The Yellow Braid (8 page)

“What?” Nina begged finally. “I can’t stand
your silence a second longer.”

Caro shook her head slowly. “I don’t know
what to say except—except that these are extraordinary. I just
never suspected you of such talent.”

“
This is why I’m so mad at Tommy.
I
see these as art.
He
seems not to see anything past
the fact that I’m using Livia as my model. I wouldn’t do anything
to humiliate or hurt her.”

Caro nodded in sympathy.

“The normal person,” Nina said, “the normal,
socially adjusted person—”

“So I suppose I’m not socially adjusted.”
Tommy spoke through the screen door.

Nina took the cookie sheet out of the oven
and slid it onto the countertop with unnecessary clatter. She faced
her husband with her hands on her hips. “Where’s Livia?”

“
Collecting shells.” Tommy walked in and
immediately approached Caro. “And I suppose being a fellow
artist
”
—
he hung
quotation marks in the air—“you condone these.”

“I understand why they might be
controversial.”

Nina and Tommy reacted simultaneously to
Caro’s comment.

“At least you’re willing to admit there’s
reason for argument,” Tommy said. “More than my wife will
concede.”

Nina stormed at Caro. “How can you! You said
they were genius!”

Caro signaled for a time-out. “Relax, both
of you. Nina, do I think they’re exquisite? Yes.”

Nina snorted in her husband’s direction.

“And Tommy, do I think an argument can be
made that they’re seductive? Yes. I heard you guys arguing the
other night.”

Nina poked a finger at Tommy. “I told you
the whole neighborhood heard.”

“Big shit.”

“The point is, if I did, then Livia must
have,” Caro said.

“Then you also know the photos aren’t the
whole issue,” Tommy said.

Nina bolted over to her husband and stood so
close that the hiss in her voice reverberated between them. “My
career is my business.”

“And I’ll tell you for the thousandth time
it’s not fair to use her,” Tommy argued.

“Know what bothers me the most, Tommy, is
that you used to see the artistic value of my photographs, but now
all you do is criticize.” Tears collected and dripped onto the
curve of her cheekbones.

Nina’s weeping did not dilute Tommy’s anger.
“Would you still be hell-bent on publishing her pictures if she
were your daughter?”

Nina stared with assurance at Caro. “Tell
him. You know better than he does what I would do.”

Caro cleared her throat. “Tommy, I want to
remain both your friends. At the same time I have to say that I
think Nina would…and should photograph and publish what speaks to
her as an artist.”

“At any cost?” Tommy asked.

“
The only
cost
, as you put it, is the fact that Livia isn’t into the
modeling. To be honest, I was against forcing her. And then I look
at these and see how precisely they capture not only her physical
beauty, but that inner essence that makes her a poet, and
I—”

“You see?” Nina said to her husband.

“No, I don’t. No matter what you or Caro
says,” Tommy said, and walked out.

“Thank you for sticking up for me,” Nina
said.

“
I have to ask,” Caro said. “What
is
your relationship with
Livia?”

“She’s my only niece. We’re a small family,
only Carmen and me so we’ve always been close.”

“Then you must have talked to her
about—”

“
I know how much she hates modeling for me.
And though I don’t show it, I do feel bad I’m pushing her. And yes,
I see this as an opportunity for me. Over the last year, she’s
matured in such a way… she was always pretty, of course. But not
like she is now. So when I read that
Art World Magazine
was sponsoring a portrait exhibition at
the National Center for Photography I came up with the idea of a
series based around her.”

“The National Center puts on major showings.
I’ve been to a few,” Caro said.

“That’s the point. I wouldn’t be doing this
for any small-time show.”

Caro indicated to Nina that Livia was
heading toward the house.

“Will you say something to Livia on my
behalf?” Nina asked. “Maybe coming from you, she’ll listen.”

“Sure, when she comes around to visit next
time,” Caro said.

The lessons of impermanence,
the occasional despair and the muse, so tenuously moored, all visit
their needs upon me and I dig deeply for the spiritual utilities
that restore me…
~
Sally
Mann

The next day, Caro’s eyebrows rose and a soft
expletive escaped her lips as she climbed over the dune to find
Livia looking straight at her not more than five feet away from the
end of the catwalk. She was lying on a beach towel on her stomach.
Her elbows made knobby imprints in the sand and her face rested on
her knuckles. Her feet stuck up straight and were crossed at the
ankles.

Small-boned and slim, she wore a Speedo,
which flattered her body. Caro noticed Livia’s toenails had been
polished and supposed it had been at Nina’s insistence.

“How about helping me with the cabana?” Caro
asked.

Livia scrambled to her feet. “I got it.” She
popped it open against the bank of a particularly mounded dune that
was overhung with tall, reedy grasses, and locked the legs in
place. Then she ran ahead of Caro, scooped up the cooler, and set
it under the cover of the canvas.

It was the perfect time of morning. The sun
was at an eastern slant and the only prints on the beach were those
left by sandpipers and gulls. Livia picked a piece of grass and
chewed its end; the rest of the stem fell away from her mouth in a
graceful arc.

“This is a nice surprise,” Caro said.

“Aunt Nina’s on a shoot.”

“Of what?”

“
Home in the Hamptons
asked her to do a piece on the
history of how the mill came about in Watermill. I was looking up
stuff on the Internet for her and we read it’s been there since
1644. Just imagine being one of the original settlers.”

“I’m not so sure I want to. I’m more of an
1800’s woman myself.”

“Maybe then, too,” Livia conceded as she
drew designs in the sand with her fingers.

The silence between them was calming, a mood
Caro was wise enough to fully appreciate. These moments were rare
in life, and she made this one special by handing Livia a book,
soft-covered and slim. On the front was a woman sitting in a
languid pose facing away from the camera, revealing just a hint of
a profile. Her hair pinned at the nape of her neck and the collar
and bodice of her gown were Victorian in style.

Livia studied the cover front and back,
and read the title aloud, “
A Room of One’s Own.
”

“Most girls your age wouldn’t want anything
to do with this. I think you might feel differently. It’s not easy
though.”

Livia flipped through the pages, pausing
every now and then to examine some bit of writing. “Thanks.”

“I feel like walking. What do you say?” Caro
suggested.

Livia got up, the book still in her hand.
Before putting it down she said, “Did my aunt tell you it’s my
birthday tomorrow? Is that why you gave me this?”

Caro’s heart filled her chest. Her birthday,
how fortuitous! “No, she didn’t.”

“We’re having a celebration supper on
Friday. Can you come?”

“Your aunt might be planning something
special.”

Livia shook her head with such enthusiasm
that her braid swung from side to side and coiled itself around her
slender neck. “She said she was going to ask you. Besides, I get to
choose. It is
my
day.”

“
If
your aunt asks, then yes, I’d like to
come.”

They walked along a good stretch of beach.
The tide was receding. A mellow surf coughed up background music
rather than the insistent roar of high tide when the waves broke
hard at the shoreline. Gulls made mad dives, searching for
overturned horseshoe crabs.

Under her straw hat and behind sunglasses,
Caro felt oblivious to everything but Livia walking beside her.
Once, in an eruption of maternal solicitude, Caro put her arm
around Livia’s shoulder.

Livia reciprocated by sliding her arm around
Caro’s waist.

Caro took pride in onlookers seeing them
together in such an endearing manner when without notice, she felt
herself being pushed into the surf.

Giggling, Livia began splashing Caro.

Caro initiated a counter-attack, when a wave
broke over her, and knocked her down.

Livia waded to her. Hand-in-hand, they
struggled to get to shore against the battering of consecutive
waves. On dry land, they laughed out loud to see a toddler about
ten yards away wearing Caro’s beached hat, the saturated brim
flopping over his ears.

“Where are you going?” Caro asked.

“Get your hat.”

“In a minute. Let him play with it for a
little while we dry off,” Caro said, content to sit right where she
was, shoulder to shoulder with Livia, their legs stretched out in
front of them.

Later when they were back under cover of the
cabana, Livia said, “I took out three of your books from the
library. It’s all they had.”

“Did you read any yet?”

“
Hard Edges of Love.
My aunt told me your husband
died.” Livia’s voice developed in reverence.

“It’s okay to talk about him.”

“Did you cry when you wrote the poems about
him?” Livia asked.

“Not during, but afterward I did when I read
one back to myself that I especially liked.”

“I bet “Gardening Ways” is one of them. Made
Aunt Nina and me both cry.”

“I know. He took such pleasure in tending
the garden, especially the roses. Our home had vases of flowers
year round, either home grown or bought. People used to comment
that they were a luxury. They weren’t though. They made us smile
every time we passed them.”

“Aunt Nina’s favorites are orchids.”

“Orchids are lovely, and seem the perfect
flower for your aunt.”

“How so?”

“They’re sophisticated, if you can imagine
such a thing, with their long graceful stems; and each one is quite
unique. Like your aunt, she’s very talented you know.”

Livia looked out to sea. “Did she ask you to
talk to me?”

“Yes, she feels bad how much you hate
modeling for her.” Caro said.

“Then why does she keep insisting that I do
it?” Livia asked.

“Because she’s an artist and she can’t help
but appreciate how beautiful you are,” Caro said. “It’s like your
aunt has to split herself in two. Half of her is your aunt who
loves and wants to please you. The other half wants to do what’s
best for her art.”

“Yeah, I know. Like with each new husband,
my mother says she gets torn between making them happy and making
me happy.”

“Don’t you think their concern shows how
much they care about you?”

Livia remained tight-lipped.

“Otherwise they’d both do what they want and
not give a hoot. Instead, seems to me that they’re trying to find
the balance between doing what they need for themselves as well as
for you. That’s not always easy to achieve.”

“Maybe.”

“And you love staying with your aunt and
uncle, don’t you?”

“My friends at school think that living on
the ocean is pretty cool.”

“I’d have to agree,” Caro said.

Just then, Livia stopped and pulled Caro
down with her to inspect a sea snail harboring its eggs in the
water-packed sand. “Poor things,” Livia said. “She laid them when
the tide was in and now she’s stuck.”

Gently mounding sand around the snail, Livia
carried it to the water’s edge. On the out-going tide, she let it
go free, watching as the eggs floated away.

Caro melted inside from her youthful
compassion. In that moment, she pretended that Livia was her
daughter, an extension of her, created by her in the same way she
created a poem from a place she couldn’t have explained, maybe
couldn’t even claim as her own, so little did she understand her
own soul. And just as with a poem—which appeared mysteriously, and
sometimes beautifully, sometimes darkly, fully formed—the thought
of mothering Livia both frightened and exhilarated Caro.

***

Nina placed a small box in front of Livia, a
present from her mom.

“Where is she?” Caro asked Tommy.

“Hong Kong.”

Livia tore at the wrapping, searching her
aunt and uncle’s faces with a curious and touching gleam.

“Go ahead,” Nina urged. “We have no
idea.”

Livia undid the catch of a jewelry box and,
holding the gift close to her heart, peeked in. She gasped and her
eyes came open like pale moons as she picked out a jade bangle. She
slid it on and again, pressed it to her. “This is just like the one
that George got Mom. Now I have one, too.”

Caro asked, “Who’s George?”

“Stepdad,” Tommy said.

“It’s beautiful,” Nina said, as she twisted
it around her niece’s wrist to get a closer look.

Tommy said, “Mom made a good choice.”

“Certainly did,” Caro agreed.

“May I call her?” Livia asked.

Tommy calculated the difference in time on
his watch. “Yeah, give her a buzz. It’s a little after nine in the
morning there.”

Livia waited for the long-distance
connection to go through, all the while staring at her bracelet,
and smiling. “Mom, I just opened my gift, and I love it! It is so
beautiful. I think Aunt Nina and Caro are very jealous,” she
teased.