hands with her, played treasure hunt and went for shining pennies with her at the bottom of the pool. Laura wore a bathing cap because she didn’t like to get her thick hair wet, swam by herself in straight rows that she counted up like gold, feared hanging from the trapeze and swung alone in silence, kicking the sand with the toe of her shoe. Then her mother shouted at her for her dirty shoes. “Make friends, be more independent.”
She had one friend named Warren. He came to the house. He went into the pool with her. But then he had an accident. He moved his bowels in the pool. He spoiled the clearness of the water (so clear you could see pennies on the bottom that her father threw for children to go after). The pool had to be completely emptied, her mother said, screaming at her, hitting her, saying it was just like her to bring filth home with her. Warren was not allowed to come again.
But she wasn’t filthy. She was careful, she was tidy. Debbie was the one whose book covers were ripped, whose clothes were on the floor after she tried on outfit after outfit to see which ones would make her girlfriends love her. Debbie never helped. Laura helped her mother in the kitchen. She tried to help her mother keep the house clean, but her mother wasn’t interested and thought Laura cleaned house to make her feel bad. “You love it, don’t you, putting me in a bad light.”
Debbie taught their mother the new dances. Married at seventeen, a mother six months later (Laura had been conceived in sin), her mother said she had never had the time to be young. She liked to stand next to Debbie at the mirror. She liked to say, “We could be sisters, couldn’t we,” putting her hands around her waist, then around Debbie’s. Laura would hang back, heavy, her braids a weight on her shoulders, pushing her down to the earth while they danced high above it, light, like stars that burnt and dazzled.
She would teach Anne’s children that the flesh was nothing; a mother and her children, all that famous love, was nothing more than flesh to flesh, would drown them all, would keep them from the Spirit.
But she must be careful. She must not make the mistake she had made with the Chamberlains. She would teach the girl to make clay animals. She would build models with the little boy. She would let them cook with her in the kitchen, make whatever mess they wanted and then clean it up without a word. They would look through field glasses at birds. They would pick wildflowers. They would dip leaves in glycerine and paste them into books. The children would love her. They would have fun. She would not talk to them about the Spirit until she knew that they loved her.
Four
“D ARLING, IT’S IANTHE,” SAID the voice on the telephone. “You’ve got to come over quick, right now, immediately. I’m dying, I’m in absolutely desperate straits. You’ve no idea.”
“What is it, Ianthe?” Anne said distantly. Ianthe had interrupted her while she was working, and she’d known her long enough to be wary of her reports of disaster. Ianthe was the woman to whom she’d lost the job of director of the college gallery. Tall, knife-thin, with a shock of Veronica Lake blond hair and lips colored in red and outlined in a darker reddish purple, she had become, improbably, one of Anne’s best friends. For one thing, they worked well together.
“You can keep track of the fucking old masters in the basement,” Ianthe had said to Anne when they began working together, “and deal with the alums who want to give us their uncles’ watercolors for a tax writeoff. Whereas I can suck off the entire Board of Trustees for a Stella when the time comes. We’ll make a splendid team.”
And, in fact, they did. Ianthe’s vision of their division of labor was not far off. Anne organized the gallery’s holdings, kept records, varied the displays and wrote exhibit notes that were generally admired. Ianthe expanded the collection so that the gallery was
She had one friend named Warren. He came to the house. He went into the pool with her. But then he had an accident. He moved his bowels in the pool. He spoiled the clearness of the water (so clear you could see pennies on the bottom that her father threw for children to go after). The pool had to be completely emptied, her mother said, screaming at her, hitting her, saying it was just like her to bring filth home with her. Warren was not allowed to come again.
But she wasn’t filthy. She was careful, she was tidy. Debbie was the one whose book covers were ripped, whose clothes were on the floor after she tried on outfit after outfit to see which ones would make her girlfriends love her. Debbie never helped. Laura helped her mother in the kitchen. She tried to help her mother keep the house clean, but her mother wasn’t interested and thought Laura cleaned house to make her feel bad. “You love it, don’t you, putting me in a bad light.”
Debbie taught their mother the new dances. Married at seventeen, a mother six months later (Laura had been conceived in sin), her mother said she had never had the time to be young. She liked to stand next to Debbie at the mirror. She liked to say, “We could be sisters, couldn’t we,” putting her hands around her waist, then around Debbie’s. Laura would hang back, heavy, her braids a weight on her shoulders, pushing her down to the earth while they danced high above it, light, like stars that burnt and dazzled.
She would teach Anne’s children that the flesh was nothing; a mother and her children, all that famous love, was nothing more than flesh to flesh, would drown them all, would keep them from the Spirit.
But she must be careful. She must not make the mistake she had made with the Chamberlains. She would teach the girl to make clay animals. She would build models with the little boy. She would let them cook with her in the kitchen, make whatever mess they wanted and then clean it up without a word. They would look through field glasses at birds. They would pick wildflowers. They would dip leaves in glycerine and paste them into books. The children would love her. They would have fun. She would not talk to them about the Spirit until she knew that they loved her.
Four
“D ARLING, IT’S IANTHE,” SAID the voice on the telephone. “You’ve got to come over quick, right now, immediately. I’m dying, I’m in absolutely desperate straits. You’ve no idea.”
“What is it, Ianthe?” Anne said distantly. Ianthe had interrupted her while she was working, and she’d known her long enough to be wary of her reports of disaster. Ianthe was the woman to whom she’d lost the job of director of the college gallery. Tall, knife-thin, with a shock of Veronica Lake blond hair and lips colored in red and outlined in a darker reddish purple, she had become, improbably, one of Anne’s best friends. For one thing, they worked well together.
“You can keep track of the fucking old masters in the basement,” Ianthe had said to Anne when they began working together, “and deal with the alums who want to give us their uncles’ watercolors for a tax writeoff. Whereas I can suck off the entire Board of Trustees for a Stella when the time comes. We’ll make a splendid team.”
And, in fact, they did. Ianthe’s vision of their division of labor was not far off. Anne organized the gallery’s holdings, kept records, varied the displays and wrote exhibit notes that were generally admired. Ianthe expanded the collection so that the gallery was
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