Read Online The Stones Cry Out by Sibella Giorello - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sibella Giorello
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started painting; the other half looked like they were waiting for her to leave so they could set fire to the place.
“How have you been,” I said, following her down the hall. The sign on her office door read: Dr. Helen Marie Harmon, Ph.D. Professor of Painting.
"I really don’t have time for this," she muttered.
For seven years Helen had taught at VCU, and any day now I expected to hear she was chair of the art department. She fit this place like an iron hand in a velvet glove. In the mid-morning sunlight her big office was glowing, the yellow beams pouring through the ceiling’s Plexiglass panels.
She closed the door. Postcards blanketed the back. Fields of lavender awaiting harvest. Golden Tuscan skies. My sister was an expert on Vincent van Gogh, and she traveled the world proving it.
"You have that look," she said.
I described yesterday's events. How the neighbors on Monument Avenue called Wally, how he found her huddled under a blanket with all the windows open. The usual. If anything about our mother's mental health could be considered usual.
“And?" she said.
"And she’s writing all that crazy stuff. Those weird acrostics. And this morning she didn’t come out of her room."
Striding to the corner of the room, Helen dropped into a canvas director's chair. Her name was printed across the front, followed by "Ph.D.” Not the back; the front, where she could admire herself, too.
"Monument Avenue is just a bunch of stuffed shirts,” she said. “If those neighbors had any sense they’d listen to that music. Grow their minds. Nadine’s not the problem. It’s those people who need to remove the hair from their --"
"Helen, they have a right to peace and quiet."
"And I have a right to tell them to bug off."
"Yes. And it's a big help."
"Raleigh, what is the problem here? So Nadine just needs to release some pent-up creativity.” Helen always referred to our mother by her first name. “Nadine craves expression for what ails her soul."
"It’s a bit more complicated than that.”
“It's not.”
“Anyway,” I said, trying to avert the old argument. “I thought you should know what happened."
"Uh-huh. Thanks."
She scowled. On someone so lithe, so very pretty, the crabby expression only made her more beautiful. Ethereal anger.
“What do you expect me to do?” she asked.
“Give her a call. Come by and see her.” My sister lived less than a mile away, but her visits were on the same rotation as Santa Claus.
“I don’t have time this week. I'm leaving for Amsterdam in two days."
"Go, van Gogh."
"Raleigh, for your information, I’ve been invited to a conference of internationally ranked scholars. I'm one of three keynote speakers."
"How can there be more than one keynote?"
"You don’t even care. But the rest of the world understands my work is groundbreaking."
How many times had I heard this? And how many times did I want to say, "You want to study a crazy person? Come by the house sometime."
She uncrossed then recrossed her arms. “You want me to cancel the trip?”
“Bring her some clogs. That’ll fix everything.”
“Don’t get high and mighty with me. You probably use her to practice interrogation techniques."
"Excuse me?"
She stood, and walked to the drafting table that doubled as her desk. For several moments, she pretended to read the papers scattered across the wide surface. Her way of telling me she was busy, I should leave. Helen was the classic passive-aggressive.
And I never wanted to make it easy for her. So I just stood there, waiting.
Finally, forced to say something, she said, "By the way, Milky Lewis is my student. Not yours.”
"Milky? What’s he got to do with this?"
“You called him, he said. I thought the ridiculous FBI stuff was over."
My sister. She was a master at changing the subject, especially when losing an argument. But if she wanted to talk about Milky Lewis, I was all for it.
"He is your student,” I said, “but the only reason he
“How have you been,” I said, following her down the hall. The sign on her office door read: Dr. Helen Marie Harmon, Ph.D. Professor of Painting.
"I really don’t have time for this," she muttered.
For seven years Helen had taught at VCU, and any day now I expected to hear she was chair of the art department. She fit this place like an iron hand in a velvet glove. In the mid-morning sunlight her big office was glowing, the yellow beams pouring through the ceiling’s Plexiglass panels.
She closed the door. Postcards blanketed the back. Fields of lavender awaiting harvest. Golden Tuscan skies. My sister was an expert on Vincent van Gogh, and she traveled the world proving it.
"You have that look," she said.
I described yesterday's events. How the neighbors on Monument Avenue called Wally, how he found her huddled under a blanket with all the windows open. The usual. If anything about our mother's mental health could be considered usual.
“And?" she said.
"And she’s writing all that crazy stuff. Those weird acrostics. And this morning she didn’t come out of her room."
Striding to the corner of the room, Helen dropped into a canvas director's chair. Her name was printed across the front, followed by "Ph.D.” Not the back; the front, where she could admire herself, too.
"Monument Avenue is just a bunch of stuffed shirts,” she said. “If those neighbors had any sense they’d listen to that music. Grow their minds. Nadine’s not the problem. It’s those people who need to remove the hair from their --"
"Helen, they have a right to peace and quiet."
"And I have a right to tell them to bug off."
"Yes. And it's a big help."
"Raleigh, what is the problem here? So Nadine just needs to release some pent-up creativity.” Helen always referred to our mother by her first name. “Nadine craves expression for what ails her soul."
"It’s a bit more complicated than that.”
“It's not.”
“Anyway,” I said, trying to avert the old argument. “I thought you should know what happened."
"Uh-huh. Thanks."
She scowled. On someone so lithe, so very pretty, the crabby expression only made her more beautiful. Ethereal anger.
“What do you expect me to do?” she asked.
“Give her a call. Come by and see her.” My sister lived less than a mile away, but her visits were on the same rotation as Santa Claus.
“I don’t have time this week. I'm leaving for Amsterdam in two days."
"Go, van Gogh."
"Raleigh, for your information, I’ve been invited to a conference of internationally ranked scholars. I'm one of three keynote speakers."
"How can there be more than one keynote?"
"You don’t even care. But the rest of the world understands my work is groundbreaking."
How many times had I heard this? And how many times did I want to say, "You want to study a crazy person? Come by the house sometime."
She uncrossed then recrossed her arms. “You want me to cancel the trip?”
“Bring her some clogs. That’ll fix everything.”
“Don’t get high and mighty with me. You probably use her to practice interrogation techniques."
"Excuse me?"
She stood, and walked to the drafting table that doubled as her desk. For several moments, she pretended to read the papers scattered across the wide surface. Her way of telling me she was busy, I should leave. Helen was the classic passive-aggressive.
And I never wanted to make it easy for her. So I just stood there, waiting.
Finally, forced to say something, she said, "By the way, Milky Lewis is my student. Not yours.”
"Milky? What’s he got to do with this?"
“You called him, he said. I thought the ridiculous FBI stuff was over."
My sister. She was a master at changing the subject, especially when losing an argument. But if she wanted to talk about Milky Lewis, I was all for it.
"He is your student,” I said, “but the only reason he
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