I had decided earlier in the day to prepare one of Arden’s favorite dinners, angel-hair pasta and chicken in olive oil, garlic, and basil. I worked on the sauce and started heating the water for the pasta. Everything was going along fine when he called unexpectedly.
“I won’t be home for dinner,” he said as soon as I answered. “I have a very important dinner meeting with one of our high-net-worth clients who’s worried about his portfolio since your father’s death. I have to assure him that we are going to be as efficient and profitable for him as ever. Fortunately, no one but you, me, and our attorney knows about this stupid thing your father did, but the danger remains that it will be discovered. Stupid.”
“My father didn’t do stupid things, Arden.”
“Oh. I suppose the whole ruse of creating the first Audrina wasn’t stupid, or marrying my mother, a woman without legs, was brilliant. She was happy and safe where she was. I would have provided for her. There wasn’t a woman within arm’s length that he didn’t claim, no matter what.”
“You didn’t complain about him back then, Arden. You were very grateful, as I remember it.”
“What could I do? I didn’t have a job, and my real father had deserted us.” He inhaled a ragged breath. “But that’s not the same as liking it,” he added, his voice straining with frustration and rage. “I put up with a great deal to make him happy, to pay him back, and look what he did. That’s what I call ungrateful.”
“Have you been drinking?” I asked. He was slurring his words a little, and he would never say these things before my father died.
“Of course I’m drinking. You think a teetotaler could survive in this business? I have to entertain clients, Audrina, and not do things that will make them feel uncomfortable. Your father was quite the drinker. If you want to know the truth, he taught me. That’s why I’ve been telling you that you simply do not understand the business. It all doesn’t happen over the phone. People need to be reassured about things in person. You don’t have the worldly experience I have. You never went to college. You were practically a prisoner in Whitefern. I’ve given you the important worldly knowledge you have.”
I heard him take a deep breath, pausing like someone who was fighting to get control of himself.
“Everything is being arranged to correct what your father did,” he said in a softer voice. “It will take two days. I’ll bring you to Mr. Johnson’s office to sign the paperwork. It has to be notarized.”
“I’m not signing anything until I read it and think about it properly. It was how my father brought
me up.”
“Oh, please,” he said. “How he brought you up? Do you really want to resurrect that subject?”
I heard music in the background. “Where are you?”
“I’m in a very upscale restaurant. You don’t entertain clients in a fast-food joint. I’ll be home late. Don’t wait up for me.”
“You didn’t call all day, Arden, and you never asked what happened with Sylvia last night.”
“Save it for my bedtime story,” he said. Someone laughed near him. “Gotta go.”
“Arden—”
He hung up. I looked at Sylvia. She was watching me, her face full of trepidation. She was always very sensitive to my moods and feelings and would even start to cry seconds before I did when something upset me or made me sad. Maybe there was something to the theory that people who shared blood were more aware of each other’s moods and feelings than even close friends would be.
I smiled quickly. “Everything’s all right, Sylvia. Arden has to work late tonight, so it will be only you and me for dinner, okay? We like it all anyway. It’s not just for him that we cook.”
She narrowed her eyes, looked toward the stairway, and then I thought she nodded to herself as if she had heard a whisper. I told myself her behavior shouldn’t be so surprising to me. Like me, she had seen too many deaths in this house. She was in the shadow of the Grim Reaper. Vera, in fact, had tried to blame her for Billie’s death when Billie fell down those stairs. Vera resented the attention Papa was giving Sylvia, just like she resented any attention he gave me. Jealousy, rather than blood, ran through Vera’s veins. If she cut herself, I would expect to see the green slime of envy instead of blood.
Sylvia went about setting the table in the dining room for the two of us as meticulously as ever. That didn’t surprise me. I knew her better than anyone, even Papa. I had practically been her mother all these years. When her body began to look like the budding figure of a beautiful young woman, I spent hours alone with her talking about sex, in as much of a scientific, even fantasy way as I could, especially when we discovered baby mice or a nest of hummingbird eggs and she had a child’s curiosity about how they got there.
Everything became more dramatic for her when she had her first period. No matter how I tried to prepare her for it, it came as a big shock. Her scream at the sight of blood made Whitefern’s walls tremble. I looked at Papa and hurried up to her. I recalled how frightened I had been when I had gotten mine, and I could handle such changes, so I appreciated what she was going through.
She hadn’t forgotten what I had told her, but it was always more like a story to her, something that happened to other women. Why did it look so bad? This sort of thing happened only when you hurt yourself, and the cramps, the pain? How could this mean anything good? What did it have to do with babies?
When she questioned me time after time about it, I was thrown back to when my aunt Ellsbeth had tried to terrorize both Vera and me with biblical references, claiming that women suffered so much with their monthlies and the birthing process because of what Eve had done in the Garden of Eden.
“We’re cursed!” she would exclaim, her eyes wild with rage. “Men have it so easy. It isn’t fair, but think of it as the first alarm bell. Now, sex will be dangerous. Those little sperms that come shooting out of them and into you will make babies, babies you won’t want.”
“Like you?” Vera had retorted, surprising me with her defiance. “Making me?”
Most of the time, Aunt Ellsbeth wouldn’t respond to such an outburst of insolence, but this time, she’d smiled coldly and said, “Exactly. Look at my burdens now. Thank you for being born.”
I remember wondering how it could be Vera’s fault. Even though she hurt me, angered me, and teased me, I felt sorry for her. I expected she would cry, but she simply looked at Aunt Ellsbeth and smiled back at her with the same icy eyes. I couldn’t imagine being as hard and as emotionally insulated as Vera could be. I was too sympathetic, especially when it came to Sylvia.
Someday, I thought the day after she had her first period, she would be alone or I wouldn’t be there to protect her, and some boys might come along and talk her into doing nasty things with them. Papa had once warned me about that. Obviously, because of my own history, that sort of nightmare haunted me. If there was one promise I had made to Papa without ever uttering the words, it was never to let what happened to me happen to Sylvia. I didn’t have to come out and say it, and Papa didn’t have to put it into words, either. We simply looked at her growing more and more beautiful every day, looked at each other, and nodded with the same thought.
Sylvia’s innocent beauty wasn’t a big secret. I took her shopping with me often, and people saw her at events we brought her to, especially events involving Papa’s business when he was still working hard. She always drew compliments but had no idea how to respond. When she lowered her eyes and smiled, however, she looked like she was flirting or trying to because she was shy. On several occasions, young men had inquired about taking her out. Some had called to speak with her, and two different young men, college boys, had come to Whitefern to visit with her. I had turned them all away, on the phone or in person.
Once I considered letting them visit with Sylvia so they could see how immature she was, but then I thought, Why put her through it? Worse, what if she liked one o
f these young men and wanted to be with him, go for a ride or out to eat, anything? How would we deal with that? No, it was easier to shield her, to step in between her and any young man approaching her, and end it before it could begin.
A few local boys were quite persistent, and even though they learned how simple Sylvia was, their lust for her didn’t diminish. If anything, I could see in their faces that they thought she’d be an easy conquest because she was unprotected, and I had no doubt that she might just be.
How long could I keep her chaste, I wondered, and should I do so for as long as I could? She had the mind of a child but the desires of a woman now. Was it fair to deny her the pleasures of her sex? Was it possible for her to find someone who would sincerely care for her and love her and satisfy her womanly needs? I never had the courage to bring these questions up with Papa. I certainly couldn’t discuss them with Arden. He’d make a sour face or mock the idea. However, I was tempted to discuss these things with Dr. Prescott. He was a trusted family friend, but I hesitated. After all, he was also a man. I couldn’t help but feel embarrassed talking about it, and now that there was no other woman in our home, whom could I talk to about my own problems anyway?
I longed for a true friend or a sister who could handle such matters. It was partly my own fault that I was so isolated. So many terrible things had happened to us that I couldn’t fathom being close to a stranger. There would be so many questions, questions I couldn’t answer or wouldn’t ever want to answer, like those about the deaths at Whitefern or the empty grave that once had a tombstone with my name on it.
Nevertheless, I knew I needed advice when it came to Sylvia’s problems and my own. I did come close to confiding in Dr. Prescott when I had consulted him about my failure to get pregnant. Arden had resisted being tested for potency, but I did, and the result was such that he didn’t have to be tested. My chances for getting pregnant were quite small. It didn’t mean it couldn’t happen, but it was most unlikely. Back then, Arden didn’t seem to be troubled by the news. He was happier that it was my fault, of course, and let me know it.
“I had no doubt that a man as virile as I am would not be the reason we’re not succeeding in getting you pregnant. I don’t shoot blanks,” he bragged. Of course, I wondered what that meant. I knew that he’d had girlfriends when he was off at college. Did he get someone pregnant? Was there a child of his somewhere?
“How do you know?” I asked, and held my breath.
He just shrugged. “A man knows. Look at how well I make love. I taught you everything you need to know about it, didn’t I? If you’re not satisfied when I do it, you’ll never be.” He smiled slyly again. “I never had a complaint from any other girl. Anyway, let’s not worry about it right now.” I was practically in tears, but he smiled again and told me, “Look at all the money we’ll save not bothering with birth control.”
“That’s not funny, Arden,” I told him. Papa was still alive then, and despite what he had told me about Papa considering him his son, I knew in my heart that Papa wanted a grandson with his blood.
To my surprise, Arden did apologize. Maybe he thought I would go running to my father to tell him what he had said. We continued making love, and I continued to fail to get pregnant. He was too busy back then proving himself to Papa and taking on more responsibility. Some nights, he would begin to make love and suddenly stop, claiming he was tired. “And besides, what’s the use?” he would say, and I would go to sleep with tears flooding my eyes.
All these memories and thoughts streamed through my mind as Sylvia and I sat in the dining room. I didn’t want to bother eating in there. I thought we could just use the kitchenette, but she had dressed up the big table the way she always did, being a little creative with the way she folded the napkins, making little crowns or flowers. Whenever we had guests over, Papa would give Sylvia the task of creating place cards according to the way he wanted his guests to sit at the table. Most of the time, Arden, Sylvia, and I had the same places, but occasionally he wanted someone closer to him. Sometimes he wanted certain other people as far away as possible, too.
Sylvia wouldn’t just write the names in her beautifully artistic script. She would color them in and often draw something to complement whatever we were having for dinner. She could draw a small hen or a funny little cow, lamb, or pig or do something interesting with fish. Everyone praised her, and when she looked at Papa and saw how proud of her he was, she would brighten and look even more beautiful. Arden might even say something nice, compliment her, but I always thought it was more to please Papa.
After dinner, again more to please Papa than anyone, I would play the piano. We’d tried to give Sylvia piano lessons, too, but she never took to it. She didn’t have the patience and would rather spend her time drawing and painting in the cupola, where Papa had created a small studio for her. During the past few years, before Papa had begun to show signs of weakening, we did enjoy some peace and contentment at Whitefern. Maybe it was unrealistic to think it would last very long, but for a while, at least, it was truly like we were all finally finding some sense of happiness.
The settings at the dinner table were not modified after Papa’s death. His place was still there. Sylvia and I sat where we always sat. This was really our first formal dinner since he had died. With all that went on, we’d been eating buffet style in the kitchenette. Here we were tonight, when I thought we would begin again as a family—diminished, yes, but still a family—and Arden was out with clients instead.
I tried not to be too depressed, because I was afraid Sylvia would start crying once we were at the table without Papa in his chair, and my sadness would only intensify her own. But she surprised me with how relaxed and hungry she was. I should have been happy about it, but she looked like someone who really did have a big secret. I smiled at her and asked her what she was thinking.
“I’m not thinking,” she said. “I’m eating, Audrina.”
That made me smile. I forgot how she could be so literal, but I was still a little curious, even a little anxious, about the way she would pause, look at Papa’s empty seat, and then look toward the stairway, listening as if she anticipated the sound of his footsteps.
I had to get her to stop thinking of ghosts. Even Sylvia needed some sort of future now. Keeping her busy with household chores was far from enough. And I could see that she didn’t even have the small attention span for my math and science tutoring. Even role-playing to help her be more confident in social settings wasn’t working.
“How would you like me to find an art teacher to help you with your drawings and paintings?” I asked her. I had to get her thinking about something else. “He could help you do so much more. Isn’t that a good idea, Sylvia?”
“Papa said you would,” she replied.
“Right. Papa and I did discuss it. I’ll look into it tomorrow, okay?”
“Papa said you would.” She repeated it as if he had just told her.
“Okay, Sylvia.”
“I’m not going to wait,” she said.
“What?”
“I’m going to paint something new tonight right after I help clean up,” she said.
“Oh, good. You don’t have to help clean up tonight,” I said. I really wanted to occupy myself as much as I could to diminish how angry I was feeling. Arden should be thinking more about us now and not clients. He should be comforting me. Papa’s death was far too fresh.
“Really?” she asked.
“Yes, really.”
She rushed to finish her dinner and then, remembering to excuse herself politely from the table the way Papa and I had taught her, hurried up the stairway to the cupola and her makeshift studio. I smiled to myself, happy to have some respite. She could be a full-time job, especially during these dark days.
I took my time cleaning up and putting things away. I had no idea how much time had passed, but I felt so drained and tired that when I w
ent out to wait for Arden in the living room, I had no sooner sat back than I fell asleep. Hours went by. I was in so deep a sleep that I didn’t hear Arden come home. I woke when a draft of cold air splashed over my face, and I looked up at him standing there gazing down at me, a dumb smile on his face. He looked like he was swaying a bit, too.
“Oh. I didn’t hear you come in,” I said, grinding the sleep from my eyes and sitting up.
“I’m happy to say that I talked Mr. Camden into putting his pension plan with our firm. While you were playing nursemaid to Snow White, I was building our net worth,” he bragged.
Now that I was fully awake, I could smell the whiskey on his breath, even though we were far apart.
“Don’t call her Snow White, Arden. When you do things like that, she knows you’re making fun of her.”
“Oh, please. She doesn’t know top from bottom. Well? What do you say to what I just told you?”
“You’re drinking too much, Arden.”
“What? That’s what you have to say? After I tell you I’ve just talked a millionaire into placing his pension portfolio with us? That’s your comment? I’m drinking too much?”
“I’m just worried about you. That’s all.”
“Yes, me, too,” he said, turning restrained. He ran his palms over his face. “I’m tired. There’s a lot to do tomorrow.” He started to turn away.
“The reason I was with Sylvia last night was that she had gone out in her nightgown to the cemetery to dig up Papa’s grave,” I said quickly. “And although you slept through it, it was pouring cats and dogs. She could have gotten pneumonia.”
“What?” He stopped turning and smiled, incredulous. “Dig up his grave? Why?”
“She’s confused. You might recall when someone else was buried and then figuratively dug up.”
He stared at me, not angry and not sorry. “So what did you do when you found her in the cemetery?”
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