Vermilion

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  Rick shook his head, even while he grinned. “Parker, you’ve got to quit cooking down here. It’s not allowed, and the atmosphere is all wrong. Come and meet Lindsay Phillips. Lindsay, this is Parker Hale, Clara’s husband.”

  The man transferred the wooden spoon from right hand to left, checked it for drips, and then came into the store to shake my hand gravely.

  “Welcome to Sedona, Miss Phillips.”

  “Parker is part opera star, part chef,” Rick explained, “and we’re never sure which is uppermost.”

  Parker’s eyes were as faded a gray as his fringe of hair, and they showed no amused response to Rick’s words as he studied me. It was not a warming look. I had a feeling that he was prepared to dislike me.

  He turned back to Rick. “That’s Spaghetti Parker I’m cooking for dinner tonight. I suppose I’ll have to take it up to the house. I thought I could just let it simmer back there and give it a stir now and then, while I was helping Clara out. Connie will be in late today. Clara’s in the gallery now unpacking some new paintings, and she hasn’t noticed yet. She’ll be wild.”

  He went through the rear door and a moment later his wife came into the main shop. Clara Hale was a small, arresting woman, vivid and lively. She was probably in her early fifties—years younger than her husband. Her brown hair, streaked with gray, was bound into a long braid that hung down her back. She wore a shirt with an embroidered Western yoke, a turquoise bola tie, and a straight beige skirt that came just below her knees. Her eyes were her one beautiful feature—large and velvety brown. The sort of eyes that should have worn a loving expression. At the moment they were spitting mad.

  She ignored us both and looked around for her husband, who had wisely faded into the back room. “I’ll kill that man!” she cried and dashed through the shop like a small but very careful whirlwind that disturbed none of the precious objects that filled the tables. We could hear her voice raised stormily in the rear.

  Rick laughed. “They’re devoted to each other, though they’re both prima donnas. They enjoy these outbursts. I think you’d better wait to meet Clara later, when the spaghetti crisis is resolved. Right now there’s something upstairs I’d like to show you.”

  I gave the thunderbird a last regretful look and followed Rick from the shop. Nearby, a flight of steps done in blue and yellow Mexican tiles rose to an open gallery that rimmed the courtyard at the second story. Set back from a wrought-iron railing, the shop just above Clara’s was empty.

  Again, Rick used a key, but he paused before opening the door. “I wasn’t sure I’d show you this, Lindsay. Perhaps I wouldn’t do it now, if you hadn’t taken off the way you did downstairs. It’s a notion I meant to keep up my sleeve until I could see what might develop. Perhaps nothing will happen, but I’m going to show you anyway.”

  He opened the door and I went through into a large empty room. There was none of the fine wood paneling here of the shop below. The walls had been painted a soft cream that reflected outdoor light and made it a bright, sunny room. There was no furniture except for a single rough table, on which lay something that made me stop in astonishment halfway into the room.

  Resting on the table was a single roll of cloth in a faintly textured weave that was unfamiliar, its color almost duplicating that of the sky over Sedona. The excitement I’d felt downstairs surged back.

  I turned to find that Rick’s face was alight with an exhilaration that matched my own.

  “How could you know?” I cried. “How could you possibly have guessed ahead of time? What sort of magician are you?”

  “There’s no magic. I knew you were coming, and for a long time before that I’d had a project in mind—without enough knowledge to implement it. You might be the key. Perhaps you could do a dress for us using that cloth. Of course it had to be this shade of blue—the color of an Arizona sky.”

  I went to the table and stroked my hand over the cloth, sensing its texture, unrolling a few folds so that I could test the weight in my hand.

  “It’s beautiful. Where did you find it?”

  “That’s a long story.” He glanced at his watch. “I have an appointment, so let me leave you with Clara now and come back later to take you to lunch. Then I’ll tell you the whole thing and see what you think.”

  “I’m not sure I should stay with Clara,” I said. Though I didn’t warm to the thought of going back to the house to spend the rest of the morning with Sybil.

  Rick waited in the doorway. “I expect you and Clara to become friends. I think you’ll like each other, and, in a way, she’s part of what I have in mind.”

  “How can we be friends if she holds my father against me? You’d better explain, Rick.”

  “All right. I’ll tell you—briefly. A few years ago your father talked her into investing money in one of his big plans, and she lost every cent she gave him. That was before she knew Parker, or he might have kept her out of trouble. Your father died owing her what he’d taken.”

  “Then of course she must be paid back,” I said. “But she’s hardly being fair if she holds this against me.”

  “She’s an emotional lady, as well as being a good business woman most of the time. That’s what upset her so badly. Not so much losing the money, but because she let Jed take her in. Of course, he always took himself in first of all. That’s why his arguments were so convincing. Anyway, she’s already been paid back. Jed was my friend, and he did a great deal for me.”

  I wanted to thank him. I wanted to tell him how glad I was that he’d been my father’s friend, but bitterness against Jed rose in me all too easily, and I held back the words. All I could do was try to please Rick, try to make friends with Clara Hale, if that was what he wanted.

  “All right, I’ll go back to the shop, and I’d like to have lunch with you if you’ll come for me when you’re ready.” I paused for a last look around the big empty room with its single table and roll of bright blue cloth. “Just tell me one thing. Why here? Why did you put that cloth in this empty place?”

  He smiled at me again, and the warmth was still there. “I should think you’d guess, Lindsay. This is your workroom. No—don’t ask questions now. I’ll tell you everything later.”

  I had to accept that, tantalized as I was. He locked the door and we went down the stairs to the courtyard below just as Parker Hale emerged from the shop called Silvercloud. Carried ceremoniously in his gloved hands was a huge iron pot, and a rich aroma of cooking tomato sauce enveloped him.

  He rolled his eyes dramatically upward at the sight of us. “I’ve been banished! I hope you can soothe my wife and get her calmed down.”

  He went off toward the parking area, and Rick led the way through the open door of the shop.

  4

  Clara, spraying a flower scent around the main room of the shop, had a second woman with her. A tall, angular, sun-baked woman, perhaps in her early fifties. She wore her hair in a straight gray cut that looked as though she’d trimmed it herself, and her face was etched with tiny lines drawn in by the sun. At least Parker had left the two of them smiling, so the storm clouds must have cleared.

  “Orva,” Rick said, “I’m glad to see you. It’s been a long time.” Though his words were cordial, I sensed a certain reserve in his greeting.

  “You know why.” Her smile faded. “I thought I might catch you here if I came early. I need to talk to you, Rick.”

  Rick introduced me to Orva Montgomery, Brian’s mother.

  “Is anything wrong?” he asked her.

  I moved aside, so they could speak together, and stood looking again at the wall plaque of coiled straw. I couldn’t move out of hearing, and they didn’t seem to expect it.

  “Marilla’s lessons aren’t working out,” Orva told him. “The last two times she came to the house she refused to touch her paints or put pencil to paper. She’d been doing beautifully, but now she sits and looks out a window. Or else talks to Brian, if he’s around. She’s only there because you’ve told her to come.”<
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  “But she loves to draw and paint!”

  “Of course she does. Unfortunately, it seems to Sybil that drawing pictures is a waste of time, and she’s trying to convince Marilla of this.”

  Orva Montgomery emphasized her disapproval with a snort that made me look around. I could sympathize, knowing Sybil, and I liked this woman for championing Marilla. I even liked her unbeautiful, though distinctive look and automatically found myself wishing that I could get her out of her straight, tightly belted dress, which revealed bony hip angles too plainly. A softer contour would help.

  Rick said, “I’ll speak to Sybil,” and I heard anger in his voice. His moment of exhilaration had passed, and he was again the dark, driven man who had met me yesterday in Phoenix—a man who carried a burden.

  “You do that.” Orva was emphatic. “I know Sybil has a thing about wasting time. But I told Marilla that if people don’t sit on a rock in the sun once in a while, nothing will ever happen inside their heads.”

  Rick turned away, fury with Sybil clearly shaking him. I had been there myself. Only this was worse, because the creativity of a talented child was threatened.

  Clara had not joined the discussion, and she put her spray aside and moved toward the back room. “So long, Orva. Rick, when you’re free, I’d like to show you the new paintings I’m going to hang.”

  “I’ll be right there,” he told her. “Thanks for coming, Orva. I’ll see what I can do.”

  When he’d gone back to join Clara, Orva regarded me speculatively. “How about walking me to my car? I’m curious about Jed Phillips’ daughter.”

  Once more I was listening for every nuance, asking myself, Is this the one?

  “You knew my father?” I asked as we crossed the courtyard beneath a leaning sycamore.

  She looked straight ahead as we walked, her profile as angular as the rest of her. “Of course. Didn’t everyone? Brian thinks you’re like him.”

  “Your son hardly knows me,” I said in surprise. “We’ve only exchanged a few words.”

  “He makes up his mind fast, and maybe that’s his trouble. Sometimes he makes it up wrong, and then nobody can shake him. How long are you going to stay?”

  Before I could answer, a tremendous boom, louder than thunder, came out of the sky, and the earth trembled under my feet. I looked up, startled, and saw nothing but the empty blue.

  Orva shook her head ruefully. “Sonic boom. We get them all the time, though the Air Force planes can go over so high you don’t see them. Sometimes the shocks shake our windows and doors, and tumble rocks in the hills where water erosion has made their balance precarious. Probably the pilots can’t even see us down here, and there’s no use complaining.”

  I had a strangely uneasy feeling about the boom—as though Vermilion was stirring. A presentiment, perhaps?

  “You were going to tell me how long you plan to stay,” Orva said.

  “I’m not sure. Not very long, since I have a business waiting for me back in New York.”

  “Making clothes for rich women!”

  I couldn’t take offense at her blunt honesty. “We all have to wear clothes. And I can’t help feeling that it’s better to look well than not. For ourselves, and to give pleasure to others.”

  I doubt if she paid much attention. Her thoughts were already elsewhere.

  When we reached the end of the compound Orva paused, hooking a thumb under the strap of her shoulder bag as she studied me.

  “Before you leave, will you come and visit us, Lindsay Phillips? I have a few things your father gave us that you might like to see. Perhaps you can come for supper some night? I’ll phone you.”

  I didn’t want to postpone the answers. I wanted to know now.

  “Why?” I asked. “Are you inviting me because of a note you mailed to me?”

  Orva looked convincingly blank, but that might mean only that she wasn’t ready to admit anything.

  “Thank you,” I said quickly. “I’d like to come. Just let me know when.”

  She nodded, and hurried off to her car with a rush of long legs and flapping elbows. I watched her get in and drive away without another look in my direction. She could be the one, I thought. Obviously she didn’t like Sybil, and her son was a Sybil follower. So what had brought me here might add up to no more than an effort toward spiteful reprisal. Except that Orva Montgomery didn’t strike me as a spiteful woman. Outspoken, yes, and honest. But not malicious. I wondered why I’d sensed a certain reservation toward her in Rick. At least I would go to her house for dinner with a great deal of interest.

  I walked back to the shop thoughtfully, aware of bright beauty all around me in this place called Tlaquepaque, but aware too of shadows—not only cast by the sycamores but psychic shadows that had their being in me.

  It was as though some threat of disaster continued to hang over me, although it remained so nebulous that I couldn’t put my finger on the direction from which it came. The feeling grew out of more than the rock that had been hurled at me last night, out of more than Sybil’s antagonism—perhaps it was Vermilion’s uneasiness that was stirring under the surface. And that I could do without.

  The main store was empty when I reached it, and Clara and Rick were still consulting in the rear. This time I didn’t even glance at the thunderbird in its circle of straw as I joined them in the long gallery.

  The paintings Rick and Clara were discussing stood leaning against the wall, waiting to be hung. Most were Indian pueblo scenes done in those tawny sand and adobe colors that so appealed to me. Emphasis was achieved mainly in the clothing of human figures in the paintings. A woman in a dress of dark indigo blue was cooking bread on hot stones, while a young girl in white knee-length leggings stood watching, her hair arranged in curious butterfly disks on each side of her head.

  “That’s the way young Hopi girls used to do their hair,” Rick said. “Now I’m afraid they want to look and be like everyone else off the reservation. That’s natural enough, but I wish our standards were higher.”

  I moved on to study an acrylic of pueblo dwellings built one above another in setbacks, with long narrow ladders leaning against the walls. Ladders that narrowed still more toward the top. On the flat roofs women and children were gathered, some standing, some sitting with their legs hanging over the edge. All were watching the colorful masked dancers who circled in the open space below. I had the feeling that this was a genuine religious occasion and not intended for curious tourists.

  The paintings had a marvelous sense of serenity. These people were proud of their traditions, and this feeling of respect for the old ways came through. When I went on to the next section, I received a shock, because the sense of serenity vanished. The following pictures were troubling and haunted.

  In one painting children were leaving their pueblo to get into a bus driven by a white man, while behind them families looked on in sorrow. In the solemn, watching faces I glimpsed the depth of real grief.

  Clara spoke at my elbow. “Some of these pictures refer to the past. Years ago, children used to be taken to federal boarding schools, and their parents had no choice in the matter. They might not see them again for a long time. When they did meet again, they might hardly know each other. There were cultural clashes and old values lost. Fortunately, we’ve moved away from the idea of assimilation, but the psychological effects of that mistake are still with us, as Alice Rainsong believes.”

  “Rainsong! What a beautiful name! Of course an Indian woman would have painted these?”

  “‘Indian’ is a very large word. She’s part Hopi. Her Anglo name is Alice Spencer, but she likes to use her Hopi name when she can.”

  “She’s very good,” I said.

  Clara picked up the painting I’d been studying, and her thick braid fell over one shoulder. “Yes, she is good. I had trouble prying her loose from these. She doesn’t want to sell them, but I mean to give her a proper show anyway. Don’t you think we should, Rick?”

  “Of course,”
he agreed. “It’s time she stopped hiding her talent. Just the same, I can understand how she feels. Alice puts her heart on canvas when she paints—and her pain. She’s reluctant to expose these feelings to strangers.”

  “Maybe there’s some guilt there too,” Clara said. “She really belongs to the Anglo world, yet that one quarter of Hopi blood is more important to her than the rest. These aren’t sentimentalized glimpses—they’re real. I’ll get a reporter in to cover the exhibit, since it really must be seen.”

  “Alice won’t like that,” Rick said, “but I hope she’ll like some other things I have in mind for her.”

  “She’s not one to jump when you snap your fingers.” Clara shook her head at him. “Anyway, we have other problems. What are you going to do about her?” She was staring in my direction, challenging me and making no bones about it.

  Rick grinned. “Smooth down your feathers, Clara. I’m going to leave Lindsay right here with you for now. I’ve shown her the cloth upstairs, and I don’t think she can resist it. Let’s leave her in suspense for the moment. I’ll be back to take her to lunch. In the meantime, maybe she can help you hang Rainsong’s pictures.”

  There was nothing Clara could do without being even more deliberately rude. “Well, okay,” she said, when he’d gone. “If you’re going to help, let’s get to work.”

  The paintings had been lined up in the order in which they were to be hung, and Clara, armed with picture hooks and hammer, climbed a stepladder she had dragged to one end of the gallery.

  “Bring me the first one,” she directed.

  That was the limit of our conversation for a while. Once more my thoughts drifted to puzzling about Orva Montgomery. Had I been wrong to suspect her as my letter writer? It was just as possible that Clara Hale was a more likely candidate. She might be testing me in some way, even now. But there would be no telling until whoever had written the notes decided to speak out.