Three Women (11 page)

"I thought it would be easier this way," Byrne said. She folded the spread down, brought Paula over and put her down on the cool fresh sheets.

How different it all was here, on a bed, together and free. They sprawled and lingered at their ease. Paula abandoned herself to the luxuriant weight of Byrne's body full on her own. The hours fled with no word of Greta or the world to disturb them.

"Someday," Paula said, "perhaps we can live together and share this every night."

"Like a married couple?" Byrne laughed.

"Yes, if you want to call it that. I would love to wake up in the morning and make breakfast for you."

"And see me off to work and have supper ready when I came home at six?"

"You're teasing me."

"Not at all. I simply hadn't realized just how conventional you really were." She rolled with Paula to one side of the bed and nipped her earlobe playfully.

"It's not convention," Paula said, "if I want to do things for you."

"Maybe not. But what would you call it?"

"Love."

"I thought you hated the way your folks lived. Isn't that what you told me?"

"This isn't like that," Paula said with distaste. "First of all, you're not poor."

"Phil won't be poor either, in a couple of years."

"Why do you bring him into it?"

"You've mentioned him a number of times yourself, these last few days."

"I'm grateful to Phil." Paula brought the pillow down under her chin and hugged it. "He got me out of the mess. But don't talk about him in the same breath as you talk about us."

"All right, darling. Maybe I'm just wondering if you care for him more than you realize."

"Nonsense! If I could move in with you right now and sign a guarantee to stay here for the next thousand years, nothing would make me happier."

"Well, what's stopping you?" Byrne pulled the pillow away and put her face next to Paula's.

Paula could hardly realize what Byrne had said. She regarded her seriously, prepared to find the teasing smile. But it wasn't there.

"Are you really serious? Are you asking me to move in here with you?"

"This is a new bed, isn't it? No one has ever been on it but you." The green eyes were new as spring.

Paula had more sense than to speak of Greta. Undoubtedly she was still around. But perhaps Byrne had a reason now to do something other than submit to her old love—and old guilt. If Paula were with her all the time, maybe Byrne would eventually stop blaming herself for Greta. Paula did not dare miss this opportunity to make Byrne whole, to have her completely for herself.

"You know I want to be with you always. Of course I’ll stay with you."

Paula felt herself on the verge of a different life. If gaining Byrne had been the start of a change, living with her would complete it. Byrne had never told her what she did with her days. Whatever it was, Paula wanted to share it. Money, which had always been such an obstacle, seemed of no importance now. Byrne had volunteered to send a check home in Paula's name every week.

"That wouldn't be fair," Paula protested. "Ill keep my job or get another."

"Wouldn't it be even more unfair to stay away from me all day long? What's the use of all this money if I can't spend it on you?"

But out of habit Paula continued to object. The thought of living without needing to work was something she couldn't imagine. Everybody worked. People just had to. Only pregnant women didn't.

"Look at it this way," Byrne suggested. "You're only stopping work temporarily. Instead of going to that crumby, meaningless job, you’ll stay at home and learn to paint. With a few months' training, depending upon how good you are, you’ll be able to get a job in commercial art that’ll pay you three times what you're earning now. Doesn't that make more sense than sticking to that typewriter until you drop over the keys?"

Paula had to admit that Byrne was right Not only did she have a lover now, she saw; she had a teacher as well, one who would help her better herself in every way. Paula felt like some sort of chosen being. She could hardly say a word because nothing would express what she felt in her heart.

Paula brought in the electric percolator and two cups, and sat down. Filled with her new station in life, she only wanted to be still and silent to relish it. How could all these wonderful things be happening to her, Paula? It was all too good. Something must be wrong with it somewhere. But she could think of nothing that was not perfect. The miracle of her new existence floated around her. She had to sit and believe it whole; it just didn't make sense otherwise.

Byrne watched her become consumed by her dreams. Smiling gently, she herself went to fill the percolator because Paula had forgotten.

The girl could only touch the bed and say to herself: Not Byrne's bed.
Our
bed.
Our
cups.
Our
apartment. She lay down and then sat up. She understood for the first time what it meant to pinch yourself to see if you were dreaming.

Byrne filled their cups while Paula, finally able to speak, chatted on and on about their plans, both real and fanciful.

"Don't run away with yourself, darling," Byrne advised. "You might find this more different than you think."

If she means Greta, Paula thought, that doesn't worry me. But she looked at the cigarette case and wet her lips. There were many secrets between Greta and Byrne that she could never know. And that meant simply that she must be more powerful than both.

They discussed what Paula would say to her family about leaving home. Paula was convinced that her mother didn't give a hoot where she went or what she did. The memory of her mother ignoring her in the hospital burned hotly inside. No mother can treat a daughter like that and not expect her to go away, Paula believed. Her mother actually wanted her to leave. Savage memories or her family, self-torturing thoughts of herself being away when the worst was taking place flooded through her. She stared blankly into a corner of the room, wishing she could cut herself away from the family which now seemed the cause only of pain and never hear about those people again.

"Don't be childish," Byrne said. "You've hurt them as much as they've hurt you. Sometime, sweetheart, you'll all get together and forgive each other."

Paula said nothing. She just wanted to be free of them until she could think about them—and herself— without this horrible rage and guilt.

If it were up to Paula, she wouldn't have returned home even that night. But she made herself get dressed. She was just combing her hair when the doorbell rang. They looked at each other and Byrne hastened into slacks and shirt. They both knew it wasn't Greta's ring. Paula stood at the dressing table mirror putting on her lipstick, waiting. She didn't care who was at the door so long as it wasn't Greta. But her hand froze in front of her face as she heard the voice.

"Well, if it isn't my little nephew," Byrne's voice said, brittle and trying to sound amused. "What can I do for you on this cold night?"

Paula tiptoed to the bedroom door and shut it gently. She stood pressed against it, listening. Their voices came through to her muffled but easily understood.

"I didn't come for any favors this time,'' she heard Phil say. "Just a few kind words and maybe a drink.''

"And why do you need kind words? Businessmen need customers, not kind words." The slam of the refrigerator door told Paula that Byrne was getting ice cubes.

"The hell with business," Phil said.

"All right, to hell with it. What then?"

"Listen," Phil paused, probably gulping a swallow, "you're an old hand at certain things. What did you make of that girl I brought with me Sunday?"

Old hand, Paula thought. Did Phil know about his aunt's odd interests?

"You mean Paula?" Byrne said, as if surprised. The tone of her voice revealed how very much in control of herself she was.

"Of course, Paula. Who else was here?" His irritation was not with Byrne. It was an irritation of self that stemmed from doubt and worry. Paula realized she hadn't done a very good job of consoling him that night If anything, she had probably made matters worse. He might be able to accept the idea of competition with another man. But competing with something unknown must be unbearable.

"I thought her a very fine girl," Byrne said. "Attractive, intelligent sensible. Why?"

"Do you think she liked me?"

Byrne didn't answer right away. She might have been sipping her own drink, stalling to decide how to put things.

"She seemed quite fond of you. Of course, you were too concerned with your own purposes to notice that she might have had other thoughts on her mind also."

"I guess you're right" Phil said regretfully. "Well, the truth of the matter is she's given me the gate." Another pause. "I mean it. Just left me flat for no good reason. But there must be a reason, if I just weren't too dumb to see it."

"I'm certainly sorry," Byrne said. "But what can I do to help?"

"She kind of took to this idea of painting."

"And since I do give lessons, you thought that maybe I could get in touch with her. If she visits me a few times, maybe she'd tell me what's on her mind. Is that what you mean? That's not very fair of you, Phil!"

"So what? I want to marry the girl, Byrne. Any thing's fair."

"Are you quite sure your feelings aren't sore and sensitive because she's playing hard to get?"

Paula, afraid to move for fear of making a noise, listened intently.

"Sure as anything. I wanted to marry her almost the first time I saw her. She's that kind of a person. Only I thought it would be easier on her and on us both if we waited until I could afford something better than the two-bit job I had."

Paula heard Byrne put her glass on the bookshelf. "If it's that important to you, I’ll see what I can do with her."

"You're really the greatest," Phil's voice was vibrant "Here's her phone number."

When the door had closed, Paula waited for Byrne to come tell her it was safe. She waited a few minutes but Byrne didn't approach the bedroom. Finally Paula opened the door gently and peered out.

Byrne was standing in the living room, contemplating her empty glass. She swung the melting ice cube around in slow circles.

"So," Paula said, a grin flitting across her lips. "Are you going to phone me?"

"I don't know," Byrne replied, ignoring Paula's attempt at humor. "He's not one you shake off so easily. And I'm not even sure that you really should."

Paula flopped on the couch and finished the rest of Phil's drink. "Are we going to go through all that again? I like him very much. He's the dearest sweetest thing in the world. But I don't love him." Paula's voice was rising. "Byrne, I don't love him!"

"Stop shouting."

"Stop picking on me. Can't you understand that I love you, Byrne? He didn't do a thing for me when we tried it out. What better proof can you want?"

Byrne took the glass away from Paula and set both their glasses on the table. "Snap judgments don't mean anything. For some people it takes a lot of practice to get used to a man."

"Oh, you're impossible!" Paula folded her arms and pouted with aggravation and annoyance.

"All right, we'll drop it."

When Byrne relented, Paula became sorry that she had been so harsh. She held her arms out to Byrne and brought her down beside her on the couch. "Now, you make sure to phone me tomorrow evening. That'll give me a good excuse to get things roiling. Imagine, I'll be moving in with Phil's approval." She laughed and patted Byrne's cheek. "And don't forget that no matter how childish I am, I love you."

She rode home feeling really very sorry for Phil. There was no doubt in her mind how much he really cared for her. But he should find a girl suited to him, good enough for him. That girl could never be herself. Even if she left Byrne, she couldn't go to Phil. There would always be the comparison between his blunt, harsh way of doing things and Byrne's graceful, almost catlike movement and attraction. She wondered if any man could ever interest her again.

Paula suddenly realized with a slight shock that she had become what people called "queer." How strange. But the strange thing was not the finding of what she was; it was the discovery that this knowledge of herself did not feel queer at all. To Paula, it seemed truly the most natural thing in the world.

When she got out of the cab, she started up the steps and then stopped midway to the first landing. She didn't want to go in. Not just yet. It wasn't early but anything she could do to delay coming into the strained and tense atmosphere of that apartment would be welcome. She turned around and descended the steps. Without thinking, she crossed the street and entered a bar.

The heavy odor of beer assailed her nostrils. Some men played table bowling and a frowsy old woman sat in the far comer staring up at the fights on television. Paula found a stool at the bar, and sat down. Uncomfortable, she was sorry she had come in but did not want to leave now that she was here.

She ordered scotch and water because that was what Byrne drank. Byrne would give her hell if she knew. But she wouldn't know.

The bartender made jokes and treated her like an old friend even though she'd never been in here before. Maybe he saw her passing along the street, she thought. But most likely, he'd known Pa. But then, Pa had been the sort of person who liked to drink by himself, not the loud kind who always treated everybody to a round as soon as he had the spare cash. She looked at the sort stumpy glass holding the scotch and at the tall glass with the water and green stirring rod. The whole set-up didn't really look very appetizing. But she had ordered it, and she would chink it.

One of the guys standing near the game machine came over and slid on the stool next to her. "Hi," he said.

"Hi," she said, pouring the whiskey into the water.

"For a minute, I thought you were going to take that straight," he smiled.

Why do men always take it for granted that any girl alone wants to be picked up? Because she was in a bar didn't mean anything. How did he know she wasn't just a lush? If Byrne were here, she'd know how to get rid of him quickly and painlessly.