Art's Blood (25 page)

The two friends had departed, though Harrison’s gabble could still be heard as they disappeared into the gloomy hallway. “…and I
told
Cameron…”

Kyra came toward them, her sweet smile softening the steely edge of her words. “Silly, I know, but—”

Feeling absurdly guilty, as though she’d been caught peeping through a keyhole, Elizabeth felt her face flush as she tried to move out of the corner from behind the heavy easel. “I’m sorry, Kyra. I just got carried away, looking at all your beautiful pieces. You do so many different things— what’s your favorite? The paint? Mixed media? Drawing?”
Who’s gabbling now?
she thought. “You do them all so well.”

“Thank you, Elizabeth.” Kyra’s voice was cool as she shepherded them back to the other end of the studio. Phillip, a half-smile on his face, said nothing but moved to the wall to examine the works for sale. “I think I would say that my favorite is whatever I’m working on at the moment.”

She turned to Phillip. “Did you hear what they said about Carter? Just this morning a friend who has a studio in the Cotton Mill told me there’s a rumor that Carter has been using the QuerY for some kind of illegal stuff and he could be arrested.” The eyelashes came into play again. “Well, of course I called Carter and asked him— here I’ve been doing all this work to get ready for the show. So I felt I had to make sure there was even going to
be
a show.”

“And what did Dixon say?” asked Phillip.

“He just laughed and said not to worry: there’d been worse rumors about him before this and that the show was definitely happening.”

“And there are definitely sandwiches.” Ben came through the door brandishing a bulging paper bag. He grimaced. “Well, hell, I forgot to get us something to drink.”

“Oh, Ben, can’t you remember anything?” Again, Kyra’s smile was at odds with the tone of her voice, but she patted Ben on the arm and slipped past him out the door. “I’ll just run down the hall; I left some mineral water in the refrigerator in the kitchen.” She looked back at Elizabeth and Phillip. “If no one’s ‘borrowed’ it.”

“She’s still pissed I forgot that sketchbook.” Ben laid out the wrapped sandwiches on a table near the window. He pulled a wooden stool over to join the three folding lawn chairs that clustered around the table. “Hell, she hadn’t even missed it till you found it. Then that creepy housekeeper came by a while ago with those roses and that fancy tablecloth and had to start asking about it. Seems there’s a picture of Reba in that sketchbook and she’s hot to see it finished.”

He dug some rumpled paper napkins out of the bag. “The sandwiches are all the same— Greek salad wraps with lots of feta and kalamata olives.” He finished his preparations and stood looking at the vase of roses. “You know, it’s a weird thing about the housekeeper. It’s ‘Miss Kyra’ this and ‘Miss Kyra’ that, but I get the feeling that as far as Kyra’s concerned, Reba is still the grown-up in charge.” He shook his head. “Which doesn’t make any sense, when you look at the way Kyra stands up to her dad. But she’s always calling and checking in with Reba and then there’re these long whispery conversations— lots of ‘yes, Reba,’ and ‘I will, Reba’— that kind of crap. I said something about it to Kyra but she just laughed.”

He perched on the stool, then frowned and looked toward the door. “What’s taking her so long? The kitchen’s just a few doors down—”

Suddenly Kyra appeared, clutching two bottles of mineral water. Her eyes were wide and she was breathing hard.

Ben jumped up. “Kyra, are you okay?” He took the bottles from her. “What happened?”

“He was out there.” Ben wrapped his arms around her and she continued, her voice muffled against his chest. “I looked out the kitchen window and saw this big guy going down the fire escape. He seemed kind of familiar, so I watched to see if I could tell who it was. He got to the bottom of the steps and stood there just looking around. Then when he went to his car I recognized him. My nanny, the one who’s always there.” Her voice rose. “I can’t stand it anymore, being watched like this all the time.”

She broke loose from Ben at the sound of an approaching group of strollers. For a moment she looked wild and distraught, then she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and, opening her eyes again, told them, “I’ll be fine. I saw him drive off anyway.” She looked at the table. “Maybe having lunch here wasn’t such a good idea— I didn’t think there’d be so many people—”

“You’re absolutely right, Kyra.” Elizabeth gathered up Phillip with a glance. “We’ll take our sandwiches and find a shady place somewhere outside. Ben, you’ll be here, won’t you, in case…”

A noisy group of middle-aged women crowded into the studio. Several greeted Kyra effusively and began to bombard her with questions. Elizabeth and Phillip quietly made for the door, edging through the throng and mouthing a silent goodbye to Kyra and Ben.

“Elizabeth,” Kyra called after them, “please be sure to remind Ben about the sketchbook tomorrow. I promised Reba.”

Trying to find their way back to the fire escape, they found themselves passing by a studio that was devoted to soft sculpture. Nightmarish babies the size of linebackers lounged and leered on either side of the open door. Just inside, on a sofa, reposed three almost life-sized dolls, made to represent voluptuous women. Naked, voluptuous women. Actually, beyond voluptuous, was Elizabeth’s considered opinion.
“Morbidly obese” are the words that spring to mind.
Their faces were painted as if heavily made-up and they were adorned with wigs in garish neon colors.

“We took the wrong turn back there.” Elizabeth looked away from the sluglike creatures on the sofa. “We should have passed that freight elevator by now.”

“Someone’s taken a wrong turn, all right. I think it could be the art schools.” Phillip was still muttering as they came to the open door that led to the old fire escape.

“It looks worse going down.” Elizabeth stepped out onto the landing, averting her eyes from the cracked concrete pavement below. “But I refuse to be a wimp. I came up this thing and I can certainly go back down.” With an assumed air of bravado, she grabbed the handrail and started down the rusty iron steps. There was a grating sound and the handrail gave way. Elizabeth’s foot slipped on the metal step and she pitched forward.

Kyra seems to be reinventing herself— again— possibly the influence of that handsome young man who follows her around so like a persistent puppy. The ugly black hair is gone and she resembles an angelic waif. I had thought that she would wear a scarf or a hat till her hair grew a few inches but not she! I’m not embarrassed, GeeGee, she said with a defiant thrust of her chin that brought back so many memories.

Reba too is transformed with joy at having Kyra here, though
her
ugly black hair is unchanged. For as long as I can remember, ever since she first came to Marvin and Rose, her hair has been an uncompromising jet-black. Home-dyed, of course— that unpleasant, unnatural look.

She was still a young woman when she first appeared on the doorstep, saying that she’d heard we needed help with a baby. And why we trusted her— no references, no training— I still wonder at it. But the fact is that neither the uniformed nurse nor the English nanny from the expensive agency had been able to soothe the wailing infant, and my poor little Rose was in a state of prostration. (Amanda, of course, had not bothered to come down from Connecticut. A cesarean section for her champion bitch took precedence over her own daughter’s
accouchement.)
And so, when Reba marched in the door, put out her arms, andsaid, Give me that young un, I ( for I had been futilely endeavoring to comfort my longed-for great-granddaughter) simply handed the squirming, fretting Kyra over to this strange mountain woman. She took her and, I think, has never let her go.

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.