Art's Blood by Vicki Lane

baskets of tomatoes in a vague wave. “There is deep harmony and healing in this green place.” Reaching up, she suddenly pulled the gauzy wrap off her head. “I sense that this will not be necessary here.”
    “No,” agreed Elizabeth, “you won’t need that. The gnats were bad back in May but they’re mostly gone now.”
    “Gnats?” Willow smiled indulgently. “Oh, no, no, no, the veil is a protection against evil influence and negative energy. Sri Namanandapura blesses these veils and bestows them on his disciples.”
    Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak, reconsidered, and closed it again. Take a deep healing breath, Elizabeth, she admonished herself.
    “So, Willow, let me get the rest of these tomatoes into the jeep and then I’ll give you a ride up to the house. I’m sure Kyra will be glad to see you.”
    The tomatoes were stowed in the back of the jeep for the short trip up the hill. Willow climbed in beside Elizabeth, confiding that though, on principle, she didn’t believe in SUVs, she could see that one might be necessary on a mountainside farm.
    “I visualize myself on a farm someday,” she said in a dreamy voice. “A place of rebirth— of healing and enlightenment— my own milk goats, sheep— I’ll learn to spin and weave. My dream is to make all my own clothing from cloth I myself have woven— just like Gandhiji. I see, too, a beautiful organic garden with healing herbs— and perhaps a hospice for AIDS patients. But I have to be able to travel as well.”
    Elizabeth said nothing, having heard such fantasies before. Travel and farms were, in her experience, incompatible. Milk goats required milking— twice daily. She smiled quietly, remembering her own years of keeping a cow— milking in all weathers, early and late. A neighbor had once asked her, “Know the difference ’tween bein’ in jail and keepin’ a milk cow? Iffen you’re in jail, you don’t have to milk the durned cow.”
    Willow helped carry the tomatoes onto the porch. The cheerful twangle of a bluegrass banjo blared from the CD player in the living room, and through the kitchen window Elizabeth could see Ben and Kyra sitting together on the built-in corner bench, coffee mugs in hand. Kyra, who seemed much recovered from her shock of the night before, was actually giggling at something Ben was showing her in a magazine. Her hair had been washed and had dried naturally, leaving a fluffy mass of black ringlets curling around her face. Without the heavy eyeliner and dark lipstick that she usually affected, Kyra looked very young.
    Elizabeth led her visitor into the kitchen. The two young people were still engrossed in the magazine— a Roz Chast cartoon spread in The New Yorker, Elizabeth noted. Kyra looked up with a start as the CD ended.
    “Willow!” She jumped up and ran to hug her friend’s mother. “What’s happening with Aidan? Did you see our house? I tried to get our stuff out but they wouldn’t let me….” The girl’s pale face was taut with suppressed emotion. “At least most of our paintings and other pieces were in the studio.” Continuing to cling to the little woman, she whispered, “Tell me Aidan’s all right.”
    “Now, now, little one, calm yourself.” With gentle firmness Willow held Kyra to her. “All shall be well. Aidan is in Spirit’s hands. I have surrounded him with a pure white light and given him into Spirit’s care. I have also,” she said, stroking Kyra’s hair back from her face, “retained an excellent lawyer who assures me we will have Aidan out on bond quite soon.” Once again, the Indian accent had disappeared.
    Elizabeth sent Kyra and Willow to the front porch to talk while she and Ben sorted and washed the tomatoes. Through the open window they could hear Kyra telling her visitor about the fire. “Terrible, terrible!” Willow exclaimed in response. “But only material objects were lost— all maya, all illusion. And Spirit is obviously looking after you and has sent