vicariously, through books. This isn’t bad. Living through books is even better
than having friends and knowing . . . men.”
With the assistance of a pliable family doctor, Violet had kept Nora out of
public school on the pretense of poor health. She had been educated at home, so
books were her only school as well.
In addition to having read thousands of books by the age of thirty, Nora had
become a self-taught artist in oils, acrylics, watercolors, pencil. Drawing
and painting were activities of which Aunt Violet approved. Art was a solitary
pursuit that took Nora’s mind off the world beyond the house and helped her
avoid contact with people who would inevitably reject, hurt, and disappoint her.
One corner of Nora’s room had been furnished with a drawing board, an easel, and
a cabinet for supplies. Space for her miniature studio was created by pushing
other pieces of furniture together, not by removing anything, and the effect was
claustrophobic.
Many times over the years, especially at night but even in the middle of the
day, Nora had been overcome by a feeling that the floor of the bedroom was going
to collapse under all the furniture, that she was going to crash down into the
chamber below, where she would be crushed to death beneath her own massive
four-poster bed. When that fear overwhelmed her, she had fled onto the rear
lawn, where she sat in the open air, hugging herself and shuddering. She’d been
twenty-five before she realized that her anxiety attacks arose not only from the
overfurnished rooms and dark decor of the house but from the domineering
presence of her aunt.
On a Saturday morning four months ago, eight months after Violet Devon’s death,
Nora had abruptly been seized by an acute need for change and had frantically
reordered her bedroom-studio. She carried and dragged out all the smaller pieces
of furniture, distributing them evenly through the other five crowded chambers
on the second floor. Some of the heavier things had to be dismantled and taken
away in sections, but finally she succeeded in eliminating everything but the
four-poster bed, one nightstand, a single armchair, her drawing board and stool,
the supply cabinet, and the easel, which was all she needed. Then she stripped
off the wallpaper.
Throughout that dizzying weekend, she’d felt as if the revolution had come, as
if her life would never be the same. But by the time she had redone her bedroom,
the spirit of rebellion had evaporated, and she had left the rest of the house
untouched.
Now this one place, at least, was bright, even cheerful. The walls were painted
the palest yellow. The drapes were gone, and in their place were Levolor blinds
that matched the paint. She had rolled up the dreary carpet and had polished the
beautiful oak floor.
More than ever, this was her sanctuary. Without fail, upon passing through the
door and seeing what she had wrought, her spirits lifted and she found some
surcease from her troubles.
After her frightening encounter with Streck, Nora was soothed, as always, by the
bright room. She sat at the drawing board and began a pencil sketch, a
Preliminary study for an oil painting that she had been contemplating for Some
time. Initially, her hands shook, and she had to pause repeatedly to regain
sufficient control to continue drawing, but in time her fear abated.
She . was even able to think about Streck as she worked and to try to imagine
just how far he might have gone if she had not managed to maneuver
him out of the house. Recently, Nora had wondered if Violet Devon’s pessimistic
view of the outside world and of all other people was accurate; though
it was the primary view that Nora, herself, had been taught, she had the nagging
suspicion that it might be twisted, even sick. But now she had encountered Art
Streck, and he seemed to be ample proof of Violet’s contentions, proof that
interacting too much with the outside world was dangerous.
But after a while, when her sketch was half finished, Nora began to think that
she had misinterpreted everything Streck had said and done. Surely he could not