Whitefern (Audrina 2)

“I’m Emmaline Price,” she said. “Arthur’s wife.”

For a few seconds, I felt like Lot’s wife when she looked back at Sodom and was turned into a pillar of salt. I was shot through with a stone-cold feeling that choked back my words.

Emmaline Price could see it in my face and began to speak quickly. “I know what you think of my husband, and I waited until the shadow of death left our home before coming to see you. I made him promises during his last days, and I beg you to let me come in and talk to you for a few minutes. I want nothing from you but possibly your understanding. His final days were full of such regret. I knew how heavy his heart was and how it would shatter under his sorrow. Please,” she begged.

“I have no idea why you have come here. I don’t know what you want from me,” I finally said.

“Just your patience for a few minutes, please. When you make promises to someone you’ve loved with all your heart most of your life, you can’t go on without keeping them. I’m sure you can understand that.”

Yes, I could understand that, I thought. The promise I had made to Papa concerning Sylvia was a promise I did not keep, and this woman was at our front door precisely because I hadn’t. But my rage turned quickly to empathy. I saw myself at the front door of wherever Papa had gone, pleading with him to give me a chance to explain.

Without replying, I stepped back to let her enter. She walked in quickly and waited for me.

“This way,” I said, and took her to the Roman Revival salon, where I half-expected Aunt Mercy Marie’s ghost to appear and begin shouting at her.

I indicated where she should sit, and I stood watching her for a moment, deciding whether I should sit or simply look down at her with disdain. She looked at me with such desperation in her teary gray-blue eyes that I softened and sat on the settee.

“What is it you promised your husband, Mrs. Price? And how does that involve me?”

She looked up at the ceiling, took a deep breath, and began. “Arthur was not unlike most creative people—­artists, writers, composers. They dream of being appreciated, succeeding in their field. They’re told they have talent, and they struggle to make something of it. But Arthur was also a family man. When we first met and fell in love, we were immune to all the hardships. We had very little money. I did some odd jobs so Arthur could paint. He sold a few things but never made any real money. I know,” she said, changing her tone a bit, “this is not very important or interesting to you, but I’m trying to explain enough so you will appreciate what I want to tell you.”

I didn’t speak. I didn’t care if my silence made her uncomfortable. Her husband had brought a great deal of pain to this house and this family.

“Anyway,” she said, squirming a bit, “Arthur decided to finish college and get his teaching certificate before we could think of having children and a home and all the things everyone who wants a family life wants.”

“Mrs. Price,” I began. I wanted to say, I don’t care. Please leave.

But she sensed that and quickly went on. “Of course, he continued painting and trying to get noticed, but after a while, he was devoting much more of his energy to his teaching. He really enjoyed teaching. He loved young people, and they loved him. Arthur was one of the most popular teachers. I’m sure you know that. He was devoted to his students in ways most teachers are not.”

“I can imagine,” I said dryly. “In ways most teachers are not.”

She ignored my sarcasm and went on. “He sold a few paintings, mostly to the parents of some of his students and a few to a dealer in Richmond, but he was never discouraged. Even after he retired, he worked hard at his art. When the children were younger, we traveled to see beautiful art everywhere. We went without a lot of things that other people thought were important so we could save our money for these trips. We’ve visited the Prado in Madrid, the Louvre, of course, the National Gallery in London, even the Hermitage in St. Petersburg.”

“I still don’t see—”

“What I’m trying to tell you is that Arthur was a lover of beauty anywhere he saw it. He could get inspired by a unique tree or the way an elderly man sat and stared while he thought about his life. He did a wonderful picture of that man, and a museum in Boston now has it. What I mean to say is that Arthur was a real artist, Mrs. Lowe, and not someone just amusing himself.”

“What is your point, Mrs. Price?” I asked, moving to the edge of the settee, ready to stand in order to suggest that I wanted to end this conversation.

She leaned forward. “The point is that my husband really appreciated your sister’s beauty, but from an artist’s point of view.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t agree with you about that. What he did, how he touched her, was quite inappropriate.” I stood and stared down at her. I didn’t want this prolonged a moment more.

“He meant no harm. He was so upset over the misunderstanding,” she said, dabbing at her eyes. “For days and days after your husband came to our home and screamed at him, he sat in the corner of his studio and stared at a blank canvas. He ate very little and was up often at night just walking around the house. I’m sure the stress brought about his stroke.”

I took a step toward her. “My husband and I were even more upset, Mrs. Price. Do you know how my sister is, her condition, how she has been all her life?”

“I just know from what Arthur told me. I understand she’s not what she should be mentally, but he said she was a very good student and very talented. He was simply taken by her innocent beauty. It overwhelmed him. He was driven to paint her. I can’t tell you how many nights he described it all to me and cried and wished he could somehow get your forgiveness.”

She clutched her hands together like someone about to offer a prayer. I stood there, impatient and tired. How could I care about forgiving him?

Sylvia came into the room with Adelle in her arms.

“Hello,” she said, when she saw Emmaline Price. “This is Adelle.”

“Your baby,” Mrs. Price said to me. She stood up to get a closer look. “What a beautiful child.”

“Did you feed her?” I asked Sylvia, ignoring our intruder.