“What makes you ask that?” Oliver said. “You’re always asking questions! Now, eat your food and be quiet!”
The rebuke seemed to fall upon the entire party, and it was Cara who, as always, tried to be the peacemaker. “Tell us about things at college, Benji.”
“Same old thing. Books, books, books,” Benjamin said moodily. “I’ll be glad when I get out of that place.”
“You ought to be enjoying it,” Alice spoke up. She was proud of her son who was doing so well at college, and now she smiled fondly. “I’ll be glad, though, when the term’s over. We miss you here at home.”
“Yes, we do,” Bess piped up. “Now that Clinton’s gone it gets—” She stopped suddenly, realizing she had broken an unspoken rule and looked fearfully at her father.
Once again Oliver saw the apprehension in Bess’s eyes. He was very fond of his youngest daughter and did not like to see her bothered any more than he did Mary Ann, who found this awkward moment very uncomfortable and hurriedly began talking about Teddy Roosevelt’s affairs. Oliver had met the president on three occasions and admired him tremendously.
“I hate to think what’ll happen to the country after he’s gone,” Mary Ann said.
“Well, I suppose Taft will be President,” Benjamin remarked idly.
“Yes, and he’s a nobody. We’ll never have a president like Theodore Roosevelt.”
“Oh, I think we might,” Cara said. She was not active in politics, but she followed political affairs in the papers. “It’s my guess that he’ll run again after Taft has a term. He loves being President and in the thick of things.”
For some time the talk centered on Roosevelt, and then Cara excused herself and went back to her room. She was very tired, for she had not been sleeping well lately. Going into her room, she took off her good dress and put on an old one. Slipping into a smock, she picked up her palette and brush and threw herself into the painting that had become so important to her. For over an hour she worked and then stood back with dissatisfaction. “I just can’t get it right!” she exclaimed. She stood there, irritated and frustrated with herself.
For some strange reason, she also felt angry toward Phil Winslow. She thought how easy her life had been before he had entered the scene. She had painted flowers and sold them quite successfully, and had received adulation from her family for her artistic gift. Now she seemed to be caught in a miasma of disturbing emotions she could not even define. The vague unhappiness that had gripped her when Phil had first spoken of living life and painting life as it was had grown until now it occupied her mind almost constantly. She could not seem to master the brush strokes to carry out what she wanted to do, and the resulting turmoil in her heart and mind made it even worse. For years she had kept her emotions under strict control, but now she felt as though they were slipping. There were times when a sense of futility would come over her and she would cry, usually in the silence of the night.
A knock at the door startled her, and she lifted her head, saying, “Come in,” and then stepped away from the painting as her father came in. She reached down to get a cloth to cover it, but before she could, he was by her side, and she saw shock run across his face as he studied the painting.
“So this is what you’ve been doing,” he murmured.
The instant displeasure in the tone of his voice made Cara dread to enter into a conversation with him. He was tremendously proud of her gift as an artist, and she knew that he would not like her new choice of subject, as most did not like the new school of painting.
“What is this, Cara?”
“Oh, it’s just a young woman and her child that I saw once when I was down on the East Side.”
“Not a very attractive subject.”
“Well, I haven’t done well with it.”
“I should think not. It’s not something I would think anyone wants to remember. It reminds me,” he said, “of those pictures of the slums by that fellow. What’s his name—Riis? Ugly things, and I don’t know why anyone pays any attention to them.”
“I think Mr. Riis took the pictures because he wanted to wake up the city to some of the evils of poverty.”
“That’s up to the politicians,” Oliver said.
“And look what the politicians have done with it. The tenement houses are horrid, squalid places to live, and diseases are mounting all over, and nobody seems to care. People shouldn’t have to live like that!”
“Oh, come now, Cara! That’s putting it too strongly. Many people care.”
“Well, Mr. Riis doesn’t think so, and his photographs have done more to get legislation passed than all of the politicians put together.”
Oliver was unaccustomed to having Cara stand up to him in matters about which they disagreed. He felt uncomfortable as she stood watching him and shifted his position, saying carefully, “I think you’re wasting your time on things like this. You do so well with flowers.”
“There are more things than flowers in the world, Father.”
Startled, Oliver looked at her and saw that there was a lift to her chin and that her back was straight. “You feel very strongly about this, but, Cara, you’ve done so well with your career. Of course there are more things than flowers, but I always thought it was the job of the artist to present beautiful things to make people happy.”
“So did I, but I’ve begun to change my mind.”
Instantly Oliver knew where the trouble lay. “It’s that fellow Winslow, isn’t it? He’s put these ideas into your head!”
Cara turned away from him and moved across the room to stand beside the window. It was dark outside now, and she could see only a few stars overhead. The streetlights were on, but their light was feeble and pale in the immense darkness. She did not answer her father as he came over and stood beside her. Turning, she said, “That woman and her child are part of God’s world, Father. Did you imagine that they were not?”
“Why, Cara, what a thing to say!”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Cara said and shook her head. “I don’t know why I’m so snappy tonight.”
“Well, I just came up to say good night.” He hesitated, then said, “I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Clinton?”
“Of course I have. He writes almost every other day.”
“He never writes to me.”
Cara did not miss the petulant tone in her father’s voice and was amazed. “Well, Father, why would he write to you? You made it clear enough you didn’t want to hear from him again.”
“Oh, come now, Cara. It wasn’t that bad!”
“Yes it was, Father. You told him to get out and to stay out until he was ready to do everything you said.”
Oliver Lanier had grown tough in the world of business, and that toughness had carried over into his family life. He was a hard man to hurt, but Cara’s strong words did. He had treated his son as he would a competitor, intending to bring him to his senses, but to hear Cara speak so frankly was more painful than anything he had endured. “I just mean well for him, Cara. You certainly know I love my own son.”
Cara hesitated, then put her hand on her father’s arm. “I’m sure you do, but you need to learn to show it more.”
“Does love have to be demonstrated? If it’s there, it’s there.”
“I think it does need to be demonstrated. Even God wants to see it demonstrated.”
“Why, what do you mean by that?” he asked, startled again at her boldness.
“I mean, God wants us to show our love for Him. That’s what praise and worship is. It’s saying that we love God, that we honor Him, that we are devoted to Him. It’s not enough for Him that we do love Him. He wants it said.”
“But that’s a different thing altogether.”
“No, it isn’t. I can’t say about men, but I know that women like to be told that they’re admired, that they’re loved. Mother would like to be told, I’m sure.”
“Are you saying I’ve neglected your mother?”
“Why, you’ve given her every
thing she wants as far as a house, fashionable clothes, and the things that you can put your hands on. But a woman wants more than that,” Cara said. She had not intended to get into such a personal discussion with her father, but it had suddenly exploded. Now she found herself saying things she had been thinking over the years but had never had the courage to say. “Mother’s like every other woman. She needs those things for her spirit as much as her body needs food. I don’t know why it is—it’s just the way women are made. Men are different.”
Oliver stood looking down at this daughter of his. He knew that Cara had a depth of character that he lacked. There was something in her that he had never been able to put his finger on. She was far more complex than his other children, and he had always assumed that it was because she was an invalid and had time to think more. Now that he was confronted with this side of her character, he was almost dumbfounded. “I . . . I wouldn’t know how to start doing a thing like that. I’m not a poet.”
“Father, you don’t have to be a poet to say, ‘Why, Alice, how pretty that dress looks on you.’ ”
“But does it really mean that much?”
“Try it and see,” Cara challenged him. “Just tell her that her hair looks nice. Tell her that you appreciate the way she’s done something, or the way she looks. It may not be much to you, but it would mean a world of difference to Mother.”
“Well—” Oliver Lanier was not accustomed to being instructed, especially by his own family. He felt uncomfortable, yet somehow he knew that what Cara was telling him was the truth. “Well, I’ll say good night.” Turning, he saw the glass of ale on the table and quickly said, “You haven’t drunk your ale yet.”
“No, and I’m not going to.” It was not what Cara intended to say, but somehow the conversation had given her new courage. She looked at her father. “That ale doesn’t help me physically one bit. It’s an idea that you had, and I know you did it for my good. But you may as well take it with you because I’ve drunk the last glass of it!”
“Why, Cara, I’m surprised at you!”
Cara moved closer to her father. She knew that deep down he loved her and the rest of his family, but she was also aware of the habit of command that had been formed in his youthful years, and now she said, “Father, be a little bit more gentle. It would mean more than you can imagine.” She reached up, pulled his head down, kissed him, then whispered, “Good night, Father.”
“Good night, daughter.”
As Oliver left the room and headed down the hall, he realized that something had happened in his own house and in his own life. He had been proud of his accomplishments, proud of his family—but Cara’s words had pierced him deeply. Maybe I’ve been wrong. Maybe Cara is right. He thought of the harsh way he had treated Clinton, but his stubborn pride rose up quickly to blot out those thoughts and any remorse for his actions. “He can come home when he acts like a reasonable man and not until,” he muttered and stepped inside the bedroom door. He saw his wife preparing for bed, and the memory of Cara’s words came back again. Cautiously he moved over to stand beside her. She was brushing her hair, which still had not one gray hair in it. Reaching out, he touched it, stroked it gently, and thought up a speech. “You know, Alice, your hair is as beautiful tonight as it was on our wedding night.”
Alice Lanier dropped the brush. It fell to the carpet as she turned, her eyes wide with astonishment. She could not speak for a moment, and Oliver was shocked to see her eyes fill with tears. “Why there. It’s nothing to cry about because I tell you your hair is pretty.” But she rose and put her arms around him, and he could feel her sobbing. As he held her, he was shocked. Well, I think Cara was right about some things, anyway. . . .
Easy Devlin marched up and down the waiting room, agitation pinching his face. “What’s taking so long?” he demanded, stopping to stand in front of Peter Winslow. “I could’ve put a whole car together in this much time.”
Looking up, Peter shifted on the uncomfortable straight-backed chairs that lined the wall of the waiting room and said, “I guess it’s a little bit more delicate putting a young girl’s face in shape than installing a new transmission.”
“Why, I don’t see why!” Easy said. “It looks to me like they could have made a whole new Jolie in this time.”
“It’s only been two hours. That’s not long at all.” Actually Peter did not feel this confident. He was tense but tried to keep a relaxed atmosphere for Easy, who had had a bad dream the night before. It seemed he had dreamed of a white horse, and that was supposed to be bad luck. Easy traversed the room twice more, then stopped.
“I sure wish that would have been a bay or a chestnut instead of a white horse I dreamed about.”
“Oh, don’t be silly, Easy! Dreams don’t have anything to do with luck!”
“For an educated man you sure are dumb, Peter,” Easy snorted. He would have said more, but at that moment the door opened and Dr. Leibnez stepped into the waiting room. Peter and Easy almost ran to meet him.
“How is she, Doc?” Peter asked.
“Why, she’s fine!” Leibnez said, surprise on his face. He saw the tension of both men and smiled. “After all, it wasn’t a life-threatening operation.”
“Is she going to be all right? I mean, is the scar going to be gone?”
“Well, I hesitate to make predictions, but I think I may say the operation was very successful.” Leibnez seemed to swell with assurance. He liked to help people, and now he said, “It may take one more rather minor surgery to remove the scar completely, but I think you’d have to look close to see it. Of course it’ll have to heal up, and that will take some time.”
“I shore was afraid of this one, because I dreamed of a white horse last night,” Easy said, shaking his head.
A blank look came across Leibnez’s face. “A white horse? What does that have to do with it?”
“Never mind, Doc,” Peter said. “Just tell me one more time. Jolie’s going to look great, isn’t she?”
“Yes, she is. She has a very good complexion and she’s young. I don’t know why this wasn’t done a long time ago, but I’m glad she finally had it done.”
“Well, it’s done now,” Easy grinned. “Can we go in and see her?”
“She won’t be awake for a while, but you can go sit beside her.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Easy said. As the doctor turned and walked out of the room, the two men followed him down the hall. Stepping inside the hospital room, they saw Jolie lying very still. A sheet was pulled over her and her black hair was concealed by some sort of cap. The left side of her face was covered with bandages, and she looked pale.
“She’ll have to come in several times in the next week or two for a checkup, but I’m sure you’ll see to that,” Leibnez said. He looked at her and shook his head, “She’s a very lovely woman, and this will make her complete.”
After thanking the doctor, both men sat down and began the long vigil. Neither of them said anything, but from time to time their eyes met, and once Easy grinned and said, “Well, I’ll have to eat my words about that Warwick woman. This is one good thing she’s done—maybe the first . . . !”
At first all was darkness, a warm darkness to be sure, but somehow it was frightening. From far away she heard the sound of voices, and sometimes she knew that whoever was speaking was someone she knew very well. Finally the voices became clearer, and as she opened her eyes just a slit, she saw nothing but a blank whiteness. But then, opening them wider and turning her head to the right, she saw a face and at once whispered, “Peter—”
“Jolie!” Peter was beside her instantly. Jolie could see the tension in his face. “Well, it’s about time you woke up,” he said huskily, and he reached out and touched her right cheek.
Memory came back to Jolie then, and she said, “Have I been here long?”
“Not too long. Jolie, the doctor says you’re going to be fine. This other cheek, why, I’ll bet it’ll be as smooth as this one.” His fingers were light on her cheek,
and she smiled at his touch. “Easy’s just gone to get some coffee. He’ll be back in a minute. I bet you’re glad it’s over.”
“Yes, I am.” She felt secure lying there with Peter standing over her. He looked so big, and the touch of his fingers on her cheek was reassuring. “I’m so sleepy.”
“That’s all right. We’ll be taking you home soon, but until then you get all the rest you can.”
“Will you be here?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said as he took her hand and sat down beside her.
Reaching up with her free hand, Jolie touched the bandages and said, “It doesn’t hurt at all.”
“Dr. Leibnez said there would be some pain when the medicine wore off, but they’ll give you something for that. You just rest easy. You’re going to be fine.”
Jolie lay there quietly, contented, and tried to think what it would be like to be without a scar. For most of her life she had tried to hide it, and she could not imagine being able to turn her face fully toward someone without thinking about how ugly she looked. Now she looked over at Peter, who smiled, and she whispered, “I’d like to be pretty, so that you would like me.”
“Pretty doesn’t have anything to do with it,” Peter said quickly. He squeezed her hand and leaned forward so that his face was close to hers. “I’d care for you no matter what you looked like, Jolie. You know that.”
The words pleased Jolie. She was getting drowsier, but the world looked different, and she felt warm and comforted. Soon she dropped off to sleep again.
“Well, here she is, Avis,” Peter said proudly. He had walked into the drawing room where Avis was sitting reading a magazine. He had brought Jolie home from the hospital, and now she stood beside him somewhat unsteadily. “The doctor says she’s going to have the smoothest skin over that scar you could ever imagine.”
Jolie went forward and stopped before Avis. “I can’t thank you enough for making this possible. You don’t know what it means to me.”
“You two can get your talking done,” Peter said. “I’ll go make some tea.”
The Shadow Portrait Page 28
