Joan Ellis: The Third Street

Joan Ellis

The Third Street

They walked together into a world of exotic evil The Third Street by Joan Ellis This was where they came…the lonely and love- starved, the lovely and promiscuous, seeking new thrills, searching for a partner…a special kind of partner. This was where they met…the tormented female artist and the amoral young model, baring their secret needs and feeding their secret hungers… needs and hungers condemned by society.

Pat opened the shop with a sense of renewed life. It was rash to feel this strange upsurge because of the encounter last evening, yet she couldn’t restrain herself. Tonight she would go back to the studio again because there was no question of her moving back into the apartment now. Karen was coming at six. On impulse she had invited Karen to have dinner with her before the session. She would leave the shop early.

Tony wouldn’t mind.

Pat was glad that the morning was so rushed. She didn’t want to think too much about Karen Coleman. There exhorted. Karen didn’t belong to her shadowed world. Logic warned her she was stepping upon a treadmill to grief. And yet there was this buoyancy at knowing she would be in the same room with Karen tonight. That she could renew her memory of the appealing nakedness that quickened her pulse, and made her hands ache yearningly. She hadn’t slept last night, but it had been a different kind of wakefulness from the other bleak, painful nights.

It was nearly noon when Tony rushed into the shop with a flurry of apologies for being so late.

“Sweetie, forgive me for leaving you alone all morning, but I was a total wreck. We just never got to bed last night.” He was at the desk now, glancing over memos.

“Everything’s under control.” Pat smiled in affection. For all Tony’s appearance of flightiness, he was sharp as an efficiency expert when it came down to cases. He knew how to manipulate his life, she thought with something like envy, again.

“Oh, I’ve been thinking about that mailing we discussed. Let’s get it out, huh? Very chi-chi on the stationery. Maybe bring a girl in so you can keep an eye on how it looks.”

“I’ll call a temporary agency,” Pat said, then stopped dead. Karen.

She needed the work. From even that casual contact last night she knew that Karen would be competent. “I know someone we can buzz direct,” she said offhandedly. “I’ll have her come in tomorrow.” She refused to meet the quizzical glance Tony shot at her.

The rest of the day held a special quality of excitement because she knew that tonight Karen would be at the studio and the sweet, attractive face would light up with pleasure because of the typing job, even though it would be only for two or three days. Her husband must have been an awful rat, Pat decided. Karen Coleman was the kind who would put up with a lot before running.

“Tony, you don’t mind if I run off early, do you?” she asked, when the smart wall clock indicated that five was approaching. “I have some odds and ends to do about my apartment.”

“Getting ready for a little New Year’s Eve party?” he asked archly.

New Year’s was one time Paul and he always went out of town, to Philadelphia or Atlantic City.

“Nothing like that. I suddenly can’t bear the way the place looks.”

Yet Tony had planted a seed in her mind. If Karen were new to the city, she would be alone on New Year’s Eve—and that was ghastly when you were upset and lonely. Was there some casual way she could invite Karen to spend the evening with her without giving the invitation any special meaning? Did she dare? She could be simply cynical about men at this point, couldn’t she? It would be easy to throw some remark about hating New Year’s Eve brawls and the way men took it as an open season announcement. Karen could have no ideas she wasn’t “straight.”

“Do you have our little girl set to come in for the typing?” Tony asked casually as he settled down at the desk to make some phone calls.

“I’ll phone her tonight.” Pat beat a retreat for the rear. She didn’t want to talk about Karen to Tony. And doubt was creeping in. She made such a point of keeping the studio and the shop separate. She wouldn’t want Karen to drop any hint to To n y. The typing job would be over in two or three days. Surely she could manage to keep the two of them apart with little difficulty, she coddled her unease. She knew she was all wrong to harbor any hopes about Karen, yet she was helpless to stem her plottings. It couldn’t be wrong to spend time with Karen if nothing happened. There were friendships between two women without anything else.

On the way to the studio Pat shopped for dinner. The menu would be simple because she had little patience with kitchen preparations. She also remembered to pick up logs for the fireplace. In the studio she changed rapidly into slacks and a tailored blouse, nothing so stark as what she had worn last night, though Karen had not seemed to notice anything offbeat. She tossed the steak beneath the broiler, taking a chance on Karen’s being on time. She was. To the minute. The doorbell rang and Pat forced herself to walk with normal speed to answer it.

“Hi.” Karen was breathless from the climb. “I thought you might like these.” She held forth a bunch of miniature chrysanthemums.

“They’re lovely.” Why had Karen spent money on her, when she was so short herself? She didn’t have to repay her for dinner. “A cheery note for an uncheerful period,” she said with deliberate flipness. “I mean, New Year’s has a way of depressing me.” Here was the chance to suggest the New Year’s Eve bit, but Pat felt unsure.

“Can I help with anything? Set the table or put up coffee?”

“You can put these in water if you will.” Pat felt herself heating up inwardly at the closeness of Karen. There was the dinner ahead, and then the hour of modeling. Oh, she was going to have to be so careful!

So careful because her instinct was to pull this insecure, sweetly lovely girl into the comfort of her arms. And then to teach her about her kind of love. The kind no man could ever know.

“You wouldn’t know of a rooming house anywhere around that isn’t expensive, would you?” Karen asked in a rush of eagerness. “That hotel where I’m staying is crippling me. It’s crazy, isn’t it?” she laughed self-consciously. “I mean, normally I would never let myself get into such a rat-race.”

“I’ll ask around,” Pat promised, and fought a suffocating urge to invite Karen to move into the studio. That would be impossible, of course.

Dinner progressed easily with Karen relaxing beneath Pat’s adroit efforts to draw her out because she knew Karen had a need to talk. She could picture Karen as a child now, and the vision evoked a deep tenderness in her.

“I suppose you think I’m pretty silly,” Karen said disparagingly as they sat over coffee. “Running off half-cocked the way I did, not really planning anything.”

“Not at all,” Pat insisted. Karen hadn’t told her in so many words about her husband, but the portrait had been starkly drawn, nevertheless. There was this narrow, delicate possibility that kept pushing itself into Pat’s mind, that Karen had been so hurt by this Stan that she might never want a man’s love again. Yet Karen needed love and therefore might—just might—be receptive to the other kind, that was gentle and understanding, and still passionately satisfying.

“Tell me about the portrait you’re doing,” Karen said on impulse, and Pat was shaken off-balance by the demand.

“I told you—I’m not very good,” Pat hedged.

“I don’t believe that.” The candid admiration in Karen’s voice startled her. “You’re the kind of person who wouldn’t do anything unless she were good at it.”

A need to vindicate herself enveloped Pat. “Painting is really an avocation with me. A compulsive drive—I told you that before.” A wry smile touched her pale mouth. “Actually, I’m an interior decorator.

I know you’d never guess it by looking around this place.” And then she remembered about the typing. “Heavens, I meant to tell you as soon as you came in. If you’d like to do two or three days typing, I can arrange it in the shop where I work. We have a mailing to get out.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Karen glowed. “You’re good luck for me, you know, Pat? I was so low yesterday—I couldn’t have sunk any further. Now…” She spread her hands eloquently. “I have a friend, some work, and hope.”

“I was wondering…about New Year’s Eve,” Pat blurted our nervously.

“I hate to think about New Year’s,” Karen said with unexpected heat. Her hand toyed compulsively with the tablecloth. The amber eyes were almost black, and some of the youngness evaporated. “New Year’s Day would have been my first wedding anniversary. It’s pretty sad, isn’t it, when you can’t even keep up the pretense for one little year.”

“Better to quit now than put yourself through further torture,” Pat consoled. “When you know something is wrong, that’s the time to pull out. You’re young—you’re entitled to one mistake.”

Karen lifted her head, her jaw tightening. “Once is enough. I’ll never get married again as long as I live. I’ve had it, believe me!”

“About New Year’s Eve,” Pat said, suddenly confident. “I make a point of steering clear of those awful brawls. If you have no other plans, why not come up here for dinner? We can listen to some records or watch television. We can be smug and satisfied because we’re not involved in one of those madhouse parties.”

For an instant something in Karen’s eyes terrified her, but then that oddness disappeared and Karen was beaming.

“I’d love that, if you’re sure you want me. I’d probably go stir crazy alone in my room.”

“Good, then that’s settled.” Pat swung about towards the kitchen.

“More coffee?”

“Let me get it.” Karen sprang to her feet, raced with her quick graceful steps towards the kitchen.

Pat leaned back and slowly reached for a cigarette.

+++++

Karen sat behind the typewriter on the ultra-feminine desk at one side of the shop, and tried to concentrate on the mailing before her. She enjoyed the relaxed yet highly glamorous atmosphere of the shop and the air of luxury that permeated it. Pat had seemed oddly uncomfortable, though, when she had introduced her, this morning, to Tony. He insisted she call him Tony—and he’d gone out of his way to be solicitous about her comfort.

Was Pat upset because of Tony, because he was gay? Pat couldn’t honestly think that this would bother Karen, could she? In a way, it was a relief. You didn’t have to play games with the gay fellows. And she liked him, no matter what his personal inclinations. That was his business. It would be nice to work here permanently, she thought wistfully.

“Are you having any trouble with the writing on the card files?” Pat came over anxiously. “Both Tony and I write so atrociously.”

“Oh, no, I can manage fine,” Karen reassured her, thinking how diff e rent Pat appeared in these surroundings. The perfectly groomed, efficient career girl. She must be terrific at her job, too, Karen decided. You could tell that by the way clients listened to her when she talked. It was pleasant to know the other Pat, who relaxed in old clothes without makeup. It was like seeing deep inside, being welcomed into friendship. It was fantastic that meeting Pat could make such a difference in her attitude towards living. Never in her life had she encountered an honestly deep and lasting friendship. In the years with her mother it seemed as though they were always packing up and moving from one apartment to another. After a while she didn’t trust herself to make friends because it would be such wrench when the next move came along.

“Karen, be a love and brew us some coffee,” Tony sang out from the other side of the room where he was deep in conference with a client over swatches of material.

“Right away,” Karen rose to her feet, exchanging a smile of amusement with Pat. “Tony’s very nice,” she whispered, and was glad she had said it because Pat was concerned about her reaction to him.

Even before Pat suggested it, Karen guessed she would invite her up to the studio for dinner again since she was scheduled to do an hour’s modeling that evening.

“If you’ll let me fix dinner,” Karen stipulated. “I feel awful, sponging on you the way I am. May I cook tonight?”

Pat flashed her a brilliant smile. “I’d love it,” she admitted frankly.

“I hate anything to do with the kitchen. About the modeling tonight—if you think you’ll be too tired—”

“Oh, no,” Karen said quickly. “I rather like it. I mean,” she flushed to a delicate pinkness, “it’s so different from posing for Stan.” There was a feeling of restfulness when she had sat for Pat last night. It hadn’t even bothered her that she had been unclothed because there had been nothing ugly in Pat’s eyes as she looked at her.

“I may be a bit late in getting out tonight,” Pat warned thoughtfully.

“We’ll be in the shop tomorrow—you and I—Tony’s taking off. We’ll close early, though, because of the holiday. There won’t be a soul coming in or phoning.”

“Would you want me to go on ahead and get dinner ready?” Warmth encircled her. She felt needed, appreciated. “I could have everything ready by the time you got home.”

Pat’s eyes were strangely soft. “That would be nice,” she said after a moment, and yet Karen was puzzled by the wall that Pat seemed to have dropped between them. What had she said that was wrong? Pat agreed to her going ahead.

“Would you rather I stayed here and worked on the mailing?” Karen said after a moment, her face troubled. “I didn’t mean to sound as though I were running out on you.”

“I know that, honey,” Pat said sharply. “I think it’s a great idea for you to go on ahead and spoil me that way. My mind had wandered on something I had forgot to do earlier,” she alibied. “Call I should have made.”

By five thirty Pat was insisting Karen call it a day. She fished in her wallet for a bill and pressed it on Karen.

“Let’s go hogwild,” she coaxed. “Buy everything wildly extravagant. After all, tomorrow’s New Year’s Eve. Let’s jump the gun and celebrate tonight. And tomorrow,” she added quickly, and again something in Pat’s eyes reached out to Karen with a message she couldn’t quite interpret. “Take a cab down town. We’ll put it on the expense sheet.”

Her smile was warmly intimate, and Karen enjoyed the inclusion in Pat’s confidence. It was amazing that a girl like Pat, so strangely attractive, so clever, so talented, wasn’t knee deep in men. But it must be because she turned them away, Karen decided with satisfaction. Any man would be glad to nab somebody like Pat Conway. For a moment she thought of Stan. Wouldn’t he love to throw Pat across a bed? And then she flushed because it was somehow dirty to think about Pat and Stan at the same time.

Karen moved about the studio in a comforting solitude, her eyes shooting regularly in the direction of the clock. Pat had said she couldn’t possibly make it before seven. That assured her plenty of time for everything. The shrimps were cooling in the refrigerator. The tiny chicken had been stuffed and was a bronzed beauty in the oven now. The salad was crisp and cold on a bed of ice cubes. Funny, she had never enjoyed preparing a meal for Stan.

In the beginning she had tried, but Stan would say he’d be home at seven and then show up at two the next morning, half-loaded and with rape on his mind. Because every time her husband touched her it was rape. She shivered in remembrance. But at the same time, an emptiness taunted her, because Karen Coleman needed to be loved.

What about Pat, Karen wondered? Was she so self-sufficient, so in control of herself, that it was enough to have her job and non-emotional diversions? Didn’t Pat feel this yearning for something, somebody? She wasn’t cold; Pat was warm and alive and deep of feeling, K a ren was sure of that. Maybe it was your attitude, the way you approached life, she considered. Some time she would sit down and talk to Pat about this. They weren’t alone; Karen was certain of this.

And she refused to accept the alibi that she was a frigid woman. That was a lie. An outright lie!

Pat didn’t use her key. She rang the bell.

“Hmm, everything smells wonderful,” she greeted Karen with a smile of satisfaction. “I’m starving. And it’s getting so cold out. Did you notice when you came home?”

“I thought you would like the fire.” Karen turned to the logs crack-ling in the deep fireplace, the scent of the wood burning blending aro-matically with the oven makings. “Doesn’t it send a lovely glow about the room?”

“You’re lovely,” Pat said, then swerved away as though shocked at herself for verbalizing the compliment.

“I hope you like roast chicken.” For no reason at all, Karen felt ill at ease, as though she might not measure up to Pat’s appraisal of her. “I stuffed it, too.” “

Mmm.” Pat was off at the closet, reaching in for a hanger for a coat. “You’re spoiling me like crazy.”

“People are having their New Year ’s parties early this year, are n ’t they?” Karen felt compelled to talk, without knowing why. “I kept running into the tail end of parties—you know how little clusters carry office parties out into the street with them.” Karen frowned, remembering.

“I hate office parties, don’t you?”

“Loathe them,” Pat agreed. She was searching around for a cigarette with a vague restlessness in the deep blue eyes.

“Here,” Karen offered a pack, then reached quickly for a match.

“You’re tired.”

“Not really,” Pat hedged. She seemed undecided for a moment, and Karen wondered what she was thinking about. “Sweetie, would there be time for me to take a shower before dinner?”

“Sure.” Pat was tired, Karen thought with a rush of sympathy. “A hot shower does wonders for getting rid of kinks, doesn’t it?”

“Sometimes.” Pat’s gaze rested on Karen with a veiled speculation that disturbed her. Was she talking too much, Karen asked herself in panic? Was Pat sorry for starting up this friendship? “I’ll only be a few minutes, though.” Pat went back to the closet, fished around for clothes, then disappeared into the oversized bathroom.

Karen hesitated for a moment, then went ahead with her plans for dinner music. The music would help Pat to relax. Something in the light classical field, of which Pat had much. She made her choice, dropped the needle into the groove, keeping the volume low. Just a thread of music to seep through the room.

When Pat emerged from the shower, in slacks and a blouse, her feet in sandals, Karen had dinner waiting on the table. She flushed with pleasure b e f o re Pat’s compliments. She found herself talking as she had never talked with anyone before. Openly and without embellishments, about the uneasy childhood and adolescent years, the muddled year of her marriage.

How easy it was to talk with Pat, she marveled! How good to spill out the dark, stored up memories that ever ate away at her sense of well-being.

“Stan was a mistake from the first minute,” Karen said with a wry smile as she poured a second cup of coffee for Pat. “If I hadn’t been so horribly lonely, I would have realized that right away.”

“I’m glad you had the sense to break away,” Pat approved. “You might have spent the rest of your life being miserable.” Pat was staring into space, long slender fingers drumming on the table. “Of course, I have no right to be talking this way. Marriage is a deeply personal thing for the two people involved.”

“That was no marriage,” Karen denied passionately. “How could it be, with somebody like Stan? I’m glad I walked in on that party of his the way I did. I needed to be hit over the head to make the break.”

“Everything’ll be easier for you now,” Pat said slowly. “You’ll have no trouble getting a job. Tony and I both know lots of people, if nothing shows up right away. We’ll ask around.”

“I don’t know why you’re so good to me,” Karen burst out.

“Don’t be silly.” Pat seemed to stiffen, and again Karen felt a wave of uncertainty, that she might spoil this friendship so newly found.

“How are you managing with money?” Pat took on an air of crisp competence.

“Will you be all right?”

“Oh, yes, thanks to you.” Karen managed a smile, yet she couldn’t fight off the suffocating fear that Pat was looking at her and finding her wanting. She needed Pat’s friendship now as she had never needed anyone in her life.

“I have an idea.” Pat took a moment to ditch her cigarette while Karen clung to her because there was something behind those few words that reached out with hidden depth. “I suppose I should have explained right away. I keep the studio here as a sort of hideaway.

Nobody knows about it—not even Tony.” Her eyes met Karen’s in an exchange of candor. “I’ve been scared to death you might accidentally say something to him. What I’m getting at is this—I have an apartment up town. Why don’t you move in here, right away? Then, as soon as you get a regular job and save some money, you’ll find yourself an apartment. There won’t be any rush about it—you can wait until something right pops up.”

“But I couldn’t throw you out of your studio!” Karen protested, bright spots of color in her cheeks. “That would be wrong.”

“It’s wrong for you to be plagued this way with expensive hotel rent,” Pat countered. “Move in right away.” Karen noted the softening in her persuasion. “Tonight.”

“But I feel so awful,” Karen stammered. Then on impulse, she made a stipulation. “I’ll move in if you’ll stay here, too. I couldn’t bear the thought of running you out.” Karen watched as Pat seemed to digest the suggestion, and she hoped that Pat would accept it. She didn’t want to go back to that empty hotel room. She hated the darkness. Childish, yes, but she dreaded being alone in the dark. Some people could live alone; she loathed it. “Would you stay, Pat?” she couldn’t bear the silence another moment.

“All right,” Pat agreed, smiling. “But I warn you, I’m cranky as the devil in the morning. I can be an awful stinker before I’ve had my breakfast.”

“Simple,” Karen said buoyantly. “I’ll fix breakfast for you.” It was settled then, she thought in a rush of satisfaction; she would stay here at the studio with Pat.

They cleared away the dinner dishes, washed them, and Karen put up a fresh pot of coffee.

“I’ll loan you a pair of pajamas for tonight,” Pat offered. “No sense in rushing back to the hotel for that. You can pick up your luggage and check out in the morning.”

“One suitcase,” Karen said with a faint smile. “Whatever I could carry with me, I took.”

Karen had thought they would sit up until all hours talking, but the satisfying dinner, the warmth of the room, the aura of relaxation that seemed to overtake both girls set them both to yawning by midnight.

“This is crazy,” Pat laughed, trying to stifle a yawn. “Usually, I lie awake till all hours, wishing I could fall asleep.” She glanced thoughtfully across the room to the double divan. “We’d better share that until I get more blankets. You’ll freeze to death if we split up the blankets between us.” The fire was low and Pat moved forward to toss on another log. The steam had long since disappeared, and the winter cold crept in now through the skylight, despite the heavy drapings Pat had provided against the drafts. “You’d better undress here by the fire.”

“All right.” It was strange, Karen thought, how quickly she had moved from one existence into another. But it was good. It was good to be away from Stan, from his gutter sex.

“Try these.” Pat tossed a pair of blue pajamas of some delicate cotton across to Karen. She viewed Karen’s smaller dimensions with something like tenderness. “The top will probably be a nightshirt for you.”

In the russet glow of the fireplace Karen undressed, for some reason feeling shy. She hadn’t felt that way when she had stripped to skin for the modeling bit. Her clothes fell into a heap about her and she struggled to cover herself with the blue pajama top. Pat was right. The top hit her midway down the thighs. She wouldn’t bother with the pants.

She shivered, yet she wasn’t cold, as she watched Pat make up the bed for the night.

“I’ll have to wash my face, at least,” she laughed self-consciously, and ran in bare feet towards the bathroom.

When Karen returned, Pat was in tailored red pajamas, beneath the blankets already, the other side of the bed neatly turned down in readiness for Karen.

“You don’t mind if I smoke in bed, do you?” Pat smiled. “I promise not to fall asleep and burn us to death.”

“I don’t mind.” Karen pulled the blankets high about her neck, grateful for this peace that enveloped her.

She felt so safe.

Karen drifted into a semi-slumber, aware of the delicate glow of color from the fireplace, the cautious movements of Pat as she smoked and stared at the ceiling. She felt almost like a child again, protected and loved. And then she slept completely, for a while. Coldness crept into the room. Karen pulled her legs up beneath her, seeking warmth.

She found another warmth beneath the blankets, and in sleep huddled close. And then the cold white shock of what was happening threw her into utter wakefulness, though she uttered not a word, made no motion.

“Darling, you’re so sweet,” Pat was crooning. “I was afraid—I couldn’t be sure. I didn’t dare be sure.” Pat’s arm pulling her in close, gentle, warm.

“I hardly dared hope.” A large, tender hand touched her breast, and Karen tried to come to grips with the strangeness of this. The fingers found the buttons, undid them. Fingers caressed her breasts, feather-touched a nipple, and an odd excitement brushed her. “Darling, don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” Karen stammered, a white heat touching her. “I just don’t know.” Shame colored her voice as she made the admission. And yet, this wasn’t wrong.

“I’ll die if I can’t kiss you,” Pat said passionately, and her mouth cove re d Karen’s, and her tongue moved eagerly between Karen’s teeth and ignited a fire there.

Karen lay breathlessly, waiting, savoring. Fingers roamed about her body, building the desire Karen knew was there, that Stan could only kill. Pat’s tongue withdrew from hers, but brought fresh heat to the white mounds of panting satin. Finding a delicate pink nipple, she teasing it into flame. A low sound of excitement escaped Karen and she moved beneath Pat.

“Easy, darling,” Pat said, and Karen sensed her pleasure.

And then they both forgot to be easy because Pat’s mouth was loving her, building her to a wild impassioned crescendo that was vocal in its demands. Pat’s hands caressed and teased, everywhere that desire soared. Pat, so gentle, so sure. Pat’s fingers brushing her thighs, Pat’s mouth finding the core of her. Oh, God, Karen thought, she couldn’t bear it! She couldn’t bear this another moment!

“Oh, Pat!” It was a sob of gratitude. She had known there could be something like this! Not with Stan, with his rough, insane jab-bings of himself, his brutal passion. But this touching, this reaching.

“Oh, Pat! Pat!”

They tangled together, all legs and arms and writhing demanding flesh. And it was marvelous, and it was right, and it was passion fulfilled. She wasn’t frigid! She could love. She could be loved!