Vermilion

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  He had been Jed’s friend, and he was mine. If there was anything to be done, he would do it, I thought. So now it was better to work as hard as I could in order to put the unhappy and painful out of my mind. Old wounds from my girlhood must never be allowed to reopen. Wounds connected with both my father and Rick.

  My mother died two months after Jed, without ever knowing that he was gone. Since he had never written to us regularly, the deception was easy enough to carry out. Now for the first time, I was nobody’s daughter, and the knowledge brought me a doubled sense of loss and emptiness. Mother had never expected very much of life, and she had received so little. I told myself that I expected a great deal, but I still didn’t know exactly what that was.

  Luckily, my partner, Nan Griffith, and I were busy with a new resort collection, and I worked all hours with my models and at my drawing board. Nan had been with me since I’d become established, and I depended on her for a great deal. She was a good designer herself, and she also took care of a lot of the legwork with which I’d grown bored, visiting buyers, manufacturers, helping with shows. Our hard-won customers were the fine stores, and they were always waiting: Bergdorf’s, Neiman-Marcus, Saks, Bloomingdale’s, and Marshall Field’s.

  When I’d started out, my mother had been able to finance me for a while. But I had won my laurels the hard way, and now the Lindsay Phillips label meant something. It meant something in the world of fashion, but more and more I was wondering how much it meant to me. My creativity was dulling around the edges, and I drove myself into longer hours. As though by wearing myself out physically I could recapture what was slipping away. I wasn’t the first to find success and then wonder what it all meant anyway. Nor was I the first to suffer this sense of loss and emptiness. Jed, my mother, Rick—all lost to me. No words could help me. Pain must be lived with until it diminished.

  More than a year passed before the astonishing letter arrived to turn my life upside down. Ordinarily, I would have discarded an unsigned letter and never given it another thought. But the black, block-lettered words immediately captured my attention and could not be ignored. The letter began without salutation, just as it ended without signature.

  You are Jed Phillips’ daughter and you should be interested in the facts behind his death. You should know about the role your sister played in what happened.

  Come to Sedona. Once I have confidence in you, I will tell you everything. I must remain anonymous for now, but when you are ready for the truth, you will know who I am.

  I think your own conscience will not let you refuse to come.

  Of course I would refuse! How could I know this was the truth anyhow? I wouldn’t dream of going to Arizona and mixing myself up in something so unsavory. Besides, I must never go near Rick again.

  I went home with a pounding headache and slept hardly at all that night. I fought the thing for three days, refusing to so much as reread the letter. Then I took it out and read it over and over again without stopping. Compulsively.

  All the good memories of my father swept back. Echoes of laughter, of sound and scent and touch. A memory of the time he’d taken me on the Staten Island Ferry to show me the drama of Manhattan’s towers from the water. The time we’d gone to climb the Statue of Liberty, and he’d read aloud for me the moving words that had greeted America’s immigrants. We’d rowed in Central Park and visited Chinatown and the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens. Our companionship had been more satisfying than anything else in my life, though these special moments took place over the years, and not all at once.

  When he went away each time, as he always did, there was Sybil’s jealousy to cope with. He should have taken us both on those excursions, but it was me he chose, and afterward Sybil punished me—because he loved me best. I was too young then to recognize my half sister’s resentment, or to blame my father for their cause. Perhaps in those years his own treatment began to mold us both for the future—Sybil no less than me.

  He had been the one who first saw talent in the little dresses I designed for my dolls. He’d made me glow with a sense of pride in my own achievement, and recognizing this, Sybil had cut up several of the dresses with her sharp scissors and only laughed at my tears. Of course, my father was never there to settle anything, and when he went away emptiness was left behind. It had always been like that, though with the years I’d grown resentful, too, and protective of my mother. Her hurt was the hardest to bear.

  Now, all this time later, the loss was deeper than ever—because of a cruel and unwarranted act that had struck down Jed Phillips. Strange that I should want so much to believe that it was unwarranted, when I knew very well that he had hurt a great many people and that it might not have been robbery at all. He never hurt anyone deliberately, or cruelly, but just walked away to follow his own will-o’-the-wisp into a world that had to stay exciting and exhilarating, or he couldn’t live with it. But no matter what he’d been, or how much I’d come to resent his absence in some ways, he had given me more than anyone else ever had, and I would always be richer for having known him.

  Because of this, wasn’t it my obligation to follow through, even if the note might be no more than the work of some crank? Involved with my reluctance to go to Arizona was my old, childish fear about my own heritage, and my feeling as well that it could only hurt me if I saw Rick Adams again. Nevertheless, in the face of what had been done to my father, mustn’t I deny these arguments? There were risks I would have to take if I were to live with myself. The writer of the note had seen this very well.

  That night I sat in the living room of my apartment, with a single lamp burning; sat with my eyes closed, weighted down by questions I couldn’t answer, concentrating intensely. And suddenly the old feeling came—of not being alone. She was there in the room with me, secretly laughing, listening, watching—always ready to speak out. How real she could seem in the shadows of my mind—perhaps even in the shadows of the room—I was never quite sure. Though not for years had she emerged so clearly or so alive. Now that she had come, I was almost relieved—even grateful. Perhaps I wouldn’t have to make up my own mind after all.

  Strangely enough, it was Jed who had made me a present of Vermilion. I could remember vividly that time when he had come home for a little while when I must have been no more than five. I was already imaginative and creative, and that day I was sitting in my room with my paint box and colored papers laid out on a card table before me.

  When he came in to see me, however, I was crying, with my brush dropped in its glass of water, my painting of a lady in a fancy dress neglected, while tears stained my cheeks. He’d caught me up in his arms and sat down in the room’s one grown-up size chair to hold me on his lap. I could remember the very smell of him—somehow like pine forests and the outdoors, and I liked the comforting feel of a tanned and prickly cheek against my own.

  A few sympathetic questions brought out the fact that I was lonely. I had no one to play with, and Sybil didn’t like me. I wished I had a real sister, instead of just half a one. Someone I could play with and talk to, and who would talk to me.

  Jed said, “But of course you can have a real sister. Let’s make her up right now. How do you want her to look?”

  This was a lovely game. We decided that she must look like me and be just my age. Only, of course, Jed must be able to tell us apart—so perhaps her hair should be a different color from mine. Not black, but some brighter color that I more admired.

  I looked at the open paint box on the table and pointed to a wonderful brilliant red. That would be the color of my new sister’s hair, and it wouldn’t be straight and smooth like mine, but flyaway and shiny and always dancing.

  “What will you name her?” Jed asked.

  Even though it was a big word, I’d learned to recognize and pronounce it, and I pointed to where it was lettered under the very color in my paint box.

  “Vermilion,” I said.

  My father said, “That’s a wonderful name. Sometimes when the sun is right, there
are rocks in Sedona that can look almost that color. Someday I’ll show you.”

  So she was born, my make-believe playmate, and very much alive in my mind. She was always there the moment I wanted her. When I was sad and confused she would comfort me, and she was always ready to play any games I suggested. She seemed perfectly comfortable in the outside world when I wanted her to be. At the dining table she would sit beside me and eat whatever I ate. It was Vermilion who tried on clothes that came straight out of my imagination. She was my first model, really. I began to collect bits of lace and ribbon, scraps of patterned cloth, and we gloated over these together. She would deck herself in outlandish costumes, though it was only Lindsay I saw when I looked in my mirror.

  If I wanted her there, her shining head would lie on the pillow beside my own at night, and I was never lonely anymore. Mother didn’t mind and she would play the game, though with less enthusiasm than Jed. Sybil, of course, had a fit.

  By that time Sybil had learned the word “bastard,” and she applied it to me freely, never hesitating to point out that her mother was not really my mother. I didn’t understand exactly what the word meant. I only knew it was something terrible and demeaning, and that it hurt my mother too. But by the time I could better understand that being a bastard was not my fault, the wound had gone very deep.

  There was a difference between my Vermilion and other make-believe companions I’d read about. To begin with, she’d been deliberately invented. She didn’t fade as the years went by. In a way, she seemed to grow up with me, though perhaps less outside of me than she was at first. Even when I went to school and no longer needed her to play with me, she would come whenever I felt discouraged or uncertain. She was my confidante, and never vulnerable and afraid like me. When I grew older, I laughed a little over this, knowing that instead of Vermilion being a part of me, I had only to pretend that I was Vermilion—and I could do anything. I could even stand up to Sybil!

  Of course, I knew well enough that such make-believe was only an extension of my own needs, but Vermilion became my secret weapon. Sybil learned that when Vermilion was there she had better leave me alone. Vermilion was a very good fighter, and through me she could sometimes give as good as she got—even startling and frightening me on occasion. I seldom intended the things Vermilion prompted me to do.

  Perhaps part of the reason I was successful while I was still very young was because of this odd ability of mine to become someone stronger and wiser and more ruthless than I felt I really was. Now and then, when some impulsive act of mine shocked me, I found myself blaming Vermilion, excusing myself. But at least I had the good sense to realize that this might be a dangerous course and must not be allowed to get out of hand.

  Mostly I’d succeeded in suppressing such extravagance, and eventually Vermilion took her place in the shadows and seldom emerged anymore, seeming to accept her banishment. As “Lindsay Phillips” began to be recognized as a name in the fashion world, there was no more “materializing.” I was, I told myself, an entirely well-balanced woman, and no longer needed the pretense of someone stronger to help and defend me. All such childishness was behind me, I certainly hoped.

  Yet now, faced by a problem that so disturbed and perplexed me, I could sense her presence, insistent and gently pushing. I was almost amused to discover that the old feeling was still there in me, and just for fun I let her in. I said half-mockingly, All right, what would you do?

  At once it was as though she was in the room with me—fully my own age of twenty-eight—a shining, dancing figure that seemed to whirl about me. What was in the mind’s eye could become all too vividly real, as I very well knew. She seemed to toss bright, flyaway hair that could never be restrained, and she spoke one resounding word in my mind: GO!

  That was when I made my second mistake. Still amused, I asked her why. And she told me.

  Sybil is out there. Sybil got the man you always wanted. There are old scores to pay off. Go and settle them.

  I slammed the door on her hard. I shut her out almost violently, and was relieved to see her fade away with not even a trace of laughter left behind. There are motivations one can’t accept and live with in self-respect. So I would not go to Sedona unless I could be sure of myself—sure that I went only because of what I owed my father.

  At the end of three days I was able to make my decision coolly. I wrote to Sybil and Rick and told them I needed a change and a rest. I would save the reason behind my coming to tell them later when I produced the note.

  Unexpectedly, it was Sybil who wrote back. Yes, of course I must come. Rick would meet me in Phoenix. I had only to let them know my plane time and date of arrival. They would of course look forward to my visit. In spite of those “of courses,” the letter was cool—but not rejecting. Perhaps she’d changed, as I had changed. Perhaps everything would be better between us now since, after all, we’d both grown up. I would give her the benefit of any doubt.

  I told Nan, my partner, that I would leave everything in her hands for a little while, and she said wryly that I wasn’t worth having around in my present mood: “Good riddance—and get some rest!”

  The arrangements were made, I caught my plane, and all the way to Arizona the thing that beat in my mind was the knowledge that I would see Rick again, stay in the same house with him, get to know him better. But there could never be any more than that. I must ignore the rush of anticipation that was so ready to sweep me up. I must whip that feeling down until it lay quiet. I knew I was strong enough now to do this. Rick and I were friends, no more than that—never any more than that.

  At least I would see him as a friend again. And I would not listen to Vermilion laughing.

  2

  I stood on the high strip of deck that ran outside the guesthouse and stared at rock formations towering across a dry wash. This was Sedona—at least its edge—and the sense of isolation was really an illusion, since I knew there were houses put there. It was a strange and unfamiliar world that exhilarated as much as it threatened.

  The first meeting with my sister still lay ahead, and I hoped I was braced for it. Not only because of the unanswered questions raised in the letter from Arizona, but also because it would be so easy to slip back to that insignificant position into which she’d always thrust me. For as long as I could remember the deliberate put-down had been one of Sybil’s major weapons. This time I wouldn’t let her use it. This time, if she tried, she’d meet her match. And I’d do it without Vermilion.

  My meeting with Rick at the airport had not been an easy one. There seemed a remoteness about him when I came off the plane and found him waiting. His greeting was preoccupied, and he appeared disturbingly different from the man I’d seen in New York a little over a year ago. Once more, we were strangers.

  On the drive north toward Sedona, I’d tried to question him openly in order to clear the air. “Is anything wrong? Have I come at a bad time?”

  He glanced at me and then returned his attention to the road, so that I had only a swift impression of some terrible desolation before he turned away. It was a look that shocked me.

  “It needn’t concern you,” he said, and made an effort to be more friendly. Not a very convincing effort.

  “We’re going by way of Prescott and Jerome and Cottonwood,” he explained. “It’s the longer route, but you might as well see something of Arizona.”

  Words came out abruptly that I hadn’t meant to speak. “Was I born in Arizona!”

  Again he gave me a quick, studying look. “Didn’t Jed tell you anything?”

  “I never asked,” I admitted. “I didn’t want to know. I’m not sure how much I want to know even now.”

  “You were born in northern Arizona,” he said curtly, and let silence fall between us.

  I asked nothing more, and he offered nothing. It was best that way, although it hurt me that Rick chose to put such distance between us. As far as my own birthright was concerned, if what was so long past and secret must now become part of my pres
ent life, then let it come gradually. Let me have time to orient myself and digest new facts that I could learn to live with. It was disconcerting to realize that half my blood heritage came from this land through which we were passing—though I had to admit to a strange attraction. I gave the scene my full attention and tried not to think about Rick.

  The colors of the Southwest were very different from the world I was used to. The all-pervading turquoise of the sky spread above desert tans and beiges. Adobe colors in which the sun could be absorbed, and in which gray was almost totally absent. What a lot of gray I’d been looking at lately! There were subtle greens as well—the greens of sage and juniper and other unfamiliar desert growth. Like an artist, I had learned to appreciate texture, and this new world offered so many new and exciting textures.

  Behind Phoenix, the bare volcanic peaks lacked the wooded friendliness of Eastern mountains, yet I liked their strong earth colors. North of the city the saguaro cactus sprang up in desert soil, reaching candelabra arms toward a vast sky. Rick identified palo verde trees, thick and bushy, with green trunks, and the soft-looking cholla, that was really filled with prickly spines. I saw green tumbleweed growing in great clumps that would later dry out, break off, and go blowing across the landscape as it did in Western movies.

  Texture! Color! All new and fresh. In this country I might come to life again. Because half my roots were here? Because men and women to whom I was related had stood in this earth and seen what I was seeing now? Had they been pioneers, I wondered.

  But that was sentimental whimsy. I belonged to the East. Not just to the places I knew, but to a stepmother who had raised and loved me. Of course I would enjoy and respond to all that was fresh and different here, but there must be no digging for facts that might only hurt me. I wasn’t ready to accept one of my father’s many passing fancies as my real mother. I had come because I wanted to know how Jed had died. I wanted to know whatever connection might lie between Sybil and my father’s death. But all else in the past could stay buried forever as far as I was concerned.