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“Good,” Arden said before I could. We watched her go up the stairs.
That night, we made love more softly and affectionately than we had in years. Maybe he was simply testing his theory that if I welcomed sex, my body wouldn’t resist fertilization. Maybe if he showed me true love, he, too, would be more potent.
There was no twisting and jerking me around to make himself more comfortable. There was more concern for my comfort and pleasure. He entered me gracefully and waited for me to accept him and open myself to him. There were kisses and caresses to accompany his strokes. I had that elusive orgasm time after time. He laughed about it and then brought himself to a satisfactory climax. Breathless but happy, we lay there holding hands. I thought he was so different tonight that it was like being married to Dr. Jekyll. I hoped Mr. Hyde was gone forever.
We fell asleep in each other’s arms. I didn’t even worry about Sylvia. When we woke in the morning, I was expecting him to bring up the paperwork, but he surprised me again by not mentioning it. Like the morning before, he was up early, dressed, and gone before I went to wake Sylvia. I remembered he had said he had a breakfast meeting. He was working hard, I thought. I should be more considerate. I promised myself that I would look at the papers and maybe do what he asked. When would I study to become a broker anyway? Wasn’t that too much like a fantasy now? How could I leave Sylvia alone?
I was in such deep thought that I didn’t realize for a few moments what Sylvia’s still-made bed meant. In a little bit of a panic, I hurried up to the cupola. She wasn’t there, and from what I could see, she hadn’t done much more on her baby drawing. I descended and slowly walked to the rocking-chair room. As I’d feared, she was asleep in the chair. She was still dressed in what she had worn to dinner.
“Oh, Sylvia,” I said, and poked her gently.
Her eyes opened, but she didn’t look happy to see me.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“The baby isn’t a boy, Audrina. The baby is a girl,” she said.
“Okay, Sylvia. You fell asleep here. I’m not happy about that.”
She looked around and then stood up. Still very groggy, she let me lead her back to her room. I pulled back her blanket.
“Maybe you should rest a while longer, Sylvia. You want to be alert for your first art lesson this afternoon, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said.
I helped her take off her dress and then had her crawl into bed and fixed her blanket. I brushed back her hair. Her eyelids fluttered, and she closed them. She was asleep in seconds. I watched her for a while and then went down to have some breakfast and debate with myself about whether I should give in to Arden’s demands and get rid of the rocking chair, clear out the room, and maybe even lock the door.
Perhaps he was right about other things concerning Whitefern. Maybe if it had the makeover he had once proposed to my father, things would change dramatically. When the house you live in is changed, surely you’re changed somewhat, too. Why didn’t I want to wash away the darkness, brighten the rooms, erase the shadows, and replace the furniture, perhaps going more for a modern decor? We could change the floors, too, sell the rugs, and have most of the rooms tiled. And the kitchen needed new counters and new equipment, too. The stove we were using was the one my grandmother had used.
I couldn’t help but recall how adamant Papa had been about not making such changes. He hadn’t grown up in this house, but there was something about it that claimed him. Was it simply its history, with its variety of clocks and all its memorabilia? Was it because it held his secrets and still might, secrets he never revealed?
Of course, it wasn’t only Papa who had felt something special about Whitefern. When I was no more than seven or eight, I would sit outside on the lawn and admire its grandness. For me, it was always a living thing. As I contemplated some of the changes Arden had been suggesting, I couldn’t help being afraid that Whitefern would take some vengeance on us all, the way it had on Aunt Ellsbeth, Billie, and Vera. Maybe it was the wrath of our ancestors who hovered over us in sepia photographs and paintings. Seriously changing Whitefern was almost as blasphemous as disturbing the bones of the dead in ancient graveyards.
Where would the whispers go?
Sylvia surprised me by getting dressed, fixing her hair, and coming downstairs a little less than an hour later. She said she was hungry and couldn’t draw or listen to a teacher if she was thinking about eating.
“We have plenty of time yet, Sylvia. Don’t worry,” I said, and fixed her some eggs. She said she wanted to make breakfast for herself, but I told her, “Today, I’ll be your cook and waitress. You are the artist. You must be spoiled rotten.”
I then had to go into a long explanation about what being spoiled rotten meant. Afterward, she did go up and repair her room. Later, we had a very light lunch, and then we waited in the living room for Mr. Price. Sylvia had decided she would behave and warm up the biscuits we had when it was time for tea, without complaining that we didn’t have chocolate ones.
Mr. Price was at the door just as our clocks, the ones that were accurate, were announcing the hour. Sylvia surprised me again by leaping to her feet and hurrying anxiously to the door. In her confused and simple way of seeing things, I thought she now must believe that Mr. Price’s instructions would help her create the right baby on her canvas and thus do what Papa was telling her to do. How long could I keep Mr. Price from realizing what wild thoughts she had?
He was as jolly as ever and eager to begin. I followed them up to the cupola to be sure it all began well. He was happy with what we had bought and set up the first blank sheet on her easel. Sylvia sat in the chair, and he stood next to it with one of the drawing pencils. He glanced at me and began by explaining what he would teach her first and what was important to a beginning art student.
“I’m an art student,” she said, nodding.
“Yes, you are. And I am, too, Sylvia. We are always learning. I’ll learn from you,” he told her.
She looked at me, astounded. I nodded and smiled, which made her even more enthusiastic.
“Here are the lessons I will use,” he continued, now more for my benefit than hers, I thought. “Accuracy of size, how to use basic shapes like circles and squares, contrast and tone, stroke techniques, and pencil techniques.”
She looked at me again.
“Don’t worry, Sylvia. Mr. Price will explain everything so you understand.”
He was patient and constantly complimented her. It was going well, I thought. Sylvia was finally doing something that would give her some self-confidence. I told them I would wait downstairs and have some tea and biscuits ready before he left.
