I swallow. Thank you for finding me. It is something I say to her often. I know you, Audie, I’m with you, Audie, but I don’t think I’ve found you yet. I don’t think you’ve quite let me. I haven’t made it all the way in there, but I will.
So she’s ready to let me find her. Finally.
Excitement ignites like wildfire inside my body.
Audra, the closed fist, ready to open up. It’s wild how unlike my most recent ex she is. Misha was willing to be undone and remade from the very start. Unsteady. Easily shaken. It’s like she craved it, what I got from her, what I did to her. Misha with her silken, blond hair and light-gray eyes, her whole self a spectrum of airiness and pliability. I opened her right up like a glistening wound. I saw her deep reds and pinks and blacks over the years. Years of toil. I think of my languid, tonal Builder portraits—which are of Misha, ultimately, an architect—and feel an almost erotic shiver. I, the consummate synesthete, see them all, these women, these muses, in pure color—sunbursts, fireworks.
I think of grabbing Misha—cornflower, navy, steel, powder-blue Misha—by her smooth, flaxen locks, pulling her toward me like a shaking sheep.
Francesca—spunky little Chess—was a student I had a few years ago. Fire engine, chili, ruby red. Stubborn and needful, overflowing with body, Rubenesque, unquenchable. Looking for a father. Finding me. I think of sinking my fingers into her deep-brown curls and squeezing like a bear trap.
My muses. Misha and Francesca and many more besides. Their pain, their love, their trust has been everything, has given me everything in my life.
But Audra is more like me than she is like them. Audra is not a passive resource. Not something to simply be broken down and drawn from. She’s an active engine of genesis. A maker. Like me. Audra is rich plum, eggplant, mauve, always—indicative of passion but two ticks off-center. My job with Audra is not to dismember her and put her back together again. It’s not to break and then remake as I have with so many others—lovers and students alike. It’s to show her how to climb up here with me. To find her own Mishas and Chesses. To take from these sources what was never really theirs but was actually always rightfully hers—and make it something worth looking at. Something greater than themselves. Something that can live on forever.
A rising tide raises all ships. As Audra rises, so will I.
Audra
Friday, October 19, 2018
Right about now Max will be discovering the little note I snuck on his table while he was showering. I wonder what he might be thinking as he reads the words inside. Is he lost in a whirlwind of want and possibility as he sees and understands that I am finally ready to let him in?
What a joke.
Max does not care much for opacity, which is a bit of an irony, of course. I know he finds me difficult, impenetrable, and that it irks him to his core. But other students, past partners, lovers, friends—they have always given all of themselves to Max. Because Max makes giving feel good.
Last semester, a fellow painting student, Tanya, who had always been talkative and bright, seemed to change midterm. Max recognized the shift before the rest of us did—certainly before I did. What I noticed first was how his interactions with her evolved, subtly; he engaged with her more frequently but more gently, and he put himself close to her, bodily, when he asked a question or responded to her comments. He drew her out, encouraged her to open up, his eyes never leaving her while they interacted, his questions not always academic but haltingly personal. It was like watching a hangnail get slowly and painfully peeled back. Once or twice he put a hand on her shoulder and gave her a generous smile, which Tanya absorbed into her tense body like a muscle relaxer. Poke by poke. Nudge by nudge. He brought forth the pain and then became the salve. Max would call it catharsis. I would call it coercion. And then one day at the tail end of class, he strategically shed his obtuseness and went straight at her.
“Something is trampled in you. Deadened. A loss of will, of self,” he said, a hand on her back as she sat at her desk. The rest of us just watched, transfixed. “It is so lovely and fragile, to relinquish one’s power in this way. To be so broken and to try to shoulder it in silence. But we can all see you. I see you, Tanya.” He nodded his head like a therapist. “Beautiful.” Tanya started crying. It was desperate, broken-levee kind of crying. She croaked out that her father, who had adopted her as his own when she was three, was on his deathbed, about to die of colon cancer back home in Montana. “Ah, yes—loss begets pain begets beauty,” Max said, retreating from her. While the other students crowded around Tanya to comfort her, I watched Max, who leaned against the whiteboard at the front of the room and studied Tanya and the collection of bodies that swarmed her. His expression was alive with hunger. His eyes glittered with stimulation. I wanted to dig my nails into his flesh then, draw blood. Because he was making a cameo of her in his mind then, too. I was sure he would go home that night, remembering every detail, and paint what he’d pulled out.
Tanya’s father died the next week. When she returned to class a couple weeks later, tired-looking, Max had no more interest in her. It was like he’d forgotten the whole thing.
But it doesn’t always take a few weeks, like it did with Tanya. He has a similar bewitching effect on people he meets in passing: clerks at the grocery store, ticket takers at the theater, tourists asking for directions. Their faces open up, and they turn to him, willing to give or receive anything, even if only for a few moments. He has this way of taking that turns you into a kind of undeniable truth, if not a beauty. You are suddenly power, loss, innocence made substantial. Simply because he says it is so. Oftentimes he does this through literal art. I have, to my great alarm and more than once, found sheets of paper covered in delicate and not-so-delicate likenesses of myself sketched, drawn, painted in watercolor, sleeping, worn-looking, prone, supine. In his work satchel, wide open, waiting for me to peer inside. In his large Beacon Hill apartment, poorly hidden away. He has wanted me to find them, to understand that he is trying to see even what I hide. Despite me. And I have seen myself in these snapshots. I have. They rattled me. His pointed perception, his watchful eyes seeing, undoing. He has gotten close, too close sometimes.
God knows what he’s taken from others.
I know, too.
But in me he senses an instinct for withholding, and to withhold anything from Max is a sin. I think this is why he has sketched and then eventually painted me only when I was otherwise unaware: resting on a train to New York once, or concentrating on driving us from Boston to the Cape, or working on a painting of my own in one of his classes. He wants to catch the hidden glitch between frames, between heartbeats.
But in him I also sense a desire to mentor me beyond my thesis. To make me his apprentice of sorts; to make me like him. If only he could see the truth of what this weekend will be. Of what I will be. Then he’d finally realize.
I will never be like him.
I finish brushing a light egg wash on the chilled puff pastry dough I’ve wrapped with care around a wheel of fresh brie and jalapeño jam. I put it in the oven and set a timer on my phone. The room smells of garlic salt, oregano, and butter. I clean up then pour myself a glass of wine, a big one. A pinot noir I brought from Boston three weeks ago. “Yo La Tengo” plays from the smart speaker on the other side of the kitchen. The midafternoon light slanting in through the floor-to-ceiling windows turns the room golden and a little wistful, perfect with the music.
In the middle of October, in Maine, midafternoon feels like early evening; you can tell the sun is leaving you. The angles and registers of light feel like they’re escaping, running away. This kind of light always brings to mind memories from when I was a kid. Hot apple cider and raking the yard in my grandpa’s oversize flannel shirts. Pulling as many crunchy leaves together as I could into a larger-than-life heap then designating a runway and jumping into the pile with abandon. Coming inside and warming my hands by the fire,
feeling cold and tingly and perfect.
I look at the clock on the microwave. 2:38 p.m. It will be full dark by six. I drink deeply from my glass.
Faint sounds of a man dressing and walking around upstairs finally reach my consciousness. Is what I’m hearing the normal amblings of a man putting himself together, or is what I’m hearing pacing? I listen to the creaks and can’t quite tell. Pacing means worry. But what has Max to be worried about? He’s made it to the Promised Land. Far from the city’s frenetic streets and the department’s relentless gossip. He’s drying his perfect body with expensive, high-thread-count Egyptian cotton towels. I’m cooking for him. It does not make me feel good to think that Max is on edge. It would not be for the best. The image of the knife he bought just hours ago flashes into my mind. The knife he’d snicked open and closed, open and closed. The knife I’d placed at the side of his bed—to show him I’m not afraid of him. Even though maybe I am, a little bit.
I think of the last man who was upstairs in this house. Lance. Just over a month ago. It was the last time I’d seen him in person at all before today. It feels much longer than four weeks since we made love upstairs in my bed. Since he ran his calloused hands over my shoulders, my breasts, my hips. Since he kissed the hollow of my throat and said, At a time like this a man might be made to do anything for a woman like you.
But now Max is here because I am nothing if not dedicated to the cause. And Lance knows that. Lance knows all about Max. About the books I placed on the shelves. The art I hung on the walls. The minute touches. Each moment, each detail. Just for Max.
I take out a long, crusty baguette, a cutting board, and a newly sharpened knife. I cut the bread up into little discs so that they’re ready when the brie is done. Max must be starving. I know I am. I get out some crackers. I take from the fridge a platter of vegetables I cut this morning, grab a few appetizer plates from the cabinets, some utensils from the drawer.
“There’s the girl.” Max’s voice rises from my left as I stand at the large granite island arranging our repast. I look over at him and put on a smile. His look is bright and relaxed. My guess is, in addition to the shower, he also had a cigarette on the bedroom balcony. I can smell it faintly on him. He’s Max. Rebalanced.
“There’s the guy,” I respond with my half of our usual playful greeting.
“Something smells good.”
“Baked brie with jalapeño jam.”
“Heavenly,” he says, his eyes dancing around the kitchen. “This is quite the place, Audra. It’s a chef’s kitchen in here! And that view from the bedroom.” His eyes fall upon the spread hungrily.
“I’m so glad you like it. I knew you’d be comfortable here. You just had to trust me.” I rub his back with the flat of my palm. I withdraw my hand almost a little too quickly, feeling his hunger for my touch flare in the sudden tension of his muscles. We look at each other in silence for a long moment. He is wearing an ocean-blue, button-up shirt—untucked, a few buttons undone, revealing the first bit of his taut chest—and a pair of handsome gray khakis, cuffed at the ankle. His feet are bare. His hair is drying, slightly messy, and divine. I look away, clearing my throat.
“Faith of an altar boy, remember?” he says, voice mostly level, trying to make eye contact with me, which I avoid. “And thanks for that card. It was very sweet of you.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, eyes down on my work at the sink. Max strolls around the front of the island, looking at the features of the kitchen, a couple crackers in his hand. He takes in the six-burner Viking stove; the massive stainless-steel fridge; the double ovens; the handsome copper pots and pans hanging from the rack above the island. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“More than anything.”
“I’m drinking the pinot from that wine shop on Charles.”
“Oh, yes, please, if you don’t mind.”
I fetch another glass and pour him a healthy portion. I hand it to him as he runs his fingers along the spines of a few of the cookbooks displayed on a nearby shelf. “You have the Edward Hopper book Joan Mary wrote,” he says, the books spurring something in him. “The one I wrote the introduction for.” He turns to face me, taking a sip of his wine. I think, A narcissist can always find himself in any room. I want to laugh, but I don’t.
“I do,” I reply, returning to my preparations.
“How long have you had it?”
“After I was admitted to the program, I picked it up. It’d been on my list for a while, and once I got the good news, I allowed myself the indulgence.” This is a lie. I bought it long before I’d even applied to the program.
“Well, I’m flattered.” He raises his glass to me, and we toast. We drink. “I’m starting to think this whole trip was an elaborate ruse to get me up here and sign it for you.” He winks.
“Ha. You got me.” I hold my hands up in surrender. He laughs and takes another long draught of wine as he circles around the kitchen.
“We have about fifteen minutes before the brie comes out. Would you like a quick tour of the place?”
He’s looking at a built-in china cabinet. “Yes—that would be wonderful.” The expression on his face shows me he’s impressed.
“Excellent. So, this is the kitchen, obviously. Which I love. It’s one of my favorite parts of the house. My grandmother was a talented cook, and so my grandfather renovated and updated everything for her, right before they retired.” I gesture around to the appliances and the subway-tile backsplash and the sleek, chrome light fixtures.
“So this was your grandparents’ house, yes? They left it to you?”
“They did,” I reply as I lead him through to the attached living room. “Pops died about seven years ago. Gram about five.”
“I’m so sorry, Audra.”
“Thanks,” I say, feeling the back of my neck grow red and hot. The things some men feel sorry for. The things Max feels sorry for. Hilarious.
“Did you grow up near them?”
“I grew up in this house, actually,” I tell him. “With them.”
We enter the living room, which has a few sofas and easy chairs grouped around a square, leather ottoman. They face a fireplace, above which sits a TV. It has a similar feel to the guest bedroom and even to my own master bedroom; Persian rugs, wide-plank floors, handmade furniture. “I’ve refreshed the house even more in the last few years. The bones and rooms were all pretty much to my taste, but I changed out a lot of the furniture—except for anything that was an antique or had major sentimental value. Changed the curtains and things like that, too. Finally put in a garbage disposal. It’s starting to feel like mine. Which I know is what they wanted for me.”
“I can only imagine,” Max agrees, running a hand along the back of one of the comfy sectionals I bought about two years ago. “And good for you for making it your own. I’m sure they’re so happy, wherever they are, that you’ve settled in.” He turns toward the large fireplace. He rests his arm on the stone mantle and looks at the antique wooden clock sitting up there. It was my great-grandfather’s. I’ve been telling the time by that clock my whole life. Next to it is a framed charcoal sketch of a bird that looks like a raven, hanging upside down from a branch, wings spread wide open.
“I’ll put on a fire a little later.” I watch Max closely as his gaze drifts lazily across the drawing, and then it stays. He looks at it and looks at it. I let him. I put it there for a reason. I want him to see. I want him to look. “I’ll need to bring in the grill in the next week or two, before snow comes. The same with the patio furniture.” He doesn’t respond, just keeps looking at the bird drawing. I hold in my breath, watching.
“Snow,” he finally murmurs at an extraordinary delay. He takes a breath and straightens out his posture. “Where—did you draw this?”
“No, I didn’t,” I say with something like apology in my voice. “I inherited it from my grandparents.” I wait t
o see if there’s more. There isn’t. He moves away from the mantle, joining me at the pair of French doors that lead to the patio.
“Another extraordinary view,” he says, taking a sip of his wine. “What’s with the ribbons?” Max points toward the rise of the hill, the plush apple orchard perched on top. We see the yellow ribbons flagging in the wind.
“The ribbons I put up for hunting season. To warn hunters that there’s a house here. The official color to use during hunting season is ‘blaze orange,’ technically, but I suppose it’s the artist in me.” I feel myself flush as we both look at the ribbons. “I prefer this yellow. It’s bright. It gets your attention. And it sends the right message: don’t kill me.” I chuckle. “It’s also more beautiful than blaze orange.” I look at him. Max nods, sipping his wine, seemingly satisfied. I feel almost giddy. It’s too easy.
“What did your grandfather do? As his job, I mean?” I have told Max this very thing before, more than once, but of course he doesn’t remember. I knew he wouldn’t.
“He started out in carpentry,” I say as I lead him back out of the living room toward the hallway. I point out a powder room, for his general information. “He was a carpenter’s apprentice in Jackman—not far from here—when he was a young man. Fifteen, sixteen. He eventually became a carpenter in his own right. Met my grandmother at a dance being held in an old VFW hall in Greenville. They fell in love. He started his own carpentry business a few years after they married.” I pause when we reach the study and lead him in. There’s Pops’s heavy artisan desk at the center, a leather chair behind it, two tufted leather chairs in front of it. Two walls are filled with expertly made shelving carrying books and family doodads and photos. The other walls have several large, framed paintings, which I did as a teenager. “This was my grandfather’s desk. Walnut. The guys at his company built it and stained it for him upon his retirement.”
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