Ariel

Twelve

The lilting song of the flute filled Ariel’s bedroom. But she was not playing now. She sat on the edge of her bed listening to a cassette she had recorded earlier. She heard it all the way through, sitting with her eyes closed, her body swaying very slightly with the music. Now and then expressions played over her face in response to something she heard.

When the music stopped she rewound the tape and let it play through a second time. This time she did not give the music her undivided attention. While she listened, she wrote in her diary.

This is very strange. Listening to myself on Erskine’s tape recorder. It’s like hearing myself for the first time. I can’t really hear myself when I play because I have to concentrate on playing.

The reason all of this is happening is I couldn’t play the flute for Erskine. He kept saying he’d like to hear me play and I kept saying he wasn’t missing much, and finally the other day I dragged the flute over to his house after school and we went up to his room and I tried to play. But I couldn’t make it come out right. I could hear the notes in my head but I couldn’t seem to find them on the flute.

So he thought of the tape recorder. It’s a Japanese one, portable, and you can plug it in or use batteries, and you get half an hour on each side of the tape. He said I could take it home with me and just put it on when I play, and before I knew it I would forget it was even in the same room with me.

“You’ve been on tape before,” he said, and he found a cassette and played it for me, and it was a conversation we had the other day about how he found out I have to be eighteen before I can try to trace my real mother. He had taped it without me knowing anything of it.

When he played the tape I got properly pissed. I don’t guess there was anything on it you couldn’t play in church but it was the idea of him doing it secretly that bothered me. I told him if he was President he could get impeached for carrying on like that, taping people without them knowing it, and then we would up running some jokes on the subject which took the edge off my pissed-offedness. (If there’s even such a word, which there is now!)

Anyway, listening to myself talking on tape was weird in the same way that listening to myself play the flute on tape was. That’s nothing like I always thought I sounded. Erskine says everybody’s voice sounds weird to them because you normally hear yourself differently from the way other people hear you, because of some of the sound being carried to your ears through the bones in your skull. Sounds travel differently through solid objects, he said, which I told him would apply more to his head than to mine.

He said he always figured mine was hollow.

What he should do is get contact lenses when he’s older. His eyes are very attractive.

Anyway, tomorrow he can listen to Ariel Plays the Flute. He says once that’s over and done with I’ll be able to play in front of him with no hassle, but I don’t know about that.

What’s funny is I can play with Roberta in the house and it never bothers me. Of course I don’t actually play in front of her. And the fact that I know she’s not listening probably makes it easier.

The following afternoon the two of them walked home from school together. Ariel had not brought the recorder to school so they walked to her house to pick it up. The maroon Buick didn’t show up. She thought she’d seen the car twice since the time she and Channing had taken a long look at each other, but there had been no confrontation since then.

Roberta’s car was gone when they reached the house. “Come on in,” Ariel suggested.

“It’s okay. I’ll wait out here.”

“Nobody’s home. Roberta’s out somewhere. You’ve never seen my house.”

“I can see it fine from here. Just get the recorder and we’ll go to my place.”

“We always go to your place.”

“I’m a creature of habit.”

She started for the door. Then she changed her mind and turned around. “The thing is,” she said, “I really want you to come in.”

“Fuck it,” he said. “I don’t mind.”

“The reason I like you is you’re charming.”

“I was wondering what it was.”

She led him into the house and up the stairs to the second floor. The tape recorder was all packed up in its canvas carrying case. He asked her if she wouldn’t like to play it then and there but she shook her head. “Listen to it by yourself,” she said.

“You’d be embarrassed?”

“I guess so.”

“Did you play it back or anything? Or haven’t you listened to it either?”

“I listened to it twice. Two and a half times, actually, and then Roberta came up and said maybe it was a little late for music. Meaning it was driving her crazy. Two and a half times that I listened to it plus the time I played to record it. She didn’t even know it was a tape and she said I’d be tired today from playing so long. Oh, and look at this. She gave me this the day before yesterday. Teach Yourself to Play the Flute.”

“Is it any good?”

“How would you like it if your mother gave you a book that would tell you how to turn the car radio on and off?”

“Oh.”

“It’s the worst. If you go all the way through the book you wind up learning how to play Go Tell Aunt Rhody and Be Kind to Your Web-Footed Friends. Just what I want to sit around and do. The thing is she thinks she’s being nice to me. I’m tons more advanced than the book but she doesn’t have any idea.”

“What song did you say? Not Web-Footed Friends but the other one.”

“Go Tell Aunt Rhody.”

“I never heard of it,” he said. “What are you supposed to tell old Aunt Rhody?”

“That her bird died,” Ariel said. She sang:

He looked at her. “That’s it?”

“There’s other verses telling what he died of and how broken-up Aunt Rhody is, but that’s it. That’s all the notes there are to play in it.”

“It’s got a nice beat to it,” he said solemnly, “and the words tell a story, and you could dance to it. I’d give it about a seventy-five.”

They went downstairs and she showed him through the first floor. In the kitchen she poured two glasses of milk and found a package of chocolate-covered graham crackers.

“It’s a neat house,” he said.

“I hope we don’t move.”

“Why would you move?”

“Crazy Roberta. She wants to sell the house and move.”

“Where to?”

“I don’t know.”

“Like out of the neighborhood or what?”

“I don’t know. She’s crazy, that’s all. The house spooks her or something. I heard her talking to David and she was saying the same thing on the phone the other day.”

“Do you think you would really move?”

“Who knows?” She rinsed out her glass in the sink, turned to him. “Aren’t you going to finish your milk?”

“I’ve had enough.”

“Then give me your glass. Roberta’s been acting really weird lately.”

“How?”

“Oh, giving me strange looks when she doesn’t think I’m paying any attention. I’ll get a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye and there’s old Roberta studying me like a rare species of insect.”

“Ugh.”

“Sorry,” she said. Erskine had a thing about bugs, and it even bothered him to hear about them. “I’m glad I was adopted. Otherwise I’d worry about going crazy like Roberta. I wish I didn’t have to wait until I was eighteen.”

“I suppose you could try lying about your age.”

“Funny.”

“You were going to work on David, weren’t you? To find out if he knows anything?”

“I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

“Well, don’t expect too much, anyway. Even if you find out who your mother is, she’ll probably turn out to be just as bad as Roberta. You met my mother, don’t forget.”

Ariel had met Mrs. Wold several days earlier when the woman was returning home from work just as Ariel was getting ready to leave. Mrs. Wold was a tall overbearing woman, her slate gray hair pulled severely back from a bulbous forehead, and she had spoken with the overprecise enunciation of a kindergarten teacher. “I am so happy to meet you, Ariel. I want to tell you how much Mr. Wold and I appreciate your spending time with Erskine. We are both just so pleased that he finally has a friend. You know, Erskine is a very special child. His health is extremely delicate and that has affected his development in many ways. Believe me, Ariel, my husband and I are both very grateful to you.”

Erskine had been in the room throughout this little speech. Afterward he and Ariel could hardly look at each other.

“Parents are horrible,” he said now. “Real or adopted, it doesn’t make any difference. Parents suck.”

“And what happens when you’re a parent?”

He shook his head. “That’ll never happen.”

“Why? If kids are better than parents, wouldn’t you want to have some around?”

“Are you kidding? Actually bring something into your house that’s going to know what a total shit you are? That would be really stupid, Jardell.”

She stared at him. “Erskine Weird,” she said.

“Very funny.”

“Come on,” she said. “I’ll show you the upstairs.”

“We were already there.”

“Have to get the tape recorder anyway. And all you saw was my room. Come on.”

“What are you doing?”

“Blowing out the pilot light.”

“Why?”

“No particular reason. Come on.”

She showed him the master bedroom and he was not surprised by the twin beds. “They had a double bed at the other house,” she told him. “But they got rid of it when we moved.”

“They actually used to sleep together?”

“No, they took turns using the bed.”

“Mine would, if it was a choice between that or sleeping together.”

“Well, they slept together once, didn’t they?”

“Sure, and look what it got them.”

“You.”

“Right. So they won’t make that mistake again. How about if we screw in their bed? That would be better than blowing out a pilot light.” He pointed at a closed door. “What’s that, the bathroom? No, the bathroom’s down the hall. Whats that?”

“Caleb’s room.”

“The room where he—”

“Died,” Ariel said.

“What’s it like?”

“Like a baby’s room. A crib and a bathinet and a playpen and things like that.”

“And the door’s kept shut all the time? Does anybody ever go in there?”

“Roberta, sometimes. She sneaks in and out sometimes.”

“Honestly?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How about you? Do you ever go in there?”

“I used to. I would play the flute for Caleb or tickle him or things like that.”

“What’s wrong, Ariel?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Why?”

“The expression on your face. Like something bad was happening in your mind.”

“No. Maybe it was just the lighting.”

“I suppose.”

“I wasn’t thinking about anything besides what I was saying.”

“Don’t you ever go in there now that the room’s empty?”

“It’s not empty. All his things are there. The only thing missing is Caleb.”

“Well? Don’t you ever go in?”

“I’m not supposed to. Roberta says nobody should go in there.”

“So?”

She hesitated. “Once or twice when I was all alone in the house. I don’t know. It feels funny.”

“When you have an old house, there’s always rooms that somebody died in at one time or another.”

“Any minute now I’m going to start talking about bugs.”

“I didn’t know it bothered you.”

“A little.”

“Can we go in there?”

She thought for a moment, then shook her head.

“Open the door and let me look in? Roberta won’t know and I won’t actually go inside if you don’t want. Please?”

She sighed. “Open it if you want. I don’t want to look. And promise you won’t walk in?”

“Sure. You want me to cross my heart?”

She turned away and regarded the far wall for a few moments. The door to Caleb’s room opened. Erskine said nothing. Then there was the sound of the door closing and Ariel turned toward him again.

“I see what you mean,” he said.

“Do you?”

“Yeah.” His eyes swam out of focus behind his thick lenses. “Hey,” he said, “where’s the attic?”

“On top of the house. We were going to keep it underneath but the basement was already there and the two of them would have crowded each other.”

“Don’t be a cunt, Jardell.”

“Oh, charming,” she said. “You haven’t called me a cunt since the day before yesterday.”

“I didn’t call you a cunt. I told you not to be one. Where’s the stairs to the attic?” She pointed. “What’s it like up there?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t go up there?”

“No. There’s just things that haven’t been unpacked. Suitcases and things.”

“But you’ve never explored up there?”

She shook her head.

He flung open the door and took the stairs at a dead run. She hesitated for only a moment, then trudged up after him.

The attic was unfinished, with no insulation beneath the rafters. Accordingly it was very cold and uncomfortable up there. Ariel would have been perfectly happy to take a quick look around and go back downstairs, but Erskine was in his element. He couldn’t get over the fact that Ariel had lived in the house for the better part of a year without once investigating the attic.

“People leave valuable things in attics,” he said. “It happens all the time. They hide something and then die before they have a chance to tell anybody where it is. Or it’s not valuable when they put it there but it becomes valuable years later.”

“Like True Confession magazines,” Ariel offered.

“Very funny.”

But it turned out to be more interesting than she had thought it would. There were no lights, which made things difficult, and the cold certainly interfered with her enjoyment of the project, but it was definitely interesting. The dozen or more Jardell cartons were off on one side, easily ignored once they had been identified. And the other cartons and bushel baskets and heaps of articles were all the debris of previous occupants of the house.

There was a steamer trunk filled with old curtains and drapery, all smelling of must and mold. There was a stack of local newspapers with dates in the forties. There were several cartons of old clothing, all of them smelling as uninviting as the drapes.

And there was the picture.

It was lying flat in a corner and she very nearly missed it. Then she happened on it and just gave it a quick glance, not wanting to waste any time on it, not really wanting to waste any more time in the cold attic. And then she saw what it was.

“Hey!”

“Find something?”

“It’s a picture. I think it’s a painting.”

“Of what?”

“I can’t tell. Help me get it over to the window, will you? I want to see it in the light.”

“Can’t you manage it?”

“The frame weighs a ton.”

Together they got the picture over near the window where enough light filtered through to illuminate the painting. It was a portrait. The frame was a massive wooden rectangle with an oval opening. The frame had been gilded, and most of the gold paint still adhered.

The oil portrait was of a woman who looked to be in her twenties or early thirties. Her perfectly straight light brown hair flowed down onto her bare shoulders. Her face was wedge-shaped, her skin very pale but glowing with vitality. Her hands, narrow and long-fingered, were clasped at her waist, holding a single red rose. Her eyes, small and pale, looked directly out of the picture at the viewer, burning with a passionate intensity.

“I wonder who she was.”

Erskine shook his head. “Must be very old.” He extended a forefinger, touched the painting where the woman’s hair met her shoulder. The surface sported a web of tiny cracks. “All dried out,” he announced. “It could be a hundred years old. Maybe older.”

“I wonder if she lived here. In this house.”

“Maybe. She could have lived here a hundred years ago. Or maybe she lived in England and never saw this house and ten years ago somebody found her in an antique shop and bought her and stuck her in this attic.” He giggled. “There’s no way to tell, is there? Unless there’s a signature on the painting and we can find out something about the artist.”

They looked, but there was no signature visible.

“She lived here,” Ariel announced.

“Maybe.”

“She did.”

He looked at her curiously. “Whatever you say,” he said. He extended his forefinger again but this time he touched the woman where her cleavage began just above the top of her gown. He moved his finger down over her breasts. “Nicely built,” he said.

“You’re disgusting.”

“I know.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Are you crazy, Jardell? All of a sudden I’m not allowed to feel up a picture?”

“Just quit it, okay?”

“Okay, but I think you’re nuts.”

“Help me carry her downstairs.”

“Why?”

“So I can see her better.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to get a flashlight and bring it up here? Remember how much trouble we had dragging her over to the window.”

“If you don’t want to help me, just say so.”

“I didn’t say that. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” she said. She didn’t know what was the matter but the picture was having an effect on her. And she wanted it downstairs in her room.

“I’ll help you, Ariel.”

“Not if it’s too heavy.”

“No, we can carry it. If we got it this far we can carry it downstairs.”

“Maybe it’s too heavy. I’ll ask David to do it. Your delicate condition and all.”

“You fucking shit.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

“You’ve been weird all day. Have you got your period or something, Jardell?”

She started to giggle.

“What’s so funny?”

“As a matter of fact I do,” she said, blushing. “But I don’t see what that has to do with anything. Can we please take her downstairs now? Please?”

Carrying the portrait downstairs to Ariel’s room turned out to be less of an ordeal than either of them had anticipated. Once they had the right sort of grip on it the weight was not difficult to manage. They placed the picture on the floor, leaning it up against Ariel’s dresser for support. She got a towel from the hall cupboard and wiped all of the dust from the picture and its frame.

The woman’s visage, arresting enough in the dimly-lit attic, was positively imperious in a bright room. The woman’s gaze was almost hypnotic.

“She’s beautiful,” Erskine said. His voice was pitched higher than usual, and he sounded as though he was surprised at the beauty of the woman.

“And she belongs in here.”

“Not on the floor, though.”

“On that wall.”

He looked where she pointed. “It would fit there.”

“I’ll get David to hang her for me.”

“You figure they’ll let you keep it?”

“Why not? She belongs in this room.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Look at her,” she said. “Who does she look like?”

“I don’t know.”

“Look at her.”

He shrugged, studied the painting once again. Ariel tried to watch his eyes but his glasses concealed their expression. Then Erskine wheeled abruptly and scanned Ariel’s face. He looked at the painting, then back at Ariel again.

“Oh,” he said.

“It’s true, isn’t it? I’m not just imagining it?”

“She looks like you.”

“She really does, doesn’t she?”

“The shape of the head, the way the mouth is formed, the eyes. But you don’t stare that way.”

“Just watch me,” she said.

Her eyes burned into his. Erskine held her stare for a moment, then took a step backward and took his eyes away. “Don’t do that,” he said. “I don’t like it.”

“All right.”

“She really does look like you. It’s incredible.”

“I know.”

David hung the picture for her after dinner. She had been prepared for an argument from one or both of them but none was forthcoming. Roberta had started to ask what she had been doing in the attic in the first place, but Ariel’s vague reply that they had just been looking around evidently satisfied her. David at least showed a certain amount of interest in the picture, while Roberta barely glanced at it, merely wondering aloud why Ariel would want a gloomy thing like that on her wall.

David pointed out a few interesting things about the picture. He showed her how the artist had painted the foliage of the rose in such a way that part of the model’s hands were concealed. “Hands are sometimes hard to paint,” he explained. “A lot of old portraits are the work of amateur artists, gifted people who taught themselves how to paint. They lacked academic training and so they don’t always get proportions correct. They don’t know much about perspective and they don’t understand anatomy. This artist had more of a feel for his subject than most of them. There’s a lot of character in her face.”

She summarized the events in her diary before going to bed, noting David’s comments:

But he didn’t see the resemblance. He looked at how the hands were painted but never noticed who she looks like. But Erskine didn’t notice either until he really took a good look at her.

I saw it right away.

No I didn’t either. What happened was this: I looked at the picture and I recognized her. That’s what it was. I never saw her before but I recognized her and it felt strange. I got dizzy for a minute. Then I was looking at her and I realized why I recognized her, namely that she looked like me.

But I recognized her before I knew that.

She is the beautiful stranger.

I’m not beautiful. But she really is beautiful and she really does look like me.

When I look at her I get the feeling she has things to tell me. If only she could talk. But if she really could talk she’d probably just say how boring it was to spend fifty years in a dusty attic.

I wonder how long she really was up there waiting for me to find her. I wonder who she was or is or whichever it should be.

I keep writing a few words and then looking up at her again.

Tonight would have been a good time to ask David about my mother. He was in a good mood, explaining to me about the painting. Then he went downstairs to his study and I thought about going in and sitting on his lap like I used to do, and lighting his pipe for him. But I just didn’t feel up to it. I wanted to be alone in my room. Alone with her, I mean.

She put her diary aside, played the flute for a few minutes, then had her bath and went to bed. Her room was quite dark, but for a moment she fancied she could see the eyes in the portrait, beaming down at her in the darkness. Before she could entertain this thought for any length of time she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Sometime in the middle of the night she got out of bed and went to the bathroom. After she had used the toilet she went downstairs to the kitchen. The stairs were silent beneath her feet. Without turning on a light she went through the kitchen drawers until she found a small box that contained five of its original six candles. The candles were four inches long and made simply of ordinary white wax. She took one of the candles from the box and put the rest back in the drawer.

There was an empty applesauce jar in the garbage. She washed and dried its lid, then lit a match and melted the bottom of the candle enough to affix it to the center of the jar lid.

Back in her room, she positioned her bedside table so that it was centered directly beneath the portrait. She cleared everything from the table and placed the candle in its center. She lit the candle with another match and sat cross-legged on the floor so that her eyes were level with its flame. She folded her hands in her lap and looked up at the portrait.

When the candle had burned to within an inch of the jar lid she blew it out and got back into bed. And fell asleep immediately.

When she awoke in the morning she remembered what she had done but the memory was hazy and she thought it might all have been a dream. But the bedside table was underneath the portrait and there was a jar lid on it with the stub of a white candle on it.

Quickly she got out of bed and placed the candle in her bottom dresser drawer. She returned the table to its usual position beside her bed and restored her lamp and clock to their usual places. She had to hunt for the folder of matches; they turned up underneath her bed, and she put them in the dresser drawer with the candle.

If they knew about this they’d lock me up, she thought. They’d think I was really crazy.