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I shouldn't have turned him away, I thought. I should have taken his hand and led him into my bedroom. That would fix her, fix all of them, every vicious, mean and insensitive parent who crossed herself or shifted her eyes quickly away whenever she confronted me near her child. I should have done exactly what Duncan wanted. I should have crossed over, gone too far and put on the clothes, the face, the very soul of the person they all accused me of being. Maybe then I would finally be comfortable in this world. Maybe I am the doe I painted. Maybe I shouldn't cast it aside anymore.

I stopped in front of the house. I was simply glaring at the road now, fuming, my eyes blazing at the place under the oak tree where his mother had parked and waited, confirming in her own mind that he had spent the night with me, sinning and selling his soul for lust and pleasure with this daughter of evil.

"You're just jealous!" I screamed at the shadow under the oak, tree. "You're jealous because you're too twisted inside to love anyone or enjoy being with anyone now. You'll never admit you enjoyed making Duncan. You lie to yourself. I hate you and all who are like you. You have no right to look at me with eyes of accusation. Look at yourself. Hate yourself!"

Tears were streaming down my face. I held my clenched fists against my hips and found I was gasping for breath. Just then, the phone rang. I could hear it in the open window. I turned and hobbled my way back to the house as quickly as I could manage, hoping whoever it was would not hang up before I got to the receiver.

He didn't.

It was Duncan, but he sounded so strange.

"I told you," he said, speaking as if he was in a tunnel far away. "I told you she would know."

"Know what? We didn't do anything, Duncan."

He laughed. "She thinks we did. She knows what was in my heart, so it's the same thing. I can't tell you how many times in the past she has quoted from the Bible, telling me, 'For all that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life, is not of the Father but is of the world.' "

"Duncan, she has no right to be doing this to you. Listen to me."

"No, no, that's good. Don't you see? At least in her mind I've crossed over. She thinks she can't control me anymore. She thinks it's too late and I'm forever lost. Maybe now she'll leave me be."

"Did she say that?"

"She didn't have to. I know it. She's upstairs, locked in her room surely asking for forgiveness, blaming herself, berating herself. Thank you," he said. "Thank you, thank you."

"For what, Duncan? We didn't do anything," I emphasized. "I didn't do anything. I don't understand this."

"Yes, we did," he said. "Yes. I'll see you later. I feel like someone who just got out of prison. I'm going off to write a poem about it. Thank you."

"Duncan."

He laughed and hung up.

I tried calling him back immediately. The phone rang and rang, but he didn't answer. It frightened me terribly. I retreated to my bedroom to lie down and think. Emotionally exhausted, I fell asleep and didn't awaken until the phone rang again. I hurried to answer.

"Hey," Aunt Zipporah said. "What are you doing?"

"I was just resting," I said, unable to hide the disappointment in my voice.

"Tired yourself out again?"

I hesitated, just barely holding back the flood of words and tears she would surely think was a mental breakdown. How would I even begin to explain it, explain Duncan peeping through the bathroom window at her as well as at me, sleeping in the studio all night and then being pursued by his mother, whom he now thought he had somehow defeated?

"Yes," was all I could manage.

"You want me to pick you up? There's a lull here. Mrs. Mallen and I are just sitting around."

I leaped at the offer. I didn't want to be alone. "Okay, I'll be right along," she said in her happy, little voice, a voice I so wished was my own.

I went to the bathroom and fixed my hair and put on some makeup. Then I changed into one of my more attractive and brighter outfits and went out to wait for her. Of course, I wondered if Duncan would be calling again, perhaps making more sense this time, but I imagined when I didn't answer this late in the day he would figure out that I had gone to the cafe and would either call me there or come there.

As soon as I saw Aunt Zipporah drive in, I hurried out to get into her car.

"So how's your painting going?"

"It's not good," I said. "It's not coming out the way I want. I'll start again, maybe a new one, maybe an entirely new subject."

"Oh. Sorry," she said.