Three Women. March Hastings

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      “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

      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 СКАЧАТЬ