No Nice Girl (7 page)

Terry's eyes hardened and his fists clenched.

“That's a debatable point,” he told her grimly. “When a girl like you, who was born for marriage and a home and a normal life, goes around eating her heart out for a man she can't ever hope to have…”

Phyllis said nothing, but her head went up a little. And Terry made a little gesture of despair and said, “Sorry—guess I'd better get going.”

“Perhaps it might be best,” Phyllis agreed politely.

From the doorway he looked back at her uncertainly, uneasily.

“Mad at me?” he asked, like an abashed small boy.

“Of course not, idiot,” she told him, and smiled.

He had a terrific urge to kiss her. But recalling that only a few moments before she had caught him kissing Anice, he decided against any such attempt. Instead he
flipped his fingers at her in a gesture of salute and leave-taking, nodded and went out.

Phyllis sat down in the living room to smoke a cigarette before she went into the bedroom, dreading the inevitable scene that must follow with Anice. She decided that a drink would not go amiss and was having one when Anice crept into the living room.

P
HYLLIS IGNORED HER
for a moment and went on sipping her drink, not conscious of the slight ostentation with which she raised it to her lips.

Anice cautiously broke the silence.

“I just c-c-c-can't tell you how t-t-t-terribly sorry I am, Cousin Phyllis,” she offered humbly, all but groveling.

Phyllis looked her over from head to foot and said quietly, “Are you, Anice? About what—not being seduced?”

Anice was scarlet and there were tears in her eyes.

“That's—that's a horrible thing to s-s-s-say, Cousin Phyllis,” she stammered. “I didn't know Terry was
that
sort of man.”

“What sort of man, Anice? When you dress for a seduction and are alone with a man—”

“I thought he was safe.”

“And you couldn't have insulted him more,” Phyllis told her.

“Well, anyway, I knew he was a friend of yours.”

“My lover, in short.”

Anice's head went up and tears slowed beneath her anger.

“All right, so I knew he was your lover, since you want to be frank about it,” she cried hotly. “And naturally, I thought he was faithful to you.”

“But why should you think anything so silly?” demanded Phyllis sharply. “Merely the fact that we like to sleep together now and then certainly doesn't put either of us under any obligations to the other.”

Anice was outraged to the very core of her being. And this time there was no pretense. She was genuinely and terribly shocked.

“Why,
Cousin Phyllis!
” Her voice shook a little. “Oh, I think that's—that's horrible! The only possible excuse for a relationship like that would be that you were just terribly in love and that there was some reason why you couldn't get married! Otherwise, it would be—why, it would be—Well, just awful!”

Phyllis studied her for a long moment, and then she stood up and put down her glass.

“Anice, I'm sure after tonight you will understand that it is quite impossible for us to go on sharing an apartment—even if it was as big as Grand Central Station, which it certainly is not. So I'd appreciate it if you'd find a place to live and get out of here on Saturday.”

Anice gave a little wail.

“Oh, but where will I go?” she cried.

“There are clubs for business girls, several hotels—perhaps the YWCA can help you find a room,” said Phyllis, and steeled herself against the woe in the girl's eyes. “I am sorry, Anice, but I work hard and I have to have a quiet, peaceful place to come to at night.”

“But Terry's got an apartment—” Anice bit off the words, beneath the fire in Phyllis' eyes.

“I don't care to discuss it any further,” she said curtly. “This is Wednesday. By Saturday, when the office is closed and we will have a couple of days free, I want you to be packed and moved.”

She took her glass and her ashtray into the kitch
enette, emptied and washed them and came back to the living room. Anice was huddled in her chair, weeping stormily like a heartbroken child, but Phyllis took no heed of her and went on to the bedroom.

She was in bed when Anice crept in and stumbled to bed in the dark, newly solicitous of Phyllis' comfort as she had not been for some time. And long before Phyllis could capture sleep, for all her physical weariness, Anice was weeping softly, her face hidden against her pillow….

In the morning, Anice was faintly red-eyed, almost unbearably humble, nearly servile; but Phyllis hardened her heart against her. She had endured a whole summer of Anice; she could not endure much more. Had it really been only a couple of months since Anice's arrival? Phyllis found it hard to believe it had not been a matter of years.

That evening, when they came home from the office, Anice hid herself ostentatiously behind the pages of the afternoon newspapers and carefully marked ads in the classified columns. Now and then she paused to sniff and to wipe away tears, but Phyllis was apparently quite oblivious to them. And on Friday evening, Anice came back to the apartment to say plaintively, “I've found a room, Cousin Phyllis—I know you'll be glad. And so am I, for I've hated being a burden to you. It's not much of a room, just a narrow, dark little back hall bedroom, but at least it will be my own and I'll be welcome there.”

“I hope you will be comfortable,” said Phyllis politely.

Anice looked at her through a mist of tears.

“Oh, I don't care about being comfortable—I'll j-j-just be so g-g-g-glad that you won't be b-b-bothered by me any more,” she stammered childishly. “You've—been so g-g-g-good to me, Cousin Phyllis, and I'm terribly ashamed that I've annoyed you so much. I only
wanted to—to be helpful.” Sobs overcame her and she put both shaking hands over her mouth, and her eyes spilled tears.

Phyllis was touched in spite of herself.

It's an act
, she raged inwardly, feeling herself melt.
It's just an act, admit, and don't let it take you in.

“I'm s-s-s-sorry to be s-s-such a fool,” stammered Anice, fighting down the tears and managing a tremulous, appealing smile. “But I've loved it here. It's s-s-such a b-b-b-beautiful place—quite the nicest place I've ever seen—and I was so h-h-happy living here. And I've—I've loved taking care of things.”

Phyllis kept her teeth tightly set and fought down the compassion and the little feeling of guilt. After all, she
was
practically throwing the child out; New York could be very big and very terrifying to a helpless kid from a little country town, alone and without friends.

“I just hope you'll let me come and see you now and then, Cousin Phyllis,” Anice stammered after a moment, struggling to control her tears, smiling pathetically through them. “And—maybe you could sort of s-s-save up your mending and let me do it for you. You have such lovely clothes—I just adore handling them. And maybe you'd let me come and cook dinner now and then. I love to c-c-c-cook.”

Phyllis said crossly, “Oh, for heaven's sake, Anice, stay—if you want to so badly.”

Anice gasped, and a look of such utter radiance spread over her alluring little face that Phyllis felt the room aglow with it. For a long, stunned moment, Anice stared at her while the tears dried on her lovely face and her eyes grew wide and starry.

“Oh, Cousin Phyllis!” she breathed, as though someone had turned back the edge of the blue sky and showed
her a glimpse of Paradise itself. “Cousin Phyllis, do you—do you
honestly
mean it? I can stay?”

“Of course, if you want to so badly,” repeated Phyllis, and because she was angry with herself for being such a softie, she was curt. “The only thing is you've got to mind your own business and keep your pretty little nose out of my affairs. Is that clear?”

Anice was wide-eyed with hurt.

“Oh, but Cousin Phyllis, I never meant to meddle,” she protested.

“Well, you did a mighty fine imitation of it,” snapped Phyllis crossly. “Anyway, from now on, you're to mind your own affairs and stay on your own side of the fence. What I do is my business, not yours. Understand?”

“Oh, but
yes
.” Unable to control herself, Anice sprang to her feet, ran to Phyllis and threw her arms about her, giving her a hard hug and kissing her. “Oh, Cousin Phyllis, you're just the
sweetest
thing, and I simply adore you. And I'll be so good and so quiet, you won't even know I'm around!”

“That,” said Phyllis, a little of her annoyance with herself easing up, “is something I've got to see.”

“You will,” Anice laughed gaily, and danced toward the bedroom. “And now I'm going down to that
awful
room, and tell them I don't want it and get my first week's rent back!”

“A neat trick, if you can do it,” said Phyllis dryly, but Anice only laughed again and danced out of the room.

Phyllis, left alone, lit a cigarette and scowled at the wall. Damn it, she had let herself be pushed into a corner again, and Anice had won. If only, Phyllis groaned, she could have held herself together just a little longer, a few more hours, Anice would have been gone…. She sighed, found the cigarette tasteless and flung it away from her.
She knew that if Anice had departed in tears, and had maintained her act, she, Phyllis, would never have known another peaceful moment. She would always have felt guilty of inhuman cruelty, even while her sober common sense—what was left of it—would have told her that Anice was like the cat that always falls on its feet. Anice would take beautiful care of Anice; nobody needed to worry about her. Fighting her was like punching a feather pillow; it gradually wore you out, but the pillow was quite undisturbed….

When the doorbell rang she thought wearily that Anice had been too excited to take her key with her and so she had locked herself out. But when Phyllis opened the door, it was Terry who stood there. Terry, holding an enormous bunch of roses up to conceal his face, his other hand extending to her an expensive five-pound box of her favorite chocolates. Mutely pleading to be forgiven. Phyllis laughed and said, “Idiot! Come on in.”

Terry dropped the roses and beamed at her joyously.

“Boy, are you beautiful!” he said happily.

“I look like the tail-end of a misspent life and you know it,” she told him, catching a glimpse of herself, white and weary, her hair a little tumbled, the pale blue taffeta housecoat crumpled where she had been sitting curled up on the couch.

“To me, you will always look beautiful, even when you're ninety and have lost all your teeth and your hair,” said Terry firmly.

“What a romantic thought!” said Phyllis teasingly. “Let's dwell upon it!”

Terry leaned and kissed her lightly yet lingeringly, and said, his voice a trifle husky, “Let's not—there are so many other things to dwell upon.”

She took the roses from him and arranged them in a
big blue jar on a console table beneath a mirror. Terry watched her happily, as though just the sight of her were soothing and deeply refreshing.

“Where's the blond menace?” he asked at last, looking warily about him. “Don't tell me she's moved out?”

“I won't,” said Phyllis grimly. “She not only hasn't moved out—she no longer intends to.”

Terry was unpleasantly startled.

“What? Oh, come now, love, there's a limit to what anybody has to stand. That's why they give you time off for good behavior even in jail,” he protested. “What's her alibi this time—that I'm not going to believe, anyway?”

Phyllis faced him defiantly.

“I told her she could stay,” she stated flatly.

Terry stared at her, his eyebrows going up a little.

“So she put it across again, did she?” he said mildly.

“Just that,” admitted Phyllis. “I knew all the time it was an act, but it was such a damned good act, and—well, after all she's only a kid, and pretty young to be knocking around rooming houses alone, friendless.”

“She was born old in the wisdom of the serpent,
that
one,” said Terry grimly. “Well, what happens next? Or are you just sort of brushing me out of your life altogether?”

She went to him and put her arms about him and pressed her cheek hard against his.

“I couldn't brush you out of my life. Terry—it's just something that couldn't happen,” she told him huskily.

For a moment, above her dark head, Terry's face wore a look of radiant hope; but the next moment the look was gone and his arms held her gently with the touch of a kind elder brother.

“Sure, good old dog-face—always in there punching, but never getting anywhere,” he said dryly. “I don't
suppose you'd care to consider that little journey to City Hall that I've maybe mentioned a few thousand times?”

“I couldn't, Terry,” she told him gently, and there were tears in her eyes. “I wish I could, Terry, I'm terribly fond of you, but that's not good enough. You're too grand a person to marry a woman who doesn't adore you.”

“I'm perfectly willing to be satisfied with a woman who is just ‘terribly fond of me'—even if I know she's passionately in love with another guy. If I'm that kind of a fool, angel-face—and without shame I admit I am—then what?” he asked her, and now his arms were tighter about her, and his mouth sought her own.

“It's still not good enough for you, Terry,” she told him huskily.

Terry held her away for a long moment, and then he put her a little away from him, and said with an air of brisk cheerfulness that was not quite convincing, “Well, at least we can split a drink, don't you think? Don't bother to show me; I know the way to the kitchenette.”

Phyllis went into the bedroom, smoothed her hair, powdered her face and drew a fresh mouth. She slipped out of the crumpled housecoat into one that was fresh and neat.