Whitefern by V. C. Andrews
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.
“What an amazing house,” he said. “These paintings are most interesting.”
Like any man, he focused quickly on our famous naked lady on the chaise eating grapes. He glanced quickly at me.
“And the clocks and vases, all family heirlooms, I imagine?”
“Some are,” I said. “Please, have a seat.” I indicated the sofa Papa had redone only a year ago. Momma had loved lying on it. “Sylvia will bring us some tea and biscuits,” I said, and I nodded at her again.
“Thank you,” he said, rubbing his palms together. “Winter’s coming earlier this year for sure. You can smell the snow.”
Sylvia looked at us. “Smell it?” she asked. “Snow? It doesn’t smell.”
“Well, not snow, exactly,” he said, smiling. “It’s just . . . I mean, it feels like winter’s coming.”
Sylvia glanced at me as if we had let a madman into the house and then continued to the kitchen.
“What a beautiful young lady,” he said immediately. “I know a lot of artists, some not so amateur, who would love to have her for a model. Those eyes, startlingly beautiful, almost exotic, and a complexion like alabaster.”
“She wants to be the artist, not the model,” I said, probably too sharply. It occurred to me, maybe for the first time, that I could actually be jealous of Sylvia. It made me a little ashamed. It was like envying a poor girl’s single doll when you had dozens.
“Of course,” he said. “So is there a special place where your sister would work? Certainly not in here. I wouldn’t want to get any paint on this rug.” He looked down at the Turkish rug that had been there as long as I could remember.
“Oh, yes. Before my father passed away, he established a room in our cupola as a sort of studio for her. It’s two flights up, if that’s all right. We don’t have an elevator.”
“That’s not a problem.” He patted his ballooning stomach. “Now that I’m retired, I’ve gained five pounds. My wife is always after me to do more exercise. Artists and teachers sit around too much. So going up and down stairs sounds good.” He looked toward the stairway.
Despite how beautiful the balustrade was, it was difficult for me to look at the stairway and not think of it as treacherous. Surely, I thought, he knew of our history, how Aunt Ellsbeth, Billie, and Vera had died on those stairs. If he had any fear, he kept it well disguised behind his appreciative smile.
Sylvia came in carrying the silver tray with the teapot and cups.
Mr. Price stood up. “Can I help?” he asked.
“She’s fine,” I said. “Please. Sit.”
He did, and Sylvia put the tray on the table. I wanted her to demonstrate that she was capable of basic things and could easily grow and learn.
“Biscuits,” she said, more as if she was reminding herself, and turned quickly.
He smiled. “Venus,” he muttered after her, and then turned to me. “How long has she been interested in art?”
“As long as I can remember her being interested in anything,” I said. I began to pour the tea. “Sugar?”
“Maybe one, if we don’t tell my wife. And don’t tell her about any biscuits. She’s got me on a strict diet.”
Sylvia returned with the biscuits and put them on the table. “I like chocolate,” she said, still grumpy about it.
“Chocolate?” He looked at them.
“We have plain with a touch of vanilla today,” I said
“Oh, I like that.” He plucked one off the dish.
“I like chocolate,” Sylvia repeated.
I raised my eyes toward the ceiling.
“So, Sylvia, what do you like to draw and paint? Things in nature, people, animals?”
She looked at me. “Whatever I’m told to draw,” she said.
I felt my heart sink.
“Told? Who tells you?”
“She means she likes to draw what people like to see. My father used to ask her to draw birds in trees.”
“Oh, I see. Well, we’ll start with going over colors and then learning perspective. How’s that sound?”
“I want to draw and paint,” she said.
“That’s what he means, Sylvia.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get her to understand,” he told me, chewing on his biscuit. “I spent years in the grade school before teaching junior and senior high. Say, this is a very good biscuit. Homemade?”
“Sylvia made them,” I said.
“Did she? Well, if you can make biscuits this good, you can paint the Mona Lisa.”
“Who’s that?” she asked.
“Oh, it’s a famous painting. I’ll bring a book that has many great paintings in it so you can see all the styles in which artists have worked.”
“We have art books, Mr. Price. Sylvia wants to be active. Art history is a little beyond our goals here. How often do you want to give her lessons?” I asked. “And when?”
“I can be here in the afternoon.” He leaned toward me. “Probably only an hour at first. I know about attention span,” he assured me, nodding. “Say, three times a week?”
“Would you like that, Sylvia? Three times a week?”
“I want to do art every day,” she said.
He smiled. “Oh, you’ll have homework to do every day,” he said.
She looked suspicious but then nodded.
“Why don’t we look at your studio and see what you have, and then I’ll make a list of things you’ll need,” Mr. Price said. He thought for a moment and then plucked another biscuit off the dish. “Let’s keep this a secret.” He winked at me.
Sylvia’s eyes widened instantly. “Secret?”
“He means he doesn’t want his wife to know he’s eating what she doesn’t want him to eat, Sylvia. You won’t tell her, will you?” I said, trying to insert a joke quickly.
She shook her head. “Is she coming today, too?”
“No.”
Mr. Price sipped his tea. Sylvia hadn’t poured herself a cup or taken a biscuit. She had yet to sit.
“Let’s go show Mr. Price your studio, okay?”
“Okay,” she said, and he and I stood up. I nodded at Sylvia for her to go first, and we followed.
“My sister tends to take everything said to her literally,” I warned.
“I understand.”
We started up behind her. “She has a little bit of a wild imagination,” I added, with the same cautionary tone.
“All artists need that,” he replied.
“What were you thinking of in terms of cost?” I asked. I was getting mixed messages, wondering now if I was doing the right thing. I hoped he wasn’t someone who would carry tales from Whitefern. There were enough rumors about us.
“How’s twenty-five dollars an hour sound?”
“It sounds okay,” I said. I had no idea whether it was fair, and I was sure Arden would have something negative to say about it.
“You can pay me every two weeks so it’s not a chore,” he added.
We started up to the cupola. I could hear his heavy breathing already.
“This will be good for me,” he said, aware that I heard it.
“I hope it will be good for us all,” I replied.
Sylvia opened the door to the cupola, and we stepped in. Her sheet of paper was on the easel, but I could have sworn it was completely blank when we had left earlier.
Right now, there was the start of a baby’s head.
Voices in the Brush
I was still trembling a little when I walked Mr. Price to the door to say good-bye. Sylvia followed closely behind us and stood behind me. When I glanced at her and nodded at Mr. Price, she moved quickly to say good-bye properly, adding, “I’m pleased to meet you.”
“To have met you,” I prompted, and she repeated it.
“And I am very pleased to have met you, too, Sylvia. I look forward to helping you with your artwork,” Mr. Price told her. He offered her his hand.
She looked at it suspiciously and then touched it as if it might be a hot stovetop and quickly stepped back.
He smiled at me and said, “She’s precious.”
He had dictated a list of supplies, and we had decided he would begin in two days. He liked Sylvia’s studio space, his only criticism being that there was not enough light. I assured him that we would bring up two more lamps.
The sun was already losing its grip on the day. Fall twilights were much earlier, so the shadows were thicker in and out of Whitefern. Papa used to call fall the “dying season.” Trees were beautiful only for a short while with their brown and yellow leaves. “It’s like a last breath of beauty,” he had said. “Then come the skeletons.”
I waited for Mr. Price to go to his car and wave to me before I closed the door. For a moment, I stood there catching my breath. Without my asking her to, Sylvia began to clean away the tea and the remaining biscuits. She was still mumbling about chocolate being better. I picked up what was left and followed her to the kitchen.
Upstairs in the cupola, she had not said anything about the partial drawing. When Mr. Price had asked her what she was doing, she didn’t respond. He had looked at me, and I’d changed the subject quickly. I hoped he hadn’t seen the surprise on my face when we had first entered.
In the kitchen, Sylvia was immediately busy putting the leftover biscuits into a plastic container. She was plucking them off the plate as if they were dead insects.
“When did you go back up and start drawing the baby, Sylvia?” I asked.
She ignored me and began washing the cups and the teapot.
I drew closer. “Sylvia, I thought you said you needed to know if it was a boy or a girl before you could start to draw a baby.”
She paused and looked at me like a child who had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “I thought if I started, Papa would tell me,” she said. She returned to the cups and the teapot.
“Did he?”
She shook her head. “Not yet.” Her eyes widened with a thought. “Maybe he was waiting for me to learn more art and do better.”
“All right.” Enough of this, I thought. Why am I encouraging her wild imagination? “So you like Mr. Price and want to learn from him?”
“He didn’t say he likes chocolate biscuits.”
“Forget the biscuits, Sylvia. Do you like him enough to want him to give you instruction with your art?”
“He didn’t tell me anything to do.”
“He’s coming back for that in two days. He’ll be here at the same time three times a week, remember? Is that all right?”
“Yes,” she said. “But next time, I want to make chocolate biscuits, Audrina.” She spoke firmly, as firmly as Papa when his mind was made up about something.
“Okay. Make chocolate biscuits, Sylvia. Make tons and tons of chocolate biscuits,” I nearly screamed. Anyone could have heard the tense impatience in my voice, but she simply smiled. I wondered if it was a good thing never to realize how much someone was annoyed at you. You went on your merry way, doing whatever you were doing, not feeling guilt and rarely upset with yourself.
On the other hand, I was frustrated. I went to the freezer to take out pork chops and keep myself busy.
“We’re making grilled pork chops in plum sauce tonight, Sylvia. C
“Can I do the sauce?” she asked immediately.
Gradually, I had been teaching her more sophisticated recipes. She could make a nice cheese omelet or bake cookies, biscuits, and some cakes. Last Christmas, I’d taught her how to make a turkey stuffing and marshmallow sweet potatoes. The more delicate something was, the more intense was her concentration. Ironically, the easiest things bored her.
“Okay,” I said. “Get out the bag of plums.”
This was another of Arden’s favorite dinners. Why it was so important to please the men in this house I never knew, but if you disappointed Papa, you might expect the ceiling to fall and the walls to cave in. It was the same for Arden. As Aunt Ellsbeth often said, “Men are the sun, and we are the planets circling them and held in their grip.”
I took out the ingredients for the sauce—ginger, garlic, shallots, soy sauce, and honey. It was a recipe Arden’s mother, Billie, had taught me. She had tried to teach it to Vera, but Vera hated working in the kitchen. She hated all household chores. Whenever she was given something to do, she would try to get me to do it for her. Sometimes she threatened me by saying she would break something and blame it on me if I didn’t do it.
The memories streamed by like the echoes of nightmares.
Suddenly, I heard the front door open and close. I rushed out of the kitchen and was surprised to see Arden home so early. When he saw me, he raised his arm to show me he was holding a big manila envelope. He waved it like a winning lottery ticket.
“I’ve brought it all home. Mr. Johnson understands how busy you are here with Sylvia and agreed to let you sign and put your fingerprint on the page for notarization without him being present. He doesn’t do this for everyone. He’s bending the law quite a bit; it’s a special favor for us. Let’s get right to it,” he said, and sat on the settee. “I want to turn it in first thing in the morning.” He put the envelope on the table and began taking out documents and the ink pad for a fingerprint.