Whitefern (Audrina 2)

Winter, although it came roaring in like a lion, seemed to have calmed down. We had less snowfall than most years I remembered and fortunately few days of sleet and icy rain. There were delightful sunny days when the air felt crisp and fresh. Occasionally, Sylvia and I took walks, during which she was far more talkative than ever, describing her artwork and what she intended to draw and paint in the future. Before she had begun her lessons, she would never pause in the forest and look at a tree or a bush and tell me that it would look nice in her new picture.

Mr. Price, Sylvia, and I didn’t have tea and biscuits after every session, but I saw how well Sylvia was getting along with him. She liked being comp

limented, and he never stopped giving her praise. I concluded that this was because of his experience with special education students. Who else would have such patience and understanding?

It got so I didn’t interrupt the lessons by appearing anymore. Although he never said anything about it, Sylvia did. After one of Mr. Price’s visits, she surprised me by telling me it was better when I wasn’t looking over her shoulder while she learned and worked.

“Why?” I asked.

“You make me nervous when you’re there, Audrina,” she said.

I was speechless. Nervous? Had I used that word enough for her even to understand what it meant?

I told Arden what she had said, and he raised his eyebrows and nodded in agreement. “I must say, it’s all quite a surprise.” He thought for a moment and then added, “But perhaps a nice surprise.”

I should have thought likewise, but that persistently suspicious mind of mine wouldn’t hibernate, not in Whitefern. Sylvia would never before say or do anything even to suggest she didn’t want me to be with her or watch her do something. Although seeing her develop some sense of independence should have pleased me, it didn’t. Of course, I asked myself, did I want her to be dependent on me forever? Did it make me feel more important? Did it fill my empty moments? Had I used her as an excuse for not pursuing my own ambitions? Was I being unfair to her?

Perhaps it was Arden’s continued comments about how Sylvia was changing that kept me wondering about all this. The more he said it, the more I looked at her with unreasonable and unwarranted worry. But I couldn’t help it. I told myself that it was a result of my not having a passion for something the way Sylvia did. I was spending too much time thinking about her and not myself. The Vera in me was showing its envious face.

One morning on a day when Sylvia was having a new lesson, I noticed that she was taking extra care with her appearance. I no longer had to hound her about brushing her hair or wearing clothes that coordinated. Colors had become important, and she wanted to be correct about them. She was even good about the shoes she chose, and she did all of it before I had a chance to tell her or make suggestions. In fact, she was waking up on her own and three mornings in a row was up and dressed before I had arrived at her bedroom. There were times when she showed some interest in wearing a little lipstick and even a little makeup. Now that she was learning about colors and contrast and how important that was in her artwork, I could tell that she was looking at herself and thinking about it more and more. Again, I was surprised to see her do anything about her face without my instruction, but she did, and she did it surprisingly well.

When I mentioned it to Arden, he said, “Why are you surprised? Isn’t that all part of art? Women paint their faces. They look in their mirrors and sometimes turn pale, homely mugs into faces a man would at least glance at. Of course, when they wash it off, you’d rather not be there.” Then he leaned over to whisper, “That’s why most men like to make love to their wives in the dark.”

Papa would say something like that, I thought. “Then they married them for the wrong reasons,” I countered, irritated.

Of course, he simply laughed and went on reading.

All of this was riling up some unexpected anger and discomfort in me. I marched about the house pouncing on things out of place or anything left on tables. My intolerance for the smallest imperfections, like a vague stain on the kitchen floor, sent me into a cleaning frenzy, mopping and sweeping while I muttered to myself. I envisioned Aunt Ellsbeth observing and nodding with approval. “Repair, repair, repair!” she would chant. It felt like a whip.

One afternoon nearly a month later, I put on my coat and boots when Sylvia and Mr. Price went upstairs to work. I stepped out of the house and looked at the skeleton forest. I felt I had to have some air. All my worried and jealous thoughts were stifling me in Whitefern. I had no shopping to do, no friend to visit, only the outside world around our home to distract me.

It was a partly cloudy day, with the sun playing hide and seek on the forest pathways. I recalled the first time I had gone through the woods to see the new family that occupied the gardener’s cottage. That family was Arden and his mother, Billie. I’d still believed there was a first Audrina back then, and as I snuck away from Whitefern, defying Papa, and ventured into the forest, I’d felt myself grow uneasy. Little butterflies of panic had fluttered in my head, and the warnings I had heard for years seemed to echo now, years later: It’s dangerous and unsafe in the woods. There is death in the woods.

Once I’d learned what had happened to me in this forest, I understood my innate trepidation. How brave I’d been to go forward when I was so young and had been told so many terrible things. The horrible memories thundered around me, but they were blurry now. No amount of time in the rocking chair would bring back the gruesome details. It was still frightening, but it was vague.

Nevertheless, when I walked into the woods slowly, my head down, the darkness seemed to close in on me. Tree limbs devoid of leaves looked spidery, swaying and trembling in the breeze like beckoning sirens, enchanting, hypnotizing, and seducing. Death lay in wait behind cold smiles. Dried leaves between small patches of evaporating snow crunched beneath my feet. It sounded like I was walking over shards of glass. Far off, a dog howled. The scent of some animal that had died in the woods recently flowed over me, churning my stomach.

I paused and opened my eyes like a sleepwalker awakening.

I was surprised to see that I had walked far enough to be near the infamous clearing in which I had been attacked. I could feel every muscle in my body tighten, and the chilled air seeped under my coat to run up my spine.

Suddenly, as if I had been nudged, tapped firmly on my right shoulder, I turned and looked back at Whitefern. There was something in the look of the mansion that alarmed me. I felt two hands on my back pushing me forward. I broke into a run and rushed back to the house. I charged through the front door and hurried up the stairs until I was at the cupola. There I paused to catch my breath and my wits. What was I doing? I didn’t want to frighten them or look foolish. Quietly and slowly, I opened the door.

But then I froze.

Mr. Price was sitting in Sylvia’s chair in front of her easel, and Sylvia was standing in front of him, her beautiful, full breasts uncovered, her hands clasped behind her head. She wore only her skirt, but it was lowered beneath her belly button. Her eyes were shifted so that she was looking at the ceiling.

I screamed, a scream so piercing that it knifed through both of them. Mr. Price raised his shoulders as if he’d been slapped on the back of his neck, and Sylvia brought her hands down and looked at me in confusion. He rose, turned, and backed away, his hands up and pumping the air as if he thought that would keep me away.

“Now . . . don’t get excited. I can explain—” he said.

“Sylvia, dress yourself!” I shouted, and she hurriedly did so.

I turned to him, my eyes feeling like they were popping and on fire. “How dare you.”

“It’s not what you think. I’m teaching her . . . all aspects of, of art, of being an artist,” he stuttered. “She’s a perfect model, you see, and I’m an artist. This is nothing more than art, you see.”

“Get out!” I shouted. “Get out of my house!” I stepped away from the door to give him a clear exit.