A Portrait of Marguerite Page 10

  I picked up my cereal bowl, which still sat on the table from breakfast, and dumped the remnants of uneaten shredded wheat into the garbage can under the sink. Then I set the bowl in the sink on top of several dirty plates and a pan that had been soaking overnight. Dribbling liquid detergent over the stack, I turned on the hot water.

  I would draw as soon as I tidied up, I told myself. As I scrubbed the pan, I remembered how, back in college, I could fill a notebook with drawings in one afternoon. In my cramped dorm room, messy chaos hadn’t made any difference to me. I’d sat cross-legged on my paisley bedspread with the sketchpad on my lap, outlining my roommate Candy while she drew me. Then I would stare out the window and draw the distant Cascade Mountains or the evergreen trees standing tall outside the dorm.

  I rinsed the pan and set it in the drying rack. In my junior year, I recalled, an instructor challenged each student in the class to finish seven oil paintings in a week. I had executed them with gusto, not worrying what else demanded my attention, or whether they were good enough or finished enough. Painting them had been like playing a game: challenging, but fun.

  The phone rang. I dried my hands to answer it.

  “Hi there,” Tim said. “I sure had fun last night.”

  “Me too.” I’d woken up with him on my mind. Tim was as cute as they come, I’d thought as I lay in bed. How many single men of his caliber would swim my way?

  “I know this might be rushing things, but I have tickets to the Seahawks game this afternoon. A client gave them to me, and they’re great seats. Would you like to go?”

  I found football tedious and tried to think of a reasonable excuse not to go, but that was stupid. I wanted to see him again, didn’t I?

  “Yes, I’d love to.” I raced to take a quick shower, then tried styling my hair in a provocative new manner, but ended up parting it the same as always. Dark circles, blotchy skin, and crow’s-feet all needed to be artfully concealed. I shuddered to think any man might see me as I really was. In my twenties, even my thirties, I’d blushed with fresh beauty, and thought women who wore tons of makeup were crazy. Not anymore.

  As I tucked in my blouse and zipped up my slacks, I heard Charlie growl his warning that a car had stopped in front of the house. He was barking ferociously by the time the doorbell jangled. I dashed down and swung the door open, but Charlie continued yapping up at Tim’s face.

  “Hi,” I said over the dog’s throaty blasts. “Go into the kitchen, bad dog.” Charlie stood for a defiant moment, then retreated several feet

  “Cute,” Tim said.

  “Sorry. He usually doesn’t bark that much.” Stupid dog.

  “He’ll love me once he gets to know me.” Tim pulled two tickets from his jacket pocket and fanned his face with them. “I’m glad you could come. These seats are in the one-hundred level at the fifty-yard line. Can you believe it?”

  “Sounds great,” I said, not remembering how many yard lines there were.

  On the drive to the game, I learned that Tim had never been married. I hadn’t thought to ask him the night before, assuming a man past age forty must have gone through at least one divorce. Now I admonished myself for my negative attitude.

  “Never met the right woman,” he explained, speeding up and changing lanes. “I was engaged twice to the same lady. Once I got cold feet, and once she did. We’re still good friends, keep in touch.” He eased up on the pedal and glanced at me. “But I’m getting to the ripe old age where a man feels like settling down. Being single isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

  “I know what you mean.” I looked out the side window. Below the freeway lay Union Bay and Henry’s studio. As I watched a seaplane lug into the sky, I couldn’t help wondering if he stood down there painting.

  The football game was exciting, and the volume in the stadium deafening. Sitting only a few rows above the players, right in the thick of the action, I found myself yelling and screaming with the other sixty thousand fans, and surprised myself with my own enthusiasm. Later, as we walked back to his car, Tim took my hand. His seemed rather small and even smoother than mine. But he was a banker, not a construction worker, I reminded myself. White collar.

  We stopped at a sports bar alive with music and the chatter of jubilant fans. Since I’d nearly lost my voice from cheering, I mostly listened to Tim’s stories, all the while wearing a most interested expression on my face. By the time he’d sucked in his last fettuccini noodle, sipped the few remaining drops of his imported beer, and paid the bill, I was tired and ready to go home.

  When we reached my front doorstep, I could hear Charlie yapping inside and pawing at the door.

  “Can you stand my horrible little dog again?” I asked. “He’s usually a good boy.”

  “No problem, I like dogs.”

  I led Tim into the living room. We sat on the couch and talked about the great defensive plays that saved the game, then discussed whether the Seahawks held a chance at the Super Bowl. Charlie insisted on lying at our feet, but when Tim tried to give his head a stroke, the dog leaned out of reach and glared, ears tipped back.

  I asked about Tim’s work at the bank and learned he handled some very prestigious accounts. His voice swelled with pride as he described his job and his lavish office with its roll-top desk and stunning view of Puget Sound.

  “I can watch the ferry boats and freighters,” he said. “Come by someday. We can have lunch.”

  I imagined his introducing me to his secretary and coworkers and was flattered. “Sure, I’d enjoy that,” I said.

  As we stood at my front door saying good-bye, Tim took me in his arms and kissed me. It was a metallic kiss, firm and cool, as he pushed his hard lips against mine. Suffice to say, I felt a surge of disappointment.

  After we parted, he said, “Good night. I’ll definitely be calling you.”

  Raindrops hit the windshield like bullets of gravel, and oncoming headlights glaring off the slick streets made me squint. My gut told me I should have stayed home, but Laurie had insisted it was my turn to drive to class.

  Minutes later, I inched my car into the underground parking garage at the university.

  “Tell me, what’s going on with you and this golfer guy?” I asked Laurie, my crabby mood urging me to confront her.

  “Nothing for you to worry about.” Her voice sounded as creamy as ever, yet I detected a false edge.

  I imagined her in the arms of some creep. He’d have to be a jerk to pursue a married woman. “Do you still run into him on Wednesdays? Or has it gone beyond that?”

  “I’ve got the situation under control,” she said in staccato. “Case closed.” She wrenched open her wallet and handed me a five-dollar bill. “I’ll pay for parking tonight. Anything to put you in a better mood.”

  I took the money and handed it to the attendant, then found an empty stall. As I turned off the engine, Laurie jumped out of the car and shut the door harder than necessary. With her notebook under her arm, she forged ahead to the elevator. I caught up with her as the elevator doors slid open. We got in, standing in opposite corners. As we surfaced to ground level, I leaned against the back wall and stared at her distorted reflection in the metal door.

  When we reached the gallery’s ticket booth, I spotted several students from class. Laurie paraded over to them, waving hello. A moment later I noticed Henry and Emily entering the lobby together. While Henry spoke to the woman selling tickets, Emily glided over to me.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. She wore a melon orange silk jacket with a mandarin neck and violet dragons embroidered on the front. Silvery curls of hair, no doubt loosed by the wind, danced above her eyes. She slipped her arm through mine, and we followed Henry, who was leading the group down the carpeted corridor toward the first room.

  “Seldom Seen Drawings and Prints by the Masters,” Emily read aloud as we paused at the exhibition’s sign. She gave my arm a little squeeze against her side, then let it drop. We wandered to the center of the room and stood in
silence.

  My heart sang with unexpected delight. Each work, elaborately matted and framed, was a tiny masterpiece. When my gaze happened on a Leonardo da Vinci sketch, the highlight of the show, I drank in its beauty, tracing the lyrical lines with my eyes. All sounds of voices and footsteps became muted as I tried to memorize each sepia pen stroke.

  Suddenly people were standing next to me, and I experienced the unpleasant sensation of Henry’s breath on the back of my neck. I spun around to find myself gawking first into his chest, then up at his face. He was staring over my head at the da Vinci, as if anyone below his height was also beneath him.

  “We know this sketch is a preparatory study for the larger painting that followed,” he said. “But does the artist’s original intent affect its beauty and quality? Is it possible to admire this preliminary sketch as much as the painting that later emerged from it? Anyone have an opinion?”

  I examined the drawing further. Its lines seemed spontaneous, alive. I started to raise my hand.

  “I want it in my living room,” Laurie said with a giggle. “It looks done to me.”

  Someone else shot back, “But if the artist had been satisfied with the sketch, he might never have made a big painting. That would have been a loss.”

  “I’d take either one,” Laurie said.

  Several others voiced their opinions, and by then I was sinking into cowardice. Afraid of sounding like a fool, I kept silent. When the discussion wound to an end, Henry asked us to open our sketchpads, with instructions to scribble notes on technique or to make our own quick sketches, copying the masters. For several minutes, I walked around the room with one hand in my pocket. I drifted up behind Emily, who stood drawing an etching—creating her own marvelous rendition of a British farm scene. The ramshackle barn and cottage and the horse-drawn cart full of hay bustled with life on the page.

  “I didn’t know committing forgery could be so much fun,” she said. Seeing my sketchpad in my hand, she asked, “Why aren’t you drawing?”

  “I’m much happier watching you.”

  “Come on, give it a try. No need to be bashful.”

  “All right.” I found a pencil in my purse, then flipped open my pad. “I haven’t been in this museum for years,” I said as I tried to decide what to do. “It sure looks different.” I noticed an etching of a barge navigating a canal that might serve as a good subject.

  “Quite a face-lift, isn’t it?” Emily’s tapered eyebrows rose as she glanced around the room. “I do prefer more traditional architecture, but the lighting and walls are beautifully done.” She turned to me. “Didn’t you say you were once a student here?”

  I was saved the task of reciting my college ambitions by an announcement that the class would gather in the coffee shop on the lower level in fifteen minutes. I completed a hurried sketch, just as Henry said we had run out of time.

  Laurie, who’d kept her distance since we arrived, descended the steep staircase with most of the class, and Emily and I followed. By the time I entered the café, the group had dragged tables and chairs together so they could compare drawings. Rhonda, the young redhead, placed her sketchpad on the chair between Henry and Roger, and offered to get Henry coffee. He sent her a wide smile as he handed her money. “Leave the rest as a tip,” he said.

  Moments later the conversation buzzed. Odd, I thought, how the others had so much to say, even though they had most likely not studied art or art history as I had. And they didn’t even seem embarrassed to show their sketches.

  Good-hearted laughter erupted as Laurie presented her childlike drawing. “We already know I’m no artist.”

  “Yes, you are,” Toni said. “You’re making art, aren’t you? At least that’s how I look at it.” The others agreed.

  “I’m with you,” Henry said, his face alive. “Remember, some of the drawings we saw tonight weren’t recognized in the artists’ lifetimes, but that fact doesn’t diminish their genius.”

  “But they’re all so good.” Laurie turned her palms up. “I could never draw like that.”

  “Allow yourself to grow at your own pace.” Henry scanned the students’ faces. “One cannot reach maturity through desire alone. It takes practice and more practice. Use those sketchpads at home every day.”

  His gaze fixed onto mine. “You’ll see results. I promise.”

  I stared back, feeling relieved he couldn’t see through the cover of my almost-empty notebook.

  “I need to get home,” Roger said, standing. “This has been great. See you all next week.”

  The others took the last sips of their drinks and gathered up their belongings. I watched Laurie reapply her lipstick, then I followed her up the stairs.

  When we reached my car, she said, “Wasn’t that fun?” She got in the car and opened her sketchpad to admire her drawing. “Imagine, me an artist. Henry’s sure supportive. Not many men would take the time to help a beginner like me.”

  “That’s true.” Against all reason, my shoulders drooped as I pictured Henry and Rhonda sitting together. Even if I found him attractive, I couldn’t compete with a woman half my age. I worked the key into the ignition and tapped my foot on the gas pedal.

  “Did you get together with that guy Susan wanted you to meet?” Laurie asked.

  “I’ve seen him twice.” I coaxed the transmission into reverse, then craned my neck to see over my shoulder as I backed up. “He’s cute. I mean, handsome.” Tim’s face loomed fuzzy in my memory. “Not that appearances are everything. During my divorce, Phil’s looks meant nothing to me.” But how good it would feel to be drawn to a man by that passion we once shared.

  I put the car in drive and initiated our climb to street level. “Tim’s a banker,” I continued, thinking how good he must look in a three-piece suit. “I need a man who works at a normal job, not a flaky artist who’s glued to a canvas day and night and can’t pay the bills.”

  “I’d still aim for Henry Marsh. And I’ll bet he earns a good income. Roger says he’s quite successful.”

  I jammed my foot on the gas, causing the tires to squeal on the last corner. “He’s not interested.” I was using my bad-dog voice, the one that sent Charlie to his basket when he misbehaved. “Nor am I. So drop it.”

  “Gee, you don’t have to get so huffy. I’m entitled to my opinion, aren’t I?”

  I recalled our recent debates about her marriage. I’d been doling out a ration of unasked-for advice; the least I could do was not get defensive. “Yes, of course,” I said. “Sorry if I’ve been a grouch.”

  I handed the ticket to the attendant and exited the garage. The rain had turned to drizzle, and the streets stretched wide and empty. Through the mist the streetlights glowed like white Chinese lanterns.

  “Did I tell you I’m starting tae kwon do?” Laurie asked. “That’s why I didn’t make it to Henry’s studio the other day. We wear these darling black outfits and go barefoot. It’s a blast. Maybe you’d like to take it with me?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. I’m so uncoordinated, I’d hurt myself.” I chuckled as I remembered my last attempt at doing the splits. Several years earlier I endured one yoga class and my limbs were so stiff the next day I could barely walk. Now that I thought about it, Laurie had talked me into that, too.

  “It’s a combination of martial arts and self-defense.” She sounded like a flitting sparrow. “Most women can’t defend themselves. They’re powerless.” She rested her elbow on my seat back. “The head instructor is a character. She’s tiny, but you sure wouldn’t want to mess with her.”

  I watched the wiper swish lazily across the windshield, then pause. Tiny dots of moisture appeared on the glass, then were swept away as the blade crossed back to the other side.

  “Give it a try,” she said. “You can be my guest for one free class. Erika and Susan already said no. It seems like only my single friends can ever do anything.” Her voice turned cranky. “Dave likes me to do stuff like this. That way he doesn’t feel guilty for working all the t
ime. Anyway, I should be able to defend myself. How about it?”

  “Think I’ll pass on this one. Aren’t you continuing with the drawing class next session?”

  “Nah. I love it, but I want to try other hobbies. You’re the artist. I hope you keep it up.”

  “I might try a class somewhere else.” There was no way I’d walk into Henry Marsh’s classroom alone. “I do like Emily though. Wouldn’t it be great to be like her when we’re her age? She seems so content.”

  “Unlike me who hates growing old.” She fluffed her hair. “You should see my real color under all this frost. There’s so much gray it’s frightening. Maybe you should visit my colorist too. She can work miracles.”

  “What for? My hair isn’t gray.”

  “Oh, yeah?” She pointed to a loose lock from my temple.

  At the next red light, I flipped down the visor mirror to peer at myself in the dim light and noticed several colorless strands. “When did that happen? Maybe I need glasses, too.”

  The light flicked green, and I folded up the visor and drove forward. “Better give me her number. I don’t want Tim thinking he’s dating an old lady.” I hadn’t mentioned my age to him.

  “Henry strikes me as a man who’d find a little silver hair attractive,” she said. “He’d probably admire a woman who’s at ease with aging.” She bubbled with laughter. “Doesn’t he strike you that way?”

  I gave in and laughed too. It felt good to have the tension between us eased. “Believe me, you’ll like Tim better.”

  When I got home, the light on the answering machine was flashing. I rushed past Charlie to listen to Rob’s recorded voice say he was doing fine and would call back in a few days. I replayed the short message, listening for clues to his mood and imagining the tidbits he might have shared with me. Over the years our conversations had shrunk. And after Andrea’s arrival, our communications diminished to a quick hello as we passed each other in the morning. Now, a recorded voice was precious.