The teakettle whistles, and I hear voices. Downstairs but close. Mother and Mrs. Bindas. Mrs. Bindas is apologizing for Mayur’s behavior, for all the boys. I hear the pain in her voice.
“Mayur, he is most embarrassed,” Mrs. Bindas says. “For not taking better care of his guests.”
Is he embarrassed about what he did with me? What I let him do?
Teacups clink on a tray. Through the slit in the slightly open door, I peek down the metal staircase. I catch the glitter of a bangled wrist. Mrs. Bindas. Martia moves in front of her, pours tea for her and Mother. They start talking, with Mrs. Bindas speaking first, asking about how I am after the “accident.” She shakes her head as Mother tells her I’m fine. Mrs. Bindas says, “Oh, that is good. After all that has happened, she is getting better.” Mrs. Bindas doesn’t mean my fall. “And Kammi is a delight. She is good for Cyan.”
Kammi good for me? I slip out the French doors onto the widow’s walk. I can’t be seen from where they sit below. They’d have to walk out onto the deck and look up to know I’m here.
A creak sounds behind me. I spin around.
Not Mother. Kammi. Mother’s voice still murmurs below, saying all the right things to Mrs. Bindas. How she appreciates the picnic, how it was not the Bindases’ fault, what happened at the cave.
“What are you doing up here?” I say in a whisper.
“Same as you.” Kammi tiptoes closer, peers over my arm to see below. She grins. Living dangerously. “I knew you came up here,” she says when I don’t answer.
I shrug.
Kammi tiptoes over to the painting. She turns to face it. I watch her eyes. They widen when she sees the figures in the boat. She looks at me.
I nod. I know.
I turn back to look downstairs. Martia offers refills and a plate of her cookies. As she stirs sugar into her tea, Mrs. Bindas says, “I would love to see some of your paintings.”
Mother sits on the couch, just out of sight. She laughs a little. “As I said before, I come here mostly to relax.” Another lie. Mother has practice.
“You are too modest,” Mrs. Bindas says. “I read about your exhibits in New York, Atlanta.”
At the mention of Atlanta, Kammi and I share a look. Atlanta is the tie between us.
“It must be very nice to be so talented. To have so much freedom.” Mrs. Bindas sips tea.
Mother doesn’t answer. Mrs. Bindas hasn’t asked a question. What do freedom and talent have to do with each other?
“Perhaps just a little one, to see,” Mrs. Bindas says. “To say I have seen the famous artist’s work. The one you will bring to our party.”
“Not yet,” Mother says. “I don’t like to show my work before it’s finished.”
Mrs. Bindas sighs. “I was afraid you would say no. How about to see your studio? I would like that very much.”
“Oh,” Mother laughs. “It’s messy. In the middle of things. Paints and brushes everywhere.”
“Is okay. I should like to see. Very much.”
Will Mother bring Mrs. Bindas up to her studio? She’s never let anyone up here.
“Well,” Mother says. She stands and walks toward the spiral staircase. Her footstep sounds on the first step, her heel striking the metal like a gong.
I grab Kammi’s arm and point to the roof. She nods, her eyes large. I motion for her to take off her slides. The soles will make too much noise.
I can’t help myself, though. Even as I hear Mrs. Bindas following Mother up the thirteen steps, I want to stay and listen.
“Dr. Bindas said he might make a studio for me,” she says.
The sea and the wind whip Mother’s response away. But even as Mrs. Bindas talks, I can feel Mother tightening inside. “When people ask about artists,” Mother said once to Philippa, not to me, though I overheard as they worked in Mother’s studio at home, “it isn’t about the artist, it’s about the person asking the question. It’s about that person’s hopes and dreams and the creation of their other self.” Mother hates that, people’s false interest.
Holding Kammi’s hand, I lead her around the narrow ledge. I learned this escape route one summer. It was dangerous then, the metal balustrades rusty in the salt air. Now I’m sore from the fall. As we slip out of view from the widow’s walk, I hear Mother at the French doors, blaming Martia for leaving the door unlatched, complaining to Mrs. Bindas about how hard it is to get help who understands an artist’s needs, who doesn’t insert herself in family matters, and who knows her place. But, she says, Martia is comfortable, like an old aunt.
“We have to slide along here ... there’s a small ledge,” I say to Kammi. “Just grip the edge of the roof and slide.”