by Robbi McCoy
Hilda Perry had once reminded Harper that art was artifice, a trick played on the mind. It was a representation of reality, but it wasn’t reality. Sophie Janssen couldn’t have demonstrated that any clearer. Her intention was to play an eye-mind game with the viewer.
So what is the point of art, Harper asked herself, if it is unable to represent reality?
Truth couldn’t be found in art, Harper concluded. Or religion. Or even science. Truth could only be found in nature. And Harper, who had always trusted her heart more than her mind anyway, felt somewhat justified in that.
She gazed at Chelsea, who was watching the television. I love this woman, she thought. I love her absolutely with the truth of nature, and I don’t know what art or science or even language can tell me about that.
“The point of my art,” Sophie Janssen was saying on the monitor, “is to reflect reality as in a distorted mirror, in a way that encourages us to look back from the reflection to the real thing with a renewed sense of curiosity and a keener vision.”
The video ended. Harper couldn’t remember if she had asked Sophie that question, what was the point of art, but thought she probably had. It was a question she had always asked, at least in her mind.
“Wow,” Sarah said. “Who knew there was so much to say about a giant pear? Maybe I should be a sculptor.” Chelsea laughed. “Last week you wanted Mary to teach you to paint.”
“And before that,” Harper said, “you wanted me to teach you to play the piano.”
“So what’s wrong with being good at everything?” Sarah said smugly. “Oh, that reminds me, I have to go.” Sarah leapt out of her chair and headed toward her room. “I’m going to wear that new dress you bought me, Aunt Harper. Mary’s taking me to a gallery tonight. We’re going to a Joan Miró exhibit. He was one of our preeminent surrealists, you know.”
Sarah said this with exaggerated aplomb. Harper assumed she was quoting Mary.
“I wonder what she will end up doing,” Chelsea said when Sarah was gone from the room.
“I don’t know. Something she feels a real passion for, I hope.”
Chelsea took hold of Harper’s foot and massaged her toes. “That film was gorgeous,” she said. “As usual, so beautifully constructed.”
“Thank you. I think she was happy with the way it turned out.”
As Harper laid her head back against the arm of the couch, enjoying the foot massage, the phone rang. She was about to reluctantly pull her foot away from Chelsea to answer when Sarah streaked into the room wearing only a towel and snatched it up. After saying hello, she frowned and then handed the phone to Harper, saying, “It’s for you.”
Harper wondered who Sarah had been expecting as she disappeared into the bathroom.
“Hello?” she said into the receiver, offering up her other foot to Chelsea.
A youthful-sounding man introduced himself as Tom Janssen, the nephew of Sophie Janssen. As soon as Harper heard this, she extricated her foot from Chelsea and sat up.
“I’ve been contacted by a producer at PBS,” Tom said, “about a retrospective of my aunt’s life and work. Your documentary is one of the few video interviews that we’re aware of. And it’s fairly current. I was hoping you might want to collaborate on this project and let them use your footage.”
“Oh, uh,” Harper said, “I’d be honored to do it.”
“That would be great. They’re sort of in a hurry, as you can imagine. They’re going to want to get this on air within the week. I can give the guy your name and number. He’s in San Francisco. You can work out the details with him.”
After hanging up, Harper explained the project to Chelsea, who said, “You’re going to be on PBS! Fantastic.”
“If they like the material,” Harper said cautiously.
“What’s not to like?” Chelsea jumped off the sofa. “I have a feeling, Harper. Once they see this video, they’re going to want to see all of them. Maybe this series you’ve been putting together is destined for PBS, after all. It always did seem like the right place to me.”
“Oh, come on,” Harper said dismissively.
“No, no, seriously. This is your opportunity knocking, Harper!”
Chelsea took Harper’s hand and twirled her around as Sarah emerged in a sleeveless navy blue dress and stockings, looking mature and sophisticated.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“We’re celebrating,” Chelsea said. “The film we just watched, or at least parts of it, are going to be in a PBS special.”
“Oh, wow, that’s wicked awesome! Congratulations.” Sarah hugged her, then headed for the door. “I’m going to wait for Mary outside. See you guys later.”
When Harper turned to look back at Chelsea, she saw that there was a grin on her face.
“We’re alone,” Chelsea said in a whisper.
“So how are we going to finish our game of Clue? We’ve lost our third player.”
“No problem. I can tell you who dunnit.”
“Really?”
Chelsea nodded, looking pleased with herself.“It was Chelsea in the bedroom with a silk scarf.”
Chapter 28
SUMMER, SEVEN YEARS AGO
Eliot reached down to take Harper’s hand and heave her up to the next granite boulder. Her legs were getting tired. A rigorous climb like this would have been a challenge even in her twenties, so she was satisfied with her progress. They were going to make it to the top of Mt. Dana, there was no doubt, and it was going to be exhilarating.
“Only a little further,” Eliot said, consulting his GPS receiver. He sounded breathless. At this elevation, the air was thin. They had always been lowlanders, so they were both struggling. Eliot, tall, lean, a little gaunt, led the way, his boots carefully picking footholds. Harper followed, wiping perspiration from her forehead, admiring the view, which was getting better and better the higher they climbed. Here above the tree line there was still patchy snow in July. The higher they went, the colder it got. If she hadn’t been working so hard, she would definitely have needed a jacket. They were both silent for the remainder of the hike, moving steadily in single file up to the high point of the mountain. When they arrived, they sloughed off their daypacks and surveyed the staggering view of Yosemite stretching out to the west with its smooth granite shoulders and deep-forested crevices.
“This has to be one of the most beautiful places in the world,” Eliot remarked, running a hand through his floppy mop of brown hair.
They were alone at the peak and had passed only one other group on the way up, one of the advantages of hiking here midweek.
“How about lunch?” Harper asked.
They sat on a flat slab of light gray stone with a view of the world stretching out before them and ate their sandwiches. A chilly but welcome wind slowly dried the perspiration on Harper’s neck. This is magnificent, she thought, feeling happy and peaceful. When she had finished eating, she stretched out prone, resting her chin on her arms, gazing out across the landscape to the east, down to Highway 395 and Mono Lake, a round splotch of turquoise on a bare volcanic landscape. The only sound was the faint whistle of the wind between boulders. In between gusts of wind, the sun’s heat intensified on the bare skin of her arms and legs, hovering on the edge of burning.
This was their second day at Yosemite. The weather had been perfect for hiking, warm, but not too hot.
Eliot lay nearby on his side, supporting his head with his hand. “There’s an opening in the science department at Chabot College in Hayward,” he said. “I’m thinking of applying.”
Harper, startled, said, “Why? I mean, that would be a step backward, wouldn’t it? From a state university to a city college?”
“Well, obviously, Harper, the point would be to move here, to be with you full time.” He rolled over on his stomach so he could look at her directly. “I think it’s time we built a life together. We should get married.” “Married?” Harper replied, astonished. “Since when do you want to get married? And why? Wha
t’s wrong with things the way they are?”
He frowned. “This is no kind of relationship. It was okay for a while, but we’re not kids anymore. Didn’t you always figure that we’d get married someday?”
“No, I didn’t. That’s so conventional. You’re getting old, apparently, Eliot. This is a great thing we have. It’s our thing. It’s what we do. We’re free spirits.”
“Yeah, but you can’t be a free spirit all your life.”
“Why not?”
“A person gets tired. And sentimental and nostalgic. A person wants to put down roots, have some solid footing. Maybe a person wants kids.”
“Kids!” She leapt to her feet. “Eliot, we are definitely not on the same wavelength here. What the hell has happened to you?”
“Conventionality isn’t inherently bad,” he said. “If you think about everybody we were in college with, they’re all married and have kids now. And some of them are actually happy.”
“I can’t believe this,” Harper said.
“I don’t know why you’re surprised. We’ve talked about this before.”
“Yes, in theory. But you’re not talking theory now. You’re talking about moving.”
He sat up, looking disappointed. “So you don’t want me to move?”
To have him always around, to have him there all year long, have to arrange her life around him...The idea horrified her. She wanted her freedom. That was the reason this arrangement had worked for so long. And now he wanted to mess it up. Get married and have kids! She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“Can we talk about this later?” she asked him, annoyed that he had marred her perfect day.
He shrugged. “Okay, but I have to decide within the next couple of days whether or not to apply for the position.”
Harper wasn’t sure why she had reacted so negatively to the idea of marrying Eliot. It wasn’t like there was someone else. There had never been anyone else who mattered. Everyone who knew them, friends and family members, assumed they would marry someday, most likely when they managed to get closer together, geographically. That’s what Eliot assumed, obviously. Harper wasn’t so sure. She had tried, on occasion, to imagine life married to him, but she just couldn’t see it as something that could be labeled “family.” Even when they had lived together in college, they had lived like roommates, buddies in a way. Or maybe “friends with benefits.” It wasn’t Eliot’s fault. She knew full well what a traditional family consisted of, its mommy and daddy, couple of kids and their pets, but she had always known that there was something about that picture that didn’t suit her. She wasn’t sure why, and she didn’t know how to define a version that did suit her. She glanced over to where Eliot lay on his rock, looking dejected. Whenever she made a mental list of his attributes, his qualifications as a husband, he came out looking pretty good. He was a decent-looking man, kind and compassionate. He was smart and easygoing. And he loved her.
It was the way she felt about him that was the problem. There must be something wrong with her. Why couldn’t she fall in love with Eliot? Or somebody? She was thirty-one years old and had never felt the pain or joy of passionate desire for another person.
Looking at Eliot, his chin resting on his hands, Harper felt sorry for him and a little guilty. She reached into a pocket of her backpack and took out a package of miniature doughnuts, the kind with powdered sugar on them. Waving them in front of his face, she was rewarded with a little boy smile of delight. He sat up and took the doughnuts from her, happily unwrapping them.
Nothing came of the job in Hayward. Eliot never brought the subject up again. Harper decided that he had just been feeling her out and, after getting no encouragement, had let it drop. She was relieved. He had apparently just had a momentary attack of sentimentality.
Chapter 29
JULY 24
The special on Sophie Janssen was scheduled to air at eight o’clock on KQED. Harper had turned all of her material over to the San Francisco PBS station, then spent two days helping its film editors weave it into a cohesive production. She had been allowed into this process mainly as a courtesy, but it had enabled her to observe and learn. She did her best not to be a nuisance. The people she had dealt with were polite and respectful, and she had made a couple of good contacts. She had yet to view the final product, though. Like the rest of the Bay Area, she would see that for the first time this evening.
Deciding to prepare for her trip east with Sarah later in the week, she went into the guest room to get her suitcase from the closet. She discovered first that her suitcase was missing and then that Sarah’s clothes were gone. All of Sarah’s things were gone, she saw, inspecting the room more carefully. Sarah had left the house after breakfast, announcing that she was going to the public library. Nothing had seemed out of the ordinary at the time. Harper checked the time and, seeing that class was over for the day, called Chelsea at school. “What am I going to do?” she asked. “We’re supposed to be on a plane on our way to the Cape in two days.”
“Did she leave a note?” Chelsea asked.
“No.”
“Why do you suppose she’s done this?”
“The only reason I can think of is that she doesn’t want to go home.”
“I’ll come over as soon as I leave here. I’ve got some copying to get done before tomorrow, but it should just be a few more minutes.”
While waiting, Harper logged into her e-mail to see what Sarah had sent from her account. There were some short notes and photos sent to her sister and parents. Nothing to anyone else. If she was in contact with anyone, it was not through Harper’s e-mail account, which wasn’t much of a surprise.
By the time Chelsea arrived, Harper was distraught.
“Why didn’t I ask more questions?” she said. “I should have asked for names and addresses. I have no idea who these friends of hers are. Neil is going to kill me.”
“You were trying to give her some freedom,” Chelsea said gently.
“Obviously, I gave her too much.”
Chelsea pressed her lips together in an expression that indicated she agreed. “So we have nothing? No ideas at all?”
“I have only one idea. Maybe she went to Mary.”
“You could call her.”
“I think I should just go and check. If I call and she’s there, she’ll be alerted and might take off. I can’t afford to have her bolt on me.”
“You’ll have to do this on your own, Harper,” Chelsea said.
Harper nodded. She drove to Mary’s house and approached the door with apprehension. Since her last visit here, a lot had happened. She knew that Sarah had kept Mary informed to some extent. She certainly had to know that Chelsea was back in her life. She didn’t know what Mary’s attitude toward her was anymore, but she didn’t see how it could be friendly. A full minute after she rang the bell, the door opened. Mary stood in the doorway wearing a smock covered with paint smears and a scarf tied around her head, a short streak of lime green on her left cheek. Her expression was sour. “What is it now, Harper?” she asked, obviously irritated. She brushed the shock of silver hair from her forehead.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Mary, but I’m looking for Sarah.”
“She isn’t here.” Harper must have looked skeptical because Mary said, “Really, I haven’t seen her for a couple of days.”
“I think she’s run away.”
Mary raised one eyebrow. “From you, you mean?”
Harper nodded.
“Well, isn’t that a hoot! What’d you do to cause that?”
“I think she doesn’t want to go back home. Look, do you have any idea where she might have gone or with whom?”
Mary studied her for a moment, probably trying to decide whether or not to help. Then she sighed. “There’s a boy. Jake Starling. If she isn’t with him, he will know where she is. I’ve dropped her off there before. I can give you the address.”
“Oh, Mary, thank you so much.”
“Wait here. I�
�ll get it.”
Harper felt slightly frustrated that Mary knew about this boy and she didn’t. Was it because Sarah trusted Mary more? Was it because she viewed Mary as even less of a parent figure?
When Mary returned with a piece of paper and handed it to Harper, she said, “I understand you and Chelsea are back together.”
“Yes,” Harper said, avoiding Mary’s eyes as she took the paper.
“Well, enjoy yourself, Harper,” she said, with that curious smiling frown of hers, “while you can.”
She shut the door then, leaving Harper on the porch with her mouth open. What did she mean by that? Harper wondered. She left feeling a bit shaken. This situation had taken on mythic proportions for her long ago, filled as it was with associations with Orpheus and Eurydice. Now it seemed that Medea had entered the story. Medea, the bitter, spurned wife of Jason, who destroyed his new bride with a poisoned dress in a most gruesome murder. Medea, powerful and ruthless, who made sure Jason paid dearly for leaving her. Harper could still see the frightening illustration of her from her childhood book. Mary terrified her, Harper realized. Pure and simple, she was afraid of her and had been ever since Chelsea had returned to her two years ago. At the time, she had pictured Mary as some sort of enchantress who had a supernatural power over Chelsea. That was silly and Harper knew it. Mary was no witch, and Harper wasn’t afraid of a supernatural power. She was afraid of something entirely natural—the loyalty of a young woman whose first serious love wouldn’t release her.
