Sybil spoke pleadingly, yet with an air of finality.
“Then — we won’t! We won’t! We certainly won’t!” Mr. Starr said quickly. And fell to sketching again, his face creased in concentration.
And so the remainder of the session passed in silence.
Again, as soon as Sybil evinced signs of restlessness, Mr. Starr declared she could stop for the day — he didn’t want to exhaust her, or himself.
Sybil rubbed her neck, which ached mildly; she stretched her arms, her legs. Her skin felt slightly sun- or wind-burnt and her eyes felt seared, as if she’d been staring directly into the sun. Or had she been crying? — she couldn’t remember.
Again, Mr. Starr paid Sybil in cash, out of his kidskin wallet brimming with bills. His hand shook just visibly as he pressed the money into Sybil’s. (Embarrassed, Sybil folded the bills quickly and put them in her pocket. Later, at home, she would discover that Mr. Starr had given her ten dollars too much: a bonus, for almost making her cry?) Though it was clear that Sybil was eager to get away, Mr. Starr walked with her up the slope in the direction of the Boulevard, limping, leaning on his cane, but keeping a brisk pace. He asked if Sybil — of course, he called her Blake: “dear Blake” — would like to have some refreshment with him in a café nearby? — and when Sybil declined, murmured, “Yes, yes, I understand — I suppose.” He then asked if Sybil would return the following day, and when Sybil did not say no, added that, if she did, he would like to increase her hourly fee in exchange for asking of her a slightly different sort of modeling — “A slightly modified sort of modeling, here in the park, or perhaps down on the beach, in full daylight of course, as before, and yet, in its way—” Mr. Starr paused nervously, seeking the right word, “—experimental.”
Sybil asked doubtfully, “ ‘Experimental’—?”
“I’m prepared to increase your fee, Blake, by half.”
“What kind of ‘experimental’?”
“Emotion.”
“What?”
“Emotion. Memory. Interiority.”
Now that they were emerging from the park, and more likely to be seen, Sybil was glancing uneasily about: she dreaded seeing someone from school, or, worse yet, a friend of her aunt’s. Mr. Starr gestured as he spoke, and seemed more than ordinarily excited. “—‘Interiority.’ That which is hidden to the outer eye. I’ll tell you in more detail tomorrow, Blake,” he said. “You will meet me here tomorrow?”
Sybil murmured, “I don’t know, Mr. Starr.”
“Oh, but you must! — please.”
Sybil felt a tug of sympathy for Mr. Starr. He was kind, and courteous, and gentlemanly; and, certainly, very generous. She could not imagine his life except to see him as a lonely, eccentric man without friends. Uncomfortable as she was in his presence, she yet wondered if perhaps she was exaggerating his eccentricity: what would a neutral observer make of the tall limping figure, the cane, the canvas duffel bag, the polished black leather shoes that reminded her of a funeral, the fine thin beautiful silver hair, the dark glasses that winked in the sunshine...? Would such an observer, seeing Sybil Blake and Mr. Starr together, give them a second glance?
“Look,” Sybil said, pointing, “—a hearse.”
At a curb close by there was a long sleekly black car with dark-tinted, impenetrable windows. Mr. Starr laughed, and said, embarrassed, “I’m afraid, Blake, that isn’t a hearse, you know — it’s my car.”
“Your car?”
“Yes. I’m afraid so.”
Now Sybil could see that the vehicle was a limousine, idling at the curb. Behind the wheel was a youngish driver with a visored cap on his head; in profile, he appeared Oriental. Sybil stared, amazed. So Mr. Starr was wealthy, indeed.
He was saying, apologetically, yet with a kind of boyish pleasure, “I don’t drive, myself, you see! — a further handicap. I did, once, long ago, but — circumstances intervened.” Sybil was thinking that she often saw chauffeur-driven limousines in Glencoe, but she’d never known anyone who owned one before. Mr. Starr said, “Blake, may I give you a ride home? — I’d be delighted, of course.”
Sybil laughed, as if she’d been tickled, hard, in the ribs.
“A ride? In that?” she asked.
“No trouble! Absolutely!” Mr. Starr limped to the rear door and opened it with a flourish, before the driver could get out to open it for him. He squinted back at Sybil, smiling hopefully. “It’s the least I can do for you, after our exhausting session.”
Sybil was smiling, staring into the shadowy interior of the car. The uniformed driver had climbed out, and stood, not quite knowing what to do, watching. He was a Filipino, perhaps, not young after all but with a small, wizened face; he wore white gloves. He stood very straight and silent, watching Sybil.
There was a moment when it seemed, yes, Sybil was going to accept Mr. Starr’s offer, and climb into the rear of the long sleekly black limousine, so that Mr. Starr could climb in behind her, and shut the door upon them both; but, then, for some reason she could not have named — it might have been the smiling intensity with which Mr. Starr was looking at her, or the rigid posture of the white-gloved driver — she changed her mind and called out, “No thanks!”
Mr. Starr was disappointed, and Mr. Starr was hurt — you could see it in his downturned mouth. But he said, cheerfully, “Oh, I quite understand, Blake — I am a stranger, after all. It’s better to be prudent, of course. But, my dear, I will see you tomorrow—?”
Sybil shouted, “Maybe!” and ran across the street.
6. The Face
She stayed away from the park. Because I want to, because I can.
Thursday, in any case, was her voice lesson after school. Friday, choir rehearsal; then an evening with friends. On Saturday morning she went jogging, not in the oceanside park but in another park, miles away, where Mr. Starr could not have known to look for her. And, on Sunday, Aunt Lora drove them to Los Angeles for a belated birthday celebration, for Sybil — an art exhibit, a dinner, a play.
So, you see, I can do it. I don’t need your money, or you.
Since the evening when Aunt Lora had told Sybil about her parents’ boating accident — that it might have been caused by drinking — neither Sybil nor her aunt had cared to bring up the subject again. Sybil shuddered to think of it. She felt properly chastised, for her curiosity.
Why do you want to know? — you will only make yourself cry.
Sybil had never gotten around to telling Aunt Lora about Mr. Starr, nor about her modeling. Even during their long Sunday together. Not a word about her cache of money, hidden away in a bureau drawer.
Money for what? — for summer school, for college.
For the future.
Aunt Lora was not the sort of person to spy on a member of her household but she observed Sybil closely, with her trained clinician’s eye. “Sybil, you’ve been very quiet lately — there’s nothing wrong, I hope?” she asked, and Sybil said quickly, nervously, “Oh, no! What could be wrong?”
She was feeling guilty about keeping a secret from Aunt Lora, and she was feeling quite guilty about staying away from Mr. Starr.
Two adults. Like twin poles. Of course, Mr. Starr was really a stranger — he did not exist in Sybil Blake’s life, at all. Why did it feel to her, so strangely, that he did?
Days passed, and instead of forgetting Mr. Starr, and strengthening her resolve not to model for him, Sybil seemed to see the man, in her mind’s eye, ever more clearly. She could not understand why he seemed attracted to her, she was convinced it was not a sexual attraction but something purer, more spiritual, and yet — why? Why her?