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I was beginning to get a headache. How was she coming up with these crazy ideas? Maybe Arden wasn’t so wrong. Maybe the time had come for me to find some help with Sylvia. After all, I did have a life of my own, or I thought I did. The truth I didn’t want to face was that what was holding Sylvia back from the world was holding me back, too, as long as I was chained to her daily. For a good part of my life, I had spent most of my time inside one house. For a short while, I had broken free of it, but I was right back in it now, its walls hovering around me, making me feel cloistered. Sometimes I felt I had been swallowed. The walls seemed to quiver like the inside of its lungs.
Taking walks outside around the house wasn’t enough, and our short shopping trips were all full of purpose, with little or no fun. There was nothing left to explore here but my own demons, and I was tired of that. I certainly didn’t want to start down a path similar to the one Sylvia had to follow, taking in everything outside slowly, in small, careful bites, but what choice was I giving myself? I wasn’t trying to make friends, and I certainly wasn’t joining any organizations that would lead to making friends. Sometimes I feared that someone who didn’t know us would look at us and wonder who was the slow-witt
ed one.
“Maybe whether it’s a boy or a girl will come to you,” I said sharply. It was not unreasonable of me to run out of patience, especially when I chastised myself for using Sylvia to justify my being such a prisoner of Whitefern. “Forget about all that, and listen to me. I have found a good art teacher for you. He used to teach in the high school. His name is Mr. Price, and he will be here this afternoon to meet you. Do not tell him what you want to draw just yet. Let him teach you the things you have to know in order to draw and paint better, okay? He might start you drawing an apple or a banana or something like that. You do what he asks and what he tells you to do. Okay?”
She didn’t look happy.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To learn how to do this well? I’m not going to spend the money if you don’t want to do it, Sylvia. Well? Do you or don’t you?” I asked, practically shouting.
“I do.”
“Good. Let’s have you change your clothes and fix your hair. We’ll talk with Mr. Price in the living room, and afterward we’ll show him what supplies you have here. We’ll get you whatever else you need. I’m sure he’ll give us a list, and tomorrow morning you and I can go shopping.”
She looked at the blank sheet without answering me.
“Sylvia!” I said sharply. “Did you hear me? Concentrate on what I’m telling you.”
I rarely snapped at her like this, but she was making me nervous. Papa, the rocking chair, babies . . . I had driven all the visions and dreams, all the ghosts and whispers, down as deeply as I could in my memory. Stirring it was like throwing rocks at the hives of hornets.
She stood up reluctantly and, with her head lowered, followed me out and down to her room.
“Now, it’s important that you make a good impression on your art tutor, Sylvia,” I said in a calmer, more motherly tone. “I know you don’t meet many strangers, and you’re very shy, but I don’t want you looking at other things or letting your attention wander when he asks you questions or speaks to you,” I said while laying out her fresh clothes. “Teachers think girls and boys who do that are unteachable, and you don’t want him to think that, right?”
She shook her head and listened to me as I went on with instructions, but I could see her mind was still elsewhere, pulling her away every few moments to look up toward the cupola, as if she had left a half-baked new baby up there. She could be like this from time to time. Once her mind enveloped a thought or an idea, getting her to put it aside, even temporarily, was like prying open a stubborn clam.
Would she be like this with Mr. Price? He’d see immediately that he was wasting his time with her. I’d feel like a fool, and Arden would strut around with his arrogant, masculine superiority and his infuriating “I told you so” look, which he could put on as quickly as a Halloween mask.
Nevertheless, I remained hopeful. I fixed Sylvia’s hair and straightened her clothes to make her as presentable as possible. I had to be ready for anything, but I had to be realistic, too. If Mr. Price thought she was unteachable, even he, a man bored with his present life, would not attempt the lessons. Money didn’t seem to matter to him. I hoped he was sincere when he said he welcomed a challenge. She was certainly going to be that.
“We’ll prepare some nice biscuits and tea now, okay, Sylvia? I’d like you to do most of that and bring it out when I tell you to, understand?”
“Chocolate biscuits?”
I recalled the last time we had made them and how she had gotten the chocolate all over her dress and had to be continually told to wipe her mouth.
“I think he likes the plain ones,” I said. Little lies were often the glue that held more important truths together. Papa had taught me that.
Disappointed, Sylvia followed me out and down to the kitchen, where I put her to work making biscuits while I vacuumed the living room and polished the furniture to brighten things up. Then I went to the powder room to make myself presentable, too. I hated how haggard I could look sometimes. Frustration, worry, and anger were like the three witches of Macbeth in this house, toiling and mixing their evil brew.
Promptly at three, the doorbell rang. Being on time was probably embedded in a schoolteacher after as many years as Mr. Price had worked. Part of the daily instruction I gave Sylvia, especially in the past few years, was how to greet people who came to our door. I spent hours and hours role-playing with her to show her how to introduce herself and be courteous to guests. Papa was very proud of the success I’d had. Aunt Ellsbeth, along with Arden and especially Vera, often ridiculed my efforts and said things like “You’re trying to put clothes in a closet without any hangers.” I ignored them, and whenever Sylvia did perform perfectly, they usually smirked and looked away with the comment that she’d forget next time.
I stepped into the kitchen. “Go answer the door, Sylvia,” I ordered. “It’s your art teacher. Introduce yourself after you greet him.”
She looked annoyed for a moment. I kept my stern gaze on her and was reminded of how Vera could pout and stomp when told to do something she didn’t want to do. Petulant, Sylvia went to the front door. I stayed back, holding my breath.
“Well, hello,” I heard Mr. Price say. “I’m Arthur Price.”
“Hello,” Sylvia said. “Welcome to Whitefern. I’m Sylvia.”
She did that well enough, but she didn’t step back, leaving him in the doorway. It was awkward.
I hurried toward them. “Oh, do come in, Mr. Price,” I said. “I’m Audrina Lowe.”
“Yes, yes,” he said, stepping in. He was short, barely a few inches taller than I was, with a trim, graying goatee like some French artist on the Left Bank of Paris. He was balding, the patches of gray-black hair over his temples looking pasted onto his scalp. He had a jolly, Santa Claus face with bright blue eyes and was wearing a dark blue jacket and tie.
I nodded at Sylvia to close the door behind him. The afternoon breeze was quite cool and sharp. I led Mr. Price into the living room. He looked about with great interest, like some buyer of antiques who had wandered into one of the biggest discoveries of his career.
