At the Heart of the Universe (34 page)

And then she gestures that the deer can be fed when the sun goes down, and when the sun comes up again over the horizon.

“Can we stay till sundown, Mom? Please, Mom, can we?”

“You heard Dad—there's no way we can walk back when it's dark, especially not with the logs.” She sees Pep wince, and feels bad she mentioned it. “But maybe tomorrow morning?”

“Deer are
nocturnal
! We can't walk
to
here when it's dark either. We have to stay!”

“We can't, dear, there's no room.”

“Why not? We can just sleep on the floor? It'll be a lot warmer than that dump we stayed in last night.”

“I don't think so, dear.”

“Please, Mom?”

“Sorry, but no. We'll ask for a warmer, cleaner place—”

“But this
already
is a lot better than—”

“No means
no
!”

Katie is startled—she almost never has heard this harsh voice from her
mother. Her face falls. She glances at Clio, hoping that she'll say she's sorry for this tone of voice, but no. She's just standing there with her arms crossed over her chest.

Katie turns back to Xiao Lu, and motions for her to draw more animals.

Xiao Lu feels the tension between the two of them, like a bolt of thunder that sometimes shakes the little hut. She draws a monkey, as she did on the map. Chun smiles. She mimes a monkey, excited and frantic and looking here and there and snatching Chun's hat—all great fun, she and Chun laughing together. She gives the hat back and then draws the monkey character:

Chun stares at it and then calls out to the woman and man happily, and points at it. She understands the “joking” part, the way the monkey moves here and there, jumping and swinging. The woman nods and smiles, but it's not a happy smile, no.

And then, after pausing to roll the brush tip on the inkstone, Xiao Lu again simplifies the complex character to a calligraphic emblem:

She goes on with other animals, each time starting with the line drawing of the animal, having Chun repeat the Chinese name, and then translating the drawing, not literally but through the spirit of the animal and the meaning of the animal to humans, into the character, and then finally making it simple, a few elegant free strokes that turn the character into an art that lifts it and the viewer somewhere else. With each new character she sees that her little Chun is getting more involved—not shy at all!—repeating the Chinese words beautifully! Xiao Lu claps her hands together in delight.

As Clio watches, she can see how skillful Xiao Lu is at this. It is amazing how this woman has found a way to connect with Katie through Katie's two passions—drawing and animals. And she's moving on now to other images—a boat, bamboo—but Xiao Lu has picked up, in Katie's response to the drawing of the monkeys, that this is
it
, for her. Neither Clio nor Pep can draw worth a damn. Or pronounce Chinese words.

“Mom, will you ask her if
I
can try one?” Clio knew this was coming. “Mom, you're not listening. Can I try?”

“Yes, dear, but be careful with that ink—don't get dirty.”

Katie bristles at the words; it's just what her mother always tells her when she drops her off at Mary's Farm. “It doesn't bother
her
—look at
her
fingers, okay?”

Xiao Lu takes all this in, and when Chun motions to ask if Xiao Lu can guide her in doing it, it is the moment she has yearned for. All this time, she has imagined this moment, taking her daughter's hand, transmitting her understanding of the flow of the brush, the ink, to that little hand. She takes to the moment with delight.

Chun has the brush in her hand, Xiao Lu's hand around hers. They start with a simple horizontal line, which Xiao Lu, by holding up a finger, indicates is the character for “one.” Xiao Lu directs the movement of her hand, and out comes the line. Chun indicates that she wants to try it for herself. Xiao Lu shakes her head and says, “No, you're not ready to do it alone yet.” Chun insists. She lets her try.

The brush splays out, the point dissolves, the line isn't a line but a blob and then a raggedy mess. Chun is dismayed and looks up at Xiao Lu, who laughs to reassure her. Xiao Lu takes the brush and puts Chun's hand around hers—her child has such long fingers, her own aren't much longer. With Chun feeling the movement, Xiao Lu shows her: she lowers the brush straight onto the paper, waits a moment, and then with a steady hand takes the brush to the right toward the end of the stroke, waits again for a moment, and then lifts the brush slant-wise backward and upward. They look together at the stroke. It starts and ends with a taut, straight, somewhat slanting line.

With Xiao Lu's hand around hers, Chun tries it. The brush holds together, and the line is at least a line:

Chun turns to the woman and man and gestures to the line excitedly. They smile and nod. The woman's smile is pained.

Xiao Lu indicates that there's another way to do the brushstroke. Again putting Chun's hand on hers, at the left end she guides her to make a little circle that binds the brush point to the paper, then lowers the brush even farther onto the paper, waits for a moment, and carries it on to the right end of the stroke. She pauses before taking the brush a tiny bit downward and returning back in the stroke she's just completed, at the same time carefully lifting the brush off the paper. The stroke is different from the other at the ends: there is a softly rounded beginning and ending.

Chun cries out her pleasure and wonder, says a word that sounds to Xiao Lu like “Coo!”

Clio watches Katie getting more and more engrossed. Xiao Lu's hand leads hers over the white paper. Katie is totally into it. The two black-haired heads are close together under the lamplight. Close and still.

After a while, Clio goes over to Pep, now lying down on the bed. She settles into the Adirondack chair. The room is too small for them to talk honestly about what is going on, and the pelting rain prevents them from going outside. Clio scans Pep's face for any trace of concern about all this, and finds none. She sits on the bed, close to him.

“Pep,” she whispers, “are you worried about this?”

He sits up. “Nope, why?”

“Because maybe, just maybe, she'll, I don't know, really
like
her and want to stay here with her longer?”

“No way. She said she wanted to go home.”

“That was before the calligraphy.”

“Nah. This isn't her thing, this ‘roughing it.' Let her play. Then we go.”

“Please, honey, I'm starting to have a bad feeling about all this.”

“I thought you said this was healthy for her.”

“Yes, but I, well... I mean, suppose Katie wants to...” She tries to catch herself. “I know it's crazy, never mind.”

“Go ahead.”

“I'm embarrassed.”

“Wouldn't be the first time with me, right? Fire away.”

“Look... I mean maybe all these old, maybe even bio forces could get stirred up, and she starts to really, I don't know,
care
, or
attach
... ?”

“Wait. Hold it. Crazy thought. And even if she did, she's ours and—”

“Even if she
did
? You think it's possible?”

“No, I don't—”

“Well, then why'd you
say
it?”

“I didn't say it, I said—”

“What are you two arguing about?” Katie turns back to them, her fingers all black, a fresh smudge on her sleeve.

“Nothing, darling,” Clio says, surprised to find herself staring more at the indelible ink on the sleeve and fingers than into her eyes. “It's getting late. Just finish up and we'll go.”

She turns back to her work, her head close to her birth mom's.

“Nothing to worry about, hon,” Pep says. “We're stressed out, all of us—no sleep, bad food, hypothermia—and now all
this
?! It's damn well exhausting. We let 'em finish up her drawing lesson, and that's it. End of story. Take a little rest.” He yawns and lies back down on the bed, and is soon asleep.

The rain, to Clio, is no longer comforting, but seems to reflect her inner turmoil—periods of drops beating regularly as a metronome on the roof tiles, and tremendous gusts of Beethoven, and then almost stopping, but not quite. She wonders how long they'll be required to stay here, and how to—without letting on to Katie about her own concern—leave. There's something about not having words that gives Xiao Lu an advantage. And she shows absolutely no sign of doubt, or anxiety, or any other all-American neurotic splinters there.
A simple, pragmatic intelligence, sparked by art.
Clio feels strangely diminished in this wordless contest. She closes her eyes and tries to meditate, following the breath.