by Robbi McCoy
“Do you hear it, Harper?” Andrew asked.
Harper strained to listen. “Yes, I do. Very faint. Your hearing is remarkable.”
“That’s true,” Wilona said. “And my hearing is getting worse and worse. Andrew is becoming my ears.”
“And you’re my eyes,” he said, grinning.
“That’s right,” she agreed.
“Do you like to listen to music, Andrew?” Harper asked.
“Yes!”
“Music is a big part of his life,” Wilona said.
“Oh, do you play an instrument?”
He shook his head.
“I wish I could teach him,” Wilona said, “but I know nothing about it. This fall I’m going to enroll him in a class, though. If there’s space available.” After dinner, Andrew showed Harper his CD collection and MP3 player and they listened to some of his music. He had memorized an extraordinary number of songs and could sing them perfectly in tune. His musical tastes were varied but were clearly influenced by his grandmother, as evidenced by a preponderance of old-school rhythm and blues. On her way from Andrew’s room back to the living room, Harper paused to admire a photo of a cardinal. Andrew stood beside her and said, “This is my favorite.”
Startled, Harper asked, “The photograph?”
“Yes. I like the way the shadows from the leaves change the color on the bird’s feathers.”
Harper turned to catch Wilona’s eye. She was sitting in a rocking chair, rocking just a couple of inches to and fro. She grinned. “I describe them to him,” she explained. “He has a finely detailed mind image, a more detailed image than you probably have.”
Harper looked back at the photo, trying to imagine what Andrew’s mind image of it was like. Up until this moment, she had thought it sad that Andrew had never seen one of his grandmother’s stunning photos. Harper wouldn’t have been surprised if Andrew had turned to her then and said, “You still have much to learn, Grasshopper.”
Quite frequently, Harper closed her eyes while playing music, but she’d never thought about why. She supposed it was to allow herself to see the music as Andrew did, as he saw the photograph, without any visual interference. It wasn’t easy to do because even when you closed your eyes, you tended to see images of piano keys or notes. To see the music itself required a more concentrated blocking of the visual. Harper had learned to do that, over time. She could see the music itself when she worked at it—waves of colors, gliding, flowing, marching, bouncing.
“That cardinal is going into my next book,” Wilona said.
“Oh, I meant to ask you about that.” Harper sat on the sofa next to Wilona’s chair. “How is it coming?”
“All of the photos have been chosen. We’re working on page layout and narrative. I’m hoping to see it in print by winter. I wanted to talk to you anyway, Harper, about this one.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve made a pitch to my publisher to include a DVD with the book.”
“A DVD? What would be on it?”
“Among other things, your biography of me.”
“My video? You want to sell that with your book?”
“Yes. My publisher thinks it’s a good idea. Usually we just have a foreword or introduction in the book with some biographical information and a photo. This would be something more intriguing, I think, and now that a few people actually know who I am, there might be some interest in me as well as the photos. At least my publisher thinks so.”
“Yes! I mean, you’re well-known now. People are curious about the artist. Sure. I think it’s a wonderful idea. But are you sure it’s good enough? Are you sure you don’t want to have one professionally made?”
Wilona smiled affectionately. “It’s good enough. It tells exactly what I want to tell people about my technique and my relationship with my subject. Would that be okay with you, then, to use it?”
“Okay? Absolutely.”
“Good. I know you haven’t really had any aspirations like that. From what you’ve said, you’re doing this just for the pleasure of it, but I assume you have no objection to commercial success. Maybe we can get you a small piece of the royalty split.” Wilona laughed good-naturedly. “A very small piece.”
“That’s not necessary, but I won’t turn it down. It would be kind of nice, you know, to be a part of a commercial product like that and such a beautiful one as well.”
“Well, thank you. We’re quite the mutual admiration society here!”
Just before sunset, Wilona suggested a walk. Her house occupied a clearing in a sparse conifer forest. The smell of pines and the lacy afternoon sunshine filtering through them left Harper feeling peaceful. She breathed deeply, absorbing the fresh spirit of life in the woods. They ambled alongside a shallow brook. Harper peered into the water of the stream, sometimes seeing the surface mirror of it, sometimes looking through that to the rounded rocks below. In the sound of the water rushing over boulders, she heard a marimba, accompanied shortly by maracas. It was a light, regular rhythm, a pleasant, calming tune. Harper was feeling humbled. First, she had discovered that Roxie had been living an entirely different life than she’d understood. Now she had discovered that Wilona too had a much different life than she’d imagined.
She wasn’t the only one for whom Roxie’s lifestyle would be a revelation, though. There was no way she could have known about that. It had been a secret, after all. She didn’t know why Roxie thought she could have guessed. Still, it bothered her that their friendship had turned out to be so superficial. At least that’s how it seemed to Harper now. After all, if they had been as close as Harper thought, Roxie couldn’t possibly have kept so much of her emotional life hidden.
And now Wilona... Obviously her senses were flawed. It was as if she were color blind. Or partially deaf. There were whole ranges of the lives of her friends that she didn’t hear, that were beyond her upper and lower registers.
This has been going on a long time, Harper realized, thinking about Peggy, another good friend she hadn’t really known. She wondered who else she thought she knew, but didn’t. Chelsea came to mind, of course. She had been so certain that she knew Chelsea’s feelings. Was it possible that she was wrong about that too, that Chelsea had never had the depth of feeling that she had thought? Maybe it had only been about sex for Chelsea. Maybe it still was.
More disturbing than the lack of awareness about the true inner lives of her friends was Harper’s sudden doubt in her ability to know herself. Is my view of myself as flawed as my view of other people? she wondered. She had been thirty-six, after all, before she recognized that she was a lesbian, despite numerous hints along the way. Not only had she been involved in a phony relationship with Eliot for nearly seventeen years, but she had also spent decades searching for spiritual and emotional fulfillment without having a clue about how that might manifest itself. She had given equal validity to all comers in that arena, congratulating herself for her open mind. Perhaps her mind wasn’t quite so much open as vacant, she thought. Is there anything I really know about myself? About my desires and my passions?
There was the music. That seemed certain enough.
And there were her feelings about Chelsea, even if Chelsea’s feelings were unknown. One thing she knew about herself with certainty was that she wanted Chelsea. She had never stopped wanting her.
The snap of a twig caused her to jump. She had forgotten Wilona, who now stood a few paces behind her, watching her with an inquiring gaze.
“Is there something on your mind, Harper?” Wilona asked. “You seem distracted.”
Harper turned to face her. “Chelsea called,” she said. “I think she wants to see me.”
Wilona frowned, causing deep furrows to appear in her forehead. “Oh, girl, you can’t let her do that to you. If you do, you’re some kind of masochist.”
“I have to listen to my gut,” Harper said.
“Your gut?” Wilona shook her head. Her dark eyes were troubled. “You’re going to do it, aren’t you, no m
atter what anybody says?” She took a small camera from her jacket pocket. “Hold still there. I want a picture of you before that girl destroys you for good.” She snapped the picture.
When they got back to the house, Harper sat on the back porch near the copper birdbath, turned on her cell phone and dialed Chelsea’s new number. She had already memorized it, she realized. She also noticed that her hands were trembling. The phone rang three times and then the voice mail message began, Chelsea’s cheerful voice instructing her to leave a message. Harper hung up, disappointed. She would try again later. Now that she had finally decided to call, her desire to talk to Chelsea was fierce.
Chapter 14
SUMMER, TEN YEARS AGO
Using a heavy-duty staple gun, Harper covered an exterior wood-framed wall with moisture barrier material. This was her job for the next couple of hours. Eliot was working on the other side of the house, mixing cement for the front steps. There were about a dozen volunteers today, and the little house was going up fast. This was Harper’s first time working with Habitat for Humanity, and she was loving it. The camaraderie among the crew was energizing.
This was the perfect thing to do with a few weeks of summer vacation. It would change someone’s life for the better. Harper had assumed that you had to go to Africa or South America to do this sort of thing, like the summer she had spent in Oaxaca, but it turned out that there were destitute people everywhere, even in California. Still, it was too far from home to drive every day, so they were staying in a hostel along with some of the other volunteers. Eliot came by to look at her handiwork, his UCSC T-shirt filthy with concrete dust and splatter. “Very neat,” he announced, then laughed. “Your tidy rows of staples.”
“Yes,” she said, standing back to admire her work.
“You do realize that nobody will ever see them. I mean, siding goes on top.”
“Yes, I know that.”
A shock of brown hair fell over his forehead. “So you don’t have to be quite so uniform is what I mean. Just so it’s tacked on thoroughly.”
“This is how I do it,” she said, and then more precisely, “This is how I prefer to do it.”
“Okay.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his shorts, still grinning. “Maybe we should put you on some of the finish work, like painting or baseboards or something. You’re such a perfectionist!”
“And maybe you should go back to mixing cement.”
“All right,” he said, leaning in to give her a kiss on the cheek.
When the van arrived with lunch, Harper took a break and sat in the shade of the house with a hot dog and beans on a paper plate and a plastic cup of Pepsi. Wilona Freeman, a sturdy black woman in stretch pants and sandals, lowered herself with care beside Harper, holding a similar plate and cup. A woman of about forty-five, she had volunteered with Habitat several times before.
“Thank God,” she said as her butt hit the ground. “My feet are killing me.” Wilona grinned broadly. “Harper, that’s your name, right? First or last name?”
“First. My mother’s maiden name is Harper.”
“Well, how do you do, then, Harper. I’m Wilona.” She nestled her cup down in the grass securely. “From Placerville. You know where that is?”
“Sure. Been through it lots of times. Seems like an interesting place to live. What do you do there?”
“I’m a photographer.”
“Really,” Harper said, putting down her hot dog. “Is that what you do for a living, then?”
“Yes. I’ve been lucky. Had some good breaks. Some fairly steady work for a couple of magazines.” Wilona told her about her photographs and her two published books. Harper made herself a mental note to see if the books were in the library when she got home. If they weren’t, she assured Wilona, they soon would be.
She asked Wilona a lot of questions about her craft, her technique, her subject matter. Wilona seemed happy to talk about her work and about her travels, journeys around the globe in search of material. She had been practically everywhere, and she had lots of intriguing tales, more than enough to keep Harper enthralled for the duration of their project.
“Yes, I’ve traveled a lot,” Wilona said. “But one of the best things about photography is that you can find something interesting just about everywhere, even in your own backyard. All around my house, I have bird feeders hung in the tree branches. I like to take pictures of birds, especially hummingbirds because they’re always in motion. The precious little things are just a blur or a flash of light to the ordinary camera lens. They can be quite a challenge. I like a challenge.”
“I’d love to see some of those,” Harper said.
“If you find those books, you’ll see them. There are a couple of hummingbirds in there, both of them taken right outside my house.”
“Do you live alone?” Harper asked.
“Yes, just me and my birds. Don’t need anybody else.”
“Never married then?”
Wilona shook her head, wrinkling up her nose in distaste. “Not for me. I never wanted a man around telling me what to do.”
“You mean you wanted to maintain your freedom, your autonomy?”
“Exactly.”
“But you had lovers?” Harper only realized after she asked it that it was an extremely personal question. But Wilona didn’t seem to notice.
“Oh, the men have come and gone over the years. Some of them stay around a while. Who’s keeping track?”
Harper gazed admiringly at her lunch mate. Here was a free spirit, she thought. This woman was living her special, unique life, perfectly suited to her artistic temperament. She did what she wanted to do, on her own and fearlessly.
For the remainder of the project, Harper sought Wilona out at breaks and sometimes after the day’s work was done and listened to her talk. She seemed so secure about her place in the scheme of things. She didn’t seem to have any unfulfilled longings or regrets. Harper had always been drawn to women who lived that way.
Wilona’s home was close enough that she could drive in each day. In addition to working on the house, Wilona was also taking photographs, chronicling its progress.
The official record for Habitat for Humanity, it would be presented to the homeowner. She also took a flattering photo of Harper, hammer in hand, nailing a railing in place on the back stairs.
“Now you have a memento,” Wilona said, presenting the framed print to her on the last day of the job.
By the time the house was finished, they had become good friends.
Chapter 15
JUNE 22
Harper and Wilona set out Tuesday morning to find Carmen Silva. They drove north through the Sierra foothills with the windows down, enjoying the cool morning air.
“Thank you, Wilona,” Harper said. “I really appreciate your help on this. I think my weak area all along has been the visuals. Your contribution here is going to make this one much more professional.”
“Oh, it’ll be fun,” Wilona answered. “By the way, how did you hear about this woman anyway?”
“My first encounter with her work was an accident. I was visiting a friend in the hospital, and I saw this fantastic rug hanging in the stairwell. It stopped me short. It was such a fine piece, you know, and so remarkable. There was a card on the wall with her name on it. At that point, I didn’t know anything about her, of course, not even if she was living. It took me a while, but I eventually tracked her down. I’ve seen two more of her pieces since then, both equally impressive.”
By asking directions from a boy on a bicycle, they finally found the little shack they had been searching for. It stood beside a dirt road, a tiny pink stucco house with a door of white peeling paint and two open windows facing the road. Lined up on wooden racks outside the house were several rows of colorful blankets for sale.
They got out of the car, Wilona loading herself up with camera equipment. Harper carried the tripod. She knocked on the front door, which was slightly ajar.
“Come in,” called
a thick, commanding voice from within.
Harper led the way into a room that seemed to belong to another place and time. She felt transported. What she saw first was the old woman, sitting on a three-legged stool, squat and huge, Buddha-like, her face deeply lined, tiny eyes straining toward Harper, a rag wrapped around the top of her head, no evidence of hair. Next she saw the children, two boys and a girl, sitting on the floor facing the old woman as though they were students or disciples. The room held four looms and several woven blankets, including one in progress on the loom at which the old woman sat, a pattern of red, blue and purple. Along one wall were simple shelves of wooden planks crowded with spools of yarn in all imaginable colors.
“Hello, Mrs. Silva. I’m Harper Sheridan. This is Wilona Freeman. It’s so good to meet you at last.”
The old woman roused herself, but did not stand. “Okay, you kids, scat!”
“No, wait,” Harper said. “Are these children related to you?”
“No, they’re just kids from around here.”
“Let them stay,” Harper said. “Okay, first we’ll get set up, and then we’ll have a chat. How’s that?”
The old woman shrugged. “Okay with me. You can talk to me, but don’t try to change me. Just don’t try.”
“I wouldn’t think of it.” Harper watched the old woman for a moment, then said to Wilona, “Set up your equipment. When you’re ready, we’ll start.”
Carmen Silva turned back to the work on her loom. She passed the shuttle through rapidly, her feet, clad in scuffed leather sandals, working the treadles, her hand pulling the reed with a thwack against the yarn. She worked in a regular rhythm, the clack of the pedals and thwack of the loom creating a kind of music with a predictable beat. The children sat watching her, one of them holding a calico cat. Harper, anxious to preserve the scene, whispered to Wilona, “Get a couple minutes of this, just as it is now.”
