The Painted Table(40)

April provides distraction as she squeals with pleasure over a wine-colored outfit for her Ginny doll. There are a number of gifts under the tree that bear Saffee’s name, but by its size and shape, she knows that the one she holds contains her every-Christmas ice skates. Since moving to Cottonwood Point, she’s been unable to skate on the Blue River, but she hopes her dad will drive her there during Christmas vacation. She rips off the paper and lifts the lid, welcoming the smell of new leather. She holds up a white skate by its shiny runner.

“Mom. This looks so big.” She peers at the number stamped onto the lining. “Size nine? I wear size seven. I’ll never grow into these.”

“Yes, you will,” Joann assures her. “I’m tired of buying new skates every year; we’ve already spent a fortune on them.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX



SPEAKING TRUTH





1959





Joann! Joann!”

Another pitiless dream. The same voices.

Sweat-soaked, Joann shoves blankets and sheets aside. Lying immobile on her back, staring at the invisible ceiling, she tries to regain control of her breathing. Fear subsides and discouragement takes its place. Why does the specter refuse to loosen its grip? She must not sleep. She lowers her feet into slippers. The night air is cool but her skin fever-hot. Clad in her nightgown, she makes her way down the hall, tiptoeing past the closed den door, where Nels sleeps. In the dining room she stands immobile, staring at the barely visible, brooding table. Minutes pass. Still she stands; she could not say how long. Finally, she goes into the kitchen, turns on a light, and begins to write in her always-ready notebook.





The odor of a noxious pyre dogs me.

A measure of its ash pesters, clings, settles.

Exchange this curse, O God

For the fire of Your Holy Spirit,

For the fragrance of Your Christ.




After dinner, when the dishes are wiped and put away, Joann scours the sink and Saffee retreats to the dining room. At the Norway table, which has been sloppily dressed in charcoal gray for over a month, Saffee intends to hurry through an algebra assignment, then resume chapter six of Les Miserables. In the living room, April struggles with the left hand arpeggios of “Für Elise,” despairing that her piano teacher expects all pieces first be learned hands separately.

Joann bought the spinet piano shortly after April’s concussion and both girls, in spite of their lack of natural talent, began lessons. It was an obvious tactic to keep April, who thrives on active outdoor play, indoors.

For Saffee, playing the piano, even badly, becomes almost as liberating as reading. Joann’s recorded music has always captivated her. From what magical places does such music spring? Reproducing even the simplest of melodies stimulates within her a strange desire to someday know the bigger life beyond the insipid Kvaale household.

April’s playing, of course, is not for herself, but for performance, and she obliges anyone, not minding at all to play for their few and far between invited guests. When Joann directs Saffee to play for outsiders, sudden queasiness prevents her from playing even one measure.

“Saffee.” Joann appears, removing her apron. “Come down to my bedroom.”

Annoyed by the interruption, but wondering what the summons is about, Saffee follows Joann down the hall. She notices her mother’s slight limp. Joann blames it on childhood rickets and on her ankle, which she says didn’t mend properly after her driving accident years before. Joann shuts the door behind them, muting the piano, and sits on the edge of the bed. She indicates a chair for Saffee and gets right to the point.

“I’m going to ask you a question, and I want you to tell me the truth,” Joann says. “I want to ask you . . .” She pauses, her hands twist. “I want to ask you if you think there’s something wrong with me.”

The question stuns. “Wha-what do you mean, wrong?”

“You know, different from other people, funny.”

Saffee has an urge to be rude. To perhaps say, “Duh.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Just tell me, Saffee. Tell me if you think there’s something wrong with me, not normal.”

Not normal? What an understatement. Disturbing memories flicker in Saffee’s head like a black-and-white news reel. Her mother’s trance-like staring. Conversations with an invisible someone. Hallucinations.

Oh, what she could say. Saffee has witnessed her mother’s emotional gymnastics most of her life, but a valid evaluation is beyond her. And why is she asking? Joann never seeks her daughter’s opinion. Now that Saffee is about to graduate from high school, does Joann consider her finally capable of having an opinion?