The sunlight cascaded through the curtains into a large, warm, square patch on Addie's floor. As the shadows of the leaves danced against the bright spot, Addie hummed a song that was stuck in her mind -- a song her mother had played on the piano that morning. She smiled as she pressed a green crayon to the paper on the small table in front of her and made repeated, quick upward strokes that resembled a grassy field. The shadows on the floor moved and shivered to the music in her mind out of the corner of her eye.
She drew a field of colored flowers, and then started an attempt to color a picture of their barn with the horses outside it. Lost in her world of art and fancy, she was not aware that downstairs, her sister had a different and much more apprehensive interpretation of the beautiful day.
To Dorian, it was one of those quiet days in the house where every move, every sound from the other room made the girls stop and listen -- nervous, their voices in whispers, their exchanged glances furtive and their ears overly-attentive to their surroundings.
Mrs. Stonecliff's chair creaked eerily as she rocked in it, her fingers stitching pieces of colored fabric together. The soft, repeated, whining noise was as rhythmic as Mama's metronome. Dorian and Melinda helped Mrs. Stonecliff by cutting quilt pieces from a couple of their worn out dresses.
Though the afternoon sun brightened the room, and deepened the shadows of various objects throughout, there was an electricity that hovered around them. It was as if a thunderstorm was nearing, dark clouds over the treetops with the birds growing still while waiting for the wind and rain. The creaking of the rocker, which might have normally been a comforting sound, was foreboding against the silence in the rest of the house -- like the first branches to move before the windstorm hit.
Dorian paused, her sewing scissors poised in one hand as the other gripped her fabric, and gazed out of the corner of her eye when she heard Mama pace nearby in the next room. Papa had been called to help a little boy with a fever, and Mama had asked him not to go.
Dorian understood why Papa didn't have a choice. Why didn't Mama? Someday, Dorian would be a doctor, too, so she could have a good excuse to leave.
Mama knocked something over in the other room and Dorian's gaze jumped to her little sister as Melinda cringed. It wasn't often that Melinda was allowed to use the grown-up scissors, and she was being very careful.
It sounded like Mama had knocked a picture off of a table. Mrs. Stonecliff paused, calm, prepared to stand and either usher the girls upstairs or leave them to help their mother. She listened until she heard Sonya put the picture back in place and then continued rocking and piecing her quilt block.
Dorian regarded Melinda, who was still frozen in place, and then slowly laid her work aside.
"Dorian Cramer," Mrs. Stonecliff whispered to her with a scolding tone. "Don't you bother your mother -- do you hear me?"
Dorian looked at Mrs. Stonecliff with a complete lack of expression and went to the door, where she could peer out at her mother. Mama was looking at a family portrait, but she noticed Dorian's presence immediately. "Yes, Dorian?"
Dorian looked back at Mrs. Stonecliff as if to confirm that she had not interrupted her mother, but that her mother had noticed her first. She took a deep breath. She wanted Mama to be happy. She wanted the whole house to feel comfortable again.
"Well, speak up, child!" her mother demanded.
Dorian smiled as sweetly as she could at her mother. "Won't you play us a song, Mama? We like your music as much as Papa does." She gripped the doorframe with one hand. Though she was being as sweet and sincere as possible, her instinct told her to expect a negative response from her mother.
"No," her mother stated flatly. "No, there is no music now. And no, you don't like my music as much as your Papa does," she bit. "You couldn't possibly understand it." Sonya shook her head. How could a little girl even begin to comprehend the complexity and layers in her latest work?
Dorian kept her eyes fixed on her mother as she took a step back. "Your music is beautiful, Mama."
"Yes, thank you, Dorian," her mother agreed with a snarl. "And it deserves to be heard by an audience that can appreciate it."
Mrs. Stonecliff dropped her work; annoyed at Dorian both for disturbing Sonya and for making her stop her stitching halfway through. "Dorian!" she scolded, laying her hands on each of Dorian's shoulders and sending Sonya a sympathetic gaze. "Now either sit down and hush or you go on up to your room and play."
Dorian looked at Melinda, who nodded at her.
Dorian held her hand out to her sister. "We'll go upstairs," she said haughtily. "Since we're obviously not wanted down here." She knew she was smarting, and she meant to. She hoped Mama heard it.
Why did Mama hate them so? It didn't always seem that way. Was she just pretending during the happy times? Was she pretending when she tucked their hair behind their ears when she thought they were sleeping, or gazed into Papa's eyes as she played her music?
Melinda grabbed Dorian's hand, and they hurried upstairs before there was any backlash to Dorian's attitude. It was a relief to retreat -- like leaving for school in the morning or stepping into the warm house after being out in the winter wind. Dorian left her bedroom door ajar -- both hoping Addie would join them and that leaving the door open would alleviate any paranoia that they were getting into trouble.
Charlotte sighed and frowned after she was sure the girls were upstairs, then cast an apologetic gaze at their mother.
Sonya smiled at her from the doorway to the other room, where Dorian had been standing during their brief conversation. "Where is Agatha?"
Mrs. Stonecliff picked her work back up absently. "Upstairs in her room, being quiet and good. Don't trouble yourself over those girls. I'll take care of them."
Sonya nodded and went to the window. She pulled the curtain aside and saw no sign of her husband returning from his work. She loved him, she longed for his return, and she craved his presence and attention, yet she hated him at the same time. How could he do this to her? How could he abandon her? It was as if he packed up her desire to play, her inspiration, in his medical bag and took it with him. She was dead inside without him today.
It didn't matter anyway. Dorian was being horribly bratty. Even if she were in the mood to play, Dorian would no doubt find a way to interrupt her.
Horrid frustration. She looked around at the house. Pretty pictures. Pretty furniture. Three pretty little girls. A lone piano. No stage. No grand entrance. Lou had stuck her here to rot where she could not think or play or be appreciated. She had born his children and he had left her for his work -- again. Alone.
She watched Charlotte out of the corner of her eye. She didn't trust Charlotte. Charlotte seemed to appreciate her music, but was always trying to take care of the girls. Good. That was her job. But if Charlotte wanted her trust, Charlotte would have to somehow prove whom her true loyalties were with.
Proof. That's what Sonya needed. Proof of loyalty, proof of love.
She waited until Charlotte was lost in her quilt pieces again and slipped upstairs to check on Addie.
Addie should have been startled by her mother's sudden appearance at her side, but Mama had slipped in, quiet and gentle.
"What are you coloring?" she whispered in Addie's ear, tucking a stray lock of Addie's hair back.
"The barn," Addie smiled without worry. She looked around to see if her sisters were nearby. They weren't.
Addie relaxed because she knew if Dorian wasn't nearby, it was less likely Mama would become angry. Though she was still just a girl, she was old enough to understand that if she just kept her mouth shut and agreed with her mother, there was never anything to worry about.
Dorian didn't understand that. Addie often found herself standing aside of Mama and Dorian's heated and even violent exchanges, begging Dorian to keep quiet -- to stop arguing. Mama had to think she was right. Mama always had to be right -- even if she was the only one who thought she was right.
Addie always agreed with Mama. Life was so much easier that way. She was quite sure that doing and thinking what Mama wanted her to would help her gain her mother's love. Addie was very good at staying out of the picture when she needed to, and being right in the middle of it when Mama wanted her to be. Addie's love was as much inaction as it was demonstration.
Mama was pleased with Addie's drawing. "Those are the horses?"
Addie nodded, happy that her mother recognized them.
Mama's head tilted to the side, pointing at one of them. "Why does he have a yellow stripe on his back??"
Addie grabbed a yellow crayon and scrawled the image of the sun into the blank sky above the barn. "He has been running and the sun is shining off of his back," she explained.
Mama smiled and nodded. "No clouds then. You are such a good girl, Agatha. You see things that others don't."
Addie smiled back, relishing her mother's approval. She had no concept of the depth of meaning in her mother's words.
Mama dug her hand into the cigar box full of loose crayons and clutched a handful of them tightly; lifting them and dropping them back into the box. "Tell me, Agatha -- if you were a crayon, which color would you be?"
"Pink!" Addie grinned without hesitation. She sensed a vague tension in her mother's voice, and wanted to make her feel better.
Mama seemed humored with their game, and stirred through the box until she found a pink crayon, which she laid aside near her daughter's drawings. It was short and blunt from being used often. "Now. Dorian?" She held the box toward Addie.
Addie paused for a moment to consider. She picked up a blue crayon, then a green crayon, and ultimately decided on a red crayon before laying it beside the pink one.
Mama lifted her eyebrow. "Red?"
Addie nodded. "Yes," she confirmed. Dorian was deep and bold -- everything about her -- like Mama -- dark hair instead of light, a brazen voice, noticeable against others.
Mama shrugged. It didn't matter whether she agreed with Agatha or not. "Now Melinda." She nodded, encouraging.
Again, Addie considered her choices. She drew out a white crayon. The poor crayon's white label had been smudged with other colors from being tossed around in the box and rarely used. Addie chose the white crayon for her little sister because it seemed so clean and fresh -- like the youngest, the most innocent, and the gentlest. She liked how Melinda's soft, pale hand felt when she held it.
"I see," Mama smiled. White, red, and pink. She wondered if it was just coincidence that the colors coordinated. Sonya touched each of the crayons, one at a time, ominously renaming them. "Dorian … Melinda … Agatha. What color am I?" She couldn't resist asking.
Addie was hesitant, concerned that she would give Mama an answer she didn't like. She hated the idea of displeasing her mother. She reached into the box and withdrew a black crayon -- ebony, like the keys on the piano -- and placed it next to Melinda's color.
Mama picked up the black crayon and twirled it in her fingers. "Ha," she smirked. "That's the color I would have picked for Dorian."
Mama's tone had changed. Addie recognized the change without doubt. It was a trait of everyone in her family -- perhaps everyone she knew. Voices changed when moods changed, or when people got tired of pretending to be happy. Mama and Dorian's voices changed often like that, and sometimes Addie even recognized it in herself. She knew she was going to be in trouble when her pitch altered. It meant she was either doing something bad, or would do something bad soon.
Mama didn't want to be the color she thought Dorian should be. Addie tried to lighten the mood. "See?" Addie asked, taking the crayon from her mother and using it to draw a piano on the back of another page. She hurried to sketch music notes rising from the image as Mama watched over her shoulder. "It's the color of music. And Melinda is white. Both of you -- like piano keys. Like sheet music?"
Mama contemplated the colors for a long moment as Addie held her breath, waiting for approval. Eventually, she took the black crayon from Addie's hand and placed it on the table before her, repeating the new names for the crayons. "Mama … Agatha … Dorian … Melinda." After a moment, she reached forward and snapped the white crayon in half.
Addie jumped and blinked down at the broken crayon in shock as it fell from her mother's hand. "No, Mama, don't!" she protested, moving to cover and protect the remaining colors. She felt her voice rise. She was asking for trouble, but she couldn't help herself.
Mama grabbed her hands and smacked them away. Addie relented to avoid punishment and her mother nodded at her approvingly. "Now Dorian." She grabbed the red crayon with both hands and was poised to break it, but stopped.
Addie breathed a sigh of relief until she looked up and saw her mother staring at her. Mama held the red crayon out. "Break it yourself."
Addie shook her head in disbelief. "No, Mama! Please!" she whispered. The red crayon was so beautiful, and she needed it to color so many things.
"Take it," her mother stated with forced calm. "It's Dorian, remember."
Addie swallowed and shook her head. Mama wasn't just asking her to break one of her beloved crayons. Tears welled in her eyes. Mama was asking her to break the representation of her sister. It felt wrong. It felt evil.
Mama grabbed Addie's hands and forced the crayon into them, poised between the two fists, and closed her own hands around her daughter's so that Addie couldn't drop the crayon. "Break it, Addie," she snarled. "Break the red crayon. You know what will happen if you don't."
Addie squeezed her eyes shut as her mouth went dry. Mama's grip seemed to make it harder for her to breath. She didn't want to break a crayon, but she reminded herself that the crayon wasn't really Dorian. Not really. She felt a tear fill her eyelashes. "I'll do it, Mama. Please, let me go. Please."
Mama released her cautiously, keeping her eyes fixed on Addie's hands. Addie didn't have to look up at her mother to know that her expression was one of dark glee. Addie understood Mama better than anyone knew. Addie understood that sometimes, when she felt bad, it made her feel better to hurt or break things. By forcing Addie to break this crayon, Mama was doing both.
Addie also felt like breaking the crayon would not only satisfy Mama for a period of time, it might also make Mama love her more. Maybe Mama would appreciate Addie's actions. Maybe Mama would play a song, just for her and no one else.
Addie cringed and snapped her red crayon in half before dropping it to the table. It bounced and left a small red streak on her picture of the barn. It was heartbreaking. She swallowed her sob.
Another tear rose in the corner of Addie's eye -- a hot tear of anger, frustration and longing, but she didn't let it fall as she kept her gaze fixed on the small, pink crayon. It was her favorite crayon, and shorter than the others because she used it more often.
Mama reached forward and picked up the pink crayon between two fingers. She lifted an eyebrow at her daughter when Addie looked up at her with pleading, sad eyes.
She smiled with reassurance and lowered the pink crayon to the table in front of Addie, as she made her point very clear. She placed half of the red crayon and half of the white crayon next to the whole pink one. "Addie, do you hear me? As long as these two stay smaller than this one, I won't have to break it," she smiled. "You understand me, my darling?"
Addie swallowed. Mama wasn't talking about crayons. Mama meant that Addie had to be bigger than her sisters -- she had to keep them small, quiet, in their place. A sickening feeling of dread rose in her stomach. She would especially have to make sure Dorian didn't outgrow her. Her dread was compounded by the impossibility of this task. She had to do what Mama asked of her -- but how could she accomplish it?
Mama patted and smoothed Addie's hair before kissing the top of her head. "I know you understand."
Addie wanted to smile and breathe a sigh of relief at Mama's words. They were words she longed to hear, and words she would carry with her forever.
Addie sat at the table staring at the crayons and the picture she was no longer interested in coloring, numb. She was so angry with Mama -- so angry that she wanted to scream, throw things, and destroy her own room. She longed for Mama's love and approval and sadly loved the idea of being Mama's special girl. How could she love her mother so much and hate her at the same time?
The only thing that could make her feel better now would be to destroy something. She looked down at her drawings and grabbed the one of the music and violently ripped it into the smallest, tiniest pieces she could. A sob escaped from her lips and she bit her bottom lip until she thought it would bleed. Then she stared down at the smudge of red on her beautiful drawing of the barn.
Within five minutes, the sweet drawing of a sunny day with shining horses was covered over with black clouds and smears of red from a broken crayon -- blood. Something about the darkness and evil in the picture proved very satisfying.
Yes, Addie understood Mama. All too well.