Three Women (2 page)

The double rap sounded loudly on the door and startled her. She dropped the pencil, grabbed her best coat and ran out to greet Phil.

"Well, hi." His grin danced over the rugged face and brought out a dimple near the side of his mouth.

"Hi, yourself," she answered, standing with the coat on her arm so he could admire how the dress fit and outlined her body.

He took the coat and held it for her. The top of her head just about reached his shoulders, the kind of broad shoulders that made all his jackets look padded. She liked his bigness and the darkness of his skin. Phil was like a wall she felt she could stand behind whenever she was cold or afraid.

"Did you notice?" he said. "I'm on time." He tapped his trousers pocket. "Ma's got a new system. She puts the keys in my pants before I get dressed."

Paula noticed that he was wearing a new dark blue suit. The color made him look even darker, almost Arabian. If you didn't know Phil, she thought, he could look like the most mysterious person in the world.

He came inside and said hello to Paula's folks. But he said he couldn't sit down for a minute. They had to run.

Paula followed him out and she clattered down the stairs after him. It was fun trying to keep up with him in her heels. The big steps he took equalled three of her own.

Out in the street he put an arm around her and led her to the old Ford that had been his father's. His coat lay across the front seat and he tossed it carelessly into the back.

He started the motor. But then he turned suddenly and grabbed her to him.

"No," she protested in a thin voice. "I want to stay neat."

"Oh, hell. What for?" His black eyes flashed smiling at her and the dimple danced. She smelled the briskness of after-shave lotion and lightly kissed a razor nick on his chin.

"For your aunt, silly. Don't you want me to look perfect?"

"You always look perfect. And she's not going to care what you look like anyhow."

"Women always notice what other women are wearing."

"That's what you think." He flicked the earring on her lobe, and then eased the car out into traffic.

Paula arranged herself more comfortably and took a pack of cigarettes from the glove compartment. "That's not what I think. It's what I know. Honestly, you men are so conceited. Do you all think women only look at you?"

"They're wasting their time if they don't," he chuckled, "Besides, Byrne's a regular guy. You’ll see."

She let him win the argument; it was easier that way. Besides, it was really better that way. She just wanted to sit and watch bis big hands on the wheel. For all their size and strength, the fingers were trimly masculine so that she felt clean and beautiful when they touched her.

The afternoon traffic captured them on Lexington Avenue and she thought she should let Phil concentrate on the driving rather than talk to him. She lit a cigarette and put it between his lips. He let it droop from his mouth, squinting one eye against the rising smoke.

"You know," he said, "I really hope the old gal takes to my idea. Boy, would it be a big step in the right direction."

Paula caught the sudden seriousness in his voice and she realized that Phil was really depending on this afternoon. It never occurred to her that he would ever depend on anything except his own efforts.

"Well, of course she’ll go for it." She filled her own voice with certainty. "It's a very sensible idea. I could see where she would hesitate if you wanted to start out in a new business of your own. But buying a partnership in that paint store—that's a going thing, for sure. Nobody with any brains would turn down such an offer."

"I guess you're right." He pulled up for a red light and eked the cigarette butt out of the window. "I guess you're pretty damned right all the time. Aren't you, honey?" He leaned over and kissed the tip of her nose.

The comfort of his compliment settled around her like the warmth of a blanket. She knew that Aunt Bernadette would give him the money. And then—then the world would open wide for Paula, too.

A poodle with a pink bow on its head looked at them from the car alongside and he pointed it out to her.

"You want to raise dogs someday? Lots and lots of puppies?"

She felt her face go warm and she couldn't think of some quick, smart response.

"Oh, my baby's blushing!" He laughed. "We'll take care of that later." The car jumped forward again and she was glad that he had to keep his eyes on the traffic.

* * *

Aunt Bernadette lived in a brownstone house on East Eleventh Street. They drove slowly by, looking for a place to park. Slim trees ringed with metal guards lined sidewalks and Paula thought how green and lovely it must be here in the spring time. This was the kind of street you can stroll along on a Sunday afternoon, quiet and pleasant and neighborly. On a street like this, you "didn't yell after your friends; you walked to reach them and then only chatted in a normal tone of voice.

Phil found an empty place near the corner and they had to walk halfway back. In her mind Paula prepared herself for sitting properly in an old fashioned chair and sipping tea from a delicate china cup. She hoped Aunt Bernadette would think she was a lady and a suitable companion for her nephew. If the old lady approved of her, she might be more kindly disposed to Phil’s proposition. And Paula could help Phil appear serious and capable.

They reached the flight of steps and for a second she took Phil's hand and squeezed it.

"Stop worrying," he said.

She smiled weakly and followed him up to the shining black door.

Aunt Bernadette's apartment was on the first landing. Paula patted her hair a last time as Phil lifted the brass knocker and let it drop.

They waited a few seconds before Paula saw the door knob turn.

"Hello," the woman said as she opened the door, and Paula wondered if Aunt Bernadette were sitting in the parlor somewhere.

Phil pushed her inside and at the same time kissed the woman a big smack on the cheek.

"Paula, this is my Aunt Byrne," he said.

For an instant Paula could do nothing but stare at the woman. This was Aunt Bernadette? she thought. Paula had expected wrinkles, but not a crease marred the face of this tall, stately, somehow ageless woman. The sun gleamed on her red blond hair that fell in a soft wave to just below her ears. No pins held it in place and the hair tumbled at random like a young boy's. Her hazel eyes slanted upward, large and almond-shaped with a sly smile darting behind them. The clear skin with a hint of freckles across the nose was the kind of skin you wanted to touch and caress with your hands.

Paula remembered herself with a start and said, "How do you do." Her voice almost cracked.

"Please call me Byrne," the woman replied in a casual tone.

Instinctively Paula knew this person understood her nervousness. 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, and looked 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 and she felt the 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. But 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 the 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 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 and 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. "And 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 at all 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 almost 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, I don't know," Byrne shrugged. "You might just as well do this as anything. It sounds reasonable enough to my unreasonable mind." She finished her-drink and set it on the long table. "Sold, Philip. There's no reason why I should give you a hard time when all this money came to me so easily." The hint of some unrelenting memory shadowed her words.