I Will Fear No Evil

23

Dabrowski handed her out and Fred locked the car. They escorted her to and into the lift. Joan Eunice looked around. "This must be where it happened."

Her driver said, "Eunice, I wish you would change your mind."

"Anton, Tom and Hugo should have driven me today, but I was afraid the poor dears would get upset when they saw the inside of this lift. I thought you and Fred could stand it. Fred, are you nervous?"

"You know damn well I am, Eunice."

"Over what? She entered this lift alone. I've got the two with me."

"Well... you're a stubborn one. I don't know what Ski is going to do but I am going to wait outside the door until you come out." (Eunice, what do you do with stubborn men?) (It's hard, twin, especially when they love you. You had best use female jujitsu—let them have their own way until it turns out it's your way.) (I'll try.)

"Fred, Eunice lived here for years. Utterly safe, except for one mistake. I have the radio link and I promise you both, solemnly, that I won't stir outside Joe's door until I know you're waiting for me."

"We'll be waiting, all right—all the time. Right, Ski?"

"Right! Eunice, you don't even know Joe Branca still lives here."

"But I do. It's just that he didn't pay his phone bill, so they cut him off. Joe's still there, or was at sixteen o'clock yesterday. Look, how does this sound? First, you know that Joe wouldn't hurt me, don't you? Anton?"

"Oh, sure. Joe might not want to see you—but Joe Branca would put a fly outdoors before he would swat it."

"Then I'm safe as long as I'm inside with Joe. But you're right, he may not want to see me. He may not let me in. Or I may be inside only minutes. So wait an hour, then go home. I'll call you when I want you to take me home."

"Two hours?" suggested Fred.

"All right, two hours. But if I don't come home tonight, you are not to come back and buzz Joe's door. You can come back tomorrow at noon and wait an hour, or even two, if that will make you feel better. And again the next day. But I'll stay in Joe Branca's studio a full week if it takes that to make his mind easy. Or a month, damn it! Or anything. Boys, I've got to do this; don't make it harder."

Anton said glumly, "All right. We'll do it your way."

"Am I ‘Eunice' now? Or ‘Joan Eunice'?"

He grudged a smile. "You're Eunice. She would do it."

"That's why I must. Look, darlings"—she put an arm around each of them—last night was wonderful, and I'll find a way to manage it again. Perhaps next time Mr. Salomon is away—you know he fusses over me like a mother hen. But you two do also—and you must not except when you're guarding me. Right now I must try to find a way to soothe Joe's soul. But I'll be your playmate another day. Be darlings and kiss me; the lift is about to stop."

They did so; she hooked up her veil. They left the lift and headed toward the Branca studio—Joan found she knew the way, as long as she didn't stop to think.

She stopped at the door. "She always kissed you good­bye? Here, with Joe watching?"

"Yes."

"If he lets me in, kiss me good-bye the same way. Just don't stretch it out; he might close the door. Oh, I'm shaky!" (Steady down, Boss. Om Mani Padme Hum. Don't use the button; try our voice on the lock. ‘Open up!' Like that.)

"Open up!" Joan said. She unhooked her veil, faced the door.

The lock started clicking but the door remained closed. A transparency flashed on the wall: PLEASE WAIT. Joan stood in front of the door peep, wondered if Joe was scanning her. (Eunice, will he let us in?) (I don't know, Boss. You shouldn't have come. But you wouldn't listen to Jake... nor to me.) (But I am here. Don't scold me—help me.) (I'll try, Boss. But I don't know.)

Through the door, not as soundproof as her own doors, Joan heard a high voice: "Joe! Joe!" (Who's that!) (Could be anybody, Joe has lots of friends.)

The door opened, she saw Joe Branca standing in it. He was dressed in much-worn shorts which had been used repeatedly for wiping paint brushes. His face showed nothing. A girl, a wrapper pulled sketchily around her, looked out from behind him. "See? It's her!"

"Gigi—get back. Hello, Ski. Hi, Fred."

"Hi, Joe."

Joan tried to keep her voice steady. "Joe, may I come in?"

He finally looked at her. "You want to, sure. Come in, Ski. Fred." Joe stood aside.

Dabrowski answered for them. "Uh, not this time, Joe. Thanks."

"Roz. Other time, any. Welcome. Too, Fred."

"Thanks, Joe. See you." The guards turned to leave as Joan started to enter—she checked herself, remembering that she must do something. "Boys!"

Fred kissed her quickly, nervously. Dabrowski did not kiss her; instead he held his mouth to hers and said almost soundlessly, "Eunice, you be good to him. Or, damn, I'll spank you."

"Yes, Anton. Let me go." Quickly she turned, went inside past Joe, waited. Slowly he refastened the hand bolts, taking an unnecessarily long time. He turned and glanced at her, glanced away. "Sit?"

"Thank you, Joe." She looked around at the studio clutter, saw two straight chairs at a small table. They seemed to be the only chairs; she went to one of them, waited for him to remove her cloak—realized that he was not going to do so, then took it off and dropped it, sat down.

He frowned at her, seemed uncertain, then said, "Coffee? Gigi! Java f' Miss Smith."

The girl had been watching from the far end of the room. She tightened her wrapper and went silently to a kitchen unit beyond the table, poured a cup of coffee, and prepared to flash it. Joe Branca went back to an easel near the middle of the room, started making tiny strokes on it; Joan saw that it was an almost finished painting of the young woman addressed as "Gigi." (That's a cheat pie, Boss.) (A what?) (Project a photo onto sensitized canvas, then paint over it. Joe does them if someone wants cheesecake, or a cheap portrait, or a pet's picture——but claims they aren't art.)

(Can't see why, Eunice; it's still an original oil painting.) (I can't, either—but it matters to an artist. Boss, this place is filthy, I'm ashamed, of it. That bitch Gigi.) (She lives here, you think?) (I don't know, Boss. Could be Joe's sloppy housekeeping. He likes things clean—but won't stop to do it. Only two things interest Joe. Painting...and tail.) (Well, he has both, looks like. I see he's kept your Gadabout.) (I'll bet it won't run by now. Joe can't drive.)

Gigi fetched coffee, placed it on the table. "Sugar? Isn't any cream." She leaned closer, added in a fierce whisper, "You don't belong here!"

Joan answered quietly, "Black is fine. Thank you, Gigi."

"Gigi!"

"Yes, Joe?"

"Throne."

The girl turned and faced him. "In front of her?"

"Now. Need you."

Slowly Gigi obeyed, untying her wrapper as she moved, dropped it as she stepped up onto the throne, fell into pose. Joan did not look, understanding her reluctance—not modesty but unwillingness to be naked to an enemy. (But I'm not her enemy, Eunice.) (Told you this would be rhino, Boss.)

Joan tried the coffee, found it too hot—and too bitter, after the delicately fragrant—and expensive—high-altitude brew Della prepared. But she resolved to drink it, once it had cooled.

She wondered if Joe recognized what she was wearing. La Boutique had reconstructed, at great expense, a costume Eunice Branca had once worn, one in last year's "Half & Half" style, scarlet and jet, with a tiny ruffle skirt joining a left-leg tight to a right-side half sweater. Joan had hired the most expensive body-paint artist in the city and had rigidly controlled him in reconstructing the design Eunice Branca had worn with it, as nearly as memory and her inner voice could manage.

(Eunice, was Joe too upset to notice how we dressed?) (Boss, Joe sees everything.) (Then he's gone back to painting not to notice us.) (Maybe. But Joe wouldn't stop painting for an H-bomb. That he let us in at all is a blue moon—in the middle of a painting.)

(How long will he paint? All night?) (Not likely. He does that only for a real inspiration. This one's easy.) It did not look easy to Joan. She could see that the artist was working from an exact cartoon, one that looked like a dim photograph of Gigi as she was posed—but he was working also from his model, yet he was not following either model or photograph. He was enhancing, exaggerating, simplifying, making flesh tones warmer, turning flat canvas almost into stereo, realistic as life, warmer than life, sensuous and appealing.

Perhaps it was not "art"—but it was more than a photograph. It reminded Joan of a long-dead artist Johann had liked. What was his name?—used to paint Tahitian girls on black velvet. Leeteg? (Eunice, what do we do now? Walk out? Joe doesn't seem to care either way.) (Boss, Joe cares dreadfully. See that tic on his neck?) (Then what do I do?)

(Boss, all I can tell you is what I would do.) (Wasn't that what I said?) (Not quite. Any time I came home and found Joe working from another model, I kept quiet and let him work. First I would get out of my working clothes, then shower and get off every speck of paint and makeup. Then tidy things—just tidy, heavy cleaning had to wait for weekends. Then I would get things ready to feed them, because Joe and his model were going to be hungry once they stopped. They always did stop; Joe won't overwork a model. Oh, he sometimes painted me all night but he knew I would ask to stop if I got shaky.).

(Are you telling me to strip down? Won't that upset him still more?) (Boss, I'm not telling you to do anything. This visit wasn't my idea. But he's seen our body thousands of times—and you ought to know by now that nakedness isn't upsetting, it's relaxing. I felt that it was rude to stay dressed when a model was nude—unless I was certain she was easy with me. But I'm not telling you to do this. You can go look out the peep and see if Anton and Fred are still there—they will be—and unbolt the door and leave. Admit you can't put Humpty-Dumpty together again.)

(I suppose I should.) Joan sighed, stood up—kicked her sandals off, peeled the half-sweater down, shoved the ruffle skirt down, and got out of the tight. Joe could not see her, but Gigi could—Joan saw surprise in her eyes but she did not break her pose.

Joan looked at her and put a finger to her lips, then picked up dress and cloak and sandals, headed for the bath unit while avoiding (she thought) Joe's angle of vision—hung her clothes on a rack outside the bath and went in.

It took only minutes of soap and shower to rid her body of jet and scarlet. (Face makeup off, too?) (Forget it, you don't wear as much as I used to. Towels in the cabinet under the sink. Or should be.)

Joan found one clean bath towel, three face towels, decided that it wasn't fair to grab the last bath towel, and managed to get dry with a face towel, looked at herself in the mirror, decided that she was passable—and felt refreshed and relaxed by the shower. (Where do I start?) (Here of course. Then make the bed but see it if needs changing. Sheets in the box with bed lamp on it.)

The tiny bath took little time as scouring powder and plastic sponge were where they almost had to be. The toilet bowl she was forced to give up on—she got it clean but stains left by flushing water did not respond to scrubbing.

Joan wondered why a civilization that could build mighty spaceships could not cope with plumbing? Or was it a civilization?

She washed her hands and went out. The bed seemed to have been slept in no more than a couple of nights; she decided it would be presumptuous to change sheets. As she was straightening the bed she noticed lipstick on one pillow—turned it over, (Gigi?) (Might be, Boss, it's her shade. Proves nothing.)

(Now what?) (Work around the edges—don't ever touch Joe's stuff. You can pick up a tube of paint and dust under it... but only if you put it down exactly where you found it.)

The edges kept her busy for a time. It seemed likely that Joe must have noticed her—but he gave no sign. The painting seemed finished but he was still working on it.

The sink was loaded; she found soap powder and got busy.

Once she had dishes washed, dried, and put away, and the sink was sparkling as the dishes, she looked over the larder. (Eunice, did you keep house with so few staples?) (Boss, I didn't keep many perishables on hand—but this is skimpier than I ever kept it. Joe doesn't think about such things. I never let him shop—because he would come back with some new hungry friend, having forgotten the bread and bacon and milk I had sent him for. Try the freezer compartment)

Joan found some Reddypax in freeze—dinners, a carton of vanilla ice cream almost full, spaghetti, pizza of several sorts. There were more of the last, so she decided she could not go wrong offering them pizza. What else? No fresh vegetables— Fruit? Yes, a small can of fruit salad, hardly enough but she could put it over scoops of ice cream, plus wafers if she could find any. Yes, lemon snaps. Not much of a meal but she didn't have much to work with. She started getting things ready.

Set the table for three? Well, she was either going to be accepted—or sent home; she set it for three. (Eunice, there are only two chairs.) (The kitchen stool adjusts in height, Boss.) (I'm stupid.) (Wouldn't have bet you could find your way around a kitchen at all.) (Maybe I wouldn't have learned if Mama had had a daughter. I'll bet I've cooked more meals than you have, sweetheart—not that this is cooking.)

Just as Joan had everything laid out she heard Joe says "Rest, Gigi."

She turned around. "Joe, will you two have supper now? It's ready to flash."

Joe Branca turned at her voice, looked at her—started to speak, and with pitiful suddenness went to pieces.

His features broke, he started to sob, his body slowly collapsed. Joan hurried toward him—and stopped abruptly. (Boss! Don't touch him!) (Oh, God, Eunice!) (Don't make it worse. Gigi has him. Down on the floor, fast! Out Mani Padme Hum.)

Joan dropped into Lotus seat "Om Mani Padme Hum." Gigi had given him a shoulder, eased him down. He sat on the floor with his head against his knees, sobbing, while Gigi knelt by him, her face showing the ages-old concern of a mother for a hurt child. "Om Mani Padme Hum." (Om Mani Padme Hum.) (Can't I help her, Eunice?) "Om Mani Padme Hum." (No, Boss. Ask Gigi to help you.) (How?) "Om Mani Padme Hum." (Ask for a Circle. Om Mani Padme Hum.)

"Gigi! Help me form a Circle. Please!"

The girl looked up, looked very startled as if seeing Joan for the first time.

"Om Mani Padme Hum. Help me, Gigi—help us both."

Gigi slid into Lotus seat by her, knee to knee, reached for Joan's left hand, took Joe's right hand. "Joe! Joe, you must listen! Close the Circle with us. Now!" She started chanting with Joan.

Joe Branca stopped sobbing, looked up, seemed not to believe what he saw. Then slowly he straightened his legs, moved until he filled the third side of the triangle and tried to assume the Padmasana. His paint-smeared shorts were too confining; they got in the way. He looked down, seemed puzzled, then started unfastening them. Gigi let go his hand and Joan's, helped him get them off. Then he settled easily into Lotus, reached for their hands. "Om Mani Padme Hum!"

As the Circle closed Joan felt a shock through her body, somewhat like electricity. She had felt it before, with three, with four, but never so strongly. Then it eased off to a sweet feeling of warmth. "Om Mani Padme Hum."

The prayer rolled around the Circle, rolled back, and was chanted in unison. They were still softly whispering when Joan stopped feeling or hearing anything—other than utter peace.

"Wake. Wake up. Come back."

Joan fluttered her eyelids, felt her eyeballs roll down. "Yes, Winnie? I'm awake."

"You said you had supper ready to flash. Want to do it? Or shall I?"

"Oh." She became aware that the Circle was still closed. "I'll do it. If I may."

Joe looked inquiringly into her face, his own face serene. "You okay? Good vibes?"

"She's okay," Gigi answered. "Go take a pee and we'll get supper on. Wash your hands; I left turpentine in the medicine cabinet."

"Okay." He got up, gave a hand to each of the girls, pulled them to their feet together, turned to do as he was told.

Joan followed Gigi to the kitchen unit, noticed the clock of the flash oven. "Gigi, is that clock right?"

"Near enough. Do you have to leave? I hope not"

"Oh, no, I can stay. But how long did we hold the Circle?"

"An hour, hour and half, maybe longer. Long enough. Does it matter?"

"No." Joan put her arms around the other girl. "Thank you, Gigi."

Gigi put her arms over Joan's, hugged her. "Thank you. This is the first time I've seen Joe truly at one with the All, accepting his karma, at peace with it, since, uh, since—"

"Since Eunice was killed?"

"Yes. He's kept coming back to the crazy notion that, if he hadn't gone to Philly to see his Maw, it wouldn't have happened. He knows that's not so—but now he knows it in his belly, I can tell." (Boss? Say hello to Gigi for me.) (Break cover?) (Oh, hell, we'd better not. I don't think she'd tell Joe—but we can't risk it. And things are okay the way they are.)

"Gigi, I think Eunice would want to thank you. If she could. Things look okay the way they are, now."

"Looks like. Say, what do I call you? I can't say, ‘Hey, you!' But ‘Johann Sebastian Bach Smith' seems like a hell of a name for a girl."

"My name is Joan, now. Uh, my full name is ‘Joan Eunice Smith.' But my middle name is, well, sort of a memorial. Rozzer?"

"Roz. That's nice, I think that's perfect—Joan. Eunice." (I think you're perfect, Boss. You did it! You know why I didn't want to come here? I was scared for Joe...but twice as scared for me.) (I knew, sweetheart. We both were scared. And so was Joe.)

"Gigi, better not use my middle name. Joe might be upset. Bad vibes."

Gigi shook her head. "I don't think so. If I'm wrong, if he needs to soak in the Circle some longer, tonight we've got the right Circle. Might not have, if he found out later."

"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 brassiere Eunice had on? Or paint?"

Joe looked smugly pleased. "Paint. Fool-the-eye." (Boss, I bid 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 mouths 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."