Black and Blue Ivy

The Cold Truth

I was still shaking by the time we returned home. It was late, past midnight. Gardenia had to know the Handel concert would have let out hours ago. I noticed the light was still on in her bedroom when we pulled into the driveway. Both Bentley and I were tired so we bid a hasty goodbye before heading off to our respective bedrooms. I'd have preferred a goodnight kiss. After all, it had turned out to be a memorable night, one I shall never forget. Perhaps, I reasoned, as I trudged up the attic stairs, Bentley and I could talk about it the following day. I wanted to thank him for the concert, which turned out to be wilder than my wildest expectations, and also to confess to him that although I couldn't be sure Luther Black was my father, he more or less confirmed he had a relationship with my mother. Morningstar wasn't lying about that.

After peeling off the black velvet dress and hanging it in the closet, hoping it wouldn't be permanently crushed, I lay in between the sheets in the new flannel pajamas I'd gotten for Christmas, and thought about Morningstar. As I gazed through the window at the quarter noon, shining like a piece of quartz in the sky, I wondered if she were gazing at the same moon through the bars of her prison cell. It made me sick to think on it, and the two beers I'd ingested were doing nasty things to my stomach. I tossed and turned, vainly attempting to find a decent sleeping position. Tomorrow, I told myself, I'll speak to Bentley about what Luther Black had announced on stage and if he thinks I should do anything about it.

Like what?

Go to sleep. Bentley will know what you should do.

So, allowing the heavy stone of my responsible to invisibly slip on to Bentley's shoulder, I drifted off to sleep.

I dreamed of a snow-swept mountainside and myself, dressed as I was in only pajamas and barefoot, fighting against a wall of cold wind to climb to the top. What was I seeking? I hadn't the foggiest. But when I awoke the next day, my heart gave a little thrill at the sight of snow sifting from the sky like powdered sugar on pancakes. I pulled back the blanket and leaped to the window. It must have snowed half a foot in only a few short hours. This, added to the snow still on the ground from the Christmas Eve storm, made me feel like my tower room was the highest part of a medieval fortress, that I was a trapped princess waiting only to be released from my captivity by the kiss of a prince.

Bentley certainly looks like a prince, I thought giddily. After using the bathroom, I was determined to get dressed and wander downstairs for breakfast, but my bed seemed to pull me back to it like a magnet. My exhaustion from the previous night's revelries—I swear the music still rang in my ears—and the weather seemed to cover my world in a frosty white blanket. I crawled back to bed with the thought of only napping for a bit. This time, my sleep was nothing but oblivion painted black, and when I finally awoke again it was the ache of my empty stomach that roused me. Sleepily, I padded to the window. The snow had stopped, and a white disc of sunlight was doing its best to penetrate the gloom. I cleared a circle from the fogged window and gazed out across the roofs and spotted a blue ski jacket darting across the snowy lawn. Blond hair topped with a bright red knit cap bobbing.

Bentley!

I rushed to my closet to throw on a sweater, jeans, and boots. On a day like today, no one would bother us in the barn. We'd have the back room to ourselves where we could talk—and be alone together. I wanted to tell Bentley everything I knew about Luther Black and Morningstar. He knew a little of my suspicions, but I could tell he thought my ideas were those of a daydreaming child. It's not that I was proud of being a famous rock star's kid. The only thing Bentley said after the concert was what a drunken loser Luther Black was, how alcoholism and drugs had destroyed his voice and, soon enough, his career. But there was a lot more to the story—much more that I wanted to share with him.

I shuffled downstairs, careful of every creaky board as to not alert Gardenia. I doubted if she even cared what I was up to; she had ceased to even question me about my educational prospects. As I made my way down the back stairs, I smelled something yummy wafting from the kitchen. Meatloaf and potatoes for dinner, I thought, salivating. I wouldn't have any trouble eating tonight, but how in the world did it get so late?

I passed by the library, cautious of running into Mr. Robinson who sometimes used that room for his law work. I knew there was a hall closet near the kitchen where the kids' ski jackets were stored. The closet door creaked open and I rummaged through till I found an old parka of Gardenia's. It was too long for me—go figure—but it would keep me from freezing. I couldn't pass through the kitchen and the front door was too risky, so I circled back to the library and escaped through the veranda door. I had to give it a good shove to open it and the veranda itself so was icy I nearly slipped, but my boots had enough tread on them to catch myself. From the look of Bentley's footsteps he had come the same way, perhaps to avoid drawing attention to himself. I was halfway to the barn when I noticed another, much smaller set of footsteps—one of the kids' perhaps—almost completely filled up with snow.

The paddock was empty due to the weather and the horses were snug inside the bar in their blankets. Their ears alerted when I slipped through the barn door. I patted Goldenrod's soft, velvety nose. She whinnied with appreciation and nestled into my coat pocket in search of any snacks.

"I'm sorry, Goldenrod," I whispered. I'm not sure why I kept my voice down, only some instinct told me to proceed with caution. As I approached the tack room I wondered why Bentley would want to spend a snowy afternoon in a chilly barn. Maybe he just needed to be away from the house and all its drama. I could certainly relate to that, but why hadn't he come to see me first. Surely after our concert date, things had been set right between us. Hadn't then.

I reached the tack room door and hesitated. My instincts gave me pause. I felt suddenly like an interloper, a trespasser wandering on to someone else's property. I didn't belong there, unlike Bentley, who seemed more to the manner born. But wait, didn't Bentley tell me that he too had a less than reputable past. It was something I wished he talk to me about. He had to know he could trust me with all his secrets. I gripped the cold iron latch that always stuck, squeezed it hard, and thrust open the door.

There, on the dusty velvet divan was Bentley, naked, pressing into another body, slim and white, beneath him. A body's whose pale legs were wrapped around his bare bottom, gripping him like a vise, pulling him further into her. A choked groan and then a face appeared over Bentley's muscular shoulder. The face was pale and glossed with sweat.

Gardenia.

"I'm so—I'm sorry—I..." I heard myself muttering.

Bentley turned around, instinctively covering his nakedness with his discarded jeans.

"Ivy, wait!" I heard him cry after me, but I was running by then, out of the barn, away from the house exactly like little Aileen's finger painting. I ran, sinking into the snow with each stride, into the woods and away from that horrible place and that vile family, Bentley included.