bottle. Then she saw another bottle with different colored tablets standing behind the bedlamp. Pa lay sleeping. He breathed in long, slow breaths and she didn't have to ask her mother if he were drugged. He looked thinner than ever and more colorless than a piece of paper. A bowl of broth, almost full, sat on the floor beside his bed. There was nothing for Paula to say to her mother. They moved their own silent ways through the stillness of the apartment.
When she had washed her face and renewed the lipstick, Paula felt a little better. She knew she was going to Byrne's tonight. It was senseless to stay home anyway. What could she do to help? If Pa were up and needed attention, that would be one thing. But as long as he slept, Paula felt free to go out for a few hours.
Her mother noticed the fresh lipstick. "Don't you want any supper?" she asked.
"I'm not hungry." Paula answered. "Has Mike been home?"
"No. But I spoke to him on the phone. I think he’ll be through sulking pretty soon. Will you please try not to make him feel like a baby when he does come home?"
"I just don't see why you allow him to go around like that without having him help out at all."
"He told me Phil is going to help him get a part-time job in the paint store."
"Well, that's a little, better," Paula said, grateful that Ma didn't reply with an I-told-you-so.
"Since you're going out, I suppose I should tell Phil when he comes up not to wait?"
So, Paula thought with irritation, he's trying to patch things up behind my mother's apron.
But even as she thought that, Paula felt guilty. After all, the situation was not Phil's fault. He was simply trying not to be objectionable. She knew he was wondering what he had done wrong, questioning himself, searching, and regretting what had happened that night. Poor, dear Phil. He would never know that the wrongdoing, the fault, was not his.
"Yes," she said, "tell him not to wait. He has no business expecting me to be home whenever he thinks I ought to be."
"You usually are home, my dear. And you've always been home during the week."
Paula realized that even if she didn't owe Phil an explanation, she owed her mother one. The faith that underlined her mother's words to her was precious. Any other mother would demand to know where her daughter had suddenly started spending time. But her mother trusted her. And Paula yearned to be worthy of that trust.
"Believe me," Paula said, as she checked the contents of her purse, "I'm not doing anything you would be ashamed of. I simply have a new friend. And it's right to make friends."
"You don't have to explain. I know that I've brought up a good, sensible girl."
Impulsively, Paula kissed the plump cheeks, then quickly left, before their conversation became an agony.
Once free in the winter-dark streets, the weight of her home dropped away and Paula flew with light feet over to Fifth Avenue. The thought of Byrne flooded through her body, lending strength and life and joy, and she succumbed completely to the delightful vision of her new world. She didn't care if she were early for her appointment. If Byrne were eating supper, if Byrne were doing anything, she would sit in a corner and wait. Wait throughout eternity so long as Byrne were near.
She took the brownstone steps two at a time and knocked vigorously at the door. When it opened, she stood there, grinning like a maniac at the cameo face, so near to her at last.
"And what's so funny," Byrne said, tugging Paula inside by the collar. She wore a turtle neck sweater of dark green that made her eyes seem stormy. The cable stitching outlined the fulness of her breasts.
Oh, take that sweater off, Paula thought. Let me draw them. Paint them. Let me see!
The beige skirt surprised her. For the first time, it occurred to Paula that Byrne didn't always stay at home, that she had a life outside. But Paula must get to know that life. She must know everything about Byrne.
"I'm laughing," Paula said, dropping her coat
When she had washed her face and renewed the lipstick, Paula felt a little better. She knew she was going to Byrne's tonight. It was senseless to stay home anyway. What could she do to help? If Pa were up and needed attention, that would be one thing. But as long as he slept, Paula felt free to go out for a few hours.
Her mother noticed the fresh lipstick. "Don't you want any supper?" she asked.
"I'm not hungry." Paula answered. "Has Mike been home?"
"No. But I spoke to him on the phone. I think he’ll be through sulking pretty soon. Will you please try not to make him feel like a baby when he does come home?"
"I just don't see why you allow him to go around like that without having him help out at all."
"He told me Phil is going to help him get a part-time job in the paint store."
"Well, that's a little, better," Paula said, grateful that Ma didn't reply with an I-told-you-so.
"Since you're going out, I suppose I should tell Phil when he comes up not to wait?"
So, Paula thought with irritation, he's trying to patch things up behind my mother's apron.
But even as she thought that, Paula felt guilty. After all, the situation was not Phil's fault. He was simply trying not to be objectionable. She knew he was wondering what he had done wrong, questioning himself, searching, and regretting what had happened that night. Poor, dear Phil. He would never know that the wrongdoing, the fault, was not his.
"Yes," she said, "tell him not to wait. He has no business expecting me to be home whenever he thinks I ought to be."
"You usually are home, my dear. And you've always been home during the week."
Paula realized that even if she didn't owe Phil an explanation, she owed her mother one. The faith that underlined her mother's words to her was precious. Any other mother would demand to know where her daughter had suddenly started spending time. But her mother trusted her. And Paula yearned to be worthy of that trust.
"Believe me," Paula said, as she checked the contents of her purse, "I'm not doing anything you would be ashamed of. I simply have a new friend. And it's right to make friends."
"You don't have to explain. I know that I've brought up a good, sensible girl."
Impulsively, Paula kissed the plump cheeks, then quickly left, before their conversation became an agony.
Once free in the winter-dark streets, the weight of her home dropped away and Paula flew with light feet over to Fifth Avenue. The thought of Byrne flooded through her body, lending strength and life and joy, and she succumbed completely to the delightful vision of her new world. She didn't care if she were early for her appointment. If Byrne were eating supper, if Byrne were doing anything, she would sit in a corner and wait. Wait throughout eternity so long as Byrne were near.
She took the brownstone steps two at a time and knocked vigorously at the door. When it opened, she stood there, grinning like a maniac at the cameo face, so near to her at last.
"And what's so funny," Byrne said, tugging Paula inside by the collar. She wore a turtle neck sweater of dark green that made her eyes seem stormy. The cable stitching outlined the fulness of her breasts.
Oh, take that sweater off, Paula thought. Let me draw them. Paint them. Let me see!
The beige skirt surprised her. For the first time, it occurred to Paula that Byrne didn't always stay at home, that she had a life outside. But Paula must get to know that life. She must know everything about Byrne.
"I'm laughing," Paula said, dropping her coat
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