Art's Blood

by Vicki Lane

  FROM LILY GORDON’S JOURNAL—

  SEVENTH ENTRY

  The Goodweather woman is no fool. I believe that she will take my warning seriously and I will not be forced to extreme measures.

  She is an interesting woman, a lady, one would say, with education and some breeding, who has, nevertheless, chosen to live her life working like a farmhand. Puzzling. Her home is rustic but attractive— she has an eye for beauty. Wide-planked oak floors, comfortable denim-covered sofas, somewhat shabby, a nice reproduction Sheraton secretary, fresh flowers in a fine old silver pitcher, some antique tables, worn Persian carpets— all very welcoming and tasteful, if a little doggy in places. (How Reba fussed as she brushed off the black skirt I had worn on my visit!)

  I found myself quite moved by her hospitality. She had taken some little trouble to lay a proper tea. A really excellent lemon cake— I found myself enjoying the visit and remembering little Rose and her love for “tea parties.” Indeed, I spoke more freely than I intended and forgot, till the last moment, my reason for making the trip back into the mountains of Marshall County.

  The old newspaper story with that photograph— I had believed those guilty feelings, those wretched memories long since buried. And that quilt, with its lying signature— the shock of seeing it again almost undid me. But I am well practiced. I concealed my feelings. I am not yet at peace with that quilt either. If money could expunge a wrong action, I should be guiltless many times over— the cost of that place is quite exorbitant— but still— and I have not always behaved charitably in these latter years.

  Perhaps it no longer matters— we are all so near the end. But here toward the end, my memory grows keener as if I must relive that moment, that turning point, yet again.

  * * *

  It was November 1, 1934, the day that we were to embark on our train trip to the capital. Caro and Geneva had taken our bags to the depot, where a crowd was gathering to bid farewell to the travelers. I had acceded to Fanchon’s request that her admirer, the Strother lout, be permitted to drive us to the train in his automobile, but I had insisted that Fanchon come to the Center first so that I could help her dress and put up her hair.

  The kitchen was prepared so that she could bathe before donning her new traveling outfit. I emptied the zinc tub that I had already made use of. More water was heating on the cookstove and I laid ready clean towels and a new cake of my own perfumed soap.

  Fanchon tapped at the door and when I let her in I could see that she was almost giddy with excitement and apprehension. A warm bath will calm you, my dear, I told her and led her to the kitchen. I showed her the new clothes hanging ready: the tailored suit of soft blue-gray wool, its bias-cut skirt flaring like a trumpet flower, the pale silver-gray silky blouse with its elegant drape, the deep blue beret, the narrow low-heeled pumps and matching bag of a buttery caramel-colored leather, the suede gloves of the same color. I had chosen them with such care, imagining how the soft blues and grays would set off her beautiful red-gold hair.

  You’ll look like a princess, I promised her, and then I busied myself with filling the tub. Go on and get out of those things, I said, pouring in cold water from the bucket at the sink, then moderating it with boiling water from the kettle. That soap came from England, I said. Smell it.

  Oh, she said, smiling rapturously. It’s just like the little lilies with the white bells. She had pulled off her worn jacket and her faded old dress and stood there in a shift that had been sewn from bleached flour sacks. The faint shadow of red lettering marched across her breasts. I was happy that I had sent off for three sets of silk undergarments to surprise her with.

  Those flowers are called lilies of the valley, I said. The French call them muguet de bois. Maybe you’ll go to France someday. I did not add, With me, with me, but oh, how I thought it.

  I left her to her bath and went to the front room. The box containing the presentation quilt waited by the door, wrapped in oilcloth and corded securely. I leaned my forehead against the cool window glass, for the heat of the cookstove had made my face uncomfortably warm. Outside the window, the leafless trees and brown hills held no interest for me; my entire being was just behind the half-closed kitchen door.

  I could hear the gentle splashing and could see, with my mind’s eye, the fragrant soap passing over those perfect limbs. It seemed difficult for me to draw a deep breath and then suddenly she called out, Miss Lily, would you come pour some rinse water on my back? I’m feared I’ll get it all over the floor.

  Hardly able to speak I went into the kitchen and immediately began to fill the bucket, again being careful to mix the hot and cold to the proper temperature. I had tried not to look at her as she stood there, but I knew that a lock of her red-gold hair had escaped the hairpins and tumbled down across the gentle swell of her breasts. I knew that her waist and hips made me think of a lyre, I knew that I had never seen so beautiful a creature. (Nor have I, in the long years since that moment, ever had my heart so stirred, my passions so moved.)

  Yet I had tried not to look at her. At last the bucket was ready and I took it to her. She laughed and said, Mommy always has me to turn around while she pours. She began to revolve slowly and I poured, watching the water cascade down the slopes and valleys my hands and lips longed to travel.

  When all the water was gone, we stood facing each other. The battered zinc tub was a scallop shell and she— she was Botticelli’s Venus. I felt a buzzing in my head as I set the bucket gently on the floor. Still she stood, her face an enigma. Fanchon, I whispered and put one hand around her neck. I drew her to me and pressed my lips to hers. She stood there unmoving and then I brought my other hand to her breast and put one finger on the soft pink cone of her nipple.

  It tightened under my touch and her mouth opened slightly under mine. Then suddenly she sprang back, stepped quickly out of the tub, and caught up a towel to cover herself. She fixed me with an unreadable stare.

  I stammered, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, as I backed away. It was then that I saw that hopeless gaze. She held my eyes as she slowly wrapped the towel about her. Then she looked away and I ran from the room to the back porch, hoping that the cool air would quench the burning of my cheeks.

  When at last I ventured back into the kitchen, she was gone, as were the clothes she had worn. The suit that she was to wear for the trip to Washington was still on its hanger. The front door stood ajar and the package with the quilt was gone. The road outside was empty and the bare trees and vacant fields seemed to mock me.

  I could barely see through my tears as I took the bucket I had used to fill the zinc bathtub and began laboriously to empty it now. The cloudy bathwater was still warm and smelled of her. Cupping my hand, I dipped it into the water. Then, seeking a communion that would never be mine, I drank.

  CHAPTER 23

  A NEW BEGINNING

  (WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 21)

  MUM, WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH BEN? HE’S IN A really pissy mood.”

  Laurel had appeared, as was her wont, unexpectedly, and announced that she was in need of some farm time. “I have a few days off and I thought I’d just hang out, maybe give you all a hand with the wreath making or in the greenhouses. So, anyway, when I got here Ben was taking cuttings and I offered to help but he kind of acted like he didn’t want me around. You know, one-word answers, that kind of thing. What’s going on with him? You’d think he was PMSing.”

  She dropped her backpack and perched on the rock wall just below where Elizabeth was spreading litter from the chicken house around the towering ferns of the asparagus. The day was overcast and muggy; too warm for almost October, Elizabeth thought as she removed her old straw hat, pulled the sweat-soaked bandana off her head, and replaced it with a dry one from her pocket. She spread the wet purple square over one of the tomatillo plants that grew between the clumps of asparagus, and considered her answer.

  “It’s not you, Laur. He’s mad because he wanted to spend today and tomorrow in Asheville helping Kyra get ready for her
show at the QuerY— it’s coming up soon. But I reminded him that we were already a week behind on taking cuttings to root and kind of insisted that he stay here and do them.”

  Elizabeth abandoned her mulching and sat beside her daughter. “You know what, Laur; I’m worried about this thing with Ben and Kyra. He seems serious but I really don’t know about her. I’m afraid he’s going to get hurt— and maybe not just emotionally. And that’s according to Kyra’s father, Kyra’s great-grandmother, and Kyra herself— not to mention some goon in sunglasses who said he works for the family.”

  As Elizabeth filled her in on the events of the past few days, Laurel listened, shaking her head slightly so that the beads and baubles in her dreadlocks rattled softly. At last she said, “You’re probably right— I mean, Kyra’s a friend of mine and I’m sorry for all the crap that’s gone down in her life but…well, I’d hate to see Ben get seriously involved with her. She tends to really mess with guys’ minds. The whole Aidan-Boz thing, for instance. Why Aidan didn’t get out of that relationship when Boz took over, I’ll never understand. But he was happy just to stay around, like some pathetic dog waiting for crumbs to fall.”

  Laurel shifted restlessly, then stood and moved to the unmulched section of the asparagus bed. “I’ll pull weeds, okay? Then you can finish with the mulch.” She began a ruthless uprooting of the various intruders into the bed. Elizabeth felt that her daughter had more to say, but knew that it would come only when Laurel was ready. She put her straw hat back on and went to the edge of the garden to retrieve another of the feed sacks bulging with manure-rich straw from the chicken house.

  The two worked in companionable silence till the entire bed was weeded and covered with a heavy blanket of mulch. The sun was at its height when they trudged up the road to the welcome cool of the shady porch.

  As they sat in the rocking chairs, pulling off their boots, Laurel seemed to make up her mind. “You know, Mum, it’s all such a mess. Now the police have taken Rafiq in for questioning. They think the guy at the junkyard is mixed up with a meth lab and they’re suspicious of anyone who’s been around there a lot. And of course Rafiq was there all the time when he was working on his zodiac series. They let him go but it really freaked him out— he’s pretty paranoid anyway. Not only that, I’ve been listening to the buzz around the River District and some people are saying that Carter Dixon is in big trouble with the IRS.”

  “Kyra told us something like that the day of the stroll. But she said she’d talked to him and he denied—”

  “Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” Laurel lifted her heavy dreadlocks to let the air cool her neck. “You know, I’ve about had it with the Rasta look. It was fun but now that I see how good Kyra looks with next to no hair…what do you think, Mum?”

  “Sweetie, I think you’ll do what you want to.” Evidently Laurel was ready to change the subject, Elizabeth thought, fanning herself with her straw hat. “I wasn’t exactly thrilled when you started with the dreads— your hair in its natural state is gorgeous, in my outdated opinion. But I’ve gotten used to the way you look and I have to admit, now that they’re long, the dreads have a certain…a certain…well, they’re very striking…and I like all the little beads and doodads you put in them. Like those tennis players.”

  Laurel groaned. “That’s the problem. At first the dreads were kind of unique, especially for a white person. I thought it would be a good look for an artist: it never hurts to stand out in a crowd. But now, every other stoner kid hanging on Lexington has them.”

  She flipped the heavy red cords of hair disdainfully. Elizabeth studied her daughter, trying to read her mood. Suddenly Laurel jumped up and disappeared into the house, emerging moments later with a pair of scissors. “Okay, let’s do it.”

  Elizabeth stared at her. “Laurel, are you sure? It’s taken you years…maybe you ought to think about it awhile—”

  “Nope. Now. I am so ready to be rid of these things. If you won’t cut them off, I will.” Her expression was fierce. “If you do it, at least what hair’s left’ll be mostly all the same length. If I do it myself, I’ll probably cut too close in places and scalp myself.”

  Her mood seemed to lift as, one by one, her mother gingerly severed the thick dreadlocks. By the time the amputated cords of hair lay in a grisly row on the porch railing, Laurel was bubbling with good spirits.

  “Oh, wow, that feels awesome!” She ran her fingers through the ragged red stubble, none of it over two inches long, and shook her head with delight. “It’s like going barefoot after wearing boots all winter— I love it.”

  Then she bounded into the house to check her reflection in the mirror near the entry. There was a delighted peal of laughter. “It does make me look a little butch; I’ll probably be making lots of new friends.”

  Elizabeth began to collect the severed dreadlocks from the railing. They were fat and solid in her hand. An eclectic assortment of beads and rings had been worked into the long cords of red hair, and Elizabeth realized that she was seeing some of the adornments as if for the first time. Laurel’s always in motion; no wonder I never noticed what allshe had in her hair. Here’s the little jade ring we gave her for her…was it her tenth birthday? And this is the turquoise and silver ring she bought when her middle school class went to Cherokee.

  As a teenager, Laurel had succumbed to the fad of wearing rings on every finger. Now Elizabeth began to recognize them— one made of tiny purple and green beads strung on wire, another carved from wood, several inexpensive embossed silver circles, one with minute bells attached, a deep blue enameled hoop with little star-shaped cutouts— for several years Laurel had requested and had received rings on any and all gift-giving occasions.

  “You’re not throwing away my dreads, are you? All those little doodads, as you called them, are important.” Laurel came back to the porch, her hands still busy exploring the altered terrain of her head. “I’ve got a plan for them. I want to incorporate them— and the dreads— in a biographical mixed-media piece— the story of my life.”

  Elizabeth’s eyebrows shot up and she quickly suppressed a grin.

  Laurel grinned back. “Pretentious? Moi?”

  * * *

  While her daughter showered and washed her newly shorn hair, Elizabeth took down a large bowl and began to make a lavish tossed salad for their lunch— mixed lettuces, grape tomatoes, thin-sliced purple cabbage, green pepper slivers, hard-boiled egg, the last of the smoked mozzarella— the refrigerator was full of odds and ends that could be added. Crisp cucumber, carrots, basil, some left-over garbanzos— she could hear Laurel singing in the shower, “Always look on the bright side of life,” followed by a whistled version of the tune from Monty Python’s Life of Brian.

  As she carried the bowls of salad to the table, Elizabeth wondered if this sudden haircut had any deeper significance. She had known other women who had chosen a radical haircut to mark some significant change in their lives— it seemed almost instinctive. Indeed, when Sam had been killed, she herself had experienced a wild urge to give her sorrow a physical expression: to wail, to keen, to tear her clothes, to scratch her cheeks, to cut her hair.

  But of course, being a civilized woman at the end of the twentieth century, she had done none of these things. Not even black to the memorial service— just dark blue. I wonder…if I had done some of those primitive things, would I have put my sorrow behind me sooner? It took five years.

  It was only recently that she had begun to feel the stirrings of an emotion that she had thought buried with Sam. Strewn, she corrected herself, Sam was strewn.

  She was standing bemused, salad bowls in hand, when Laurel reappeared, clad in orange polka-dotted boxer shorts and a faded green T-shirt. She was vigorously toweling her head. “My scalp and every follicle on it thank you. I had forgotten how terrific it feels to really wash your hair.”

  Coppery ringlets were forming in the damp hair and Laurel’s deep blue eyes were sparkling. Elizabeth put the salad bowls on the table and hugg
ed her baffling daughter. “You look adorable, sweetie. Like a tall elf.”

  * * *

  “I’ll wash the dishes, Mum.” Laurel brought their bowls and glasses from the table and stacked them by the sink. She plucked a tiny, overlooked tomato from the salad bowl and popped it into her mouth.

  “Thanks, Laur, but I’ll do them.” Elizabeth filled the teakettle with water and put it on the stovetop. “Really, I need to. Nothing like dish washing to get my hands clean after playing in the dirt. You go check out that latest copy of The New Yorker: there’s a great R. Crumb and Aline thing in there.”

  The hot soapy water felt good to her tired and sore fingers, and she quickly had the few dishes lined up in the drainer. She was wiping the wooden countertops when she heard the telephone. It rang twice and then she could hear the murmur of her daughter’s voice coming toward the kitchen.

  “Mum, it’s for you. Someone named Kimmie.” Laurel set the telephone on the cutting board and returned to the living room, open magazine in hand. Elizabeth dried her hands and picked up the phone, a little apprehensively.

  “Elizabeth, this is Kimmie— you know, Kimmie Peterson from painting class? I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

  “No, this is fine. How are you, Kimmie?” Elizabeth switched the phone to her left ear and grabbed the whistling teakettle from the stovetop. She carefully filled the French coffee press while listening to the hesitant voice at the other end of the line.

  “Well, that’s why I called. I’m sorry to bother you but I think I’m coming down with something and I don’t see how I can make it to class tomorrow. I was wondering, if it’s not too much trouble, could you call me tomorrow when you get home and tell me what you all did? I thought maybe if it was something simple, I could try and do it on my own. I just hate to miss the class but I really am under the weather. Marvin says it’s probably the flu— he had a touch of it a few weeks ago. It didn’t hit him as hard, though.”