Will scrunched his face. “Jell-O’s yucky in any flavor.”
I laughed. “How ’bout toast, then? And chicken noodle soup?”
He grinned. “And…maybe, since I’m sick, you can read Call of the Wild to me.”
Then he looked up at me with his wide blue eyes, and I said, “Well, all right. Just chapter one. Just to get you started.” But we both knew I’d read to him as long as he wanted.
Chapter 16
By the end of that week, which ushered in October, Will was back to being his usual self. He asked me every day if he’d gotten anything in the mail—meaning, of course, his deed to one square inch of Alaska. When I reminded him that the box’s fine print stated, “Allow up to six weeks for delivery,” he looked sorry for me. “Sergeant Striker would tell you to have faith,” he said. “That’s what he always tells Trusty, right before they solve their crimes!”
I finally settled on a design for a homecoming dress—the dance was a couple weeks away, on October 17—and had started measuring and cutting pieces. I took my inspiration from 1920s flapper girl dresses and designed a simple, floor-length, strapless white sheath, which I would make from Mama’s satin wedding dress after removing the layers of lace on the top and the crinoline petticoat underneath. I planned to dye the lace the bird’s egg blue Mama had favored in so many of her clothes, overlay that on the white satin sheath, and add a matching satin ribbon at the drop-waist hip line.
The only material I had to buy was the ribbon—fifty-two cents’ worth to get enough to form a bow on the left hip—and a package of Rit dye for the lace. I thought about replacing the satin-covered buttons up the back with a zipper, but as challenging as they’d be to close or open, I decided I liked them. And I liked the idea of Jimmy’s fingertips lingering along my back to slowly undo them.
Frugality had swept the family, with Will extending his afternoon newspaper route to save for his visit to the one square inch of Alaska that he would soon own.
I told myself that the pay for modeling and housecleaning drew me back to Mr. Cahill’s the Friday after Will had been diagnosed with “flu.”
“I was wondering if the persimmons were ripe,” I said, standing in Mr. Cahill’s kitchen doorway.
He stared at me, dazed—I realized I’d pulled him from some artistic fever—and said, “Come in, Donna. Before some neighbor sees you.”
I stepped into the kitchen, which was even messier than on my first visit. I put my book bag on the floor and moved toward the sink, but Mr. Cahill put his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray on the counter and gently grabbed my arm.
“Donna,” he said. “You didn’t come to ask about persimmons. Or clean up after a slob. Why are you here?”
I wanted to look away, but his steady, deep gaze held mine. I wanted to pull away, but, God help me, I liked the feel of his hand, however gently, on my wrist.
Brazen, I gave the most insulting and untrue answer possible, shrugging while I said it: “I still have plans to work as a seamstress in New York. And I can still use the three dollars a session—if that’s what you’re paying your models.”
Mr. Cahill dropped my wrist. “I haven’t had any other models,” he said. “No one else dared answer my ad.”
“So your work is going well without a model?” I said.
He shrugged. “Well enough.” But then a flicker of frustration crossed his face and he stared past me, as if in his own dream, as he said, “I’m nearly done with the sketches…but with one more modeling session…”
Then he shook his head as if to clear it and gave me a stern look. “What about your work?” At my look of confusion—was he really asking me about waitressing?—he smiled. “I mean your design work, of course.”
“I’m still designing,” I said. “In fact, I’m working on a beautiful design for a homecoming dress to wear to the dance. With Jimmy Denton.”
He looked disappointed. “You can do better, you know.” Did he mean than dating Jimmy? Or than designing homecoming dresses? “But, very well. My work would benefit from having a model. Would this be agreeable to you? One more modeling session today, and after that, if you insist you want to be my housekeeper, that’s fine. But on two conditions. One is that you share with me more of your clothing sketches so I can tutor you. From what I’ve seen in class—at least at the beginning of the year—you have a gift, Donna, and a passion for design. I’m hoping to go to New York over Christmas break, and I plan to see a friend of mine who teaches at the Parsons School of Design.”
Mr. Cahill paused, watching for my reaction. He smiled with satisfaction when I gasped at his reference to Parsons.
“If we work hard enough, you could have a portfolio that I could show him while I’m there,” he said softly. “What do you think about the possibility of studying to be a designer? I know you say you want to be a costume seamstress, but I think you could go farther than that with your talent. Much farther.”
I swallowed hard, but my voice belied the emotion I was trying to tamp down, quivering as I said, “I—I think that would be wonderful. I could do that. Work on a portfolio. With you.”
“Good. But my second condition is that I talk with your father and let him know that I am hiring you as a housekeeper in exchange for providing tutoring,” Mr. Cahill said. “I will still pay you three dollars per housekeeping session. At least this way you can come to my front door and stop hiding.” His mouth briefly curved into a grin, but then he turned serious. “It’s how I should have handled this to begin with.”
My mind was whirling. Portfolio…Parsons…designer…Then my heart fell. There wasn’t any way that Daddy would agree. After all, he ranted every time one of Mr. Cahill’s editorials against Senator McCarthy’s views ran in the Groverton Daily News. (“Sells papers!” Babs reported as her editor father’s decision to print Mr. Cahill’s pieces.)
But then I thought…Miss Bettina.
Her increasing influence over Daddy would ensure that I could go, freely, to Mr. Cahill’s house, and learn from him about how to improve my designs, how to become a designer. Not a seamstress. A designer.
“All right,” I said. “But let me talk to Daddy first.” Mr. Cahill didn’t need to know that I really meant I’d talk to Miss Bettina. “He’s not a fan of your editorial pieces.”
He chuckled. “Fine.” He glanced at the kitchen door behind me. “And now, I really ought to get back to work.” He glanced at the ashtray. His cigarette had burned down to ash. He picked up a pack and lighter. “After I finish my break.”
I gave him a small smile. “You said you could use one more modeling session?”
“Yes, but—” He stopped. I knew what he was about to say—that he’d thought better of it. And I could also see on his face a warring thought—that he was close, so close to getting the sketches just right, but without a live model…
“I’m already here,” I said softly.
Mr. Cahill gave me a long look, trying to decide. “You know where my studio is. I’ll be up in a minute.” He lit his cigarette, leaned back against the counter, took a long drag. He never smoked in his studio.
I grabbed my book bag and hurried through the living room—which still held Mrs. Bentley’s old furniture and Mr. Cahill’s unpacked boxes—and up the stairs before he could change his mind.
I stood for a long minute in the doorway to his studio. The walls were covered with sketch after sketch done with pastels, some in black and blue, some in yellow and red, or green and purple, as if he was experimenting with color combinations, all drawn with thick, expressive lines. I banished the thought that these aggressive abstracts had grown from the pencil sketches of me in repose on the chaise longue. Or had they?
From the phonograph set up near Mr. Cahill’s easel, I heard the scratching of needle on record. The easel held nothing except a blank sheet of newsprint. I stared for a second at the slowly spinning record.
Mama would do that, I remembered. Play some record in her and Daddy’s bedroom, but let the n
eedle scratch on the inner paper label after the jazzy, bluesy songs stopped. Daddy would yell that it hurt the needle to do that, go in, turn off the record player. So I learned that if I heard the needle scratching, I should hurry in to turn off the player before Daddy yelled. Sometimes Mama was asleep, but sometimes she was sitting, or lying down, or standing, and just staring….
I made a small choice, and put the needle at the edge of the record. I wanted to hear what kind of music Mr. Cahill listened to when he worked.
Then I crossed the tiny room, set my book bag down on the floor next to the chaise longue, and sat down on the edge, primly, just like I’d done on my first visit. The bowl of persimmons was still there, but the fruits had ripened, a dark burnt orange color. I smiled, thinking of how I’d reacted the first time I’d tried to eat the green, bitter fruit.
What had Mr. Cahill said? That when ripe, the persimmon turns sweet.
Another small choice: I let my hand drift toward the bowl, pick up a persimmon, just as the music finally started, so softly that I could barely hear it, a slow rhythmic beat just below a solo that might be a flute but that sounded reedier, more hypnotic.
The music made my mouth water, the melody over the beat, lilting yet sure, stirring an ache and a longing within me while it slowly built toward an elusive crescendo. The music changed, grew darker, and then seemed to be flowing into me, making me acutely aware of the tender softness of the persimmon in my hand, as I moved my hand so that the persimmon brushed my lips, my lips tingling, the music building, my lips parting, my teeth teasing the flesh of the persimmon until finally, I took a small bite. The persimmon was firm, yet tenderly sweet.
The music stopped. I came to myself, startling, as if waking from a dream. I had gone from sitting up to stretching out on the chaise longue. The top two buttons of my blouse had popped open. My hands and mouth were slick and sticky from the persimmon, and I’d eaten all of it, except the stem and seeds.
Mr. Cahill was behind his easel, sketching furiously. When had he come in? I didn’t remember him entering the room—just being caught up in the music and eating the persimmon. My face burned with shame. I wanted to jump up, run from the room. But I stayed put, as still as I could, even though I was suddenly quivering, while Mr. Cahill finished his sketch.
He looked up, smiled at me a little cautiously, as if he’d seen an aspect that didn’t fit the me he already knew. Later in life, I’d thoroughly understand the sort of sensuality that had flamed on my face, but at that moment I could only wonder what I had revealed, eating that persimmon, lost in that music.
I sat up in my primmest pose—shoulders even, back straight, ankles crossed, hands in lap.
“That was Boléro,” he said, his voice careful and even. “The music.”
I smiled and tried to say something light and witty. “Boléro writes a pretty good tune.”
The cautious expression dropped from Mr. Cahill’s face as he laughed. “The piece is called Boléro, dear.” He stood up, started toward me. “The composer is Ravel.”
By the chaise longue, he held a handkerchief out to me. I wiped my chin, put the stem and seeds in the handkerchief. He looked amused as he took the handkerchief from me, stuffed it back in his pocket. “I guess you figured out that the persimmons are ripe.”
“Yes, ripe…” A betraying flush blazed up my neck. “I’m sorry—I just remembered—I shouldn’t…I mean, I ought to go.” I jumped up, stumbled.
Mr. Cahill looked confused as he grabbed my arm to steady me. But overwhelmed by what had just transpired—even though I couldn’t exactly name what had transpired, just that I felt exposed and scared—I stumbled again, right into his chest, and he grabbed my other arm, so that he held me without meaning to, and my face upturned and my lips accidentally brushed his chin. But perhaps not so accidentally. Perhaps the fevered music of Ravel’s Boléro rose again in my head, overpowered my senses, so that I chose to move my lips toward his….
But Mr. Cahill let go of me, stepped back, a look of horror on his face. I suddenly realized that he wasn’t horrified just because I was his student, but because he wasn’t attracted to me as a female. I thought about Mrs. Denton’s hints of frustration toward Mr. Cahill, Jimmy’s revelation about his mother’s trip to Japan with Mr. Cahill, Mr. Denton’s lack of concern over Mr. Cahill’s friendship with his wife. And in a shocked instant, I understood that Mr. Cahill was, as the saying went back in the 1950s, a “confirmed bachelor.”
I knew I was supposed to be disgusted by this realization, but instead I was just surprised, and embarrassed by my action, a mistake in so many ways. Meanwhile, Mr. Cahill’s mouth gaped as he looked for the right words to turn our awkward situation back into something ordinary and safe.
It was too late for that, though. I pushed past him and ran down the stairs, intending to run straight through the living room and kitchen and out the back door, never to return. But in my shameful haste I stumbled at the bottom of the stairs, and came to a full stop just at his living room pane window. At first I saw nothing in the world around me, my mind’s eye a gray whirlwind, and then, all too clearly, Will, across the street, sprawled on the ground, his bike over him.
He wasn’t moving. His afternoon newspapers were scattered around him.
Without thinking of anything except the need to get to my brother, spurred by the same urge that had propelled me out our own front door and down the steps to his still body on that first small-choice morning just before I met MayJune, and Trusty, and Jimmy, before I had my secret job interview with Mr. Cahill, I rushed out Mr. Cahill’s front door and across the street to Will.
By the time I got to Will, he was struggling to stand up, batting away my hands as I reached to swipe away the dirt on his face, to examine his scraped elbows and knees.
“Will, what happened?” I was nearly gasping for air as I asked the question.
“Hit a rock. Tumbled,” he said. “That’s all. I’m fine.”
I sank to my knees, relief flooding me, as Will righted his bike, put down the kickstand, then started putting the rolled-up afternoon newspapers back in his burlap carrier sack.
“Wait—what are you doing here?” I asked.
“Remember, I told you I was taking on an afternoon route? To save up to go see my land in Alaska?” Will looked at me, his face a mix of hurt that I’d forgotten and excitement at the prospect of his new goal. Then he looked confused. “But…what are you doing here?”
“I was, I was just—” I stopped, my mouth gaping, as I finally took in the whole scene.
Will, with his perfectly innocent and understandable explanation for his presence in Mr. Cahill’s and Grandma’s neighborhood, staring at me.
Several neighbors, out on this fine early October afternoon to do a bit of yard work, or sit on front porches with the newspapers Will had just delivered, staring at me.
Mr. Cahill, standing on his front porch, in his paint-stained undershirt and bare feet and wild hair, holding my book bag, staring across the street at me…but, no, not at me. He was frozen on his front porch, staring at the red car parked in front of his house.
Jimmy’s car.
Jimmy, in the driver’s seat, the look of hurt and betrayal on his face unmistakable, even from a distance through the car window, staring at me.
Next to him, in the passenger’s seat, leaning forward so that I could see his face, too, Hank—grinning. Triumphant. Pleased.
Suddenly, I was all too conscious of how sweaty I was, the messiness of my usually neat, ponytailed hair, and—worst of all—the top two buttons undone on my blouse.
Will took off again on his bicycle, whistling the theme song from Sergeant Striker and the Alaskan Wild, seemingly oblivious to the tension around him, even waving at Jimmy.
I hurried across the street toward Jimmy’s car, fumbling my buttons closed. He opened his door, and I had to jump back to avoid getting smacked as he got out.
“Nothing happened,” I whispered, looking up at him.
Mr. Cahill walked over, held my book bag out to me, and I took it.
“Jimmy—” he started.
“No!” Jimmy snapped. “Do not talk to me right now!”
Even as his face contorted with anger, Mr. Cahill looked at me and said, “I would be glad to give you a ride home, if you need it.”
My mouth gaped. I finally found my voice and spoke aloud my small choice in a creaky half whisper: “No. Jimmy will give me a ride. Won’t you, Jimmy?”
“Of course,” he said grimly.
“Good luck, Donna,” Mr. Cahill said sorrowfully. He turned and walked back into his house, careful to shut the door quietly behind him.
I looked at Jimmy, my eyes pleading, willing the stone set of his jaw to relax. “Nothing happened,” I said in another ragged half whisper, although I wished I could find the strength to shout it for him.
“Oh, yeah? Then ask her to explain this!” Hank jumped out of the car and shoved a piece of paper at me. I took it in my trembling hands, blinking back tears that blurred my vision. I nearly retched when I recognized what it was: the sketch I’d done of a nude girl on a chaise longue. The sketch I’d been terrified would be found last week in art class, the day that the air raid drill siren had gone off. The sketch I’d stuffed in the trash can, right after Babs gave me a bottle of Dexamyl.
I looked up at Hank, and he laughed at my confused, questioning expression. “Lisa Kablinski gave it to me. I’ve been trying to convince Jimmy of what’s been going on, ever since. But he wouldn’t believe me. Then today, he went to the library, wanted to surprise you, was surprised himself when you weren’t there.” Hank’s mouth turned up into a sneer. “That’s when I showed him this, told him he might want to look into what you’ve really been studying.”
“That’s not true! Nothing happened!” I looked at Jimmy. “You have to believe me! I was just doing some housekeeping, some modeling—but never…never like that.” I gestured at my sketch, which now seemed like something from one of the men’s magazines Babs told me her father thought her mother didn’t know about, which he hid under their guest room’s bed.
My One Square Inch of Alaska (9781101602850) Page 13
