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.”
“Well, I haven’t discovered a thing. I don’t understand at all why you’re so good to me.” She searched Byrne for an answer and found only those ocean-green eyes washing her with silence.
The woman firmly steered her out of the bedroom and back into the other world.
She set up a portable easel beside 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
