Whitefern (9 page)

“Of course,” he said. “So is there a special place where your sister would work? Certainly not in here. I wouldn't want to get any paint on this rug.” He looked down at the Turkish rug that had been there as long as I could remember.

“Oh, yes. Before my father passed away, he established a room in our cupola as a sort of studio for her. It's two flights up, if that's all right. We don't have an elevator.”

“That's not a problem.” He patted his ballooning stomach. “Now that I'm retired, I've gained five pounds. My wife is always after me to do more exercise. Artists and teachers sit around too much. So going up and down stairs sounds good.” He looked toward the stairway.

Despite how beautiful the balustrade was, it was difficult for me to look at the stairway and not think of it as treacherous. Surely, I thought, he knew of our history, how Aunt Ellsbeth, Billie, and Vera had died on those stairs. If he had any fear, he kept it well disguised behind his appreciative smile.

Sylvia came in carrying the silver tray with the teapot and cups.

Mr. Price stood up. “Can I help?” he asked.

“She's fine,” I said. “Please. Sit.”

He did, and Sylvia put the tray on the table. I wanted her to demonstrate that she was capable of basic things and could easily grow and learn.

“Biscuits,” she said, more as if she was reminding herself, and turned quickly.

He smiled. “Venus,” he muttered after her, and then turned to me. “How long has she been interested in art?”

“As long as I can remember her being interested in anything,” I said. I began to pour the tea. “Sugar?”

“Maybe one, if we don't tell my wife. And don't tell her about any biscuits. She's got me on a strict diet.”

Sylvia returned with the biscuits and put them on the table. “I like chocolate,” she said, still grumpy about it.

“Chocolate?” He looked at them.

“We have plain with a touch of vanilla today,” I said firmly.

“Oh, I like that.” He plucked one off the dish.

“I like chocolate,” Sylvia repeated.

I raised my eyes toward the ceiling.

“So, Sylvia, what do you like to draw and paint? Things in nature, people, animals?”

She looked at me. “Whatever I'm told to draw,” she said.

I felt my heart sink.

“Told? Who tells you?”

“She means she likes to draw what people like to see. My father used to ask her to draw birds in trees.”

“Oh, I see. Well, we'll start with going over colors and then learning perspective. How's that sound?”

“I want to draw and paint,” she said.

“That's what he means, Sylvia.”

“Don't worry. I'll get her to understand,” he told me, chewing on his biscuit. “I spent years in the grade school before teaching junior and senior high. Say, this is a very good biscuit. Homemade?”

“Sylvia made them,” I said.

“Did she? Well, if you can make biscuits this good, you can paint the
Mona Lisa
.”

“Who's that?” she asked.

“Oh, it's a famous painting. I'll bring a book that has many great paintings in it so you can see all the styles in which artists have worked.”

“We have art books, Mr. Price. Sylvia wants to be active. Art history is a little beyond our goals here. How often do you want to give her lessons?” I asked. “And when?”

“I can be here in the afternoon.” He leaned toward me. “Probably only an hour at first. I know about attention span,” he assured me, nodding. “Say, three times a week?”

“Would you like that, Sylvia? Three times a week?”

“I want to do art every day,” she said.

He smiled. “Oh, you'll have homework to do every day,” he said.

She looked suspicious but then nodded.

“Why don't we look at your studio and see what you have, and then I'll make a list of things you'll need,” Mr. Price said. He thought for a moment and then plucked another biscuit off the dish. “Let's keep this a secret.” He winked at me.

Sylvia's eyes widened instantly. “Secret?”

“He means he doesn't want his wife to know he's eating what she doesn't want him to eat, Sylvia. You won't tell her, will you?” I said, trying to insert a joke quickly.

She shook her head. “Is she coming today, too?”

“No.”

Mr. Price sipped his tea. Sylvia hadn't poured herself a cup or taken a biscuit. She had yet to sit.

“Let's go show Mr. Price your studio, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, and he and I stood up. I nodded at Sylvia for her to go first, and we followed.

“My sister tends to take everything said to her literally,” I warned.

“I understand.”

We started up behind her. “She has a little bit of a wild imagination,” I added, with the same cautionary tone.

“All artists need that,” he replied.

“What were you thinking of in terms of cost?” I asked. I was getting mixed messages, wondering now if I was doing the right thing. I hoped he wasn't someone who would carry tales from Whitefern. There were enough rumors about us.

“How's twenty-five dollars an hour sound?”

“It sounds okay,” I said. I had no idea whether it
was fair, and I was sure Arden would have something negative to say about it.

“You can pay me every two weeks so it's not a chore,” he added.

We started up to the cupola. I could hear his heavy breathing already.

“This will be good for me,” he said, aware that I heard it.

“I hope it will be good for us all,” I replied.

Sylvia opened the door to the cupola, and we stepped in. Her sheet of paper was on the easel, but I could have sworn it was completely blank when we had left earlier.

Right now, there was the start of a baby's head.

Voices in the Brush

I was still trembling a little when I walked Mr. Price to the door to say good-bye. Sylvia followed closely behind us and stood behind me. When I glanced at her and nodded at Mr. Price, she moved quickly to say good-bye properly, adding, “I'm pleased to meet you.”

“To have met you,” I prompted, and she repeated it.

“And I am very pleased to have met you, too, Sylvia. I look forward to helping you with your artwork,” Mr. Price told her. He offered her his hand.

She looked at it suspiciously and then touched it as if it might be a hot stovetop and quickly stepped back.

He smiled at me and said, “She's precious.”

He had dictated a list of supplies, and we had decided he would begin in two days. He liked Sylvia's studio space, his only criticism being that there was not enough light. I assured him that we would bring up two more lamps.

The sun was already losing its grip on the day. Fall twilights were much earlier, so the shadows were thicker in and out of Whitefern. Papa used to call fall the “dying season.” Trees were beautiful only for a
short while with their brown and yellow leaves. “It's like a last breath of beauty,” he had said. “Then come the skeletons.”

I waited for Mr. Price to go to his car and wave to me before I closed the door. For a moment, I stood there catching my breath. Without my asking her to, Sylvia began to clean away the tea and the remaining biscuits. She was still mumbling about chocolate being better. I picked up what was left and followed her to the kitchen.

Upstairs in the cupola, she had not said anything about the partial drawing. When Mr. Price had asked her what she was doing, she didn't respond. He had looked at me, and I'd changed the subject quickly. I hoped he hadn't seen the surprise on my face when we had first entered.

In the kitchen, Sylvia was immediately busy putting the leftover biscuits into a plastic container. She was plucking them off the plate as if they were dead insects.

“When did you go back up and start drawing the baby, Sylvia?” I asked.

She ignored me and began washing the cups and the teapot.

I drew closer. “Sylvia, I thought you said you needed to know if it was a boy or a girl before you could start to draw a baby.”

She paused and looked at me like a child who had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “I thought if I started, Papa would tell me,” she said. She returned to the cups and the teapot.

“Did he?”

She shook her head. “Not yet.” Her eyes widened with a thought. “Maybe he was waiting for me to learn more art and do better.”

“All right
.
”
Enough of this
, I thought.
Why am I encouraging her wild imagination?
“So you like Mr. Price and want to learn from him?”

“He didn't say he likes chocolate biscuits.”

“Forget the biscuits, Sylvia. Do you like him enough to want him to give you instruction with your art?”

“He didn't tell me anything to do.”

“He's coming back for that in two days. He'll be here at the same time three times a week, remember? Is that all right?”

“Yes,” she said. “But next time, I want to make chocolate biscuits, Audrina.” She spoke firmly, as firmly as Papa when his mind was made up about something.

“Okay. Make chocolate biscuits, Sylvia. Make tons and tons of chocolate biscuits,” I nearly screamed. Anyone could have heard the tense impatience in my voice, but she simply smiled. I wondered if it was a good thing never to realize how much someone was annoyed at you. You went on your merry way, doing whatever you were doing, not feeling guilt and rarely upset with yourself.

On the other hand, I was frustrated. I went to the freezer to take out pork chops and keep myself busy.

“We're making grilled pork chops in plum sauce tonight, Sylvia. Concentrate on that now.”

“Can I do the sauce?” she asked immediately.

Gradually, I had been teaching her more sophisticated recipes. She could make a nice cheese omelet or bake cookies, biscuits, and some cakes. Last Christmas, I'd taught her how to make a turkey stuffing and marshmallow sweet potatoes. The more delicate something was, the more intense was her concentration. Ironically, the easiest things bored her.

“Okay,” I said. “Get out the bag of plums.”

This was another of Arden's favorite dinners. Why it was so important to please the men in this house I never knew, but if you disappointed Papa, you might expect the ceiling to fall and the walls to cave in. It was the same for Arden. As Aunt Ellsbeth often said, “Men are the sun, and we are the planets circling them and held in their grip.”

I took out the ingredients for the sauce—ginger, garlic, shallots, soy sauce, and honey. It was a recipe Arden's mother, Billie, had taught me. She had tried to teach it to Vera, but Vera hated working in the kitchen. She hated all household chores. Whenever she was given something to do, she would try to get me to do it for her. Sometimes she threatened me by saying she would break something and blame it on me if I didn't do it.

The memories streamed by like the echoes of night­mares.

Suddenly, I heard the front door open and close. I rushed out of the kitchen and was surprised to see Arden home so early. When he saw me, he raised his arm to show me he was holding a big manila envelope. He waved it like a winning lottery ticket.

“I've brought it all home. Mr. Johnson understands how busy you are here with Sylvia and agreed to let you sign and put your fingerprint on the page for notarization without him being present. He doesn't do this for everyone. He's bending the law quite a bit; it's a special favor for us. Let's get right to it,” he said, and sat on the settee. “I want to turn it in first thing in the morning.” He put the envelope on the table and began taking out documents and the ink pad for a fingerprint.

“I told you that I want to think about it first, Arden. Why are you rushing me?”

“Why? Why?” He slapped the table with his palm and sat back, folding his arms across his chest like a boy about to go into a sulk. “I'm chasing new, high-net-worth clients, Audrina,” he began, speaking with obviously forced self-control. “More than likely, these people will do their due diligence and investigate us inside and out before they place millions of dollars in our hands. They'll certainly question why your father left the majority percentage of the company to you, someone who doesn't work there and doesn't even have a broker's license. That's what we call in the business a red flag. It will drive them away.”

“I'm thinking of getting my broker's license,” I said.

“What? You're thinking what?” His eyes widened, and he turned red with rage.

“Don't be so shocked at the idea, Arden. I was the one who tutored you in the beginning to help you get your license.”

“That was years ago.”

“Nothing's changed. The stock market is still the stock market.”

“Yes, a great deal has changed. There are new laws, regulations.”

“I'll study up on it. You know I'm good at that. Aunt Ellsbeth and even your mother told me I should have gone to college. I was always on the honor roll in school.”

He stared coldly. “I can't believe I'm hearing this.” He shook his head the way someone would shake water out of his ears after swimming.

“It might be very attractive for our company to have a husband-and-wife team,” I suggested. “That, it seems to me, would make new clients comfortable and be a great advertisement.”

“A great advertisement? Next, you'll want to wear my pants.”

“Stop it, Arden. Don't treat me like a child.”

“Then don't act like one.”

“At least, let's let some time pass so we can think about it.”

“I should think about this? I'll tell you what I think about, Audrina. I think about why I'm doing all this, why we have all this, and why I work harder and harder. We have no children. We have a mentally slow young woman to care for. That's all. And ourselves, of course, but where's the future?”

“We could adopt, I suppose. If I don't get pregnant soon,” I said.

“Soon? It's been years. When will you realize it won't happen?”

He looked away for a moment and then turned back to me, his eyes smaller. He looked like he was about to cry, like a little boy who couldn't go out to play.

“And adopt a baby? You say it so casually. What about my feelings? I'd like to have my blood passed on, too, you know. I am not excited about making someone else's unwanted child the heir to my fortune, my heritage.”

“I'm sorry, Arden,” I said. I really did feel sorry for him now. “Let's take a breath and give everything more thought. I'm not saying you're wrong. Papa taught me that the best decisions come after they're nurtured and turned around and around to check for cracks or dents in your thinking. Every decision is—”

“Yes, I know, like a birth. He said that so much that I felt like checking into a maternity ward.”

I smiled. “I'm making one of your favorites, grilled pork chops in plum sauce. Your mother used to make that. She taught me.”

He looked down at the papers and then began stuffing them back into the envelope. “I need a drink,” he said.

Sylvia came to the doorway. “Sauce is ready,” she announced, smiling from ear to ear.

“Sauce is ready? You let her make it?” Arden asked, astonished.

“She's good at it, Arden. You'd be surprised at what she's learned in the kitchen.”

“Might be poison, for all we know. I guess I need this just in case.”

He poured himself a hefty glass of bourbon. Then he looked at Sylvia, who was still standing there smiling at him. Her right cheek had a streak of plum sauce across it.

“Looks like she was finger painting with our dinner.”

“Oh, she just touched herself after handling the plums. Every cook gets a little messy.”

“Cook. Artist. Next she'll be CEO of our company,” he said, and gulped his drink, his eyes still on her. “What happened with her art teacher?”

“I hired him. He'll be here day after tomorrow. He'll come three times a week at first, an hour each time, for twenty-five dollars an hour.”

“Twenty-five dollars? Are you crazy? That's seventy-­five a week to babysit. You might as well open the window and toss the money out,” he said, and finished his drink.

“If it doesn't help, we'll stop it, but for now, she is happy about it, Arden. You know,” I added, “her name is on the estate Papa left, too. We hardly spend any of her money on her.”

“I know. I know plenty,” he said, and poured himself more bourbon. He looked at us both while he sipped his drink and then turned and headed for the stairs. “I'm going to wash up and get out of this monkey suit that I have to wear every day to be sure our business is a success and I can make enough money for you to waste.”

We watched him head up the stairs, pausing to sip his drink. Sylvia looked at me and then stepped
toward the stairway, as if she expected she'd have to charge up and save him the way she had saved Papa from falling backward. But Arden continued on, his anger marching him the rest of the way.

“Let's set the table, Sylvia,” I said.

Arden came down a half hour later. He did look refreshed and relaxed, but there was something else different about him. He wore the wry smile of someone who was carrying a secret full of self-satisfying irony. He opened a bottle of Papa's prize red wine, which was to be used only for very special occasions, and poured a glass for each of us. We usually didn't give Sylvia much alcohol of any kind. Arden knew why.

Once, years ago, Vera had gotten her terribly drunk. She'd thrown up over everything in her room—her bed, her rug, her desk. The reaction she was having terrified her, and she flailed about, crying and waving her arms. Vera was hysterical with laughter when I came upon them, and when Papa found out, he went into a rage and beat Vera with his belt until Aunt Ellsbeth stopped him by clinging to his arm so tightly he lifted her off her feet with every attempted swing.

I actually felt sorrier for Vera that day than I did for Sylvia, because Sylvia simply fell asleep after we bathed her and changed her into her nightgown. Vera was off in her room whimpering like a beaten puppy. Aunt Ellsbeth didn't show her any sympathy, despite stopping Papa from beating her to death. She went to Vera's room and told her she had gotten what she
deserved. She didn't even look after her welts. Some of them were bleeding. After Aunt Ellsbeth left, I went to see Vera. She was curled in the fetal position on her bed, shivering with pain.

“You need to wash those welts, Vera,” I said, “before they get infected.”

“Leave me alone. You're happy this happened to me.”

“I'm not happy. You shouldn't have done that to Sylvia, but I'm not happy to see you so beaten,” I said. I said it sincerely enough for her to turn and look at me.