Quent Cordair
For the Woman Who Has Everything
First published by Art Ideas, 1996.
Sarah woke to silence. Thin lines of moonlight lay in diagonals across the floor and rose in needles up the walls. She listened for awhile. The only sound was the soft crush of her hair against the pillow.
She slipped her legs from beneath the layers of blankets and let her feet touch the chill of the hardwood floor. As she stood and walked, a line of moonlight slipped around one ankle, then the other, ascending deliberately, scanning and measuring her body in strict undulations. At the west window the moon caught her fully, a slender white animal beneath the new winter's sky.
To the north the terraced lawns twinkled with frost as from a sprinkling of ground glass. To the south the meadow's tall grasses were broken, the stalks strewn like fallen soldiers, the stumps standing like a blanket of nails over hills. Below and before her lay the expansive gardens. The moonlight was caught in webs of shadow beneath the bare rose bushes, in chains of diamonds beneath the arched trellises. At the gardens' end the shadows flowed into thick venous networks that covered the forest floor and reached down to the lake, where the black water held a solitary struggling prisoner, the twin sister of a star above. Beyond the horizons lay the borders of the estate. Within, the only movement, the only sound, the only life was the faint beating of Sarah's heart.
She wrapped herself in her white terry robe, stepped into her slippers and drifted past the empty bed. In the hall, slanting shafts of moonlight filtered through the skylights to make rectangles on the wall.
It was still habit to pause at the children's rooms. Kelly's running trophies glimmered on the dresser. On the bed her stuffed animals waited patiently. Kelly was doing well in law school. Paul's model airplane hung in a motionless, banking climb above his darkened computer. He was flying his own plane now, from one development project to the next. Jonathan's first sculpture, a lovely nude, reclined on a stand in the corner of his room, as comfortable as the day he had put her there. Jonathan only lived in the city, but Sarah hadn't seen him or his wife or the kids in months.
The desk light in her office had been left on, illuminating the top sheets of the neat stacks of papers. The day's priorities filled three pages of yellow pad. On the computer blinked an urgent message from the Hong Kong office. Zurich wanted her to call before the close of their business day. She turned off the light and stared out the window. The sky had shifted to a somber slate-grey. Silhouetted branches of a towering fir sagged in resignation, anticipating the weight of coming snows.
In the library the recliner and the fireplace drained the room of the scant light. The bookcases, tilting towards the distant ceiling, were half empty. She had tried filling the spaces with bric-a-brac, but they were still half empty. In the great room her finger followed the edge of the grand piano. She lifted the fall board and tried the keys, but the wounded tones died in the corners of the room, having fallen out of tune. In the kitchen she circled the island, hearing the distant giggles of flour-caked children, the laughter of friends, the tinkling of champagne glasses. From her oven had come the hot rush and the smell of baking bread. She opened the French doors to the patio, and the cold splashed her face and hands, spilling around her wrists and ankles, slipping beneath her robe to climb her bare legs.
A morning mist had scattered about the gardens, wetting the frost. She followed her usual path, down the flagstone to the greenhouse, turning and winding back through the boxwood hedges in a serpentine route that allowed daily inspection of each trim, bordered plot. There was nothing left to be done in the gardens. The pruning was finished. The perennials were trimmed and mulched. The tulips, larkspur and peonies had been tucked under. In the vegetable and herb beds, the clods of earth lay belly-up to the sky, awaiting the cover of snow.
The shadows had dissolved, the moon only a paling wafer lingering in the haze above. The silver morning twilight seemed to rise from the earth itself. Along the walk through the woods the mossy trunks glistened with dew, and the crisp pungency of decay rose from the carpet of leaves and branches. Ahead, the black water lay beneath a shroud of mist that veiled the far shore.
She paused at the gazebo. The swing hung empty and still at the end of rusting chains. It was here that Douglas had left her sitting, too stunned to cry. From her supply in the covered bench she took a clean towel and draped it over the railing. She draped her robe beside the towel and arranged her slippers below the robe.
This year, for the first time, the ritual of her morning swim had extended past the end of summer and through the autumn months. Lately, when she reached the middle of the lake, she floated awhile, then stopped moving altogether, letting her body slip quietly beneath the surface and down through the ever colder depths. The feeling of her feet sinking into the muddy bottom had sent her swimming for the light, but the feeling was becoming familiar.
The walk passed through the final feature of her landscaping, a circular haven of evergreen. She was stopped there, startled. There had always been the stone bench on the one side, but she had never found quite the right ornament for the view opposite. Her first thought was that the sculpture's style was unmistakable—and then she couldn't think anymore because her body was straightening to match the bearing of the figure, an ageless beauty in a summer dress, hands resting lightly on her hips, looking out into the world with strength, resolve and a peaceful joy. Sarah could feel her son's hands pushing gently on the small of her back, pulling back her shoulders, lifting her chin. It was a perfect likeness. It was her own lost soul, and as she stood before the vision, it filled and filled her. The base was engraved: For the woman who has everything. Happy birthday, Mom. Jonathan.
She had been standing there a long time when the sound of a horn came from the direction of the front drive, followed by the shutting of car doors and the laughter of children—Jonathan's. She turned towards the gazebo: there was hot cocoa to be made, and donuts. She would stop by the shed for firewood. Tying the belt of her robe, she glanced back to the lake. As soon as it froze over, she would be out on the ice with the children, teaching them how to skate. She tucked the remaining towels beneath her arm and turned towards the house.
Above the circle of evergreen, the first snowflake of winter rocked gently down. It came to rest on the cheek of the sculpture, and melted there.
