Whitefern Page 7

  “To tell you the truth, I don’t think she even understands the concept of death. It wasn’t too long ago that I saw her beating a dead bird with a stick to try to get it up and flying again. You’ve seen her do things like that, too.”

  I couldn’t help wondering if he was right, but the death of your mother was such a deep loss, even a mother you saw only in photographs. How could you not be affected by it, think about it often, and blame yourself?

  “I wouldn’t worry about it. You have to be an adult to feel guilty,” Arden once said as a response to my fears for Sylvia. “You have to develop a conscience, and that takes a little more intelligence than she possesses.”

  I didn’t come right out and ask him the question about him that always haunted me, but I thought it, especially then: Was that why it took you so long to confess about witnessing what had happened to me and not stopping it or telling anyone else about it so the bad boys could be punished? Is that your excuse, that you were still a child and you didn’t have a fully developed conscience yet?

  I did think there was some truth to what he was saying, however. Adults were always warning us not to be in a hurry to grow up. Maybe this was a big part of why. Growing up meant responsibility, and responsibility brought guilt as well as satisfaction. In the end, conscience would always be king.

  In any case, I wasn’t going to stop trying to help Sylvia grow more mature in any way I could. Educating her was a big part of it. Whether I liked it or not, I had to be as good as any special education teacher in a public school. Papa put the responsibility on me when I was young, and I naturally continued it all after his death. I was motivated by that one big fear Papa had put into my head: if something happened to me, Sylvia would find herself in some institution where she was sure to be abused. I would have let Papa down in a very big way just by dying. I wanted so much for Sylvia to be able to survive on her own, to learn enough of the basics to get by.

  Ever since she was fourteen, when I looked at her and realized she had developed a woman’s figure almost overnight, I knew she would need special care and protection. I realized she had a beautiful face and a shapely young body. It was then that a girl really became vulnerable and needed to know how to protect herself and what to look for in a man’s face that would tell her he was lusting after her only for his own selfish pleasure. I didn’t think it was possible to get her to recognize that. She had a child’s trusting nature. The warnings and alarm bells simply were not hooked up inside her the way they were for most girls and women.

  Of course, she knew nothing about what had happened to me. Even if Arden or Papa had made some reference to it in her presence, it was as if they had spoken a foreign language. For a moment, she might listen, but then it would pass right through her and be gone like a breeze.

  Occasionally, when she was younger, Papa would warn her about being alone, especially going too far away from the house by herself. But the smile on her face would tell anyone that she had no idea what terrible things he was afraid would befall her. She would nod and go on with whatever she was doing. He would look at me with frustration but also with a warning that I’d better protect her. I should be her shadow, the way she was his.

  I spent almost all my free time with her. I worked on Sylvia’s writing, spelling, and math and still did even today. One of the exercises was my dictating our shopping list for the supermarket. She sat at the table and painstakingly copied down the items, sometimes looking at the boxes or bottles to get the spelling right. I was amused at how important that was to her. Lately, she had become much better at it. She had good handwriting, probably because of her artistic talent. If a cashier saw our list, he or she usually had a compliment for whoever had printed it.

  “My sister does that,” I would say proudly.

  Nothing brought Sylvia’s shyness out more than when she was given a compliment. She would always look down to hide her smile, and her face would flush with embarrassment. I would tell her to say thank you, and sometimes she did, but usually with her head lowered, afraid to look strangers in the eye.

  At the supermarket today, though, she behaved differently. I didn’t have to tell her to say thank you, and when she did, she looked at the person to whom she was speaking. She was also more energetic and eager to find the items on the shelves. I stood back for most of the shopping and watched her go down the list, filling our cart without my telling her where to go.

  If Arden could see her today, I thought, he wouldn’t ridicule her so much or belittle the work I had been doing with her all these years.

  Of course, I wondered what had given her this burst of energy and new self-confidence. From the little she had said about the night before, about going to the first Audrina’s bedroom and sitting in the rocking chair, I gathered that what she had imagined had made her feel more important, because Papa had come to her and not to me or to Arden. She was eager to get home, help me put away the groceries, and go back up to the cupola to finish her new picture.

  “I’m going to speak to someone today to help arrange for you to have an art teacher come to the house to show you things, different techniques and ways to make your pictures more beautiful, Sylvia. You still want me to do that?”

  She thought a moment and nodded.

  “All right. When I find the right person, Sylvia, I would like you not to talk to him or her about Papa and the rocking chair. Papa and the rocking chair are our secret, right?”

  “Yes. I’ll never tell,” she said, putting her hand over her heart and hooking her pinkie with mine to make a pinkie promise. Like a little girl, she obviously enjoyed the idea of having a secret with her older sister.

  “Okay,” I said, “our secret.”

  After she went up to the cupola, I called the first person who came to mind for advice about something like this, Mrs. Haider, the retired principal of Whitefern High School. She had always been very kind to me and had taken a personal interest in me when I finally began to attend the public school. Because Whitefern was a relatively small town, our school was small enough for her to know some private information about her students.

  She knew I had been homeschooled, of course, and that I had lost my mother when she had given birth to Sylvia. She knew of Sylvia, but, like most people, she didn’t know very much about her, because in those years, Sylvia was rarely seen. After her retirement, I had seen Mrs. Haider occasionally in the village, and she was always quite friendly and very correct about how she asked questions. I never got the impression that she was a town gossip. I had no hesitations about telling her things concerning my family. She always ended her conversations with me by saying, “I hope all goes well with you, Audrina.”

  Her smile was sincere. She was a pretty woman, always perfectly put together, with coordinating colors and style. Her green eyes were still vibrantly emerald and contrasted nicely with her snow-white hair layered in an attractive bob.

  Mrs. Haider was a widow with three adult children, all of whom had families but lived far away, her son in New York and her two daughters in South Carolina. She had seven grandchildren and lived in a modest two-story house on the north side of Whitefern.

  When she answered her phone this morning, she sounded absolutely delighted to hear from me. She listened patiently while I described Sylvia as best I could and what I wanted for her now.

  “That’s very commendable of you, Audrina. I think that’s a brilliant idea, and I know just the person for this assignment. As it turns out, Mr. Price, one of our art teachers, retired just last year, and from what his wife has been telling me, he is quite bored. They’re not travelers, and he hates golf,” she said, laughing. “Why don’t I call him for you and, if he’s interested, give him your phone number?”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Haider,” I said. “That’s very kind.”

  “Oh, indeed,” she said. “I, too, like the idea that I can continue to be of some use.” She laughed again.

/>   After I hung up, I called Arden at his office.

  “He’s in a meeting, Mrs. Lowe,” Mrs. Crown said. “Is this an emergency?”

  She sounded annoyed. A woman in her forties and married to a bank teller, Barton Crown, a man Arden called an untrustworthy leech, Mrs. Crown was a little too protective of Arden, in my opinion. I didn’t think there was any doubt she’d rather he was her husband. She was a plain-looking woman with one of those complexions Momma used to call “an unripe peach.” Her makeup seemed to fade as the day progressed, leaving her looking bloodless, with dark brown eyes. Aunt Ellsbeth would say, “She shows cleavage in hopes you won’t look at her face.”

  “Oh, no, but please have him call me as soon as he’s free.”

  “Yes, I will,” she said. “As soon as that’s possible.”

  I didn’t say thank you. I just hung up.

  Less than a half hour later, Mr. Price called to tell me he would love to be of some assistance.

  “When would you like me to begin?” he asked, sounding very eager. I guessed Mrs. Haider wasn’t exaggerating when she said he was bored with his retirement.

  “As soon as you wish,” I said. We hadn’t even discussed the cost.

  “I could come this afternoon to get acquainted with the young lady. How’s three o’clock?”

  “Yes, that would be fine,” I said. “Perhaps we should discuss the cost.”

  “Oh, I’m sure we’ll come to a mutually satisfactory arrangement,” he said. “I think it’s important first that your sister be comfortable with me.”

  He was right. I wondered what he knew about Sylvia and what he didn’t. I didn’t want any brutal disappointments to occur. I was afraid of how that might disturb Sylvia, especially if someone rejected working with her because he thought she wasn’t capable of learning. Arden, of course, would feel vindicated and say something like “I told you so.”

  “Do you know anything about my sister?” I asked.

  “I know she’s been homeschooled?”

  “She was born premature and had to remain in an institutional setting until she was about two and a half. If she had attended a public school, she would surely have been placed in special education. She still needs me to look after her, but she is very pleasant and courteous. However, she is quite sensitive,” I added, loading my voice with warning. “She can tell when someone is talking down to her or looking down at her.”

  “I taught special education students,” he said. “No worries at all.”

  “She has taken to art, loves to draw and paint. She can spend hours and hours doing it. I’ve been doing the best I can with other aspects of her education, but when it comes to art, no one has taught her anything formally. She doesn’t have that long an attention span except when she’s working on her art, but I’m not sure how she would pay attention to instruction.”

  “A challenge. Love it,” he said.

  I had to smile. He was truly a bored man. “Okay, then let’s see how it works out today at three.”

  I immediately started up to the cupola to tell Sylvia and to talk to her about our lunch, but the phone rang before I reached the stairs. It was Arden. Apparently, telling him I had called had become possible for Mrs. Crown.

  “What?” he said sharply when I answered the phone.

  “What? Can’t you at least pretend to be courteous, Arden, and ask how I am first?”

  “I’m busy, Audrina. There is no time for small talk here. I know women feed on small talk like birds on grass seed, but it’s a particularly busy day. There’s been a big drop in crude oil this morning. You know what crude oil is?” he asked, raising his voice bloated with sarcasm.

  “Stop it, Arden. Of course I know what crude oil is. I called to tell you I’m arranging for an art tutor for Sylvia. I’ll be paying him from the household account.”

  “Waste of money,” he said. “What about the papers I want you to sign? I’ll tell you where to meet me, and . . .”

  “We’ll talk about that later, Arden. I’m just letting you know I have the art tutor coming at three today to meet Sylvia. Unless there’s a problem the teacher sees, I will contract with him today.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Arthur Price, a retired high school art teacher.”

  “How old is he?”

  “He’s not that old, Arden.”

  “I’m not worried about him being too old.” He sighed. “All right, do what you want. I repeat, it’s a waste of time and money, but I have to get back to important things.”

  “This is important, Arden. She’s my sister, and she’s your sister-in-law. My father expected we would look after her.”

  “Oh, spare me. Your father expected . . . Well, I expected things, too. Women can get so emotional. It’s like they have a trigger finger on their emotions, which is why they don’t belong in business, especially a business like this,” he emphasized. “ ’Bye,” he said, and hung up before I could say a word in my defense.

  I was so frustrated that I wished I could strangle the phone and squeeze every last word he uttered out of the wires and out of my mind. Up the stairs I went, pounding every step as if I was stamping on Arden’s face. When I entered the cupola, I found Sylvia sitting and staring at a blank sheet of paper, her pencil in her hand, poised in the air like a knife she was about to stab into something.

  “Where’s your picture?” I asked.

  She turned to look at me, her face twisted in an expression of anger and frustration. “Done,” she said, nodding to the picture now lying on a long table.

  I looked at it and saw that not much more had been added to it. It still fascinated me. I put it down and turned back to her. She had returned to staring at her blank sheet.

  “What are you trying to draw and paint now, Sylvia?”

  She looked at me, deciding whether to answer, I guessed. “What makes a baby a boy?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Boys and girls come from the same mother, so who’s first? And why didn’t Papa ever have a boy?”

  How was I going to explain this? Explain the X and Y chromosomes? No way. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Because Papa told me a baby, but he didn’t tell me if the baby was a boy or a girl,” she said. I nearly laughed at the way she said it. She sounded condescending, like I was dumb not to realize that.

  “Why is that important right now, Sylvia? Many people, maybe most, like it to be a surprise. Except for those people who want to paint nursery rooms and choose clothes way ahead of time,” I added, more for myself. “So?”

  “I have to draw the baby, Audrina. If I don’t draw the baby, the baby will not come,” she said.

  I was beginning to get a headache. How was she coming up with these crazy ideas? Maybe Arden wasn’t so wrong. Maybe the time had come for me to find some help with Sylvia. After all, I did have a life of my own, or I thought I did. The truth I didn’t want to face was that what was holding Sylvia back from the world was holding me back, too, as long as I was chained to her daily. For a good part of my life, I had spent most of my time inside one house. For a short while, I had broken free of it, but I was right back in it now, its walls hovering around me, making me feel cloistered. Sometimes I felt I had been swallowed. The walls seemed to quiver like the inside of its lungs.

  Taking walks outside around the house wasn’t enough, and our short shopping trips were all full of purpose, with little or no fun. There was nothing left to explore here but my own demons, and I was tired of that. I certainly didn’t want to start down a path similar to the one Sylvia had to follow, taking in everything outside slowly, in small, careful bites, but what choice was I giving myself? I wasn’t trying to make friends, and I certainly wasn’t joining any organizations that would lead to making friends. Sometimes I feared that someone who didn’t know us would look at us and wonder who was the slow-witt
ed one.

  “Maybe whether it’s a boy or a girl will come to you,” I said sharply. It was not unreasonable of me to run out of patience, especially when I chastised myself for using Sylvia to justify my being such a prisoner of Whitefern. “Forget about all that, and listen to me. I have found a good art teacher for you. He used to teach in the high school. His name is Mr. Price, and he will be here this afternoon to meet you. Do not tell him what you want to draw just yet. Let him teach you the things you have to know in order to draw and paint better, okay? He might start you drawing an apple or a banana or something like that. You do what he asks and what he tells you to do. Okay?”

  She didn’t look happy.

  “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To learn how to do this well? I’m not going to spend the money if you don’t want to do it, Sylvia. Well? Do you or don’t you?” I asked, practically shouting.

  “I do.”

  “Good. Let’s have you change your clothes and fix your hair. We’ll talk with Mr. Price in the living room, and afterward we’ll show him what supplies you have here. We’ll get you whatever else you need. I’m sure he’ll give us a list, and tomorrow morning you and I can go shopping.”

  She looked at the blank sheet without answering me.

  “Sylvia!” I said sharply. “Did you hear me? Concentrate on what I’m telling you.”

  I rarely snapped at her like this, but she was making me nervous. Papa, the rocking chair, babies . . . I had driven all the visions and dreams, all the ghosts and whispers, down as deeply as I could in my memory. Stirring it was like throwing rocks at the hives of hornets.