Heart Song (3 page)

I was, but I was also afraid. Ulysses stood in the doorway behind us, watching, and to me it was as if he were wondering why I had betrayed his master.
"Let's just back out of here and put the hasp back in place, Cary."
"We're in here already; we might as well look at everything," he insisted and held the sheet up with one hand while he worked the first canvas off the top of the pile. As it came out, I stepped closer.
First, we saw a pair of legs and then, as more and more of the canvas was revealed, we saw it was a naked woman sprawled on a beach blanket. The picture was done in a most realistic style; it was practically a photograph. Cary got so excited, he dropped the sheet entirely and used both hands to lift the canvas and place it on the floor.
We both stared down, neither of us able to speak, for we both recognized the woman. She couldn't be mistaken. It was Mommy, and the picture was done when she was much younger, perhaps in her late teens.
"Wow," Cary said.
"Put it back, Cary," I urged, my throat quickly closing. Instead, he reached in and pulled out the next canvas. This, too, was of Mommy, only in this one, she was standing, completely naked, gazing at the ocean. It had been drawn and painted very precisely. I recalled the small birthmark just below her left hip.
Cary said nothing as he continued to look at the other paintings.
"They're all of her," he said. "Different poses, different places. Here's one on a boat. She could have been a Playboy centerfold."
"Put it all back!" I cried, tears burning my eyes. I turned away. Suddenly, the small room had become stifling and I couldn't breathe. I rushed out and threw myself onto the settee. Cary put everything back the way it was and shut off the closet light.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"No," I wailed. My tears were freely carving wet lines down my cheeks.
Cary hurried to replace the hasp on the door, and after he had tightened the last screw, he came to me. I raised my eyes and wiped the tears away, a pit of bitterness growing inside me.
"You were right. Those paintings are so explicit they belong in one of those magazines. No wonder he's keeping them behind a locked door."
"Well, no one ever said your mother was shy," Cary offered with a smile.
"Thanks for reminding me," I spit back. I got up and charged out of the studio, my arms folded, my head down. Cary hurried behind, but I kept walking. Ulysses trotted alongside.
"I'm sorry. I just don't know what to say. I was just as surprised as you were."
I stopped,by his truck and stared out at the sea.
"Obviously, they were very close when they were younger, for her to have done that. That must mean something," Cary continued.
"Maybe," I said. "Maybe she was just being his model. She never told me anything so I can only guess."
"Just come out and ask Kenneth," Cary suggested. "And tell him what? That I went spying in his closet?"
"Well . . ."
"I don't want him to hate me," I said. "He'd never tell me anything then." I spun on Cary. "I don't want anyone to know about this."
"Sure," he said quickly. "Who would I tell, anyway?"
`It's not that you would tell anyone. It just might slip out one day."
"It won't," he promised.
"It would be better if you weren't here when he returns," I said nervously, checking the road into town for signs of Kenneth's jeep.
"Okay. We can talk about it all later, if you want."
I nodded. Quickly, before I realized what he was going to do, Cary reached out and put his arms around me to draw me closer and hug me.
"Everything will be all right," he promised. Then he got into his truck and started the engine. He smiled and waved as he backed it up and drove away. Ulysses and I stood watching the truck bounce over the dune road until it disappeared from sight.
I returned to the house to do some cleaning, and nearly an hour and a half later, I heard the sound of Kenneth's jeep and the quick honking of its horn. Curious, I came out of the house, dust rag still in hand, and watched as Kenneth drove his jeep faster than usual down the dune toward the house. He shut off the engine and leaped over the driver's-side door without even bothering to open it. From where I stood I could see that he had a small package under his arm. I had never seen him so excited.
"I've got it!" he cried, his face beaming.
"What is it?" I asked nodding at the package.
"Not this," he said. "This is just a new tool I needed," he added quickly and took my hand. "Come, quickly!"
"Where?" I asked, starting to laugh at his newfound enthusiasm.
He pulled me along, around the corner of the house and back toward the studio. He thrust open the door but stopped after we entered. We were facing the block of marble. He stood in the doorway, still holding my hand and staring at the marble block. Then he nodded and said, "Yes, yes, yes." He looked at me, nodded again, and looked at the marble.
"What is it?" I asked, now holding my breath.
"The vision. It finally came to me. It happened as I was on my way back home. I was thinking about you."
"Me?"
"And then I looked toward the ocean and it just burst before me, the whole finished work."
"But why me?"
"Because you're the center of this work," he said, nodding at the marble.
"I am?"
"Sit," he ordered, and pulled me toward the settee. I did as he instructed and watched him pace around the block, as I'd seen him do a hundred times before. Except this time there was a peculiar light shining in his eyes.
"Out of a wave emerges this beautiful young woman. I want to catch that transition, that birth from the water, which I will call, The Birth of Neptune's Daughter!" he exclaimed, whirling about to face me.
I had never seen Kenneth's face filled with more excitement. His eyes were positively luminous. He seemed so full of energy, I thought he might just burst before my eyes. The veins strained in his neck and around his temples.
"It's almost as if the muses, the gods and goddesses of art, sent you here," he declared.
I smiled. At last he was looking at me, talking to me, not at me, not through me, or above me. He stepped forward and took my hands into his, pulling me to my feet again.
"Kenneth are you sure?"
"Just stand there," he said bringing me to the marble block. He placed me where he wanted me and then stepped back and stared so intently at me, I couldn't help blushing. He nodded. "Yes, yes," he said. "This is it."
"I don't think I completely understand," I said. "You will. First, I'll draw the picture and then I'll figure out a method, materials I want to use to make a mockup. You'll be more than just the model. You'll be my assistant. I'll show you how to start on the block and you'll do some of the preliminary work. Artistic assistants often help with the rough cutting and chiseling."
"Model?" I said.
"Of course. it's you I see emerging. Think about it. You came back here to start a whole new life. It is as if you were emerging from the sea. You've been reborn."
He was so excited he could hardly contain his words.
"I'll explain more to you as we go along, but this work is more than just a classical piece about the god of the sea; it's about the birth of femininity, of a woman, the depiction of a young girl's transition into maturity, blossoming, blooming, exploding in her sexuality. Just the way you are right now," he added.
I didn't think it was possible for me to turn any more crimson than I had, but my skin felt as if it were on fire.
"Me?" I said again, horrified at the thought that Kenneth could see all those emotions brewing inside me.
"Of course you. This might very well be the most important work of my whole life, the pinnacle of my career," he said. He grew serious as he stepped closer. "You'll do this with me, won't you? You're not too shy or afraid?"
"I'll take my time with you and I'll show you everything you need to know every step of the way." He took my hands into his again. "We're going to do this together. You'll be part of something very significant, Melody."
I nodded, slowly, still in a daze, bowled over by his exhilaration.
"We'll start tomorrow," he said. "First, I want to spend some time thinking, envisioning. I want to go down to the sea and stare at the waves until I get the shape and the movement I need. In the morning, I'll show you how to use the tools for the rough cut. You can practice on another piece first, okay?"
"I guess," I said. He laughed and slapped his hands together. Then he went back to the marble block and put his hands on it as if he drew some sort of energy and power from it. He stood there with his eyes closed and whispered loudly.
"Yes, yes. I can feel it. This is the vision I've been waiting for."
I guess I was wide eyed, for when he looked at me again, he laughed.
"I'm scaring you, huh?"
"No, I'm just surprised," I said. "Is this what happens to all artists when they get an idea?"
He laughed.
"I don't know about other artists; I know only about myself." He approached me and again took my hands into his as he fixed his intense eyes on me. "Are you afraid you can't be a model?"
"I've never done anything like that."
"We'll go about it slowly. I won't rush you into anything until you're comfortable because if you're not comfortable, you'll be sending out the wrong emotions and I won't be able to create what's in my mind and what's in the marble," he said. "But once we start," he added, smiling, "you'll see it's nothing to be afraid of or ashamed of. You'll feel the power of your own intrinsic beauty and you'll flourish."
His words exhilarated me and I wondered if this was what he had said to my mother? Was this the way he had gotten her to model? Or was there something else between them, the love I suspected? Perhaps what Kenneth really had discovered was his way, his path to follow to tell me about himself and about me and all that had occurred.
I couldn't deny that the idea made me tremble. He must have felt my hands shaking. He squeezed a bit tighter and held his gaze on me firmly as he continued.
"Few people really understand the artistic vision," he said. "Or appreciate it. Somehow, I think you do."
"Why?" I asked, curious to know what he had seen in me.
"It's just a feeling I have, an instinct, and my instincts have always been accurate, especially when it comes to people," he added, his eyes darkening to tell me some of those accurate instinctive readings were unpleasant.
But what was he really telling me with these words and those eyes? Was he saying I would appreciate the artist's instinct because I had inherited it from him?
"For now," he continued, "I think it would be best if you didn't mention this to anyone else, especially your uncle Jacob and the rest of the Logans. Their thinking, like too many others', I'm afraid, is quite narrow. They just wouldn't understand. Can you do that? Can you keep a secret for a while?"
"I'm used to secrets," I said pointedly, but he just smiled and nodded.
"Good." He turned back to the marble. "I know I haven't been this excited in years," he said. And then he looked at me again, "And I know now it's because of you."
I looked at the block of marble and just like him, I suddenly saw that it was more than stone.
It was possibly the way to my father and to the truth, and to the happiness I hoped lay just behind it. I couldn't wait to begin.

2
A Model's Life
.
All the way back to Uncle Jacob's house,

Kenneth talked continuously about his new art project, barely pausing to take a breath between sentences. He described the mythological background, the idea of creating Neptune's daughter, how art helps us to understand problems in the modern world and why he believed the artist was the only true prophet. Sitting in his jeep as we drove along, I felt as if I were sitting in a college classroom. He made it all sound so interesting. I noticed when he spoke about the things that were close to his heart, his whole face brightened; he seemed to rise out of his visions and ideas and become more vibrant. I was too shy to say it, but often, when I played my fiddle and closed my eyes, I felt just the way he felt now. Maybe that was the link that would bind us together, I thought, our mutual artistic loves.

"I'll see you bright and early in the morning," he declared when we stopped at the house.
"Tomorrow, we'll begin."

"And remember what I said. Let this just be something between us for now, okay?" His eyes were full of warning.

I nodded and stepped out of the jeep, feeling his eerie gaze on my back.
"Don't do anything different with your hair. It's perfect as it is," he said. I started to smile. "It's the way I saw her in my vision. Bye," he said and drove off.
What did he mean? It's the way he saw her in his vision? Was he looking at me, as I had thought, or was he seeing some mythical creature, some figment of his imagination, or even a young girl from his past, created out of memories? Wasn't I the most important thing in his life right now? Or was it Mommy taking away my happiness from beyond the grave? I was more confused than ever when I turned and walked into the house.
Uncle Jacob was coming down the stairs as I entered. He looked as if he had been taking a nap. His hair was disheveled, his face was full of crinkles, and his eyes were glassy. The shadows on his unshaven chin resembled bruises. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled to his elbows and he wore his fur-lined slippers over his bare feet. He paused on the steps and stiffened when I gazed up at him.
"He ought to bring you home a little earlier so you can help Sara with dinner," he said.
"I'm sorry. I'll tell him."
Uncle Jacob grunted.
"So, what's he been up to?" he asked. "Did he come forth and confess his sins yet?"
"I don't know about any sins."
He smirked with skepticism.
"When's he supposed to pay you?"
"Every two weeks is what he told us when he first came to the house," I reminded him.
"Remember to put half in the kitchen pot," he countered and continued down the steps toward the living room.
"Is that you, dear?" I heard Aunt Sara call from the kitchen doorway, where she stood wiping her hands on her apron. She came forward, looking very excited.
"Hi, Aunt Sara."
"I have some news for you." She stepped forward and in a loud whisper asked, "Did Jacob tell you?" I shook my head.
"Olivia called this afternoon to invite you to lunch on Saturday. Just you!" she exclaimed girlishly. "Just me? Why?"
"I don't know dear, but isn't that nice? She's sending Raymond with the car to pick you up at twelve sharp. You'll wear something nice, one of those sun dresses. Maybe the one with the yellow tear drops and the white collar?"
I really hadn't gone through Laura's entire wardrobe and didn't recall the dress, but I nodded anyway because Aunt Sara acted as though I had worn it.
"I'll just go wash up and then come down to help you, Aunt Sara."
"Everything's done," she said. "Don't hurry. Rest. You're a working girl now." Her smile froze. "Laura always wanted to be working, but Jacob didn't want her to do anything involving tourists. She liked Kenneth, especially his paintings and statues. She would have wanted to work for him, too," she added, sighing deeply as she returned to the kitchen.
I gazed into the living room and saw Uncle Jacob sitting in his chair, staring out at me. He had the strangest look on his face, a dreamy, far-off expression, softer than I had ever seen. He realized he was staring and quickly dropped his gaze to the newspaper in his lap. I hurried up the steps to my room and saw that the ladder to Cary's attic hideaway was down. That meant he was up there working on his models. I was only in my room for a few moments when May appeared at my door. Most evenings she would come to my bedroom to excitedly relay the events of her day.
May continued attending her special school during the summer and had only a short ten-day break before the start of the regular school year. Her summer day was abbreviated, but she would rather have had the summers off just like the kids who attended the regular public school. Ever since I started working for Kenneth she had been begging me to take her to see his studio. Uncle Jacob had forbidden it up until now, telling her she couldn't miss a day of her school just to waste time watching me clean someone else's house and make someone else his lunch. But with Cary on the fishing boat and me away most of the day, she had to spend more time alone than ever. She was starved for conversation and attention by the time Cary and I returned from work each day.
As usual, May's hands went a mile a minute, signing questions, telling me about things she had done, and expressing her desire to accompany me to Kenneth's studio.
I promised I would ask Uncle Jacob again, but she didn't look hopeful. In fact she looked downright sad. May was smaller than most girls her, age, and it seemed to me that she was even paler and thinner these days. I thought she resembled a flower without enough rain and sunshine, withering under dark, oppressive clouds. In her large, shadowed hazel eyes lingered more dark sufferings than a child her age should know, I thought. She lived in a silent world, hearing only her own thoughts, craving smiles, wondering about the sound of laughter.
It occurred to me that May didn't even know what it was like to hear someone cry. Of course, from the looks on people's faces, she knew happiness from sadness, anger from approval, but for me, someone who loved to make music and listen to it, the idea of being deaf seemed overwhelming. The eternal silence would drive me mad, I thought, and wondered what made May so strong. Sometimes her strength worked against her, and people forgot that she still needed little joys in her life. How could Uncle Jacob refuse her anything? He must have beach sand in his veins instead of blood, and a heart made from an old barnacle.
I told May about the things I had done all day, though I didn't reveal that Cary had visited. I was sure she would be upset that he hadn't offered to take her along. As I described my walks along the beach with Ulysses and even the cleaning I did in Kenneth's house, May stood looking at my hands as though I were drawing the most wonderful pictures of fun. Her eyes were wide and she nodded and smiled to keep me going. She laughed aloud when I described how Ulysses hid under Kenneth's jeep whenever the sky filled with thunder and lightning. When she asked me about Kenneth's paintings and statues, I looked away in shame, thinking about Mommy in Kenneth's secret paintings.
For the first time I realized that Mommy had lived a whole other life here. She had made friends she had never mentioned, especially boyfriends. How could she keep secret growing up at that big, wonderful house, living on the beach with the sailing and the swimming and all the parties? How could she drive those memories down so deeply that she never even slipped and mentioned something nice to me? Didn't she have any happiness here? Wasn't there anything that she had longed to see again, to hear again? The smell of the ocean was so strong, it soaked into your very being. I was sure of that because it already seemed to be part of me. How hateful and traumatic her flight from Provincetown must have been for her to keep so many secrets, I thought.
May tapped me on the shoulder. I had become so absorbed with my musings, I forgot that she was standing there. I smiled at her and then began to describe the vase Kenneth was creating. She nodded, thought about something for a minute, and then asked me to wait right there in the room until she returned. She hurried out and I went to the closet to search for the dress Aunt Sara had described. I found it hanging all the way in the back of the closet. She was right: it was a happy, bright dress, perfect for an afternoon. Moments later, May returned with a drawing pad in her hands. She hesitated, her eyes filled with trepidation, and then handed it to me.
Curious, I sat on the bed and lifted the cover. What I found amazed me. In the pad were excellent India-ink drawings, many of which were of me. There were pictures of me standing on the beach, pictures of me in the kitchen, and pictures of me holding May's hand and walking with her down the street toward town.
I quickly signed how wonderful I thought her pictures were, and then she shook her head.
"What?" I asked, even more curious. She took the pad from me and flipped the pages to the end to show me the inside of the back cover. I gazed down at it and felt my blood freeze in my veins.
"I don't understand," I signed. "Aren't these your drawings?"
She shook her head and I looked at the words scribbled on the inside back pages again.
"But--"
I flipped through the pad, gazing more closely at the drawings I thought were drawings of me. I guess it was just that I assumed it was I who had been depicted. How strange . . . eerie. This pad had belonged to Laura. She had been the artist and she had drawn pictures of herself and pictures of herself with May.
Somehow, maybe because of the way Aunt Sara treated me and spoke to me, or because I was living in her room and wearing her things, I had mistaken Laura for myself in these drawings. At this moment I could appreciate and understand what Aunt Sara was experiencing when she looked at me with sad eyes that told me I reminded her of Laura.
"Do you draw, too?" I asked May. She shook her head and asked me if I wanted to show the pictures to Kenneth.
"Yes, maybe I will," I signed, which pleased her. I perused the rest of the pad and found a picture of Cary that intrigued me. In it he was standing on the beach, holding his hands out while sand was falling through his fingers. It was as if he were saying that something he thought was important really had no meaning.
Just then, as if on cue, I heard Cary coming down the ladder. May saw the direction my eyes had taken and turned in anticipation, too.
"Hi," he said. "How did the rest of the day go?" "Fine."
"But nothing . . ."
"No."
"What do you have there?" he asked stepping through the doorway.
"May brought me these pictures Laura drew and gave her. She wants me to show them to Kenneth."
He saw that I had turned to the page containing the picture of him.
"I gave May that pad the week Laura died," he said, his dark eyes gone bleak, "so she would have something to cherish, but it's not the sort of thing I wanted to show everyone. I don't mind your seeing it, but Laura was very choosy about whom she would show those drawings. Nobody in school saw them, not even her art teacher, and if she wanted Kenneth to see them, I'm sure she would have shown them to him herself."
"Okay," I said, trying to hide my nervous laughter. "What's funny?"
"I thought May had done them and was bringing them to me to show her own work." I answered, though I didn't add that I thought they were pictures of me.
He signed to May, telling her she should keep the pad in her own room where it belonged. She looked disappointed, but took the pad back when I handed it to her.
"Did you deliberately pose for any of them?" I asked. It was more than just curiosity. I wanted to know what he felt like modeling for someone, but he wasn't willing to talk about it.
"For a few," he admitted. "I'm starving," he quickly added to change the subject. "Is dinner ready?"
"I think so. Did you hear about my invitation to Grandma Olivia's?"
"As soon as I walked in the door. It was the first thing Ma told me," he said.
"Why just me?"
He shrugged.
"She wants to get to know you better?"
I smiled skeptically.
"Maybe Grandma's easing up. Old age," he added with a grin.
We all went down to dinner, where I helped serve. I noticed throughout the meal that Uncle Jacob was staring at me from time to time. Finally, before we were finished, he stopped chewing, drank some water, and leaned back.
"You mean to tell me," he said as if we were still in the middle of our earlier conversation, "you've been there over a week and he hasn't mentioned nothin' about Haille?"
Cary shifted his eyes to me quickly.
"He spoke of her," I said, "but he didn't say they had been romantically involved."
"Romantically involved?" Uncle Jacob said with a laugh. He shook his head. "Romantically involved for Haille meant sneaking behind some boat house."
"Jacob!" Aunt Sara said. "Shame on you speaking of the dead that way, and especially in front of young people."
"I'm sure they've heard a lot worse," he said, glancing at me and then at Aunt Sara. "I'm just sayin' how it was."
"There's a time and place for such talk and you know it's not at the dinner table, Jacob Logan," she insisted.
He turned a little crimson at the reprimand. The tension was so thick, it felt as if we were sitting in a roomful of cobwebs. Yet I thought I knew the underlying purpose to all these questions about Kenneth and me.
"I'm sorry I'm a burden to you, Uncle Jacob," I said. "I know you would like Kenneth Childs or someone to admit to being my father so he would have to look after me," I said firmly.
"Well that isn't my whole reason, but it would be the right thing to do, wouldn't it?" He looked across the table at Aunt Sara. "The Bible tells us to suffer the children. It means our own, Sara."
"She is our own," Aunt Sara said. "God brought her for a purpose, Jacob," she retorted with more grit than I had seen or heard in her voice since first coming to their home. She looked as if she would heave a plate at him if he uttered one syllable of disagreement.
Uncle Jacob just grunted and mumbled about being finished. He left the table.
I helped clean up and while I washed the silverware and dishes, Aunt Sara told me not to mind anything Uncle Jacob said.
"What he says today, he regrets tomorrow," she told me. "He's always been like that. That man has swallowed more of his own sour words than anyone I know. It's a wonder he doesn't walk around all day with a bellyache."
"He's not completely wrong, Aunt Sara. People shouldn't have children and then leave them for someone else to look after. Even though you've been more of a mother to me than my own mother, she shouldn't have just dumped me here," I added. Aunt Sara's eyes filled with tears. She turned to hug me.
"You poor child. You never think of yourself as being dumped here, understand? And don't you ever think of yourself as being an orphan, Melody. Not while I have a breath left in my body, hear? We've both got holes in our hearts and we're plugging them up for each other," she said and kissed my forehead. I hugged her back and thanked her before going upstairs. Cary poked his head through the attic trapdoor as soon as I reached the landing.
"Want to see the model I just finished?" he asked.
"I promised May I'd play Monopoly with her."
"So, you will," he said. I looked toward May's doorway and then hurried up the ladder into the attic.
The attic hideaway wasn't much bigger than my room. The biggest piece of furniture up there was the table on which Cary worked meticulously on his model ships. Above the table were shelves filled with the models he had completed over the years. There were also a small sofa and some boxes and sea chests sharing the space.