The Sculptress

her father.
“You can draw in it and give free rein to your thoughts,” he told her.
Emma loved the rich smell of the green leather case, the gloss of the brass lock that kept the diary’s contents hidden, and the small golden key that unlocked its secrets. She always kept the book secured but in sight upon her desk. The key, when not in use, was tucked behind a fitted panel in her closet. The concealing seam was so flawless and unobtrusive, Emma knew her mother would never find it, even if she dared to search her room. In the cold months of January, February, and March, Emma started the diary and fell in love with the peace that filled her as she poured out her feelings. Writing became a habit as constant as the rising sun. She also corresponded with Kurt, writing mostly of schoolwork, her interest in art and sculpture, and her hope to see him again. Never did the words, “miss you,” or “lacking your affection,” enter the letters. Two could play the game of muted interest, she decided. Surprisingly, he managed to send a few letters in return, which, upon their receipt, elicited her mother’s scowls.
“Who is this boy?” Helen asked one March afternoon as the sun, weakened by high clouds, shone upon the still snow-covered yard. Emma sat on the living room couch reading a schoolbook, Charis stretching across her lap. Her mother waved the letter in the air in a threatening manner. “This is the second one from K. Larsen that you’ve received.”
“He’s Charlene’s cousin,” Emma said, looking up from her book. “I told you he was visiting in Vermont when I was there.”
“How well did you get to know him?” her mother asked.
“Mother . . . really . . . I know how to behave.” How often would she have to resort to such an argument?
“Don’t toy with me. I was against this relationship with the sculptor from the beginning. Your father has allowed ideas about the body into your head. And now you’re seeing boys. I can’t imagine what you’re thinking and what you’ve been taught. Taught, indeed! We will have to have a talk soon.”
Emma sighed, not wanting to anger her mother, but also acknowledging that her mother’s scolding contained some kernels of truth. The human body was much more familiar to her now, and she enjoyed it, not only the beauteous curves of the female that Daniel Chester French taught her to appreciate, but the firm, muscular, hardness of the young male—referenced by the gods of Greek and Roman mythology. She now considered herself advanced beyond her years in those areas of learning. There was no need for a talk with her mother. She already had learned everything good, bad, pleasing, and disgusting about sex through anatomy books, conversation, or titillating innuendo with her girlfriends. Charlene was particularly adept at making innocent jokes that had a dirty feel to them.
“We’re friends—that’s all,” Emma replied.
Helen tossed the letter to her, and it landed upon Charis, who sprang from Emma’s lap as if touched by fire. Emma laughed to herself—not at the cat’s misfortune, but at the surely innocuous and noncommittal contents of Kurt’s letter that would shock no one.
* * *
Daniel Chester French returned to Chesterwood in the late spring, some weeks after Emma’s seventeenth birthday. The time to renew her training had come again upon school’s dismissal for the summer.
“I’m coming with you,” her father said on the first day she could visit the sculptor.
Emma was happy because the time they spent together was rare. As her father worked with the horses, she sat on the porch admiring the last of the fragrant lilac blooms and the first buds of the summer roses; the lawn and nearby hills shimmered in coats of lavish green.
The carriage horses hitched, they departed for the ride to Chesterwood. Emma knew something must be on her father’s mind for him to make the trip—one she normally made alone on horseback.
She sat uneasily for a time waiting for him to speak. When he finally did, they were well away from the house. “Mr. Ford has a marvelous new invention and I’ve put one on order.”
Emma turned to him unsure of what he meant.
He saw her confusion. “It’s a horseless carriage—an automobile—one of the first in the county. I haven’t told your mother yet, but I think it will make life easier for all of us.”
“An automobile!” She clapped her hands, her excitement pouring out. “Mother probably won’t like it. It’ll be too hard to operate, or too confusing, or make too much noise. She’s not in favor of anything new unless it’s something she wants.”
Her father scowled and adjusted the reins. “Be fair. I’ve noticed a rift between you and your mother lately. God knows, we’ve had our differences, but she’s a good, decent woman—just a little headstrong. You’ve inherited some of that from her.”
The day was warm and Emma took off her hat. The wind blew through her hair and ruffled her dress. The sun striking her face and the heady scent of the fresh grass made her skin prickle with life. “Papa, sometimes I want to scream she smothers me so. A little headstrong? She is always right—no one else is—with the possible exception of Mrs. Wharton, whom she slobbers over.”
“The move from Boston was hard for her. She’s never gotten over it, but it was the right thing for us to do as a family. I will tell you this, dear one, because you’re old enough now to understand—your mother will deny it—but she doesn’t have the constitution for the city. It was consuming her and would continue to consume her were we still living there. For your mother, life was all about possession and accumulation. I think we would have gone broke had we stayed. Fortunately, Lewis Tea was prosperous enough for me to take us away from Boston.”
Emma laughed. “I’ll never forget the first day when we moved in and Mother found