Wild Things

by Karin Kallmaker

  4

  A woman clothed with the sun, and the moon

  under her feet, and upon her head a crown of

  twelve stars.

  — Revelation 12:1

  I wouldn't say I was hiding myself when I stayed in my room most of Saturday and read research material I'd downloaded. I didn't cower under the covers, but I avoided my parents and strategically went down for my meals when I knew they were both gone. I didn't need another confrontation with them. Between my parents and Renee, I felt hollow and limp.

  But not cowed. If they were going to slam the door behind me, then let them. And I had told Renee — the symbol of all the feelings I didn't want to acknowledge — to go away again. Without Renee to remind me, the feelings would go away as well. If I just concentrated on something else for a while. Like my book, or my new apartment.

  James would never know how much his advice affected my life. There was no way I could tell him. Our friendship was not the type where he would appreciate either my gratitude or the responsibility for having had such an influence. Besides, only time would tell if I should be grateful to him.

  When I could clear my mind enough to work, I went through the articles about Eleanor I'd downloaded from the Medieval Academy of America.. Much of the materials concerned her Court of Love where the rules of courtly love in all their complicated manners were explained.

  Rule: A Knight may love a Lady who is married, but may not love an unmarried Lady unless he is of sufficient station to ask for her hand.

  Rule: If a Knight loves a Lady who is married, he may hide in his shield some remembrance of her, but no one else may know.

  Rule: If a Knight loves a Lady who is married, he may, under certain conditions, woo the Lady to a display of returned love, but no others shall ever know of it.

  The conditions to allow adultery were numerous, complicated, and mostly concerned for the Lady's reputation and her needs. For example, a young Lady with an elderly husband might be excused a lapse in her marriage vows if the Knight is particularly persistent, persuasive, and properly humble.

  They were worse than the Balk Rule in baseball. I laughed when I read the other conditions, some of which seemed arbitrary, impossible to achieve or tacked on later to get rid of a loophole in an earlier rule. Eleanor's Court of Love were having fine sport with their idle time, in between petty bickerings, blood feuds, and schemings by the various knights (when not in the Holy Land on crusade) to get their hands on someone else's land.

  I had to wade through considerable material on the Court of Love to discern aspects of her personality. Most of her biographies, particularly the shorter synopses of her achievements, dwell on the Court of Love as Eleanor's primary accomplishment. This makes her seem foolish and occupied with feminine affairs of the heart. They use the Court of Love to balance out a lifetime of political astuteness, a biting wit, and an ability to take action, ignoring the fact that in addition to affairs of the heart, the Court of Love set out the rules of conduct for the upper class, praised learning and encouraged literacy. It elevated bards to protected status and charged all knights with the protection of the weak. Eleanor's notions of noble behavior would forever influence the French and English consciousness.

  In the early evening my mother called me to the phone, her tone and expression laden with disapproval. I didn't feel at all guilty about not mentioning Meg's impending arrival. It was Eric, calling to remind me he was picking me up tomorrow afternoon to go to Sydney's.

  "Sydney says that she has perfected her lasagna," I told him.

  "She did? When did you see her?"

  "At a party last night. The woman who did the radio interview invited me and 'other notables' as she put it. Sydney was one."

  Eric chuckled. "She's that, all right. I'm glad you got a chance to talk. Sweetie, I have to run, but I'll pick you up at five-thirty, okay?"

  I agreed and hung up before I realized I should have told him I was moving next week. He would be surprised and no doubt want to know why. My explanation would be, of course, that I was both old enough and independent enough to warrant privacy and my own household, and my younger sister's return with an infant made it practical. He might not understand the suddenness of my decision, and I could hardly mention how seeing Renee had thrown me into an inner turmoil I thought long defeated. But I knew he would be supportive. It was one of the reasons I was fond of him.

  * * * * *

  "I said I was offline tonight, and I meant it." Sydney paused with her hands over the lasagna dish. There was a smear of ricotta on the phone where she'd pushed the speaker option to answer it.

  "But Syd, we have to have a response to them in the morning." John had never known how to take no for an answer. That's why he worked for her.

  "Morning ends at eleven fifty-nine. It'll be first on the list before staff meeting, okay? Leave a voice mail for Cheryl to that effect. I really need an evening off.

  My brother's coming over. And his... friend." Was that the right word for Faith? Eric had never shown this much interest in a woman before, not that Sydney knew about anyway. But they didn't seem like lovers.

  "Maybe you could call me back after they leave."

  Sydney counted to ten, then said, "I'm going to sleep after they leave. Sleep, John. It's a thing many people do. I thought I'd give it a try tonight."

  John didn't laugh. He was oblivious to all forms of humor and sarcasm. "Well, don't blame me if we don't get our comments in on time. McClarren's notorious for closing the comment period early."

  "Okay, I won't blame you. When have I ever blamed you for anything?"

  John piffed into the phone. "I'm hanging up now, pija."

  "I know what that means, pito" The phone clattered.

  She finished layering the pasta over her carefully nurtured sausage and olives. She found herself thinking about the housing policy John wanted comments on and took herself to task.

  "I wanted a night off, so I'd better make the most of it."

  Duchess opened one yellow eye from her sleeping perch in the sunny kitchen bay window. She closed it again without moving a whisker.

  "So I'm boring you?"

  Duchess didn't respond in any way, not even a flick of her tail. Sydney turned her mind to Eric and how long it had been since she'd really talked to him. They let too much time go by. Of course they couldn't just talk about family stuff with Faith there.

  Faith. Still waters ran deep, Sydney suspected. She remembered looking at Faith's eyes in the mirror. Green eyes, with blue in their depths. The waters were very still, but they shimmered.

  * * * * *

  When I saw Sydney's home, I was struck by the difference between the choices brother and sister had made. Sydney's home occupied the top floor of one of the regal, old Stone Street condominium mid-rises that lined the curve of Lake Michigan just north of the downtown Chicago Loop. It was only about a half mile from my new apartment but in a completely different income bracket. Eric lived in a lovely Evanston split-level with two acres out back for his beloved Irish setters, an enclosed heated pool and spa, and enough rolling yard to stage a soccer game for an army of children. Sydney could have gone another mile north and escaped the bustle of the downtown district, but she was as close to the heart of the city as she could get, and in a building that wasn't high enough to completely escape the noise of the city streets fifteen floors below.

  It was high enough for a heart-stopping view of the upper Miracle Mile and the vast blackness of Lake Michigan. Lights bobbed on the water as pleasure craft and shipping tankers shared the fading daylight.

  Absorbed in the view though I was, I didn't miss the affectionate bear hug Eric gave Sydney, followed by a frank appraisal. "You work too hard," Eric pronounced. "But you don't look as scary as you did at that dinner."

  "Scary?" Sydney turned to me. "Did I look scary?"

  "Not at all," I said. "I have no idea what he means."

  "Sure you do," Eric said. "She looked so official and politician-l
ike I wondered what happened to the sister who put my best running shoes in Mom's corn-poster."

  "Eric! Stop it," Sydney said, playfully slapping him as she took his coat. "What will Faith think?"

  "That you're my favorite sister."

  "I'm your only sister," Sydney retorted. She took my coat and hung it in the foyer closet with Eric's. "Come into the sitting room. I've got a fire going. Think about what you'd like to drink. Nonalcoholic, that is." She threw me an apologetic glance.

  "Fine by me," I said, as I tore my gaze from the Tiffany glass skylight in the foyer ceiling. "I never acquired the taste. Not even Communion wine."

  "I liked it too much," Sydney said, looking at me seriously for a moment. She glanced up at her brother, then smiled. "Glenfiddich, not Communion wine. Eight years, ten months, and twenty-one days, in case you were wondering."

  "I wasn't," Eric said. "But thanks for sharing."

  "Don't let his nonchalance fool you," Sydney said to me as she led the way across the large and spacious living room. "I owe my sobriety to him. And a good therapist."

  I digested this information as we walked through the living room. I had developed the impression that Eric's sister could be single-minded in her pursuit of what she wanted and that she succeeded by strength and perseverance. Finding out she had had a drinking problem proved Sydney was human.

  Compared with Eric s deep mahoganies and nubby tweeds, Sydney's home was cool with white carpets and vivid fabrics splashed brilliant reds, blues, and greens. Borders of Tiffany-style stained glass framed the windows, in keeping with the building's art deco exterior. The fireplace was framed with elegant marble fluting right out of the Roaring Twenties. What both homes had in common was simple elegance that didn't look nearly so expensive as it must be. The Van Allen family had a lot of money, old and new.

  My impression of cool aloofness faded when I saw the sitting room. A third of the room was dominated by an old desk, computer workstation, and office gadgets, including a fax machine. The desk was worn and grooved with the scars of many years of work.

  I fell in love with the rest of the room — a large fireplace threw an ocean of heat into the comfortable chairs and sofas in crushed velvets and soft weaves. Instead of the hard, clean jewel tones of the living room, everything in this inner sanctum was softer, warmer, and gentler. The pristine white carpet gave way to a dove gray Berber. A low lavender footstool appeared to be covered by a fluffy gray rug until I realized the rug was peering at me suspiciously. The cat closed its eyes once it had consigned me to the ranks of the uninteresting. I sank into an enormous chair in muted lavender and sea green, surrounded by soft pillows. I immediately wanted to put my head down and burrow deeper with an old, beloved book.

  "Be careful of that chair," Sydney said. "It puts people to sleep."

  I struggled upright. "I think it's bewitched," I said. "It made me want to read Ivanhoe and eat apples."

  Sydney laughed. "Little Women, right?"

  I grinned. "That's amazing."

  "Sydney can identify almost any quote," Eric said, settling into a sofa corner. He stretched out his long legs.

  Sydney's back was to us as she dropped ice cubes into glasses. "What would you like? I squeezed juice this morning."

  "What kind of juice," Eric asked suspiciously.

  "Strawberry-kiwi-lime with apple and grapes." Sydney laughed at the expression on Eric's face. "Okay, I cleaned out the fridge."

  "I'll have juice," I said. "It sounds great."

  "You're a wonderful guest," Sydney said, handing me a glass. "Actually, it's good. Here," she said to Eric. "You get sparkling water."

  I sipped the juice. "I can feel the vitamins already."

  "It has that effect on me, too." Sydney poured herself a glass and then settled gracefully in front of the fire on a large square pillow covered with petit point.

  "I bet Faith could stump you," Eric said.

  "Oh stop." Sydney pursed her lips at Eric and turned to me. "He's been trying to stump me on a quote for years. Other people do it all the time, but he's never managed," she said, with a wicked glance at him. Eric stuck his tongue out at her.

  "You must have an incredible memory," I said. I wondered why I had ever thought her cold.

  Her smile turned serious. "I think that alcohol reformatted my hard drive," she said, tapping her forehead. "I was unfit to practice even the most basic law for about two years and spent all my time reading. And reading. And reading. It was how I got back to reality."

  "Reality leaves a lot to the imagination," I said.

  Sydney opened her mouth, and I could almost see the cerebral computer disks spinning. After a few moments, she said, "John Lennon."

  We smiled at each other, and I realized anew that her eyes were brown, but velvet where Eric's were crystal. She looked away, leaving me with an odd sensation in the pit of my stomach.

  Both Eric and Sydney were too polite to talk about topics I knew nothing about, but it was unavoidable. A failing elderly aunt was news to Eric, and Sydney hadn't yet heard about the birth of a second cousin.

  "Sorry, Faith," Eric said. "It must be boring."

  I shook my head. "No, really. But I must confess that I can't keep your family tree straight in my head."

  Sydney chuckled. "My grandmother, that's my father's mother, was married and widowed three times and had two children each marriage. My father was child number three and son number one. He has one brother, three half-sisters and a half-brother. All of them except my father have been married at least twice with kids from each marriage. I have trouble keeping it clear, and I've had years of practice. It makes our family holidays very, very large."

  Eric snorted. "As we are all going to experience this year. Mom wants to do the big holiday. She put out the word to the aunts and uncles about four months ago, and it looks like with a few exceptions everyone is going to come. She's guessing about a hundred adults and sixty-five kids for dinner."

  Wow, I said, before I could help myself. "I wouldn't want to be the one who brings the potato salad."

  They both burst out laughing, Sydney falling back on the pillow. All at once I realized how lovely the rest of her was. Her features were too pronounced to be pretty, but striking in combination. Her cashmere sweater outlined a lean figure, and I glanced down at my hands, thinking that her breasts would fill them.

  My heart stopped. For about five seconds I couldn't breathe. Sydney's laughter died and she wiped her eyes, then turned her head to look at me. I could breathe again. I wanted to breathe her in.

  Her eyes widened. "We're not laughing at you," she said rising up onto one elbow. "You hit the nail on the head, that's all."

  The firelight was dancing on her throat and mouth the way it had the night of Liz's party.

  Eric nudged me gently. "Are you okay, sweetie?"

  "I'm sorry," I managed to say. "I was floored by the idea of anyone being able to entertain that many people outside of a hotel in this day and age." I met women all the time. Until now only Renee had affected me this way. My pulse was hammering in my throat.

  Eric smiled fondly. "That's our mom. She says once a decade you need to air out the grand ballroom to fight the mildew."

  "She sounds like a practical woman," I said, feeling very far away. I've always liked looking at women. The way they are always busy, how they move their hands and walk. Their faces please my eyes. But only Renee had ever made my skin burn. Until now.

  "She is," Sydney was saying. "The gardens are just a means of using up the manure from the stables. And so on." She looked at me a little oddly, and I summoned up a smile.

  "There's nothing quite so astonishing as common sense," I said.

  "Emerson," Sydney said. "Let's have dinner."

  The food was so good that I managed to regain my composure. Sydney hadn't been idly boasting about her lasagna — the sauce was rich and smooth with olives and plum tomatoes. Garlic toast with goat cheese and freshly chopped chives accompanied it, followed by wha
t Sydney called her great vice: chocolate mousse in chocolate bowls topped with chocolate sauce.

  "This is rather chocolate overkill, don't you think? You could have done a raspberry sauce, you know," Eric said. One of the things I liked about him was that he enjoyed food. Sydney obviously did, too.

  Sydney sniffed. "I don't understand the tendency to ruin perfectly good chocolate with fruit."

  "I'm with you," I said, making a face at Eric. "There's no such thing as chocolate overkill. However, I have developed a taste for Godiva chocolate-covered orange peels. On special occasions, and then I have to go to confession."

  Sydney's shudder turned into a smile. "Well, ego te absolvo. To each her own." She glanced at her brother. "What are you smiling about, Eric?"

  "I was just thinking how glad I am you like each other. I thought you would, and I didn't want to be wrong."

  I did like Sydney. I liked her very much. I'd be much happier if I weren't fighting other, inappropriate feelings. I glanced at her, she smiled, and time stood still. It couldn't have, not really. The feeling was absurd.

  Sydney abruptly looked away, saying, "Let's have coffee in front of the fire."

  "I'll help you clear up," I offered.

  "No need, the dishes just go in the sink. One of the joys of being the idle rich is Lucy, who stops in for a few hours every day to clean up, take my dry cleaning in, buy groceries, and be generally indispensable."

  "Idle rich," Eric scoffed. "You're hardly idle, Syd. Neither am I."

  I could tell that the idea of being thought "idle rich" bothered him. I admired him for working as hard as he did when he could have been a playboy. No doubt his family money had allowed him to buy his architectural firm, but it wasn't a hobby. He didn't dabble at architecture any more than Sydney dabbled at law.

  Despite Sydney's protests, I helped carry our dishes into the kitchen while Sydney made cappuccino. I was already in love with the sitting room, and I lost my heart again to the old-fashioned but functional kitchen. It was larger than my entire apartment. The iron stove had claw feet, but the eight burners obviously worked. There were two Sub-Zero refrigerators and a deep freeze. There was a large oven big enough for a fifty-pound turkey and a smaller one for projects not quite so vast. Microwave and convection ovens were also built into the cabinetry. I asked her about the tile, which looked very old and Italian, and she described the various restoration projects she'd undertaken since buying the condominium about six years earlier. Her desire to keep the interiors faithful to their original nineteen-twenty appearance hadn't stopped her from adding all the modern conveniences, but appliances like the dishwasher were hidden behind oak cabinets with aged porcelain insets.