Three Women. March Hastings
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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,