Three Women. March Hastings

the bookshelf and stood the pad on it.

      “Now, start with something simple. Try that percolator for instance.”

      Obediently, Paula sketched the percolator. She felt no shyness about drawing. The old confidence from school reflected in her fingers. She drew the picture large with generous shading. Then she drew a cup and saucer with the percolator. Byrne stood behind her, offering no comment.

      “Do I make your nervous if I watch?”

      “Oh, no. I like you near me.” Intent on her work, Paula hardly knew the meaning of what she said. Page after page she filled with chairs and trees and fruit bowls.

      Byrne finally said, “I wonder how well you sketch from life.”

      “I never did.”

      “Let’s try. I’ll be your model.”

      Without embarrassment, as though it were the most everyday thing in the world, Byrne unbuttoned her shirt and dropped it to the floor. Paula watched, speechless, as she unhooked her bra and tossed it aside. The girl’s sight traveled over the smooth shoulders and down the arms. Byrne perched herself on the arm of the couch and said, “All right, draw.” There was no hint of challenge in her voice. It was matter of fact and sensible.

      Paula clutched her pencil and stabbed grimly at the paper in front of her. The lines trembled as she drew them. She clenched her teeth, desperately trying to concentrate on the picture. Struggling for control, she managed neck and shoulders. With great detail, she drew the hands, the fingers crossed on the lap. She worked over the wrist bones half a dozen times to get them properly. Then up to the hollow in the throat. She examined her work and realized how ridiculous it looked. The middle was all blank. I can’t stare at her breasts like that, she thought. But I’ve got to. It means nothing. She expects me to do my best. Why am I acting like such a …

      Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to look at that forbidden area. The pencil froze in her hand. Imploringly, she searched Byrne’s face, but the expression there remained impersonal. At last she got the pencil to the paper and sketched a few quick lines to indicate the feminine softness. Perspiration beaded across her forehead as she forced the pencil on and on over the page.

      “All right,” she grunted. “I’ve finished now.”

      “Good.” Byrne hopped off the couch and strolled over, not bothering to put on her shirt again.

      Her nakedness loomed so close to Paula. The girl became dizzy and stepped backward. “Please,” she whispered, “put on your shirt.” She couldn’t bear looking at the body. But her eyes wouldn’t leave the incredible beauty of those twin shapes that to her seemed to be glowing in the lamplight.

      Byrne didn’t move to get her clothing. “It’s only art,” she murmured. “If you want to draw, you can’t be so personal.”

      Paula twisted away and stared at the wall. “Please,” she groaned. “Please.” She heard Byrne’s tongue click with impatience.

      “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.