A Portrait of Marguerite Read online

  “Like he didn’t show up for us?” I wanted to say, but instead I pursed my lips. I knew putting Phil down would only hurt Rob.

  “I’m tempted to ask you kids to take me home on the way to the gallery,” I finally said.

  “Mom, you promised.”

  I rifled through my purse and found my wallet. “I wonder who’ll be there.” I placed my credit card on the table, even though I’d promised myself to pay off the balance before I charged any more.

  “You mean Dad’s new girlfriend?” Rob said.

  Using my best poker face, I shrugged. “I couldn’t care less about your father’s social life.” The man always had some woman prowling around, but Rob had hinted that this one was something special. I hated that I cared who she was, or what she looked like. I finally convinced myself my interest was mere idle curiosity.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll go, but only to spend time with you.”

  Rob pulled open the door of the bustling Vanguard Art Gallery to let me cross the threshold first. I was surprised to see so many people—men in suits, women in evening attire—all conversing merrily as they drifted around the packed room. For one silly moment I wondered if this crowd had gathered to see Phil’s paintings. No way. A renowned artist must be displaying his work here too.

  With Rob and Andrea following, I inched my way along the wall.

  A man wearing a tuxedo shirt and black slacks glided up to me and offered a tray of champagne. I waved him on. When I turned to speak to Rob, he and Andrea had disappeared into the crowd.

  I crept further, expecting to see one of Phil’s unsightly works. But the first painting I came upon was unlike anything I’d ever seen. The artist had depicted a gnarled tree, its limbs dominating the canvas. As I looked closer, I realized the branches were merely frames for bold pieces of sky, the vacant shapes themselves becoming solid forms. Fascinating.

  I examined the next painting. A Rubenesque girl reclined upon a bed of grass as she gazed up to a heaven of magical clouds that seemed to float in an endless universe. I stepped back to view the painting better, but couldn’t see over the heads crowding in front of me.

  “Hey, Mom.” Rob grabbed my arm. “We found Dad’s exhibit. Come on. You won’t believe it.”

  I followed the kids to the next room, and saw Phil, dressed in a neatly ironed shirt and khaki slacks—not his usual attire—standing among a group of sculpted figures.

  “Look at these,” Rob said with pride and excitement. “Wait until you see them up close. You’ll love them.”

  He was right. The grouping of life-sized bronze statues—three men, two women, and an infant spanning several generations—were quite remarkable. I strolled around the sculptures to view the unusual faces with their whimsical expressions. It was difficult to stop looking. They reminded me of mime actors, ready to burst into action at any moment.

  “The old gentleman has so much personality,” I said, making note of his walrus moustache and bushy eyebrows. “And I love the mother and child.” As far as I knew, Phil hadn’t sculpted since we were in school together. I glanced his way to make sure he wasn’t pulling my leg.

  “You made these?” I had to ask. I knew the grueling labor required for such a project.

  “Yes.” He stood tall, his hands jammed in his pockets. “Honest.”

  I reached out to touch the statue of the woman cradling an infant in her arms. My fingers brushed the metal’s burnished surface, and I felt a wave of goose bumps on my arms.

  “They’re wonderful,” I said. Marvelous would have been a better adjective.

  “Thanks. Coming from you, that means a lot.” As the room’s volume expanded, he stepped closer. “For a long time I couldn’t afford to cast anything. But, with my new job at Microsoft, things are looking good.”

  “Way to go, Phil,” said an attractive blonde in a miniskirt as she strutted by.

  “Thanks, Val,” he replied, then turned back to me. I hadn’t seen him look so alive in years. Maybe ever.

  “I had no idea,” I said. “How long have you been doing these?”

  “I started with smaller pieces a few years ago. Pretty scary at first. I mean, I wasn’t sure if they were any good.”

  “They’re good, all right,” I assured him. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  He chuckled, shifting his weight to one leg. “The truth is, I was getting nowhere with my painting—something I don’t need to tell you. I needed a drastic change. When you get to be our age, you want your life to matter. You know, to create art that outlives you—for the next generation.”

  I took in his words. For years I’d considered Rob my only legacy.

  “Hey, the city just commissioned me to do a piece for a park on Lake Washington,” he said. “I’m actually selling.”

  “That’s great,” was my automatic response, but the words sounded artificial.

  “Did you see Hank’s work?” He pointed across the room.

  I eyed the paintings I’d admired earlier. “Those were done by Henry Marsh?”

  “Yeah, I told you he was gifted.”

  Three more people gathered around Phil’s work—all raving about his talent.

  “Come on, I’ll show you my other piece,” Phil said. He guided me toward another room.

  “I hear you have a new girlfriend,” I said, trying to sound blasé.

  “Darla? She’ll be here later.” He scanned the room briefly. “By the way, it was fun seeing you drawing up a storm the other night. I never know where I’m going to run into you.”

  I tried to ignore his comment but felt my cheeks warming.

  The man carrying champagne stopped to offer us a glass.

  Phil’s hand swung out, as if to ward him off. “None for me, thanks.” Then he said to me, “Did I tell you I haven’t taken a drink for over two years? Boy, it feels good to say that.”

  “Really?” Staring into his elated face, I wondered if he was being straight with me. Phil dry for two whole years? Unlikely, but I supposed anything was possible. “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “Not half as glad as I am.”

  We approached Phil’s other work: two lovers caught in the tension before an embrace.

  “Wow” was all I could say. The almost life-sized bronze woman wore long, corded hair and a peasant dress. It had to be a coincidence, but the woman looked somewhat like me when I was in college. My hair had been longer, and I’d drawn it back to one side in the same fashion. And I’d owned a dress similar to that one.

  I examined the athletic young man, who had been executed with spontaneity yet precise attention to detail.

  “Isn’t Dad’s stuff awesome?” Rob reappeared, holding hands with Andrea.

  “Yes, honey, it is.”

  Rob tugged impatiently on my arm. “Hey, Mom, Andrea and I want to go.”

  “Okay, just a minute.”

  As he and Andrea said good-bye to Phil, I took time to inspect the paintings on the back wall, none of which could compare to Henry’s. I turned to see Rob and Andrea wandering toward the exit, and Phil speaking to several members of what my father would describe as upper crust, who were questioning him about his project for the city and a dedication ceremony at the park. Being happy for Phil’s success felt surreal. I tried to picture him sober, working at a great job, and becoming a successful artist. Why couldn’t he have done all that when we were married?

  I gave him a wave.

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” he said.

  The thought of Rob’s leaving the next day sent a shudder through my upper body. Maybe I should have agreed to drive with Phil and Rob after all, I reflected. I might change my mind and do that.

  As I wove my way through the crowd, I spotted Henry Marsh talking to an intense little man who was scribbling on a pad of paper. Henry’s eyes widened as he noticed me.

  I slowed to a halt and said, “Hello.”

  His mouth lifted on one side. “Good evening.” Then his lips flattened into two parallel line
s, and he looked right past me, as if I were a fly too small to be noticed. He spoke to the man, who jotted something down, then asked Henry a question about canvas preparation.

  I didn’t appreciate being ignored. My hands moved to my hips, and I stood for a moment glaring at Henry. He didn’t look back, but rather rotated, forcing the other man to move in order to continue their conversation.

  What a snob, I thought as I marched toward the door. I couldn’t remember anyone acting so rudely. Was Henry ignoring me, or had I become invisible? I’d looked in the mirror before leaving for dinner and thought I looked quite respectable, even pretty.

  But as I plunged ahead, I found it impossible to ignore the man’s paintings, his startling use of colors and design.

  On the drive home, with my son behind the steering wheel and me sitting in the backseat behind Andrea, Rob’s voice rang with pride as he described Phil’s creations. I was grateful he had a father he could admire, but somehow I felt Phil’s victory detracted from me. I knew I was being petty and attempted to sound enthusiastic.

  “Your father’s an amazing guy.” Which was true. He’d amazed me many times.

  “What did you think of Henry Marsh’s stuff?” Rob said.

  “They were exceptionally good.” Even if I’d painted every day since college, I wouldn’t have been able to create anything half as wonderful. What Henry possessed went beyond technique, study, and practice. The paintings exuded an energy that practically pulled me across the room.

  “Did you see how much they cost?” he asked. “Dad says his paintings sell as quickly as he finishes them.”

  I hadn’t noticed the prices, but had seen the red dots on several title cards signifying the pieces were sold. I caught Rob’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “What do you know about him?” I asked.

  “He and Dad have been friends for years.” His voice turned serious. “His wife died of cancer a few years ago.”

  “How very sad.” For a moment I felt sorry for Henry. Still, that didn’t give him the right to treat me like a nobody.

  As I lay in bed the next morning, I speculated when Phil would arrive. No need for me to hurry, I thought. It could be hours. Phil loved lounging in until noon, but maybe not anymore, with his new job at Microsoft, of all places. How was it possible for a man to improve so radically? Or was it all a masquerade? What Dad would call a put-up job? I pushed back the covers and swung my legs over the side of the bed. Imagining Phil in a twelve-step AA meeting was a stretch. Yet, Laurie was right when she said something was different about him.

  I tossed my nightgown over the chair, then pulled on some sweats. I splashed water on my face and applied taupe shadow to my lids to accentuate my brown eyes. I could find no reason not to ride with Rob and Phil to California, really. Phil’s passenger van had plenty of space. It would mean an overnight stay along the way, but Phil and I could easily get separate rooms. Of course, we would. Only my pride, my harbored anger at him—which was futile after all these years—had been stopping me.

  I brewed a pot of coffee and brought out the half-dozen cinnamon rolls I’d purchased especially for the occasion.

  The toilet upstairs flushed, meaning Rob was awake. Then I heard Phil’s familiar rapping on the door. Charlie romped to the front hall; the dog’s body wiggled with anticipation. It always irked me how Charlie adored Phil, as if he were the alpha male of our pack. The man had charisma: a way with animals and women.

  I hauled open the door, and the dog charged out, leaping against Phil’s legs. Hair tousled and eyes sleepy, Phil looked like he’d just crawled out of bed.

  “Hi, Margo,” he said in a froggy voice.

  “Good morning. I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

  “I figured we should get an early start.” He bent down to give Charlie’s wooly head a scratch, then stood tall again. “Is our college student ready?”

  “He’ll be down in a couple of minutes.” I felt the cool autumn breeze brush against my cheeks. I filled my lungs, smelling the aroma of dew-covered grass laced with drying leaves.

  “Come on in,” I said, touching his arm for the first time since our divorce. “You look like you could use a strong cup of coffee.” I imagined us sitting together in the kitchen. The bond of parenthood that still united me to Phil would comfort both of us this day.

  “That’s okay.” He tipped his head toward the street. “Darla brought along some Kona Coffee, straight from the Big Island. You should try it.” I glanced past him to see a woman who looked barely twenty-five opening the back of his van.

  “Darla?”

  His gaze followed mine. “I thought I told you she was coming,” he said without hesitation. Then he bounded up the stairs, leaving me to meet his attractive companion. At first, all I could see were tight jeans and big bosoms swelling under a tank top.

  Darla waved hello with her fingertips. I wanted to shut the door and never open it again, but felt obligated to step into some shoes and go down to the sidewalk. Darla greeted me with a show of straight white teeth.

  “Hello,” I said, extending my right arm. “I’m Rob’s mother.”

  She clasped her hands together as if I carried leprosy. “I adore Rob,” she said.

  I withdrew my hand. “Thank you.”

  She scrutinized my face as though she were examining a lab specimen. “He looks like his father, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, he does.”

  Phil, with Charlie tailing him, appeared with the first box. “Darla’s a genius at packing,” he said. “I’ll let her figure out how to fit everything in.” He gave her a leisurely wink, then loped back into the house.

  “Would you like a muffin?” she asked. She leaned into the van and lifted a pan out of a picnic basket. “I baked them for Philip this morning.” Clad in her sleeveless top, with sculpted biceps curving down to slim forearms and dainty hands adorned with silver rings, she looked like she worked out in a gym seven days a week. She even cooked. I tried to remember if I’d ever baked muffins for Phil. Probably not, but I didn’t think those things mattered to him.

  The tantalizing aroma of warm blueberries and bran tugged at my stomach, but I said, “No thanks, I’ve already eaten.”

  Charlie began sniffing at Darla’s pant leg. “Go away, bad dog,” she said, her lip curling. “I’m a cat person.” She spun around to set the muffins back in the basket.

  “Go inside,” I told Charlie. He pawed the ground, then stalked away.

  “I’m glad we got a chance to meet,” Darla said, her voice downright surly. As she edged closer, like a jackal sizing up its victim, I inhaled a cloud of harsh perfume that burned my nasal passages.

  “Philip filled me in about you,” she said.

  My breath caught in my throat. “What do you mean?”

  “Why he married you in the first place. What you threatened to do if he didn’t.” Her eyes narrowed, chiseling a line across the bridge of her pert nose. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep it to myself. As long as you stay out of my way.”

  Speechless, I stared back. This can’t be happening! was all I could think.

  A look of satisfaction suddenly brightened her face as Phil and Rob each lugged out a carton.

  “Sugar, you’re the greatest,” Phil said. He shoved in a box and his leg bumped up against Darla’s. She turned to him, her lips forming a flirtatious pout.

  I felt anger brewing in my gut. Phil used to call me sugar, I fumed. Not that I should care anymore—but the words stung.

  Within half an hour, only a few items still sat at the curb waiting to be wedged in. I watched Darla instruct the men to put a box here or a bag there, as if she were their queen and they her adoring subjects. With each reach into the van, out stuck her trim little derrière, stuffed into her Calvin Klein jeans. I’d always cut the designer labels off my pants. I disliked labels on clothes. Didn’t Phil? He used to.

  My face aching from the tension, I tried to appear gracious—no small task, I assure you. I heard the back of the van close wi
th a metallic clunk.

  “I’m ready,” Rob said. He strode around the side of the van and opened the rear passenger door.

  “So soon?” I asked. “But you haven’t had any breakfast.”

  “Don’t worry, Mom. I had a muffin, and Darla knows places to eat along the way.”

  Our farewells sped by like a wave splashing against a rock. My face buried in Rob’s sweaty T-shirt, I embraced my towering son. He gave me a quick hug in return. Then he dove into the back seat, as if he were just dashing off to a Mariners baseball game, and left me staring into Darla’s open window.

  “It was nice to meet you,” I lied.

  “Same here,” she said, saccharinely.

  Phil started the engine and cranked the transmission into first gear. “Bye, Margo,” he said, while checking for other vehicles.

  As the van rolled away, I heard a burst of laughter. I waved, but no one waved back. In a moment the van rounded the corner. I stood there, almost expecting them to return after circling the block. Everything had happened too quickly. I thought of significant things I should have said to Rob before he left. Words of wisdom. Life-changing advice. My son was gone, and I hadn’t really said good-bye.

  I plodded up the front steps and trudged inside. The house felt like a morgue, cold and lifeless. I kicked the rumpled rug back into place so the door would close, picked up several fragments of leaves that had been tracked in on dirty shoes, then followed the trail of debris up the stairs. Rob’s empty bedroom drew me in like a vacuum.

  As a teenager, I remembered, Rob had become more and more private. His door was usually clamped shut while he slept, listened to music, or talked with friends on the phone. It was odd to enter without knocking first, as if I were trespassing into forbidden territory.

  I felt a tear form in one eye, then trickle down my cheek. The small stream expanded to a river, then gushed into an ocean. Bending forward, I wept without control, the convulsive sobs hurling through my torso, shaking me like a rag doll in the hands of an angry child.