The Yellow Braid (7 page)

“I know they turn into butterflies,” Livia
said churlishly, and then in a more civil tone asked, “What’s the
word you used?”

“Metamorphosis. Means transformation. An
example every child knows as the ugly duckling that becomes the
swan, or the frog that turns into the handsome prince.”

Livia grinned. “A handsome prince? In that
case,” she said and entwined the end of the stem in the metal
prongs of the basket on her handle bars. “Hang on,” she called to
her passenger and they took off for the harbor.

After that, Caro made sure to keep the
conversation light and consequently, Livia’s mood remained buoyant
for the rest of the excursion. They returned to Westhampton at
dusk, and Caro noted with pleasure the enthusiasm with which Livia
recounted their day to her aunt and uncle.

***

After a supper of cold chicken and a salad,
Caro took her coffee out to the deck to enjoy under the full moon.
The heady aromas of wild rosemary and thyme merged with those of
the basil and lavender she’d potted. Their distinctive fragrances
resurrected memories of Zach and Marcie cooking one of their
Saturday-night gourmet specials for Caro.

Zach had begun the tradition with Abby. When
their daughter moved to Boston for graduate school, he had been
excited to discover Marcie’s culinary skills and together they had
prepared meals that were artful both in presentation and taste.

Suddenly Nina’s voice rang out, eclipsing
Caro’s peace and quiet. Both Caro’s and the Winters’ houses sat on
narrow, pie-shaped slices of land with decks that were side-by-side
with only an alley the width of a city sidewalk bridging the
distance. Thus, it wasn’t unusual to overhear fragments of
conversation when the breezes were swirling in the right direction.
Twice Nina had even called over and invited Caro to join her and
Tommy for a nightcap, knowing she was within earshot.

Tonight no wind was necessary to hear Nina’s
loud retort to her husband. “It’s not your decision if I publish
them.”

Caro flipped onto her side on the chaise
lounge. In the brightness of patio lamps she spied Tommy pacing in
front of Nina, who was sitting in a dining chair.

“I won’t allow you to exploit her,” he was
saying. “In spite of what you may think, I have a say in this
matter. She’s my niece, too.”

“Technically she’s not,” Nina retorted.

“
Technically
she’s still a child.”

Caro’s heart kicked in her chest, knowing
they were discussing Livia.

“How should I have dressed her? In a goddamn
flannel nightgown?” Nina was screeching. “She was in a cotton
slip.”

“Stop shouting at me,” Tommy warned. “It’s
the poses. The facial expressions. They’re wrong for someone her
age.”

“That’s what critics said about Sally Mann’s
work of her children and she turned out to be one of the top female
photographers of the century,” Nina said.

Tommy grabbed the arms of his wife’s chair
and leaned in close to her. “So this is wh
at the photographs are all about—angling for a
controversy that might jump-start your career.”

Nina’s posture stiffened, her mouth a drawn,
thin line across her face.

“Resonates, doesn’t it, Nina? If so, use any
rationale you want, you’re still dead wrong.”

When Nina didn’t speak, Tommy yelled, “Fuck!
You’re stubborn!” Turning on his heel, he started for the
house.

When Nina also stormed inside and their
deck lights went out, Caro sat up. She mentally replayed what she’d
overheard to try and figure out exactly what they were arguing
about. Photographs of Livia obviously, but disagreeing about what
she was wearing…her poses. Tommy was furious over the pictures, but
how bad could they really be?

Caro ran inside to her computer and typed in
Sally Mann’s name in the Google search bar.

Apparently, Mann became an overnight success
in the early 1990s with her collection of black and white
photographs of her three children, all under the age of ten. The
pictures, taken at the family’s summer cabin, explored typical
childhood themes such as dressing up and playing board games.
Others, however, touched on darker themes of injury, sexuality, and
death.

Caro read that the controversy over the
collection included accusations of child pornography. One nude
image in particular of Mann’s four-year-old daughter was banned in
certain publications because it displayed the child’s nipples and
vagina.

Caro’s breaths came in short bursts while
she tried to conjure what kind of photos Nina had taken of Livia.
She stared into space, attempting to retrieve Tommy’s words to his
wife. He hadn’t said anything of nude images. Of that, Caro was
certain. She would have remembered that; Caro couldn’t even begin
to contemplate strangers viewing Livia nude!

Her own obsession with the girl produced
another kind of inner explosion. Vague imaginings of Livia
half-dressed in seductive poses caused a shudder that purled along
her spine to the pit of her belly. Caro dwelled in her thoughts for
moments longer than she wanted. Yet, she was helpless to pull away
until guilt overcame her and she ran outside and onto the beach.
She didn’t stop running until she was ankle-deep in the cold,
midnight surf.

One should really use the
camera as though tomorrow you’d be stricken blind.
~
Dorothea Lange

Caro peered out at the rain, the kind of
steady stream that showed no sign of letting up. She had awakened
to the spattering on the roof during the night, then heard an
irritating plunk on the tiles in the bedroom hallway. Gwen had
forgotten to mention a leak. By morning, the pail Caro had put in
place was a quarter full.

The grim grayness that accompanied the wet
weather also produced an indolence in her that she couldn’t shake.
Instead of working she ate snacks and watched TV until late
afternoon, when she finally sat down to write.

Because it was smaller than the other
bedrooms, Caro preferred the intimacy of her space in the guest
room. Gwen had covered the walls with fabric of dark carmine, and
hung matching triple panels on the windows. Caro felt cushioned by
the heavy décor, hidden to the point of invisibility. Covered
windows and no mirrors—she’d stored the dresser mirror in the
closet. Nothing in the room reflected her image.

She picked up her favorite pen, a Montblanc
fountain pen, whose design honored Virginia Woolf. Whenever Caro
held this pen she was brought back to her initial encounter with
the author.

Before Caro studied Woolf, she had
subscribed to the notion that Zach, as her husband and, at the
time, the main breadwinner of the family, deserved a study in the
main part of their house. She’d set up a makeshift office in the
basement next to the exercise equipment. But once Caro embraced
Woolf’s sentiments regarding the importance of women writers, she
and Zach had numerous arguments about her new priorities.

As her determination intensified, his
refusal to give in progressed from polite denial to outright
forbiddance. But she’d stood fast, and for a few years they were at
loggerheads. Strangely, this was the only point of difference Zach
ever had regarding her career. And it was one of most importance to
Caro.

The sale of her first book finally forced
him into accepting her right to have her own room to work in. When
they built their last home, her study was on the third floor
overlooking the Hudson River.

How would Woolf have advised Livia? Ignore
the pressure of peers. Forget worrying about wearing the right
shade of lipstick or the trendiest jeans, the author might have
said. If there was to be any concern, it should be bolstering
Livia’s already burgeoning sensitivity to life’s ordinary
miracles.

Caro copied out what she had of the
unfinished poem she’d begun for Livia; she added the title as well
as the final lines of the second stanza.

The Yellow Braid

A golden twist of nouns and verbsin mute and
mock displaywith flying curls of metaphors in costumed disarray.A
buried mix of hidden rhymesso seldom sought to heara drawstring bag
of adjectivesso difficult to bear.

A solitary arc of sunlight crossed Caro’s
desk and she opened up the French doors. The rain had diminished to
a mist; she spotted a rainbow in the western sky. It was a sign she
thought, a sanctioning of her thoughts.

Then a figure in a navy slicker intersected
her line of vision. Livia lifted her face, causing her hood to fall
away.

Waving, Caro jogged down the catwalk and
called out Livia’s name. “Hey, come on up for awhile.”

“I can’t. Aunt Nina’s going to show me how
to make fudge.” Livia spoke to Caro from the bottom of the steps
that led up from the beach.

After a lopsided life of ignoring her family
and friends for her poetry, it was, ironically, a younger version
of herself who was reeling her back in toward her center at the
same time that Livia was driving Caro to the edges of reason.

***

The next day was sunny. The sky appeared
sharper and brighter, as if a person was experiencing it from an
elevated place of consciousness. Caro put on shorts and was just
about to head out to the deck when she heard someone knocking.

It was the chauffeur she’d seen waxing the
Bentley owned by the people who lived in the mansion that faced
Dune Road. “Can I help you?” she said.

“I’m Jimmy. Mrs. Tyler sent this.” He handed
Caro an envelope.

Caro fingered it and was about to thank him
and close the door when he said, “She wants me to return with a
reply. Said to tell you she didn’t know there was a celebrity in
her backyard.” He tilted his head and peered at her from an odd
angle, apparently trying to see if he recognized her from
television. “Are you really a celebrity?”

His sincerity drew out her lips in a smile.
“A minnow in a sea of whales, Jimmy.” She extracted a hand-written
invitation from its linen paper envelope. It was for a supper in
her honor. Mrs. Tyler noted she’d read all of Caro’s poetry and
could hardly wait to meet her in person. She’d have each of her
books open and waiting for a personal autograph.

Caro hesitated. She would like to have asked
Nina about Mrs. Tyler before giving her answer. But she didn’t want
to risk being rude to someone who appreciated her work. Anyway, it
was only one supper. “Tell her, thanks. I look forward to meeting
her as well.”

After Jimmy left, Caro trudged next door
over the dunes to talk to Nina. She found her wearing her apron and
holding a whisk.

Caro lifted a mug from its chrome hook and
held it out for Nina to fill. “Got a batch of chocolate chunk to
put in for Tommy and then I’m done.”

“What do you know about the Tylers?” Caro
asked.

Nina folded the chocolate into the batter,
offering the spoon to Caro for a lick. “You got the invitation,
huh? Are you going?”

“Hard to say no when I’m the star guest. I
was just wondering what I was getting myself into.”

“It’ll be a superlative gig,” Nina said.
“Phyllis Tyler doesn’t do anything half-assed. She’s a patron of
the arts. Donated the bulk of the money to restore the
library.”

“Do you know her well?”

“Tommy more than me. Both families bought in
Westhampton long before it became chic so they’ve known each other
for eons. Aside from that, she’s one of his favorite clients. Very
down to earth. Soft-spoken and easy to please. A real lady and not
at all the Hampton socialite type. You’ll love her.”

“Sounds great then, as long as you and Tommy
are going.” Caro peeked into the family and living rooms. “Where is
he anyway?”

Nina banged the whisk against the rim of the
copper bowl. “Out.”

“And Livia?”

A wave of angry disdain transformed Nina’s
calm exterior. “With him. He thinks I’m perverting her.” With that
she stomped into her office and came out waving a photo mailer.
“Look at these and tell me what
you
think.”

Caro withdrew and raised her hands, refusing
to take them. “I’m the wrong one to ask.”

Nina shoved the mailer at Caro’s chest.
“You’re an intelligent person with a PhD. A mother, for God’s sake,
with opinions. All I want is an objective opinion.”

Caro slid the photographs from the cardboard
sleeve. Afraid of what she was going to see, she scanned them
quickly and squeamishly with her eyes half-shut. Instead of being
repulsed, however, the shock she experienced originated from the
preview of brilliance she saw.

Several of them were taken on the beach
right outside Tommy and Nina’s house at the moment the sun began to
set. Livia was in a cotton slip just as Nina had said, but it was a
see-through gauzy cotton that revealed her figure. There was also a
definite sensuousness to her pose—the way Livia looked askance at
the camera over her shoulder, her hand resting on her thigh. Even
her hair was different. Gone was the customary ribbon on the tail
of her braid; her hair hung like a curtain hiding half her face so
that she seemed to be flirting with the camera.

In another photo Livia had her back to the
camera. She wore a scanty sarong; her arms were extended so that
her figure formed the shape of a cross. Her wet hair formed a long
wave over her bare shoulder. The black-and-white treatment cast a
dark, angry-looking ocean in the background.

Livia came across as being timid and coy at
the same time, a metaphorical encapsulation of the complex network
of emotions that arises during the transition from girlhood to
womanhood.

Caro was speechless.