Read Online Madeleine Is Sleeping by Sarah Shun-Lien Bynum - Free Book Online Page B

eating.
    No, her sister says. You let go. Let go of the knife.
    But Emma is not yet finished with her breakfast. She would like to spread some jam on her last piece of bread. If she cannot spread her jam, like a lady, she will simply have to dunk her crust into the jar itself. So, forgetting the knife, she reaches out to grasp the lovely, golden, glowing jar that sings its siren song from across the table.
    The eldest daughter perceives with alarm the younger's intent. The cutlery clatters, the dishes sway.
    Take these!
    The mayor finds himself responsible for the china.
    And still pinching the brown wrist in one hand, his eldest daughter confiscates the treacherous jampot. She holds it up above her head, away from the clamorous hands of her sister, and looks down, as if from a great height, at her father's puzzled face.
    Don't you see? she asks.

Tell Me
    YOU MUST SEE , the photographer pleads. You must see how you are—compromising—
    His hands fly up from his pockets, fluttering with urgency, making all the arguments that language has failed to provide him with. Madeleine notes this carefully, the articulateness of his hands. He has become, quite suddenly, interesting to her. She grows shy in his presence. She is curious about everything he does.
    Wrecking? Madeleine asks, as his hands wring the air. Destroying?
    Together they stand at the edge of the lawn. She is spreading her newly washed drawers across the privet hedge to dry. How white they appear against the green, looking as if they might rise up at any moment, like sails, and pull with them the privet hedge, the velvety lawns, the grand house with its carpets and curtains. Only a great gust of wind is needed, and all will be unmoored.
    Madeleine must concentrate on this, the white against the green, so as not to gaze too long at the photographer's face, or his talkative hands.
    Yes, Adrien admits, exhausted. You are destroying everything.
    He means that the widow is unhappy. She is unhappy because the girl continues to refuse her. Every night, they gather in her drawing room; every night, the candles are lit, the tripod's spindly legs are spread, the performers are placed in their humiliating poses; every night, the girl lifts her paddle (his cheek, her hand,
smack! was
the sound) and freezes.
    Madeleine nods, pretends to listen. She would like to be having a different conversation. She would like to ask, Do you chew anise seeds? And is that you I hear sometimes, singing beneath your breath? Maybe they could take a turn around the garden. Maybe he could invite her inside, for a drink of water. What gives your shirts their nice smell? She wants to say, Tell me. She wants to know: Was it like—? Did you feel—?
    She will send us away, the photographer says.

Taste
    SPECIAL DELIVERY ! Mother sings out, clutching a jar in each of her hands.
    But the mayor opens his door no more than a crack.
    Mother smiles at him shyly. It's pear, she says. Your favorite.
    The crack widens by a hair.
    Madame, the mayor begins, I am a supporter of local business—
    Indeed you are! she cries. Last month you bought a dozen jars!
    And presenting her gifts, she says, Do not think I have forgotten.
    The door creeps farther open, then closes with a slam.
    Mother stumbles backwards. She stares at the mayor's front door; she frowns at this most uncivic display.
    The red door swings open once again. The mayor has been replaced by his sour-faced daughter, her jaw set, her feet planted. Old enough, Mother thinks, to be married by now, and bullying someone other than her father.
    Good morning, Mother ventures.
    What do you want? the daughter replies.
    To leave a token, Mother says, of my appreciation for the mayor.
    And she holds up each golden specimen for her to see.
    Preserves! the daughter snorts. Just as I thought!
    She folds her arms across her narrow chest: We are not interested. The things you make—they have a queer taste.
    Mother, looking in dismay at her jars,