Three Women (12 page)

One swallow of the drink convinced her that she was not destined to become an alcoholic. With Byrne around, she could drink because Byrne absorbed all her attention and she wasn't really aware of anything else.

The guy ordered himself a beer and winked at the bartender as if to say: Who's the chick? Phil would never make a play like this, Paula thought. She felt an instant's pride—and then she remembered.

She paid for the drink and left with it unfinished. She opened her mouth and breathed in cold air on her tongue, trying to get the taste off. Then she hurried up the stairs before some other wise guy started something.

As she walked in the door, it suddenly occurred to her that the alcohol on her breath would be terribly suspicious. Of all the times in the world to smell from whiskey, this was not one of them.

Her mother was sitting in the bedroom darning a sock, her eyes squinting in the yellow light. The time was almost midnight and the woman had no business being awake when she had to get Mike off so early in the morning. But she had taken to sleeping less and less. The company of her thoughts did not lend itself to the luxury of sleep.

Paula said hello, knowing she would get hardly any response in return.

She went to her own room and dropped in the bed. Well, if that's how things were going to be, it was a darned good idea to leave. At least with Byrne there was some hope, some possibility of happiness.

Mike had borrowed her alarm clock and she heard its ticking in his room. He got up before she did and managed to do a few chores before going to school. Her importance, almost her existence, in the household was being ignored, overlooked.

She felt sometimes that Ma and Mike were conspiring against her in some way.

Like a protective veil, Paula pulled around her thoughts of Byrne and how Byrne needed her, wanted her. In her imagination she put Byrne's arms about her body and went to sleep with her head on Byrne's shoulder

Paula went to work the next day, debating with herself whether or not to give them two weeks notice. Maybe it would be smarter not to be so hasty about quitting. She went to the personnel manager's office, driven by the thought of having all day, every day, to be with Byrne.

That evening, when the phone rang, Paula let Mike answer it.

"For you," he said, putting the receiver down.

She wanted the whole family to know this was Phil's aunt—and his idea. "Who is it? she asked Mike, hoping that Byrne had given her name.

"It's Phil," Mike replied, a little put out that Phil didn't want to speak with him.

"Oh." Disappointed, she went to the phone. Phil's voice held traces of embarrassment as he asked her to go out with him tonight. Paula knew the reason he had found the courage to phone because of what Byrne had said to him. No, she wouldn't go out with him. She was sorry, but she just didn't feel like it right now. Maybe some other time.

Impatiently she waited for Byrne to call. Maybe she had tried when the line was busy. Paula fidgeted nervously about the house. She pulled out the drawers of the bureau in her room and decided which of her clothes were good enough to bother packing. They all seemed so old or so unsophisticated compared with Byrne's wardrobe. Thank heaven, Byrne hadn't judged by appearances.

When the phone rang again, she made herself stay in the bedroom until Mike answered. "You again," he called, with an edge of annoyance in his voice.

Paula couldn't risk asking him any questions; she didn't want Byrne on the other end to hear any coldness in Mike's tone.

Byrne's voice on the telephone was richer and deeper than in person. The sound was as soothing as music. They spoke about nothing in particular until Byrne, with amusement, invited Paula to come down for a drawing lesson. Just as formally, Paula accepted.

The comfort of having an excuse to go to Byrne made Paula feel wonderful. She almost wished that her mother would ask her where she was going, because to volunteer that information after all those times of running out without a word would sound too phony.

But nobody asked.

She raced down to Byrne and the two of them collapsed with laughter into each other's arms.

"Poor Phil," Paula said, feeling sorry for him even while they laughed.

On the couch Paula put her head in Byrne's lap, kicked off her shoes and lifted her feet on the cushions.

"You know," Byrne said, playing with a strand of Paula's hair. "The more I see of you, the more I realize how much time I've wasted. You make life such a bright, sparkling thing, my darling. I'd forgotten that love could be this way."

Paula took Byrne's hand and brought it to her lips. If she could only keep Byrne like this, so relaxed, so content. Her thoughts drifted into lands of pleasure.

"Will you do something for me?" Paula said, still holding the long fingers.

"You know I will."

"Anything?" Paula asked cautiously.

"Anything."

"Will you do a portrait of me? I don't mean something elaborate. Just a pencil sketch."

Byrne's good humor was indestructible. She bent over and kissed the tip of Paula's nose. "All right, little shrewdy. I don't know what you're getting at, but I'm willing to find out."

Paula just grinned broadly.

"When would you like to begin this masterpiece?"

"Why not now?" Paula suggested. She did not want to let this mood slip by.

"All right. But don't expect too much. I'm not sure I even remember how to hold a pencil."

Paula jumped up quickly and went to get the sketch pads. She set everything in position for Byrne and perched herself on the arm of the couch, much as Byrne had once sat there. She didn't take off her clothes, because she wanted Byrne to do her face only, this time.

Byrne stood before the easel and made a few preliminary strokes, getting the feel of the pencil, the feel of mastering her craft once again.

Paula sat patiently, glad to have this reason to watch Byrne uninterrupted. The woman worked slowly at first, as though finding her way along an unfamiliar path. Her eyelids drooped slightly as she considered the angles and shadows of Paula's face. Once, she pushed up her shirt sleeve impatiently as though nothing in the world should interfere between her hands and the creation.

Time went by and gradually faster she worked, with increasing certainty. Byrne's concentration narrowed to a fine point like flame that burned its mark on the paper before her. Standing thus before the easel was for Byrne a perfect setting. The pencil seemed an extension of her arm. Planted firmly on both feet, her very being grew stronger, almost taller. Paula knew she had done the right, the perfect thing to steer Byrne back to her art.

"That's enough for now," Byrne said at last. She put the pencil into her shirt pocket and wiped her forehead with her arm "We won't have time for anything else if I keep this up." She smiled mischievously.

"Okay," Paula said and stretched the muscles in her neck. "Can I look at it?"

"Wait till it's finished."

She took Paula by the shoulders and steered her into the bedroom. When she had undressed the girl, Byrne massaged her neck, shoulders, back muscles. "You're a very good model," she said. "We must do this more often."

“I’d love it" Paula responded, her words muffled by the pillow pressing against her face.

Soon Byrne's hands turned Paula over and she drew the woman down into her embrace.

After midnight they lay finally still in the warm darkness, quietly smoking.

"I wish you could stay with me tonight" Byrne said, exhaling a stream of smoke into the silence.

"Then I will," Paula answered.

"No, it's just a whim of mine. I don't think it would be wise to upset your family. They expect you home, I'm sure. We can wait until you've made the proper arrangements."

"Let me tell you something," Paula said, and she couldn't keep the bitterness out of her voice. "My family doesn't give a damn where I go or what I do. When I stopped sitting around the house like a faithful dog, they practically disowned me."

Byrne stubbed out her cigarette and put Paula's into the ashtray. "Poor darling," she murmured, moving closer to her. "It's awfully hard breaking family ties, I know. But try not to be too harsh with them. You know I'll do everything I can to fill the gap for you."

Paula squeezed her close. "You're more important to me than a hundred families. Don't feel sorry for me. Not when I have you. Besides, I’ll be here permanently this weekend and they'll never bother me again." Paula heard her own words and they seemed too good to be true.

* * *

When Paula finally left for the evening, Byrne did not go to sleep. She went into the living room and stared for a long time at the unfinished portrait. Incredible that this mere wisp of a child could make her return to something she had forsworn so long ago. Her old habit of cynicism tried to laugh it off. Yet the evidence stood clearly on paper. Could it really be, after all these years?

Loyalty to Greta rebelled against the new pleasure and self-knowledge.

How can I be so naive as to think there is still a chance for me? She's just a fling, Byrne thought. I'm kidding myself to take it seriously. But why did I ask her to come live with me? I can have her on any terms I want. What's with me, that I should be looking forward to having that colt rollicking through this apartment? Loneliness. It's just plain everyday loneliness. Pull the wool down for a few weeks.

Disturbed with strange conflict, Byrne went to the bar and poured herself a drink. The stream of her thoughts went on.

But if I'm playing a game with her, why am I sitting here worrying about it? This isn't like you, old girl. How many women have you gone through since Greta went off the deep end? You didn't really think twice about them. And how glad they were to get away when you let them find out how things stood. So this, too, must be only a pause. Then why are you so eager? Why are you looking forward with a pounding heart? Is it perhaps that you really...

Throughout the quiet hours she battled with herself. But what use was intellect against a creature who had already paved her way to Byrne's emotions?

As the first spray of dawn warmed the sky, Byrne knew that she must face Greta. How could she tell her? What could she impress upon a mind that had withdrawn so far from the ordeal of living? And yet, in all fairness to both of the women she loved, she had to do something once and for all that was decisive,

Byrne went to the bathroom and scrubbed her face as if to wash away the last fifteen years of semi-living. Had it really been that long? Had the precious time slipped by her this quickly? But there had not been until now a Paula to make time so important.

In a clean pair of slacks and a camel's hair coat, Byrne slipped out of the house. The sudden desire to be free of Greta urged her to action. Small nudges of guilt turned inside in their familiar attempt to imprison her but she thrust them aside. For Paula's sake and for her own, she had to try, now, to be a whole person.

The cab took her swiftly uptown in the emptiness of early morning streets. Memories of Greta thrust themselves into her consciousness.

How wonderful it had all been at the beginning. That delightful innocence of first passion. Yet it had been more than passion. It had been a whole entanglement of families that flung Greta and herself together.

As the cab whined along the street, Byrne could almost hear her mother saying: "Greta is coming to help you with your arithmetic."

* * *

Greta helped Byrne with homework or stayed with her when Mother went visiting at night or took her to the beach or helped her select a new pair of shoes because Mother never had the time to do any of these things. What good fortune—thought both families—their girls got along so nicely and didn't bother with boys.

They had indeed made a private island of their friendship into which no one could intrude. And little by little, Byrne found excuses to sleep downstairs or Greta found reasons to stay with Byrne all night. They would be together under the covers and tell each other stories, aware only of the joy each found in the other's company. And then another awareness intruded.

So simply and without question Greta had leaned over one rainy night and taken Byrne's hand to quiet her fright at the jagged flashes and vibrating thunder. The storm and that hand tore open their need, spilling each into the arms of the other.

Neither one had said, "I love you."

Why did they need words or promises when there could be nothing to threaten them? The fulfillment of their bodies seemed only one more act among the thousands of acts that united them. When Byrne kissed Greta's hair, it was no different from a peck on the cheek that she might have given her at midday.

If Greta had known others thought this wrong, she had never mentioned it. No words of caution did she give Byrne, Perhaps she had not wanted to foul their beautiful dream by admitting a world that would condemn and separate. Or perhaps Greta herself did not fully realize the meaning of their closeness. And Greta could do no wrong.

The goddess who painted like an angel and who knew all the answers to Byrne's young questions of life could only be worshipped. The heaven of their bodies' union seemed only one more proof that she was truly a goddess.

Byrne could not contain her feelings and had tried to convey to her mother the beauty of Greta's kiss.

And, to Byrne's surprise, her mother had whirled, cheeks crimson with outrage, and grasped Byrne firmly by the shoulders.

"What are you saying?"

Byrne thought her mother had misunderstood. With youthful desire to share her joy, she explained in lingering detail what happened those nights when she slept with Greta.

"Disgusting animal!" The old-fashioned collar quivered at her mother's throat

Too late Byrne realized that she must have said something wrong. But what? The sneer and revulsion in her mother's eyes made Byrne leap blindly to Greta's defense. Whatever must be bad, she had to protect-Greta from it

"But you don't understand," Byrne stammered, not understanding herself what it could be that made her mother dig fingers into her shoulder as if to tear the skin off her skeleton.