Three Women. March Hastings

up the steps, watching the window in case Byrne might appear. She needed both thumbs to push the door latch down and she slipped quickly inside, closing the door carefully so it wouldn’t bang.

      A puddle formed around her shoes and gradually the heat of indoors thawed her fingers. She pushed the scarf back off her head so that her ears would be free to hear any sound behind the door. So close. So close.

      It might have been five minutes, it might have been a half hour that she waited, smiling crazily at the knocker, dizzily scared that Byrne might come out and find her. Footsteps came down the staircase. An old gentleman in rimless glasses looked at her with questioning eyes. He tipped his hat.

      “May I help you?” he said.

      “No, thank you,” she answered quickly, “I’m just waiting for someone.”

      “I see.” He smiled and went out.

      But that did it. The man had hardly closed the door when Byrne’s door opened. She poked her head out and saw Paula.

      “Voices carry around here,” she said around a black cigarette holder clamped between her teeth. She didn’t seem so much surprised as amused. “If you’re waiting for someone,” a glint of mockery flicked in her eyes, “you’ll be a little more comfortable waiting in here.”

      Paula’s heart dropped right down to her stomach. She didn’t move. Mixtures of horror and joy scrambled inside her.

      “Well, come in before we both freeze to death.” Byrne leaned into the hall and pulled the girl back into her apartment.

      Unlike yesterday’s neatness, the room was full of half empty coffee cups. They littered the floor, the table, the book shelf. And Byrne wore a striped shirt, the sleeves rolled past the elbow, with the same charcoal slacks and sandals.

      “My God, you’re an ice cube. Have you been out there all night?” Indulgence tempered her irony.

      Paula laughed suddenly at her own foolishness. It’s so simple, she thought. I’m here! And there was not the slightest feeling of intrusion.

      “Well, if you can’t talk, perhaps you can take off those wet things.”

      Submissively Paula removed her coat and dropped herself on the couch. She felt light with happiness, not caring if Byrne thought she were a fool.

      “At least you’re not making excuses. Take off your shoes while I get you some hot coffee.”

      Paula watched her stoop to the automatic percolator plugged in beside the wall lamp. She liked the starkness of Byrne today. It made the grace of her body and movements more apparent by contrast.

      “I hate to wash cups,” Byrne chatted with offhand friendliness. “We have three more to go before it’s necessary.”

      “Don’t waste a clean one,” Paula said. “Please just fill that one there.”

      “Child, how can you be so natural?”

      Paula leaned back on the couch and devoured the beautiful thing that was Byrne. “I guess I can’t help it.”

      Byrne filled one of the used cups and brought it over. “No, I guess you can’t.”

      Paula took the steaming cupful and sipped from it. She really didn’t know why Byrne thought it was so natural to drink from a used cup. But the thought that Byrne noticed it, had held it, had touched it to her own lips, made Paula lazily linger with her tongue over the rim.

      Byrne sat on the edge of the couch and unlaced Paula’s shoes. She dropped them to the floor and massaged the cold feet. “If you die of pneumonia, Phil will never forgive me.”

      She abandoned herself to Byrne’s attentions, hoping her feet would stay cold forever so that the warm strong fingers would always be touching her. “He doesn’t know I’m here,” she sighed. “Nobody knows.”

      “Do you like secrets? I wouldn’t have thought so.”

      Paula didn’t know how to explain that this wasn’t a secret, exactly. It was more precious than a secret, this day. It was like a delicate infant that she didn’t want strangers to breathe on. She put the cup down on the floor and surrendered to a drowsiness that flowed upward from Byrne’s moving fingers.

      “Byrne,” she said, “Byrne, tell me why I’m here.”

      Abruptly the woman released Paula’s feet. She ran her fingers in the familiar gesture through the back of her hair and moved away from the couch. She stood looking down at Paula and Paula had the odd sensation of being measured for an unknown role.

      “It’s not important,” Byrne said casually and brought a flaring match to meet her cigarette.

      “Isn’t it?”

      “No. You are simply growing up. Remember how important your breasts were when you first noticed them? Now they’re something you take for granted. They don’t rule you.”

      Paula didn’t understand. But if Byrne said it wasn’t important, she would have to believe her. And yet a peculiar substance seemed to hang in the room, as though a voice were speaking not quite loud enough to be heard.

      “Maybe I’m here because I want to paint,” she mused, wanting to capture and to understand. “I never realized that a woman’s body could be so inspiring.” She looked up at the picture. “Will you show me how?”

      “Why not? I think there are some sketch pads in the bedroom,” Byrne answered with almost scientific directness, “if you’d like your first lesson now.”

      Paula heard her rummaging through drawers. She wondered what kind of bed Byrne slept in. Did she sleep alone? The accomplishment of being here gave Paula courage. She got up and went to see what the room where Byrne spent her nights was like.

      She leaned against the doorway and saw a strange-looking double bed. The mahogany headboard rose elaborately into carved angels and rosebuds. It didn’t look as if it should be Byrne’s bed. It seemed more the kind of thing that grandparents slept in. Byrne, reaching to a top shelf in the closet, did not notice Paula’s inspection. Nor did she see the girl approach the cigarette box on the dressing table.

      Paula looked at it curiously. A woman’s photograph had been inserted in the center and covered by a curving glass that magnified the face. A face that pouted sadly, with delicate, unpainted lips trying a smile for the camera. The blonde hair, so blonde that it looked white, came in wisps of bangs over the forehead. The eyes seemed to dream of distant visions. Paula didn’t like the face. It held a sense of evil, and frightened her.

      “Here it is,” Byrne said, stepping back from the closet and dusting off a spiral pad. “What’s the matter?”

      “Who is this?” Paula’s voice was hardly audible.

      “Oh, what do you care. Is there a pencil on the dresser top?”

      But Paula couldn’t take her eyes away from the face. It held her with its almost innocent wickedness.

      “Since you must know, she is the artist you so much admired. But don’t let it upset you. That picture was taken many years ago. She’s even older than I am.”

      Paula whirled. “You’re not old. I wish you would stop saying that. You’re young and you’ll stay that way until the end — until the end of the earth. Only sick people get old. And poor miserable creatures who want to run away from what they are!”

      Byrne examined her with mixed concern and enjoyment. Laugh lines wrinkled into the freckles across her nose. “One would never guess you had it in you,” she said. “Now will you forget that picture and let’s get down to business?”

      For the first time, Paula realized how rude she was being. Her cheeks warmed and she dropped her glance to the carpet. “I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t have come in here.”

      “Never mind. You’re a person who has to discover things the hard way.