The Fountain of St. James Court; Or, Portrait of the Artist as an Old Woman

by Sena Jeter Naslund

  “An old Chevy, got a salvage door on the side,” Royce said. “Out-of-state plates.”

  Ryn sat down. She felt drained. Dizzy with fear. She started to ask if they thought he’d be back, but nobody could know about that. Marie sat down, too. With her dustcloth, she automatically rubbed one of the bronze Egyptian busts that topped the front legs of the chairs and settee. “He might be planning to come back,” Marie said without looking at Ryn. Ryn understood: Marie was warning her.

  “How did he seem?”

  “The same. Same as before.” Marie paused. “Nice looking. Mean.”

  Ryn remembered Jerry’s face. His intensity, his narrow keen features. When she first met him and his hair was black, she had thought Jerry looked like a muscular young Chopin. An incongruous appearance. But she had liked him; he was intelligent, a pleasant conversationalist interested in a range of subjects, eager to make a good impression. But he had turned out to be abusive; he indulged his rage, frustration, and disappointment on people who could not possibly defend themselves. On Humphrey. But Humphrey had had the courage to leave him. Finally. Without having been told any of that, Marie knew a menace when she saw one.

  “Why you think that man coming back by here?” Marie asked.

  Ryn gave no answer.

  Stunned, Ryn got up to wander the house. It had been three years since she last saw Jerry, in Atlanta.

  Jerry is looking for Humphrey, she could have replied.

  Pieces of furniture brought up from Alabama calmed her bewilderment: her father’s clock with its two stacked round faces. Solemn Roman numerals told the twelve hours; crowded Arabic ones circled the days of the month. At least Humphrey was in Sweden. She imagined hearing the clock clear its throat before striking, but she had not heard that sound since she was a girl. The room seemed to darken. The pendulum disk hung still as a full moon. Her eye moved to her mother’s piano, a Baldwin with a beautiful bass sound.

  So Jerry the would-be destroyer had come back to Louisville. Yes, light was draining from the house, all the colors going gray. Once he had said to Ryn, Any contest between you and me over Humphrey, I win.

  As nonchalantly as possible, as though not even a feather were ruffled, she had gazed at his hawklike nose and replied, Of course. But her heart had drummed in her chest as fast as a sparrow’s. Her reply had been politically savvy, she knew. What Jerry had said was true.

  Wandering through the kitchen, she stopped to take an apple from the bowl centered on the table. She stepped down onto the floor tiles of the sunporch, where light was always brighter. Here the light held a melding of inner and outer worlds, but now it was not strong enough, not real enough to meet Ryn’s need. She needed outdoors again. Quietly she unlocked the back door and slipped out onto the deck.

  Golden brown. Very little was left of summer. Her gaze surveyed the remains of the perennial bed beside the blue-green swimming pool. Near the deck she registered a late spurt of richest ruby from the Ingrid Bergman, the tall hybrid tea of her first rose garden. I always promised myself a rose garden, she thought. She drew in the heavy fragrance of the lavender rose, Heritage. She bit into the waxy red of her apple.

  Where have you gone before for help? Not here. Not to Nature in its backyard manifestation.

  She remembered only last month when she had knelt in her bedroom to pray for the life of her dying friend, someone she had known since childhood. She, a writer who had not prayed for years (except when she thought Humphrey in danger), had prayed on her knees, not to God, for she could not pronounce that name, but to the universe. Dear Universe, she had actually uttered, sotto voce. And she had asked for the life of Lallie, dying.

  The apple was soft, but not mealy, thank goodness; remembering Lallie, she chewed. Full of flavorful juice; white inside and deep red outside, those colors speaking essence of apple. Like a cow with a cud, she chewed. Lallie would have smiled at the comparison. Lallie, whom Ryn remembered as a wiry girl of ten or eleven, her hair in two thick black braids, her dark eyes full of girlish, wry intelligence, Nancy’s close friend. Young woman Lallie in her wedding dress, leaning forward to cut her cake, her brow as pure and as graciously curved as any Madonna by Michelangelo. Lallie in her sixties, costumed as Virginia Woolf, as Woolf had appeared in the photograph on the cover of Hermione Lee’s great biography, even with a cigarette held jauntily at the end of a long black stem, ready for a joke.

  Lallie. Dead now. Lying in her coffin. Her animated zest for every moment, stilled. Gone.

  What had Tillich written? Ryn looked out toward the fence at the back of her garden, past the warm swimming pool to the bronze crepe myrtles planted in a row in front of the high fence. She lifted her gaze to regard—higher than rooftops—her across-the-alley neighbor’s half-bare tree of heaven billowing sparse yellow, big as a cumulus cloud. Not October blue, but a paler, thinner blue, this western sky beyond the rooftops. Yes, this was the color of the thin day-veil that masked the dark universe.

  Paul Tillich, the theologian, had written of the God beyond God; the God that appears when God disappears. Perhaps he meant the universe beyond the Hebrew sky god. A problem had been the persistence of the old word God used for Tillich’s new idea of God, she decided. But what was the right metaphor? Clearly Tillich had chosen the word God hopefully, wanted it to serve as bridge, not barrier.

  Again she bit into the satisfying apple.

  Ah, she had it; at last she had it! Already she had had the new term, though she hadn’t recognized it. Now she had come to that place again and recognized what she had half understood and uttered for the first time in praying for Lallie: dear Universe. The God beyond God was the merging of metaphor and actuality: that vastness and magnificence ratified by science, its distant wonders brought to us by the long eye of the Hubble telescope, called the universe. Dear Universe; dear for the necessary anthropomorphic touch. (Had Jerry really been inside her home?)

  Anybody could get to Sweden, if determined.

  Fear, now and immediate, for the safety of beloved Humphrey, her only begotten son, was what had caused her metaphysical mind to leap. As it had when she feared for Lallie’s life.

  So God’s best name was Universe, not as an abstraction but as a vivid and visible, yet illimitable and incomprehensible, reality. Behold! Yes, that was what the eye was for. No wonder she had prayed to the all-encompassing, ever-fecund vastness of space. Perhaps she could do it again—whatever. Imagine ultimate realities? And more successfully? she hoped, ruefully.

  For now, there was the tasty juice of apple, the commingling of red and white, and the sight of her garden, which would be even better next year (God willing she should live so long and be well), and behind her, her home that she loved, in the neighborhood that suited her the best of any of the world, that contained Daisy close at hand on Belgravia and Leslie just across the Court on the other side of the fountain. Friends! Friends who were neighbors; many neighbors who were genuinely friendly. Here was a home that sheltered her father’s clock and her mother’s piano, her aunt’s china cabinet and her grandmother’s rocking chair, the artwork of her son, the books written by her friends and brothers. And most of the books she had read and loved since she was a child were treasured here, waiting on the shelves in her library, just one arched doorway away from her bed. Freedom! Freedom and home were here, now.

  And what of that bed? Gigantic, expansive, a ship, a plump-pillowed cloud, that bed.

  Here outdoors on the deck was the bright air of harvest all around her, and the blossoms of red roses bigger than ever, swollen with the perfection of their form.

  She bowed her head in gratitude. She smiled. This gratitude was for her last husband, the most recent and the most unforgiven, who let her buy the house from him, over five years. Never mind what else had disappointed and hurt her of his doing. At least never mind for this moment.

  A sharp and happy yip followed by an arf, then quick footsteps, sounded from the brick walkway on the north side of the house that connected the fr
ont with the back. Janie and Tide had returned home from their outing.

  Though not yet visible to Ryn, Janie’s voice called out, “Fair game! You’re outside!”

  “How did you know?” Ryn called.

  “Tide told me, of course.” The rush of young woman and guide dog, her hand on his stiff harness, came around the side of the house into view. Tide was the russet color of an autumn leaf, short-haired, some sort of hunting breed.

  “Arf is dog for Ryn?”

  Janie laughed her exuberant, bubbling laugh. “Nope. Body language. He gave the Ryn-wiggle all down his back. I felt it.” As they flurried up the wooden steps to the deck, Tide leaned eagerly into his harness. His friendly tongue (broader and warmer than that of elegant Royal) licked Ryn’s hand; the swift, accurate arms of Janie gave her a hug as though they were two schoolgirls. Yes, there was always something younger than her age about Janie. Was it because the blindness had come upon her when she was only twelve that her viewpoint and enthusiasms remained young? And Janie always treated Ryn as though she were younger than her sixty-nine years, as though Ryn were full of unspent life.

  But the question Janie asked, “Are you feeling all right, Ryn?” held concerned anxiety and compassionate maturity in its tone.

  “How did you know I was upset?”

  “The way Tide licked your hand. He gave you the healing lick, instead of the happy lick. The caring lick. Also by your voice.”

  Janie held a flimsy plastic bag with two heavy cartons of milk and a can of something; the strap of her purse crossed her slim, strong body.

  “Tide ought to be canonized as a saint.”

  Janie replied that Ryn shouldn’t flatter the dog, and Ryn said that an old friend of Humphrey’s had come to the door and asked Marie about their whereabouts. “Actually, an enemy now,” she added.

  “You’re not afraid of him, are you?” Janie asked.

  “A little. More for Humphrey than for me.”

  “But Humphrey’s not here.”

  “I don’t want to see Jerry. He’ll want to know where Humphrey is, and I won’t want to tell, which will make him angry. I don’t want to have a confrontation.”

  “You’re right, you can’t tell,” Janie said. “Not if you’re afraid he might hurt Humphrey.”

  How quick and to the point she was. In agreement, Ryn lifted her eyebrows, as though Janie could see the gesture. Still, Ryn thought she probably had nothing to fear, though Jerry had hurt Humphrey physically. She knew she had a tendency toward paranoia, especially toward men about whom she herself harbored some violent feelings, men from whom she turned firmly away because they had betrayed her trust.

  “You have to trust yourself,” Janie said passionately. “Trust your intuitions.”

  That was the world in which Janie, not Ryn, lived. Janie’s world hung from the thread of heightened sensitivity to touch, sound, odor, taste—the slight rattle or the whiff of a particular aroma, the shift in the terrain under her feet, subtle signals concerning if not Janie’s safety then the nature of her surroundings that a sighted person could ignore.

  “Is this a day to make potato soup?” Janie asked cordially. Her voice had a juiciness to it, like an autumn-crisp apple, not a potato.

  “Not cold enough,” Ryn replied. “We’ll do it after Thanksgiving.”

  “But before Christmas,” Janie urged. “It can be our Christmas present to each other.”

  “Perfect.” Ryn recalled that Janie had no spare money for presents, and yes, the soup would be delicious; they’d freeze individual or double-size portions, have its mealy savoriness through January and February.

  “The leaves are good and crunchy underfoot,” Janie said.

  “Do the squirrels tempt Tide?”

  “No, he’s a good boy, aren’t you, Tidy?”

  “Do you think he’d bark if somebody tried to get in the house? In my part?”

  “I don’t know.” Her voice expressed perfect doubt. It tilted toward neither a subtle yes nor a cautionary no. The timbre of her speaking held a precise balance. “I guess you need to work now?”

  “I finished the book last night,” Ryn said. “Yves, the Frenchman from Montgomery, is coming up to visit.”

  “I wish I could read your book right now,” Janie said rapidly, and then, without pause, added, “Has Yves been here before?” Janie had rented the upstairs apartment for only the last year.

  Absentmindedly, Ryn shook her head. And then said, “No.” Once before he had canceled on the very day scheduled for his arrival.

  “I didn’t think so. Then I know you need to get ready,” Janie added cheerfully.

  With one fluid gesture, she and Tide turned. Smooth as synchronized clocks, they stepped down the wooden stairs from the deck to the brick patio. Before rounding the corner of the house Janie called back, “It’s great you finished the novel.”

  Staring into the thinness of air, at the empty corner where her friend and tenant had disappeared, Ryn suddenly called out, “Have you ever fired a gun?”

  All in an instant Janie and Tide suddenly materialized again, standing there on the brick patio beside the corner of the house.

  “Ryn, if you ever feel afraid,” Janie said, “just yell as loud as you can. We’ll be down the inside stairs in a flash.”

  “Have you ever fired a gun?”

  “Do you have a gun?” Janie asked.

  “Yes, Ellen gave me one the last time I visited her in Alabama. She said she used to go anywhere she pleased at night, with the gun in her raincoat pocket. She gave me some bullets, and she had me practice loading it, but I didn’t fire it. She said I ought to take a class; the police give lessons at a firing range.”

  “You should take the lessons,” Janie encouraged. With the tip of her tongue she seemed to taste the air, then lick her lips. “Daddy taught me how to shoot, before I lost my sight. At ten, I was an expert marksman.”

  The words dissolved into the air; the air became fluid and bore them away. They left the two women standing in their space, the older woman on the wooden deck, the younger woman, with her wavy black hair, slender, graceful, strong, standing on the bricks. Her hand rested lightly on the hoop of the stiff leather harness worn by her dog.

  Slowly Kathryn added, “I’m actually a very good shot. I found out accidentally. James and I were on a ship crossing the Atlantic. He wanted to trapshoot off the fantail. I was amazed because I hadn’t touched a gun since I was a child. I never missed. Or, rather I quit before I ever missed. He called me Annie Oakley.”

  PORTRAIT

  MY NEW STEPFATHER is a man who wears my father’s clothes, without even taking them to the tailor for alteration. My father’s clothes are much too large for my mother’s new husband. And yet he is a jeweler and doesn’t want for money. In addition, as is his right by law, he takes for himself all the commissions I earn.

  I tell myself it doesn’t matter. It is the painting itself I love. I would probably do it for free. In a sense, I am painting the portraits of foreign visitors and important members of society for free, since I receive no remuneration. My mentor, the painter Joseph Vernet, is in a fury about the greed of my mother’s husband, and he has advised me to grant my stepfather, whom I hate, an annuity under the condition that I am to keep some of my earnings for myself.

  It is my mother whom I love, and I have painted a new portrait of her in oils that is the talk of Paris. I wanted to capture all her ripe vividness, but in a way that makes her almost veiled, mysterious. I am afraid that my stepfather might make my mother miserable in some way if I withheld anything monetary from him. My loyalty to her is unswerving because I see that she needs it. Perceiving that she has not chosen well, I vow never to do anything through my own behavior to give her discomfort.

  Immediately after the new marriage, we move from Rue de Cléry to Rue Saint Honoré, where we look out on the terrace of the Palais-Royal. It is an advantageous new location. In that popular and fashionable garden, where my mother and I often walk, we f
requently see the Duchesse de Chartres strolling with her ladies-in-waiting. She always looks at me in a very kindly way, and it turns out that she has seen the painting I made in oils of my mother, which was being much discussed. She sends for me and commissions me to paint her, and she speaks highly of me to her circle of friends. Soon I am visited by the Comtesse de Brionne, the Princesse de Lorraine, and a great many of the great ladies of the court. My career as an artist sprouts new wings.

  These great ladies treat me as though I am not quite an ordinary human. I put on no airs, I am sure of that, but they seem to think . . . I do not know what it is they think, but they are kind and curious and somewhat in awe of me. And I do not quite know what to think of them, either. It surprises me that my tongue always knows what to say.

  While many men, also, from these royal circles flatter me and seek my company, I am too absorbed in my painting to pay any attention to them. I know it would be wicked to respond, for my mother’s piety has entered the marrow of my bones. Thus my art and my religious principles, instilled at an early age, protect me from dangerous romantic temptations. My mother always has my best interests at heart, such as taking me out in public but making sure that I am chaperoned so that no hint of gossip could ever be uttered about me. She speaks to me about such things when we are together in the room we share; from down the hall, we hear the stentorian snoring of her husband, but he is far away. I dread it when he raps three times on our door, and my mother goes to him.

  I am painting all the time. I never hurry but I work long and steadily. At end of day, I am happy that I have been able to create worthy work. And I learn, always. A new face, a new dress, a different fabric—everything teaches me, and it is as easy to learn as it is to walk across a room.

  MY DEAR MOTHER GUARDS MY HEALTH as well as my reputation. I am terrified to learn that my friend Mlle Boquet has contracted smallpox. I press my hands together and implore my mother to allow me to go to the bedside of my friend, but she absolutely refuses. Her firmness is fascinating to me: it is so unbending. Her love strengthens her like a steel ramrod. I feel giddy going up against her with pleas full of my love for my friend, and about my duty as a friend. She is unyielding and has not the slightest temptation to give in to me, she who so often treats me as an equal.