Heart Song (12 page)

I wasn't the only one struggling with the past.
There was a silent war being conducted here, a war
with no guns, but fierce battles nevertheless, with the
casualties being truth, happiness, and contentment. "Don't want to talk about, it?" Kenneth finally
asked.
"I visited Grandma Belinda," I said.
"How did it go?"
"She said many things, some silly, I suppose,
but some that infuriated Grandma Olivia."
"I bet," he said with a smile.
"She said Grandpa Samuel liked her more and
she said your father was one of her boyfriends and
that made Grandma Olivia jealous," I blurted. His smile froze first and then metamorphosed
into a hard, deep expression of pain.
"That's why she's in a rest home," he mumbled. "She looks healthy and she's sweet, gentle,
childlike," I continued. He drove his face sullen. "I'm sorry about what she said about your
father."
"It doesn't surprise me," he replied. He turned
to me with a smirk on his face. "I've heard such talk
about him before. Dad was always what is euphemistically referred to as a ladies' man," he said, sarcastically. "He can be very charming," I admitted. Kenneth looked at me askance.
"You too?" He shook his head. "As long as it's
in a skirt, he can't resist, no matter what the age." "Is that why you don't get along?" I asked
quickly, trying not to be offended by his callous
remark.
"How he conducts himself is his business, not
mine," Kenneth replied. "Let's not talk about him. It
puts me into a bad mood," he said and then turned to
me. "Just as you've been told, digging up the past is
only going to revive unhappiness and we have enough
to contend with in the present.
"Besides,"
^-
he added, "you're my special model
now. I don't want you coming around with a long, sad
look on your face. I want you fresh, lovely, and
curious about yourself, not others. Concentrate on our
concept when you're with me," he added as we drew
closer to his house and studio.
"You're the one who asked me about the
weekend," I shot back.
He thought on that and then nodded.
"You're right." He held up his hand. "I'm guilty,
which shows you, even I can be tempted into the wrong frame of mind. I'll make a pact with you," he said as he pulled into the driveway. "I won't ask you any questions about your private life and you won't ask me any about mine. We'll just be in the world of
art, okay?"
"Art isn't a world separate from the real world,"
I said, my eyes narrow, my gaze fixed and
determined. "Ideas, images, colors all come from your
experiences, don't they?"
He stared silently at me, a friendly, almost
loving glint coming into his eyes before he smiled. "You're quite a kid," he said. He said it with
such admiration and pride, I had to blush. "Okay,
you're right. But we'll do our best. Deal?" He
extended his hand. I stared at it a moment. He wanted
me to swear to be silent, to lock up my thoughts and
questions, to put aside my quest for truth. I shook my
head.
"I can't promise something I'm not sure I have
the strength or even the willingness to do," I said. He sighed with frustration and then smiled
again.
"All right, but at least promise you'll try. It's
important to my work." He waited.
"I'll try," I offered, weakly.
It was enough for now. He hopped out of the
jeep and I followed, Ulysses at our heels.
"I've been working all weekend," he said as we
went around the house to the studio. "Even without
my star," he added, throwing a smile back at me. When he opened the studio door, I saw what he
meant. Near the marble block, there was a large
papier-mache mass shaped like a wave about to crash
on shore.
"It's not exactly right yet, but that's something
like the wave I've envisioned," he said. "Do you see
the opening in the center?"
"Yes?'
"I want you to go behind the wave, crawl under,
and come up through that hole."
"Really?"
"That's the idea. I can picture you emerging
from a wave, as part of the wave, this way.
Understand?"
"Yes," I said, thinking it was a very clever idea. "Just crawl in first and then I'll tell you how I
want you to stand and so on." He went to his drawing
table.
Then he nodded at me and I walked around the
papier-mache wave. I found where he had left room for me to go under and come up through the opening.
At first, I felt a bit silly, but I did it.
"Okay," he said and stepped away from his
table. "Okay." He nodded, stared, thought, walked
about and then nodded again. "Okay, this is going to
be a bit tricky, but don't worry. We'll get it right. Go
back down and come up very, very slowly. I just want
to see the top of your head at first."
I did as he asked.
"Stop," he said when my head was visible. Very slowly now, keep coming up, yes, slower,
stop. Perfect. Is that very uncomfortable for you?" "Yes," I admitted.
He thought a moment and then moved quickly
to the settee. He gathered up the big cushions and
brought them behind the paper wave.
"Hold that position until I stuff these pillows
under you," he said. "Okay, you can sit there." He ran around to the front again.
"That'll work for a while," he said. "Come on
out and I'll explain it to you in more detail," he said. I wriggled out of the wave and took my place
beside him. He had already drawn a sketch of the
wave, but had left the middle undone, waiting for me. "It's hard to think of a picture, a painting, a sculpture as having movement, but this is what I have to capture here because the movement is your development, your emergence from the sea into this beautiful young woman. Your body will first appear liquid, flowing, but it will start to emerge separate from the
wave."
I nodded, although I wasn't sure I really understood.
"Now," he said, pausing and turning to me,
"you wouldn't emerge dressed in a sweatshirt and a
pair of jeans. Do you understand what I'm trying to
say?"
My pulse began to throb, my heart racing at the
thought of what he was alluding to. The idea of
standing naked before Kenneth, whether he was my
father or not, made me queasy.
"Yes," I said almost too softly to be heard. "I have to have you comfortable, at ease.
You've got to get past yourself and me and become
part of this work, the essence of this work. Think of
yourself as the sculpture and not as Melody Logan
undressed in some barn, okay?"
I nodded, weakly.
"My shoulders are too bony and my collarbone
sticks out too far," I complained. "I also have a patch of freckles all over here," I said, pointing to my chest
just below my collarbone.
Kenneth smiled.
"I don't think that's going to be a problem for
us, Melody, and you're far from bony. Look," he said
more patiently, "I know it's unfair to ask you to
achieve a professional attitude the first time you
model for someone, and I won't expect perfection
right away, but in time, you'll see," he said with a
warm smile. "As hard as it is to believe, it will
become very ordinary after a while."
He paused and looked at the door.
"You didn't tell anyone about this, did you?" he
asked quickly.
I shook my head.
"Good."
The realization of what he feared made me
laugh, especially when I considered how Uncle Jacob
had reacted to the little I had told May about a
woman's body. Suddenly, all the fear and nervousness
left me, as I realized that modeling for Kenneth was
just the thing to get Uncle Jacob's goat.
"What's so funny?" he asked, smiling. I told him about May's revelation of her first
kiss and then her questions, and how I had described the changes a girl experiences as she matures. I explained that I had even given her some information about making a baby. And then I told him what had happened between me and Uncle Jacob when May, brought up something I had said in front of him and
Aunt Sara.
"I can't wait to see Uncle Jacob's face when he
sees Neptune's Daughter," I said, still unable to keep
the laughter from my voice.
"Jacob's a horse's ass," Kenneth said. "He
always was. He never had many friends and he was
always the object of jokes and ridicule because of this
high-and-mighty moral attitude of his, as if he were
some sort of Old Testament prophet. Haille teased
him a lot, too," he added with a small laugh. "She did? Will you tell me about it?"
He sighed.
"All right. Here's the deal. I'll tell you about the
old days when we break for lunch or rests, if you
promise not to ask any questions, not to talk while I
work. Deal?" he offered.
This time I seized his hand so fast, it brought a
real laugh to his lips. Then he grew serious. "We'll do this slowly," he said, "as slowly as I
envision it in the work itself. Just take off that sweatshirt for now. I want to see you up to here this morning," he said indicating just above my breasts. "Your face, neck, and shoulders. Model, take your position," he ordered with a smile and wave of his
hand.
I went behind the papier-mache wave and
pulled off my sweatshirt. Then I crawled through the
opening and sat on the pillows, just my head
emerging. He began to work, and as he did, I saw his
face become so intense, his eyes so riveting, I couldn't
keep mine off him.
After a while he said, "Another pillow." I understood he meant for me to put another
sofa pillow under myself so I would come up a bit
more. When my head was as high as he had indicated
he wanted he continued to work on and on.
"This is just the shape, the outline," he
explained. "We're going to spend a lot of time
discussing the expression on your face, how I want
you to look, your eyes, your mouth. The best way to
do that is to get you to think of something in your own
past that will fit this, some event, some moment, some
thoughts and experiences."
"Just as I told you: art isn't in a world by itself,"
I quipped smugly. He paused and smiled.
"All right. Don't be a smartass," he said and we
both laughed.
Maybe I would be able to do this. Maybe I
would be able to relax and help him create his greatest
work, I thought.
"Break," he called after nearly another hour. He
brought me a large bath towel to drape over my
shoulders, and put on some water for tea. The towel
covered my shoulders and bra. I used it to wipe the
perspiration from my face and neck.
"It really is work just standing still," I said. He
nodded.
"I'd rather be on this side of the brush," he
admitted. "You take sugar, right?"
"Just one teaspoon, thank you."
"You know, what you were telling me about
May and her questions is exactly the sort of thing I'm
after here," he said. He sat at the small table and I sat
on a stool beside him. "She's emerging out of
childhood into the first stages of womanhood. Can
you recall when this first happened to you?" "Yes, I guess so."
"What was it like?"
"Scary and wonderful," I said. He nodded,
obviously encouraging me to continue. I thought about it. "There were new feelings in old places." He
smiled.
"Yes," he said. "Exactly."
"When May told me about her first kiss, I
thought about mine and how I had run all the way
home and gone into my room to be alone with my
excitement. I wrote the boy's name about two million
times and dreamed about more kisses, longer kisses." "Did you tell your mother about it?"
"After a while."
"And?" he asked, very interested in what she
had said.
"She laughed and told me not to believe in
kisses or any promises made while kissing. She said
to make them pay, that they're never too young to pay.
I didn't understand at the time," I said, waiting to see
what he would offer as an explanation for Mommy's
bitter attitude about men.
"She ruined the moment with that kind of talk.
You have to believe in the magic first. Haille didn't
stop for magic. That was her problem," he said. "I
don't think she enjoyed growing up, or gave herself
enough time for innocence, understand?"
"Sort of. You mean she grew up too fast?"
"Worse. She gave herself away too young," he said.
My breath caught.
"How do you know that?"
"She told me," he said, and I understood it
hadn't been with him. "But let's get back to you. When
you're coming up out of the wave, you're just feeling
these new sensations and you're full of the same sort
of questions May had about herself, questions you
had, too. Understand? Think of that, concentrate on
it." He paused and glanced at me. "Your body is
developing. There are tingles, feelings, sensations in
places there never were before. You're standing in
front of the mirror, naked, and you're seeing things
that, as you said, surprise, frighten, and thrill you at
the same time. Okay?"
I nodded. The air was so warm around me. I did
feel as if I had slipped back in time. His words
worked magic. My body remembered itself, the first
tingles returned, the images--
The teakettle whistled, breaking my reverie. He
poured us each a cup and offered me a cracker. "How do you know so much about women?" I
asked, and he laughed.
"Me? I'm far from the expert on women. You're
confusing me with dear old Dad."
"Is that really why you and he don't get along
so well?"
"That's part of it," he said, taking a sip of tea.
"Parents shouldn't try to force their children to follow
in their footsteps, especially if their feet are made of
clay," he said.
He talked a little about how his father had pressured him to go to law school and then how he had
rebelled. I told him about Cary and his dream to leave
fishing and become a ship builder of custom boats. "I told him to tell his father."
"Did he do it?" he asked, his eyebrows raised in
anticipation.
"Yes."
"And?"
"His father threw a fit, telling him it was family
tradition to be a fisherman and a cranberry farmer and
he had to continue."
"Horse's ass," Kenneth said.
"Cary will do it. Some day," I said firmly.
Kenneth stared at me, a softness in his eyes. "You like him a lot, don't you?"
"Yes," I admitted.
"Romantically?"
I nodded, sensing Kenneth wouldn't judge me
for my relationship with Cary.
"Not your first boyfriend, is he?" he asked. He
was sounding more like my father now, a father who
hadn't seen his daughter growing up.
"No, but he's the most . . ."
"Serious?"
I nodded again and sipped my tea.