Three Women (4 page)

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, shell 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 was rocking, 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 doorlatch 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 the 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 and 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 stepped in the hall and pulled the girl 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.

"Well, 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 become 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 breath 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 blond hair, so blond 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.

"Well, if 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 that washed 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 book shelf 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 was reflected in her fingers. She drew the picture large and with generous shading. Then she drew a cup and saucer with the percolator. Byrne stood behind her, offering no comment.

"Do I make you 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."

"Then let's try. I'll be your model." Without embarrassment, as though it were the most everyday thing in the world, she 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 and 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 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 a modesty that was strange. 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 choked. 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. Supposing you come back Tuesday evening. I’ll have some 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.