I Will Fear No Evil (50 page)

“All right, Gigi, I’ll tell him.”

“Yes, but wait until after we eat. A Circle is fine and I can stay in one all day, if needed. But I’m starved. Sandwich about five hours back and I don’t eat much breakfast.” Gigi pulled her closer, kissed her. “So let’s eat.”

“Somebody say ‘eat’?”

“In a minute, Joe; we got to talking. And we need a crack at the plumbing, too. First dime is yours, hon; I’ll flash the packs.”

“Go ahead, Gigi.”

“Oh, come along. Joe, you flash the packs.”

“—like your ‘Eunice Evans Branca Memorial,’ Joe. Because I don’t want anyone ever to forget Eunice. Especially me.”

Joe Branca nodded soberly. “Is good. Eunice ’d like.” Suddenly he smiled. “You okay, Joan Eunice.” He put down his cup, started stacking dishes, and added, “Getup you had on, same like one Eunice had.”

“It was one I had seen her in, Joe, so I had one made like it.”

“Good job. Dress, not skin paint. Sign painter, maybe?”

“Joe, I didn’t have anyone of your skill to do that; I had to use whom I could find. Uh, is it possible that you might paint me—body paint, I mean—sometimes? Professional job, professional fees, no obligations.”

He smiled and shook his head. “Not cosmetics man, Joan Eunice. Sure, paint body for Eunice, she liked. Gigi, too, when she wants. Paint
you
, sure. But no fee.”

“Joe, I won’t take up professional time of an artist without paying. But I see your point. Cosmetic painting for your wife is one thing—but it isn’t your real work.”

“But fun,” he answered. “Maybe do jet-and-scarlet job right before you go home, huh?”

“That would be sweet of you, Joe, but don’t bother; I wouldn’t be showing it, I’ll go straight home. But let me ask one question, please, about body paint. Do you remember that you once painted Eunice as a mermaid, and she wore it to work?”

“Sure.”

“Well—Gigi, this was when I was Johann Smith and very old and very ill. I hurt
all
the time but couldn’t stand heavy dosage of painkillers. Had to tough it. But here was Eunice, lovely as a flower and cute as a kitten, painted to look like a mermaid, and—Joe, this is the silly part. I don’t think I noticed any pain all day long, I was so busy trying to figure something out. And never could. Was that a
real
brassière Eunice had on? Or paint?”

Joe looked smugly pleased. “Paint. Fool-the-eye.” (Boss, I
told
you that.) (Yes, little imp—and sometimes you fib, too.)

“You certainly fooled
my
eye. I could see those big sea shells, I could almost feel their rough texture. Then Eunice would turn in profile—and I wouldn’t be sure. I spent that whole day staring while trying to seem not to. Joe, you’re a great artist. It’s a shame you prefer canvas to skin.”

“Not quite right. Like to paint
skin
on
canvas
. Fool-the-eye forever. Not just one day.”

“I stand corrected. Like that one.” Joan nodded at the easel. “Gigi, let me do the dishes, please. I want to.”

“Pile in sink,” Joe ordered. “Inspiration. Two-figure compo.”

“Okay, Joe,” Gigi answered. “Joan Eunice, do you feel up to posing late? Joe said ‘Two-figure’ so he means you, too But I warn you, when Joe says ‘Inspiration,’ you don’t get much sleep.”

“No,” Joe denied. “Can short it. Cheat some. Get pose right, shoot eight, nine, ten shots. Then—” He suddenly looked distressed, turned to Joan. ”Maybe not here tomorrow? Or could be, not want to pose. Damn, I forget! Think you sleep here. Crazy. Damn!”

Joan said, “I don’t have to be anywhere at any time, Joe, and I would be greatly honored to pose for you. But—” She turned to Gigi. “May I stay tonight? Is it all right?”

“Oh, sure!”

“I wonder. Since you showed me your wedding ring I’ve been wondering how much I am butting in.”

Gigi giggled. “Hon, if you think that’s a ring in Joe’s nose—well,
I’d
better never think so. Joan, I left Sam a good month before I let Joe give me that ring and marry me. Cubical and comical, couldn’t believe he meant it. I can’t think of another couple we know who are
married
. It’s nice—but I still get the giggles. Sure you stay if you want to. We got a cot to set up—not much but we’ll put Joe on it.”

(Watch it, Boss! This is dynamite—ten to one
Joe
won’t be on that cot.) (Of course not.
I
will be. Think I’m a fool?) (Sadly, I do, Boss. You’re lovable—but you just barely have sense enough to stay out of lifts. Not out of beds.) (Joe wants me to pose, I pose! If he wants anything else, he can have that, too!
Anything
.)

(That’s what I thought.) (Eunice, Joe doesn’t want
me
. Gigi is his woman now.) (Okay, twin. But when did I last hear you say that marriage isn’t a form of death?)

Joe Branca appeared to regard the matter as settled; housekeeping details seemed of no interest to him. He said, “You oil after shower?” and reached out and fingered Joan’s left ribs. “No. Gigi.”

“Chop chop, Joe.” Gigi ducked into the bath, returned with a bottle of olive oil. She said to Joan, “Lanolin is as good, but I’d rather smell like a salad than a sheep. Joe, get her ribs; I’ll do her leg. Then we give you a quick oiling all over, hon, and wipe you down. Get all off that your skin doesn’t absorb. Mmm, some red paint back here where you can’t see, but olive oil cuts it. Joan, I’ve had twice as good a complexion since Joe has been making me take care of my skin.”

“You have a perfect skin, Gigi.”

“Joe’s a tyrant about it. Now for a wipe down.”

“Not too much wipe,” Joe warned. “Need highlights in cheat shots.”

“Easy on the wipe down. Some oil on me, Joe?”

“Da.”

“Okay, Maestro. Joan, we’ll polish each other bone dry before we go to bed. If we’re not too tired to care—no importa, disposable sheets. Joe, are you going to tell your slaves what this pic is?”

“Sure, need acting.
Gut
acting. Lez pic.”

“
Hunh?
Joe, you can’t put Joan in such a pic. You
can’t
”

“Wait, Mate. I don’ draw comic books. You know. Pic so square can hang in church. But symbols so gut-loaded old butch pays top money. But—Joan Eunice, can change face if you say?” He looked anxious.

“Joe, paint the way you want to. If somebody recognizes me in one of your paintings, I’ll be proud.”

“Okay.” Rapidly Joe Branca built a low platform of boards on boxes, heaped floor cushions on top, covered it all with a ragged heavy cloth. “Throne, Gigi first. Gigi butch, Joan Eunice sweetheart.” He moved them like lay figures, shoving them into position like a butcher handling meat, so that Gigi was supported by cushions while she held Joan in her arms and looked into Joan’s eyes. Joan’s position figleafed Gigi; Joe raised Joan’s left knee so that she figleafed herself. Then he placed Gigi’s right hand under Joan’s left breast, not cupping it but touching—stepped back and scowled.

—stepped forward, changed the composition slightly, moving them so little that Joan could not guess what difference it made. Apparently satisfied, he shoved cushions in more tightly so that each could hold the pose without strain.

He placed a platter just below them, slanted with careful casualness. “Is Greek lyre,” he said. “Title, ‘Bilitis Sings.’ Song just pau, action not yet. Golden moment between.” He looked at them carefully, still scowling. “Joan Eunice, you knocked up?”

Joan was very startled. “Does it show? I haven’t gained an ounce.” (Erase and correct—nineteen ounces.) (Yes, but not enough to
show
. Aside from pizza just now, I’ve stuck to Roberto’s diet. You know I have.)

Joe shook his head. “Figure not show. You
happy
, Joan Eunice?”

“Joe, I’m dreadfully happy about it. But I haven’t told anyone yet.”

“Be easy, Louisie; Gigi don’ yatter.” He smiled in benison and Joan saw for the first time how beautiful he could be. “What counts, you happy. Happy mama, happy baby. Knocked-up broads look different. Better. Skin glows, muscles firm, folds under eyes fill out. Whole body better tone. Eye can see but most can’t see what they see. Lucky I got you for model right now. But solves problem been eatin’ me.”

“What, Joe? How?” (Eunice, is this all right?) (Sure, twin. Joe approves of babies as long as he doesn’t have to bother with them. He’s pleased that you are happy—and doesn’t think about how it happened or what you’ll do about it. But not callous. If you were broke, he would take you in and try to support your baby and still not ask where you got it. He doesn’t find the world complex, dear—so it isn’t . . . to him.)

“Puzzle problem. You
look
like Eunice, how else? But look
better
. Impossible. Know why now. Any broad looks best doin’ her thing.”

“Joe, do you think pregnant women are beautiful later? Say eight, or nearly nine months gone?”

“Sure!” Joe seemed surprised that she would ask.
“More
beautiful. Healthy, happy woman ready to drop—how not? Top symbol of The All. Shut up now. Work.”

“Please, Joe, one more question. Will you paint me when I’m big as a house? Between eight and nine months? Could be a cheat job. Might have to be, I might not be able to pose very long when I’m heaviest.”

He smiled in delight. “You bet, Annette! Artist don’ get that chance much. Most broads silly about it. But now shut up. Must look gutsy, so
think
gutsy. Don’ act—
be
. Sweaty, eager. Joan Eunice, Gigi’s got you set up, eager. But scared. Virgin. Gigi, you just eager. Maybe gloating, but
think
, don’t
do
. Not even face. Just
think
.
”

He stopped to reposition lights, scowled at his models, changed his lights a little, brushed an oily rag on Gigi’s right shoulder and breast. “Is right! Nipples up? Joan Eunice, can’t you get ’em tight? Try thinking about men, not Gigi.”

“I’ll fix it,” Gigi assured him. “Listen, darling.” She started whispering, telling Joan in blunt detail -what this ancient Grecian Lesbian was about to do to the virgin helpless in her arms.

Joan found that her breasts tightened so hard that they hurt. She wet her lips and looked back at Gigi, hardly noticed that they were being photographed.

“Break,” announced Joe. “Off throne, pau tonight. Got good shots.”

Joan straightened up, peered across the room at the clock. “My goodness! Blackbirds already?”

“So bed,” he agreed. “Pose tomorrow.”

Gigi said, “I’m still going to do those dishes, Joe. You set up the cot.”

“I’ll do them, Gigi.”

“I’ll wash, you can wipe.”

By the time they finished, Joe was in the cot and apparently asleep. Gigi said, “Which side do you like, hon?”

“Either one.”

“Crawl in.”

24

Joan woke with her head on Gigi’s shoulder. Gigi was looking at her, which helped Joan to remember where she was. She yawned and said, “Good morning, darling. Is it morning? Where’s Joe?”

“Joe’s getting breakfast. Had enough sleep, dear?”

“Guess so. What time is it?”

“I don’t know. The question is, are you rested? If not, go back to sleep.”

“I’m rested, I feel grand. Let’s get up.”

“All right. But I charge one kiss to get past me.”

“Outrageous,” Joan said happily, and paid toll.

But Joe was not at the kitchen unit; he was projecting the photographs he had taken the night before. Gigi said, “Look at that, Joan. Forgotten all about offering to get breakfast.”

“It’s no matter,” Joan said softly.

“Don’t bother to keep your voice down, Joe can’t hear when he’s working. Unless you shout. Well, let’s scrounge, then we’ll try to get him to eat. Hmmm . . . not much to offer a guest.”

“I don’t need a big breakfast. Juice and toast. Coffee.”

“No juice.” Gigi poked around futilely. “I could give you a Reddypak. Spaghetti or something. I’ve got a grocery-shop. Send Joe out for groceries and he comes home with a new picture book and some paint, happy as a kid. No use scolding him.”

Joan Eunice caught an undertone in Gigi’s voice, said softly, “Gigi, are you broke?”

Gigi did not answer. She kept her face turned away, got out half a loaf of bread, prepared to make toast. Joan persisted, still speaking quietly, “Gigi, I’m rich, I suppose you know. But Joe won’t take a dime from me. You don’t have to be that stubborn.”

Gigi measured out powder for six cups of coffee. Then she said almost as softly, “Joan, I was a whore when Big Sam and I were together. Somebody had to pay the rent and half his pupils never paid what they promised, and the rest paid so little it hardly made up for the coffee and doughnuts they ate. Hell, some of them came to class just to eat. So somebody had to work. I never hustled men much—Sam didn’t like it if I made it with another man—unless it was a swing scene that he had set up. But an old butch is often generous. When we had to have money I would go sit in one of the Lez coffee shops and bring some money home—Sam didn’t mind that.

“I finally got wise that I was being used, not just supporting him. Those swing scenes—a guru needs a young chela for openers or it won’t get off the ground. Joan, a woman will do anything for a man—but she hates to think it’s a one-way street. Now take Joe. Doesn’t sell many paintings and we usually have to split fifty-fifty to get them hung. But Joe doesn’t
use
a woman no matter how thin things are.” She looked around at Joan.

“When I first posed for Joe he paid me guild rates, none of this kark about a fin now and another fin when he sells the picture. He had some money from Eunice. Insurance, I suppose. But Joe is a soft slob and everybody borrowed it and everybody spent it and nobody paid it back and it was gone before I shacked in with him and started minding his money. Somebody’s paying the rent and utilities on this studio. You, maybe?”

“No.”

“You know about it?”

“Yes. A man who greatly admired Eunice took care of it. Joe can live here the rest of his life if it suits him. And I can drop a hint and the phone will be turned back on. The phone was an oversight when the rent and power and water and such were arranged for.”