by Robbi McCoy
Alice returned to her chair and resumed her work. Harper peered at her thimble, absorbing its details. This was not a simple hobby, she thought. Her mother was an artist after all! How could she have dismissed her mother’s art? Sitting with her brush in hand, these glorious scenes in her head, she let the life force that was in her come out in a tiny stream of paint on porcelain. The creative spark burned within her and flourished.
Harper, struck with an idea, ran from the room. Danny still lounged on the sofa, now eating little cheese-flavored fish.
“Danny,” she said, startling him. One of the fish fell on the floor. “Where’s your video camera?”
“In my room,” he answered, tossing a fish into the air and catching it in his mouth. “On the dresser. Why?”
“Can I borrow it?”
“I guess so.”
She found the camera and returned to the rumpus room where her mother greeted her with slight irritation.
“Mom,” she explained, “I want to shoot you working. And then I’d like to interview you about your art. It’s a thing I do. Biographical videos of women artists.”
“I’m not somebody like that, Harper. Nobody’s heard of me. They’re just thimbles.”
“Please, Mom, I really want to do this.”
After a few minutes of arguing, Harper prevailed. She filmed her mother busy at her work, filmed her selfconscious discussion about how she got interested in thimble painting, how many she had done, what happened to them, where the ideas came from and, once Alice got involved in the interview and relaxed, a couple of anecdotes about particular thimbles. Harper managed to keep her talking for a good half hour, which wasn’t easy because it was obvious that Alice hadn’t ever discussed this with anyone before and didn’t have much insight into the why or the how of her art. She was accustomed to just saying “Thank you so much” when someone praised an individual thimble and that was it.
The next day, after digging clams, Harper went into town and coaxed Father Thomas and two church women into being interviewed, videotaping their praises of Alice’s thimble art.
“Alice’s thimbles are legendary around here,” Father Thomas said. “And we always sell out.”
All three of the interviewees had purchased one of the thimbles themselves, which they displayed for the camera, each one an incredibly vibrant testimonial to the creative force. Harper burned all of these interviews onto a CD to take home with her. Already she was hearing music in her head that would accompany the footage.
This wouldn’t be for her documentary series, obviously. It was for herself. She had discovered something new about her mother. This discovery made her think that she might not know her mother as well as she had thought. The fact that Alice Caitlin Harper Sheridan didn’t talk much about her dreams and flights of fancy didn’t mean that she didn’t have any. For some reason, she had always accepted her mother at face value only. She did that a lot, she realized. She had always had a problem seeing below the surface of people and situations or, rather, imagining below the surface. She didn’t much question things, just accepted them. This characteristic had led her down many interesting paths, some productive, some not. Perhaps it was time, she thought, to push herself past this limitation, to cultivate a more critical approach to life.
Chapter 33
AUGUST 6
“Harper!” cried Peggy over the phone. “Is it really you? Your mother told me you would be coming to visit this summer.”
“I come every summer. I’m just around the corner,” Harper said. “I was wondering if I could come over and say hi.”
“Sure! It’s been a long time. You won’t recognize me. I can’t wait to see you.”
The enthusiasm of Peggy’s response quelled any fears Harper had about lingering grudges. As soon as she hung up the phone, she changed into her sneakers and set out for Peggy’s house, just as she had done hundreds of times as a teenager.
The woman who opened the door was short and petite with a kind expression and ruddy cheeks. “Hi,” she said, smiling warmly. “I’m Chris.”
Harper shook her hand and came inside.
“Peg’s mentioned you many times over the years,” Chris said, “so it’s good to finally meet you.”
Chris called Peggy, who came in from the kitchen, a fuller-figured version of her teenage self. Harper recognized her immediately, however. Her eyes, mouth and facial expression were quintessentially Peggy. Her auburn hair was now cut quite short, which gave her an impish look. When she saw Harper, her eyes lit up and she reached out for her, hugging her tightly. Then they both stood grinning at one another.
“I’ll let you two talk,” Chris said. “I’ll check in on Kate. She’s probably wondering where her dinner is.”
Peggy led Harper to the family room, where they sat on the sofa. “Wow,” Peggy said, “you don’t look much different. Other than being older, of course.”
“I just turned thirty-nine,” Harper said, as if she couldn’t believe it herself.
“I know how old you are, silly. We’re the same age.”
“Yes, of course we are! So tell me everything you’ve done since college.”
Their conversation was lighthearted and lively as they recounted the intervening years since they had last seen one another. Peggy had settled in San Jose and had left a successful career to return to the Cape to care for her mother.
Chris brought them each a crab salad and turned on some lights, as it was now getting dark out. “Thanks, honey,” Peggy said, her gaze washing fondly over Chris.
She’s happy, Harper thought, feeling grateful and relieved. This was not something she had to feel guilty about any longer.
“To think that we’ve been just a few miles from one another all of these years,” Peggy marveled, sampling her salad. “We should have kept in touch.”
“It’s not too late. We can make a point of getting together during my summer visits.”
“Yes, we can. And while you’re here this year, let’s plan something. Chris, me, you and Danny. The four of us can go to a concert or up to Baker Point for the day or something.”
“That would be fun. This crab is delicious.”
“I caught it myself,” Chris said, proudly. “I’m learning how to be a New Englander.” She twirled around once on her toes like a ballerina, then returned to the kitchen.
“She seems really nice,” Harper said.
“She’s wonderful. We’ve been together nearly ten years.”
“Congratulations. Is she okay with living here, then?”
“Oh, sure. She wasn’t sure at first that she’d like it here, but she’s adjusting. I promised her we could go back to California if we want to in a few years. Depending on Mom, you know. We could take her with us too. It’s just harder for an older person to uproot.”
“Peggy,” Harper asked, “why did you want to go to California in the first place? I know you said you wanted to get as far from your family as possible, but I never understood that. I always thought you got along okay with your parents.”
“Well, I did, and I wanted to keep it that way. My mother was nothing like yours, Harper. She couldn’t have stomached it, the humiliation, the guilt, the despair even. As it was, I barely left in time. People were already talking. I couldn’t have lived here. It would have destroyed my parents. Mother, anyway.”
“You mean you went to California because you were gay?”
“Right. You hadn’t figured that out yet?”
“I didn’t know you knew it before college. You had boyfriends.”
Peggy laughed. “Well, sure. That’s just what a girl does in high school, while figuring things out. After all, you have to have somebody to take you to the prom. By the time I left home, I knew it absolutely, though. I thought you knew it too, on some level.”
“I was pretty dense.”
“Maybe it was something you didn’t want to know. After all, we were such good friends before Nate’s party.”
“I was really sorry
for hurting your feelings,” Harper said. “I was afraid you might still be hurt and wouldn’t want to see me, even now.”
Peggy tossed her head. “No, no,” she said, “it wasn’t your fault. I never blamed you for being straight. My God, how could I? And I really didn’t pine over it that much, Harper. Once you and Eliot got together, I just moved on. You were the one who avoided me, if you remember. I don’t blame you for being uncomfortable, though. But, when it comes right down to it, it wasn’t that big a deal. Right?”
Harper nodded. “Right,” she said. “Seemed like it at the time, though.”
“To me too. I was devastated. But that’s the way it is with nineteen-year-olds. By the way, what ever happened to Eliot?”
“Ah, well,” Harper said, “we lived together for a while during graduate school, and then we both got jobs, me in California, he in Washington.”
“So you broke up, then, after college?”
“We didn’t quite break up. We kept up a sort of part-time relationship. We saw each other in summers. Occasionally we got together other times of the year, but mainly in summer.”
“Oh, really. For how long did you try to keep that up?”
“Until two years ago, actually.”
Peggy stared in disbelief.“What! You and Eliot were together until two years ago?”
Harper nodded.“We both saw other people during the school year. It seemed to work for us for quite a while.”
“Wow, how absolutely Seventies chic. Then what made it stop working after all that time?”
Chris returned with a bottle of wine and glasses on a tray.
Harper opened her cell phone case and pulled out Chelsea’s picture. She handed it to Peggy, who looked thoughtfully at it. Then Peggy looked up and sighed. She shook her head and handed the photo to Chris.
“Who’s this?” Chris asked.
“Harper’s girlfriend,” Peggy said matter-of-factly.
Chris, surprised, turned her gaze to Harper. “I thought you said she was straight.”
“She thought she was,” Peggy explained.
Chris handed the photo back to Harper.
“You never were what we would call a quick study,” Peggy joked. “I guess you’re like the tortoise. You do get there eventually.”
“And, like the tortoise,” Chris added, “it looks like you won the trophy. That girl is hot.”
“Yes, she is,” Harper agreed.
Chris put three glasses on the coffee table. “Would you like some wine?”
“Sure.”
Chris filled the glasses, then sat on the floor next to Peggy, draping her arm over Peggy’s knees.
“Did you keep in touch with Nate?” Harper asked.
“Yes, I did, actually. I’ve seen him from time to time. Sweet guy. He’s gay too.”
“No!”
Peggy nodded, then turned to Chris and said, “Is this reminiscing boring you, honey?”
“No, no. It’s always interesting to meet your lover’s first objet d’amour.” Chris raised her glass to Harper.
“But you,” Peggy said, placing a hand on Chris’s shoulder, “are my last.”
They looked natural together, a compatible and comfortable couple.
“To prove it,” Chris said, “we’re getting married this fall.”
“Yes!” Peggy said. “Too bad you won’t be here then, Harper. You could come.”
“I could make a special trip,” Harper suggested. “Send me an invitation. I’ll do my best to come.”
“Tell us all about your girlfriend,” Peggy said. “And don’t leave out anything.”
When the wine was gone and Harper was more or less caught up to the present, she asked to see Peggy’s mother. Kate was sitting in an armchair in her bedroom, watching television. She didn’t remember who Harper was, but she was friendly. She seemed pleased to have a visitor. She had grown smaller and pale, and her eyes didn’t focus very well. Harper chatted with her for several minutes before taking hold of her hand and saying, “I’ll be going now. It was nice to see you again, Kate.”
“Thank you for coming,” she said to Harper, and then, looking around the room, said, “Where’s Chris? She was going to bring me some milk.”
“I’ll remind her, ”Harper said before leaving. It was interesting, she thought, that Chris had become the most important person in Kate’s life. She wasn’t a relative and at one time she had been entirely objectionable, but now she was indispensable and possibly the last person Kate would be able to recognize.
Harper walked back home in the dark to her parents’ house, remembering with a certain wistfulness how comfortably Peggy and Chris had moved together in the same space, their unity apparent in every look, every word, every touch. No one could be in the same room with them and doubt that they were in love. Harper felt hopeful and anxious to get home. More than anything else, she decided, that was what she now wanted for herself with Chelsea.
Chapter 34
AUGUST 9
When she found out the morning of August 9 that her August 10 flight had been canceled, Harper scrambled to switch to an earlier flight. She managed to get one that would arrive that evening. Her departure from Cape Cod had to be rushed, but that was her choice, to leave earlier than anticipated rather than later. While Danny drove her to the airport, she called Chelsea’s apartment, leaving a message explaining about the earlier flight. Chelsea must have left for work already. Harper called her cell and left another message.
Once the plane was on its way west, she retrieved her thimble from her carry-on. What a little masterpiece, she thought again, examining it. She had no doubt that her mother had been thinking of her when she painted that girl with the lyre. She had called it “Harmony,” and it did appear to represent at least two dimensions of that concept—musical accord and harmony with the world. The musician appeared to be playing among the clouds, above the earth. Her music encircled the planet like a protective shell.
The image of the musician as protector left Harper thoughtful. To her, the minstrel had always been a solitary figure, a freethinking, unencumbered seeker of truth, channeling wisdom from the seers to the common air through song—channeling, but not necessarily absorbing or even understanding.
And yet this little lyre player seemed to be accepting responsibility for uniting the whole world. She was not a passive conduit. There was no one else in the scene, not another person— a composer, for instance—or even God, which she might have expected from her mother. The little musician was holding the world together all by herself.
Harper knew that her mother had not been thinking these things while painting the scene. Alice produced thimble scenes out of the wordless part of herself. While she studied the details of the thimble, Harper noticed that there was a minuscule object hanging from the belt of the lyre player. She squinted, trying to see what it was. At last she was able to make out a heart-shaped fob on a chain, a locket that was partially open to reveal an image of a girl or a long-haired boy. Smaller details were not possible on this scale. It was astonishing enough that anything at all could be conveyed on this scale.
So the lyre player wasn’t alone, after all, she realized. She had a beloved, the inspiration for the song. Alice was a romantic! This thimble was like a passionate epic poem, telling a story about a minstrel enveloping the planet in a song of peace, protecting and watching over it because she loved someone who lived there. And that, thought Harper, was the story of humanity, of parents and children, of lovers, of heroes and their charges.
Wow, Harper thought. My mother created all of that! Harper would have liked to have called her mother and discussed these ideas, but she knew that wasn’t possible. All of this resided in her mother’s subconscious. Alice created her scenes in the same way that Harper played music, with emotion, not thought.
The point of art, Harper thought, was to communicate that emotion with another human being. That had to be the point, ultimately. It was true of poetry and painting and music. The artist
produced an object that represented her soul. In that respect, art really did express the artist’s authentic self. Harper realized that she had come full circle, but she thought she had arrived at some conclusion this time. Art might not be nature, but it was as close as humans could get to understanding one another on a natural, gut level. The thimble that Harper held in her hand told her more about her mother than any conversation they had ever had. She recalled something a guest soloist with the symphony once said during a pre-performance interview: “I’d have no means of expressing truth without music.” The most interesting thing about that was that the “truth” was unique for every artist, which ran counter to the usual assumptions people made about the truth.
Harper pictured her mother maneuvering her tiny paintbrush and noticed that she was hearing music in her head again. But the music wasn’t familiar to her. It was something new. It was composing itself in her mind. She took a notebook out of her bag and started writing down notes. This was the music that was playing behind the scenes of her mother’s art. Ironic, Harper thought, rapidly transcribing the music in her head onto paper. My mother has become my muse after all.
Arriving without incident several hours later, Harper checked her phone. There were no messages. She called Chelsea’s cell phone while waiting at the baggage carousel.Still no answer.“I’m home!” she exclaimed into the phone. “I mean, I’m at the airport. I’ll be home in half an hour.” Excitement, barely under control, twitched in her muscles as she anticipated being reunited with her lover. When she got to her house, she checked her voice mail. Nothing of interest there. It was five o’clock. Chelsea should have been off work at least an hour by now.
Harper showered and changed her clothes. Having still gotten no call from Chelsea, she called her cell phone again and left another message telling her that she would wait for her at her apartment. Then she left the house. Harper had known for quite awhile that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with Chelsea. She planned to tell her that soon, perhaps even tonight. She let herself into Chelsea’s apartment with her key. She wasn’t home. The light on the answering machine was blinking, indicating a new message. When Harper played it, she heard her own message telling Chelsea that she was coming home early. The machine then reported in its mechanical voice that there was one old message, which began to play. Harper was about to press Skip when she recognized the voice of Mary Tillotson.
