by J. J. Murray
“I didn’t know you had any.”
“Easy for you to say.” She blinks several times and begins on the other eye. “All you’ve been doing is stretching my wrinkles out. And by the way, you look funny in those sweats.”
The bottoms of the sweatpants hit me mid-shin. “Thank you,” I say. I step behind her and rub her back. “Did you go to Hofstra?”
“Yeah, got my art history degree and everything from Hofstra. You aren’t rubbing on me for any special reason, are you?”
“Maybe.”
“Please don’t get any ideas. I’m all worn out.”
“But I have to get ideas. I’m a writer.”
She puts down the eyeliner pencil and begins to brush her hair. “I always knew you’d be a writer.”
“And I always knew you’d be an artist.” I check out the massive bed, and it definitely wasn’t bought at a discount furniture place. “How did you get all this?”
“You mean the house?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.” She smiles. “I’ve sold a few paintings.”
“Only a few?” This house has to go for at least four, maybe even five hundred thousand dollars.
“Well, more than a few.”
“Um, how much do your paintings usually go for?”
She shrugs. “More than the effort it took to create them.”
“I doubt that.”
“No, it’s true. I’ve been very fortunate to have a devoted following and a few key people who actively collect my work.”
“What about the portraits in the basement?”
She puts down her brush. “Destiny took you down there?”
“Yes.”
“She wasn’t supposed to do that.”
“Why?”
“Because I was supposed to take you down there, so I could, well, make you feel guilty.”
“I do feel guilty.”
“I know. How did they affect you?”
“Honestly?”
She nods.
“I felt as if I had a vise twisting my guts in all directions. I felt as if all the sadness in the world was weighing me down.”
She smiles. “Good. So now you know how I felt at the time.”
Ouch.
“But I’m not through with them yet.”
“They seem like finished pieces, except for the tapestry.”
“Oh, but they aren’t, and I doubt I’ll ever finish that tapestry. I just can’t see it finished in my head yet, though I’m beginning to.” She raises her eyebrows. “You’re sparking some stuff in me, Peter. Maybe you’re my muse.”
She only said that because she knows that she is my muse. “How do you, um, how do you decide what to create and how to create it?”
“Now there’s a loaded question.”
“Just curious.”
“Well, first, I use different media to match my mood. If I’m feeling playful, I use acrylics. If I’m being super-serious, I use oils. I only sketch when I’m bored, I do watercolors to relax and to prep for oils, and I get out my anger by using charcoal.”
“And the loom?”
“I only use the loom when I’m really frustrated.”
Oh. I walked right into that one.
“Second, I never get it right the first time. Every acrylic or oil painting I do goes through several revisions, and the only part anyone gets to see is when I’m finally fed up with it. If you could see what’s underneath my paintings, it would make your hair stand on end.”
I’m afraid to ask what’s underneath the paintings in the basement, but I can’t resist. “What’s underneath the paintings downstairs?”
“Oh, I started by painting your ex-wife in various stages of decay.”
I laugh. “Were they especially gruesome?”
“The one with the severed ear wasn’t so bad until I added the maggots chewing on the earlobe.”
Yes! “I would have liked to have seen those.”
“I bet you would. No, I believe that the world should never see some art, and, trust me, if I put those on display, I’d lose my following and collectors in a heartbeat. And since I’m still basically an unknown, almost forty-year-old African-American female artist with a nineteen-year-old daughter who may never leave the house, I can’t afford to shock anyone with a new style.” She turns to me. “Kind of like what you’re trying to do, huh?”
“I guess.”
“You have no idea what it was like when I first set out to take the art world by storm. I must have hit every gallery in New York. I was expecting to get shot down, but I never would have expected the way I got shot down. Do you know what they asked me before I even opened my portfolio?”
“What?”
“They asked me where I was born. I told them Brooklyn. Then their noses shriveled up and they said, ‘Oh, you’re local. We specialize in European and immigrant art.’ Can you believe that? They didn’t even look at my work. Every person who has come to this country was once an immigrant, but it seems that only bona fide, just-off-the-boat or on-a-green-card artists are getting shows in New York anymore. One man wrote my name down then said, ‘You know, if you spelled your first name with an I or even ended it in E with an accent mark—’I didn’t let him finish. Do I look like an E-bon-ay to you? Or an I-bon-I?”
“No. Um, how did you get your start?”
“My first big break came at Apex Art, a nonprofit in Soho. They actually have the guts to expose New York to New York artists. After that, I shared some space at shows at Mary Boone, Bill Maynes, Matthew Marks—”
“Those are galleries?”
“Yeah. And when DC Moore called, I jumped.”
She looks at me as if she expects me to know how prestigious DC Moore is to an artist. “The big time?”
“I’ve always wanted a show at the Studio Museum in Harlem. That to me would be the big time, but DC Moore Gallery has been good to black folks for a long time. They have a Jacob Lawrence exhibition coming up in mid-December, and I get to squeeze myself in before that, but only if…” She tents her fingers and nods at me.
“If what?”
“If we get to work on and finish our story and I can finish my work downstairs.”
“Oh, sure.”
“My office is two rooms down the hall on the left. You can either work in the office with me or at the kitchen table. I wouldn’t recommend the kitchen, though.”
“Why not?”
She slips a white scrunchie into her hair. “Destiny can’t cook. At all. But she can make one unholy mess.” She turns to me. “How do I look?”
“Like a dream.”
“Uh-huh.”
I rub her shoulders, squeezing gently. “You do.”
She leans back slightly. “You keep doing that, and no one will be doing any writing around here.”
I stop.
“I didn’t say stop, did I? That felt good.” She lets me massage her shoulders for a few more seconds, then pushes my hands away and stands. “Any longer and we’ll be shaking that bed.”
“Yeah?”
“But I do not want to traumatize my daughter in that way just yet. Now let me get dressed.”
“Can’t I watch?”
Her robe drops to the floor. “I have to lotion myself first.”
I grab the bottle of lotion. “Allow me.”
Putting lotion on Ebony is like polishing a sculpture—only most sculptures don’t sigh, shiver, and moan. What did Ovid say? That art lies in concealing art? Something like that. I don’t want Ebony ever to put on clothes in this room, and I damn sure want her to wear plenty of clothes to conceal this art from other men’s eyes.
“Peter, you’re driving me crazy.”
“I know.”
She takes the bottle of lotion from me. “I’ll do the rest.”
I pout. “But I was enjoying myself.”
“So was I, but Destiny will be home any minute.”
I kiss her neck. “Okay.”
I leave the room and walk down the
hall into Ebony’s office. A computer desk and hutch take up half the room, plenty of Ebony’s old sketches framed here and there, including the one she did of me at Hecksher Park. Man, did I have a lot of freckles. I’ll have to curl up on the love seat wedged in a corner, but I don’t mind, it’s cozy. And what’s this on the hutch? I pick up a picture frame and see a collage of old snapshots of Ebony and me. Several are yearbook photos, but most are shots from Candace’s house: the two of us reading on the couch, the two of us sketching on the front porch, one of me playing Little League baseball, another of me from graduation. I feel weird. I mean, here is Ebony’s shrine to us.
Ebony walks in wearing an equally baggy, ragged, faded Hofstra sweat suit covered with splotches of paint. “We’re twins,” she says with a laugh.
“You look good, E.”
“No, I don’t.”
I put the frame back on the hutch. “Who took some of these pictures?”
“You don’t remember?”
I shake my head.
“Dag, you’re getting old. Uncle Jerry did.”
Oh, yeah. He always seemed to be filming something. “What’s he doing now?”
She sits in a swivel chair and turns on her computer. “Let’s see. He’s still in Germany, and last I heard he married a Greek woman and is working for Bayer. They have the cutest little boy. He’s so lucky—he’ll be able to speak Greek, German, and English. Now, make me a copy of your book so I can get to work, while you try to do something with my book.”
At first, everything goes smoothly as I lounge on the love seat. I delete everything in Whiter Shade after the night class ends, removing the threat of the skating rink and the witness protection program forever. Since I’ve been writing without an outline, I just flow on while Ebony sits at her desk staring at her computer screen.
Folks start getting up all around me. What’s going on? The class is over? Shit. I haven’t been paying attention.
Johnny smiles at me. “See you next week.”
“Bye.”
Why can’t I think of anything to say to him other than “Bye”? I could have at least said “Ciao,” I could have at least walked out with him. But no, I’m still sitting here watching him go, and there’s Rosie the Ghoul walking up to him and putting her transparent hand on his arm and I’m still sitting here in this comfortable seat in this heaven of a classroom while he’s smiling at her and they’re talking and laughing and I still can’t get up out of this damn chair, and then I shout, “Johnny!” a little too loudly and he’s turning to me and I have no idea what I’m going to say next.
Both he and Hoe-sie Rosie come over to me. I didn’t call your name, wench! Go on about your unholy angel duties. I’m sure you have someone else’s blood to suck, someone else’s life force to drain.
“Yes, Ebony?”
I peer around Johnny at Rosie the Impaler and wish I had a wooden cross or a wooden stake or holy water or whatever it is that you use to kill a vampiress and say, “I need to speak to Johnny in private, if you don’t mind.”
Thorny Rose blinks her puke green eyebrow-less eyes at me. “Um, we were talking.”
Oh, now she’s calling me rude. Bitch. I try the “stare” out on her, but she doesn’t pee her pants. I wish I had some holy water to throw on her. Nah, it wouldn’t dent her makeup.
“It’s, um, confidential.” I smile at Johnny, and he smiles back. Is it just me, or does it seem that he wants to escape her evil clutches?
She points her foot off to the side again, her hands on her hips. “Excuse me?” she says as only white women can, with that nasal tone that’s almost as bad as the sighs she was doing earlier. “Johnny is my ex, and we have a few things to discuss. So, if you don’t mind.”
Oops. I’ve just stuck my nose in someone else’s little domestic drama. But Johnny’s eyes say, “Rescue me,” so I keep sticking my nose out there.
“So, Johnny, are we still on for tomorrow night?” I say sweetly. I can sound like an angel every now and then. If Johnny’s really in distress, he’ll play along.
Johnny’s shoulders relax. “Yes, Ebony, we are.” He turns to Rose the Pose, whose lipless mouth forms a chapped little circle. “We have a date.”
Rosie Pointy Toes clenches her little transparent fists, says “Ooooh,” stamps her little feet, and storms out of the room. Classic. Every white woman I’ve ever seen pitch a fit does it the exact same way. I wonder if they are taught to do like that at an early age.
Johnny slumps down next to me. “Grazie.”
“Don’t mention it. You looked like you needed some help.”
“I did. She has been, how you say, stalking me for five years now.”
Whoa. “Um, how long were you married?”
“We were never married. She is my ex-girlfriend.”
Yes! An ex-girlfriend I can handle. Ex-wives…I don’t even want to go there. Way too much baggage. Things are definitely looking up.
“Do you mind?” Ebony says, still looking up at a blank screen.
“Mind what?”
“I’m trying to think. Don’t type so loud.”
“Sorry.”
I press the keys more softly and continue:
for me, and now Johnny’s looking at me. “Um, Ebony?”
“Yes?”
“Did you mean what you said about tomorrow night?”
Of course I did! “No, not really.”
I have to play a little hard to get. I don’t want him to get any ideas. I mean, we’ve only just met, and he’s not that good-looking, and are those freckles on his face? He must be from the northern part of Italy, though otherwise he’s kind of darker-skinned than most Italians I’ve met. Maybe he’s descended from Hannibal. Didn’t Hannibal attack from the Italian Alps? I’ll bet there are quite a few Italians with African blood thanks to Hannibal. Dag, Johnny and I could be distant cousins in the grand scheme of things. I mean, we might have a common ancestor who—
“I would very much like to take you out to dinner tomorrow night,” Johnny says, interrupting my tripping.
“You would?”
“Yes. You, uh, rescued me from her. She is like a cold I cannot get rid of.”
She’s more like a disease, like leprosy. “You’re asking me out?”
“Yes.”
“Peter,” Ebony whines.
“Huh?”
“Do you think you could work in the kitchen?”
“Why?”
“I can’t concentrate. I hear your fingers tapping those keys, and I can’t even get a sentence out. How am I supposed to start this thing?”
“You could write some back story.” Jesus, I’m sounding like Henry.
“What’s back story?”
“Back story is like background for a character. You could tell the reader about your family and your family history before you met me.”
“Why?”
“As a way to set up our first meeting that day at the hockey game.”
“Sounds boring.”
“It doesn’t have to be. What was it like telling off Eddie and Chad?”
Ebony rolls her eyes. “His name was Brad, not Chad, and it was no big deal to embarrass them, because I did it all the time to everyone, even my mama.”
Mental note: Change “Chad” to “Brad.” “Okay, you could just write an answer to every one of our scenes so far. You’ve read how I felt at the time, maybe you could, you know, argue with me and—”
“Okay, okay, I understand,” she says and swivels back to the keyboard. “Now go to the kitchen and leave me alone.”
I save my work but leave the laptop on, carefully getting up and tiptoeing across the room to the door.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“Um, you just said—”
“Give me a kiss first.”
I kiss her on the cheek. “I’ll be in—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever.” She cracks her knuckles. “It’s time to cook. And shut the door behind you.”
I f
reeze. “Are you mad at me?”
She swivels completely around and grabs my legs. “Not at all, not at all. I just can’t concentrate with you in the room. I have all these really nasty thoughts going through my head about what we could be doing instead of this. I mean, I could have let you finish lotioning me, and then we could have been going at it, and there you are writing so fast. How can you do that?”
“It’s what I do, and it’s exactly how you were and probably are when you’re busy painting. I’ve just gotten better at painting with words.”
She motions me closer and kisses me. “Painting with words. I think I can do that.”
I nod and kiss her forehead. “I’ll be downstairs.”
I back out of the room, shut the door, and go down the back stairs to the kitchen, setting up shop and picking up where I left off:
She’s more like a disease, like leprosy. “You’re asking me out?”
“Yes.”
“You hardly know me, Johnny.”
“I would like to get to know you. You seem like a nice person.”
Am I nice? Sometimes. But not this second. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What?”
“I seem like a ‘nice person’? Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
He frowns. “Yes. It is a compliment, isn’t it?”
I shake my head. “The word ‘nice’ is overused, Johnny. You can do better than that.”
“Okay.” He sits next to me, our knees brushing for one delicious moment. “You seem…like a beautiful person.”
This is too easy. “I only seem beautiful?”
He puts his hand on my hand. “No, no, you are beautiful.”
“Very beautiful?” Now I’m pushing it.
“Yes.” He gently caresses the back of my hand. “Yes, Ebony. You are a very beautiful person who I would like to know better.”
“In what way?” I turn my hand over so he can caress my palm, but he stops and lifts his hand.
Johnny seems perplexed. “In…in every way.”
Oh yes. “Every way?”
He sits back. “I do not understand.”
I take his hand and run a finger around and around his palm. “Maybe I can help you. You see, I’m kind of attracted to you…physically. You hear what I’m saying?”