Carnal Innocence

instrument and a heavy box of sheet music to the porch.
    It took three more trips to the car—lugging suitcases, two bags of groceries which she’d stopped to pick up in a little market thirty miles north, and finally, her reel-to-reel tape recorder—before she was done.
    Once she had all her possessions lined up, she took out the keys. Each one was tagged: front door, back door, root cellar, strongbox, Ford pick-up. They jangled together like musical notes as Caroline selected the front-door key.
    The door squeaked, as old doors should, and opened on the dim dust of disuse.
    She took up the violin first. It was certainly more important than any of the groceries.
    A little lost, and for the first time lonely, she walked inside.
    The hallway led straight back to where she knew the kitchen would be. To the left, stairs climbed, hooking to a right angle after the third tread. The banister was dark, sturdy oak, layered now with a fine cloak of dust.
    There was a table just beneath the stairs, where a heavy black dial phone sat beside an empty vase. Caroline laid down her case on it and got busy.
    She carried groceries back to the kitchen with its yellow walls and white, glass-fronted cabinets. Because the house was oven-hot, she put them away first, relieved that the refrigerator was sparkling clean.
    She’d been told some neighbor women had come in to wash and scrub after the funeral. Caroline could see that this country courtesy was true. Beneath the dust of two months, beyond the lacy webs that industrious spiders had woven in corners, was the faint, lingering smell of Lysol.
    She walked slowly back to the front hall, her heels echoing on the hardwood. She peeked into the sitting room with its petit point cushions and big RCA console television that looked like an ancient artifact. Into the living room, where faded cabbage roses climbed the walls and “company” furniture was ghosted under dust covers. Then her grandfather’s den with its case of hunting rifles and target pistols, its big easy chair, ragged at the arms.
    Hefting her suitcases, she started upstairs to choose her room.
    Both sentiment and practicality had her settling on her grandparents’ bedroom. The heavy four-poster and wedding-ring quilt seemed to offer comfort. The cedar chest at its foot might hold secrets. The tiny violets and roses twined on the walls would soothe.
    Caroline set her valises aside and walked to the narrow glass door that led to the high, open porch. From there, she could see her grandmother’s roses and perennialsstruggling against the weeds. She could hear the lap of water against some rock or downed log behind the tangle of live oaks and Spanish moss. And in the distance, through the haze of heat, she saw the brown ribbon of water that was the powerful Mississippi.
    There were birds calling, a symphony of sound through the hot air—jays and sparrows, crows and larks. And perhaps the gargled call of wild turkey.
    She dreamed there for a moment, a delicately formed woman, a shade too thin, with exquisite hands and shadowed eyes.
    For a moment, the view, the fragrances, the sounds, faded away. She was in her mother’s sitting room, with the whispering tick of the ormulu clock, the scent of Chanel. Very soon they would be leaving for her first recital.
    “We expect the best from you, Caroline.” Her mother’s voice was smooth and slow and left no room for comment. “We expect you to
be
the best. Nothing else is worth aiming for. Do you understand?”
    Caroline’s toes were curled nervously in her glossy Mary Janes. She was only five. “Yes, ma’am.”
    In the parlor now, her arms aching after two hours of practice. The sun so bright and golden outside. And she could see a robin perched in the tree. He made her giggle and pause.
    “Caroline!” Her mother’s voice flowed down the stairs. “You still have an hour of practice left. How do you expect to be ready for this tour if you have no discipline? Now start again.”
    “I’m sorry.” With a sigh, Caroline lifted the violin that to her twelve-year-old shoulders was beginning to feel like a lead weight.
    Backstage, fighting off the queasy nerves of opening night. And tired, so tired from the endless rehearsals, preparations, traveling. How long had she been on this treadmill now? Was she eighteen, twenty?
    “Caroline, for heaven’s sake, put on more blusher. You look like death.” That impatient, hammering voice, taut fingers taking her chin and lifting