by Vicki Lane
She proved to have a way with the child that was almost magical. When Kyra outgrew the need for a nurse, Reba stayed on as a maid and later as a housekeeper. And always as a confidante, mentor, watchdog for Kyra. It was only Rose’s death and Marvin’s remarriage that brought Reba to me. I’ll not stay another minute in that house, she told me, when, once again, like some Appalachian Mary Poppins, she made her sudden appearance at my door. And, once again, I handed her what she wanted.
Reba has made an excellent housekeeper and, though she is somewhat unpolished, I enjoy hearing the mountain speech. And she is fiercely loyal. I believe that she would have come here in any capacity whatsoever just for the chance of seeing Kyra from time to time. I hear her in Kyra’s room often, the two of them chattering away, Reba making pronouncements in that flat, uncompromising voice; Kyra murmuring sweetly in assent, humoring her old nurse.
I believe that this temporary return to childhood has not been unwelcome to Kyra. Her foray into the independent life of the artist has been fraught with disaster. Yes, the child seems happy now, but yet, in some indefinable way, strangely unsettled. She comes to my room every morning, drinks tea and nibbles at some toast as I breakfast. Then she’s off to her new studio. I gather that she’s working on some things for the show that Carter is still determined to have in spite of the growing whispers.
He called yesterday to ask if I’d heard the rumors. When I told him that I had, he asked if I believed them. I’m old enough, my friend, I told him, to ignore rumors until they prove themselves one way or another. He thanked me effusively and reminded me how important a show could be for Kyra at this point. She needs to take all this publicity and use it to her advantage, he urged.
And she badly needs a distraction, I thought but did not say. Between the loss of her two— friends? lovers?— associates, I shall call them for want of the mot juste, and the revelation that her father is very soon going to have to make, I feel that she will need every shred of validation that a success with her art could bring.
Marvin came to visit yesterday as he does every week. He is always thoughtful and I could see that he was brimming over with some news that he was at once eager and reluctant to tell me. So we spoke instead of my portfolio, of the weather, of his concern for Kyra. Miss Lily, he said finally, you know how hard I’ve tried to bring her home. But she won’t do it. Kimmie has tried to approach her but…
So strong and so near tears. His reputation as a cold and heartless opportunist is no doubt well deserved in the business sphere, but I know the other side of the man.
He was silent for a moment and then he said, But now, I’m glad she’s with you. There’s a new development which I’m afraid is going to be difficult for her.
When he finally unburdened himself of this “new development,” he begged me to keep it to myself so that he could be the one to tell her. Only after I promised solemnly to say nothing did he leave, kissing me heartily and thanking me for my understanding.
I am very troubled by what he has told me. I remember the past and I fear the future.
* * *
I remember the past…. This journal has become a melancholy pleasure— almost an addiction. I relive those long-ago times and once more I see that beloved face.
Fanchon. Just to write the name gives me pleasure. I notice that I quickly abandoned the coy use of initials with which I began this account. Names hold power and by writing them I seem to summon up the whole persona. No one would trouble to read these pages now: it remains my firm intention to consign them to the flames once the whole story is told.
* * *
Fanchon. She came to the Center three days a week and I fretted like a caged beast on the other four. When she was at the Center, I always found little tasks for her to do that would keep her near me, but I began to notice a growing tendency on the part of Caro and Geneva to seek out the pretty child and involve her in their work rather than mine. One day Caro came into the room where I was helping Fanchon with her handwriting— she was copying from Sonnets from the Portuguese and reading softly as she formed the words on the paper. Fanchon, child, trilled Caro, leave the fusty-musty and come with me for a ramble. I need to collect dye-stuffs and your help would be welcome.
She went, with a reluctant backward glance at her work and, I believe, at me. But I fumed as I watched them cross the open field, Caro linking arms with her and bending close to whisper in her shell-like ear.
Infamous, I thought. That such a woman— and I thought of that double bed— that such women…words failed me, even in thought. But I resolved that I would find a way, a means to remove Fanchon from the unnatural corruption of these two. For my love, the inner voice whispered, my love was and would remain pure…platonic, I think I told myself.
There was another obstacle to my dream of taking Fanchon away from the Center. She was being courted by a local ruffian with the unlikely name of Bragg Strother, and he was known as a dangerous man to cross. Illiterate, uncouth, and, for the most part, unwashed, Strother had set his sights on this loveliest of girls and often appeared at the Center on the days Fanchon was there to “carry” her home in his rattletrap old Ford, the same vehicle with which, it was said, he hauled quantities of the illicit spirits manufactured by his notorious family.
Fanchon seemed indifferent to his attentions. I noted with approval that she would not ride with Strother unless Tildy or one of the other girls accompanied them. When I teased her about her suitor, she smiled shyly and said, He’s always after me to marry him but I ain’t wanting to. They’s— there’s things I want to do and learn. Not but that he is a fine-looking man. And he vows that when— that if we wed, he’ll stop hauling liquor.
My heart sank. If Strother persisted, and I was sure that he would, within the year my beautiful girl would be married, expecting, and on her way to a life of brutal, mind-numbing work. Fanchon would become like so many of the mountain women: her graceful hands would redden and gnarl, her pearl-like teeth would be stained with snuff, her flawless skin would grow leathery, and her sparkling eyes would turn dim and vacant with weariness…. I grew more determined than ever to remove Fanchon from Strother…and from Caro.
The way soon appeared. October came with its glorious golds and reds painting the hillsides, its endless blue skies and sharp cold mornings when a dusting of frost silvered the world outside my window. Tildy had completed the wonderful animal quilt and Caro and Geneva began to plan the trip to Washington.
I had been able to help them in gaining access to the White House, for one of Father’s friends served as an advisor to President Roosevelt. The ladies planned to accompany Tildy to Washington, hoping to use the meeting with the President to press for government aid to their program. But then my father’s friend wrote, offering to me and my little protégée, as he put it, the hospitality of his home in Washington, adding that he would see to it that we met as many important personages as possible. The ladies conferred and decided that I should be the one to accompany Tildy.
I was wretched at the thought of such an opportunity being wasted on the unlovely Tildy. She could not, did not, represent the charming young women for whom we were seeking aid. One evening I ventured to mention this to Miss Caro and Miss Geneva.
There, what did I tell you, Caro? cried Geneva.
If only it were Fanchon who’d made the quilt, mourned Caro. She’s so pretty and well-spoken; she’d charm the funding right out of them. But Tildy, oh my, she’s a caricature, and a greedy, pushing caricature at that. Sometimes I think that she could do us more harm than good.
I have an idea, I said. Let me speak to Tildy.
I am not proud of what I did. At the time, I told myself that it was for the good of the Center. I spoke with Tildy and offered her five hundred dollars to put Fanchon’s name on the quilt, to let Fanchon be presented as the quilt’s creator. I made a feeble excuse, saying that the President wanted to hear some mountain music. And Fanchon can play and sing and you can’t, can you, Tildy? I told her. Y
ou must think of the needs of the Center.
Miss Lily, she said, her sallow face growing blotchy, you mean I wouldn’t git to ride on the train? And meet Mr. Roosevelt?
Five hundred dollars, Tildy, I said. Think what five hundred dollars can buy. At the time this was a sum far above the average family income in Marshall County. Indeed, the sum was not inconsiderable to me, but I had recently been the recipient of an inheritance from an elderly aunt and it seemed a small price to pay to save my beautiful girl. So I reasoned with Tildy. I showed her what five hundred dollars looked like. I had made a special trip in to Ransom to have the check from my aunt’s lawyer transformed into one hundred five-dollar bills. I felt certain that the sight of so much cash would plead my case far better than a check.
And so it did. Tildy went to Geneva and Caro. I had coached her carefully and she was word perfect. I think that Fanchon should go instead of me, she told them. She kin do better than me at talkin’ with all them high-up people. And she kin sing and I ain’t able. Besides, I got stuff to see about at home.
It does them credit to say that the ladies were at first unwilling to accept Tildy’s sacrifice. But she was resolute and even handed over the wonderful quilt, showing them how she had picked out her embroidered signature and replaced it with Fanchon’s name.
Hit don’t matter, she said, I know who done the work. And she left the Center, never to return.
Caro and Geneva were thrilled at the opportunity for Fanchon. Neither questioned me as to how I had effected this miracle. Plans were put in motion to take Fanchon to Ransom to purchase suitable clothing for the trip. I offered up more money, delighted that my scheme was close to realization.
And Fanchon? She accepted the new arrangement with the sweet equanimity I had expected. Her eyes grew wide as I described some of the things we would see on our travels. O Miss Lily, she said, and threw her arms around me. I feel like something magic has happened. Are you my fairy godmother, like in the stories?
The memory of her innocent embrace kept me awake far into the night as I lay in my bed, still feeling the burning circle of her tender arms.
CHAPTER 18
SOME INVISIBLE THRESHOLD
(SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, AND SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 11)
THE UGLY CRACKED PAVEMENT WAS COMING nearer and Elizabeth twisted, trying to catch at something to stop her descent. One, two, three— four iron steps slipped by before she managed to grab one of the upright supports and arrest her fall. Oh sweet Jesus, don’t let anything be broken, she begged as she clung to the slender bar that had halted her precipitous fall. Just below her was a landing and she carefully inched down onto it. She sat crumpled there, half stunned.
Phillip was at her side almost immediately. “Elizabeth, are you hurt? Do you want me to get help?” Already he was reaching for his cell phone. “Don’t try to move—”
“No, I think I’m okay. Just give me a minute.” Slowly, painfully, she pulled herself to a more upright position, then extended her legs. “I think everything works but my knee’s going to stiffen up if I don’t start moving around right now. I hit it pretty hard.” She started to stand and reconsidered. “What the hell— I’m going to have to go down the rest of the way on my behind— I don’t trust this knee.”
Mercifully, though at that point she didn’t give a damn, there was no one in the parking lot to see her ignominious, painful descent. When at last her feet were on solid ground, Phillip took her hands.
“Elizabeth, please just sit there. I’ll bring the car over and—”
“No, just help me stand up. Like I said— if I don’t keep moving, I’ll seize up.” She stood, pulling against his strong hands. Her knee was throbbing and her shoulder and elbow felt badly bruised. She looked across the parking lot to Phillip’s car. “I can make it.” With her first step, the injured knee buckled and she fell forward.
Phillip caught her and held her close. For a moment she relaxed into his embrace. She closed her eyes and remembered the blissful feeling of being cared for and protected— by a husband, a lover, even back to the idyllic days of early childhood when there was always a grown-up to come between her and whatever threatened. She did not open her eyes but rested her head on Phillip’s shoulder. His arms tightened around her.
“Elizabeth.” It was a statement. She stood there, eyes closed, breathing hard.
At last she opened her eyes. Phillip was watching her with infinite tenderness. “Elizabeth,” he said again and continued to hold her. It seemed that some invisible threshold had just been crossed.
“Phillip,” she heard herself say, and pressed her cheek against his.
* * *
Just down the road from the Candlestation they stopped at an unpaved area by the river to eat their sandwiches. Phillip began to rummage in the compartment between the seats. “I should have some ibuprofen in here somewhere. If you took some now, it might help— but you’re still probably going to hurt like hell in the morning.”
Elizabeth shook out four small brown pills and swallowed them with some of the mineral water. Her mind was busy with two consuming questions. The first concerned the man beside her. The feeling that had swept over her as he held her…her own acquiescent response: where was this leading? But that question could be deferred. The second one, however…
“Phillip, what about that handrail? I noticed some missing bolts as we went up but I know it was still attached at the top. But it was the top that tore loose when I grabbed it to start down. I think we ought to go back and take a look at it. And we need to warn Ben and Kyra— maybe put a sign on the fire escape so no one else—”
“I already looked at that top bolt.” Phillip’s expression was worried. “When I went back for the sandwiches after you got in the car. I’d dropped them there at the top of the fire escape when I saw you fall.” His hand touched her shoulder lightly and rested there. “I thought…” He left the sentence unfinished.
“What did it look like? Had the bolt just worked loose?” She was supremely aware of the hand on her shoulder. “Did you find it?”
“No.” The hand stirred, fingers brushed her neck gently and withdrew. “I looked for it on the stairs and then on the pavement. If that bolt had just accidentally fallen out, I would have found it. But it was gone.”
With an effort that she felt was probably visible, Elizabeth tried to concentrate on this information. “Phillip, remember Ben said that fire escape was like their private entrance? If someone knew that only Kyra and Ben used those stairs, then it would be easy to booby-trap them— and remember, Kyra said she saw the nanny going down those stairs just before we left!”
Phillip swept his hand over his bald scalp in the familiar gesture. “Yeah, that’s what she said. You know, I’m guessing this was more of a warning than anything else. Whoever removed that bolt probably didn’t actually expect to really hurt someone. On the other hand…” He shook his head. “I’d say we’re dealing with a person who doesn’t care what happens.”
* * *
They returned to the Candlestation so that Phillip could warn Ben and Kyra about the treacherous handrail. “It’ll just take a minute,” he said. “You stay here. I’ll get them to put a sign on the fire escape. And suggest they contact whoever the landlord is and get that thing fixed.”
It felt good to sit in the cool car. Elizabeth watched as Phillip cautiously made his way up the iron stairs, pausing to inspect the handrail’s remaining bolts. He had also made a second careful inspection of the dirt and pavement beneath the fire escape. He hadn’t found the missing bolt. When he had disappeared behind the blue door, she finally began to assess the extent of her injuries. One swollen and stiffening knee, a bruised and scraped elbow, a shoulder and hip that, she felt sure, were undoubtedly blooming into spectacular blues and purples. But nothing broken.
You’ve had worse, she told herself, remembering the time old Poll, on the way to the barn for the morning milking and pursued by a too-eager cow dog, had knocked her down and run right
over her. The imprint of the cow’s cloven hoof, in an ever-changing gamut of stormy colors, had decorated her upper thigh for days.
Elizabeth noticed that, so far, all the studio-goers seemed to be parking at the other end of the large building and entering by a door where a yellow flag fluttered— the River District’s emblem for open studios. And a good thing too, she thought. At least no one else is using the Stairs of Doom.
The cars in the parking lot were a mix of shabby clunkers, fancy SUVs, and expensive luxury cars. In particular, two white SUVs caught her eye. A gray-haired man in a chauffeur’s cap leaned against the nearer one, idly looking around. Elizabeth strained to make out his features, which seemed somehow familiar.
As she watched, a group emerged from the farther door and made their way to the waiting cars. Three cars pulled out and two people remained— a small blondish woman in a flowing purple skirt and a slender young man, his fair hair pulled back in a ponytail.
Elizabeth’s mouth dropped open. “My god! It’s Aidan and his mother. And Phillip thinks they’ve skipped.” She fumbled for the door handle, then realized that her seat belt was still on. It took a few moments to release the unfamiliar latch. As quickly as she could, her aching body protesting violently, she pulled herself out of the car and began to hobble toward the other end of the parking lot. She was halfway there when she saw the white SUV back out and head for the exit. Its passengers didn’t look back.
* * *
By the time Phillip returned, both SUVs were long gone. “Two white SUVs, Phillip. And one was Willow and Aidan. The other was a guy who looked familiar but—”