A Portrait of Marguerite Page 8

  I felt my muscles relax, as if I were sinking into a warm bath, swished back to a time when someone else made all the decisions, and life was safe and predictable.

  Mom, wearing an apron with her grandchildren’s names embroidered on the front, embraced me. Her short salt-and-pepper hair, usually neatly coiffed, needed a trim. And I noticed bluish shadows beneath her eyes and a new frown line between her brows.

  “I’m glad you could make it tonight,” she said. “Are you okay? You look a little pale.”

  “Just tired. I haven’t been sleeping well.” I shouldn’t have told her. Now she would probably worry about me.

  “Have you lost weight? You look awfully thin.”

  “I wish. If anything, I could lose five pounds. Stop worrying.” I pulled flatware out of a drawer and headed to the dining room to set the table. An ecru lace cloth lay across the table’s rectangular surface, and three napkins sat in the center. My mother always insisted on cloth napkins, never mind the bother.

  A few minutes later, Mom called out, “Vern, dinner,” then brought the sliced pot roast, mashed potatoes, and tossed green salad to the table. My parents sat at either end of the table, and I slipped into my usual chair, on my father’s right side.

  Mom ladled extra gravy on my potatoes. “Now that Rob’s away, maybe we can do this more often.” Her eyes filled with love, but I wondered if a lecture on how they never saw me anymore was soon to follow.

  “Sure, Mom, that would be nice,” I quickly said. I knew I got lucky in the parent department, and it wouldn’t hurt me to show my appreciation. “I’ve missed your great cooking.”

  Dad cleared his throat. “Marguerite, any big sales in the works?”

  “Things are picking up.” I was glad I had something hopeful to report.

  He spoke again before I could continue. “Did I tell you your sister and Gregg are putting in a hot tub and a pickle-ball court?” Mom tried to pass him the salad, but he frowned and shook his head. “Everything should be finished in two months. That new house is going to be a doozy.”

  “Yes, it is.” I knew all about it. Nicole kept me abreast of her recent purchases: the three-thousand-dollar convection oven, the state-of-the-art surveillance system, and the forty-eight-inch-screen TV. The eldest of three, I had been revered by my siblings while we were growing up, but not anymore.

  “You probably heard about Eric’s promotion?” he added.

  “Yes.” I also knew of my brother’s coup at work, but I tried to hear the three-month-old news with fresh ears. I sliced my pot roast and dropped a square of beef into my mouth. Dad was just sharing his happiness with someone he thought would be thrilled, I told myself as I chewed the meat, biting into a knot of gristle. Yet I felt uncomfortable, to put it mildly, when he gushed on. I’d been the child with great potential, a girl who could go far in the art world. What did my father think of me now? Was he as disappointed in me as I was in myself?

  Half-listening to his words, I speared another piece of meat. I hadn’t done much with my life and had produced only one grandchild. And I was the only family member to be branded by divorce. Seldom mentioned in the Marsden household, it represented failure. During that ugly ordeal, I’d sometimes thought it would have been easier to wear the Scarlet Letter than to live with my father’s silent disapproval.

  Mom served apple crisp for dessert, and I devoured a second helping, all the time telling myself apples were good for me. “No more, Mom, I’m going to burst,” I pleaded when she offered me more.

  “Good dinner, Dorothy,” Dad said, then receded into the living room to finish the paper.

  I cleared the table, stacking the plates into a dangerously high pile as I’d done as a child.

  After several moments, Mom asked the dreaded question. “Are you dating anyone new?”

  “No, but I may go out on a blind date,” I said without thinking it through. Now, I realized, I would have to call Susan and set it up. Or I could just wait a couple of weeks, then tell Mom things didn’t work out. That seemed the best plan.

  “How exciting,” she said. “I hope he’s the right one.” Meaning marriage material.

  “Mother, I haven’t even met the man.”

  She transferred the leftover meat to a smaller platter and stowed it in the refrigerator. “How’s my oldest grandson?”

  “Fine, and busy.” I placed two glasses in the dishwasher. “We don’t talk much. He turns off his cell phone most of the time so it doesn’t ring in class. I leave messages, but he rarely gets back to me. And I’ve given up asking him to return my e-mails.” I wedged the last glass into a tight spot. “You’d think he’d need me for something.”

  “I remember when you started college.” She rearranged the glasses. “By the end of the first quarter, you acted as if you knew everything there was to know. You didn’t ask our advice for the next four years.”

  “Sorry about that. I must have been a dreadful brat.” I crammed silverware into the rack. “I’m also sorry you and Dad wasted your money on my tuition.”

  “Now, why would you say that? I’ll bet you’ve used your education in a thousand different ways.” She removed one of the knives, scrubbed its blade, then placed it back in.

  “I haven’t accomplished anything the past twenty years,” I said.

  “I don’t agree.” She sat at the kitchen table and patted for me to join her.

  “You raised a fine son, didn’t you? You were always there for Rob when you could be, and we loved covering for you when you were working.”

  I lowered myself onto my old chair. “I don’t know what I would have done without you and Dad. And now, paying Rob’s tuition …” I could barely afford to send him to a local junior college much less to an out-of-state university.

  “We’re glad to help.”

  Gazing into Mom’s face, I noticed the fine, jagged lines around her eyes seemed to be etched deeper than the last time I saw her.

  “So, what’s up with you?” I asked. “Everything okay?” It was my turn to be nosy.

  She pursed her lips, which I knew meant trouble.

  “You’re not still worried about Dad and Alice, are you?” I checked to make sure my father hadn’t walked in. “They probably talk about gold crowns and gum disease.” I visualized ever-grinning Alice, Dad’s former dental assistant of thirty years, clad in a white smock, her bottle-blonde hair slicked back into a French roll. “She’s way too old to be a threat.”

  “Thanks a lot. She’s ten years younger than I am.” She heaved an extended sigh. “Who knows what the two of them do now when they go out for lunch. But there was a time …” Her voice trailed off.

  “Come on, Mom. Dad?”

  “Sure. Dear old Alice—always so sweet at the office, standing at your father’s elbow all day with that insipid smile on her face. Then he would come home at six thirty to find me with a crying baby on my hip and dinner burnt.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything happened.”

  She hesitated, as if deciding whether to proceed, then said, “I walked in on them once. Alice was in his arms.” Her eyes became two slivers of darkness. “He said it was the first time and that it would never happen again.” A flash of rage swept across her face, hardening her features. “I was so dumb back then. I should have insisted he fire her. But I was afraid if I gave him an ultimatum he might choose her.”

  Dad and Alice? I didn’t know how to respond. I stared back, wishing she would tell me she was kidding. But her expression showed no sign of humor.

  She wiped the corner of one eye. “Every time he’d go anywhere after that, I’d panic, my imagination sending me into a tailspin. I was furious, then numb. Things were never the same. The one good thing that happened was I started going to church again. God saved my life.”

  “God did?” A twist of sarcasm curled through my tongue. “Exactly what did he do?”

  She sat back and surveyed my eyes. “When did you get to be so cynical?”

  “Listen, Mom, let’s
not get into this discussion again. We get along great as long as we don’t talk about God.”

  “Just tell me, was it my fault?”

  My eyes bulged as my aggravation flared. “It’s nobody’s fault.” I remembered well the last time I prayed. The scene lay hibernating in the back of my mind. “What’s the use of talking about it now? I’ve never seen God, never touched the hem of his robe, and he’s never returned my calls.”

  She wrung her slender hands. “Honey, he will answer you when the time is right. We humans are always in such a hurry. What seems like an eternity to us—”

  I contained a smirk out of politeness. “I’m happy for you, okay? You were worried about Dad, and you found a way to help yourself. That’s great. Glad it worked.”

  She tugged a Kleenex out of a pocket and dabbed her teary eyes. “By the way, your sister and brother don’t know about your father. I probably shouldn’t have said anything to you. What’s the use of burdening you with all this now?”

  I gazed at her face and saw a frail sadness, and I realized what it must have taken for her to speak about this. “I’m glad you did,” I said. My arms slid around her narrow shoulders, and I hugged her tightly. “I wish you’d told me sooner.”

  Charlie sniffed the residual scent of pot roast on my slacks, then demanded his evening kibbled dog food with a loud yap. After feeding him, I wandered through the house, flicked the TV on and off, then leafed through the newspaper.

  Dad fooling around? Mom must have misunderstood or dreamed up the whole thing. Maybe women grew more insecure with age, I thought, in need of a hormone replacement or counseling. No, except for the God thing, Mom was the most levelheaded woman I knew. While I was growing up, she’d been my biggest supporter, the one person I could always count on to be honest, my ally.

  My hand moved to my hair, and I combed my fingers through it. When I was a little girl, Mom had untangled my hair, then brushed it until it shined like silk. I could still recall the feel of the soft bristles against my scalp. She also sewed elegant evening gowns for my Barbie doll, making my friends jealous. And it was my mother who’d bought me the art supplies.

  Later, I remembered, my high-school art teacher had encouraged me. He was the first to publicly acknowledge my talent, praising my projects before the class, encouraging me to major in art. When I entered the university, I knew I would be an artist. It was a natural progression, like the tide following the moon.

  What happened after college? a voice sounding like Henry’s asked. What stopped you from painting? I stared into space for a moment.

  I didn’t have any answers.

  I felt a gaping hole—a deep cavern of sadness—expanding in my chest. It dawned on me: Everything in my life was a lie. No, my love for Rob was real. I ached for my boy.

  I tried reaching him on his cell phone, but got no response. Was he avoiding me? No, I was slipping into paranoia. Picking up the phone again, I dialed Phil’s number. After four rings, he answered, but I could barely hear his voice above the talking and music in the background. In an instant, I was flung back to my high-school cafeteria, where I sometimes sat alone pretending I was there by choice. I almost hung up without speaking.

  “Have you heard from Rob?” I finally asked in my clearest voice.

  “Not for a few days. Hey, Margo, I can’t talk right now.” His words blended in with a bluesy country-western song. A woman shrieked with laughter, and Phil’s voice became muffled. “I’ll give you a call later, okay?”

  “Sure.” The phone line went dead, the silence throbbing in my ears.

  I thudded down in front of the TV and flicked through the stations until I found a schmaltzy old black-and-white movie. When the hero and heroine reunited, I began to weep.

  I felt like a mother trying to corral her rebellious child as I followed Laurie into the art building on Monday evening. She’d barely spoken to me on the drive over, but I wasn’t sorry I’d asked how she and Dave were getting along. Divorce was not a notion to be tossed about lightly. I was living proof.

  Halfway up the stairs, she came to an abrupt stop. She swung around and glared down at me. “This is the last time I confide in you.” She gripped her sketchpad like a shield. “I thought you’d see things my way.”

  “I’m your friend, and I care about you.”

  She began stomping up the stairs again. “Do me a favor, stop caring so much.”

  “But, Laurie—”

  She shoved open the door to the second floor. “Conversation closed,” she said, then marched into the classroom.

  I entered the room and saw Henry standing near the doorway speaking to several students.

  “My home’s too distracting to get much work done, so my studio is my refuge,” I could hear him say. “Like an athlete entering a gymnasium, I can get right down to business.”

  He strode to the front of the room to speak to the whole class. I noticed his denim shirt and his jeans bore smudges of paint. He must have come straight from his easel.

  “I’ve started buying my paints through the mail and have them sent directly to the studio,” he continued. “They’re cheaper, and I don’t waste a whole morning at the art supply store. I’m as easily distracted as anyone, but I’ve found ways to keep on track. Not that I don’t give myself a breather every few hours. I need time away from the studio to explore and be rejuvenated. Every artist needs down time.”

  He erased the chalkboard with wide arcs. “I’m usually ready for a break around noon every day, and you’re all invited to stop by my studio tomorrow—if you have the time or inclination.” He wrote his address. “Several of you have asked about work space, and I’d be happy to show you around.” It was located on the east shore of Lake Union, he said, not difficult to find.

  The next day, my car jostled down the rough, cobbled hill toward Lake Union. I turned onto Henry’s narrow street to find it inundated with parked cars. Around the corner and halfway down the block, I wedged my Toyota into a parking spot, then walked until I found the weather-beaten, one-story structure. Was this the right place? The building looked old and neglected, its paint chipping and cracking. But the front door had been enameled a crisp malachite green, with the address neatly inscribed above it.

  I checked my watch and realized I was five minutes early. Hoping to see someone else from class, I lingered on the sidewalk for a moment. Finally, I climbed the front steps and searched for the doorbell, but found none. I tried rapping on the door, but got no response. Maybe others had arrived already, I thought, and they couldn’t hear me above the chatter. I turned the doorknob and pulled the door open several inches. I could smell the familiar odor of paint and thinner, which meant this had to be the right place. I gave the door another tug to see a small front hall devoid of any furniture except for a low wooden table supporting a telephone and a few scattered papers.

  I heard classical music lilting around the corner. I followed my ears to discover Henry standing in front of a wide canvas. Engrossed in his painting, he hummed as he dabbed on colors—first burnt umber, then raw sienna. His arm moved like a branch being rhythmically propelled by gusts of wind. Except for two threadbare chairs in front of a spacious picture window and canvases stacked against the walls, the room was bare.

  He continued painting, now in quicker strokes, and hummed a bit more loudly. Was it Mozart? I wondered. The piece ended, and another began. I decided to retreat, to wait outside until others arrived. At that instant, he noticed me.

  “What time is it?” he asked, his words resounding off the bare floor.

  I looked at my watch again. “It’s not quite noon. I’m early.” Sidestepping toward the door, I almost knocked over an empty easel. “I could wait outside.”

  “No, this is fine. I’m ready for a break.” He’d probably started the painting this morning. So far, the surface was tinted with layers of muted colors, which I assumed would be the background for whatever he had planned.

  Setting his brush in a can, he stood back to exam
ine his work. “It’s good for me to get a little distance.” He grabbed a rag to wipe his fingers, then tossed the cloth in a corner on top of several others. “Sometimes I get so caught up that I forget to slow down and look at the whole composition.”

  He directed me to a thermos sitting on a wooden crate near the window. He poured two cups of coffee and handed me one before sitting on one of the armchairs. I stood for an awkward moment, then planted myself on the other, keeping my weight forward. Inhaling the heady steam rising from my cup, I stared out the window at the bay, ever changing as boats skimmed across its shimmering surface. Beyond the water, I recognized familiar buildings on Queen Ann Hill.

  Neither of us spoke for several minutes. Finally, the quiet became oppressive, and I said, “I’ve enjoyed your class.” But I hadn’t, of course. I’d always felt too self-conscious to have fun.

  “I’m glad.”

  “Except, I think I’ve forgotten how to draw,” I added, hoping he would contradict me.

  “I doubt that.” He sipped his coffee.

  Why was I nervous? There was no reason to feel ill at ease, just because he was some big-shot painter. I returned my gaze to the window to watch a seaplane landing.

  “Does this view distract you from your work?” I asked, determined to get a conversation going.

  “Yes, I could spend hours sitting here. In the morning I stand with my back to it. In the afternoon I often pull down the shade to cool the temperature and tones. Luckily, I also have that nice north window, which is a godsend. It gives the best light.” Looking at me again, he said, “Now tell me about your work.”

  Was he asking about my real job? I didn’t have any artwork to talk about. “As Phil may have told you, I graduated from college with an art degree,” I started, “but that’s as far as I got. I guess I needed a nasty old professor giving me assignments and cracking the whip.” I slapped one palm over my mouth. “That didn’t come out right. I mean, I’m lazy—or something.”