Книга - Three Women

Three Women
March Hastings


“An archetypal lesbian pulp fiction novel of the ‘50s, dynamic and compelling, a top pick classic.” —Katherine Forrest, author, Lesbian Pulp FictionUnconventional, even immoral, behavior certainly is not rare in Manhattan art circles. But what was going on in the menage of the Byrne woman raised eyebrows even of the most broadminded… “Someday,” Paula said, “perhaps we can live together and share this every night.” “Like a married couple?” Byrne laughed. “See me off to work? Have supper ready when I come home?” “You’re teasing me.” “Not at all. I hadn’t realized just how conventional you really are.” She rolled Paula to one side of the bed and nipped her earlobe playfully. “It’s not convention.” “Maybe not. What would you call it?” “Love.” “I thought you hated the way your folks lived. Isn’t that what you told me?” “It isn’t like that,” Paula said with distaste. “First of all, you’re not poor.”










In 1950, Fawcett founded the Gold Medal imprint, inaugurating the era of lesbian pulp fiction. These were the books that small town lesbians and prurient men bought by the millions—cheap, easy to find in drugstores, and immediately recognizable by their lurid covers. For lesbians, here was the confirmation that they were not alone and that darkly glamorous, “gay” places like Greenwich Village existed. In the over-heated prose typical of the genre, these books document the emergence of a lesbian subculture in postwar America.




Three Women


March Hastings






www.spice-books.co.uk (http://www.spice-books.co.uk)




Table of Contents


Cover (#u157a8451-8382-5f33-8623-e7f6d2c07a04)

Excerpt (#u8a1a32bf-3550-52fd-ba1a-3fa779d900f0)

Title Page (#u27e83097-97bc-5377-b550-c1a10994cc71)

Part One (#uccdf7189-11a5-5818-81da-76833a5359da)

Chapter 1 (#u954c7cf6-8c5f-5545-8d45-598e36a19956)

Chapter 2 (#u7e1a2ed9-9496-5e6b-83c2-0ab9813471a7)

Chapter 3 (#u8703bdf1-7056-5237-8497-8e7b29301fd3)

Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)



Part One (#ulink_51685525-ee79-58d2-927c-7eae03b20e43)




1 (#ulink_1027e07d-4047-5890-bcae-b35c93834773)


He lurched at her from the doorway. Flakes of snow glistened on his straggled eyebrows. She smelled the stench of whiskey in his clothes.

“Go on, mister. Keep moving.” Paula jostled him away with her free hand and hurried along First Avenue. The freezing streets were slippery beneath her boots but she plunged forward, splashing into lakes of snow and ice gathered at the curb. She hated these winter nights worse than the steaming nights of summer. The wind tore savagely at her face. It seeped in past the woolen scarf and settled bitterly around her neck beneath the chestnut hair. As far as she could see the Avenue was black and lonely. But she knew that men huddled in corners, some asleep and not feeling the cold, others alerted by wild visions more fantastic than the freezing, howling night around her.

With the container of milk hugged close, she hurried into the entrance of the tenement and through the narrow hall strewn with garbage the kids had pulled out of cans. She clomped up the three flights lighted by weak bulbs and let herself into the apartment. This wasn’t home to her. It was the place where Ma and Pa and Mike and she happened to live because it was cheaper for everyone to live together there.

She set the package on the small table in the foyer and hung up her coat and scarf on the hook beside Mike’s leather jacket.

“That you, Paula?” Her mother called from where she stood at the stove, moving a big wooden spoon in a pot of rice.

You could see the kitchen from the foyer. You could see the bedroom beyond the kitchen where Mike sat cross-legged, reading an airplane magazine like he was in his own private library on Fifth Avenue.

“I just made it,” Paula said, breathing on the tips of her fingers to get out the sting. “He was just about closing when I got there.” She brought in the paper bag and pulled out the container of milk.

Why did her Pa always have to get his attacks late at night? Why didn’t he stop drinking so he could eat meals like a normal person? She wanted to respect him but it was hard not to get angry at a man who insisted on killing himself, eating away his stomach with poison that didn’t even give him pleasure anymore. She poured milk into a saucepan and set it on the stove beside the rice.

“I wish we could keep some extra around for times like this,” Paula said. She didn’t want to tell her mother about the nastiness with that man outside. When a girl gets to be eighteen, there’s no excuse for being afraid. You comb your hair down long around your shoulders and wear the kind of clothes that show off your body so that men will look at you. And you just hope they’re the right kind of men. If it happens to be the other kind, you fight your way through and hope for better next time. Because, she guessed, that’s life.

Paula took a bowl from the cabinet on the wall and held it while her mother spooned in a mushy helping of rice, straining the starchy water out against the side of the dented pot. Then she spilled the warm milk on top and set the bowl on the checked oilcloth that covered the kitchen table.

‘Your father’s in the bedroom. Why don’t you go see if he wants to eat?”

For the first time, Paula smiled. She knew her mother was thinking the same thing she was thinking. But Ma was the kind of woman who never told her husband what to do.

“Sure, Ma,” she murmured with sudden softness. Her mother had black hair that she wore braided and coiled on the back of her head. It was the one really neat thing in the whole place and Paula liked to look at it sometimes. It made her feel ladylike and uncluttered and gentle to look at her mother’s shining hair.

In the bedroom her father lay on his side, knees pulled up almost to his chin. He bit his lip and squinted at the wall, mute with pain. Heavy flowered curtains at the window made the room seem smaller and warmer. The silver crucifix above the bed glowed with half-reflections from other rooms. Paula sat down beside her father and put a hand lightly on his arm.

“Pa,” she said softly. “Pa, you want to come in and have something? You’ll feel better.” She didn’t know why she should feel sorry for him. For that matter, Paula didn’t know how she could hate and love him at the same time, but she did.

Pa didn’t say anything. He looked at her and squeezed her hand. The sleeve of his long underwear had a ladder-like run in it. Pale skin showed through, strangely smooth like a baby’s. Her own skin had that same delicate quality so she could never get really tan in the summer.

Maybe she loved him because she remembered how they used to play at Coney Island and those white arms would hold her safely above the huge and thundering waves that rolled in.

“Maybe, if I brought it in here,” she continued, “you could take a few spoonfuls?”

“No.” The voice was a grunt. “I’ll come inside. In a minute.” His body twisted suddenly in pain.

She waited for the spasm to pass then helped him sit up. Iron grey bristles on his chin made him look older than forty-five and he breathed heavily like a very old man, clinging to the edge of the bed with trembling hands.

Her arm around his waist, his weight full against her, Paula helped her father out of the room. They passed the dresser near the door, and she noticed for the thousandth time her parents’ wedding picture. It looked almost like new, the faces smiling and proud. For the thousandth time she thought: This will happen to me too. It happens to everybody.

In the other room Mike lit his new corn cob and sweet-smelling clouds followed Paula and her father into the kitchen.

She wanted to go to sleep because tomorrow was a big day. But she waited to clean up like she always waited. Phil would tell her she looked great anyway; she knew that. Besides, no matter how she felt, she never looked tired in the green dress.

It was past one o’clock when she finally wound the big alarm clock and crawled into bed. The knowledge that it wouldn’t have to ring tomorrow gave her a sense of freedom and comfort. She snuggled under the rough wool blankets, adjusted herself around the lumps in the mattress, and thought of Phil, smiling, till she drifted into sleep.

Fiercely bright, the sun stabbed at Paula’s eyes. She turned to escape back into darkness but it was too late. The heavy odor of coffee came to her nostrils and she heard her father snap on the radio to the nine a.m. news. Cups and dishes rattled in the kitchen where Mike was cramming breakfast because the gang was waiting for him in the clubhouse.

Struggling up from under the covers, she stared out to the cloudless sky alive with golden light. The windows faced the courtyard. As she grew slowly more awake, her ears caught the sound of kids yelling as they threw snowballs at each other. With a sigh she lifted herself on both elbows and tossed the tangled curls back from her shoulders.

Saturday. Good to be alive on Saturday. No rush hour, no switchboard. Lazy, wonderful Saturday spreading around you, letting you believe it was forever.

She slid out of bed, glad that she had forgotten to pull the shades down, and stood in the play of sunshine. She stretched in its warmth and smiled dreamily. The linoleum felt smooth and cool to her bare feet. She picked up her skirt and sweater and padded into the bathroom. The big water box gurgling above the toilet all the time didn’t irritate her this morning. She splashed water on her face and neck to wash rather than waste gas to heat up enough water for a bath. Later she would take a long hot bath till her body glowed.

By the time she came in for breakfast, the meal was ready and Mom had the shopping list all made out. Paula ate a scrambled egg with two pieces of toast that had charcoal marks across them from the toaster coils. But even the burnt part tasted good to her this morning. Anything would.

Imagine: Phil wanted to show her off to the relatives! And to Aunt Bernadette, of all people. The aunt who paid for trade schooling and down payments on cars and — and marriages.

The thought of Aunt Bernadette propelled Paula happily through the supermarket crowds of people and baskets. She wheeled her own cart skillfully, tossing lunchmeat on top of jello on top of soapflakes. The fact that Mike was certainly old enough to help didn’t occur to her as she hefted a heavy bag in either arm and pushed her way out.

Mom, in the same apron that she had been wearing all week, checked the list of prices against the items and dropped the pennies into an old preserve jar behind the salt shaker.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe Mike should get a part time job.”

“Fat chance,” her father snorted and opened the paper that Paula had brought.

“When is that boy going to stop living in his own world?” her mother mumbled.

“When he gets a girl,” Paula said. “A girl is what makes a man a man,” she said wisely.

Her father laughed with affection. “Don’t you know it,” he said.

“Yes,” Paula answered, trailing off to take the bath she had promised herself. As she closed the door to the bathroom, she heard her mother’s voice. “You shouldn’t joke that way with her. That child doesn’t know as much as you think.”

Oh, don’t I know!

Paula grinned and released a spluttering stream of hot water into the tub. She knew sitting upstairs in the movies with Phil’s leg pressed against hers. She knew her own softness pulled up tightly to the muscles of his body hard under the material of his shirt. She knew the thrilling strength of his lips seeking eagerly into the curve of her throat.

She knew a lot, thought Paula. Almost everything.

Gingerly she put a toe into the steaming water, then lowered herself slowly, wincing until her skin became accustomed to the heat. She stretched out and lay for a while, feeling her body trying to rise in the full tub of water, watching the small waves lap across her young bosom.

She wished she were big up top like some of the movie stars so that full flesh would swell over the neckline of her dress. If she had that kind of body, she would wear a small golden heart on a chain just long enough to point there and attract attention to what she had.

Suddenly a little embarrassed at herself, she grabbed the cake of soap and began lathering her body furiously.

Small curls clung damply to her forehead as she rubbed her arms and back vigorously with the towel a few minutes later. She sprinkled herself generously with lilac talc and discovered there wasn’t enough left for between her toes. She hated to cover the gentle fragrance with bra and girdle but it gave her pleasure to slide the sheer stockings over her legs; the seams brought out the length and curve of what Phil called her “cheesecake gams.” Oh, he was a dear sweet wonderful guy. And she couldn’t imagine that even after twenty years he would take her for granted. Having Phil made her feel lucky, almost charmed.

She took the green dress out of the closet and brushed it carefully. Though it hung two inches away from all the other clothes jammed into the tiny space, a small wrinkle showed across the lap. Paula frowned at it and stretched the material taut, holding it like that for a minute, but the wrinkle was still there after she zipped herself into it, so she smoothed and smoothed hopefully. From a cardboard box she took out a strand of pearls and matching earrings. For Aunt Bernadette she thought she’d better be conservative. Besides, she looked her best when she dressed simply, more mature and well brought up somehow. She blotted the lipstick and smiled at herself to see if any of it had gotten on her teeth.

Giving her hair a last flick with the comb, she took a breath and waited for Phil’s double knock at the door. She didn’t expect him to be on time. He had always been five minutes late ever since they started dating nine months ago because he usually forgot his keys and had to go back up for them. They made a joke out of this key business. Ever since his folks separated, his ma had started locking the door when Phil went out. He just never got used to it.

Anyway, Paula was ready ten minutes early. She looked around the bedroom for something to do. She didn’t want to go into the kitchen and risk getting messed up, so she picked up a pencil and started nervously to sketch a face on the back of an old envelope. All the envelopes and margins of newspapers and backs of bills had Paula’s doodlings on them. Sometimes she copied a landscape from a calender, or a face. Back in high school, she had gotten the best marks in art class. Her pictures hung around the room during Open School week.

The double rap sounded lightly on the door and startled her. She dropped the pencil, grabbed her best coat and ran out to greet Phil.

“Well, hi.” A grin danced over the rugged face and brought out a dimple near the side of his mouth.

“Hi, yourself,” she answered, standing with the coat on her arm so he could admire how the dress fit and outlined her body.

He took the coat and held it for her. The top of her head just about reached his shoulders, the kind of broad shoulders that made all his jackets look padded. She liked his bigness and the darkness of his skin. Phil was like a wall she felt she could stand behind whenever she was cold or afraid.

“Did you notice?” he said. “I’m on time.” He tapped his trousers pocket. “Ma’s got a new system. She puts the keys in my pants before I get dressed.”

Paula noticed that he was wearing a new dark blue suit. The color made him look even darker, almost Arabian. If you didn’t know Phil, she thought, he could look like the most mysterious person in the world.

He came inside and said hello to Paula’s folks then said he couldn’t sit down for a minute. They had to run.

Paula followed him out and clattered down the stairs after him. It was fun trying to keep up with him in her heels. The big steps he took equalled three of her own.

Out in the street he put an arm around her and led her to the old Ford that had been his father’s. His coat lay across the front seat and he tossed it carelessly into the back.

He started the motor. Then he turned suddenly and grabbed her to him.

“No,” she protested in a thin voice. “I want to stay neat.”

“Oh, hell. What for?” His black eyes flashed smiling at her and the dimple danced. She smelled the briskness of his after-shave lotion and lightly kissed a razor nick on his chin.

“For your aunt, silly. Don’t you want me to look perfect?”

“You always look perfect. She’s not going to care what you look like anyhow.”

“Women always notice what other women are wearing.”

“That’s what you think.” He flicked the earring on her lobe, and then eased the car out into traffic.

Paula arranged herself more comfortably and took a pack of cigarettes from the glove compartment. “That’s not what I think. It’s what I know. Honestly, you men are so conceited. Do you all think women only look at you?”

“They’re wasting their time if they don’t,” he chuckled. “Besides, Bryne’s a regular guy. You’ll see.”

She let him win the argument; it was easier. Besides, it was better that way. She just wanted to sit and watch his big hands on the wheel. For all their size and strength, the fingers were trimly masculine so that she felt clean and beautiful when they touched her.

The afternoon traffic captured them on Lexington Avenue and she thought she should let Phil concentrate on the driving rather than talk to him. She lit a cigarette and put it between his lips. He let it droop from his mouth, squinting one eye against the rising smoke.

“You know,” he said, “I really hope the old gal takes to my idea. Boy, would it be a big step in the right direction.”

Paula caught the sudden seriousness in his voice and she realized that Phil was really depending on this afternoon. It never occurred to her that he would ever depend on anything except his own efforts.

“Well, of course she’ll go for it.” She filled her own voice with certainty. “It’s a very sensible idea. I could see where she would hesitate if you wanted to start out in a new business of your own. But buying a partnership in that paint store — that’s a going thing, for sure. Nobody with any brains would turn down such an offer.”

“I guess you’re right.” He pulled up for a red light and flicked the cigarette out of the window. “I guess you’re pretty damned right all the time. Aren’t you, honey?” He leaned over and kissed the tip of her nose.

The comfort of his compliment settled around her like the warmth of a blanket. She knew that Aunt Bernadette would give him the money. And then — then the world would open wide for Paula, too.

A poodle with a pink bow on its head looked at them from the car alongside and he pointed it out to her.

“You want to raise dogs someday? Lots and lots of puppies?”

She felt her face go warm and she couldn’t think of some quick, smart response.

“Oh, my baby’s blushing!” He laughed. “We’ll take care of that later.”

The car jumped forward again and she was glad that he had to keep his eyes on the traffic.

Aunt Bernadette lived in a brownstone house on East Eleventh Street. They drove slowly by, looking for a place to park. Slim trees ringed with metal guards lined the sidewalks and Paula thought how green and lovely it must be here in the springtime. This was the kind of street you can stroll along on a Sunday afternoon, quiet and pleasant and neighborly. On a street like this, you didn’t yell after your friends; you walked to reach them and then only chatted in a normal tone of voice.

Phil found an empty space near the corner and they had to walk halfway back. In her mind Paula prepared herself for sitting properly in an old fashioned chair and sipping tea from a delicate china cup. She hoped Aunt Bernadette would think she was a lady and a suitable companion for her nephew. If the old lady approved of her, she might be more kindly disposed to Phil’s proposition. Yes, Paula could help Phil appear serious and capable.

They reached the flight of steps. For a second she took Phil’s hand and squeezed it.

“Stop worrying,” he said.

She smiled weakly and followed him up to the shining black door.

Aunt Bernadette’s apartment was on the main landing. Paula patted her hair a last time as Phil lifted the brass knocker and let it drop.

They waited a few seconds before Paula saw the door knob turn.

“Hello,” the woman said as she opened the door, and Paula wondered if Aunt Bernadette were sitting in the parlor somewhere.

Phil pushed her inside and at the same time kissed the woman a big smack on the cheek.

“Paula, this is my Aunt Byrne,” he said.

For an instant Paula could do nothing but stare at the woman. This was Aunt Bernadette? she thought. Paula had expected wrinkles, but not a crease marred the face of this tall, stately, somehow ageless woman. The sun gleamed on her red blonde hair that fell in a soft wave to just below her ears. No pins held it in place and the hair tumbled at random like a young boy’s. Her hazel eyes slanted upward, large, almond-shaped, with a sly smile darting behind them. The clear skin with a hint of freckles across the nose was the kind of skin you wanted to touch and caress with your hands.

Paula remembered herself with a start and said, “How do you do.” Her voice almost cracked.

“Please call me Byrne,” the woman replied in a casual tone.

Instinctively Paula knew this person understood her nervousness. Phil helped her off with her coat and threw it on the low modern chair that stood near the window.

The huge living room was sparsely but comfortably furnished with simple things that gave Paula the feeling of easy living, easily acquired.

As Byrne motioned her to a chair, she noted a heavy gold ring on the fourth finger of her right hand. It was an ornate ring, without stones, almost like a wedding band. The fingertips shone with colorless polish.

“Has it been two years, Phil?” she said. “Or more? I seem to have forgotten that my nephew is this much of a man.” She stood beneath a large oil painting, with one arm leaning on a shelf of books. The white silk shirt fell in graceful folds down the long curve of her torso. Charcoal slacks picked up the line of her hips and carried the design of her body down to thonged sandals.

“Quit kidding,” Phil laughed nervously. Paula could tell he was nervous because of the quick way he was breathing. He put his hands in his pockets and jangled the keys as he walked around the mosaic coffee table, sat down on the edge of a chair, got up again. “We saw each other at Frankie’s wedding last year. And I haven’t changed at all since then. Except maybe something has been added, at that.” He winked at Paula.

Paula nodded, wondering why Phil was acting like such a child before this sophisticated woman.

Byrne tilted her head and gazed steadily at Paula. “You added wisely,” she replied. “I congratulate you.”

Desperately Paula wanted a cigarette. Her palms were perspiring. She felt sweat coming off on the material of her purse, but if she moved her hands, a dark stain would be noticeable and Byrne would see how ill at ease she really was.

Paula wanted to say something complimentary in return. She couldn’t just sit there forever, like an idiot.

“You have a lovely home,” she managed. “I think that’s a beautiful painting.” She nodded toward the nude figure of a woman seated on a plush stool. The back of the woman faced out and the light illuminated the lines of her shoulders and the curve of her back till the eye came to rest on the fullness of her buttocks. Paula had never realized before that a woman could look good from the rear like that. This one was beautiful.

“Byrne painted that herself,” Phil said.

“No. As a matter of fact, I didn’t.” She moved her hand up through the back of her hair and Paula caught the glint of fuzz on her neck. It made her shiver oddly. “I haven’t lifted a brush for too long. That one is the gift of a student and friend.”

“I’m sorry,” Paula said before she could stop herself.

Byrne turned full around and examined her curiously. The reddish eyebrows were so even and regular and lay so flat that they looked darker. “Sorry? For heaven’s sake, why, child?”

The word “child” made Paula’s throat tighten but she went on, a little flustered. “Because people who do something that they enjoy can’t be too happy when they stop.” She clutched her purse and bravely held her glance directly on Byrne.

She saw the woman’s lips part just the smallest bit as though she were about to question further. But evidently she thought better of it and the mouth spread into an appreciative smile.

Phil said, “Don’t tangle with Paula. She was the champion drawer in senior class. She may even be a frustrated artist, for all I know.”

“Do you paint, Paula?”

“No.” She dropped her glance to the sandals, wishing she hadn’t brought up the topic.

Byrne persisted, “Why not?”

“Oh, she’s got better things to do,” Phil put in.

“Why don’t you paint?” Byrne seemed not to have heard him.

“Oh, I’m not that good.” She tried to pass it off. “Doodling is more my speed, I guess.”

“And I keep her pretty busy, you know. Paula is a serious type. She’s not going to be one of those Bohemian mothers in dungarees and neglected kids.”

Paula knew he was edging in to talk about the store and she hoped Byrne would let him get to the topic. She didn’t know how to handle herself with this woman — Byrne paid attention to her as though she, Paula, were the important individual instead of Phil. She felt flattered by the woman’s interest but couldn’t explain it to herself. Why should she care if I paint? Why does she look at me and not at my clothes? A weird feeling rose in her and brought with it vague longings always resting somewhere dark and unheard. If only she could run away before Byrne saw too deeply. But she knew it was too late and that really, she didn’t want to run at all. She wanted to stay and let Byrne go somehow deeper, deeper until she could tell Paula what herself really was.

Phil lit his third cigarette and was motioning through the air with great display of self-confidence. “Paula isn’t one of those hare-brained beauties you see every day. She’s the kind who helps a man make his way in the world.”

“I understand,” Byrne said, patting Phil’s shoulder to tell him without words that he could stop raving now. “What say we drink to making one’s way in the world?” She found three highball glasses in a cabinet built into the wall and put them on the table. “Scotch? Bourbon?” She looked at Paula. And Paula knew that Byrne knew she didn’t drink.

“Scotch’ll be fine,” Paula said.

Phil got ice and poured the drinks.

Paula sipped at hers and didn’t like the bitter taste. Phil took long swallows, trying to fill himself with the strength to bring up his reason for being here.

Byrne saved him the trouble. She settled herself into the couch and crossed her legs. “Now tell me, little nephew, what can I do for you? I don’t suppose you’re here to socialize with your ancient relative.”

Paula thought: Ancient? You’ll be young forever.

“Well, the truth is,” Phil eased his way slowly, “I could use a little help if you want to give it.”

“Of course.”

“There’s this paint store on the corner of Third Avenue in the Seventies. Mueller’s. Maybe you’ve heard of it. They advertise in the buses.”

“I don’t ride buses.”

“Anyway, it’s a real good thing, this store. Busy, large. And it’s established. I have a chance to buy a partnership because one of the men is selling out and his son happens to be a friend of mine. If I could get in there …”

“What do you know about the business?”

“What’s there to know?”

Paula hoped he would say something that sounded smart. She didn’t like the way he was appealing to Byrne. As though she were the man and he a child — that’s how he sounded.

“Assuming there isn’t anything to know, how much do you need?”

He took a long breath. “Ten grand.” Putting his tongue in his cheek and making it bulge, he watched to see how she would react.

“That’s a lot of money for you, my boy.”

“I’ll be able to pay it back. You’ll get a part of it every six months.”

“That’s not the point.” She set the half empty glass on her knee. “I simply hope that you’ve chosen wisely. That size investment will make a responsible citizen of you overnight. Are you sure you want to sell paint for a living?”

“I can’t be a crumby mechanic’s helper all my life,” he blurted. “This is the kind of opportunity that gives a man a chance to be something. Get himself away from those lousy tenements.”

“And give him a chance to raise a decent family,” Byrne added, glancing at Paula.

“Right!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Byrne shrugged. “You might just as well do this as anything. It sounds reasonable enough to my unreasonable mind.” She finished her drink and set it on the long table. “Sold, Philip. There’s no reason why I should give you a hard time when all this money came to me so easily.” The hint of some unrelenting memory shadowed her words.

Phil hadn’t expected her to agree so quickly. He sat on the edge of his chair, his long-winded efforts to convince her further abruptly interrupted.

“But if I were you,” she added more brightly, “I’d stock some art supplies for Paula. She may be wanting to experiment one of these days.”

Phil found himself. He came out of the chair and filled Byrne’s glass again. “Oh, you’re a pal. You’re a real pal.” He couldn’t find an expression big or grand enough. “I love you!”

Not knowing what to do, he bent over and kissed Paula. She moved back from his touch, self-conscious in the presence of this woman.

She wants me to paint, she thought. Without knowing whether I can do anything or not, she’s interested in me.

Paula looked past Phil, intensely wanting Byrne to say something more.

Byrne smiled at her, more with her eyes than with her lips, and said, “You are going to try it, you know.”

“I’d make a terrible pupil.” Paula flushed. She realized that she had practically asked Byrne to teach her.

“Perhaps.” Byrne’s eyes slowly closed and opened again, changing the grey-green depths to clear emerald. “Perhaps not.” Paula felt a tightening thrill at the somehow unnamed implication in Byrne’s voice.

To be polite Phil talked on for another fifteen minutes, exuding energy and success, the dimple flitting in and out of his cheek. He stood taller, filling the room with his dark massive physique. He told Byrne pieces of family news. She listened, obviously without interest, nodding occasionally or making some brief comment that showed Paula just how little she really cared about her family. She wondered what this woman did care about. Not money, certainly; not ambition. Without knowing why, Paula wanted this strange person to care about something, anything, to care very much.

Finally, Phil picked up Paula’s coat and helped her into it. She buttoned it slowly. Byrne walked with them to the door.

“I’m glad I met you,” Paula said in a low voice.

“Are you?” Byrne closed one button she had missed and held her hand there for a moment.

Paula held her breath till the woman released her. She took Phil’s arm and moved backward through the doorway.

In the cold darkness of Phil’s Ford, Paula shook herself, realizing that every muscle in her legs ached intensely. She shook herself and tried to stretch out the knots.

“Oh, baby,” Phil whispered. “This is it.”

“I’m so happy for you.” She let him lean across to her and put his mouth on hers. Through the coat she felt the pressure of his hand against her breast.

“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s good. I want to marry you. I’m going to love you forever and we’ll have all the good things. No struggling like our folks, honey. Just lots and lots of loving.”

He moved his head down and rested his cheek against her chest. She looked past him at the lights on the avenue.

“I’m asking you to be my wife,” he whispered. His voice seemed to come to her from far away.

She put her lips into his hair and inhaled the sweet male smell of hair tonic. “Oh, yes,” she murmured. “Oh, yes.”

I’m going to be Mrs. Carson, she thought. I’m going to be the wife of this boy. But her feeling was not the fantastic delight she had always expected. With a touch of fright, she realized that this was like seeing a play by sixth graders after having been to Broadway.

She decided that she was tired; that her brain must be as numb as her body. Tomorrow she would know the full meaning of his words and her whole being would burst into the sky in overwhelming celebration.

They stayed quietly together in the darkness until she felt the cold beginning to creep back into her limbs. “Please start the car,” she said, “and turn on the heater.”

“You’re so practical,” he replied, sitting up and turning the key in the ignition. “Where’s your romance? We’ve been going together so long, you must think we’re married already.”

“That’s true,” she agreed. Maybe that’s what it was, actually. She hoped so. With all her heart she hoped so.

“It’s still early,” he said. “We can go up to Jack’s place. I told him not to be home tonight.”

“You what?”

“That’s right. I knew I was going to ask you tonight, Byrne or no Byrne. I love you so much, Paula. You know how much I love you. But I’ve never really touched you. Not all the way. And I can’t stand it. Not tonight, I can’t. Even with all the world so good to me, the one thing that will make it really important is having you. And since we’re getting married …”

Wildly she thought: I’ll go with him. I’ll give him everything he wants. I’ll make him happy because I love him and need him.

He swung the car around and stepped hard on the gas. With a free hand he switched on the radio but static jumbled the music and he turned it off again.

They reached Jack’s place. Wordlessly she followed him up the musty hallway to the furnished room. Phil got the key from the ledge above the door and let them in.

He kicked the door closed and, standing in the darkness, grabbed her in his arms. She heard the soft thud as one of Jack’s cats leaped off the radiator to the floor. Phil reached under her coat and pulled her to him. His hands were warm to her flesh. Her senses began to swim and she released the mounting desire she felt. Her body went limp against the insistent force of his needing. He lifted her up, carried her to the bed, and gently put her down. She felt the weight of his body on her own and soon the touch of his flesh against hers.

“I love you,” she murmured. “Love you … love … you.”

Her words merged with passion and the silent darkness was soon witness to their union.




2 (#ulink_0366d13c-c007-547a-9892-87ca5b2e6f16)


In her own bed at last, Paula tossed fitfully, yearning for a sleep that would not come. It’s all right, she kept insisting. It’s all right because we’re getting married. But it wasn’t what she and Phil had done together that made her anxious. It was the insistent thought that soon she would have a husband, then children, and the routine of life would be carved out for her, leaving her nothing she could do to change it.

Just early yesterday, there had been nothing in the world more wonderful than to be Mrs. Carson. Suddenly it had become important to discover who she — Paula Temple — really was. Her life, her individual self, seemed terribly precious now. Could she paint? Could she dare to be ambitious for an existence different from being Phil’s wife? If Byrne hadn’t looked at her like that, if Byrne hadn’t said with her eyes that Paula Temple might be a person worth considering …

Byrne must have seen plenty of people in her time. She couldn’t have looked at all of them the way she had looked at Paula.

The night dragged on. Paula sought refuge in far off stars that glittered in the eternity of the black heavens. If only she had one particle of the time those stars seemed to have!

No, she had to think of Phil.

She would be crazy not to marry him. How could you love a man one day and the next day want to run madly around the world without him? Marriage had suddenly become a trap. And that was foolish. A woman was made to get married and bear her husband’s children. That was maturity, that was being an adult. The rest of life was child’s play.

Then I’m a child, her mind screamed. I don’t want to get married. Not yet! Not yet! I’m just beginning to live.

Once again, Paula saw those slanting eyes that ever changed color and meaning as you looked at them.

Dawn crept in. She heard Mike stir and his pillow fall to the floor. She sighed, grateful to know that soon she could get out of bed and not be alone with her thoughts for a while. Phil would call her. What would she say to him? What could she say that he would understand? She didn’t understand herself what was driving her now.

Paula didn’t care. She would let whatever it was force her on until some knowledge came, until she found something that made sense out of this new and frightening fascination she had never felt before. And she understood that she could not marry Phil until that happened.

She waited until seven o’clock then got out of bed. She tiptoed into her parents’ room and put on her mother’s robe. If only she were a kid again and could sit in that warm, comforting lap. But Paula knew that this was one problem she must solve completely alone. She pulled the bathrobe tighter around her body, wishing that it could give her the wisdom that all mothers seemed to have.

In the kitchen she sat near the stove. The peacefulness of Sunday seemed to spread itself through the world. Families would sleep until late, then read the papers and watch television in the afternoon. Some would go to church, maybe to confess their troubles. Others would visit grandparents and stuff themselves on a hearty dinner. Oh, none of it was for her now. Not for her. If only she could rip off her skin and dig out the trouble. How good it would be not to think, not to fight, not to wonder.

Her father shuffled in on his way to the bathroom, sleep still heavy in his eyes. “You up?” he mumbled. “Fight with Phil?”

“No, Pa. Just up early.”

He closed the bathroom door. She heard him belch painfully.

I can’t sit here all day like this. I’ve got to get out. Then she thought once more of Phil calling. He would tell her folks about their getting married and everyone would worry about where she had gone. No, she had to stay home until he called.

One by one, Ma and Mike and Pa got up for the day. She listened to the yawning and the brushing of teeth while she sat on the hard wood of the chair.

By eleven o’clock she was washing the dishes, letting the water scald her hands and turn the skin red. She scrubbed the plates with all the bottled-up energy surging from inside her.

Mike, too skinny for his height, his shoulders stooping awkwardly, commented to her, “You’re a strange bird today.”

Paula didn’t answer.

Ma put on her grey Sunday dress and combed brilliantine through her hair that was supposed to smell of rose petals. “Leave your sister be,” she said with merciful intuition. She smiled anxiously at her daughter and told her not to bother drying. “They can drain,” she said, “if you have better things to do.”

“It’s all right, Ma. I’m all right.”

“Of course you are.”

She wished she could reassure her mother. Convince her that nothing was really wrong. But she wanted to throw her arms around that neck and cry and cry. “It’s really okay, Ma,” Paula insisted as she picked up the towel and started to dry. “Phil asked me to marry him last night. I guess I just don’t know.”

Gratefully she watched her mother’s concern relax.

“Baby,” she said and hugged Paula with relief. “My little baby.”

She felt her mother’s tears wet against her cheek and her own tears came furiously, burning from somewhere deep inside.

“What the hell’s goin’ on in here?” Mike’s disgust rang through the house.

“Oh, pipe down.” His father pushed him out. “Go build yourself a hot rod.”

“Aah, women!” He zipped up his jacket and slammed out of the apartment.

The old man wandered uncomfortably around the kitchen and pretended to interest himself in polishing his shoes. He brushed the tips with violent concentration.

Paula pulled herself away from her mother, aware of a throbbing in her temples. No use to cry. It solved nothing. With a paper napkin, she wiped her mother’s cheeks and then her own. “I really didn’t sleep much, you know. Maybe that’s why things look so big this morning. I’ll take an aspirin and go for a walk.”

Her father said, “You want company?”

“No, Pa, thanks. I just want to clear out this head.”

She found some aspirin in the medicine cabinet, bundled the scarf around her neck and pulled on her heavy mittens. She didn’t much care what she looked like, even if it was Sunday. “If Phil calls, tell him — Oh, tell him anything.”

She ran out and down the steps as if bursting out from under smothering blankets.

The dreary Sunday lay heavily on all the closed stores with their awnings flapping and whipping in the wind. She strode down Third Avenue, coat collar turned up, head bent into the wind. The grey sky, heavy with its burden of snow, stretched endlessly above her. She walked and walked, not thinking, not wanting to think, hoping perhaps she might outrun her crazy thoughts and return to the familiar nest of long-known living.

She knew where she was walking; her legs moved without her brain’s direction. I can’t go there, she thought. It’s nerve. It’s gall. I wasn’t invited. Her legs insisted, moving her block after block, seeming to gain energy and purpose as she progressed. When she had come twenty blocks to Forty Second Street, she forced herself to stop in the Woolworth doorway. If I knew her last name, she thought, I could look up her telephone. She went into a bar and searched for Byrne Carson. The name wasn’t listed.

Her legs drove her outside again. They stung with the cold, but the stinging felt good as a kind of match for her rushing turmoil. She wanted to speed, to fly, to dash herself against windows. Her lips were dry from breathing through her mouth, chapped and cracked. The restless fury she felt would not let her ride the bus or take a subway. She half-ran, half-walked to Fourteenth Street, not seeing, not caring, breathing rapid painful breaths, shaking with the pounding in her heart.

At Fourteenth Street she caught sight of herself in the window of a dress store. Tangled hair and burning red cheeks stared back at her. She realized that she was in her old worn coat. Her shoes were muddy with slush. Mixed relief and horror struck her. She can’t see me like this!

She had a ready-made excuse just to stand across the street from Byrne’s house and watch the window. Maybe she would come to fix a curtain. As Paula considered this, the idea became increasingly appealing. She hurried to Eleventh Street, practically convinced that she had an appointment to glimpse Byrne at the window.

When she spotted the house, her pace slowed. To see the building better she stayed on the opposite side of the street. At last she stood directly across, glutting herself with staring at the strange but so familiar door. A glow spread inside her as she realized that somewhere, right behind this thin piece of glass, was that golden hair splashed with fire — that vibrant voice that could laugh and softly caress at the same time. She leaned back against ice-covered bricks, feeling warm and touched with peace.

How long she stood, Paula didn’t know. Her eyes strained with a permanent watching of the window for fear that if she glanced away for even a second, she might miss the sight of Byrne. Perhaps she was reading, lying casually on the couch, her legs crossed on the cushions, a drink on the table beside her.

Paula’s coat had soaked in the wetness and a freezing bar of dampness cut across her back. She shivered. Her fingers inside the mittens had become stiff and she tried to move them to stir the circulation.

What would Byrne think if she happened to knock on her door?

If I don’t go all the way in, Paula thought, if I just stand inside the front door for awhile, she’ll never know. Still hesitating, she shifted her weight to the other foot. A prickling sensation ran through her toes. Her feet seemed like two blocks of wood on which she rocked, unable to sense the movement of walking. Yes, I’ll go inside, she thought. Maybe I’ll hear her voice on the telephone, or something.

With quick decision she stumbled across the street, moving clumsily on frozen limbs. She crept slowly up the steps, watching the window in case Byrne might appear. She needed both thumbs to push the door latch down and she slipped quickly inside, closing the door carefully so it wouldn’t bang.

A puddle formed around her shoes and gradually the heat of indoors thawed her fingers. She pushed the scarf back off her head so that her ears would be free to hear any sound behind the door. So close. So close.

It might have been five minutes, it might have been a half hour that she waited, smiling crazily at the knocker, dizzily scared that Byrne might come out and find her. Footsteps came down the staircase. An old gentleman in rimless glasses looked at her with questioning eyes. He tipped his hat.

“May I help you?” he said.

“No, thank you,” she answered quickly, “I’m just waiting for someone.”

“I see.” He smiled and went out.

But that did it. The man had hardly closed the door when Byrne’s door opened. She poked her head out and saw Paula.

“Voices carry around here,” she said around a black cigarette holder clamped between her teeth. She didn’t seem so much surprised as amused. “If you’re waiting for someone,” a glint of mockery flicked in her eyes, “you’ll be a little more comfortable waiting in here.”

Paula’s heart dropped right down to her stomach. She didn’t move. Mixtures of horror and joy scrambled inside her.

“Well, come in before we both freeze to death.” Byrne leaned into the hall and pulled the girl back into her apartment.

Unlike yesterday’s neatness, the room was full of half empty coffee cups. They littered the floor, the table, the book shelf. And Byrne wore a striped shirt, the sleeves rolled past the elbow, with the same charcoal slacks and sandals.

“My God, you’re an ice cube. Have you been out there all night?” Indulgence tempered her irony.

Paula laughed suddenly at her own foolishness. It’s so simple, she thought. I’m here! And there was not the slightest feeling of intrusion.

“Well, if you can’t talk, perhaps you can take off those wet things.”

Submissively Paula removed her coat and dropped herself on the couch. She felt light with happiness, not caring if Byrne thought she were a fool.

“At least you’re not making excuses. Take off your shoes while I get you some hot coffee.”

Paula watched her stoop to the automatic percolator plugged in beside the wall lamp. She liked the starkness of Byrne today. It made the grace of her body and movements more apparent by contrast.

“I hate to wash cups,” Byrne chatted with offhand friendliness. “We have three more to go before it’s necessary.”

“Don’t waste a clean one,” Paula said. “Please just fill that one there.”

“Child, how can you be so natural?”

Paula leaned back on the couch and devoured the beautiful thing that was Byrne. “I guess I can’t help it.”

Byrne filled one of the used cups and brought it over. “No, I guess you can’t.”

Paula took the steaming cupful and sipped from it. She really didn’t know why Byrne thought it was so natural to drink from a used cup. But the thought that Byrne noticed it, had held it, had touched it to her own lips, made Paula lazily linger with her tongue over the rim.

Byrne sat on the edge of the couch and unlaced Paula’s shoes. She dropped them to the floor and massaged the cold feet. “If you die of pneumonia, Phil will never forgive me.”

She abandoned herself to Byrne’s attentions, hoping her feet would stay cold forever so that the warm strong fingers would always be touching her. “He doesn’t know I’m here,” she sighed. “Nobody knows.”

“Do you like secrets? I wouldn’t have thought so.”

Paula didn’t know how to explain that this wasn’t a secret, exactly. It was more precious than a secret, this day. It was like a delicate infant that she didn’t want strangers to breathe on. She put the cup down on the floor and surrendered to a drowsiness that flowed upward from Byrne’s moving fingers.

“Byrne,” she said, “Byrne, tell me why I’m here.”

Abruptly the woman released Paula’s feet. She ran her fingers in the familiar gesture through the back of her hair and moved away from the couch. She stood looking down at Paula and Paula had the odd sensation of being measured for an unknown role.

“It’s not important,” Byrne said casually and brought a flaring match to meet her cigarette.

“Isn’t it?”

“No. You are simply growing up. Remember how important your breasts were when you first noticed them? Now they’re something you take for granted. They don’t rule you.”

Paula didn’t understand. But if Byrne said it wasn’t important, she would have to believe her. And yet a peculiar substance seemed to hang in the room, as though a voice were speaking not quite loud enough to be heard.

“Maybe I’m here because I want to paint,” she mused, wanting to capture and to understand. “I never realized that a woman’s body could be so inspiring.” She looked up at the picture. “Will you show me how?”

“Why not? I think there are some sketch pads in the bedroom,” Byrne answered with almost scientific directness, “if you’d like your first lesson now.”

Paula heard her rummaging through drawers. She wondered what kind of bed Byrne slept in. Did she sleep alone? The accomplishment of being here gave Paula courage. She got up and went to see what the room where Byrne spent her nights was like.

She leaned against the doorway and saw a strange-looking double bed. The mahogany headboard rose elaborately into carved angels and rosebuds. It didn’t look as if it should be Byrne’s bed. It seemed more the kind of thing that grandparents slept in. Byrne, reaching to a top shelf in the closet, did not notice Paula’s inspection. Nor did she see the girl approach the cigarette box on the dressing table.

Paula looked at it curiously. A woman’s photograph had been inserted in the center and covered by a curving glass that magnified the face. A face that pouted sadly, with delicate, unpainted lips trying a smile for the camera. The blonde hair, so blonde that it looked white, came in wisps of bangs over the forehead. The eyes seemed to dream of distant visions. Paula didn’t like the face. It held a sense of evil, and frightened her.

“Here it is,” Byrne said, stepping back from the closet and dusting off a spiral pad. “What’s the matter?”

“Who is this?” Paula’s voice was hardly audible.

“Oh, what do you care. Is there a pencil on the dresser top?”

But Paula couldn’t take her eyes away from the face. It held her with its almost innocent wickedness.

“Since you must know, she is the artist you so much admired. But don’t let it upset you. That picture was taken many years ago. She’s even older than I am.”

Paula whirled. “You’re not old. I wish you would stop saying that. You’re young and you’ll stay that way until the end — until the end of the earth. Only sick people get old. And poor miserable creatures who want to run away from what they are!”

Byrne examined her with mixed concern and enjoyment. Laugh lines wrinkled into the freckles across her nose. “One would never guess you had it in you,” she said. “Now will you forget that picture and let’s get down to business?”

For the first time, Paula realized how rude she was being. Her cheeks warmed and she dropped her glance to the carpet. “I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t have come in here.”

“Never mind. You’re a person who has to discover things the hard way. I’m only trying to make it a little easier for you if I can.”

“Well, I haven’t discovered a thing. I don’t understand at all why you’re so good to me.” She searched Byrne for an answer and found only those ocean-green eyes washing her with silence.

The woman firmly steered her out of the bedroom and back into the other world.

She set up a portable easel beside the bookshelf and stood the pad on it.

“Now, start with something simple. Try that percolator for instance.”

Obediently, Paula sketched the percolator. She felt no shyness about drawing. The old confidence from school reflected in her fingers. She drew the picture large with generous shading. Then she drew a cup and saucer with the percolator. Byrne stood behind her, offering no comment.

“Do I make your nervous if I watch?”

“Oh, no. I like you near me.” Intent on her work, Paula hardly knew the meaning of what she said. Page after page she filled with chairs and trees and fruit bowls.

Byrne finally said, “I wonder how well you sketch from life.”

“I never did.”

“Let’s try. I’ll be your model.”

Without embarrassment, as though it were the most everyday thing in the world, Byrne unbuttoned her shirt and dropped it to the floor. Paula watched, speechless, as she unhooked her bra and tossed it aside. The girl’s sight traveled over the smooth shoulders and down the arms. Byrne perched herself on the arm of the couch and said, “All right, draw.” There was no hint of challenge in her voice. It was matter of fact and sensible.

Paula clutched her pencil and stabbed grimly at the paper in front of her. The lines trembled as she drew them. She clenched her teeth, desperately trying to concentrate on the picture. Struggling for control, she managed neck and shoulders. With great detail, she drew the hands, the fingers crossed on the lap. She worked over the wrist bones half a dozen times to get them properly. Then up to the hollow in the throat. She examined her work and realized how ridiculous it looked. The middle was all blank. I can’t stare at her breasts like that, she thought. But I’ve got to. It means nothing. She expects me to do my best. Why am I acting like such a …

Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to look at that forbidden area. The pencil froze in her hand. Imploringly, she searched Byrne’s face, but the expression there remained impersonal. At last she got the pencil to the paper and sketched a few quick lines to indicate the feminine softness. Perspiration beaded across her forehead as she forced the pencil on and on over the page.

“All right,” she grunted. “I’ve finished now.”

“Good.” Byrne hopped off the couch and strolled over, not bothering to put on her shirt again.

Her nakedness loomed so close to Paula. The girl became dizzy and stepped backward. “Please,” she whispered, “put on your shirt.” She couldn’t bear looking at the body. But her eyes wouldn’t leave the incredible beauty of those twin shapes that to her seemed to be glowing in the lamplight.

Byrne didn’t move to get her clothing. “It’s only art,” she murmured. “If you want to draw, you can’t be so personal.”

Paula twisted away and stared at the wall. “Please,” she groaned. “Please.” She heard Byrne’s tongue click with impatience.

“All right,” she said after a moment’s pause. “I’m decent now. You can look.” Her voice mocked the girl.

Shame crept into Paula as she realized she had revealed an odd modesty. Normal women undressed before each other without concern, without embarrassment. She turned to face the woman and ask forgiveness for the strange demon that clawed inside her.

“Don’t apologize,” Byrne stopped her. “If you’d rather draw cups and saucers the rest of your life, you’re welcome to it.”

“Do you strip that way for everyone?” Paula asked.

“No. Of course not.”

“Did she see you naked?”

“Oh, my heavens! What do you want, a life history? Yes, Greta saw me naked. She diapered me and changed my bathing suit at the seashore. She slept in that bed, if you must know. And sometimes she still does, God help her. I told you I wasn’t young.”

Byrne got out the scotch and poured herself a stiff drink.

“Give me one, too,” Paula said.

“Not on your life. You’ll get drunk and bawl at me about how pure you thought all this was.”

“Pure? I’m not pure, either,” Paula lashed out. “I went to bed with Phil last night. It was the most miserable and disgusting thing that ever happened to me. I felt as if my insides were being torn to shreds. And that’s supposed to be love. Oh, I’m a slut just like everybody else. You don’t have to worry.” Shaken by her explosion of frankness, Paula grabbed the bottle and splashed whiskey into a cup.

“If you drink that,” Byrne said, her voice low, the words chiseled, “you’re never to come back here again.”

Paula stood glaring at her, the cup uncertainly poised.

Never to see Byrne again!

The demon put its fingers around her neck and pressed until she couldn’t swallow. Slowly, she lowered the cup. I’d rather die, she thought.

“That’s better,” Byrne relaxed. “Now come over here and sit down.”

Without question, Paula went. There was nothing she would not do if only Byrne could be pleased with her again.

“You draw quite well.” Byrne resumed her teaching manner. “But it’s obvious that you need lots of practice. Do you think you can control yourself for a couple of weeks until you master the fundamentals?”

“Yes,” Paula said, not knowing whether she could or not. “I can do anything you think is necessary.”

“Good. Now, you’re too upset to go any farther today. Suppose you come back Tuesday evening. I’ll have better supplies by then.”

Paula didn’t want to leave, but she knew the woman had other things to do than dawdle with her. Regretfully, she put on her coat.

“Here’s cab fare home.” Byrne tilted Paula’s chin. “And don’t think about this too much. If I didn’t like you, I wouldn’t take the trouble.”

Paula felt a beaming smile leap to her face. Byrne pressed a five dollar bill into her hand and pushed her out the door.

She skipped dizzily up the street. She likes me! She likes me no matter what I did!

At the corner of Fifth Avenue, she hailed a cab. Once inside, she crossed her legs and tried to sit like a lady. It wasn’t often that she could ride like this. What wonderful, marvelous things would Byrne make possible for her? If she could only return some of the joy, some of the gratefulness that filled her. She resolved that anything Byrne asked her to do — sketch her nude, anything — she would do it if it took all the courage she could muster. She would please Byrne. She must please Byrne. Nothing in life was so important as Byrne’s approval.

The cabbie changed the five dollars and raised his eyebrows when she told him to keep the change.




3 (#ulink_82173cb6-3f18-5981-bc60-181910f3162c)


Paula burst into the apartment and ran to her room, anxious to be alone with her dreaming. It was hardly four o’clock and the smell of roast chicken reminded her that she hadn’t eaten all day.

Her mother came into her room and waited until Paula had taken off her things.

“Phil was here,” she said. “He waited for you an hour and a half.” Her voice held a question.

“Didn’t you tell him I was out?”

“Yes. But he expected that you would be back soon.”

The idea of Phil returned to Paula like an old shoe, suddenly found. She wished he would stay, like an old shoe, in the closet and wait until she was ready for him.

“Maybe you’d better call him,” her mother offered. She was wearing an apron over the Sunday dress. The family hadn’t gone out today. Uncomfortably, Paula supposed they were worrying about her.

“All right, I’ll call him. After dinner.” She didn’t want to speak to Phil. He would ask where she’d been. Now that he had proposed, he probably felt a right to question her. Could she put him off without making him angry? Perhaps. But not without hurting him. Oh, she seemed to be hurting everybody. Ma and Pa this afternoon and now Phil.

“I only spent a harmless afternoon,” Paula explained, “away from troubles. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

Her mother looked at the pencil smudges on her fingers. “If you’re feeling better, I’m glad you went wherever it was.”

“I’m feeling fine,” Paula almost sang. If only I could tell you about it! The faint odor of pomade lingered as her mother went to light the stove under the cold chicken.

Why can’t I tell her, she thought. What’s wrong with what I’ve done? But she didn’t want to speak about her dear Byrne. The thought of Byrne in this apartment didn’t fit. She wasn’t the kind of person you discussed in cold water flats. Not even to your mother. Byrne was meant for dreaming late at night. Late at night in the dark and all alone.

She changed into a pair of corduroy slacks and looked at herself in the bubbles of the mirror that framed the old dressing table. She didn’t have those trim lines. Her hips were too rounded, her waist too small. She searched out one of Mike’s old shirts and jammed the tails into her trousers. Then she rolled up the too-long sleeves and once more examined her reflection. She just wasn’t impressive.

The mound of mashed potatoes and gravy added strength to her unwound nerves. Halfway through the meal the phone rang. Pa was taking a nap in the bedroom. She and her mother looked at each other.

“If it’s Phil, tell him I’m eating and he can pick me up at seven.”

Paula knew she would have to see him. No matter how much she didn’t want to, it was better to get this over with soon. Or he would be calling and wondering and having fits.

“Don’t you want to talk to him?” Ma tried to cover her perplexity.

“Not just now.” Paula attended to the chicken.

She listened to her mother deliver the message while she poured vinegar into the almost empty bottle of ketchup.

“He’ll be over,” her mother said, setting a dish of fruit salad on the table.

Well, she didn’t have to think about Phil until he got here. Some excuse would come to her by then. She didn’t care to lie to him. But he would never understand the truth. What was the truth? She hardly knew herself. All she knew was that this afternoon was her own private possession.

Phil arrived almost promptly at seven, his features muddled with concern. She motioned him to a chair and he sat on it sideways because his long legs wouldn’t fit comfortably under the table. She could tell he wanted to talk to her earnestly but he made polite conversation for the sake of her mother.

At last he said, “Want to catch a movie?”

Her eyesight was strained from the afternoon’s sketching, but she agreed just to get them out of the house.

They didn’t go to the movies, of course. He took her to Jack’s place.

“Look,” he said, when they had closed the door, “I didn’t do anything — I mean, it was all right?”

She considered the appeal in his eyes, then the yellow rumpled bedsheets. The musty smell of stale furniture and cat hairs over everything curdled her stomach.

“Sure,” she said. “It was all right.”

The sound of Whitey scratching in the kitty litter filled the silence. A pot of left-over spaghetti filled with water sat in the wash basin. “No, it wasn’t all right,” she blurted. “It’s miserable here and I hate it. Why do we always have to come to this place? Why couldn’t you have waited until we had somewhere decent?”

He looked at her with confusion. She saw the irritation growing within him and the line of his mouth tightened. “You’re a strange girl today. I can’t believe it was all my fault.”

Immediately she felt sorry for him. After all, he was battling against something he didn’t even know about. She couldn’t help him. She could hardly help herself, let alone Phil.

“If I’m so strange, then just leave me be.” The hardness in Paula’s voice covered her own groping to understand.

“Oh, honey, why don’t you come off it? That was bound to happen sooner or later. What difference could it make that we didn’t have a license for it last night?”

There was no point in arguing. How can you explain to a man, still dear to you, he has suddenly been replaced?

“The fact is, Phil, I’m not sure that I’m ready to get married just yet.”

“And why not? You seemed plenty eager these past couple of months.”

That was the truth and it slapped her. She went to open a window, thinking some fresh air might chase the musty smell. She opened the window and thought: If I jumped out all this mess would be over. She stood looking down the narrow alleyway at the empty clotheslines tangled from the wind.

“I know I owe you an explanation, but the truth is I haven’t any.”

“Sure, you haven’t. You don’t know what in hell you’re talking about. When they say women are addle-brained, I have an idea this is exactly what they mean.”

He was being nasty. But it was nastiness out of desperation, she knew. He had to fight back against this unknown enemy. If he fought clumsily, it was nonetheless brave.

“Phil, I love you. I just need time to work something over in my mind. Will you try to be patient and not force me?”

“Patient? God save us all! Here I am planning for our marriage next month and you say to be patient. Is that what you call love?”

“All right, then,” she challenged. A stabbing frustration and restlessness shot through. “Call it off. Go away and leave me alone. I don’t want to see you, Phil. I want to be alone. Do you hear me? Alone!”

He grabbed her away from the window and pulled her beside him against the wall. “You’re nuts,” his voice rasped. “Stark, raving nuts.”

She struggled, pounding his chest with clenched fists. “Leave me be!” she shouted. “Leave me be!”

He held her fast. “You’re going to calm down and straighten out.” Grabbing her wrists, he held them fast behind her back. “Honey, you’re hysterical.”

Twisting and turning, she tried to free herself from his grasp. Biting at his arm, she caught the material of his shirt between her teeth and ripped it.

His bulk was too much for her. Panting, she let her body collapse. For a moment he stood supporting the weight of her in his arms. Then slowly, she slipped to the floor and collapsed at his feet. He kneeled beside her, not knowing what to do. She crawled over, put her head in his lap and sobbed wretchedly.

Clumsily, he stroked her hair. “It’s all right, honey. If you want to be alone, it’s okay.” His voice was heavy with sadness. “Just don’t get lost,” he said. “We need each other too much.”

When he brought her home, he didn’t try to kiss her. He sort of patted her shoulder and ran off down the steps. She listened to the disappearing jingle of his house keys.

Paula was grateful for Monday. Getting up and yelling at Mike to hurry up out of the bathroom kept her from thinking for the moment about the strange state of affairs in her life.

The rush hour crowds carried her down the steps to the subway where she stood on line to buy a week’s supply of tokens.

Her office friends greeted her and chatted about their dates as if this had been a weekend like any other. Paula felt as though she had been away for a hundred years until her desk, her typewriter, the small switchboard with its tails and plugs hypnotized her back into the meaningless routine.

At five o’clock she looked for Phil’s car but it wasn’t there. She waited ten minutes. He didn’t show up. She realized with huge relief that he really was going to let her alone for awhile. Poor guy. She didn’t like herself very much for yesterday’s scene, but as she tried to think of Phil, the picture of him faded, replaced by the image of that shirtless body, the tantalizing curves of warm flesh, coldly posed for sketching.

When she got home, the place was jammed with Mike’s friends making a pretense of doing homework. Pa hadn’t arrived yet. She helped set the table and prepared a place for him, even though she didn’t know whether or not he would be in any condition to eat.

Ma said, “Did you have a good day?”

“Like every other,” Paula answered. Then she said, “Ma, did you think when you got married that this was the way life was going to be?”

Her mother wiped her hands on the apron and studied the worn wedding ring on her finger. “That’s a funny question, my dear. In those days, you know, we didn’t think about how it would all turn out. We just took our chances. We trusted the man to do what he should do, and so would we.” She always spoke in terms of “we” because she had seven sisters.

“But didn’t you have any imagination? Didn’t you wonder whether the future was going to be bright or not?”

“Maybe old-fashioned people take it for granted the future will be bright. I guess I don’t know, dear.”

Paula knew her mother wasn’t trying to chide her. And she was being discreet enough not to ask why Phil hadn’t brought her home. He always came upstairs for a short visit. Her mother enjoyed the company. She liked Phil. And Paula could see that her own sudden hesitance about marrying him was a disappointment.

The boys were fighting so loudly over the verb of a sentence that nobody heard Pa come in. He stumbled into the kitchen and fell heavily on the table, his face yellow with a frightening pallor.

“Harry!” Her mother ran to him. He fell forward, upsetting the empty glasses, and lay with his cheek against the oilcloth.

Paula ran to the phone to call the doctor. Her hands trembled as they dialed numbers.

She cleared the boys out and sent Mike with them. Her father lay at the table, retching with spasms, speechless in pain. She and her mother tried to move him to the bed but he couldn’t make it.

The doctor arrived, and the three of them managed to get the old man into bed. After the examination, the doctor put his stethoscope in his bag and filled out a prescription.

“It’s nothing to worry about, Mrs. Temple. He’ll have to stay in bed for a couple of weeks. No alcohol, of course. Plenty of tea and broth and rest. This will keep him quiet through the night. I’ll drop by tomorrow.”

Paula gave him the five dollar visiting fee, regretting the generous tip to the cabbie yesterday. Every penny she earned was tightly accounted for. Doctor bills were things to be dreaded. They could cut a hole into your life that sometimes took years to repair. Nothing to worry about, the doctor said. Well, there was plenty to worry about.





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