Invisible, as Music Page 3

  As always when she recalled those days, she thought of Una, wondering where she was, what she was doing. Probably back in England, married, maybe with grandchildren by now.

  Taking a deep breath, Henrietta struck out, first one step, then another and another until she found herself at the end of the driveway. One of the golfers across the street waved to her from a green.

  “You okay, Miss Cochran?” he bellowed.

  She nodded and released one crutch handle to wave. She looked left and right along the road, but everything was quiet. No cars. No young woman walking by.

  She turned and made her way back to the house. Once inside, she realized she was trembling.

  “I did it,” she said aloud to the empty house.

  She locked the door and went to get a glass of iced tea. A few minutes later, she collapsed into her usual chair at the table. Jubilant at her daring, she considered going for a drive, but, as she reached for the tea, her unsteady hand knocked the glass over, spilling tea across the tabletop. Struggling to her feet again, she got a sponge from the sink, along with a bowl, and mopped up the spill, squeezing one spongeful at a time into the bowl. By the time the table was clean, she was exhausted and deflated.

  Standing at the kitchen sink to rinse out the bowl and the sponge, she had a view through the window of the driveway she had just walked down. Suddenly, the drive and the world beyond looked impossibly far away. Her eyes stung with tears that went unshed.

  Henrietta had stopped crying a long time ago.

  Ryn ran a towel roughly over her damp hair as she climbed the stairs from the second floor bathroom. The third-floor rooms may have had the best view, but they also collected all of the heat in the un-air-conditioned house. Entering her room, she tripped over a stuffed Eeyore. She gently nudged him aside with her foot and hung her towel up on one of the towel bars Mrs. Middleston insisted they use—“I do not want mildew!”—before flopping onto her bed.

  She fanned her T-shirt and hiked up her cut-off sweatpants to take advantage of the stream of air created by the fan whirring from the top of the dresser. She’d quickly discovered that a cold shower in the evenings and going to bed with damp hair helped the fan cool her down enough to sleep. Of course, it made for interesting hair in the morning.

  Vanessa flounced into the room. Even with her eyes shut and in any other part of the house, Ryn could have identified that noisy entrance.

  “Can you believe they gave us homework our first weekend of the semester? And it’s a holiday!” Vanessa hopped onto her bed with a squeak of the springs.

  Ryn didn’t bother opening her eyes. “Yes, I can. Because I gave homework, too.”

  Vanessa may have made her bed each morning as per the rules of the house, and picked up all of her Winnie-the-Pooh animals to let them have the bed to themselves during the day, but the moment she entered the room, everything seemed to go flying.

  “Yeah, but you’re cool, so I bet nobody minds.”

  Ryn couldn’t help grinning. It was impossible not to like Vanessa. With her wild blonde curls and enormous baby-blue eyes, she was like a wind-up version of Shirley Temple—very wound-up. Ryn gave another quick prayer of thanks that she didn’t have Vanessa in any of her classes, though there were other boarders here who were now her students. It hadn’t occurred to her when she applied to Mrs. Middleston for a room that she’d be the only faculty among students. It wasn’t exactly awkward… yet. But she could see how it could quickly become weird if any of her students didn’t do well.

  “I was reading all the bumper stickers on your car. You’re really political. My folks voted for Reagan. You have Carter stickers.”

  “We’re all going to be sorry Reagan was elected. Just wait.”

  “And that purple one. The sticker with the two-bladed axe. What’s that?”

  “It’s called a labrys.” Ryn hesitated. Do you want to open that door? “It’s a… goddess symbol.”

  “It’s the same as the silver necklace you wear.” Vanessa lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “Are you pagan?”

  Ryn chuckled, fingering the labrys under her shirt. “Something like that.”

  “Cool.” Vanessa shifted on her bed. “Tell me more about Pittsburgh and your family.”

  Ryn had purposely been vague—again, that whole teacher-student thing, but, “We don’t actually live in Pittsburgh,” she heard herself say. “I went to Pitt, but we live in Uniontown.”

  “And your dad worked in the steel mills.”

  Apparently, Vanessa had decided that a weekend stuck in Bluemont meant it was a good time to share.

  Ryn gave up and turned on her side, facing Vanessa, who was lying on her back, holding a large Pooh. “Not exactly. He was a bookkeeper for a mill. When it closed down, he got a job with an accounting firm. Now, he does business taxes. Boring, but steady, I guess.”

  Vanessa sighed. “I know what you mean. My dad’s a lawyer in practice with his brother. Not criminal like Perry Mason. Wills and estates and stuff like that. Feldman and Feldman. Couldn’t be more boring.”

  “How—” Ryn wasn’t sure how to ask this. “You told me your mom is an alumna of St. Aloysius from when it was all-women, but your last name sounds Jewish.”

  “It is. My mom is Catholic, but my dad is Jewish. I’m not really either one. They told me I could choose when I was old enough, but I’ve never had any of the sacraments or my bat mitzvah. My grandparents on both sides keep trying to get me to pick one or the other, but my parents never pushed. They just want me to stay a virgin till I’m married. That’s why I’m here instead of a dorm, now that there are boys on campus.” She rolled her eyes. “So now I’m stuck at a small school that’s still mostly women, living in an old woman’s house that’s like a women’s prison. Class of 1987. That’s forever from now! This is going to be the longest four years of my life.”

  Ryn smiled at Vanessa’s dramatics. It suited Ryn perfectly that St. Aloysius was about three-quarters women, but Beverly had told her that, in the few years since men had been admitted, the college had seen a shift in the makeup of student council and honor court and other organizations as the males took over. Beverly hated to see it change, and Ryn was inclined to agree. Men ruined everything.

  Vanessa flopped onto her stomach, hugging Pooh under her chest. “Tell me about your brothers and sister.”

  “Told you as much as there is to tell. My sister is a sophomore at West Virginia now, and the boys are juniors in high school. They’ll probably go to college on basketball scholarships, at least, that’s what my dad is hoping.”

  “I wish I had brothers and sisters,” Vanessa said. “I hate being an only child.”

  “They’re okay,” Ryn admitted. Sharing a room with Vanessa was almost like having a pesky younger sister underfoot again, but she didn’t say that.

  Vanessa got off her bed to change into her nightshirt. She had no sense of modesty at all. Ryn felt her face heat up at the sight of those full breasts when Vanessa’s bra went flying, her slender waist sweeping into the curve of her hips. Ryn rolled over to face the wall, trying not to think of Ashley.

  We both knew it was going to end when we graduated. Forget her.

  “Won’t you play your guitar?” Vanessa asked.

  “Not tonight. I’m tired.” Ryn punched her pillow into shape under her head. “Turn the light off, will you?”

  A slightly built, tweedy man with half-glasses suspended around his neck on a jeweled cord moved from painting to painting, leaning close to squint at them, and then stepping back to see them from a distance, his head lowered to look over his glasses. The light coming in from the windows showed the landscapes off to their best advantage.

  “Yes, yes, yes.” He brushed his index finger back and forth over his precisely trimmed moustache. “Yes, I think we’ll take these four. The same agreement as last time.”

  He turned to Bonnie, pulling a leather-bound wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket. “This is a check for the sale of the last g
roup of paintings we sold.”

  Bonnie accepted the check, her eyes widening at the amount.

  “Are you certain Miss Cochran isn’t available? I would dearly love to meet her. We’re beginning to think she doesn’t really exist.”

  “She does exist, but she is indisposed today,” Bonnie said primly, smoothing her hands over her floral-print top and slacks.

  He eyed her, his eyes sharp over the half-glasses perched on the end of his nose. “Are you sure you’re not the artist?”

  Bonnie goggled at him for a moment. “Me? Goodness gracious, no, Mr. Taylor. I am merely here to represent Miss Cochran.”

  “Well,” he said, bending over the counter to write up a consignment form for the four paintings, “our patrons in the city quite enjoy her quaint country scenes. Please extend my regards to her.”

  He carried the canvases out to his car, carefully wrapping each in a quilted blanket before driving away. Bonnie watched from the driveway until his car disappeared. When she went back into the studio, Henrietta was standing there.

  “You heard?” Bonnie asked.

  “Quaint country scenes indeed,” Henrietta bristled.

  Bonnie chuckled. “Well, it’s your own fault. If you would let them meet you, see you.”

  “And have them take my work out of pity? No thank you.”

  “Still, that’s Albany again on top of galleries in Buffalo and Rochester. Soon, you’ll be in the big galleries in New York.”

  Henrietta snorted, smiling in spite of herself. “Thank you for coming over on such short notice. He caught me off-guard when he called yesterday.”

  Again, that double take of surprise.

  “Can you stay for lunch?” When Bonnie didn’t answer immediately, Henrietta quickly added, “I know it’s a holiday and you probably have plans.”

  “No, no plans. Frank was just going to barbeque some frankfurters and hamburgers this evening. But that’s not till later.”

  “We can go to the club. To celebrate the sale.”

  “Oh, goodness gracious, I’m not dressed fancy enough for that place.” Bonnie went into the kitchen to check the refrigerator. “How about I make my egg salad with some of the eggs I hard-boiled? Egg salad sandwiches and dill pickles.”

  Henrietta smiled again. “My favorite. And you know it.”

  “I do know it.” Bonnie chuckled. “You sit down now.”

  She poured two glasses of iced tea, setting one in front of Henrietta, and then peeled half a dozen eggs. “Any luck finding a new live-in?”

  “No. I’ve called all of my bridge friends and the secretary at St. Rita’s. I even called the school board to see if they had hired any new teachers who might need someplace to live, but they said the women already have apartments. There was one male teacher, but I don’t want a man.”

  “I don’t blame you. They’re an awful mess. Even my Frank. God knows I love that man, but he does make a mess. It’s like having another child.” Bonnie chattered away as she scooped some mayonnaise into the bowl and mixed it with the eggs, stirring in some mustard and paprika.

  A few minutes later, she set two plates on the table, each with a sandwich and a couple of dill pickles.

  “Well, someone will turn up.”

  They ate in silence for a bit.

  “I know I’m difficult.” Henrietta focused on her sandwich.

  “Nonsense. You just have standards, that’s all. It’s your house, you have a right to set rules.”

  “Well, no one seems to want to live with my rules more than a few months.” Henrietta munched on a pickle. “I used to be able to find single women who needed a situation, but I suppose it’s gotten easier for single women to be on their own.”

  “I could check with my sister,” Bonnie offered. “She works at the college.”

  “A student?” Henrietta frowned as she took a drink. “Students are so unreliable. The last one tried to sneak her boyfriend into her room.”

  “Well, that was a bad fit from the get-go.” Bonnie’s nostrils flared her disapproval. “She was a Protestant.”

  Ryn sat back and stretched. The clock on her office wall told her she’d been at this too long. Though she was teaching mostly the freshman seminar courses, even she found them boring. So she was trying to spice up the material she’d been handed with tidbits to make the history come alive for her students. A few seemed to have caught her excitement. History to her had been nothing more than droning on of dates and names until one teacher in high school, Mr. Black, had shown them letters written by Civil War soldiers to their families and wives. Those pages, penned over a century before, had made their story come alive in ways that nothing else had. From that semester on, she’d known this was what she wanted to do.

  She stacked up the transparencies she’d been working on for next week’s lectures.

  “Still at it?”

  She froze for a moment. “Just finishing for the day. It’s been a long Monday.”

  Bradley Geary leaned in her doorway, one hand braced against the opposite jamb, effectively closing her in her own office. Far from making him look debonair—the effect she supposed he was going for—the posture opened his jacket, revealing the gap where his shirt buttons strained over his paunch.

  “How about a drink?”

  Here we go again.

  She busied herself rearranging the books on her desk needlessly. “No, thanks.”

  “Dinner?”

  Obviously, subtlety wasn’t going to work, as she’d declined his invitations a handful of times already. Ryn straightened and met his eye. “No. I do not want to have dinner or drinks or anything else with you.”

  She saw immediately that her directness, far from discouraging him, only provided more of a challenge. Rather than stay and argue, she tucked the books she needed into her backpack and slung it over her shoulder. At the door, she wondered just for a moment if he was going to move. With a tilt of her head, she met his gaze again. He smiled a smile that did not reach his eyes. The coldness she saw there caused a chill to run down her spine, but she refused to blink or look away. At last, he lowered his arm, letting her pass. She pulled her office door shut behind her and walked off, knowing he was watching her.

  At the end of the corridor, she peered into the department chair’s office, wondering if anyone was still there. Beverly’s desk was empty, but beyond, she saw that Dr. Talbert’s light was on. She ducked in and tapped a knuckle on his door.

  “Excuse me, Dr. Talbert.”

  He looked up over his glasses, the sparse hairs on his head glinting silver in the glow from the old-fashioned banker’s lamp on his desk. He tapped the ash from his cigarette into an overflowing ashtray. “Yes, Meryn?”

  “I don’t mean to bother you, but I wanted to see if you’d given any more thought to the class I proposed? The one on American women? It would be a wonderful addition to our curriculum, and I could have it ready to teach next semester.”

  He sat back, inhaling deeply on his cigarette and then regarding her pensively through the smoke as he exhaled. “I discussed it with Professor Geary, and he doesn’t seem to think there’s enough material there to warrant an entire class. Perhaps a subunit within a larger context would be more…”

  He left the thought dangling while Ryn fought to keep her temper. Her fist tightened on the strap of her backpack. For a second, she considered complaining to him about Geary, telling him that pervert had no business weighing in on anything to do with women, but Beverly had confided to her that Talbert had his eye on a dean’s position. He wanted no boat-rocking that might make him look bad. She was on her own.

  She gave a cursory nod, but he had already returned his attention to whatever he was working on. She backed out of his office. In the hall, Geary was thankfully nowhere to be seen. She pushed through the door into the stairwell and, a moment later, escaped into an overcast afternoon.

  She stormed back to the boarding house, mumbling to herself the entire way. In the stairwell, she paused and lis
tened. No sounds of Vanessa in their room. She seemed to have decided that Ryn was going to be the big sister she’d never had. Between her here and Geary at the office, Ryn was running out of places she could get work done and have some peace and quiet.

  She quickly changed into jeans, sneaks, and a T-shirt. She repacked her backpack with a few other books and a notebook, stuffing in a sweatshirt in anticipation of the coolness of the evening, and walked back downtown.

  Hidden on a side street with little foot traffic, she’d found a small sandwich shop that served hoagies and pizza. A few tables arranged in a back corner provided a relatively quiet place to eat and work. She wolfed down a tuna hoagie and began outlining the lecture sequence for her course. She’d show Talbert—and Geary—that there was more than enough material on women to fill five courses.

  The check from the art gallery sat propped against the salt and pepper shakers on the table. Henrietta knew she should get it to the bank soon, but she wanted to savor it for a few days first. Her parents had left her well off—a house built just for her needs, sizeable life insurance policies that had taken care of her after they passed, along with the proceeds from the sale of her father’s construction business. But it was nice to think she could earn some money herself. It wasn’t enough to live on, and she had no crazy desire to be a starving artist, but still, this was money she’d earned through her own work.

  She finished the last portion of leftover soup that Bonnie had made for her and tranferred her dishes—first her bowl, then her glass—to the sink to wash them.

  Daylight was fading a little earlier each evening. In the living room, she turned the lamp on after drawing the curtains at the picture window. All the little things she had to do for herself now without a companion in the house. Little, but they still cost energy. Every extra step, every extra task—it all added up to being so tired she couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to paint the past few days.

  She had spent most of the afternoon staring out her studio windows at the woods and the pond below. Maybe tomorrow she’d take a sketchpad down there. If she got several sketches done, she would have enough material for paintings to carry her through the winter when the path was too snowy and icy to navigate safely.