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"Does it have to be so perfect, Tony?"
"Of course," he said, a ripple of annoyance passing through his face. "It's the first and the best." He looked at his sketch and then looked at me. He turned back to the sketch and nodded. Then he stepped forward.
"I hope you don't mind," he said, "but sometimes, we artists see things clearer with our eyes closed."
"But how can you see with your eyes closed?" I asked.
"We see through our other senses. An artist who paints beautiful birds must listen to them sing and get their songs into the painting as well as their colors and shapes. When an artist paints a beautiful green field, he gets the aroma of grass and flowers into his painting. Understand?" I nodded. It did sound right.
"And through touch," he said, "an artist brings depth, texture, fullness to his work. This will be a great asset to me when I transform the drawing into a sculpture. Just relax a moment," he requested in a breathy whisper. He brought his hands to my waist and closed his eyes. Then his fingers traveled up over my ribs, pausing as they pressed against my bones. "Yes," he said. "Yes." He moved his hands farther up and the tips of his fingers touched the undersides of my breasts. I started to step back.
"Easy," he said. "I'm seeing it all perfectly now."
I looked into his face. His eyes were still shut tight, but I could see them moving back and forth under the lids.
The tips of his fingers moved very slowly up the sides of my breasts and then came down over the tops. He paused there for a moment, holding his breath. I held mine as well.
The tickling sensation I had first experienced disappeared rapidly and was replaced with a tingling that traveled deep into my body, exploding
everywhere. It was as if a dozen fingers were on me, sending the same sensation through my legs and arms and stomach.
The mixture of feelings was bewildering, frightening and thrilling at the same time. I was so confused. Should I pull away, take his hands from my body? Did all artists' models permit the artist to explore their bodies this way? Sometimes when he looked at me so intensely, it felt as if Tony's eyes did touch me, but this was different. His fingers moved under my bosom and over it as if he were shaping me in his mind. My legs grew weak and began to tremble.
Finally, Tony stepped back, holding his hands off me but keeping them in the air just at the height of my bosom. He lingered there for a moment, nodded, and returned slowly to the easel, opening his eyes only when he began to sketch.
He worked with a frenzy now, his lips tight and his jaw firm. I barely moved. My heart was thumping so hard I thought it would burst through my chest. What had he just done? What had I permitted him to do? Did Momma know this would happen? Why hadn't she warned me?
"Yes,
" Tony said. "It's coming now. It's working," He smiled at me and worked on. Not long after, he stopped abruptly, stepped back to look at his work, and the nodded.
"Okay," he said. "We've done enough for today. Why don't you get dressed while I clean up."
I turned my back to him and began putting on my clothing. When I was finished, he beckoned for me to look at the work.
"Well? What do you think?"
I did see resemblances to my face. He had captured the shape of my head and my chin perfectly, but my torso looked far more mature than I was. My body looked more like my mother's body.
"It's very good, Tony," I said, "but you've made me look older."
"It's how I see you too, you know. This is a work of art, not a photograph. Half of it is in the artist's mind. That's why it was so important for me to touch you, too. I hope you understand, Leigh," he said, an expression of concern on his face.
"Yes, I understand," I replied, but I didn't really understand. I didn't understand my own feelings, as well. I had felt embarrassed, frightened and thrilled at the same time. It was all so confusing. I made up my mind I would talk to my mother about it, no matter what.
But she was already gone for the evening when Tony and arrived at the house. She had left a note explaining that she was going to dinner and the theater in Boston with some of her women friends. It came as just as much a surprise to Tony as it did to me.
"Looks like you and I will dine alone again tonight," he muttered and rushed upstairs to his suite.
Soon after I went up to mine, Troy came to see me. His bouts with the chicken pox and the measles, his allergies and colds, had left him so thin and pale. Even the time he spent in the summer sun didn't do much to make his complexion richer. Because he had lost a little weight, too, he looked gaunt and his eyes were drawn and had dark circles around them. Despite his condition he brightened when he came charging into my bedroom to see how the work on the Tatterton portrait doll had gone.
"When will it be ready?" he asked. "This week?"
"I don't know, Troy. All we did today is sketch in the picture. Tony has to paint and then begin making a sculpture. Did you have your dinner?" I asked. The doctors had put him on a different feeding schedule and he was eating earlier than the rest of us. I knew that pleased my mother, but it made him very unhappy to have to eat alone or only with his nurse.
"Yes. I had to drink that gooey stuff again, too," he complained.
"It's good for you, Troy, and it will make you stronger so you will be able to live a normal life again. You will get better and be Able to ride your pony and swim and . . ."
