Bernadette picks you up at Dad’s one day, her eyes leaping with excitement and talking fast.
“Mar, you won’t believe it. I can’t believe I didn’t know. Fucking suburbs, we’re so sheltered there...”
“Huh?”
“There’s a neighborhood! Right around the corner from here, a gay neighborhood! They call it The Village. How’d we miss it all this time?”
“Cuz we’re antisocial losers?”
“Exactly! But no more. We have to go, we have to go today! How do I look? There are bars and coffee shops and...and...others!”
“Other what?”
“Other gay people! We might be able to go dancing, maybe they won’t care that we’re sixteen. Can we go? I know we’re supposed to go to the gallery, but...please? We can walk from here! Oh my God, I’m so nervous, I’m going to have a heart attack!”
And so begins your lifelong traipsing up and down Church Street by the side of Bernadette.
Bernadette learns to flirt. You don’t. Instead, you bargain for time: girl bars for her at night, galleries and art stores for you during the day.
At the Chamber Gallery one day, you stand in front of a painting for so long that Bernadette gets bored and begs to meet up with you later.
“Sure, go,” you say, barely turning your head. “I’ll see you.”
It’s not her fault she doesn’t feel the longing, the tug, the absolute YES that ricochets through you when you see something so wild and beautiful.
You will never be this good, but now you have to spend your life trying.
And so you stand and stare...and stare...and try to take it in.
You nearly jump out of your skin when someone speaks right behind you.
“Sorry to scare you,” he says. “You’ve been standing there so long, I just wondered, what do you see?”
You search for the words. “Fire? Fire inside her and...something bad, something, I don’t know, rotten.”
“How do you see that? Where?”
You haven’t even turned around, but you can tell this guy isn’t one of those looking-for-art-to-match-the-couch people.
“Her limbs...the angle, the way they fall. And her eyes—one of them is wider than the other. Some of her edges are sharp and others are kind of dissolving.” You point. “See?”
“Mmmhm.”
You turn to look at him. It’s the man from the desk who never talks to anyone that comes in. His face is compelling—eyes wide and dark, etched with mournful lines, chiseled cheekbones and a nose that’s been broken. He looks like a tree in November, leafless, naked, battered by the wind.
You look back at the painting, his face now in your mind.
Ah ha.
“She’s dying,” you say. “Is that what you meant? When you did this?”
“Ah…”
“You are Caleb White, aren’t you?”
He smiles for the first time. “How old are you?” he says.
“Sixteen.”
“You see a lot for sixteen.”
“Thank you.”
He nods.
“No one ever looks at anything for so long.”
“I do,” you say, and then take a deep breath. “Could you teach me?”
“What?”
“To paint like that.”
“Oh. I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t teach,” he says.
“Please?” you say. “Where do you work? Maybe I could just observe.”
“What, you think I’m fucking Picasso?”
“I’m sure I could learn a lot if you’d just let me watch.”
Something flickers in his eyes and then one side of his mouth twists up into a smile.
“You want to watch, huh?”
“That’s right,” you say, and return his look without blinking.
You know what he’s thinking, but if that’s what he wants, you don’t care.
Sex is nothing.
You would give more than your body to paint like Caleb White.
***
He’s surprised when you show up the next morning.
He doesn’t know you yet.
He offers coffee and then, fumbling, a soda. Alone with you in his apartment, he’s suddenly awkward, bustling, nervous. Not such a big bad wolf.
“Oh please,” you say. “Coffee. I take it black.”
“It’s a bad habit,” he says. “I wouldn’t want to corrupt you.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m corrupted already.”
He laughs, lets his eyes stray down your torso for a moment, then shakes himself and walks away down a long, creaky hallway.
“Studio’s back here,” he says.
Curtains made of sheets hang beside the windows and stacks of canvases lean against the walls. There is only one chair and he gestures toward it.
“Sit.”
“Don’t you...”
“I stand.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Note: stands while painting.
“Why do you stand?”
“Didn’t say I’d give a running commentary.”
“Sorry.”
You try to make yourself comfortable in the spindly, paint-flecked wooden chair, and realize he’s placed you where you can’t see the damned canvas.
But you don’t want him to change his mind so you watch his hands, his eyes, the movement of his arm as he dips the brush and then strokes paint on. You listen, too, hearing the rasp of the bristles, the even, deep sound of his breathing. He ignores you, and you stay still, hoping to be inconspicuous.
For three hours you sit and he paints. Neither of you speaks.
Maybe he thinks he’ll drive you off by boring you to death. If so, it isn’t working.
You synchronize your breathing to his and try to guess what he’s painting until he turns the easel toward the wall and tells you it’s time to go.
“Okay,” you say, and let him see you to the door.
For a week you go every morning.
Caleb says virtually nothing.
“Mara,” Bernadette says on Friday afternoon, as you browse the bead section at Courage My Love, “this is dangerous, don’t you think?”
“I gave you his address and everything,” you say. “But trust me, it’s fine. He has zero interest in me.”
(Which is getting annoying, to be honest.)
“Still...I support you and everything, but I worry.”
“I worry about you fooling around in alleyways with strange women, too.” You point to a huge glass bead. “What about this one?”
“Oooh,” she says. “You think that’ll look good with my eyes?”
“Absolutely. I’ll buy some leather string and make it for you tonight.”
“Cool. About this Caleb guy, though...”
“Listen, artists have always had apprentices, and many great artists started out as apprentices. That’s what I’m doing, apprenticing. It’s totally normal.”
She sighs and shakes her head.
“So you paint?” Caleb asks you one morning in the second week of your apprenticeship.
“Yeah.”
“What?” He’s talking without looking up from his work, but at least he’s talking.
“Just...so far whatever they ask us to in Art—a bit of everything. Mostly I like painting and drawing.”
“You any good?”
You consider this question for a long time.
“Compared to the other people in my class I am, but it’s only high school. So no, not really. Not yet.”
He looks at you for a moment.
“Hm,” he says.
You’re dying for him to take a look at your work, but you’re afraid to ask and afraid of what he might say. He’s blunt and it could hurt.
“I’ve been imagining what you’re painting as you go, since you won’t let me see it,” you say. “And then later when I get home at night I paint what I’ve been imagining.”
He laughs. “Come look th
en.”
You uncurl from your chair and walk over. This deviation from the set routine feels odd, but it’s progress. He steps back as you move in front of the easel and look.
It’s different from his previous work. From what you’ve seen, he usually does portraits.
This is a lake. Just a lake.
A half-frozen lake in silvers and grays, surrounded by pine trees and the shells of falling down houses. The longer you look at it, the further you’re drawn in. It’s not just a lake, it’s a bleak, beautiful, haunting lake.
“How do you do that without having it in front of you? How do you get all those details?” you ask.
He taps his temple and then his heart. “Got it here,” he says. “What do you think of it?”
You turn towards him, finding him unnervingly close and somehow taller. Except to pass you a coffee in the morning, he has not come within three feet of you.
“Nice,” you say, “not bad.”
And then walk away and back to your chair.
“What were you imagining?” he asks, eyes narrow.
“Something else,” you say.
“What do you want from me, Sixteen?”
“I told you already, I want to paint like you.”
He steps out from behind the easel.
“Not possible,” he says.
“Apprentices did it with the Old Masters. People do it.”
He shakes his head and rubs his hands on his jeans, still looking at you.
“Bring something,” he says. “Bring something tomorrow.”
You duck your head to hide your smile.
***
You’re not smiling when you arrive the next day with two scrapbooks and a large canvas—you’re sweating and nervous as hell.
Caleb opens the door, glances down and then lets you inside. You lean your stuff on the wall by the door and perch on a stool while he makes the coffee.
Oh God, you might throw up. If Caleb says you have no talent, you’ll have no purpose in life.
He hands you your coffee, and you see him notice your hand shaking. He smiles.
“Okay,” he says, “let’s see.”
He walks over, picks up one of the sketchbooks and starts flipping through. It takes about five seconds. He puts it down and picks up the other. You try to breathe quietly. Five seconds and then he is pulling the garbage bags off your canvas, propping it back against the wall and stepping back to look.
He grunts and then runs a hand through his shaggy black hair. He shakes his head.
“You want to learn to paint like me?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t.”
Oh fuck. Oh no.
“There are things you can learn, but you gotta paint like yourself. This is okay,” he points to the canvas, “but it’s imitation. Imitation is crap, it’s bullshit. Your sketches aren’t bad, though.”
“Do you think I have...” you swallow, “talent?”
He hooks thumbs in his belt loops and shakes his head.
“Lots of people have talent,” he says. “You have to put the work in.”
It’s not exactly the highest praise, but you feel a vast relief.
“Come on,” he says, “let’s get to it.”
Chapter 21
Saying goodbye to Erik leaves me fragile and I stay home for the rest of the weekend, but Monday morning arrives with new canvases from Loomis and I figure if I can deal with Erik, I should be ready to face the studio and whatever is behind the door.
Time to be brave.
It takes me until Tuesday.
6 a.m.: hand to doorknob, turn, push, enter studio.
Yep, it’s wild.
And scary.
Even at the height of my “extravagant” phase, I never painted anything this reckless or chaotic. It’s an outrageous mess of color and texture, mostly abstract, but with jarring little pockets of realism. The strands and clumps of hair are truly disturbing and the whole thing feels overly personal.
Lucas would have liked it, but it makes me wince.
I roll my shoulders and get to work, moving all six pieces to lean on the far wall, facing backwards. I can’t look at them and maintain any kind of focus.
I trudge to my front hall, carry my new supplies back to the studio, mix colors, and sit down to work.
What’ll it be?
I get a vision of bubbles—big, soapy bubbles, like the kind the kids across the road played with when I was six. Bubbles are circles and circles are symmetrical and I will put the whole hair-painting event behind me.
Blues and whites then, and maybe some silver...
I begin.
I surface at 4 p.m. and realize I haven’t eaten, haven’t peed, haven’t even touched the coffee that’s sitting, now cold, to my right. I’ve also barely covered a corner of the canvas, and at this rate it’ll be spring before I do. Nevertheless, I stop for the day and go inside to check my messages and e-mails.
Hugo has emailed. “Our first date?” is the subject line and the text says:
“I love ‘not dating’ you. When can we ‘not date’ again? Can we also ‘not kiss’ again in the front seat of my car? And maybe ‘not’ do a few other things? Seriously, can’t meet tonight, but can I ‘not’ make you dinner and ‘not’ introduce you to Pollock this weekend? Maybe Friday?
Yours truly,
Not me.”
I reply:
“Let’s definitely not.”
And smile for at least ten minutes before worry sets in.
Making dinner is serious. Introducing me to his dog—that’s really serious.
And we’ll be alone again, alone in his apartment. My erogenous zones hum at the thought, but of course it’s not that simple.
Logically, there could be someone normal out there who will stick by me no matter how screwed up I may be sometimes,
and people get more than one chance at love,
and we are not doomed to repeat our mistakes,
or the mistakes of our parents,
or to linger forever in a half-life filled with guilt and grief and fear.
We are not.
I am not.
I don’t have to be.
Alone in my bedroom, I purse my lips and let out a long breath.
All of this is true. So what do I do about the fact that I’m walking around convinced that the sky is going to fall? Is it shrink time again?
No.
No, I can deal with this myself, heal myself, take action.
Because if I want a life, if I want Hugo (and I DO!) it’s time to get my shit together.
So, for starters I will go out alone.
Every day I’ll go somewhere new. When the fears crash down on me, I will breathe deeply and—I wrack my brain for advice from Dr. Phil, Oprah, anybody!—I’ll breathe deeply and wait. I’ll just stop and wait. Or take a book and stop and read.
I’ll tell Bernadette the full extent of my leaving-the-house problem.
I’ll be honest with Hugo. Mostly.
I’ll stay away from Erik.
I’ll...
I bite my lip and shut my eyes. I can do this. I will let go of Lucas. Somehow.
Deep breath.
Ten counts in, ten counts out. Repeat.
Five in, ten out. Repeat.
6 p.m.: microwave frozen dinner and eat.
7 p.m.: leave message for Bernadette.
7:01: pick up phone to call Hugo, then put it down. Needy. Too needy.
7:04: check e-mail again.
7:05: sit on floor in front of closet.
7:10: still sitting.
7:11: listen to traffic.
7:12: reach hand toward box filled with letters and photos.
7:13: chicken out, close closet door, walk away.
7:15: put on shoes and coat.
7:16: walk out front door.
Nothing like fearing something inside to get me outside.
I walk up to the Danforth and turn left. Looking down, afraid of faces, I se
e my feet. My feet and the sidewalk and the occasional dog, which makes me think of Hugo, which makes me want to turn around and go home to see if he’s e-mailed back. Or walk all the way to his place and strip his clothes off and strip my clothes off and run my hands over his shoulders and belly and legs, and let him tickle my skin with his curls and nibble my shoulder and grip my hips and take me to his bedroom and do slippery hot things to me all night long.
But I would have to cross the Bloor viaduct and there are hundreds of people who have jumped from it, smashed their heads open like pumpkins on the highway below. There was that guy who threw his four-year-old over and then jumped after her.
Horrible.
There could be someone there now, ready to jump, even though they put that wall of cable up to try to stop the suicides. Could I talk them down? Or would I make things worse and then have to watch them fall and then maybe lose my balance, one hand trying to hold on, losing grip, hanging, sliding, flying, falling ...
Stop!
Stop it right now, Mara.
I try inhaling, exhaling.
Thinking. What was it I was going to do?
Read a book. Forgot to bring one. Breathe. Yes. Look around. Right. Okay. No heads smashed on concrete. Only cafes and furniture stores, people hustling about.
I am not on the Bloor viaduct watching anyone plunge to their death. I am not plunging to my own death. I’m panting and sweating, but I am free and safe for the moment. I can go to the bookstore, buy myself dinner, rent a movie, draw murals on the sidewalk, skip ...
Oh, sure, skipping is a great option. Lots of people skip on the streets of Toronto.
Ha. There, I’ve made myself laugh.
Whew.
Now what?
I promised myself an hour outside the house, but what do people do?
People shop. Walk their dogs. Have dinner. Take yoga classes and boxing classes and spinning classes. They sit on patios, even in the brisk fall weather, and play chess. Talk on cell phones, jog, read the paper, drink coffee, drink martinis, drink green tea, wheatgrass, soy milk, rice milk, almond milk. They smoke outside. Go to movies. Get involved, get stressed. They stand on corners and talk to each other, or talk to themselves, or talk to people who don’t want to talk to them.
“Spare change, miss?”
They beg for money from strangers.
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