A Portrait of Marguerite Page 16

  Silence.

  “I’m returning Phil’s call.”

  “Just a moment, I’ll get him,” she said with hostility.

  I waited several minutes for Phil to come to the phone, making me wonder if she’d even told him I was on the line.

  He finally picked up the receiver. “Have you talked to Rob yet?” he said. “I can tell there’s something wrong, but I can’t pry it out of him.”

  Clamping the phone against my ear with my raised shoulder, I began sorting through the mail while I listened. I ripped open my gas bill, which I imagined would soon skyrocket now that the weather was cooling. I couldn’t bring myself to think about Rob struggling with his classes, or about his following in his father’s footsteps. Phil came close to graduating, but dropped out during his senior year. I remembered his lame-brained dispute with a professor. The man was trying to encourage Phil to produce some decent work, no doubt, but Phil had been too pigheaded to accept his help. He’d snatched up his canvases, huffed out of class, and never returned.

  Following Lois’s strategy, I told Phil it would “all work out.” It had to.

  After checking in at the office the next day, I stopped by my parents’ house. Mom, dust rag in hand, came to the door wearing an unflattering tan-colored blouse and a beige skirt. Looking into her pale face, I noticed she wasn’t wearing makeup. I still considered my mother to be a beautiful woman, but I’d never seen her look more dowdy.

  “You and I should go shopping together and buy you some new clothes,” I said.

  “I’ve already got a closet full of things I never wear.”

  “Then keep me company. We could have lunch afterward, like we did when I was a girl.” I would take her by the cosmetic counter too. “Where’s Dad?”

  “Out somewhere.”

  My hand reached for the banister, and I took the first step up the staircase. “I’m going to run upstairs and weed out some of my old books.” My father had asked Nicole and me to empty the floor-to-ceiling bookcase in our old room so he could store his ever-expanding collection of National Geographic magazines there.

  “That should make Dad happy,” I added. When Mom didn’t answer, I turned to see her shuffling into the living room. She’d always been on my case to stand up straight, but her shoulders rounded like an old lady’s. She was even developing a hump on the back of her neck.

  I continued to the second floor and headed into the bedroom Nicole and I had shared as kids. The same ruffled bedspreads and frilly pillows still covered our twin beds. Mom said she used our room for guests, although she and Dad never seemed to have overnight visitors.

  The bookcase stood jam-packed. Listening to the vacuum cleaner whirring in the living room below, I scanned the titles: Rebecca, Wuthering Heights, Emma. I remembered in high school and college practically inhaling those stories as the words transported me to a different time and place. But it was unlikely I would read them again. I could imagine Nicole and her fifteen-year-old daughter sorting through the books, and decided to let those two take what they wanted. Then I might donate the rest to a charitable organization.

  On the bottom shelf lay my high-school annuals. I folded my legs and sat on the Chinese hook rug, a backdrop for many childhood games, and spent several minutes browsing through my senior yearbook, something I hadn’t done for decades. I glanced at my photo and was glad to see I wasn’t the only girl with a less-than-perfect complexion or a hairdo once known as dorky. I turned the page and noticed that next to her photo a girl named Carol had written, You’re the best artist in the school. I’m jealous. A few pages further a boy with long sideburns had written, Remember me when you’re famous. Okay? I hadn’t seen either of those people since the ten-year class reunion. On that evening, both had asked about my career in the arts, and they’d seemed disappointed to learn I was just a mom and a realtor. “I love real estate,” I’d said, handing them each a card. Then I’d escaped to the other side of the room.

  I’d elected to skip the twenty-year reunion. I told myself the only person I cared to see was Candy, whom I got together with often enough. I’d dated a few guys in high school, but nothing serious. When I met Phil I was grateful I’d saved myself for the one true love of my life. What a laugh, I thought, slapping the album shut and shoving it back into the bookcase. I didn’t feel like carting the yearbooks home, that was for sure. Where would I store them? Anyway, I wanted to forget the past and only think about the future. I considered discarding them in my parents’ garbage can, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it, just like I clung on to everything. Maybe if I ignored them long enough, Dad would get fed up and toss them out for me.

  The vacuum cleaner noise came to a halt. As I descended to the first floor, I heard Mom open the kitchen door, then walk outside onto the back porch. Quietly, I continued down to the basement. In the back of the storage closet, jammed in with Dad’s old hip waders and other fishing gear, I found the familiar wooden box. My fingertips stroked the dusty surface, once lacquered and smooth, now scarred from years of use. I remembered standing by the ocean in fragrant salty air and listening to the steady roaring and crashing of the surf, my paint box spread open like an unfurling flower.

  I unlatched the metal hook. Partially used tubes of acrylic paints and half a dozen weathered brushes lay inside, as if frozen in time. Both hands exploring, I gave several tubes a gentle squeeze. Some felt rock hard, but most were still pliable. As I closed the lid, I noticed a smallish, unused eighteen-by-twenty-four-inch canvas on the bottom shelf.

  Hoping to take the box and canvas to my car unnoticed, I mounted the stairs with them in my arms. In the kitchen I found Mom removing two cups from the shelf. I felt shy, like a child caught playing with dolls after she is too old for such games.

  “I’m taking some of my old garbage out of the basement,” I said, trying to carry my booty inconspicuously.

  “Great. But don’t run off.” She insisted I sit down for a cup of tea, which was steeping in a pot on the kitchen table. “We certainly enjoyed your friend the other night,” she said, pouring the mahogany-colored liquid into our cups. The smell of lavender hung above the table, a sure sign she’d prepared Earl Grey.

  “He’s just my drawing teacher. I told you that. A friend of Phil’s.” I gulped my tea too quickly, burning the tip of my tongue. “I am dating a man named Tim. I’ll have to bring him over.”

  “That would be fine, Marguerite. But do invite Henry back.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to happen.” I could guarantee it. “On another subject, I’m glad to see you’re doing better now. I guess all your worries about Dad were for nothing.”

  She raised her cup to her lips and blew across the brim. “We haven’t spoken about it.”

  “Maybe that’s for the best.”

  She returned her cup to the saucer without drinking. Her lips pursed, whitening from the pressure.

  “Everything is on an even keel again, isn’t it?” I said.

  “Not exactly. I told your father I’d leave him if he ever sees Alice again.” Her eyes were melting behind a film of moisture, but she blinked the tears away. “I should have put my foot down years ago, but I was afraid of being left alone.” Her head fell into her hands; her shoulders began to tremble. “Last night he confessed everything, how for years he snuck off to see her, and even brought her to dental conferences with him.” She pulled herself erect. “I told him to go ahead and marry the woman if he liked her so much. ‘I won’t stand in your way,’ I said.”

  I tried to envision Dad kissing another woman, and my stomach twisted with revulsion, as if I’d tripped over decomposing garbage.

  Mom let out a sob, then blotted her eyes with a paper napkin. “I’m sorry.”

  “Mother, you have nothing to be sorry for.” I reached over and grasped her hand. “But don’t rush off and do anything you might regret later.” At least Dad didn’t drink, and he provided for the family. “Sometimes I think I would have been better off if I’d stuck it out
with Phil. Besides, what would Jesus say?” It felt ludicrous bringing up his name, but I was desperate.

  “You’re right, honey.” She sounded like a wounded animal with its leg caught in a snare. “Forgiveness is what the Lord is all about. But I don’t know if I’m strong enough to do that, or if your father even wants it.”

  On the way home I lowered my car window and listened to an oldies station playing artists like Diana Ross and The Supremes, Stevie Wonder, and Tina Turner. As I sang along, the brisk air lifting my hair off my scalp helped clear my mind. I didn’t want to think about my parents or work or Rob.

  I carried my paint supplies into the kitchen. Setting the box on the table, I held the canvas at arm’s length. I’d probably assembled it myself by stretching linen across a wooden frame, then preparing it with white gesso. I tapped the canvas’s surface, and it resounded like a far-off drum, vibrating in my chest.

  I headed into the living room and hauled the stack of magazines out from under the coffee table. Leafing through them page by page, I saw photographs of supermodels and landscapes, remodeled bathrooms and cheese soufflés. Nothing I wanted to paint. Just as I was about to give up, I noticed a photo of a woman with a toddler in her lap. The boy, his inquisitive eyes gazing up at his mother, reminded me of Rob at that age. Ripping the photo out of the magazine, I took it into the kitchen. In pencil I sketched a likeness onto the canvas. I opened the paint box, chose a brush, and tested the bristles, which were stiff but still pliable. I picked up one tube of paint and read the name cobalt blue. It didn’t sound familiar, and I tried to remember if I had liked the color or if it was left over because I didn’t like it. Unscrewing the cap, I squeezed an inch-long snake onto a plastic dish and was pleased with the blue’s brilliance. Then I did the same with other colors: phthalo green, cadmium yellow, alizarine crimson, and raw umber. I filled a jar with water and dipped the brush in to moisten it.

  Four hours later I stepped back and looked at my creation. Where had this painting come from? I was surprised to find tears filling my eyes. Why was I crying? Nothing in life made sense anymore.

  With great care I signed my first name at the bottom in deep amethyst. In college I’d used my last name, but that didn’t seem right now.

  Viewing the work from another angle, I saw areas needing more definition. With a parent’s tender care, I worked briefly on the child’s face and arms. I wondered about the skin tone and whether the pattern on his shirt was legible. Finally, I accepted the colors and left the brushstrokes visible and loose.

  I placed my plate of colors in the sink, where the tap water carried them in ribbons down the drain. Before allowing myself to inspect my work again, I also scrubbed my brush. Imagine using one old brush and such a small palette of colors, I thought. Back in school I would be cleaning a half-dozen paintbrushes and re-screwing the caps on twice as many tubes.

  The cleanup complete, I stood on the other side of the kitchen and let my eyes rest on my piece.

  “Dear God, it’s actually good.”

  My shoulders felt taut, and the small of my back ached. Stretching my arms, I glanced out the window. The sun, now low in the sky, flooded the room with coral-colored light. The afternoon had flown by like a pebble snapped from a slingshot.

  I felt restless; I didn’t want to be alone. Finishing a painting was like scaling Mount Everest; I was filled with a desire to share my news. My first thought was to tell Mom, but I didn’t want to be drawn into her sadness—not now. I would wait, talk to her later when I could listen patiently.

  I called Tim at work, and his secretary put me through to him. We chatted for a few minutes before I said, “I’ve been painting most of the afternoon.”

  “That’s a man’s job. Wouldn’t it be better to hire a professional?”

  I realized he thought I’d been working on the interior of my house. “Not the living room, a painting-painting,” I said.

  “Oh.” I could hear a clicking sound that must be his fingers working a computer keyboard. “I could come by after work to see it,” he offered.

  Judging from his tone of voice, I wasn’t sure he understood what I meant. Unless he was an artist, himself, how could he? “My painting’s not ready for viewing yet,” I said, suddenly protective of my new creation. Then I said a hurried good-bye and hung up.

  I got into my car and drove off without any destination in mind, yet ended up approaching Henry’s studio. From down the street, I could see him coming out the front door. By the time I reached the studio, he was walking around the hood of an old blue Ford pickup. I slowed, and he spotted me, giving me a wave. Rolling to a halt, I was tempted to fabricate an excuse for being there, but there was no reason in the world I would be in that neighborhood except to speak to him. I put down my window and said hello.

  “What brings you by?” he asked.

  “I was in the area. Just wanted to talk.”

  “I’m glad you came when you did, you almost missed me. I was headed out for a bite to eat.”

  “It can wait until Monday.”

  “No, if you’re hungry, come join me. We can talk over dinner.”

  I realized I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. But sitting across the table from him for a whole meal would be like Charlie sharing his food dish with the snooty Pekingese next door.

  “It’s a five-minute drive,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “You could follow me there, and then leave when you want.”

  A moment later I was trailing him up the hill. He put on his blinker, and at the red light he came to a stop. From my car I could see the back of his head high above the headrest and his eyes glancing at me in his rearview mirror. When the light changed green, I hesitated, wondering if I should turn the other direction and go home. But Henry was the logical person to talk to. Who else was there?

  I pushed my foot on the gas pedal and caught up with him. Stop worrying, I told myself. Henry didn’t date; he still loved his wife. He was a bit of an odd duck, but he seemed safe enough, the kind of man who would make a decent friend. Weren’t friends what I needed most?

  Minutes later he turned into the parking lot of a restaurant on South Lake Union, and I pulled up next to him. Soon we were seated at a table and receiving our dinner. We passed time in polite conversation, then discussed Leonardo da Vinci, his mathematical abilities, his love of music—how he could sing and improvise on the lyre.

  “And I heard he loved animals,” I said, recalling what I’d learned in an art history class. “He would buy birds from vendors, open the cage doors, and let them fly away.”

  “An amazing man.” Henry said. “It’s hard to imagine a person with more talents. Aren’t we fortunate he loved painting the most?”

  “Yes, indeed.” As I finished the last bites of my salmon, I still hadn’t mentioned my painting. Soon the waitress removed our plates and brought us coffee.

  I finally blurted out, “I painted something today.”

  “Really.” He looked like a parent hearing his child had aced a test. “That’s marvelous. Tell me about it.”

  I avoided his gaze as I recounted my afternoon.

  “It’s crazy, but I barely remember painting it,” I said, my eyes finally meeting his. “I got so involved, I felt transported, as if sucked into a time warp where nothing else mattered.”

  “Yes, I’ve had days like that where it felt like someone was painting through me. I was the vehicle, not the driver, off on someone else’s joyride. The next thing I knew it was dark outside.”

  “And afterward, I cried,” I said, then wished I’d omitted that detail. “Isn’t that weird?”

  “No, not really. For me, painting opens a floodgate of emotion.”

  The waitress delivered our check. Henry took it from her, then pulled out his billfold and left money on the table.

  “Shouldn’t I pay?” My hand reached for my purse. “I invited myself.”

  “No, I told you I’m old-fashioned. And anyway, your parents fed me like a king.”

&nbs
p; We strolled out to the parking lot. “Maybe you and I should take a look at your painting,” he said, following me to my car. It crossed my mind he was kidding, but he stared back at me in earnest.

  I found my keys in the bottom of my purse and wrapped my fingers around them. “Right now?”

  “Unless you’d rather bring it to class on Monday?”

  “No, I wouldn’t want to do that. But it probably needs more work.” I felt my cheeks redden and hoped it was too dark for him to notice. “You’re such an accomplished painter. I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”

  “I doubt that. Come on, there’s no time like the present.”

  My palms stuck to the steering wheel as I directed my car toward home. My fingers felt like icicles, but my torso sweltered under my jacket. I could see Henry’s headlights in my rearview mirror, and I hoped he would get stuck behind another car and lose sight of me. I flicked on the radio, surfed through the dial, then turned it off again. I listened to a new rattle somewhere under the rear of the car; the drive home had never taken so long.

  Charlie, his tail whipping back and forth, leapt up on Henry’s legs as he came into the house.

  “Henry, meet Charlie,” I said, wishing, for once, the dog would raise a racket. Things were moving too quickly. When I caught a glimpse of my painting, I knew it was a mistake to let him see it. Propped on the counter and leaning against the microwave, it looked insignificant. I should have defined the background better, I told myself. And one of the woman’s arms seemed out of proportion, and her skin tone wasn’t right. The more I looked at the composition, the more I hated it.

  “There it is,” I said. As I watched Henry examine my work, I almost started to point out its flaws. I wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t like it, but I knew his words would sting worse than stepping into hornet’s nest, which I’d done as a child.

  Finally, he said, “This is very good.”

  “Thank you.” But what did good mean? I’d often said “Good dog” to Charlie for nothing more than finishing his kibble. And I said “good morning” even when I was in a foul mood. “Really? You mean it?”