circled a misspelling of Afghanistan on the student’s title page and kept on marking. “Smoulder with rage,” I said. “If the jury’s waiting for you to erupt, maybe they won’t notice that you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
It was the kind of morning I like best. We turned on the gas fireplace and moved methodically through the piles of work in front of us. When Debbie Haczkewicz called, Zack gave me the high sign. A judge had agreed to hear Delia and Noah’s petition at noon. The news was good, but as Zack headed off to change, the glance we exchanged was tinged with regret. Once again, external events were intruding on our small and pleasant world.
After Zack left to meet with the Wainbergs, I put a pan of bacon in the oven, and the dogs and I hiked across the yard to let Taylor know that toasted BLTs were on the way.
Taylor’s studio was a space for a serious artist and she spent hours there. On gloomy days, when I saw its lights and knew that Taylor was making the art that she loved and that she was safe, I realized that while nominally the studio had been a gift for Taylor, it had also been a gift for me.
I never entered her studio without knocking. Often she would invite me in and we’d talk about what she was doing, but if she was working on a piece she wasn’t ready to show, she’d grab her jacket, jam her feet into her boots, and slip out the door. On those days, when her mind was still focused on the images she’d left in her studio, our walk back to the house would be silent. That blustery morning, the dogs swam through the snow, barking and chasing one another,exuberant with the sheer joy of being off leash, but Taylor was preoccupied.
While she was cleaning up before lunch, I made our sandwiches and placed a plastic zip-lock bag beside her plate. Every Christmas, when my oldest children were young, I bought them each an ornament to hold a photograph of themselves as they were that year. The tradition I’d started with Mieka, Angus, and Peter I continued with Taylor and the granddaughters, and every December Taylor took great pleasure in arranging these miniatures of her changing self. That day, she shook out the contents of the bag listlessly and picked up the ornament that held the most current picture – her first from high school. “I’ve been monitoring a couple of forums about Sally Love on the Internet,” she said.
My nerves tightened. “There’s that retrospective of her work coming up,” I said. “I imagine the interest is pretty intense.”
Taylor’s gaze was steady. “Do you know what Sally was doing when she was my age?”
It was as if by telling Zack that morning about Izaak Levin and Sally’s relationship I’d opened Pandora’s box. “I know some of it,” I said carefully.
Taylor dangled the ornament by the thin red ribbon that would loop it to the tree branch. “She was in New York City,” my daughter said. “Experiencing life.”
“You’re experiencing life,” I said.
Taylor’s laugh was short and derisive. “Not the way she was. One of the people on the forum said Sally was … sexually active. She was my age, and she was sexually active.” Taylor’s dark eyes were accusing. “Did you know that?”
“I knew.”
“But you never told me.”
“No.”
“Were you afraid that if I knew what my mother … what Sally did … I’d do it too?”
I pulled a chair close to her and picked up last year’s ornament. Fittingly, it was an antique frame. In her photo, Taylor’s glossy hair was still long and her smile was without shadow and a mile wide – a reminder that in a girl’s rich and turbulent life, a year can be an eternity.
“Taylor, we’ve talked about this. Sex has consequences.”
“To the way I feel about myself,” she said.
“And to the way the boy feels about himself.”
The mixture of resignation and defiance in her voice was pure Sally. “Being with me isn’t going to make any boy feel worse about
It was the kind of morning I like best. We turned on the gas fireplace and moved methodically through the piles of work in front of us. When Debbie Haczkewicz called, Zack gave me the high sign. A judge had agreed to hear Delia and Noah’s petition at noon. The news was good, but as Zack headed off to change, the glance we exchanged was tinged with regret. Once again, external events were intruding on our small and pleasant world.
After Zack left to meet with the Wainbergs, I put a pan of bacon in the oven, and the dogs and I hiked across the yard to let Taylor know that toasted BLTs were on the way.
Taylor’s studio was a space for a serious artist and she spent hours there. On gloomy days, when I saw its lights and knew that Taylor was making the art that she loved and that she was safe, I realized that while nominally the studio had been a gift for Taylor, it had also been a gift for me.
I never entered her studio without knocking. Often she would invite me in and we’d talk about what she was doing, but if she was working on a piece she wasn’t ready to show, she’d grab her jacket, jam her feet into her boots, and slip out the door. On those days, when her mind was still focused on the images she’d left in her studio, our walk back to the house would be silent. That blustery morning, the dogs swam through the snow, barking and chasing one another,exuberant with the sheer joy of being off leash, but Taylor was preoccupied.
While she was cleaning up before lunch, I made our sandwiches and placed a plastic zip-lock bag beside her plate. Every Christmas, when my oldest children were young, I bought them each an ornament to hold a photograph of themselves as they were that year. The tradition I’d started with Mieka, Angus, and Peter I continued with Taylor and the granddaughters, and every December Taylor took great pleasure in arranging these miniatures of her changing self. That day, she shook out the contents of the bag listlessly and picked up the ornament that held the most current picture – her first from high school. “I’ve been monitoring a couple of forums about Sally Love on the Internet,” she said.
My nerves tightened. “There’s that retrospective of her work coming up,” I said. “I imagine the interest is pretty intense.”
Taylor’s gaze was steady. “Do you know what Sally was doing when she was my age?”
It was as if by telling Zack that morning about Izaak Levin and Sally’s relationship I’d opened Pandora’s box. “I know some of it,” I said carefully.
Taylor dangled the ornament by the thin red ribbon that would loop it to the tree branch. “She was in New York City,” my daughter said. “Experiencing life.”
“You’re experiencing life,” I said.
Taylor’s laugh was short and derisive. “Not the way she was. One of the people on the forum said Sally was … sexually active. She was my age, and she was sexually active.” Taylor’s dark eyes were accusing. “Did you know that?”
“I knew.”
“But you never told me.”
“No.”
“Were you afraid that if I knew what my mother … what Sally did … I’d do it too?”
I pulled a chair close to her and picked up last year’s ornament. Fittingly, it was an antique frame. In her photo, Taylor’s glossy hair was still long and her smile was without shadow and a mile wide – a reminder that in a girl’s rich and turbulent life, a year can be an eternity.
“Taylor, we’ve talked about this. Sex has consequences.”
“To the way I feel about myself,” she said.
“And to the way the boy feels about himself.”
The mixture of resignation and defiance in her voice was pure Sally. “Being with me isn’t going to make any boy feel worse about
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