Three Women. March Hastings
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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.
Phil hadn’t expected her to agree so quickly. He sat on the edge of his chair, his long-winded efforts to convince her further abruptly interrupted.
“But if I were you,” she added more brightly, “I’d stock some art supplies for Paula. She may be wanting to experiment one of these days.”
Phil found himself. He came out of the chair and filled Byrne’s glass again. “Oh, you’re a pal. You’re a real pal.” He couldn’t find an expression big or grand enough. “I love you!”
Not knowing what to do, he bent over and kissed Paula. She moved back from his touch, self-conscious in the presence of this woman.
She wants me to paint, she thought. Without knowing whether I can do anything or not, she’s interested in me.
Paula looked past Phil, intensely wanting Byrne to say something more.
Byrne smiled at her, more with her eyes than with her lips, and said, “You are going to try it, you know.”
“I’d make a terrible pupil.” Paula flushed. She realized that she had practically asked Byrne to teach her.
“Perhaps.” Byrne’s eyes slowly closed and opened again, changing the grey-green depths to clear emerald. “Perhaps not.” Paula felt a tightening thrill at the somehow unnamed implication in Byrne’s voice.
To be polite Phil talked on for another fifteen minutes, exuding energy and success, the dimple flitting in and out of his cheek. He stood taller, filling the room with his dark massive physique. He told Byrne pieces of family news. She listened, obviously without interest, nodding occasionally or making some brief comment that showed Paula just how little she really cared about her family. She wondered what this woman did care about. Not money, certainly; not ambition. Without knowing why, Paula wanted this strange person to care about something, anything, to care very much.
Finally, Phil picked up Paula’s coat and helped her into it. She buttoned it slowly. Byrne walked with them to the door.
“I’m glad I met you,” Paula said in a low voice.
“Are you?” Byrne closed one button she had missed and held her hand there for a moment.
Paula held her breath till the woman released her. She took Phil’s arm and moved backward through the doorway.
In the cold darkness of Phil’s Ford, Paula shook herself, realizing that every muscle in her legs ached intensely. She shook herself and tried to stretch out the knots.
“Oh, baby,” Phil whispered. “This is it.”
“I’m so happy for you.” She let him lean across to her and put his mouth on hers. Through the coat she felt the pressure of his hand against her breast.
“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s good. I want to marry you. I’m going to love you forever and we’ll have all the good things. No struggling like our folks, honey. Just lots and lots of loving.”
He moved his head down and rested his cheek against her chest. She looked past him at the lights on the avenue.
“I’m asking you to be my wife,” he whispered. His voice seemed to come to her from far away.
She put her lips into his hair and inhaled the sweet male smell of hair tonic. “Oh, yes,” she murmured. “Oh, yes.”
I’m going to be Mrs. Carson, she thought. I’m going to be the wife of this boy. But her feeling was not the fantastic delight she had always expected. With a touch of fright, she realized that this was like seeing a play by sixth graders after having been to Broadway.
She decided that she was tired; that her brain must be as numb as her body. Tomorrow she would know the full meaning of his words and her whole being would burst into the sky in overwhelming celebration.
They stayed quietly together in the darkness until she felt the cold beginning to creep back into her limbs. “Please start the car,” she said, “and turn on the heater.”
“You’re so practical,” he replied, sitting up and turning the key in the ignition. “Where’s your romance? We’ve been going together so long, you must think we’re married already.”
“That’s true,” she agreed. Maybe that’s what it was, actually. She hoped so. With all her heart she hoped so.
“It’s still early,” he said. “We can go up to Jack’s place. I told him not to be home tonight.”
“You what?”
“That’s right. I knew I was going to ask you tonight, Byrne or no Byrne. I love you so much, Paula. You know how much I love you. But I’ve never really touched you. Not all the way. And I can’t stand it. Not tonight, I can’t. Even with all the world so good to me, the one thing that will make it really important is having you. And since we’re getting married …”
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.
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,