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Wildly she thought: I’ll go with him. I’ll give him everything he wants. I’ll make him happy because I love him and need him.
He swung the car around and stepped hard on the gas. With a free hand he switched on the radio but static jumbled the music and he turned it off again.
They reached Jack’s place. Wordlessly she followed him up the musty hallway to the furnished room. Phil got the key from the ledge above the door and let them in.
He kicked the door closed and, standing in the darkness, grabbed her in his arms. She heard the soft thud as one of Jack’s cats leaped off the radiator to the floor. Phil reached under her coat and pulled her to him. His hands were warm to her flesh. Her senses began to swim and she released the mounting desire she felt. Her body went limp against the insistent force of his needing. He lifted her up, carried her to the bed, and gently put her down. She felt the weight of his body on her own and soon the touch of his flesh against hers.
“I love you,” she murmured. “Love you … love … you.”
Her words merged with passion and the silent darkness was soon witness to their union.
2 (#ulink_0366d13c-c007-547a-9892-87ca5b2e6f16)
In her own bed at last, Paula tossed fitfully, yearning for a sleep that would not come. It’s all right, she kept insisting. It’s all right because we’re getting married. But it wasn’t what she and Phil had done together that made her anxious. It was the insistent thought that soon she would have a husband, then children, and the routine of life would be carved out for her, leaving her nothing she could do to change it.
Just early yesterday, there had been nothing in the world more wonderful than to be Mrs. Carson. Suddenly it had become important to discover who she — Paula Temple — really was. Her life, her individual self, seemed terribly precious now. Could she paint? Could she dare to be ambitious for an existence different from being Phil’s wife? If Byrne hadn’t looked at her like that, if Byrne hadn’t said with her eyes that Paula Temple might be a person worth considering …
Byrne must have seen plenty of people in her time. She couldn’t have looked at all of them the way she had looked at Paula.
The night dragged on. Paula sought refuge in far off stars that glittered in the eternity of the black heavens. If only she had one particle of the time those stars seemed to have!
No, she had to think of Phil.
She would be crazy not to marry him. How could you love a man one day and the next day want to run madly around the world without him? Marriage had suddenly become a trap. And that was foolish. A woman was made to get married and bear her husband’s children. That was maturity, that was being an adult. The rest of life was child’s play.
Then I’m a child, her mind screamed. I don’t want to get married. Not yet! Not yet! I’m just beginning to live.
Once again, Paula saw those slanting eyes that ever changed color and meaning as you looked at them.
Dawn crept in. She heard Mike stir and his pillow fall to the floor. She sighed, grateful to know that soon she could get out of bed and not be alone with her thoughts for a while. Phil would call her. What would she say to him? What could she say that he would understand? She didn’t understand herself what was driving her now.
Paula didn’t care. She would let whatever it was force her on until some knowledge came, until she found something that made sense out of this new and frightening fascination she had never felt before. And she understood that she could not marry Phil until that happened.
She waited until seven o’clock then got out of bed. She tiptoed into her parents’ room and put on her mother’s robe. If only she were a kid again and could sit in that warm, comforting lap. But Paula knew that this was one problem she must solve completely alone. She pulled the bathrobe tighter around her body, wishing that it could give her the wisdom that all mothers seemed to have.
In the kitchen she sat near the stove. The peacefulness of Sunday seemed to spread itself through the world. Families would sleep until late, then read the papers and watch television in the afternoon. Some would go to church, maybe to confess their troubles. Others would visit grandparents and stuff themselves on a hearty dinner. Oh, none of it was for her now. Not for her. If only she could rip off her skin and dig out the trouble. How good it would be not to think, not to fight, not to wonder.
Her father shuffled in on his way to the bathroom, sleep still heavy in his eyes. “You up?” he mumbled. “Fight with Phil?”
“No, Pa. Just up early.”
He closed the bathroom door. She heard him belch painfully.
I can’t sit here all day like this. I’ve got to get out. Then she thought once more of Phil calling. He would tell her folks about their getting married and everyone would worry about where she had gone. No, she had to stay home until he called.
One by one, Ma and Mike and Pa got up for the day. She listened to the yawning and the brushing of teeth while she sat on the hard wood of the chair.
By eleven o’clock she was washing the dishes, letting the water scald her hands and turn the skin red. She scrubbed the plates with all the bottled-up energy surging from inside her.
Mike, too skinny for his height, his shoulders stooping awkwardly, commented to her, “You’re a strange bird today.”
Paula didn’t answer.
Ma put on her grey Sunday dress and combed brilliantine through her hair that was supposed to smell of rose petals. “Leave your sister be,” she said with merciful intuition. She smiled anxiously at her daughter and told her not to bother drying. “They can drain,” she said, “if you have better things to do.”
“It’s all right, Ma. I’m all right.”
“Of course you are.”
She wished she could reassure her mother. Convince her that nothing was really wrong. But she wanted to throw her arms around that neck and cry and cry. “It’s really okay, Ma,” Paula insisted as she picked up the towel and started to dry. “Phil asked me to marry him last night. I guess I just don’t know.”
Gratefully she watched her mother’s concern relax.
“Baby,” she said and hugged Paula with relief. “My little baby.”
She felt her mother’s tears wet against her cheek and her own tears came furiously, burning from somewhere deep inside.
“What the hell’s goin’ on in here?” Mike’s disgust rang through the house.
“Oh, pipe down.” His father pushed him out. “Go build yourself a hot rod.”
“Aah, women!” He zipped up his jacket and slammed out of the apartment.
The old man wandered uncomfortably around the kitchen and pretended to interest himself in polishing his shoes. He brushed the tips with violent concentration.
Paula pulled herself away from her mother, aware of a throbbing in her temples. No use to cry. It solved nothing. With a paper napkin, she wiped her mother’s cheeks and then her own. “I really didn’t sleep much, you know. Maybe that’s why things look so big this morning. I’ll take an aspirin and go for a walk.”
Her father said, “You want company?”
“No, Pa, thanks. I just want to clear out this head.”
She found some aspirin in the medicine cabinet, bundled the scarf around her neck and pulled on her heavy mittens. She didn’t much care what she looked like, even if it was Sunday. “If Phil calls, tell him — Oh, tell him anything.”
She ran out and down the steps as if bursting out from under smothering blankets.
The dreary Sunday lay heavily on all the closed stores with their awnings flapping and whipping in the wind. She strode down Third Avenue, coat collar turned up, head bent into the wind. The grey sky, heavy with its burden of snow, stretched endlessly above her. She walked and walked, not thinking, not wanting to think, hoping perhaps she might outrun her crazy thoughts and return to the familiar nest of long-known living.
She knew where she was walking; her legs moved without her brain’s direction. I can’t go there, she thought. It’s nerve. It’s gall. I wasn’t invited. Her legs insisted, moving her block after block, seeming to gain energy and purpose as she progressed. When she had come twenty blocks to Forty Second Street, she forced herself to stop in the Woolworth doorway. If I knew her last name, she thought, I could look up her telephone. She went into a bar and searched for Byrne Carson. The name wasn’t listed.
Her legs drove her outside again. They stung with the cold, but the stinging felt good as a kind of match for her rushing turmoil. She wanted to speed, to fly, to dash herself against windows. Her lips were dry from breathing through her mouth, chapped and cracked. The restless fury she felt would not let her ride the bus or take a subway. She half-ran, half-walked to Fourteenth Street, not seeing, not caring, breathing rapid painful breaths, shaking with the pounding in her heart.
At Fourteenth Street she caught sight of herself in the window of a dress store. Tangled hair and burning red cheeks stared back at her. She realized that she was in her old worn coat. Her shoes were muddy with slush. Mixed relief and horror struck her. She can’t see me like this!
She had a ready-made excuse just to stand across the street from Byrne’s house and watch the window. Maybe she would come to fix a curtain. As Paula considered this, the idea became increasingly appealing. She hurried to Eleventh Street, practically convinced that she had an appointment to glimpse Byrne at the window.
When she spotted the house, her pace slowed. To see the building better she stayed on the opposite side of the street. At last she stood directly across, glutting herself with staring at the strange but so familiar door. A glow spread inside her as she realized that somewhere, right behind this thin piece of glass, was that golden hair splashed with fire — that vibrant voice that could laugh and softly caress at the same time. She leaned back against ice-covered bricks, feeling warm and touched with peace.
How long she stood, Paula didn’t know. Her eyes strained with a permanent watching of the window for fear that if she glanced away for even a second, she might miss the sight of Byrne. Perhaps she was reading, lying casually on the couch, her legs crossed on the cushions, a drink on the table beside her.
Paula’s coat had soaked in the wetness and a freezing bar of dampness cut across her back. She shivered. Her fingers inside the mittens had become stiff and she tried to move them to stir the circulation.
What would Byrne think if she happened to knock on her door?
If I don’t go all the way in, Paula thought, if I just stand inside the front door for awhile, she’ll never know. Still hesitating, she shifted her weight to the other foot. A prickling sensation ran through her toes. Her feet seemed like two blocks of wood on which she rocked, unable to sense the movement of walking. Yes, I’ll go inside, she thought. Maybe I’ll hear her voice on the telephone, or something.
With quick decision she stumbled across the street, moving clumsily on frozen limbs. She crept slowly 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. I’m only trying to make it a little easier for you if I can.”
