"Yes, Grandma Olivia mentioned it."
"Chester whipped him, of course, which helped widen the chasm between them and the whole family. Haille enjoyed having men fight over her. All that I told you about her was true," he said. "She was bedazzling, tormenting, a tease with a capital T, but all of us let her get away with it."
He smiled, remembering. Then he looked at me.
"I should have made it perfectly clear to you that I wasn't your father, that Haille and I never . . . that I never had the opportunity to be your father."
This revelation came as a shock to me, but I knew now was the time to press on for more information. "Then who is my father? Is he someone here in Provincetown?"
"I really can't say, not because I don't want to, but because I don't know." He shook his head. "It all happened so fast. She and I weren't seeing each other much at the time."
"Why not?"
"That's something very personal to me, Melody. All of us have to hold on to something. It doesn't have anything to do with what you want to know. Just like everyone else close to your family at the time, I heard that Haille was pregnant, and the next thing I heard was she had accused Samuel. I knew that was untrue. I had been at their house often enough to see that Samuel treated her the way he would treat a daughter and not a lover. He was always charming and kind and probably spoiled her. It's sort of an example of biting the hand that feeds you. When it came time to blame someone, for some reason, a reason she wouldn't reveal to me, she turned on him. He seemed the most logical, I guess."
"Why?"
"Olivia was harder on her. Anything she got, she got because of Samuel. He bought her the clothes, the jewelry. He doted on her. Olivia was the ice queen who treated her the way the evil step-mother treated Cinderella. If Olivia demanded she do a chore, Samuel would find a way to get her out of it or pay someone else to do it. If Olivia punished her for misbehavior, Samuel got her a reprieve. I suppose she played him the way she played all the men around her at the time, even me," he said.
"She wasn't very nice then, was she?"
"Well, she was like a beautiful but dangerous creature," he replied with a smile. "I think some men like being manipulated. Samuel certainly had to know she was beguiling him, using him, but he enjoyed it. He had no daughters and one of his two sons took after his wife and treated him as poorly as she did. His other son . . . his other son became jealous of him, I think."
"Jealous? My step-father? Why would he be jealous of his own father?"
"He was jealous of how Haille treated him and how he lavished gifts on her. Chester was always in love with Haille. So was Jacob, but Jacob thinks his own feelings were sinful. In his case it might be true. Jacob hated her because he loved her, if you can understand that. Chester, as I told you before, worshiped her and eventually paid a dear price for that worship: his family.
"That's really all I know about it, Melody. She named Samuel as the father of her baby. Chester either believed her or wanted to believe her and they ran off. So as I've told you, your father could be someone here or could have been someone just passing through. I'm afraid the truth died with her."
He turned to me again.
"This is why I advised you to stop the search. Stop trying to look back on the painful past and look to the future now. Take advantage of the situation, take anything you are given from that mad family, and go on to be your own person. You're bright, talented, and beautiful. You have far more than most girls your age, even the ones 'with parents."
I turned away. The ache around my heart felt like a hand closing on it, squeezing the very life from me. "It's not easy to do that," I said.
"Yes, I know, but essentially, it's what I've done, Melody."
I turned back to him.
"Because of how you think of and treat your father?" He didn't reply. "That's the one private thing you want to keep to yourself, isn't it?"
"Yes," he admitted.
We were both quiet. The surf roared and the terns cried to each other above the water. In the distance we could see an oil barge creeping along, looking as if it slid against the sky. The breeze made strands of my hair dance about my forehead and cheeks. The lines in Kenneth's face deepened with his grimace. Ulysses, lying quietly at our feet, lifted his head with curiosity at the sudden silence. Kenneth reached out to pat him. I wiped away my lingering tears.
"Well," I said. "I guess we have to get back to work. That is, if you still want me to be the model."
"What do you say, Ulysses? Should we keep her?" Kenneth asked. As if he understood the question, Ulysses wagged his tail vigorously and we both laughed. "That's it," Kenneth said standing. "The boss has spoken."
I stood alongside him and then we started back to the house. He wasn't my father, I thought, but there was still something strong binding us. Perhaps it was the fact that we had both loved my mother.
"Kenneth," I said as we turned toward the studio, "please don't be mad at Cary. He only did it because of me."
"I bet," he said. "He won't be the last young man who does something to please you."
"I won't be like my mother was," I insisted, my eyes narrow but firm. He gazed at me.
"No, I don't think you will. The fact is, I think you're twice the woman she was," he said. "Now let's get all that into the sculpture."
I followed, buoyed by his words and yet saddened by them as well.
Cary was right, I thought. We're in a constant state of change. Nothing was permanent except real love, deep love, love that transcended time and place. It was the rope we cast to each other to keep each other from drowning in the sea of turmoil otherwise known as life.
I wondered if I should take hold or swim on, searching until I discovered there were no more answers waiting for me, at least in this world.
8
Daydreams
.
In the days that followed, Kenneth and I did
grow closer. I felt something magical being born between us because of the artistic work he was creating, with me as his muse. The way he included me in his creative thinking made me feel I was so important to the vision that I gradually began to believe it, to feel as if I really were an essential part of his work. And then one day after I had finished chipping away on the block where Kenneth had told me to chip, I stepped back. As I gazed at the partially carved marble, I began to see it take form. It was just as he said: the sculpture was emerging. Kenneth was using his talent, his vision to bring it out, and because I had grown closer to him, I could share somewhat in that vision. It was as if I had been staring and staring at the same scene and suddenly I saw the colors, the shapes, the movement I had been told were always there, but until now had never been able to see.
He had warned me that once we got into this, he would eat, sleep, and drink it. He reminded me of a deeply religious person who had taken a vow and dedicated his life to a single prayer. I was always the first to become hungry and ask if we could break for lunch. Usually, he never heard me the first time I spoke. He would be looking at me, but it was as if he had already transcended this world and was living and breathing on another plane. He was in the world of his creation, traveling over the highway of his own imagination, and I was afraid he would leave me somewhere far behind.
"Kenneth, my stomach is growling," I moaned. "What?"
"I've been pleading for the last half hour. Aren't you hungry?" I cried.
I was still basically in the same position he had originally placed me. It seemed that whatever he was doing was never good enough to please him. He would rip off pages and crumble them with frustration and then start anew, pacing, studying, coming up to me and adjusting my shoulders or my head, changing a strand of hair, finding something to do with the most minute detail of my being before making a new attempt to satisfy his artistic appetite. Meanwhile, my lowly, earthly appetite whined and groaned.
"Oh. Yes. Right. Is it lunch time already? It seems like we just started."
"We've been at it for nearly three hour
s, Kenneth. Even to a fanatic like you, that's more than just starting, isn't it?" I asked.
He laughed and threw up his hands.
"Sorry. Okay, you go fix us some lunch. I'll be right there," he promised.
"I'm not going to call you, Kenneth. This time, I'm going to start eating without you if you don't come," I warned.
"A model is not supposed to nag the artist," he decreed. "She has to remain subtle and discreet, very unobtrusive, or the artist will lose the vision and have to start all over again," he threatened.
"That's blackmail," I told him as I pulled on my sweatshirt.
"No, it's basic artistic survival," he replied.
I paused before leaving the studio and looked at him sharply. It caught his attention.
"What?" he asked.
"You're not above taking advantage of your art to escape from things," I accused. He started to grimace and then turned it into a smile.
"Looks like the model is beginning to develop some vision herself," he said nodding. "Go make lunch. I'll be right in. That's an artistic promise."
I laughed and hurried out. Whenever he smiled at me and spoke warmly to me, it changed the face of the world. Every day had become more interesting and a little more exciting for me since Kenneth and I had had our heart-to-heart discussion, confessing more to each other, finally being honest with each other. It was as if another barrier had crumbled between us. Realizing that Kenneth could not be my father changed everything. Something different, some new feeling was emerging from the deepest places in my secret, put-away heart. Even when I was away from him, home from work, helping Aunt Sara in the kitchen, playing with May, I couldn't stop thinking of Kenneth. I would go over the things he said to me that day, the way he'd looked at me; it all took on new meaning. I even imagined that the long, slow looks he'd given me while we were working were looks not of an artist in love with his art, but of a man in love with his model.
Cary lost patience with me a number of times because I wasn't listening or paying attention to him. I resembled someone going in and out of a coma, drifting, walking about with a soft grin on my face, nodding at sounds, but never really hearing anything but the whispering voices emerging from my own tingling heart. Through the fog of it all I knew that I was disappointing Cary, letting him down, but I just couldn't help wanting something more from Kenneth, something I was afraid Cary could never give me.
No matter how I tried, I couldn't stop
fantasizing that Kenneth was falling in love with me.
In the library, I read stories about famous artists who had developed passionate affairs with their models, affairs of love that drove them mad with desire. Age didn't matter when it came to such strong emotion. It would be the same between Kenneth and me, I thought. After all, we had so much in common, and that came from his own lips. He had said we were both like orphans, rejecting and rejected by family. Most important, he had been in love with Mommy, and now, he surely saw something of her in me, enough of her to stir his suffering heart. It went deeper, I told myself, and he not only saw Mommy in me, but something more. He had said that, too. He had told me I was twice the woman. Could that mean he cared for me twice as much as he'd cared for Mommy?
Perhaps because of these new feelings, as well as my growing understanding of the artistic process, I was even more anxious to go to Kenneth's studio each day. I even offered to work overtime at no pay and come Sunday as well as Saturday if he wanted.
"We'll see," he said. "An artist can't rush things, can't overdo them either. I'm not complaining, you understand. I would never complain about it, but the work is very intense, exhausting. When you leave here, I usually crash."
"And don't even eat the supper I prepared for you, right?"
He shrugged.
"I know you don't because when I return the next day, I can see how much food is still there. I should stay longer, eat dinner with you," I suggested hopefully.
"Don't they expect you home to help?"
"If I don't eat there, I don't have to earn my keep," I told him.
"We'll see," he said, always the cautious one.
Twice during the week, however, I got him to permit me to serve him dinner and eat with him. I pretended that this was our house and Kenneth and I had long discussions over the meal I'd so lovingly prepared. One night our discussion turned to family, and, as always, our words became heated.
"I'm not looking for any confrontations with Jacob Logan," he said. "Not now."
"He wouldn't dare cause any trouble. I would just--leave. That's all." When Kenneth didn't say anything, I added. "I could just move in here, sleep in your other bedroom."
"Are you kidding? Jacob would set the authorities on me, get me arrested for corrupting the morals of a minor," he said.
"I'm not a minor," I snapped. He started to smile but stopped when he saw how lobster red with indignation my face had become.
"In the eyes of the law, you most certainly are a minor. You're miles above the average girl your age, I admit," he added to soften the tension between us. "But we have to be careful, Melody. Many people would not fully understand or appreciate what we're doing here."
"I haven't told anyone anything," I said.
"Not even Cary?" he asked, his eyes narrow with suspicion.
"Not even Cary. I realize he's not mature enough yet to understand what we are doing," I replied, throwing my hair back and gazing at him with a defiant air that brought a small, but intriguing smile to his face. I was a little sad, though, that what I'd said was true; Cary wouldn't understand. He was too much like Uncle Jacob.
Kenneth shook his head and laughed lightly, the specks in his brown eyes brightening.
"You've got spirit, Melody. I am really lucky to have found you," he said.
I thought my heart would explode with joy. Every night afterward, I went to sleep with his words on my lips: "I am really lucky to have found you."
"And I you, dearest Kenneth." I hugged my pillow and dreamed of the day he would come to me and say, "Forget society. Forget what those
busybodies would say. You and I will make great art together and should be together forever. I can't sleep without saying your name over and over until it becomes a song in my heart. Melody . . Melody."
Was I the lovesick schoolgirl I had warned May she had become? Or was I really mature enough in heart and spirit to attract the romantic interest of an older man, a handsome and interesting older man?
Cary misunderstood my daydreaming and deep thoughts and grew impatient with me often during our walks after dinner. It wasn't that I'd lost all feelings for him as he accused, just that being with Kenneth made me realize the limitations of my relationship with Cary. For as much as Cary was my confidant, my only true friend here on the Cape, he just would never understand the thoughts and yearnings I discovered growing within myself as I helped Kenneth create his most prized work of art. Nor would he understand the role I played in its creation. I feared that Uncle Jacob had been too much of an influence on Cary, that no matter how he fought it, Cary would always be his father's son.
"You're just being polite spending time with me, is that it?" he accused one night as we walked along the surf.
"Pardon me?" I asked, startled by his tone and sudden outburst.
"I talk and talk and you nod but you hardly say anything to me unless I pull it out of you like pulling on a fish line that's gotten tangled on a sunken barge. And when you kiss me it's quick, with your eyes slammed closed, and then you rush off to bed just like--just like--You're just different," he finally stammered, unable to complete the thought. But I knew. I knew all right. Cary was accusing me of being just like Laura!
"I am not," I said defensively, though I knew in my heart he was partially right. I wasn't like Laura. Oh, no. I wasn't as saintly as his beloved sister. But I was different, changing before his very eyes.
"Yes you are. It's because of what happened that night on the beach, isn't it? You think I went too far too fast and you're puni
shing me."
"Cary, that's ridiculous," I insisted.
"No, it isn't. I know girls can be like that. They'll sulk or pretend you don't exist until you come pleading and begging for a kind word or some attention. I don't know why they call you the weaker sex," he said bitterly. "We're the ones who act like clowns or lose our self-respect just for a favor or a kiss. Men are the powerless ones," he concluded.
"That is so untrue, Cary Logan," I said, spinning on him, my hands on my hips. "Men break the hearts of women much more than women break the hearts of men. Men are usually the unfaithful ones. They make all sorts of promises that are supposed to last forever and ever, and they buy expensive presents to convince us of their love, and then, after a while, they go looking for love with someone else.
Cary's eyes widened.
"I wouldn't," he said. "And that's not just an empty promise. I thought you knew me," he said sadly. "I thought I knew you, too. I guess we're both fooling ourselves." He marched off, leaving me standing alone on the beach.
"Cary!"
"I'm tired," he called back without turning. "I've got to get up early tomorrow."
I watched him march back to the house, his fists balled with rage. I shook my head in pity.
He's been through a lot, I told myself, but he's still a boy compared to Kenneth. In time he'll be a much stronger person, but it's not my destiny to wait. "Is it?" I asked the stars. They blinked but had no answers, yet I felt sure that even if Cary were right and I had changed, it wasn't wrong for me to change. It simply meant I was growing up.
Later that evening, Aunt Sara called me to the telephone. It was Alice Morgan, my best friend in Sewell. She was very excited because her mother had finally given in and said she could make the trip to Provincetown to visit me.
"I can leave the day after tomorrow!" she exclaimed. "Is that all right?"
Heartsong Page 15
