Melody (46 page)

“Your father here too?” he asked, his face firm again.

“No sir. My father died in a coal mining accident a few months ago.”

“Really?” He looked at Cary and then at me. “Coal mine? Where were you living?”

“West Virginia, a town called Sewell.”

He nodded.

“Yeah, I knew they had gone south.” His eyes were full of thoughts for a moment and then he blinked and looked at me more sharply. “You look a lot like her,” he said. “I guess she's still as pretty as she was if she's looking to become a model or an actress.”

“She is,” I said.

“Well,” he said, starting to turn. “Thanks for stopping by.”

“Can I see some of your work?” I blurted. Cary's eyes widened. He looked at me and then at Kenneth, who stopped turning and considered.

“Why?” he asked, his eyes small, suspicious.

“I've heard a lot about it,” I said.

“You know anything about art?”

“A little, what I learned in school.”

“An artist's work is very personal until the day he puts it up for sale in some gallery,” he said.

“I know.”

“You know?” He widened his smile. “Are you an artist?”

“I play the fiddle and sing,” I said. “I don't like doing it in front of people until I'm sure I'm ready. I guess an artist doesn't like showing his work until he is confident it's ready.”

His eyebrows lifted again. “That's right.” He thought a moment. “Okay, I'll show you something I've nearly completed,” he said. “Maybe I need a completely fresh pair of eyes looking at it. I'll let you look at it if you promise to be honest about what you think.”

“I don't like to lie about my feelings,” I said, my eyes now as firm and as hard as his.

“I bet you don't. Follow me.” He started around the house. Cary looked as if he had seen a ghost—shocked, surprised, still afraid. “You can bring him along,” Kenneth added without turning back to us.

Between the house and the studio was a patch of beach grass, a bench, and a small, man-made pond in which minnows burst into frenzied swimming when our shadows touched the water. Kenneth opened his studio door and paused.

“Don't touch any of my tools,” he warned. I nodded and so did Cary.

The studio was just a large room. On one side were tables and a kiln, and on the tables were his tools and materials. There was a beaten-up tweed settee to our immediate left with a driftwood table in front of it, on which were a large coffee mug and a plate, with a half-eaten muffin on it.

Kenneth's work in progress was to our right. It was a
figure about five feet high of a woman whose arms were changing into wings just above the elbow. The face was interesting, her eyes turned upward and her mouth was open as if to express a great sigh. She was naked and it looked as if feathers were growing along her back, sides, and stomach.

“Well?” Kenneth said. “What do you think I'm trying to show?”

“Someone turning into an angel,” I said.

He smiled warmly. “Exactly. I'm calling it
Angel in Progress.
I have a lot of detail work left to do yet.”

“It's very exciting, especially the look in her face,” I said. “It's as if she's. . .”

“What?” He drew closer to me.

“Seeing heaven for the first time.”

“Yes,” he said, gazing at her. “She is.”

“Do you always work in clay?” I asked.

“No. I've done stone, metal, and wood, but here I'm trying to capture and record a fleeting impression, much the way a painter does in a quick sketch. After I'm finished, I'll cast this in bronze.”

“How do you do that?” I asked. He checked my expression to see if I really wanted to know. Satisfied, he gestured toward his tools and his kiln.

“In two stages. First, a negative mold is formed, and then a positive cast is made from the negative impression. Plaster is used for the negative mold and bronze for the positive. I call that the slave work, since all the artistic work is completed.”

“You do all that by yourself?”

“Yes,” he said with a short laugh. “So,” he said, his eyes small again, “what do you know about sculpture?”

“Just what I learned in history about the Greeks. Gods and athletes were their favorite subjects,” I recited. “I remember our teacher passed around a picture of the
Three Goddesses.”

He raised his eyebrows. “That's right.”

“My best friend's parents have a small replica of
Michelangelo's
David
in their house,” I said. “But I've never been to a museum and the only galleries I've ever seen are the ones on the street here.”

“Take her to Gordon's on Commercial,” Kenneth told Cary. “You know where it is?” Cary nodded quickly. “I have some pieces there.”

“I'd like to see them.”

He nodded. “Well, you've restored my faith in the educational system. Have you ever tried to do anything with art—draw, paint?”

“No.”

“Maybe you should,” he said. Was he telling me I had inherited some of his talent? I glanced at Cary, who still looked timid and nervous. His eyes shifted from side to side, as if looking for escape routes.

“School's almost over for you, isn't it?” Kenneth asked.

“Yes, just a little more review, finals, and that's it for this year. I graduate next year. Cary graduates this year,”

Kenneth looked at him. “What are you going to do with yourself?” he asked him.

“What I do now, fishing, cranberry harvest.”

Kenneth nodded. “And you, what do you want to become?” he asked me.

“I think a teacher,” I said.

“Not an actress or a model like your mother?”

“I don't think so,” I said. He looked pleased. “You were very friendly with my mother once, weren't you?”

“Yes,” he said. He gazed at his work in progress. “And with your father and with Cary's father. We all grew up together.”

Cary and I looked at each other. In his eyes I could see the tension. Was I just going to come out and ask him if he could be my father?

“Well, I got to get back to work,” he said. He walked toward the door to indicate he wanted us to leave. I gazed again at Cary and then I followed Kenneth. Cary followed me. Ulysses waited at the door.

“I like your dog.”

“He's old, but faithful. I'm afraid he doesn't get enough exercise either.”

“Maybe I can walk him for you sometime,” I offered. “I'd like to hunt for seashells on the beach here.”

He nodded.

“What are you going to do this summer?” he asked.

“I don't know. I'm waiting for my mother to come back or call for me.”

“Well, tell her hello when she calls you.” He stepped back into the studio and closed the door.

I looked at Cary.

“I didn't know how to say anything or ask anything,” I explained.

“It's all right. Let's go. I don't think he would have admitted anything anyway. Maybe he doesn't even know himself.” We started back to the truck, Ulysses following us.

“I should have said something more, asked something specific,” I moaned.

“Next time. Did you get any sort of feeling about him?” Cary asked as he backed out of the driveway and started us toward the road.

“I think so,” I said. “It's hard and it's not fair,” I cried. “Mommy has to tell me the truth. She must!” I said firmly. “There's no reason for her not to now.”

We bumped along the sandy road. When I looked back, I saw Ulysses turn and trot back toward the jeep. He looked disappointed.

After Cary stopped at a garage to refill his truck tires with air, we headed home. We had just made the turn toward the house when we both saw the police car parked right behind Uncle Jacob's.

“What's this all about?” Cary wondered aloud. We pulled up beside the police car and got out slowly. Both of us noticed that the front door was still open. We glanced at each other and then hurried inside.

There were two policemen standing in the hallway, the
taller one with his hat in his hands. Uncle Jacob was talking to them softly. They all turned as we stepped in, Uncle Jacob's face darker and firmer than I had ever seen it. We heard soft sobbing coming from the living room and looked in to see Aunt Sara seated on the settee, May at her side stroking her arm.

“What happened?” Cary asked.

“There's been an accident,” Uncle Jacob said.

“Who?” Cary asked. Uncle Jacob looked at the two policemen and when he turned back, his eyes were on me. My heart stopped and started.

“Mommy?” I cried. He nodded. “What happened?”

“Officer Baker here came to tell us they received a call from police in . . . where was it?”

“Pomona, sir,” the taller policeman said. “It's near Los Angeles,” he explained.

“What happened? Is she all right?” My heart stopped.

“Tell her what you know,” Uncle Jacob said to the policeman.

The officer turned to me. “There was an accident on the freeway out there, single car, car caught fire. The gentleman driving the car was thrown from the vehicle, but—”

“My mother?”

“Apparently she was trapped in the car. The man survived and is in the hospital. His name's—” He checked a note pad, “Marlin, Richard Marlin. He claims the woman who died in the car fire was Haille Ann Logan and told the police to call here. The car exploded and there wasn't much anyone could do.”

“Mommy's . . . dead?”

The policeman looked at Uncle Jacob. Aunt Sara started to cry louder. Cary reached for my hand, but I pulled away. “Tell me!” I screamed. I had to have them say it.

“That's what they're saying,” Uncle Jacob stated.

I shook my head. “She was having auditions. She was calling me.”

The policeman turned to Uncle Jacob. “They want to know if you want the remains shipped here,” he said.

“Call Olivia,” Aunt Sara cried.

“Aye, we'll want that,” Uncle Jacob replied.

“Stop it!” I screamed. “Stop all these lies!”

I put my hands over my ears and shook my head.

“Easy now,” Uncle Jacob said holding out his hand. “You—”

“You're lying! Everyone just spins one lie after another!”

I looked at Cary.

He shook his head. “Melody,” he said softly.

“It's not true,” I begged him. I turned and ran out of the house.

“Jacob!” Aunt Sara screamed.

I nearly tripped on the steps, but I recovered my balance and went around the corner of the house. I ran as hard and as fast as I could. I needed to get away from them, away from the story, away from the policeman's eyes. When I reached the sand, I slipped and fell, catching myself with my hands and then shooting up and running harder, tears flying off my cheeks. My lungs were screaming, but I wouldn't stop. I ran up the hill and fell again, this time just lying there, sobbing.

Mommy wasn't going to call me. She wasn't going to send for me or return. I cried until my ribs ached and then I just stared out at the cranberry bog. I never heard Cary coming, but he was suddenly at my side.

“Mom's worried about you,” he said and squatted. He put a blade of beach grass in his mouth. I gazed ahead, not hearing, not seeing, not feeling. “The police said they were going very fast and probably lost control. They rammed into a pole and the car turned over, spilling your mother's friend onto the road. Her door didn't open and the car rolled over and over and then just went up in flames. Nobody's lying.”

I turned from him. Mommy had done a selfish thing by leaving me here and by keeping secrets, but I could
never harden my heart against her enough to stop loving her. There were good times to remember, lots of soft moments. Sometimes, I would catch her looking at me with a gentle smile on her lips and I could almost hear her thinking how pleased she was with me. She had come to depend on me so much. If only I had been with them, I thought. I would have made them slow down.

“They're going to bring her back and put her in the Logan section of the cemetery,” Cary said.

I spun on him, my eyes on fire. “When she was alive, they didn't want her within ten feet of them, but now that she's dead, they'll put her in the ground near them?”

He had no answer. He looked down.

“She should be sent back to Sewell and buried beside my father,” I said. “It's where she belongs.”

Cary shrugged. “Tell Grandma.”

I thought a moment. “I will. Take me there right now.”

“Right now?”

I stood up and so did he.

“Right now,” I said and started down the hill. I was running on anger and disappointment. He caught up.

“I'll just go tell Dad,” he said when we reached the house.

“Just drive us there, Cary. Don't go asking for permission for every breath you take.”

He looked at me, then nodded. “Okay, let's go.”

We got into the truck and he backed out of the driveway. As we pulled away from the house, I saw Uncle Jacob step out and look after us. The moment we drove up Grandma Olivia and Grandpa Samuel's driveway, I opened the door. Cary hadn't even brought the truck to a stop. He hit the brakes and I was out, rushing toward the front door.

Cary slammed his door and followed. I pushed the buzzer, waited a second, and pushed it again. Grandpa opened the door, his face somber.

“Melody,” he said, surprise overcoming sadness quickly.

“Where's Grandma Olivia?” I demanded. There was no sense talking to him, I thought quickly. She makes all the decisions in this family. I rushed in past him.

“Just what's going on here?” she demanded. She was standing in the sitting room doorway.

“You heard about my mother, your niece?” I fired. She stiffened.

“Jacob just called.”