Three Women. March Hastings

Phil helped her off with her coat and threw it on the low modern chair that stood near the window.

      The huge living room was sparsely but comfortably furnished with simple things that gave Paula the feeling of easy living, easily acquired.

      As Byrne motioned her to a chair, she noted a heavy gold ring on the fourth finger of her right hand. It was an ornate ring, without stones, almost like a wedding band. The fingertips shone with colorless polish.

      “Has it been two years, Phil?” she said. “Or more? I seem to have forgotten that my nephew is this much of a man.” She stood beneath a large oil painting, with one arm leaning on a shelf of books. The white silk shirt fell in graceful folds down the long curve of her torso. Charcoal slacks picked up the line of her hips and carried the design of her body down to thonged sandals.

      “Quit kidding,” Phil laughed nervously. Paula could tell he was nervous because of the quick way he was breathing. He put his hands in his pockets and jangled the keys as he walked around the mosaic coffee table, sat down on the edge of a chair, got up again. “We saw each other at Frankie’s wedding last year. And I haven’t changed at all since then. Except maybe something has been added, at that.” He winked at Paula.

      Paula nodded, wondering why Phil was acting like such a child before this sophisticated woman.

      Byrne tilted her head and gazed steadily at Paula. “You added wisely,” she replied. “I congratulate you.”

      Desperately Paula wanted a cigarette. Her palms were perspiring. She felt sweat coming off on the material of her purse, but if she moved her hands, a dark stain would be noticeable and Byrne would see how ill at ease she really was.

      Paula wanted to say something complimentary in return. She couldn’t just sit there forever, like an idiot.

      “You have a lovely home,” she managed. “I think that’s a beautiful painting.” She nodded toward the nude figure of a woman seated on a plush stool. The back of the woman faced out and the light illuminated the lines of her shoulders and the curve of her back till the eye came to rest on the fullness of her buttocks. Paula had never realized before that a woman could look good from the rear like that. This one was beautiful.

      “Byrne painted that herself,” Phil said.

      “No. As a matter of fact, I didn’t.” She moved her hand up through the back of her hair and Paula caught the glint of fuzz on her neck. It made her shiver oddly. “I haven’t lifted a brush for too long. That one is the gift of a student and friend.”

      “I’m sorry,” Paula said before she could stop herself.

      Byrne turned full around and examined her curiously. The reddish eyebrows were so even and regular and lay so flat that they looked darker. “Sorry? For heaven’s sake, why, child?”

      The word “child” made Paula’s throat tighten but she went on, a little flustered. “Because people who do something that they enjoy can’t be too happy when they stop.” She clutched her purse and bravely held her glance directly on Byrne.

      She saw the woman’s lips part just the smallest bit as though she were about to question further. But evidently she thought better of it and the mouth spread into an appreciative smile.

      Phil said, “Don’t tangle with Paula. She was the champion drawer in senior class. She may even be a frustrated artist, for all I know.”

      “Do you paint, Paula?”

      “No.” She dropped her glance to the sandals, wishing she hadn’t brought up the topic.

      Byrne persisted, “Why not?”

      “Oh, she’s got better things to do,” Phil put in.

      “Why don’t you paint?” Byrne seemed not to have heard him.

      “Oh, I’m not that good.” She tried to pass it off. “Doodling is more my speed, I guess.”

      “And I keep her pretty busy, you know. Paula is a serious type. She’s not going to be one of those Bohemian mothers in dungarees and neglected kids.”

      Paula knew he was edging in to talk about the store and she hoped Byrne would let him get to the topic. She didn’t know how to handle herself with this woman — Byrne paid attention to her as though she, Paula, were the important individual instead of Phil. She felt flattered by the woman’s interest but couldn’t explain it to herself. Why should she care if I paint? Why does she look at me and not at my clothes? A weird feeling rose in her and brought with it vague longings always resting somewhere dark and unheard. If only she could run away before Byrne saw too deeply. But she knew it was too late and that really, she didn’t want to run at all. She wanted to stay and let Byrne go somehow deeper, deeper until she could tell Paula what herself really was.

      Phil lit his third cigarette and was motioning through the air with great display of self-confidence. “Paula isn’t one of those hare-brained beauties you see every day. She’s the kind who helps a man make his way in the world.”

      “I understand,” Byrne said, patting Phil’s shoulder to tell him without words that he could stop raving now. “What say we drink to making one’s way in the world?” She found three highball glasses in a cabinet built into the wall and put them on the table. “Scotch? Bourbon?” She looked at Paula. And Paula knew that Byrne knew she didn’t drink.

      “Scotch’ll be fine,” Paula said.

      Phil got ice and poured the drinks.

      Paula sipped at hers and didn’t like the bitter taste. Phil took long swallows, trying to fill himself with the strength to bring up his reason for being here.

      Byrne saved him the trouble. She settled herself into the couch and crossed her legs. “Now tell me, little nephew, what can I do for you? I don’t suppose you’re here to socialize with your ancient relative.”

      Paula thought: Ancient? You’ll be young forever.

      “Well, the truth is,” Phil eased his way slowly, “I could use a little help if you want to give it.”

      “Of course.”

      “There’s this paint store on the corner of Third Avenue in the Seventies. Mueller’s. Maybe you’ve heard of it. They advertise in the buses.”

      “I don’t ride buses.”

      “Anyway, it’s a real good thing, this store. Busy, large. And it’s established. I have a chance to buy a partnership because one of the men is selling out and his son happens to be a friend of mine. If I could get in there …”

      “What do you know about the business?”

      “What’s there to know?”

      Paula hoped he would say something that sounded smart. She didn’t like the way he was appealing to Byrne. As though she were the man and he a child — that’s how he sounded.

      “Assuming there isn’t anything to know, how much do you need?”

      He took a long breath. “Ten grand.” Putting his tongue in his cheek and making it bulge, he watched to see how she would react.

      “That’s a lot of money for you, my boy.”

      “I’ll be able to pay it back. You’ll get a part of it every six months.”

      “That’s not the point.” She set the half empty glass on her knee. “I simply hope that you’ve chosen wisely. That size investment will make a responsible citizen of you overnight. Are you sure you want to sell paint for a living?”

      “I can’t be a crumby mechanic’s helper all my life,” he blurted. “This is the kind of opportunity that gives a man a chance to be something. Get himself away from those lousy tenements.”

      “And give him a chance to raise a decent family,” Byrne added, glancing at Paula.

      “Right!”

      “Oh,