The Children(39)

“You wanna come work with me sometime, bring your sketchbook? I’d like the company, if you think you’ll find it interesting.”

“Sure. That’d be cool.”

Loudly Guinevere said, “Our mom’s book came out.”

She didn’t know whether it was the way her brother was looking at Anne or how good the paintings were, but she felt a stab of buried loyalty. Anne smiled and said, “I know. I’m excited to read it. And I’m really looking forward to meeting her.”

Later Ennis said she was probably bluffing. Both of them were sure Llewellyn was in love with her. Who wouldn’t love Anne, Guinevere thought recklessly.

The answer presented itself, prompt as a punch line: Edith.





Twenty-Two

2000




Anne said, “I love kids. Every child is an artist. Every child is born knowing everything that matters. Then they forget it all, and that’s how they become grown-ups.” She laughed. “I never want to be a grown-up.”

Guinevere inspected her. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“So you are a grown-up.”

Anne beckoned Guinevere close and whispered. “I’m just wearing a grown-up suit.”

She tried again to blow into a blade of grass. Again, she produced no sound. Guinevere shook her head, picked a nice broad blade, and used it to blow a kazoo note that made Anne laugh. They were sitting in the shadow of Llewellyn’s painting studio, full of prepped canvases, an easel, paints and brushes and stacks of monographs. It was now officially known as Art Church: he’d broken a bottle against its eaves and dubbed it so.

Guinevere hadn’t seen her father this happy, this silly, this well, since he got sick. Ennis was happy, too. He’d gone back to Anne’s studio three times already and stayed for hours. Guinevere would’ve been jealous if it weren’t so boring watching someone else paint.

She let her grass blade fall. When she looked up, Ennis was clipping toward them from the house. Arms pumping, mouth held in the way that meant trouble, wide and flat like a bullfrog’s. Briskly he said, “Mom’s home.”

Guinevere’s stomach dropped. Anne pushed herself off the grass. Her hair was in storybook braids, she’d let Guinevere stick violets in them. Her fingers moved quickly, combing them out. That was how Guinevere knew she was at least a little bit nervous.

“The famous Edith,” she said. “Let’s go say hi.”



* * *




Edith and Llewellyn stood in the hall, clinging to each other. Her mouth was at his ear, the column of her throat stretched long. His face was buried in her hair. She’d sharpened her cut while she was away.

Edith saw the children first, then the woman behind them. For a moment her posture was straight out of a horror film—warding, recoiling. Then she straightened and pulled away from her husband.

“Hey, kiddos.”

After days of not hearing it, her voice poured into Guinevere like Coca-Cola, foaming and dark and painfully sweet. When she opened her arms Guinevere walked into them. First tentatively, then as tight as she could, she hugged her mother. She smelled like a stranger. Unfamiliar soap, new perfume. Clove and a peppery note. Guinevere’s ear was pressed to her heart, so she knew it was racing.

The sharp point of Edith’s chin dug into her scalp, holding her there. Over her daughter’s head she said, “Hi. I’m Edith. Who are you?”



* * *




Edith and Anne were poised at opposite ends of the couch, two patient spiders. Llewellyn moved fretfully here and there, a skittish fly. The children perched silently on the window seat, hoping they’d be forgotten. They needn’t have worried. No one paid them any attention at all.

After Llewellyn passed around mugs of tea then a bottle for spiking, Edith smiled and offhandedly said, “So. Anne the artist. What did you two get up to while I was away?”

Next to Edith, Guinevere could see how strong Anne was. Thick with muscle, marked with sun, spotted all over with freckles and errant bits of paint. Her body was a machine she delighted in using; she held none of its delights in reserve. Even now she was draining her tea, replacing it with whiskey, tapping a palm on one bent knee. She was straightening that leg then refolding herself over it, settling closer to Edith.

“Call it a mercy mission. I’ve been helping your husband set up his painting studio.”

Edith cut a look in his direction. “Painting?”

He paused in his messing about at the fireplace. “Thought I’d try it on. Amateur painter. Think it might suit me?”

She tipped her head, a nervous little skid. “Seriously?” Her voice lost its rough cat’s-tongue cool; she corrected it. “I would love that. For you. If you think it wouldn’t tire you out?”

Llewellyn’s eyes looked suddenly very sleepy. This meant he was angry, Guinevere remembered. It had been so long since he was properly mad, properly anything, she’d forgotten. When he and Edith used to really fight, he’d look like a punched boxer.

“I appreciate your desire to mind me,” he said. “But I’m perfectly able to determine what tires me.”

Edith watched him a moment, inscrutable. Then her focus switched back to Anne. “What about you?”