isn’t looking and lightly chisels Tina’s linoleum, adding gesture and grace.
Every time Rainey starts to ask Tina to come over, she hesitates; she envisions Howard giving her breathing lessons from behind, breathing being a big deal for musicians.
Breathe from here
, she imagines him saying, his hands over Tina’s lower abdomen where—as she conceives the body—clothes tumble round in a hot dryer, and then, sliding one hand up to her breastbone,
not from here
, he would say, and it would be pure Howard to do this, and it makes Rainey sick.
She wonders if she can tell Tina to leave the goddamn clarinet at home. She is afraid that Tina might bring the loaner, swing it insouciantly, like a purse.
“You know what your problem is?” Rainey tells Leah.
Tina looks up from the worktable, interested. She is carving a deer under falling leaves. The deer stands on legs of exquisite delicacy, courtesy of Rainey.
Tina leans across the worktable, threatening Leah’s linocut with a sharp instrument. “Yeah, let’s discuss your problem,” she tells Leah. “I bet I can fix it.” Leah raises an arm to keep Tina’s gouge off her work but doesn’t look up, eye contact being a flammable act.
Rainey puts a restraining hand on Tina’s wrist. “Don’t,” she says. She likes how both Leah and her linocut-girl aredesperately in need of
style
. She thinks of Gemma, who arrived at West Tenth Street skittish and grateful, and who slid into a sensuous indolence encouraged and shaped by Howard. “Seriously,” Rainey tells Leah, not sure whether she’s talking about art or life or both, “your problem is you’re afraid to make a mistake.”
“You’re
helping
her?” says Tina, gouge still poised for damage.
Why not, Rainey wants to say, what have you learned about loyalty, hanging out at my house? She grabs a pencil and draws directly on the worktable between her and Leah: linocut-girl’s oval face, the swirling hair. “For Chrissake, would you
look
? We have fifteen minutes.” Leah, after a wide-eyed moment, watches the pencil move. “This is shading.” Rainey makes rapid straight lines to delineate cheekbones and chin.
“Next you’ll be teaching her jazz flute,” says Tina.
“Would you relax?” says Rainey. “We’re going to give her a makeover. We’re going to French-braid her hair. Look,” she tells Leah, “mistakes are okay. Look what I did. I hacked it off.” She leans forward and lifts a thick, chopped-off hank of her own hair. “If you’re afraid of something, do it,” she says. That’s what Howard tells her, anyway.
“All right,” says Leah suddenly. She starts carving cheekbone lines. Rainey thinks, I’m getting good at this acolyte business.
“We could pluck her eyebrows,” says Tina darkly. “It only hurts the first time.”
“Just braids,” says Rainey. “You’re both coming to my house Saturday.”
“I have to be with my grandmother,” says Tina.
“Sunday?”
“Grandmother.” Tina chisels a leaf with intense concentration.
“Then Friday after school,” says Rainey. “Two hours. Come on.”
Leah looks up from a place deep inside her work and says, “Am I doing this right?” It is the first sentence she has uttered to Rainey Royal on an equal footing, and Rainey, with pleasure and surprise, realizes that her powers sharpen when she opens the cage door, not when she locks Leah in. She wonders if this is what her father felt when he first put a fiddle with a piezoelectric body pickup in Gemma’s arms. Piezoelectric body pickup, she loves saying that, the way it sounds half high-voltage and half slut.
“Try some crosshatching. But yeah.” To Tina she says, “Friday, right? And listen—don’t bring the clarinet.”
Tina looks at her sharply. Leah drops her head low over her linoleum block, a tumble of red hair concealing her face. Rainey touches her arm and says, “We promise not to be bitches.”
“Speak for yourself,” says Tina. “Howard told me to
Every time Rainey starts to ask Tina to come over, she hesitates; she envisions Howard giving her breathing lessons from behind, breathing being a big deal for musicians.
Breathe from here
, she imagines him saying, his hands over Tina’s lower abdomen where—as she conceives the body—clothes tumble round in a hot dryer, and then, sliding one hand up to her breastbone,
not from here
, he would say, and it would be pure Howard to do this, and it makes Rainey sick.
She wonders if she can tell Tina to leave the goddamn clarinet at home. She is afraid that Tina might bring the loaner, swing it insouciantly, like a purse.
“You know what your problem is?” Rainey tells Leah.
Tina looks up from the worktable, interested. She is carving a deer under falling leaves. The deer stands on legs of exquisite delicacy, courtesy of Rainey.
Tina leans across the worktable, threatening Leah’s linocut with a sharp instrument. “Yeah, let’s discuss your problem,” she tells Leah. “I bet I can fix it.” Leah raises an arm to keep Tina’s gouge off her work but doesn’t look up, eye contact being a flammable act.
Rainey puts a restraining hand on Tina’s wrist. “Don’t,” she says. She likes how both Leah and her linocut-girl aredesperately in need of
style
. She thinks of Gemma, who arrived at West Tenth Street skittish and grateful, and who slid into a sensuous indolence encouraged and shaped by Howard. “Seriously,” Rainey tells Leah, not sure whether she’s talking about art or life or both, “your problem is you’re afraid to make a mistake.”
“You’re
helping
her?” says Tina, gouge still poised for damage.
Why not, Rainey wants to say, what have you learned about loyalty, hanging out at my house? She grabs a pencil and draws directly on the worktable between her and Leah: linocut-girl’s oval face, the swirling hair. “For Chrissake, would you
look
? We have fifteen minutes.” Leah, after a wide-eyed moment, watches the pencil move. “This is shading.” Rainey makes rapid straight lines to delineate cheekbones and chin.
“Next you’ll be teaching her jazz flute,” says Tina.
“Would you relax?” says Rainey. “We’re going to give her a makeover. We’re going to French-braid her hair. Look,” she tells Leah, “mistakes are okay. Look what I did. I hacked it off.” She leans forward and lifts a thick, chopped-off hank of her own hair. “If you’re afraid of something, do it,” she says. That’s what Howard tells her, anyway.
“All right,” says Leah suddenly. She starts carving cheekbone lines. Rainey thinks, I’m getting good at this acolyte business.
“We could pluck her eyebrows,” says Tina darkly. “It only hurts the first time.”
“Just braids,” says Rainey. “You’re both coming to my house Saturday.”
“I have to be with my grandmother,” says Tina.
“Sunday?”
“Grandmother.” Tina chisels a leaf with intense concentration.
“Then Friday after school,” says Rainey. “Two hours. Come on.”
Leah looks up from a place deep inside her work and says, “Am I doing this right?” It is the first sentence she has uttered to Rainey Royal on an equal footing, and Rainey, with pleasure and surprise, realizes that her powers sharpen when she opens the cage door, not when she locks Leah in. She wonders if this is what her father felt when he first put a fiddle with a piezoelectric body pickup in Gemma’s arms. Piezoelectric body pickup, she loves saying that, the way it sounds half high-voltage and half slut.
“Try some crosshatching. But yeah.” To Tina she says, “Friday, right? And listen—don’t bring the clarinet.”
Tina looks at her sharply. Leah drops her head low over her linoleum block, a tumble of red hair concealing her face. Rainey touches her arm and says, “We promise not to be bitches.”
“Speak for yourself,” says Tina. “Howard told me to
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