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“We’re cursed!” she would exclaim, her eyes wild with rage. “Men have it so easy. It isn’t fair, but think of it as the first alarm bell. Now, sex will be dangerous. Those little sperms that come shooting out of them and into you will make babies, babies you won’t want.”
“Like you?” Vera had retorted, surprising me with her defiance. “Making me?”
Most of the time, Aunt Ellsbeth wouldn’t respond to such an outburst of insolence, but this time, she’d smiled coldly and said, “Exactly. Look at my burdens now. Thank you for being born.”
I remember wondering how it could be Vera’s fault. Even though she hurt me, angered me, and teased me, I felt sorry for her. I expected she would cry, but she simply looked at Aunt Ellsbeth and smiled back at her with the same icy eyes. I couldn’t imagine being as hard and as emotionally insulated as Vera could be. I was too sympathetic, especially when it came to Sylvia.
Someday, I thought the day after she had her first period, she would be alone or I wouldn’t be there to protect her, and some boys might come along and talk her into doing nasty things with them. Papa had once warned me about that. Obviously, because of my own history, that sort of nightmare haunted me. If there was one promise I had made to Papa without ever uttering the words, it was never to let what happened to me happen to Sylvia. I didn’t have to come out and say it, and Papa didn’t have to put it into words, either. We simply looked at her growing more and more beautiful every day, looked at each other, and nodded with the same thought.
Sylvia’s innocent beauty wasn’t a big secret. I took her shopping with me often, and people saw her at events we brought her to, especially events involving Papa’s business when he was still working hard. She always drew compliments but had no idea how to respond. When she lowered her eyes and smiled, however, she looked like she was flirting or trying to because she was shy. On several occasions, young men had inquired about taking her out. Some had called to speak with her, and two different young men, college boys, had come to Whitefern to visit with her. I had turned them all away, on the phone or in person.
Once I considered letting them visit with Sylvia so they could see how immature she was, but then I thought, Why put her through it? Worse, what if she liked one o
f these young men and wanted to be with him, go for a ride or out to eat, anything? How would we deal with that? No, it was easier to shield her, to step in between her and any young man approaching her, and end it before it could begin.
A few local boys were quite persistent, and even though they learned how simple Sylvia was, their lust for her didn’t diminish. If anything, I could see in their faces that they thought she’d be an easy conquest because she was unprotected, and I had no doubt that she might just be.
How long could I keep her chaste, I wondered, and should I do so for as long as I could? She had the mind of a child but the desires of a woman now. Was it fair to deny her the pleasures of her sex? Was it possible for her to find someone who would sincerely care for her and love her and satisfy her womanly needs? I never had the courage to bring these questions up with Papa. I certainly couldn’t discuss them with Arden. He’d make a sour face or mock the idea. However, I was tempted to discuss these things with Dr. Prescott. He was a trusted family friend, but I hesitated. After all, he was also a man. I couldn’t help but feel embarrassed talking about it, and now that there was no other woman in our home, whom could I talk to about my own problems anyway?
I longed for a true friend or a sister who could handle such matters. It was partly my own fault that I was so isolated. So many terrible things had happened to us that I couldn’t fathom being close to a stranger. There would be so many questions, questions I couldn’t answer or wouldn’t ever want to answer, like those about the deaths at Whitefern or the empty grave that once had a tombstone with my name on it.
Nevertheless, I knew I needed advice when it came to Sylvia’s problems and my own. I did come close to confiding in Dr. Prescott when I had consulted him about my failure to get pregnant. Arden had resisted being tested for potency, but I did, and the result was such that he didn’t have to be tested. My chances for getting pregnant were quite small. It didn’t mean it couldn’t happen, but it was most unlikely. Back then, Arden didn’t seem to be troubled by the news. He was happier that it was my fault, of course, and let me know it.
“I had no doubt that a man as virile as I am would not be the reason we’re not succeeding in getting you pregnant. I don’t shoot blanks,” he bragged. Of course, I wondered what that meant. I knew that he’d had girlfriends when he was off at college. Did he get someone pregnant? Was there a child of his somewhere?
“How do you know?” I asked, and held my breath.
He just shrugged. “A man knows. Look at how well I make love. I taught you everything you need to know about it, didn’t I? If you’re not satisfied when I do it, you’ll never be.” He smiled slyly again. “I never had a complaint from any other girl. Anyway, let’s not worry about it right now.” I was practically in tears, but he smiled again and told me, “Look at all the money we’ll save not bothering with birth control.”
“That’s not funny, Arden,” I told him. Papa was still alive then, and despite what he had told me about Papa considering him his son, I knew in my heart that Papa wanted a grandson with his blood.
To my surprise, Arden did apologize. Maybe he thought I would go running to my father to tell him what he had said. We continued making love, and I continued to fail to get pregnant. He was too busy back then proving himself to Papa and taking on more responsibility. Some nights, he would begin to make love and suddenly stop, claiming he was tired. “And besides, what’s the use?” he would say, and I would go to sleep with tears flooding my eyes.
All these memories and thoughts streamed through my mind as Sylvia and I sat in the dining room. I didn’t want to bother eating in there. I thought we could just use the kitchenette, but she had dressed up the big table the way she always did, being a little creative with the way she folded the napkins, making little crowns or flowers. Whenever we had guests over, Papa would give Sylvia the task of creating place cards according to the way he wanted his guests to sit at the table. Most of the time, Arden, Sylvia, and I had the same places, but occasionally he wanted someone closer to him. Sometimes he wanted certain other people as far away as possible, too.
Sylvia wouldn’t just write the names in her beautifully artistic script. She would color them in and often draw something to complement whatever we were having for dinner. She could draw a small hen or a funny little cow, lamb, or pig or do something interesting with fish. Everyone praised her, and when she looked at Papa and saw how proud of her he was, she would brighten and look even more beautiful. Arden might even say something nice, compliment her, but I always thought it was more to please Papa.
After dinner, again more to please Papa than anyone, I would play the piano. We’d tried to give Sylvia piano lessons, too, but she never took to it. She didn’t have the patience and would rather spend her time drawing and painting in the cupola, where Papa had created a small studio for her. During the past few years, before Papa had begun to show signs of weakening, we did enjoy some peace and contentment at Whitefern. Maybe it was unrealistic to think it would last very long, but for a while, at least, it was truly like we were all finally finding some sense of happiness.
The settings at the dinner table were not modified after Papa’s death. His place was still there. Sylvia and I sat where we always sat. This was really our first formal dinner since he had died. With all that went on, we’d been eating buffet style in the kitchenette. Here we were tonight, when I thought we would begin again as a family—diminished, yes, but still a family—and Arden was out with clients instead.
I tried not to be too depressed, because I was afraid Sylvia would start crying once we were at the table without Papa in his chair, and my sadness would only intensify her own. But she surprised me with how relaxed and hungry she was. I should have been happy about it, but she looked like someone who really did have a big secret. I smiled at her and asked her what she was thinking.
“I’m not thinking,” she said. “I’m eating, Audrina.”
That made me smile. I forgot how she could be so literal, but I was still a little curious, even a little anxious, about the way she would pause, look at Papa’s empty seat, and then look toward the stairway, listening as if she anticipated the sound of his footsteps.
I had to get her to stop thinking of ghosts. Even Sylvia needed some sort of future now. Keeping her busy with household chores was far from enough. And I could see that she didn’t even have the small attention span for my math and science tutoring. Even role-playing to help her be more confident in social settings wasn’t working.
“How would you like me to find an art teacher to help you with your drawings and paintings?” I asked her. I had to get her thinking about something else. “He could help you do so much more. Isn’t that a good idea, Sylvia?”
“Papa said you would,” she replied.
“Right. Papa and I did discuss it. I’ll look into it tomorrow, okay?”
“Papa said you would.” She repeated it as if he had just told her.
“Okay, Sylvia.”
