Vermilion

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

Vermilion spoke clearly in my mind. Last night I had held her back, but now she seemed free of my will. You’ll need weapons today, as well as armor. You mustn’t let him get away.

  Be quiet, I told her. I won’t hold him with tricks.

  This time she wouldn’t obey. This is your chance to beat Sybil forever. Don’t fluff it. Play your cards properly. Let me in and I’ll help you.

  But I no longer wanted to pretend to be Vermilion—I only wanted to be me. I must be the one Rick came to love, if that was ever to be possible This was no game, to be cleverly played and scored.

  I spoke out loud “Go away! There’s nothing I want from you.”

  Her laughter sounded sulky as she faded out, and I was thankful for her silence. Vermilion had become my make believe friend because she indulged me in all that was self-seeking, self-promoting. At least I could see this now, and sense the division between us. I was almost ready to let the gap widen, to let her fall into the void where she belonged. Soon, soon, I must take this step.

  I turned my thoughts quickly away, lest I stir her up again, still troubled by this mystery of her being that lay deep inside me, and fearful to test this, in case I might not yet be ready to be free.

  When Rick came, I saw at once that the black mood was upon him again. He had shut himself away as completely as though last night had never been, and I dared not presume by so much as a touch or a word on what had happened between us. There was to be no privilege of intimcy—that was clear. And this could only mean that he regretted.

  When we were well away from the house, he told me as he drove what was wrong.

  “Sybil knows where I was last night. She was waiting for me when I left you this morning. She was sitting in the living room waiting. She got up very early for her, and she went to my room and found my bed empty.”

  I made a small sound of dismay.

  “I’m afraid I’ve played into her hands,” he said dully. “What happened was right, Lindsay—you mustn’t think anything else. Though that may be small consolation now. She has to be stopped from the moves she plans. She has to be stopped—somehow.”

  “Be careful,” I said. “Oh, Rick, do be careful.”

  He reached out to cover my hand with his. His touch was light and it lasted only a moment, but it told me he loved me and he hadn’t forgotten. His deepening rage had nothing to do with me, yet it frightened me nevertheless. Sybil might push him too far, and I didn’t think he was a man one could push for long with impunity. I was glad we would both be away from Sedona for part of the day.

  The drive north through the canyon was spectacularly beautiful. We crossed the bridge over Oak Creek, and for a while followed steep red cliffs that rose straight from the water. When we left the canyon behind, we climbed a switchback road through tremendous forests of white pine, and the air grew purer, rarer.

  Just as my first glimpse of Sedona’s red rocks had been something to remember, so was my first view of the San Francisco Peaks—those dead volcanoes that formed a backdrop for Flagstaff, with the city set out in neat grid precision below the mountain.

  Our long silence while Rick drove had helped a little. He could speak more easily now.

  “Those are the highest mountains in Arizona, and there’s usually snow up there,” he told me. “The Hopis believe that those who die with pure hearts will go to be with their ancestors on those snowy peaks.”

  I watched the long strip of mountains as we drove toward them and thought of the legendary spirit home they represented to those who had lived here before the white man came.

  But as we neared the city, the coming meeting with Alice Spencer began to take on more reality for me.

  “It might help,” I told Rick, “if I could understand why Alice was hesitant about seeing me. Had she known my father?”

  “I’ll tell you a little about her,” Rick said. “Her Indian great-grandparents lived at Oraibi, northwest of Flagstaff. There’s a place named Black Mesa that reaches three fingers toward the south—First, Second, and Third Mesas. Old Oraibi is at the tip of Third Mesa, with New Oraibi in the valley below. Old Oraibi is the oldest continuously lived-in settlement north of Mexico. The word Hopi comes from Hopituh, which means the Peaceful People, and they have a culture and a heritage that’s very ancient. You’ll be learning about them.”

  There seemed a strange intensity in his words, as though the information he was giving me had some particular portent that I didn’t understand. I listened as he continued, and my anxiety about meeting Alice Spencer grew.

  “Alice’s Hopi grandmother came outside to marry a white man. So Alice’s mother was half Indian. Then her mother in turn married an Anglo, which diluted the blood still further. Something which Alice resents. She’d rather be three quarters Hopi and really belong to those she regards as her people.”

  “I’m glad to know about her,” I said, feeling oddly formal now, as though Rick were a stranger I’d just met. “You haven’t answered my question about whether she knew Jed.”

  Rick went on as though he hadn’t heard me. “Alice has been a full professor, teaching Indian subjects at the university in Flagstaff. As I’ve told you, she wants to use her talents by working directly with her people.”

  “Did she know my father?”

  We had left the highway at an intricate cloverleaf and were on the edge of the city—with the great peaks looming close. Rick slowed the car and pulled over to a curb.

  “I’d meant to wait for Alice to tell you herself—if she chose to. Perhaps I’d better prepare you. A few years ago Alice had a young protégé in one of her classes. Though the girl had no family, her mother had left her a little money when she died.”

  Rick paused, and I waited for him to go on, somehow dreading what was to come. I was right to be fearful.

  “Lindsay, this may be hard for you. The girl was in the car with your father when he had that accident in San Francisco. She was the woman who was killed.”

  I felt cold with shock. I had never wanted to know about the woman. I had been sad for my mother’s sake, and fiercely angry as well. I hadn’t wanted to read about the woman who had died, or know about her. Now, suddenly, she had an identity, and she had evidently been dear to Alice Spencer, whom we were going to see, and who was so important to this plan of Rick’s.

  “Alice must have hated my father,” I said.

  “She’s never talked to me about what happened. And she has told me to bring you to see her. It’s better to go through with this and put it behind you, Lindsay. Alice is a woman with a great heart—you can tell that by her paintings.”

  “She has a great anger in her as well. That also shows in her work. Of course I’ll go. Just drive slowly, please, so I can have a little more tune to get ready.”

  Rick did as I asked and we followed the streets of Flagstaff at a leisurely pace until he pulled the car to the curb before a one-story gray house, uninspired in architecture, with bright planters of geraniums and begonias on the front porch.

  “Here we are,” Rick said, and reached over to touch my hand. I sensed his concern and was grateful.

  “I’m all right,” I assured him. “This is just one more thing tied to Jed that I must deal with.”

  “You’ll deal with it. And more when you have to.”

  He sounded grim again, and I braced myself as I got out of the car. Together we went up the walk to the front steps.

  Alice Spencer appeared at the door to greet us and I was aware of a woman who was beautiful in a quiet way. Large dark eyes were framed by long lashes, and she wore her black hair short and softly curled. Delicate turquoise earrings dangled from her ears and her sand-colored shirtdress made a perfect background for an exquisite necklace of silver and turquoise in the squash blossom design.

  As she extended her hand and I took it, I could sense her intensity and knew that she was as uneasy about this meeting as I. For an instant I thought I had seen her somewhere before, then the impression vanished as she moved and spoke.


  “The day is lovely, so let’s sit out here on the porch and talk. I’m glad you’ve come, Rick, and that you’ve brought Lindsay Phillips. I want to know more about what you’re planning.”

  She had a quiet assurance about her, a certain authority that perhaps came from her years in a university classroom. There was no way in which I could feel comfortable, however, and as we sat down in rustic chairs, I could think only of Jed and the accident in San Francisco. It seemed too much to hope that this attractive woman would not hold my relationship with my father against me.

  Rick was watching, reading me again. “Before we talk about anything else, I think we ought to clear the air. Alice, I’ve told Lindsay that your young protégé, Celia Brooks, was killed in a car accident when Jed was driving.”

  “Yes?” Alice Spencer waited, her expression grave. I had no idea what she was thinking, or how she felt toward me. I only knew I had to speak, had to apologize in some way.

  “My father hurt a great many people,” I said. “I’m terribly sorry about your friend.”

  She seemed to stiffen a little, as she spoke quietly. “Jed was trying to help Celia because I’d asked him to. I should have known better. I should have remembered—” She broke off, sighing, and then went on. “He was completely shattered by what happened that rainy day. Not just his body in the hospital. His spirit too. He didn’t care about his own injuries, once he knew that Celia was dead.”

  I heard deep sadness in her voice over the loss of this young girl whom she’d tried to help. She seemed to be blaming herself more than she did Jed. Nevertheless, the dark eyes that watched me were appraising—perhaps judging me in some way.

  The years of bitter resentment against my father seemed to press in on me. Years that had made the accident just one more count against him. I had never let him talk to me about what had happened, protective as I was of my mother. I’d known he would make excuses, perhaps berating himself for his own failings, wanting to be forgiven. Only this time the result of his actions had been far worse than usual.

  “He really did suffer over what happened,” Rick said.

  I could only answer him dryly. “I know. He always suffered.”

  Alice continued with the same cool reserve. “Jed was ready to help whenever he was needed—which is why I asked him to look out for Celia in San Francisco and see if he could open some doors for her. She had a notion about working in the theater, and he knew a lot of people in show business.”

  It was strange to realize that Alice’s coolness toward me grew not so much for what Jed had caused, but because I’d judged him harshly. This was something I couldn’t deal with.

  Rick must have glimpsed my confusion, for he turned to the matter that had brought us here. Clearly, he and Alice had discussed some of this before, and now my role as a designer was being considered. While Alice’s manner toward me was not particularly warm, she seemed to accept what Rick was suggesting.

  “You’re what we need,” she told me. “I’m good at a loom myself, and I can teach others. But I couldn’t design a dress in a way that would appeal to the fashion market. The Pueblos have a heritage of fine weaving, though it’s dying out in most places. The Hopi are still making textiles, and these days, of course, the women weave too. I want to see this continue and develop.”

  She took us inside to show us her loom, on which cloth with the zigzag pattern of formalized lightning was appearing. I had brought a few of my sketches and she examined them with interest. I liked the way her face could light with eagerness, and animation could come into her voice and manner as the coolness fell away.

  “This is all wonderfully promising,” she told Rick. “I’m eager to get started. How do we go about it?”

  “Perhaps you could come to Sedona?” I suggested hesitantly. “Rick is fixing a workroom for me there, and once I have the materials and my tools, I can begin seriously. I’ll need a lot of advice right away.”

  “I’m sure Alice will come,” Rick said, and she nodded.

  “This can be good for everyone,” she agreed. “Pueblo life is hard. There are rules and standards to live by, and the individual is never as important as the group. Today many have moved out to work at regular jobs—for the Santa Fe Railroad, in motels and hotels, even as owners of stores. There can still be psychological problems connected with the past, and there’s some alcoholism—though not as much with the Hopi as with other tribes. They’re pretty well adjusted, and I hate to see the old talents lost.”

  Alice spoke with regret, and I could sense in her the same depth of feeling that I’d glimpsed in her paintings. Though I wanted to like her, I still felt her reserve toward me, even when she warmed to Rick’s burgeoning ideas.

  Next she took us into her studio, where a canvas stood on its easel, a worktable was strewn with paint tubes, and there was an odor of turpentine.

  “I saw your paintings at Silvercloud in Sedona,” I told her. “They’re very moving.”

  “Silvercloud,” she said, and turned from the painting she was studying to look at me rather strangely.

  “You remember, Alice,” Rick said quickly. “That’s the name Jed suggested for our shop in Sedona.”

  She nodded. “Yes, of course I remember. It just startled me for a moment.” But she didn’t say why, and we returned to sit on the porch for a while longer as further details were discussed. She promised to come to Sedona soon to work with me. When she’d seen what I wanted to do, she would return and talk to the family she had in mind.

  I couldn’t let go of the thing that concerned me most, and I broke in to ask her a direct question. “How did you come to know my father?”

  Her response seemed strangely “Indian.” She was silent, with her eyes cast down, and Rick answered for her lightly.

  “You forget, Lindsay—Jed knew everyone.”

  A moment of strain seemed to have passed safely for Alice with his words. Clearly she wanted no more questions, and she rose with the grace that was natural to her.

  “Excuse me for a moment. I’ll bring tea and something else I’ve fixed for you especially.”

  When we’d returned to the porch, and she had gone into the house, I questioned Rick. “Why did she react as she did when I asked how she’d met Jed?”

  He shook his head. “Not now, Lindsay. This isn’t the time. I’ll tell you later.”

  Once more I felt impatient with this holding back, but in a few moments Alice returned with a tray that she set down on the porch table, and I tried to put my frustration aside.

  “I’ve made piki especially for you, Rick,” she said. “And I thought Lindsay might like it too. I learned how one time when I visited Oraibi. Though I think it’s better when hot stones are used.”

  She poured a fragrant herbal tea, scented with orange peel, and served us the layered bread made of blue cornmeal that I found delicious. Rick talked of his plans and as always I realized how much all this meant to him.

  Away from Sybil, he could seem warmly alive again—an eager, vital, creative man. Watching him, I knew how much I wanted to help in any way I could, whether there was a future for me with him or not. Already I was a part of his life, even though, in spite of last night, he had not fully let me in.

  A short time later we parted with Alice and went out to the car for the drive home. When we were on our way, I made no further effort to control my impatience.

  “Tell me, Rick, tell me what you’re holding back from me!”

  “Wait,” he said. “Just a little while longer. Time moves fast enough as it is. At least Alice liked you. I’m glad of that.”

  I wasn’t sure he was right, but my main concern now had yet to be answered, and the very fact that Rick held back from telling me suggested depths I might not be prepared for.

  We drove through the streets of the city, past buildings of Coconino sandstone, and very quickly we were on the highway heading for home. Which would mean further encounters with Sybil, and difficult decisions to be made. Rick had said I need
n’t move out in a hurry—but move I would.

  My waiting came to an end when we were once more driving through Oak Creek Canyon and nearing Sedona. Rick found a place where he could leave the car, and we climbed down to where the creek flowed between rocky banks, and canyon walls rose steeply above us. Noonday sun reached into deep recesses, erasing the shadows, while cooling blue water ran at our feet. Great flat slabs of rock edged the water.

  “They call this Slide Rock,” Rick said. “In summer there’re always swimmers and sunbathers here. But it’s empty now—a good place to sit and talk.”

  Above us, the broad, slanting rock plunged toward the water, and I looked up at painted cliffs. “Look! There are heads in the rock—faces—almost like sculptures. Are these the Fire People?”

  “No, Marilla’s friends are a long way from here. These are what she calls People Rocks. You’ll see them everywhere—all carved by nature. Come on up, Lindsay, there’s a ledge at the top where we can sit.”

  I let him pull me up the steep slant and sat down beside him, uneasy now that the moment was nearly here. The quiet was that of any wild place, with a few birds talking among themselves and water murmuring below. The rock was warm beneath my hand.

  “Do you like Alice?” Rick asked.

  I’d known that what he had to say would be connected with Alice Rainsong. “Very much. At least, I wanted to. I’m not sure she was willing to let me like her.”

  “She couldn’t be sure about you, either. Lindsay, there’s no way to tell you except simply and directly. It’s way past time.”

  I put my hand on his arm and he covered it with his own as he’d done in the car. “It’s Jed, isn’t it? Something else my father has done?”

  “Alice Spencer is your sister. Your half sister, just as Sybil is, because—”

  I couldn’t grasp what he was saying right away. “You mean because Jed was her father?”

  “No, Lindsay. Just listen to me. You and Alice had the same mother. Your mother’s Indian name was Silvercloud. Her father was an Anglo-American, her mother Hopi. She married Alice’s Anglo father, who deserted her before Alice was born, and was never heard from again. When Jed came into her life he became something of a father to Alice, and she was devoted to him. He bought them that little house in Flagstaff. If circumstances had been different, I think he would have married Mary Silvercloud. But that was never possible.”