Life in Violet

By Katherine F. Robertson

Life in Violet is the story of Violet McKay, a psychotherapist who does not understand the full emotional impact of events of her early childhood and the way they have shaped her life, especially relationships with men. She was orphaned young and went to live with her uncle, a doctor, who treated her like a sexual object. Her uncle’s live-in nurse and housekeeper, Violet’s surrogate mother, abandons Violet when she, too, becomes the object of the doctor’s attentions. It is the 1980s when there are no words to validate either of their experiences.

Violet lives alone in a house overlooking the ocean, relying only upon herself. Her relationships are mostly with colleagues and clients. Whenever distressed, Violet either soaks in her bathtub or writes in her journal, seeking “connections and meanings, looking for new light into the mystery of life. Her life. Her clients’ lives.”

At a professional conference, Violet meets an Episcopal priest who lives near her own home. He soon becomes her confidante and support, introducing her to puzzling notions about God.

Relationships with an actor and a widower reveal Violet’s confused sense about what makes for a healthy relationship with a man.

It takes a chance encounter with a predatory psychiatrist, leading to an obsession, to break open her past and reveal her own deep need for healing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 17, 2009
• ISBN: 9781440139420

Katherine F. Robertson

Katherine F. Robertson is a graduate of Wells College with a B.A. in English and Art History, and of Simmons University with an M.S.W. from the School of Social Work. She is the author of A Sip on the Between of Time: Honey and Whimsey for the Time-Challenged. She is a clinical social worker and lives north of Boston, Massachusetts, with her husband, David, and their cats, Sophie and Lia.

Book preview

One

She lived on the North Shore of Boston in a little, gray house perched high on a rock. It had views of the sea. Vi called her house Between the Devil and the Deep Blue, privately, to herself. Pain and trouble came in one door–into her office in the back. She would never share the sea with her clients. The Deep Blue in the front, overlooking the ocean, was hers, her place to refresh herself, cleanse herself from the day’s troubles.

Violet McKay, herself, was a welcoming looking person. She was pleasingly well-rounded, decidedly female. Her hair was a deep, red auburn, eyes a rich brown. She had full nourishing breasts. Useful in my profession, she thought. She also had her own way of looking at things. Some might have thought this was a result of her being a psychotherapist.

But no matter how oddly she thought, she always looked accessible, almost like a child. No armor. Clients were never afraid of her, although she carried the quiet authority of understanding, knowledge, and skill.

Today, at the end of a long summer day, Vi sat in her office. A particularly difficult client had just left, a man. The sun had just set leaving behind a pinkish glow, a little leftover passion.

A little leftover passion. That’s it, Vi thought. She thought about the session. He had come in breathing heavily after climbing the steep hill to her house.

I just climbed up and down those damn stairs twice before coming in. You have a lot of nerve situating your office up here. It’s a test, isn’t it? A trick! Only those able to survive get to see you.

As if I’m a goddess. Vi heard his image.

Yes. A goddamn goddess giving tests, he spat out angrily.

Vi watched him. The imagery in the situation was fascinating. This man had just climbed up and down a rocky incline twice. The driveway was right next to her house. There was no need for him to do this.

The curtains fluttered.

A goddess giving tests, exactly, exactly. He sat forward in his chair. Vi could smell his perspiration.

Vi said, What are you thinking?

The image, a goddess giving tests. I remember an ad campaign I did–cartoon figures clambering up a jagged, black mountain. Perched on top in full color, Eve drinks an orange liqueur. Next to her, finally, a male figure. He’s made it. Half-cartoon, becoming man. Paradisiacal greens surround them. An oasis. The Minotaur won and is fed. The caption read ‘The real stuff is worth it.’

He was staring.

Vi felt like Eve. It was quite pleasant. Then the devouring image of the Minotaur. For a fleeting second, Vi was frightened.

Al was still staring at her. She held her breath from tension, then forced herself to relax and figure out what was going on.

Well, you’ve reached the top of the mountain, Al.

Al looked puzzled. You mean my run up here?

Vi murmured.

I always like a test to prove women are worth it.

There was a long silence as these words settled in. A lot of anger at women, Vi said quietly. No wonder I was so frightened, she thought.

There was no place but down after this. Revealed, Al slammed angrily out of the room. Vi could see the top of his head out the window. He was pacing next to the house, literally between a rock and a hard place. Vi surmised he was fighting it out, whether or not to continue with her.

Vi was glad he ran out. She did some deep breathing exercises and thought dimly of referring him out.

Within a minute he was back looking calm.

There’s more to talk about here, Vi said, but our time is up.

He paid her. She stood to get her appointment book. I have to change our regular time for next week. How about 7 pm Tuesday?

Fine, he said, and was gone.

Vi thought about the hour. A hungry, angry man dashing up a hill in competition with countless others for food and warmth and sex. Always the fear of not making it, of getting shut out. Only becoming a real, whole man at the top.

I think I understand all that, she said out loud. Even his shocked anger at women, wondering if they’re worth it.

Vi roamed around the room. She sat in his chair, then got up and looked out the window where moments before Al had been walking. I understand that, she said again. It’s just … She closed her eyes and saw Al. Blue-black eyes, dark, silky hair, lean body exuding success. Very tan. A voice with resonance. He looked as if he leapt mountains.

Her stomach felt sick. She didn’t want to think about it anymore. Her head felt heavy. Settling back down into her own green chair, she put her head down onto the desk and fell asleep.

A half-hour later, Vi woke feeling a little better. Tuesday seemed far away. She’d think about him later. Maybe talk to her colleague, Jerry, about this case. Good, enough of that. No more. Just finish up, she said firmly.

She sat idly at her desk. Men. The endless preoccupation. Fr. Henry came to mind. Think I’ll call him for dinner. The fascinating Fr. Henry.

This plan gave her a push to do her work, write notes, make a few phone calls. Then she called the rectory. Mia, the housekeeper, answered the phone.

Fr. Henry, he’s not in yet.

Vi figured he was probably still making house calls–visiting the sick, bringing communion.

Would you please tell him I called. Yes, it’s Violet McKay. He has my number. Thanks.

She knew he’d call. He always did. He never called her, but he always responded quickly to her summons.

The evening decided, Vi took a long bath. She lay there in the water trying to relax. She was getting ready for a big night, she could see that. This is ridiculous, she said, getting out of the tub. Summons, she laughed, I think I’m the moth to the flame. She dried off and dressed carefully.

Vi got to the restaurant first. Captain Henry’s. It was their favorite place. A kind of joke between them. The name suited him perfectly. Henry was always in charge. Always Captain.

Vi got out of her car. It was dark. The restaurant twinkled mysteriously on the edge of the harbor. Harbor lights glimmered. Little boats swayed. There was a soft clanking of ropes and gear. And the pungent sea smell. A perfect night.

Entering the restaurant, Vi was greeted by Mike, the maitre d’. Good evening, Ms. McKay. A beautiful evening, isn’t it?

It certainly is, Mike. The perfect night. Fr. Sloane will be coming along later.

She was seated at a corner table overlooking the harbor. She could almost hear the rush of the waves. I love it here, she thought. Restaurants had to be among Vi’s favorite places. Food, expensive and impressive. Intimacy bounded at the table. So many things happened over food.

She ordered a white wine and then sat drinking and watching the light on the waves, the candlelight on the table, feeling quite expectant.

Sorry, Ms. McKay. Fr. Sloane just called. He can’t make it. Mike’s words hung in the air.

Vi ordered dinner, a plate of oysters on the half shell, clam chowder, a dinner salad, and another glass of wine. No sense wasting this place. But she was acutely disappointed. So much for my summons, she thought. The spice went out of the night.

She left the restaurant feeling restless. She and Fr. Henry weren’t so close that she could just call him casually. Theirs was a special relationship. It lived in special places.

She walked down to the beach. There was a half-moon, just enough to keep her from being afraid of the dark expanse of waves and stars. A wind rushed over her. Vi remembered first meeting Fr. Henry. It was in Montreal. She’d gone there for a conference on borderline personality disorders. Borderlines were nothing if not needy and angry. They required great care and a long commitment of time. You had to be careful not to get eaten up by their emotional demands.

She was tired from the conference. Some well-known Boston analysts were presenting papers. Vi had been around long enough to have a nodding acquaintance with many of the people on both sides of the podium.

She had had a drink in the hotel lounge with Dr. George Stimmler, she remembered. They had discussed some fine points of the presentation. Dr. Stimmler had gone off to bed. Vi had sat there finishing her Port. She had one more day in Montreal and was planning to do some shopping. She was thinking about the emotional hunger of the borderline when in walked a striking figure in black. He was carrying a suitcase and, in the comparative darkness of the lounge, he stumbled down a low step right near Vi’s table.

Vi jumped up, laughing gently. Let me help you with that. It’s awfully dark in here. I nearly missed that step myself. Oh, you’re a priest, are you? Fallen into my lap?

He was ready for her. I wasn’t quite so lucky. But I see the other tables are occupied. May I join you?

They sat down. What an interesting looking man, she thought. Tall, elegant, with a little beard and mustache. He looked like a Renaissance man. She could easily see him in cape and neck ruffle. Like Sir Walter Drake rescuing the queen. Only she’d rescued him. Always her role.

Sir Walter Drake settled his luggage and ordered a drink–a Port, graciously taking his cue from her. Vi felt herself obscurely flattered.

As the waitress left, he thanked her for taking him in. I’m glad to have a place to sit down. This, he said, is too much to carry around.

She smiled, It’s always better to be without luggage.

Weightless. How true. Too much baggage in life. I’m Fr. Henry Sloane. You are?

Violet McKay. I’m here for a conference on personality disorders.

No wonder you’re thinking about luggage. You must have had your fill of emotional baggage today.

What a lovely man, Vi thought. The Port felt good, and she was pleased with her catch. Nourishing company. A few well-chosen questions and she was pouring out her experience of the conference. She knew Fr. Sloane was watching her. She could feel herself enlarge like some bright star. She was witty, gently mocking, enjoying her own being in his presence.

So you see, Fr. Sloane, it was a very satisfying conference.

Vi was amazed. She realized she was the one doing the talking. About herself. It never happened that way.

You know, Fr. Sloane, you should be a therapist.

A priest is a therapist of sorts. A healer. One who brings the person in pain to God. After all, isn’t God the ultimate physician?

A mighty remote physician, said Vi.

Do you think so? Fr. Sloane sounded surprised. A God who comes down from heaven is hardly remote.

Yes. A remote god. A Freudian, I think. He stays at a distance and allows us to weave fantasies about him. I never quite thought about it before, but it’s true, I do see god, presuming there is one, as a blank screen accepting fantasy.

There was a long pause. The lounge was nearly empty. Fr. Sloane said softly, A bitter truth.

I see nothing bitter about it, just true. It means nothing.

"You are glib about God, Ms. McKay. You talk about him as if he were some sort of psychological invention.

And god to you?

Is the summons of all being. A passionate lover.

How can you possibly say that with so much pain in the world? A lover! And passionate, at that?

Vi was shaking a little. She certainly didn’t expect this. No one had ever challenged her manifold views on god. Besides, there was a depth to his responses that she found unsettling. She felt as glib as he had called her.

I know, Fr. Henry seemed sad. Pain is everywhere–in this room, in you, in me. If you scratch the surface of any of us, you’ll find tears.

Vi murmured something. Fr. Sloane said, Don’t you think God has more compassion than you do, than I for you, for … He stopped. Vi was looking at her watch.

Well, it was good meeting you, Fr. Sloane. She was standing by the table. This certainly was an unexpected evening. She extended her hand. He took it and smiled. I’ll speak to that Freudian God of yours. Ask him if he can’t warm things up a bit between you.

Vi laughed, more in possession of herself. My remote fantasy father warming up. I’m not sure I’d like that. But speak away. I’m always open to adventures.

Vi left him to finish his drink and went to her room. As she drifted off to sleep, she thought again, He really is a lovely man … too bad he is … a … priest.

Two

The next day Vi had been up early, eager to explore Montreal and to do a little shopping. Fr. Sloane was virtually forgotten, tucked away from her awareness in a place she commonly used for disturbing events and people. She had her breakfast in a little hotel cafe overlooking the street. She paid her bill, hurried outside, and, as soon as she stepped outside, tripped over a black suitcase left next to some bushes.

Fr. Sloane. She remembered the baggage he had tripped over. And the conversation. She was taken aback, surprised that she could have so thoroughly forgotten him, and surprised to bump into him, or even his luggage. She was sure it was his. She wasn’t sure how she wanted to respond to him. He listened to her. That in itself made her uneasy. He was charming and interesting. She was also not sure about all the god talk.

Vi glanced at the suitcase. The tag read. Sloane–St. Andrew’s–Kirk Hill, MA. Kirk Hill wasn’t far from East Harding where she lived. Small world, she thought. He was directly in her path twice now. She didn’t take coincidences and symbolism, that luggage, lightly. She wondered what it would be like to get to know Fr. Sir Walter Drake.

— — —

That was a year ago. She no longer questioned her desire to know Fr. Henry. They would meet once or twice a month for dinner or a walk to the beach. Inevitably, Vi found herself pouring out the puzzles and dilemmas that concerned her about life and work and herself. Fr. Henry listened. He was like a candle himself, warm and steady. He eased and melted the pain and constriction in her belly from too little experience speaking about herself and too much absorbing the pain of others. Everything lightened and simplified in his presence.

Clouds drifted over the moon. It was quite dark and still, save for the lapping of the water. Vi shivered, but the dark now comforted her. The beauty of the night and water filled her. She was intrigued by the darkness and wished she could walk into it. Fr. Henry would probably see something spiritual in that, she said to herself, but enough of him, I’m going home.

As she drove up the driveway to her house, she heard the phone ringing. Vi made the same mad dash that Al had made earlier in the day. She reached the phone in time. It was Fr. Henry.

Violet, I’m sorry that I missed dinner. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later. What about tomorrow?

Sighing Vi explained, I can’t, not for a few days. I have a heavy caseload this week–evening appointments, late, and a couple of new clients.

Fr. Henry said he was disappointed, but they made a date for the following week. Vi went to bed exhausted, tired from memory and feeling. She dreamt of prisms and kaleidoscopes, of men changing shape and role. Of god and father, of Fr. Henry as man, not father, of Al as danger, not client. The dream was full of tension.

— — —

Vi noted the dream uneasily when she got up. She had notebooks full of dreams. In part, she felt it was part of her job as a therapist to keep herself tuned into the unconscious, but mostly it was her passion. She always said she loved the inner commentary.

Vi turned from her dreams. She got up, dressed and sprayed herself with something delicious, grabbed a cup of coffee and a sweater and went down to the beach. The silence of the morning was all around her. The swish of little waves soothed her. She drank deeply of the silence and filled herself with the mystery of the sea. Calmed and cleansed of dreams, she was ready for the work to come.

She remembered. A new client. Vi felt a quiet delight in starting with someone new. Fresh mysteries, new stories. And then the pain. And there was her commitment to live with someone through the pain on to its resolution.

This new client was an artist. She hoped her problem was related to her art. Pain and creativity. An interesting subject.

At 9 am Vi was in her office. She glanced out her window to see a woman energetically climbing the stairs to her office. This must be Beth Blanchard.

Vi opened the door and invited her in. Would you like a cup of coffee or tea? Beth accepted tea and looked around the office.

You know, I’ve heard about this room from Jill, a friend of mine who was your patient. She said it had an odd underwater quality. She was right. You even have fish, she said, pointing to a framed print of large yellow and blue fish. And nautical charts, too, she said, glancing at the print on the other wall. I suppose the fish are the patients. And the charts are something about catching the fish. She eyed Violet. Am I right? Despite the whimsy, there was tension in her voice.

Mrs. Blanchard, well-observed, Vi said, except the point of the charts is to help set the fish free. There was a long pause as Beth Blanchard sighed and relaxed.

She said quietly, It was hard to come here. Hard to admit I need help, but I feel better already.

Vi smiled to herself. A few simple words, a few brush strokes, like those of an artist. She had declared herself to Beth not as an enemy, but as an ally with ways to help.

I do feel trapped. It’s these, she said, holding her hands up to Violet.

Her hands were as tanned as her face. They looked fine. Vi looked up, puzzled.

There’s something wrong with them. Do you see? Without them I can’t work. I’m going crazy just thinking about losing them.

You’re afraid you won’t be able to work, Vi repeated.

Yes, I can’t sleep at night worrying about it.

You’ve seen a doctor about your hands?

Impatience sounded in Beth’s voice. Yes, but he doesn’t understand. He said I should see you. I think he thinks I’m crazy. She laughed a little. But I know what can happen to my hands.

What can happen, Mrs. Blanchard?

They can become weak, powerless. I know. I don’t want to lose my art, my ability to draw. She repeated that she couldn’t sleep.

Vi watched Beth. There was an undercurrent of tension that Vi could feel in her own hands, arms, shoulders.

It frightens me. I lie awake frightened.

How so?

Beth’s eyes were black and vacant looking. I see my hands knotted and crippled. Useless. Unable to sign my name, let alone draw and paint.

It does sound awful, Vi’s voice was low and soothing, but she wondered to herself what else must be involved in this terrible fear. Beth’s hands looked fine, just as the rest of her looked fine. Beth Blanchard was healthy and striking looking; she looked as if her own portrait should be painted. Strong black eyebrows, large, warm, brown eyes, wide mouth painted a deep red. Her hair was a brilliant white, coarse and blunt cut at a fashionable angle.

I am, Beth went on, a no-nonsense sort of woman. I have never had a sadness or tragedy in my life. I love life–my work, my husband, home, and children, both of whom are now grown.

The statement was made. She said she was, or had been, impregnable.

Vi wondered briefly if the doctor or Jill had pushed her into coming in. She decided not to challenge her. Then it must be doubly hard for you to have this worry. You’re not used to it.

You understand exactly. I am awake at night, tormented.

You’re afraid something dreadful is coming?

Yes, I guess so. I hadn’t thought of it like that.

How long has this been going on?

How long? I guess since February.

And since then?

It’s just gotten worse. Some days I don’t paint at all.

How is your mood through all of this?

I told you. Torment.

Ever experienced a similar feeling? Vi asked softly.

No. I told you. My life is, and always has been, great. Very happy.

Any sense of what brought it on?

Beth shook her head impatiently.

I see. And the doctor doesn’t understand your pain.

No, he doesn’t. Don’t you see I have no words for it? Beth sounded both angry and helpless.

No words, Vi thought. Hard to do this without them. Then a wonderful thought.

You are still able to draw a little, aren’t you, Mrs. Blanchard?

Beth nodded.

Could you then maybe draw what this torment looks like? A picture or a symbol of torment?

That’s great. I can do that. She paused. After a while, she said, Do you care about the medium–oil, charcoal?

Vi smiled. This is your image. Please do it as it seems right to you.

The hour came to an end. Vi made another appointment with her, and, as she walked out the door, she murmured something about feeling better, and she asked Vi to call her Beth.

Vi watched Beth go down the stairs, then stretched her neck and shoulders and sat down to write a few notes on the session. Beth may feel better, she said aloud, but I don’t. She felt dim and heavy. A headache was starting. She reached for the water pitcher she always kept on her desk and searched through the desk drawer for aspirin.

She swallowed, hating the bitter aftertaste, and watched the light filter through the curtains. The sea smell filled the room. It was only 10 am and she wanted a nap. She flipped open her appointment book. Plenty of work. She got up and turned on the ring. Her next client also liked tea.

— — —

When Vi emerged from work at the end of the day, her headache was worse. And it was raining outside. Vi closed the windows in the office, except for the one nearest her green chair. She sat there, hands on her thighs, breathing in the smells of the rain. She could hear a foghorn warning of the rocks nearby. It made her think of the signals clients send out warning one away. Pay attention to the symptoms. Ignore the pain below. Her headache throbbed. The rain was steady, tensionless, without drama. Vi thought of Beth Blanchard. A happy woman. No tragedy. A happy marriage. Hmmm.

But the day was over. Time to think of her own life. I know, she said, pulling herself away from thoughts of Beth. I’ll take the train into Boston and go to that art show I’ve wanted to see. Maybe dinner afterwards.

She shut the window, filed the notes she’d written, and turned off the lights. The door to the Devil was closed.

Vi went to her part of the house. There was freedom and joy in her home. Her uncle, Dr. Steven McKay, had willed it to her. It had been his home. He had no family except Vi and Vi’s father, Theophilus Mark McKay, who had died long ago. When Uncle had died eight years ago, he had given it to her. Given. It was pure gift. One which she relished daily, hourly.

Her home, affectionately known as the Deep Blue, was a place for observation, and even of intimacy, a place to look at life and find connections and meanings, to sort out and rearrange the pieces of her life. Vi spent time looking for new light into the mystery of life. Her life. Her clients’ lives.

And some of this was done in the bathtub. Vi drew a bath and watched the water run into the tub feeling quieted by the water. In her bedroom she chose clothes for the evening and then returned to the bathroom and poured blue crystals into the water. She eased herself into the water and glanced around at her surroundings. It seemed tonight that the colors of the bathroom, the silvery grays and deep blues, looked very much like an oyster shell. Then I’m the pearl, the pearl in the oyster. She looked at herself gleaming in the water. A pearl of a girl. She smiled and laughed quietly at herself, but enjoyed the image.

A few minutes later the image turned over in her mind. A grain of sand to start a pearl, she mused. An irritant.

She soaked and thought dreamily about pearls and irritants, wondered what irritants were in Beth Blanchard, if Fr. Henry had any, and finally, why she had a headache.

Just then Vi was startled to have her bathroom door pushed open. Oh, it’s you, you little beast. You frightened me. It was Mirage Kelly, Vi’s gray and white cat. She was a little creature, soft and inquisitive, with yellow eyes. She was called Mirage because she looked like a cloud, like someone that wasn’t there, and Kelly because she was there, alive and demanding, and mischievous as a fellow she had known. And still knew, more or less. Mirage was, in fact, a sort of remnant, a reminder of that relationship.

Her headache intensified. The cat peered into the water. It was useless. Time to get going. The cat needed food and she need art. With a capital A.

An hour later, feeling refreshed, but still restless, Vi went out. She walked a few blocks to the train station where she waited ten minutes for a train to Boston. She watched the night sky clear from the rain earlier. Distant stars appeared in patches and one bright little plane moved toward the airport.

Her train came. It was warm inside, warm and stuffy, but it felt comforting and human somehow. Vi was alone except for a very young couple in front of her and an old man with a very large belly way in back. He was drunk and began to sing When Irish Eyes Are Smiling. Vi tried to ignore him. She stared unseeing at her image in the window and found herself remembering another Irishman, Kelly, Mirage’s namesake.

Where to? The conductor said, interrupting her thoughts. He collected her fare, spattering paper dots on her lap and on the floor as he punched her ticket. Vi settled back to enjoy her thoughts and the dark outside and warmth within.

Colin Kelly, an actor, bigger than life. He could fill a theatre. People were seduced by the power of his presence. She had gone to the stage door looking for an autograph. When the autograph seekers left, he had asked her out for a drink at the Copley Plaza. Theirs was a brief affair. She had believed in his love. When he left for New York City, he had given her a kitten, Mirage. Remembering him, she felt a rush of confused feelings. She pushed them aside and went back to the window. To Vi’s relief the man in the back fell asleep.

Vi watched the little towns fly by. Finally they stopped in Boston. Vi was glad. She was hungry for art, the clarity and order and beauty of images that stood still and allowed one a chance to ponder them undisturbed. She was tired of pain and irritants and even of the process of change. Tired, she thought, of people.

She hurried out of the station, grabbed a cab, and headed straight to her favorite art gallery. There was a group show going on. Vi was excited; she paid the driver and practically ran in.

The gallery space was stark white, warmed with indirect light and spots on the work. Vi breathed a sigh of relief. Heaven. She took a glass of wine from the table on the side and moved around a group of people to look at the paintings.

The walls were bright with color. Vi stopped in front of a watercolor. Still Life with Fruit. A yellow pitcher filled with flowers on a blue and white cloth. Lemons and watermelon. If one lemon were moved, the whole composition would be spoiled. She tried to change the color of the flowers. No good. It was perfect as it was. The comfort and peace of that vision. Nothing to change or fix. Release, for the moment, from irritants.

She moved on to the nudes. A series of oils, watercolors, and drawings of a standing female nude. The same model, same pose, but done by different artists with different visions. Vi was fascinated. Reality in different modes. One artist saw warm, pink and brown flesh tones and a round bottom. Another sketched rapid, angular shapes in pen and ink.

Vi sipped her wine peacefully, totally self-contained, and moved back and forth comparing the paintings.

I remember when you were the model.

Vi turned. There was Mark Fitzpatrick, with, of all people, Fr. Henry Sloane. She tried not to feel embarrassed, but somehow she was.

Hello, Mark, Fr. Henry. She nodded vaguely in Fr. Henry’s direction.

I see you know Sloane.

What a creep, she thought. Mark is an artist with the vision of an angel, but he is the crudest man alive. And Sloane. What a way to refer to Fr. Henry.

Yes, Ms. McKay and I met in Montreal some time ago, said Fr. Henry, stepping in. Are you enjoying the show?

Yes, I was just thinking how differently people see reality. Look at these. All the same model.

I saw you looking at my painting, the one with the butt.

Vi was crushed. The lovely pink and brown bottom by this miserable man. Yes, it’s lovely. She wanted to step on him.

I did some lovely ones of you some time ago. Mark turned to Fr. Henry pointedly and said, She was my model. I’ve kept some of the best ones.

Well, if they are as good as these, they must be pretty good. He was cool, gracious. Ms. McKay, may I speak with you for a moment? They walked away from Mark.

Thank you, thank you for rescuing me. That man has made an art–

Of spoiling beauty. Fr. Henry continued, So I noticed. He seems to relish casting a pall even over his own work, his own models.

It’s funny. I was just thinking about the role of irritants in creating–well, forming–life. You know, sand in the oyster sort of thing. I was trying to get away from irritants by coming here. Then, that monster–

The serpent in Paradise? he laughed.

Vi didn’t laugh. Yes, exactly. Well, enough of him. I haven’t seen much of you lately.

I’m fine, Violet. I am sorry about the other night.

I am, too. I took a walk on the beach.

Fr. Henry looked as if he were going to say something when Mark came crashing in with three people he wanted to introduce to Fr. Henry. Vi stepped back and let him go.

She missed him, but she was still almost relieved to see him go. This was not the place to talk with him. Besides, she still had her own need for still and silent things.

Vi went back to the oils, to one titled Death in Life. It was of a potted plant, dead; stem and leaves angular, brittle looking. Three dry, yellow flowers, petals twisted. All around it were lush, green plants–ferns springing from their pots. Succulents filled with moisture. The image was disturbing. Vi stood there mesmerized. Life more alive. Death more real. She glanced at the card. Elizabeth Blanchard.

Beth! This is a day of surprises. The woman is brilliant. Death. A hidden torment. She wondered what image she’d bring into the office.

She turned away from Beth’s painting and went on past Mark’s nude. Such a lovely thing. She wished she could forget the modeling she had done for Mark right after she had fired a therapist. Art was meant to be the healer.

She remembered his excitement when she caught a pose that interested him visually. He was intent. The fire within Mark was so alive that it cast shadows. She remembered thinking he must be a holy man to create in such a way.

Vi was now standing in front of a small work in pen and ink. It was hung at the end of the wall in an inconspicuous place as if the artist did not really want it seen. It was a male nude, seated. He looked awkward in his nudity. Awkward and vulnerable. Vi was glad she was looking at him, and not the other way around. She felt a kind of triumph, and something else she couldn’t put her finger on.

Just then Fr. Henry appeared at her side. Violet, I’m on my way to dinner. Would you care to join me?

Vi pulled herself back from contemplating the male nude. Yes, I’d love to.

On their way out of the gallery, Mark caught up with them. You’re leaving already? Home to see your etchings?

Etchings are your department, Mr. Fitzpatrick, Fr. Henry said quietly.

With that Fr. Henry put his arm around Vi and guided her out of the gallery. Violet let herself be led. It was pleasant to be with Fr. Henry. Insult and innuendo didn’t touch him. It was apparent that he pitied Mark.

They stepped out into the night. My car is parked over there.

Do you mind if we walk for a while, Fr. Henry?

They set out in silence. Mark’s allusions had made their mark on Vi. She felt a little shy with Fr. Henry but didn’t want to try to explain herself to him. After a while, she apologized. I’m sorry, I have a terrific headache. I thought walking would help. It hasn’t.

You haven’t eaten yet?

No, but it has nothing to do with food.

Fr. Henry was sorry about her headache. Otherwise he said nothing. They kept walking. They turned a corner. Look where we ended up. At the Church of the Epiphany. I was a curate here many years ago. I drop in here sometimes when I’m in town. Would you like to go in? Special dispensation, I still have a key.

Feeling slightly reprehensible and sort of afraid of being caught, Vi agreed. They entered an old, stone church. The entrance, through heavy oak doors, smelled a little musty. Inside it was dark, save for a sanctuary light and a flood light on a large, rood cross that hung over the sanctuary and cast a long shadow over the church.

Vi shivered. Fr. Henry genuflected and let her into a pew. She looked around. There was an eerie beauty to the place, she thought. The shadow of the cross fell over her.

Fr. Henry was quiet for a long time. Vi watched him. He looked so completely absorbed there kneeling beside her. It was so still in the church. She sneezed. Fr. Henry turned and smiled broadly at her and offered her a handkerchief, which she took.

I didn’t forget you. Are you ready for dinner?

They left the church, Fr. Henry locking the door behind him.

I hate to do this. Locks in the church! It’s crazy. Let them steal the place blind!

They walked through the public garden, and back to Fr. Henry’s car, still not saying much.

As they approached the car, Vi hesitated. Look, Fr. Henry, I’d love to have dinner with you. You know I was disappointed when we missed the other day, but I just can’t do it tonight. I don’t know what’s the matter with me, but I just can’t concentrate on or be with you. She emphasized the with.

What do you want to do, Vi? She thought he sounded a little sad.

Please, just take me to the train station. She wanted to go home alone. She thought she sounded almost panicky.

Vi was relieved by his silent acquiescence. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts. She was afraid if she stayed with him, she’d reveal too much, too much that was unsorted, unready for consumption.

Once in the car and relieved of the pressure of having to talk, they chatted easily about the show. It was clear that Fr. Henry shared her joy with color and form.

He said he’d almost like to buy Elizabeth Blanchard’s painting.

It was startling, wasn’t it? she said.

Yes, startling and alive. My idea of beauty. And of holiness.

That’s funny, I think of holiness as something fixed, unmoving. Like a stained glass window.

Fr. Henry laughed and then swerved to miss a pedestrian stepping off the curb into his path. Vi watched him handle the car. A modern man, totally. Able to handle a gleaming black car. Very able to steer his way through difficult social situations. Then she thought of him kneeling, shrouded in silence, in that eerie church.

Vi said, Someday we’ll have to talk about your idea of holiness. Well, here we are. Thank you for understanding. I’ll give you a call.

She got out of the car and went into North Station. She had twenty minutes to kill before departure time.

Thank God to go home. Much as she loved Fr. Henry, she could not stand his waiting, receptive presence any longer. Especially after that church. There were too many important things that had come up for her this evening. She needed time to think and sort.

She sat on a long bench and watched the TV monitor with the train times. Abruptly she got up, found a phone, and called the gallery. She spoke to the owner.

I’d like to buy a painting. Yes, I believe it was for sale. No. 181, Vi said, consulting her brochure. ‘Seated Male Nude,’ by Sarah White. She’s new to Boston. Well, tell her I like her work and I want to buy it." The owner promised to ship it to her after the show was over.

Vi sat down relieved. Something she wanted to accomplish was accomplished.

The image of the male nude floated in her mind. He looked unsure, exposed. She found herself comparing it with the men in her life.

Mark Fitzpatrick was aggressive and harsh for all his creative fire. He had teeth that frightened her. Al, her client, was volatile and demanding in his self disclosure, climbing hills, banging doors. Then cool and covered. She was left to carry the excitement of his presence alone.

As for Fr. Henry, he seemed vulnerable or something. Actually, I feel vulnerable around him. Quick to open. Full of longing for something. He makes me ache inside. She was glad she’d kept her distance tonight.

The male nude was kind of restful, she thought. It made her feel restful and triumphant, and in control.

The train for East Harding was called. She’d be home in an hour. She walked to the train, found an end seat, and within a few minutes she’d fallen asleep. The conductor, Ralph, an old friend from countless train trips, woke her in time to pay her fare and get off the train. As Vi got off the train she noticed her headache was gone.

Feeling strangely alert, full of an inner excitement and an urgency to discover and sort out, Vi walked home breathing in a fine mist with the black night air. She arrived home fully refreshed, climbed the stairs, and unlocked the door. Mirage greeted her, rubbing up against her legs, meowing expectantly.

OK, you little beast. More food. Mirage followed her around from kitchen to bath to bed until Vi finally fed her.

Once the cat was settled, Vi poured herself half a glass of wine and climbed into bed. Lovely pale rose sheets and masses of pillows. Then she jumped out again. A candle would be perfect, she said, lighting a fat little candle and setting it next to the wine. The atmosphere was right.

Vi settled herself in, took a sip of wine, and opened her journal. There was so much to think about. Fr. Henry, the dark church, the painting, Mark Fitzpatrick, Beth Blanchard and her work.

She started to scribble in the corner of the journal and found herself drawing oyster shells over and over. She watched her thoughts until she found herself back in the bathtub thinking about irritants, the sand in the oyster that precipitates the pearl.

She wrote for a while about Beth Blanchard’s painting, Death in Life, remembering the stark and luscious contrasts. There’s an irritant there, she thought.

Irritants. Destroying life, creating life. She wrote intently, almost obsessively. Some crises in life destroy people. She’d seen enough of that. It wasn’t all art. Abruptly she remembered her mother, Alyssa Lindstrom McKay.

Alyssa McKay had died by the time Vi was ten. She was nearly fifty. She just melted away with the death of Vi’s father five years earlier. She had once been a vital woman. Tall, big-boned with faded, pale, reddish-blonde hair. She wrote poetry, which surprised Vi, because she seemed so totally oriented to Vi’s father. Like the earth to the sun.

She was also a weaver. She wove cloth on a large loom. Her favorite color was lilac or violet. All her work had been in shades of violet and cream when Vi was born. Hence, Vi’s name.

Before her husband died, Alyssa had tired of violet. Her last pieces were done in grays. Then he died. There was no more weaving after that.

Vi was then sent to live with her uncle. He lived alone except for a housekeeper.

Vi remembered her mother sliding down. Ever down and getting further away. She felt a sick feeling in her stomach. Talk about irritants, irritants that kill. She couldn’t take it. It still made her angry and confused to think about her mother’s death just five years after her father’s death. Twice left. She and her uncle had visited her mother, but Alyssa didn’t seem to want to be visited. It seemed to Vi that her mother had forgotten her. And her own heart grew harder and tighter.

In the middle of writing, Vi felt a tap on her left arm. It was Mirage sitting on the bed next to her. The tap was a customary nocturnal signal between them. Vi lifted the sheet and held it a full minute