone under the bridge, he said."
"What did he mean?"
"At first I couldn't imagine. Then I saw how he was looking at me. Do you understand what I mean?"
"Yes," Mary Anne said.
"Well, that was it. He said something about not doing it there in the apartment; he had a cabin he liked to use, a few miles out of town. So nothing could interfere."
"He was using his job to get girls?"
"Joe Schilling," Beth said, "is a very kindly, very thoughtful man. I like him. But I'm realistic. He has a weakness: he wants his women.
Thoughtfully, Mary Anne said: "So you went to bed with him to get your songs published."
Beth flushed. "I-suppose you could put it that way. But I-"
"Danny was a photographer, wasn't he? I remember that night ... you were jumping around naked and he was snapping pictures of you. I never worked it out; it didn't make sense. You used to pose for him, didn't you?"
"I was a professional model," Beth said, her cheeks blazing.
"I explained it to you; I was an artist."
Suddenly Mary Anne said: "It serves Tweany right."
"What do you mean?"
"I just realized what you are." Matter-of-factly, she said, "You're a whore."
Beth stood up. Her face was pale, and little lines, like cracks, spread between her eyes and radiated from her mouth. "And what do you suppose you are? Going to bed with him to keep your job-isn't that being a whore?"
"No," she said. "That's not what happened." It had not been that at all.
"And now you've suddenly become fastidious," Beth said rapidly. "Why? Because he's older than you? Be realistic-you're being kept in grand style, continental style. You have a lover who knows how to do it right. It sounds ideal; you're lucky."
Deep in thought, Mary Anne scarcely heard her. "Good God, and you like all that junk-all those 'White Christmas' tunes. What a joke. What a joke on Tweany."
"What is it?" Beth said. "How about letting me in on it? I think I deserve to be let in on it."
"Jesus," Mary Anne said. "It's true; it's really true. 'Where We Sat Down.' 'Sleigh Ride at Christmas.' My God, you're a sentimental whore."
"I see," Beth said. "Well, perhaps from your standpoint, from a cynical adolescent's standpoint-" She ceased, as the door opened and the great brooding figure of Carleton B. Tweany appeared. He carried three cans of Golden Glow beer and a can opener. "So soon?" she said briskly.
"They're warm," Tweany muttered.
"I'm feeling a little ill," Beth said, picking up her purse and moving toward the door. "Nothing serious, just a sick headache. Come along, Carleton. Please take me home."
"But we-" he began.
Beth opened the door and went out into the hall. Without looking back, she said:
"This is certainly the dirtiest building I have ever been in." Then she was gone, and, after a moment of hesitation, Tweany put down the beer cans and followed after her. The door closed, and Mary Anne was alone.
She looked around for her coat. She waited until she was sure Beth and Tweany had gone, and then she dropped the door key into her purse, slammed the door, and started down the hall.
On the front porch sat two obese colored women; they were reading movie magazines and drinking wine. Mary Anne edged past them, descended the steps to the sidewalk, and joined the midmorning crowd.
