Three Women (14 page)

Uncle John said some combination of magic words that calmed his wife's annoyance, but Byrne did not hear him speak. She could concentrate only on Greta. With a sudden burst of enthusiasm, she rushed out of the chair and over to her darling, wanting to fight her way past that unfamiliar curtain and back into the loveliness and warmth that had always been her Greta.

But Greta smiled stiffly, as though she were meeting Byrne for the first time.

"I'm getting married," she said in a voice that seemed to float over Byrne's head.

"Yes, I know," Byrne tried to be enthusiastic. "That's wonderful. And I'm going to get married too." She smiled encouragingly, hoping that Greta would change back into her old self, that she would reach out with the familiar tenderness and laugh softly with her.

Aunt Nell started to say something calculated to bite at Byrne, but her husband managed to lead her away into the parlor. Byrne was alone with Greta at last.

The two girls looked at each other wordlessly, though Byrne felt that she had a million things to say all at once.

"Greta, darling, it was all my fault" she whispered. "I didn't mean to do you any harm."

"Your fault?" Greta repeated. "I'm older than you are. You didn't know what you were doing, but I did." She couldn't seem to look at Byrne directly. Her gaze sought fugitive places up on the ceiling or over at the sink.

"But what did we do, Greta, that was so terrible?" Byrne insisted, aching to reach out and have Greta take her hand.

But Greta clasped her hands tightly together. "We sinned," she murmured without strength. "I wanted to protect you and I led you into the path of damnation instead."

"What are you talking about?" Byrne said. She recognized Greta's words as only an echo of her Aunt Nell. How could Greta believe that anything as wonderful as what they had done would be sin?

But Greta's mind roamed far away from any argument Byrne might have to offer. She seemed to have opened the door and stepped into an unreachable place where Byrne could not follow. Byrne felt an inkling of fear, for the first time. Not for herself and not because of the thing that was supposed to be sin. Yet that fear crawled along under the surface of her skin and made her cold. This Greta was not the Greta she had known two months before. Byrne didn't know what the difference as; all she could see and understand was that something terrible closed Greta away from her. And Byrne knew it was all her own fault.

* * *

The marriage took place quickly. Everybody seemed anxious to have it occur as quickly as possible. When the wedding ring was securely on Greta's finger, the restrictions that had prevented Byrne from seeing her beloved were relaxed.

Of course she was living in the country now and Byrne could get away to see her only on weekends. But now it was merely a question of patience. She went out with the other Regan boy, the thinner one. She dressed nicely and did everything to please him, hoping that he would ask her to marry him.

And she watched Greta to see what it was like to be a good housewife. Greta seemed to take on the chore without difficulty. She cleaned her new house and baked cakes and seemed to float around as if nothing touched her. Byrne prayed for that far away feeling to disappear, but instead it seemed to be getting worse. Greta hardly laughed any more. When something pleased her, an odd smile would flit across her lips, and that was all. And one day Byrne realized that the unfamiliar odor surrounding Greta was the smell of whiskey.

They never talked about the same things any more either. Uneasily, Byrne began to think that maybe Greta hated her.

One Saturday, when Greta's husband had gone to town for the week's shopping, Byrne confronted her.

"I've got to know the truth," she pleaded. She had taken Greta into the living room and forced her to sit down on the couch and give complete attention.

"I've got to know," Byrne choked, "how you feel about me."

She waited for the dread words to fall on her ears. Greta said, “I’m very thirsty, dear. Can't I have a drink first?"

Impatiently Byrne got out the bottle and filled two glasses. She watched with unhappiness as Greta emptied hers and refilled it two more times.

"Don't you want to tell me?" Byrne said. "Anything would be better than this not knowing. Do you hate me for what I've done? Do you?"

Greta put down her glass. She seemed to be mustering all the forces that had scattered inside her.

"I love you, darling," she whispered. "There is nothing in this world that means anything to me except you."

Thankfully Byrne relaxed against the over-stuffed sofa. "And I adore you. Worship you."

Before either of them knew what had happened, they were in each other's embrace, kissing away the tortured months that had kept them apart.

It did not seem strange to Byrne that they made love in hurried intervals. She was grateful for Greta's kisses whenever she could get them. By now the textbooks in the library had revealed to her the meaning of their feelings, and she realized too that Greta had gotten married as a protection against the evil name that went with their land of loving.

Still Byrne knew that she had committed irreparable damage. Though Greta responded and showed her the ecstasy that Byrne had come to expect, she did not show any exuberance or even the suggestion of happiness at other times. Only when they -were in each other's arms did she seem to come alive.

Greta began to bulge out of her clothes, not seeming to

care about her appearance anymore. The silken mane hung in tangled masses around the housedress that gaped open at the tight buttons. The grace and the beauty that had been Greta decayed. Her carelessness began to spread through the house, too. Empty whiskey bottles rolled beneath the furniture. Byrne began to sense in herself an outrageous feeling of shame that she struggled vainly to subdue. And to hear Isaac Regan grumble about his wife's sloppiness hurt Byrne.

She tried to tell herself that Greta was bored with living so far away in the country. So Byrne brought her drawing equipment in the hope of reviving the dull spirits.

And Greta did begin to draw. She filled pages and pages with strange heads as though she were trying to loosen from within herself an anguish that .could find no words. As the months drew into a year, Greta stopped doing anything else except painting and the drinking. She carried a full glass of whiskey with her almost constantly and sometimes Byrne argued with her about it, only to hear Greta laugh a strange laugh that made no sense.

The biggest shock of all came when Byrne entered the house one day to discover Greta in the process of cutting off all her hair.

She sat, not before a mirror, but in the kitchen, snipping at the back of her head and making jagged scars in the beautiful thick blonde hair.

Horrified, Byrne snatched the scissors away from her. But it was too late. As Greta looked up at her in mute helplessness, Byrne realized for the first time how much damage Greta had actually done to herself. Not just the hair. The smooth complexion had lost all its old rosiness, and the fine line of jaw had begun to sag into a slovenly mass of flesh. Byrne felt sick. She put the scissors back into the drawer and tried to ward off the depression that pressed into her mind.

She loved Greta. She would always love Greta. A fierce loyalty bound her to this poor woman whom she had so innocently betrayed. If it weren't for her own stupidity, Greta would not be suffering so. If Byrne had not interfered, Greta would be in New York, making a name for herself in the world of art, living a rich existence, full of the happiness of accomplishment. Byrne alone was responsible for the destruction of this once wonderful being, and she must stay with her. At the least, she could help fend off people's inevitable accusing looks and degrading words—cutting, painful words that even Isaac never ceased to say.

By the time Byrne graduated from high school, Isaac had started divorce proceedings.

Byrne shared the shame, and it seared through her pride. But at the same time, she was glad. Isaac was willing to give Greta a great deal of money if she would not fight the separation, and she could go to New York. Byrne would live with her there. She was eighteen now, and at last no one in the world could stop her from doing what she wanted. And maybe, if they lived together, away from reminders of blame and guilt, Greta would regain her health.

What encouraged Byrne most of all was Greta's desire to live with her. In the midst of her detachment and withdrawn isolation, this one last remnant of enthusiasm still appeared.

And so Byrne had an apartment all ready by the time Greta's divorce came through.

Since there was no problem of money, Byrne had all the time in the world to lavish on her beloved.

After breakfast, she would say, "Let's take a ride up to Bear Mountain."

But Greta would sit in the armchair and hug her knees up to her chest. She stared out the window at nothing in particular, just far away.

"Well, how about the zoo?"

Whatever Byrne suggested met with no response. With a sigh, Byrne would pick up a book and try to get interested.

Only at night did Greta seem to come alive. When they had climbed into bed, she would fling herself on Byrne and passionately dig her teeth into the soft flesh of her girl's belly. And Byrne, mistaking this for ecstasy, 'thrilled to the pain at first. Yet she could not bring herself to treat Greta with anything except gentleness. They would spend almost all of the night in love-making. Nothing seemed to satisfy Greta. Content to sleep during the day, her energies focused in wild excitement when she held Byrne within naked reach. And Byrne accepted this kind of lovemaking, not daring to admit even to herself that it did not satisfy her, that it left her feeling base and without gladness.

But she could recognize that lolling around the house all day drained her energies into a pool of boredom. She needed to do other things besides sketch. The world sat outside on her doorstep, waiting to be explored. She ached to experience it. Nothing she could say or do excited Greta into wanting to share this with her.

After a while Byrne took to going to the movies by herself. If it were a comedy she would sit in the darkness laughing to herself, terribly aware of having no one to share the fun.

One evening Byrne came home to find Greta huddled in a comer, staring up at her like an angry animal.

"But you said I could go," Byrne protested.

Without a word Greta leaped at her. She pounced upon Byrne with surprising agility for a woman of her weight Byrne could not protect herself without hurting Greta. She crossed her forearms in front of her face and let Greta's fists pound and the nails claw until the woman was out of breath.

"You don't love me," Greta panted in a furious whisper.

"Of course I do," she lowered her arms and sought Greta's eyes. They looked beyond Byrne and seemed to be speaking to someone far away. Tears rose and welled over on Byrne's cheeks. She could no longer deny to herself that Greta's mind was unbalanced.

But Greta did not become increasingly worse. True, she began to insist that she felt stupid in a dress, yet she would occasionally go out for a walk with Byrne or listen to the radio. She made just enough conversation to permit Byrne to believe that she didn't need to be hospitalized.

And, of course, there were her magnificent paintings. She would sometimes look at Byrne's work and, with rapid short sentences, would show her exactly what was wrong. Then and only then would Byrne feel a glimmer of the once sharp intelligence.

So Byrne continued to live this weird existence of alternating hope and loneliness. She didn't question that there could be such a thing as real companionship for her. But Greta was her first responsibility, especially now that a psychiatrist had diagnosed her-case as incurable.

Their apartment became for Byrne a chamber of horrors. Two Chinese lamps that she had bought were long since smashed in one of Greta's fits. Deep holes in the plaster reminded her of the violence always lying dormant, even when the two of them were sitting quietly watching television.

It never occurred to Byrne that she should have a separate apartment where she could be alone occasionally and pull her battered spirits together. The idea came very innocently one day when a young girl in the supermarket started to talk to her.

They were both pushing carts along the frozen foods counter when the girl picked up a package of deviled crabs and said to Byrne, "Gee, I wonder if this brand is any good. Have you ever used it?"

Byrne looked at the dark curling hair and the bright vivacious eyes and felt an almost overwhelming desire just to make ordinary conversation with an ordinary person.

"I've used them many times," Byrne said eagerly. "The trick is to get them good and brown." She wished she could invite her over and show her how to prepare them.

The girl thanked her and strolled on, leaving Byrne to realize more strongly than ever how impossible it would be to make friends with anybody because of Greta's condition.

She began to look in the "apartments for rent" column, hardly realizing her own motives.

Greta had taken to sleeping more than ever. Whole days slipped by, lost to her. Soon Byrne rented a place on Eleventh Street, knowing that if she did not get away, her own sanity might be threatened too.

From this it was only a small step to having visitors. Casual friends at first, who chatted about current events. Then gradually, a woman whom Byrne would take into her arms, forgetting her past for a moment, ignoring the anchor that dragged at her heart.

How many women passed in and out of her life like this? Byrne always managed to let them know she could give nothing permanent. Susan... Phyllis... Rachel...

They all came and went like sea shells rolling up on a beach and then sliding back into the ocean again…

* * *

Byrne had not expected ever to meet anyone like Paula. But when she did, her safely sealed heart knocked against the doors of its prison, demanding to be freed.

No one had insisted the way Paula insisted on the right to her loving. And Byrne, for all her responsibilities and loyalties to Greta, had succumbed.