by Anne Fall
"Marie!" Sylvia was startled and knocked over her water glass.
"Oh, dear, darling. Let me get a towel. I'll clean that up." Her mother stood hastily, shaking the table with a jostle from her knees, and leaving her napkin fallen to the floor. It looked like something shot out of the sky to Sylvia at the time. Marie did not come out of the kitchen, and the water spread out to make the white tablecloth translucent in a large circle around Sylvia's plate.
"Sylvia, are you there?" Her mother's voice broke through.
"I'm sorry, yes, I'm here, Mama. The phone has static on the line."
"I asked, I asked if you're okay?" Her mother's voice asked for absolution.
"Yes, of course I'm okay. Are you and Daddy okay? Mama, are you still having a divorce?" Sylvia asked the question unflinchingly, exhausted with having to pretend she did not understand what was happening to them all.
"Yes. Your father has moved out. He took his things…" Marie's voice drifted away and back.
"I have to go, Mama. The phone, I can barely hear you." Was this the first time she had lied to her mother? What did it mean? Deception appeared as a new language of protection she was learning, something she never had use for in her past.
"Yes, of course you do. I love you, Sylvia. I love you so much. It will all be settled soon, and you'll come home to me. I love you." Who did she speak to, Sylvia wondered? It was not her but maybe a memory or a thought that had been conceived of her by her mother a long time ago.
The morning sunlight filtered through the shutters over the library windows. Standing, Sylvia walked to them and opened the shutters in the four windows, allowing the sunlight to enter in a brilliant slap. She examined the titles on the shelves, most of which were books on intolerably solemn topics and bound in leather. Underneath all those, in a low bookcase with glass doors, Sylvia found a series of novels with gold and irrevocably feminine script on the binding.
She opened one and began to read, sitting on the floor. It was a passé story of a girl and a man. It was one of those simple stories where it would all end prettily, but to Sylvia, it was original. That was the first time she had ever held a romance novel in her hands.
Eventually, Sylvia moved to the leather sofa and stretched out, her pale head resting on a dark pillow. The story was becoming heated when Hanna walked in. At first, she did not speak, regarding the young woman so languidly displayed on the couch.
"Brunch is about to be served in the dining room." Sylvia sat up with a shot of surprise straightening her spine forward.
"Oh, thank you, Hanna. I'll wash up and be right in." She slipped the book behind the pillow, as she wasn't sure she could take the book with her. She felt vaguely guilty.
The clatter of dishes in the dining room punctuated conversation with sharp staccato notes. Sylvia entered calmly and waited in the arched entrance until she was noticed. Catherine and Vivian were still in their robes, and they looked like butterflies at a flower. Catherine was buttering a croissant, and Vivian silently gazing out the window. The table stretched and stretched, but there were only four of them: Catherine, Eric, Adam, and Vivian.
"Sylvia, good morning. Did you sleep well? Please, come help yourself. Breakfast is on the sideboard." Adam spoke to her deafeningly.
"I slept very well, thank you." Her response was low, barely audible even in the sudden silence her presence commanded.
"Oh, my head! Good morning, Sylvia." Catherine spoke sweetly, innocently, as she rubbed her temples. "What a night it was, my God! Vivian, what time did you go to bed?"
"Well after two o'clock this morning. It was a success, wasn't it?" Her face lit up, but something danced dimly around her this morning. It may have been regret. One cannot be both a moth and a butterfly.
"It was. Only you can throw such a party. What talent! Am I right, gentlemen?" Catherine flattered her brazenly, and Sylvia could not help wondering how much Catherine's fawning held their friendship together.
"You are, as always, right, Catherine. Vivian outdoes herself for these events." Adam smiled on his audience, pleased with the cleverness of his wife.
"I can be creative with my little parties." Vivian said this wistfully, too sadly, and corrected herself immediately. "But, that's because I'm not artistic, like Eric. How is the painting coming?" Eric laid down his knife without a sound.
"It's coming quite well. You'll be pleased, Vivian. The light upstairs is perfect at midday."
"Ah, well, I put you in the largest bedroom with most windows. You should really take over another bedroom for your work. I don't know why you won't." Vivian said this moodily, as if she had been insulted in some way.
"I get lost in that room as it is. We're very happy there." Eric watched her cautiously, gauging the weight of his words to keep them light.
"But, Sylvia, did we keep you up all night? You must have had quite a time of it trying to sleep? Next time she should come, Vivian. She could have a glass of wine?" Catherine deliberately asked the question candidly, already amused by Vivian's practised shock.
"Certainly not. She is only fourteen, Catherine, as you know, but she may come to the party. It is to be in her honor, after all." Vivian sat up straighter with this pronouncement. "Mrs. Overbrook's granddaughter is with her this year. I think Sylvia would find her delightful." Sylvia, who was seated now, marveled at how the conversation could be focused on her without any requirement of a response. She simply let them follow each other, chase each other around the table with a plain fixed smile on her face.
Sylvia sipped water from the daintily stemmed glass that gave her something to look at other than the four of them. Leaning forward slightly to put it down, her uncle unexpectedly called out to her, mercilessly animated.
"Sylvia, have you been down to the beach yet?" The strength of his comment startled her, and she almost knocked over her glass. She immediately moved back to another dining room, another spilled glass, and an immediate intake of breath caught in her throat. Out of nowhere, Eric stood, leaned across the table and put his hand on the already stable glass. How quickly he moved, Sylvia thought to herself. He held the glass a second, rotating it carefully. His fingernails were translucent and pink. On the edge of the cuff of his sleeve, there was a stain of red paint. She focused on it, breathed in and out until he sat down.
"Thank you, Eric." She should not have used his first name; it was a social blunder that pained her aunt, but she didn't even know their last names. "I'm sorry, what did you say, Uncle Adam?"
"The beach. Have you been down to the beach yet?" Perhaps he only speaks loudly to me, Sylvia thought. Sometimes, she had noticed that adults insisted on speaking to the elderly and children as if they were deaf.
"No, not yet Uncle Adam, I would like to go down today. Maybe after lunch I will take a walk." Her tone was light, buoyant while their eyes focused on her. What did they want? What question were they waiting for her to answer? Did they want her to reassure them, like her mother? To tell them she was happy? How could she convince them of something she was so uncertain of herself?
"Ah, sounds right to me. I love a walk in the afternoon. We should all go." Adam eyed the room as if they were already dodging the idea. "We will go."
"Yes, Adam. That would be lovely. We'll do a picnic of wine, cheese, and crackers, like the old days." Vivian smiled, already planning the event in her thoughts.
"I've always loved the ocean at around two o'clock. The sea changes then. Have you ever noticed that, Sylvia?" Eric's words unnerved her even further, and she paused before she spoke, trying to find the way to match the seriousness and adultness of his tone without compromising the shelter of her youth.
"No, but I know the mountains do at home. There are more shadows and depth."
Eric's smile appeared and then vanished." She has an artist's eyes already."
Sylvia was unable to respond, and Catherine cleared her throat.
They walked down to the sea that afternoon together. Beach umbrellas were carried by the men, towels scat
tered against the canvas of the sand with bright shades. Two bottles of chilled white wine were nestled in towels. Looming behind them, the house watched them go down to the water. Sylvia lagged behind, shy in the near nudity of her bathing suit. Catherine and Vivian walked arm in arm. Complementary, they were opposite and becoming to each other like flowers in a bouquet or shades on a fabric. Her mind was constantly trying to make comparisons here. It felt so new, everything. Both Catherine and Vivian wore their hair hidden under a swimming cap and bathing suits in primary colors. They reminded her of the paintings in her bedroom.
Sylvia's hair hung down her back. She should have thought to pin it up, but she was not familiar with the beach. Her bathing suit, while made of quality materials and design, was simply not as stylish as theirs. How could she possibly stand next to them, naked like this?
"Sylvia, hurry up!" Catherine called out to her, beckoning her forward to them. With her heart thrusting color into her face, she dashed past the two men and stood between Catherine and Vivian. What did they mean to do to her?
"So young, so fresh. To be that young again! Am I right, Vivian?" Catherine's coyness floated around her like silk scarves, obscuring her intentions at times.
"Yes. We must plan this party for her, Catherine. Won't you take her into town and help her find some more suitable clothes? She's too old for these childish clothes, don't you think?"
"I do. I think that would be very correct of you, Vivian." Catherine turned her face so only Sylvia could see it and winked. "Some proper undergarments, I think, would help." Catherine announced her advice too loudly, pleased by Sylvia's reaction.
"I think, I think I'll walk for a little bit." Pulling away from the two of them, she listened to their laughter follow her along the shore. Once she was a safe distance away, Sylvia stopped and looked back at them. Eric stood between the two women, facing the sea while they fawned over him. Adam, for his part, wrestled the unused umbrellas deeply into the sand, safely occupied with his physical exertion.
The trio, standing with their toes in the waves, looked too intimate to her, but she could not see why. They had known each other for some time, Catherine and Vivian for almost a lifetime. Maybe there was an intimacy that grew from that, one she couldn't understand yet because she had not had it.
The sun, so suggestive and primal on the beach, seemed to hang and swing in the afternoon sky— the pendulum of a clock. The concept of time passing too quickly kept Sylvia torn; great change speeds up time. Who was she supposed to be now? Before, she had just judged herself in the eyes of her mother, in the response on her mother's face, in the touch of her hand. But her mother was not here. There were only these people who seemed like characters in a book she was reading, the ocean and sun watching them.
Eric walked to Sylvia intentionally, and the women turned to watch the scene that would ensue. His figure approached slowly, bringing with it the only sense of shade on the searing expanse of the beach. Sylvia felt frightened, of what, she could not say, but there was something here, flexing muscle under the surface of skin. She quickly pushed and smoothed out the sand castle she had been building thoughtlessly.
"You look alarmed." The statement brought her back to poise, something the approach of his presence had taken from her.
"I am not." Deliberately turning her face away, she tried to deny his eyes their scrutiny. "What is it that you paint?" She thrust disdain into her voice, the only act of fortification she knew with which she could shelter herself.
"I paint everything. This year, the sea." In the heat of the day, he did not seem to sweat while she could feel the temperature pulling it from her skin, draining her. The silence between them stretched, and Sylvia clenched and unclenched her hands, wishing to hide somewhere, but there was nowhere but there in his shade.
"Do you like it here?" Sylvia asked for the simple need of shaking the silence away from her, but the answer was too honest, just as he was always too honest and would not let her gain any ground with the shield of propriety.
"No, not at all." He laughed and then stopped abruptly. "I am here because Catherine is here." Turning back, he watched Catherine stretching a long leg out to flick the foaming of the sea from the pinnacle of her toes. "She's beautiful, isn't she?"
"She is. She makes me feel like a child." Sylvia flushed as she spoke, but her voice was an instrument she was learning to use.
"You are still a child." The statement sounded like sails slapping in the wind, and it took her a moment to find a response.
"For an artist, you don't see much." She stood, sand clinging to her everywhere and walked, furiously fighting the drain the sand had on her physical strength.
"Sylvia, where are you going?" Vivian called out to her, her soft voice carried and mussed by the wind. Pausing briefly, Sylvia turned back.
"It's too hot, the heat. I can't…" Her voice trailed off, and she broke into a run, defying the might of the sand with the vitality of her youth. Without slowing her pace, Sylvia ran back to the house, up the staircase and to her bedroom, leaving sand in a trail. She stripped away the clinging weight of her bathing suit and stood naked in the room. Without dressing, Sylvia walked to the window and pulled the curtain back. She stood naked, watching them on the beach. No one looked back.
In the bath, Sylvia washed away the sand from her body. The water in the tub moved with her, enveloped her and rocked her like a cradle. Her thoughts stirred like blameless ships on the sea, unaware of what swam beneath her actions. When the bath was drained, grains of sand remained in a long trail. She used her hand and pushed them, rushed them toward the drain, and afterwards shook her hand frantically to remove the clinging sand.
CHAPTER 3
The week drifted past Sylvia in a haze of boredom, broken up by the romance novel, interrupted by meals with the four adults. They spoke and lived as if Sylvia were not among them except as an indulged whimsy of Vivian’s. The party, her coming out party, was being planned. The idea of it exhausted her, and she wondered how she would smile through it. A deep sadness was coming over her, a new gloom that she could not lift from her features.
One late afternoon, Catherine took her shopping downtown. Vivian had liberally supplied them with more money than they could possibly spend, and Sylvia felt sick with the presence of it. Catherine bought Sylvia a bright hula hoop at a gift shop, and Sylvia carried it, rolling it along the sidewalks, wondering what in the world to do with it while they shopped. They walked the length of the downtown district through shop after shop. It was a town that thrived strictly on the glut of the tourists who wanted their presence to mean something. They bought little bits of remembrances—shells, snow globes, picture frames that they would struggle to pack later. Most of them were what Vivian would call weeklys—people who traveled and stayed two weeks at most on the shoreline. The streets were only mildly crowded, and the sunlight made it look like an imperfect painting littered on the borders with cigarette butts and sunburns. Women clothed in summer dresses in pastel shades held the sticky hands of children who joyously jumped and pointed at the displays in the storefront windows. Sylvia watched as a little boy proudly left a toy store carrying a replica of a sailboat. His delighted hands had already wrecked the sail. A group of young girls, supervised by a grey haired woman, sat on a small retaining wall enjoying the largest lollipops Sylvia had ever seen. Their skinny legs hung over the side of the wall, like twigs bleached in the sunlight. Even here away from the ocean shores, seagulls perched on the roofs and fences. They disconcerted Sylvia, and she felt like they were watching her, ravenous. At last, they came to the final boutique. Sylvia realized that Catherine knew that this is where they would purchase all along. The entire afternoon had been leading to this moment.
A thin woman of about forty approached them. She was well and neatly dressed with sharp pointed black heels. Her eyes sparkled at Catherine, knowing her from previous expeditions.
"Why, Catherine. Where ever did you find this angelic girl? She's lovely." The saleswo
man had eyes that measured while she examined Sylvia's height and figure.
"She is an angel, isn't she? She's Vivian's niece, Sylvia Hinshaw. This is Julia, Sylvia." Catherine smiled, laughing out loud at the expression on Sylvia's face. "Sylvia's a little nervous."
"How do you do, Julia?" Sylvia stood as straight as she could, holding her hands behind her back.
"She has a figure, a little tall, but divine. Tell me, how old are you?" The inquiring eyes were kind, trying to establish whom exactly she was dressing.
"I'm fourteen." Turning away, Sylvia fingered the fabric of a nearby blouse. It was smooth, a white silk, and her fingers traveled the dusty smooth length of it.
"What a beauty at fourteen. Yes, she needs clothes that better describe her; am I right, Catherine?"
"Yes, I think so. Let's make her over, Julia." The saleswoman glowed under the comment, rising to the occasion.
Clothing was draped over her frame, too tightly. Her breasts were bound into undergarments of which she had never partaken. The two women stood looking at her in the dressing room, touching her waist and her hips in admiration.
"What a beauty. What a beauty she will be. I have just the thing, just the thing. Wait." Julia disappeared for a moment, and Catherine stepped behind Sylvia, pulling her shoulders back.
"Look at yourself. You will never be this beautiful again." Catherine's hands lingered on her shoulders, touching her collarbone and enjoying the effect of herself standing behind Sylvia.
Julia reentered with a white pearl on a gold chain. It was simple, but when the two women stood behind her clasping it around her neck, the necklace took on another meaning. It was obvious, even to her.
Afterwards, Catherine took her to get an ice cream cone. Inside the candy store, Sylvia was dazzled by the array of candies. Bright and dark, smooth and speckled, the surfaces of the delights called to her, begged to be tasted. Not only did Sylvia get a strawberry ice cream cone, but she filled small bags with a variety of candies for herself and bought them with the pocket money her mother had sent with her. Outside, in the sunshine, she and Catherine sat on a park bench, laughing and licking their ice cream cones in the deep steaming shade of a tree just next to the candy store. Suddenly, they were friends and the fear was gone from Sylvia.
