Three Women. March Hastings

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and lovely it must be here in the springtime. 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 space 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. Yes, Paula could help Phil appear serious and capable.

      They reached the flight of steps. 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 main 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 blonde 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, 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, 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.”

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