Art's Blood (33 page)

As she carried the bowls of salad to the table, Elizabeth wondered if this sudden haircut had any deeper significance. She had known other women who had chosen a radical haircut to mark some significant change in their lives— it seemed almost instinctive. Indeed, when Sam had been killed, she herself had experienced a wild urge to give her sorrow a physical expression: to wail, to keen, to tear her clothes, to scratch her cheeks, to cut her hair.

But of course, being a civilized woman at the end of the twentieth century, she had done none of these things.
Not even black to the memorial service— just dark blue. I wonder…if I had done some of those primitive things, would I have put my sorrow behind me sooner? It took five years.

It was only recently that she had begun to feel the stirrings of an emotion that she had thought buried with Sam.
Strewn,
she corrected herself,
Sam was strewn.

She was standing bemused, salad bowls in hand, when Laurel reappeared, clad in orange polka-dotted boxer shorts and a faded green T-shirt. She was vigorously toweling her head. “My scalp and every follicle on it thank you. I had forgotten how terrific it feels to really wash your hair.”

Coppery ringlets were forming in the damp hair and Laurel’s deep blue eyes were sparkling. Elizabeth put the salad bowls on the table and hugged her baffling daughter. “You look adorable, sweetie. Like a tall elf.”

“I’ll wash the dishes, Mum.” Laurel brought their bowls and glasses from the table and stacked them by the sink. She plucked a tiny, overlooked tomato from the salad bowl and popped it into her mouth.

“Thanks, Laur, but I’ll do them.” Elizabeth filled the teakettle with water and put it on the stovetop. “Really, I need to. Nothing like dish washing to get my hands clean after playing in the dirt. You go check out that latest copy of
The New Yorker:
there’s a great R. Crumb and Aline thing in there.”

The hot soapy water felt good to her tired and sore fingers, and she quickly had the few dishes lined up in the drainer. She was wiping the wooden countertops when she heard the telephone. It rang twice and then she could hear the murmur of her daughter’s voice coming toward the kitchen.

“Mum, it’s for you. Someone named Kimmie.” Laurel set the telephone on the cutting board and returned to the living room, open magazine in hand. Elizabeth dried her hands and picked up the phone, a little apprehensively.

“Elizabeth, this is Kimmie— you know, Kimmie Peterson from painting class? I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

“No, this is fine. How are you, Kimmie?” Elizabeth switched the phone to her left ear and grabbed the whistling teakettle from the stovetop. She carefully filled the French coffee press while listening to the hesitant voice at the other end of the line.

“Well, that’s why I called. I’m sorry to bother you but I think I’m coming down with something and I don’t see how I can make it to class tomorrow. I was wondering, if it’s not too much trouble, could you call me tomorrow when you get home and tell me what you all did? I thought maybe if it was something simple, I could try and do it on my own. I just hate to miss the class but I really am under the weather. Marvin says it’s probably the flu— he had a touch of it a few weeks ago. It didn’t hit him as hard, though.”

“I’m sorry you’re feeling bad, Kimmie. Let me find a pen and I’ll get your number. I’ll be glad to call and tell you what happened in class.” Elizabeth opened the cabinet above the counter and scrabbled through the jars of herbs and spices for the pen she kept handy to her ongoing grocery list on the cabinet door. “Okay, I’m ready.”

Kimmie gave her the number and then said, in the same tone of quiet excitement that had accompanied the announcement of her pregnancy, “Elizabeth, remember I was telling you that I wrote Kyra a letter? Well, it turned out just like I had hoped. I think she just needed an excuse to get over being angry at her father. She actually came to dinner a few nights ago! And, Elizabeth, she said that she was so happy that she wouldn’t be an only child anymore and that she wanted to be a part of a family again.”

Kimmie rattled on. “She’s really excited about having a little brother or sister. You just can’t imagine the change in her. She brought a darling fluffy stuffed lamb for the baby
and
she brought me some really special tea from an herb shop— a tea that’s good for pregnant ladies. I think Kyra said it was made from dried raspberry leaves. Oh, Elizabeth, it’s an answer to prayer— a new beginning! Marvin can hardly believe what’s happening.”

The call came to an end and Elizabeth stood thinking,
I can’t believe it either.

T
HE VOICE MAIL PICKED UP ALMOST IMMEDIATELY.
This is the voice mail of Mr. and Mrs. Marvin Peterson. Please leave your message at the tone.

“Hi, Kimmie. This is Elizabeth from painting class…what we worked on today was pretty fun and you ought to be able to do it at home. Do a pencil drawing of a chair— a real one. We used just a plain classroom chair. Then paint the drawing using complementary colors— one for the background, one for the chair. You know, red and green, or blue and orange, or yellow and purple…I guess that’s it…. I hope you’re feeling better; if you have any questions, give me a call. See you next week.”

Laurel and Ben were in the kitchen, collaborating on an exotic pizza for dinner. Ben’s bad mood had eventually dissipated and he had put in long hours catching up with the work that had been neglected. “Sorry I was a jerk, Aunt E. And it turned out Kyra didn’t need me to come in just yet anyway. She said she’s working on a piece that’ll be the focus of her show and she has to be alone so she can concentrate.”

Elizabeth had accepted this change gratefully while wondering if Kyra was attempting to distance herself from Ben.
And if that’s what she’s doing, is it to protect him or is it something else?

Judging by the sounds emanating from the kitchen, Ben was not pining. He and Laurel were reminiscing about bygone years, when he had come from his home in Florida to spend the summer on the farm.

“You were too!” Laurel’s words were mixed with laughter. “Remember the first time you came, you and Rosemary and I camped out. We all slept in a tent over there by the gate into the cow pasture. Aunt Gloria and whichever stepfather it was had brought you up and were leaving the next day. The three of us were all in the tent and were just about asleep when you hollered, ‘I’m getting out of here; there’re things
breathing
out there.’ And before I could tell you it was just the cows, you had grabbed the flashlight and headed for the house. Mum told us later that you burst in the door and hid under the coffee table. She said you
begged
Aunt Gloria not to make you sleep in the tent.”

“Hey, Laur, give me a break. I was a little kid used to traffic sounds at night, not big mysterious creatures munching and whuffling all around me. And besides, who’s living here and who opted for the bright lights of the big city?”

“Big city, my ass. It’s just
Asheville.
Once I’ve established myself as an artist, I’ll be back. I already have an idea for an awesome house in the woods above the workshop.”

Elizabeth smiled. She picked up the Fanchon quilt and continued stitching on the sleeve that would be used to hang the heavy piece.
It’s good to hear them jabbering away like that. And it’s good to know that Laurel wants to come back eventually. Rosemary’s said the same sort of thing— I think she has a house site picked out too “for someday.”

Rosemary. How had she felt, sifting through the sad little bundle of newspaper stories that were all that remained of her childhood friend Maythorn? Had she begun writing the story that she had hoped would provide some catharsis? Elizabeth resolved to call or e-mail her daughter as soon as she finished her work on the quilt.
Just a chat. But I’d like to be sure she hasn’t unleashed too many bad memories of that time.

The last stitch was in place and Elizabeth turned the quilt over. One of the animal appliqués— the copperhead snake— was coming loose.
I’ll just tack the edges lightly,
she decided, and rethreaded her needle with a dark brown to match the coils of the reptile. Then she stopped. All of the other animal appliqués had been sewn down with a tiny, precise buttonhole stitch in black thread— a technique common in the thirties. But the copperhead had been attached with an invisible stitch.

Her first impulse was to change her thread to black and bring the copperhead square into uniformity with the others.
No, you can’t make any changes— Fanchon did it this way and you have to honor that— whether it was intentional or not.
She began to sew.

A sharp buzz from the kitchen surprised her just as the last invisible stitch was in place and she was about to investigate when she realized that it was Laurel’s newly acquired cell phone. The noisy chatter in the kitchen stopped and she could hear Laurel speaking to someone.

“No, I’m sure it would be okay…. No, I’m out there now…. Hang on, I’ll check.”

Laurel came into the room, phone to her ear and a worried expression on her face. “Mum, it’s Aidan. He says some weird things have been going down and he and his mom need to get out of town for a while. So I told him it would be okay if they came out here for a few days. He could stay with Ben and she could have the guest room.” Her face was urgent as she stared at Elizabeth and nodded vigorously.

Elizabeth frowned and then shrugged. “Sure, that would be fine. Tell them to come along. You can meet them down at the barn— no, they have a four-wheel-drive now, don’t they?”

Arrangements were quickly settled and Laurel clicked off her phone. “Sorry to spring that on you, Mum, but Aidan sounded really freaked. I just thought this would be a safe place for them.”

Really? After what happened to Kyra down at the workshop? And the gunshot in the woods? And are we sure that Aidan didn’t have something to do with all of this?
The words trembled on the tip of her tongue but Elizabeth shrugged again and said only, “Okay. When are they coming?”

While Laurel put clean sheets on the bed in the guest room, Elizabeth went to her bedroom and phoned Phillip. As soon as the voice mail picked up, she remembered that he had a class on Thursday nights. She left a brief message with a request that he call, no matter what the time, and then went to the linen closet to get fresh towels for her guests.

It was a little after nine when, alerted by the barking of the dogs, Laurel hurried to the porch and ushered in mother and son. Willow, clad in her usual trailing skirt and loose blouse, looked haggard, but managed a palm-pressing bow and a fervent
“Namaste!”
in Elizabeth’s direction. Aidan, following in his mother’s wake, nodded, thanked Elizabeth for taking them in, and disappeared with Laurel into the kitchen, where Ben was finishing the dishes.

“And so you see us, two refugees throwing themselves at your feet in search of sanctuary. I trust that we will not be a burden to you for so very long: Spirit assures me that all of this ugly disharmony will resolve itself soon.” The lilting Indian accent of her previous visit was very strong. As on her previous visit, she unwound the gauzy wrappings from her head. “A green sanctuary— and a wise woman to welcome us.”

Elizabeth was at a loss.
What the hell does one say to that?
Finally she motioned her guest to a sofa and took a place opposite. “I hope that you’ll be safe here, but there sure aren’t any guarantees. Did you hear about what happened to Kyra? Have you seen her—”

Willow waved an airy hand. “Kyra is undergoing trial and testing. And the poor child is in deep conflict with her shadow self. But Spirit tells me that the true Kyra is emerging.” She smiled the beatific smile of one who has the secrets of the universe at her fingertips. “I had a warning today that I should take my son and flee the city. My first thought was to return to Mother India, where we spent so many happy years, but there are reasons—”

“Well, I guess. You’d forfeit Aidan’s bail if you left—”

“And that is indeed a concern. No, I could not take such a step. But where to turn? There had been…incidents and we no longer felt safe either in my house or in the…” Her smile was almost sly. “…the undisclosed location to which we had been sent. And so I threw the I Ching.”

“You did.”
You would.
The ancient Chinese method of divination had enjoyed a surge of popularity during the sixties and seventies, and Elizabeth’s first college roommate had started each day by consulting the
Book of Changes
and throwing a bundle of dried sticks to find the hexagram that would advise proper conduct for the day. Unfortunately, the book advised inaction about as often as action, and that particular roommate had quickly surpassed her allowed number of cuts. She had not returned to college for a second semester.

“Indeed, I did.” Willow was smug. “The yarrow sticks manifested Hexagram 52
— Ken.
And
ken
means ‘mountain,’ so naturally…” Her words trailed off.

“Naturally.” Elizabeth leaned forward. “Look, Willow, what really made you decide to come out here?”

Willow’s eyes opened wide but she said nothing. From the kitchen door, Aidan answered, his voice full of resentment. “She has a
friend;
I’m not allowed to meet him but he’s evidently very important in her life. He’s the one who swore we’d be safe out here.”

He came into the living room and sat down beside his mother. “Isn’t that right? Can’t you leave all the phony New Age crap out of it?” He glared at his mother, then turned to Elizabeth.

“All my life there’s been this mysterious person running things. Mom gets a phone call and we pack up and go wherever. Or say we need something: Mom makes a phone call and before long, the money’s there for school or a car or—” a harsh laugh interrupted his story, “or bail, as the case may be. When I was little, I thought she had a direct line to God— or at least Santa Claus. But no matter how many times I asked, she refused to tell me who it was and why—”