Three Women by March Hastings

of Pa," she said. "The way you are, too. Think you've been acting like yourself lately? When did you ever sit at the table like that?"
    Her mother gazed at her steadily. Paula's words didn't fool her. "All right. But if you're getting into trouble, nobody will help you but yourself."
    Paula relaxed and kissed her mother on the forehead. "I'm too big to get into trouble," she said.
    "Yes."
    Quickly she left before her mother could find other threads of Paula's life to unravel. She cursed herself for forgetting to take carfare. Then, with a burst of self-assurance, she hailed a cab.
    * * *
    The driver pulled up in front of the brownstone and Paula told him to wait. She ran inside and explained to Byrne. Byrne pulled some bills from her own purse and gave them to Paula. Absorbed with these trifles, Paula did not notice, at first, the marks on Byrne's arms. She came back in and bounced on the couch, throwing her head back and smiling up at the ceiling. The unaccustomed feeling of not being at the office flapped gleefully inside her like a young bird trying its wings.
    Byrne said, "I was just about to make some breakfast."
    "Oh, let me make it" Paula said, leaping up and dashing after Byrne to the kitchen area. It was not the old fashioned sort of kitchen, but an alcove off the living room. A circular booth of black leather substituted for a regular dining table.
    They both reached for the refrigerator door at the same time. It was then that Paula noticed the red streaks swollen on Byrne's arm. She was about to exclaim over them, but the look in Byrne's eyes stilled her. It wasn't a challenging glance or expression that dared Paula to pry. Rather there was something that beseeched Paula to leave her in peace. The bantering laughter had vanished.
    Paula struggled with her concern. Her natural desire to exclaim over the ugly bruises fought against her intelligence which cautioned silence. Instead of questioning Byrne, she reached for the bacon. While she lay strips of meat into the frying pan, her gaze firmly held to the task, Byrne broke eggs and stirred them. Paula thought, if she respects me, she’ll give me some explanation. But at the same time, she wasn't sure if she yet deserved this right to Byrne's respect
    Paula concentrated on breakfast, glad for the excuse of eating not to make meaningless conversation.
    By the time they wandered into the living room with their coffee cups, Paula had recovered from her awkwardness. Immediately she went to the easel. Her sketch pads were nowhere to be seen. She remembered that Byrne had put them away the night before... after she left.
    Byrne said, "Oh, I stashed them back in the closet I didn't suppose we would be having another lesson again, quite so soon." Her voice was dry, but it held a hint of gladness.
    "If it bores you..." Paula began.
    "Quite the contrary. I enjoy you and your enthusiasm. It's good for me, you know. You help me forget things for a while.'' She turned for the bedroom. Paula stayed her with a hand on the bruised arm.
    "Don't bother," she said. "I’ll get them." She was glad for the excuse to go back into that bedroom. It held the clues that she must discover. If only she could be smart enough to piece them together.
    Byrne let her go. Paula went eagerly, but still with some distaste. The bedroom was like a dead thing from which she must not avert her eyes. Courage and hope to Paula's aid because she knew that Byrne was giving her the chance to discover whatever she could.
    Standing at the doorway, Paula stared about this room of hidden tortures. The sheets, tangled with blankets, lay in a heap. One pillow dangled halfway the floor. The other seemed dashed against the headboard, its striped ticking hanging out like ripped guts. Violence was everywhere. The cigarette case gaped open its side. A comb had landed on the windowsill. Beneath it on the floor lay one curtain that had been torn from its rod.
    Steadily Paula observed these signs of rage. One question, more