Art's Blood (20 page)

The sketch pad that Kyra had left at Miss Birdie’s lay there with the mail. Idly curious, Elizabeth began to leaf through it as she ate her salad. There were a number of drawings of Boz and Aidan, all beautifully executed.
Why would someone with this kind of talent waste her time with something like that…that
Strike on Box
thing?
Elizabeth sighed and studied the page before her. Boz was shown seated on a wooden chair, left ankle resting on his right knee, a sardonic smile on his face, which was turned toward the viewer. His shirt and jeans were indicated by sketchy strokes but the cowboy boots were drawn in careful detail.

The next page was a surprise. The artist had done full justice to the strong legs and buttocks of the young man who sprawled naked on what seemed to be the rumpled sheets of an unmade bed and had paid special attention to the musculature of the back. The long hair, clubbed in a ponytail, was no more than a few hasty lines, and the face, seen in partial profile, was merely hinted at, but no matter— it was definitely Ben.

“Well.” Elizabeth stared at the page.
Well, what, Elizabeth? You knew he was interested in her. And just because he posed nude for her doesn’t mean diddly— this is a different generation, as Laurel is fond of reminding you.

She studied the picture again
— it’s really good— what a talent she has. But, O lord— Ben!

A meticulously rendered picture of Miss Birdie, stretched out in her old recliner, was next.

The following page showed three quick studies of Pup. In one the dog was curled in a ball on his bed; in another he sat obediently, ears alert and head cocked, evidently waiting for a treat. The last sketch showed the mongrel resting his muzzle on Birdie’s comfortable lap. Just her housedress, legs, and worn slippers could be seen, but there was no question— it could have been no one but Birdie.

Elizabeth turned back to the beginning of the sketchbook, captivated by the skill of the drawings. There were many rapidly executed studies of familiar barns and houses, most done in wintry surroundings. One page was devoted to sketches of cows, another to a series of male feet. There was a lovely pen-and-ink drawing of Lily Gordon that captured her timeless aristocratic beauty while celebrating every wrinkle and line of her aged face. And there was a similar drawing, left incomplete, of a stolid-looking woman with fierce black eyes and a fringe of dark hair cut unbecomingly short above thick black eyebrows. Her severe expression was tempered by the hint of a smile playing about her thin lips.

Who is that? She looks familiar but…
Elizabeth stared at the picture, trying to remember where she had seen this stern visage. No, it wasn’t coming to her. Probably just reminded her of someone.

One page in particular captured Elizabeth’s attention. It was done in pencil and incorporated large abstract forms and small, precisely drawn, seemingly unrelated images. She frowned as she puzzled over the picture— a series of arches, each containing an image: drooping white flowers, a dark rose with a bird of some sort flying up and out of it, and a pair of cowboy boots were the recognizable forms, placed seemingly at random among many abstract shapes. At the bottom were three words: RESURGAM, THE PHOENIX, and ENTELECHY. This last word was underlined three times.

During my checkup at Prentice’s office today— everything as usual, no need to adjust the digoxin— I became absurdly annoyed when the physician’s assistant— the callow young man who performed the preliminaries of temperature, blood pressure, etc.— addressed me as “young lady” and uttered that fatuous inanity, “ninety years young”! Do you suppose, I asked him with all the haughtiness I could muster, that I am senile enough to be flattered by being called a young lady? My name is Mrs. Gordon.

Thank God that so far I have escaped many of the indignities of old age— I have seen them— the poor creatures whose minds have deserted them— they wander the halls of their nursing homes, drooling and clutching their pathetic stuffed animals. My money protects me from the worst, even if my mind were to go. I have left instructions.

There can be dignity in age, but only if age is not denied. I see so many pathetic creatures with their masklike faces and dyed hair, their absurdly youthful clothing. Some do it better than others, no doubt, but in the end, most simply look foolish. But I’m too
young
for gray hair, the forty-year-old wails, and promptly repairs to the beauty salon. And once the telltale gray is gone, will the time ever come for her to admit that now she’s old enough?

The Goodweather woman’s hair is graying, silver streaks in that dark braid and white at the temples. Around her eyes are the wrinkles of someone who is out of doors a great deal— or someone who laughs often. Probably both. I liked Elizabeth Goodweather.

Who was it that said the tragedy of all women is that their bodies age while their minds remain young? I think back to the young Lily Cabot, remembering the welter of feelings that assailed her that first summer at the Center. No, I am not the same, nor would I be. But still, the memory is haunting— a bittersweet pleasure to be savored one last time.

May in the mountains— the weather had warmed from the unseasonable cold of my April arrival. A song sparrow sat in the apple tree outside my window and trilled aria upon aria to lure a mate, towhees whistled their “Drink your teeeea,” and from the woods came the burbling gobble of wild turkeys and the drumming of ruffed grouse. All the trees were clad in lush new green, and Fanchon appeared at the kitchen door with a shy smile and a basket of tiny fragrant wild strawberries— for Miss Lily, special, she had said.

Miss Caro and Miss Geneva now found useful work for me, mainly in keeping the books of the Center and in writing letters to solicit new clients and supporters. Both had quickly determined that I was useless at the weaving and spinning they sought to teach the local women and so had set me to working with some of the girls to improve their reading skills. I had a small group aged fourteen to sixteen and Fanchon was among them. These were girls who, it had been determined, should be tutored and encouraged to enter the Asheville Normal School for Teachers.

They were all bright but woefully uneducated. Their schooling had been often interrupted by family needs and only a few had been able to attend the high school in Hot Springs. It was my task to improve their reading skills and introduce them to some of the classics. None had ever read a novel or a magazine or anything beyond their schoolbooks and the family Bible. Indeed, many of their families actively discouraged the very idea of reading for pleasure.

We had a varied selection of books to choose from. I began ambitiously with readings from Shakespeare and was amazed at the ease with which these untutored girls understood the antique language. (When I voiced my surprise at this, Miss Geneva pointed out that many of the mountain colloquialisms that we found so quaint were, in fact, survivals from the Elizabethan dialect.) One jolly young woman in my reading group took a particular liking to
Romeo and Juliet
after we read the balcony scene and begged to borrow the volume so that she could read more at home. I got to see what happens, Miss Lily, she said, clutching the book to her. I fear there’ll be trouble with the families if them two runs off together.

The next time our little group met, she told me that her father had seen her reading the play and had decreed she hadn’t ought to read such. But Daddy, she had wailed, hit’s
Literature
what Miss Lily is teachin us. Well, he had told her grudgingly, you can read it but you better not enjoy it.

Most of my students were delightful— lively and eager to know more of the world beyond their mountain coves. They were happiest when I would tell them something of life in the city— many of them had never been as far as Asheville and a few never even to the county seat. They were like a litter of pups, wagging and eager for attention.

Especially Tildy. She always accompanied Fanchon (her adopted sister, I had learned) to my reading group. Tildy, I must admit, was probably the brightest of the lot, but she was so pushing— and so unattractive— that I found myself pretending not to see her eager hand when I asked for volunteers to read. When she did read, it was in a fast, high-pitched nasal whine, words run together so as to cover as much ground as possible in her allotted time, her eyes always darting toward me in search of approval.

Fanchon was just the opposite— she would have to be coaxed to read, but when she did it was in a low musical tone. Somehow the mountain twang that made Tildy’s speech harsh changed on Fanchon’s lips to a sweet lilt.

She was a favorite with everyone. She sang the old ballads—“love songs” she called them, though many dealt with death and murder— in a lovely clear soprano and was quite accomplished on the five-string banjo. Indeed, a young man from “outside” had recently spent a week in Hot Springs, traveling every day to the Center to record Fanchon singing these ballads. I learned that he was the latest of the “songcatchers” who were mining the Appalachians for the old songs that had traveled from Scotland and England and Ireland to America. Marshall County was full of men and women who knew these old ballads. A little community called Sodom was said to have numerous singers, and in Hot Springs they still boasted that their own Jane Hicks Gentry had known more of the old songs than anyone in the state.

I began to notice that whenever Fanchon performed for us, Tildy would make a point of being hard at work on the wonderful quilt she was making. This quilt was the inspiration of Miss Caro, who, seeing the truly exquisite needlework Tildy was capable of, had drawn on squares of muslin pictures of the various wild animals of the mountains— opossum, raccoon, squirrel, chipmunk, turkey, deer, skunk, bobcat, groundhog, box tortoise— the list was long. And Tildy, with appliqué and embroidery, was executing the blocks for this special quilt. It had been Caro’s idea that this quilt be presented to President and Mrs. Roosevelt, thereby gaining the Center nationwide attention.

Poor ugly, eager Tildy. I can see now what a trial it must have been for her to have the lovely Fanchon as her adopted sister. The way of the world is to favor the handsome and beautiful. They are born with an advantage not unlike inherited wealth, while their plainer brothers and sisters must clamber to catch up. Even Tildy’s parents seemed to favor Fanchon. And small wonder: Tildy, with her homely face, was sour and unpleasant— awkward, except at her needlework, while Fanchon, Fanchon of the quiet charm and radiant beauty, was like a fairy child, blessed with all the graces.

I was fascinated by her from the beginning and began to imagine a wider life for her as my protégée, something even beyond the wonders of the Asheville Normal School. Voice lessons, beautiful clothing, dainty shoes for those slender feet. And travel— I would show her marvels beyond her imagining.

Let me be honest, as I have promised to be. I was in love, as besotted with Fanchon as Ben Hamilton is with my great-granddaughter. But my intentions were pure— or so I believed.

T
HERE WAS A BLACK CAR PARKED NEAR THE WORKSHOP
when Elizabeth came down from her house early Friday morning. She was in search of Ben, hoping to talk with him and smooth over the misunderstanding
— is that what it is?—
that threatened to undo their usual happy working relationship. She had Kyra’s sketchbook with her, planning to give it to her nephew to return on his next trip to Asheville.

Elizabeth hesitated, then pulled in next to the strange car and got out, looking around for Ben.
This is getting ridiculous,
she thought as she peered into the workshop.
We’re going to have to communicate better. And whose car is that anyway?

“…fuck do you think you are?” Ben’s voice, loud and furious, came from the tractor shed below the workshop. “Are you fucking threatening me, is that it? Well, you can tell your fucking boss—”

An unfamiliar voice interrupted her nephew’s angry outburst. “No, Mr. Hamilton, this is most definitely not a threat. My employer was very clear. Let’s just call it— good advice. From a friend. It could be dangerous for you to continue to see Miss Peterson— dangerous for both of you.”

The diesel engine of the tractor sputtered and caught. The green and yellow tractor roared out of the shed and headed up the road, Ben at its wheel. His jaw was set and his cap pulled low. A dark-haired, heavyset man wearing a white polo shirt, dark trousers, and sunglasses came striding toward the black car.

Catching sight of Elizabeth, he paused, his hand on the car’s door handle. “You must be Mrs. Goodweather.” It was closer to an accusation than a question. “I suggest that you encourage your hotheaded nephew to take seriously what I just told him.”

Elizabeth shook herself out of the stunned paralysis that had seemed to affect her and called out, just before the car door slammed, “Who do you work for?”

The dark-tinted window lowered with a faint hiss. The sunglasses glinted at her. “The family,” said the unsmiling lips, and the window slid shut.

The black car purred down the long driveway. At some distance behind her the scraping and clanking of the tractor’s bucket against the dirt and gravel of the road suggested that Ben was digging out the water breaks. She considered briefly, then took the sketchbook out of the jeep and put it on a table in the workshop.

The tractor was still noisily busy and Elizabeth decided to give Ben’s temper a little time to cool down. She checked the bulletin board where upcoming orders were posted, assembled her materials, and settled down at the big table to work. Dried flowers— fragrant lavender, airy baby’s breath, yellow and blue statice, and rosy-red cockscomb celosia— filled baskets on the table before her, and she settled into the task of arranging the blooms into small bunches and fixing them to a straw wreath form with long U-shaped pins. The heady smell of the lavender and the muted colors of the dried flowers made this task a sensory delight, and she lost herself in the pleasure of creation.