Audra
Friday, October 19, 2018
“Up for doing a loop in the field before it gets too dark? It’s probably about a half-mile circuit.” We’re standing out in front of the house, sated for now by our brie-and-veggies snack. The light grows ever sandier the deeper into late afternoon we get, a gentle sleepiness cast over everything.
“Sure. Let’s get this old man’s heart pumping.” He is good humored as we get going, and I find myself smiling, thinking, Yes, Max, go on ahead and enjoy yourself; enjoy this time. After a couple silent minutes of walking through the dense grass, down slopes and over rough furrows, looking carefully in the lowering light, Max speaks again. “When do I get to review your thesis work, by the way? I’m so anxious to see,” he says with genuine excitement.
“You’ve only just gotten here!” I smile.
“I know—I’m a kid at Christmas.”
“Well, keep in mind it’s not done, of course. But how about tomorrow? I want you to see it in the natural light. Maybe toward midafternoon? The light is best then. I’ll make sure to have you full of delicious food, and you’ll have nothing but praise and assurances that the committee will pass me with the highest honors and accolades.” I grin over at him, and he returns the look as he loops his arm through mine, the two of us tromping along side by side like there are no other people in the world. I look over at my favorite scarf, the one I’ve leant Max, wrapped around his neck to save him from the chill. I think about what it would be like to pull on the ends of it tight, then tighter, and watch the air squeeze out of him.
“One of the smartest students I’ve ever had. Wise beyond your years, Colfax.” He laughs.
“I think you’ll be pleased. What I proposed and discussed with you right before summer, I’ve kept pretty faithful to that. They’re landscapes of a sort—my ‘moody landscapes’ as you call them—and I’m finding there’s something sort of, I don’t know, spectral in them. Like there was something there, already, that comes forward the more I paint. A history. A phantom or something.” My breath is just the tiniest bit short as we walk over the somewhat challenging terrain in the cooling weather. It’s nearly five p.m. “I’m taking these objects, these images that feel very close and familiar to me, and blowing them up into a size that makes them a terrain of their own. In doing that, I’m finding out new things about them. And I’m incorporating some outside media.”
“This sounds promising.” His voice is serious, genuine. “You’re conjuring now. That’s a good sign. Mysteries and images are emerging within you, without you. You’re a conductor, the electricity is coming. Let it strike and move through you.”
“Watch your step,” I warn. I point down at the narrow but deep gash in the earth beneath us, a rivulet of runoff water that has snagged more than a few feet and ankles in its day. We both step carefully over the gash. An owl hoots, long and low, from somewhere off to our right; we both look to see if we can spy it but can’t.
“How does it feel being in your penultimate semester?” He squeezes my arm bracingly, supportively.
“It feels good. I feel confident. I think my production pace is right.”
“And what about the artist’s statement? The critical introduction to your work?”
“I’ll admit, Professor Durant”—I laugh—“I haven’t quite broken ground on that end of it.”
“Mind yourself, now. That’s sixty-five pages of polished, thoughtful, well-sourced, and supported writing needed by your full committee sometime in March so you can have your defense in April and your graduation in May.”
“Yes, sir,” I say and salute him. “You can count on it. I’m definitely thinking on it as I do the work; I just haven’t started the writing process.”
“Well, when you get some done, email it to me if you want comments and all that.” Max scratches an itch just under his nose. “I’d aim for the winter break to have some preliminary prospectus done for me to look at.”
“Okay,” I reply. “Will I see you over the break?” I ask, tentative. His eyes are focused on the ground, minding his step.
“I don’t know,” he says, his voice simple, unemotional. I sense a pause in him, a hesitation that surprises me. Is it possible for a person to know something before they know it? To know what I have planned? Tonight, showing him my home, my woods, the places and pieces meant to haunt and remind. Tomorrow, showing something more. A calculated game of connect the dots. “Let’s worry about that then. We’re here now, together.” He looks over at me then reaches down and squeezes my cold hand. I clasp back, pause, and swing him toward me so we are facing each other. I reach up and place my hands gently on the ends of the honey-bronze scarf, looped loosely around his neck. I pull on the ends. I pull him closer to me, gently, a kind of lasso.
“Alright, Max. Alright,” I say in just over a whisper. I look in his oceanic eyes, blue and choppy and stirring. My breath fogs up his glasses, and I laugh. He smiles. He leans into my personal space ever so slightly, his lips just barely parting. I feel a flash of disgust scrawl my face, there and gone, pure reaction. I turn away slightly, trying to cover, faking a sneeze. Pretending he didn’t try to kiss me. “Oof—excuse me.” I playact a sniff. “Let’s finish our walk, and then I’ll take you on that sunset drive.” His face flashes from embarrassment to anger to suspicion to composure in milliseconds. He looks again like a man in complete control of himself.
We are both very good at our respective games.
“Sounds good to me, Audie,” he says. I grant him a warm look because I must. We set off again, and as we do, our arms hooking together again, more for balance than out of intimacy, he drones on about tedious department politics, but what I think about is the fact that he seems to have some doubt about whether we will see each other over the winter break between semesters. And I think about how funny it is that Max is uncertain, that he doesn’t know for sure whether he will see me, like he has any control over it. But still, his hesitation is curious. Have I grown boring to him? Have I not given him enough?
Before I’m done with him, he’ll have more than he can handle. He can count on it. Because I know for certain what is going to happen. There’s no doubt in my mind. I will certainly not be seeing Max in December. Max will certainly not be seeing me. Max will not be seeing anyone anymore.
Not after this weekend.
We make the final turn around the edge of the field, Max talking about some new art installation at his favorite gallery on Cape Cod.
“Mm-hmm,” I say, barely paying attention.
Then a sudden snag-jolt. His arm rips from mine, almost throwing me entirely off balance. Max is down on the ground before I know it.
“Ah, fuck—!”
“Max, you alright?” I ask, my human instinct kicking in as I kneel beside him, worried he might be injured. Which is laughable. Considering my plans for this weekend. The whole reason I invited him up here in the first place.
He’s on all fours. Vulnerable. Pathetic.
“I—my foot got caught on some root or, or something.” His whole face is wincing, his voice strained. “My ankle—I think I twisted it.” He settles back on his knees and looks at each of his hands in turn, finding some scrapes on each one. A small amount of blood.
“Looks like you caught some rocks.” I look at Max and he looks at me and I can tell he’s wondering why in the world I’m not touching him. No hand on the shoulder, no bracing squeeze of the arm, no soothing pat or rub of the back. I can see it in his face. Why won’t you touch me? Why won’t you comfort me, even now? But he is a coward and does not say these words out loud, even though I can see them bloom in his face. Soon, I’m sure, they will burn in him. He will be angry with me. I’ve seen it before, though he tries to hide it.
Why won’t you just give yourself to me, you condescending bitch?
“Let’s get you up and inside. I’ll treat your hands and take a
look at your ankle.” I pull his arm over by shoulder and brace him up to a standing position. “We’ll take it nice and slow.”
“It really hurts.”
“We can do it. Probably just a twist. Maybe a sprain.”
“Maybe it’s broken.”
“I doubt it.” But as I say it, a thrill of possibility runs through me. Could it be this easy? A break in Max Durant, and so fast? And with so much more to come. I try to keep the rise of satisfaction down. “Come now. Little at a time. I’ve got you.”
I’ve got you.
Max
Friday, October 19, 2018
The fading light of dusk and the headlights of Audra’s car mingle into a vague mash ahead of us. Everything is just barely illuminated, like something could appear at any moment, unbidden, unexpected. The road unrolls like an asphalt tongue. The dark, silent trees zipper closed behind, giving the impression that we can never go back.
I wanted to stay at the house, relax, ice my ankle—which feels like murder right about now. Every bump over these rough back roads sends a jolt of pain through me. But she insisted. She wouldn’t hear of it. She wants me to see the wilds at night. To give me my chance to see some animals at this juncture in between times while the sun is falling away but true night has not yet arrived. I feel half-powered in this light, half-real. Like I could do anything inside this veiled suffusion and get away with it. Like she could.
Audra slows and takes a right onto a dirt road. “More apt to see something interesting down here. There are lots of potholes, but I’ll take it slow. I promise—look!” And there, just for a moment, springing forth along the shoulder of the road ahead of us is a red fox, small, fuzzy, and then it disappears into the forest. “We’re on our way, Max!” she says excitedly. “Already seeing cool stuff.”
Despite my discomfort, Audra’s unguarded delight is refreshing, like a window opened on a spring day. I cherish it.
“Out here is one of the best places to see deer, moose. Sometimes even bears.”
“Kinda hope we don’t run into any bears, I have to say.” I chuckle gently.
“Did you bring your knife?”
“No.” I look over at her. She clucks her tongue in disappointment.
“Too bad. Never know when you might need something like that in a place like this. If not now, when? You know?” She looks out the windshield, leans forward a little over the wheel. She’s serious. I suddenly feel naked without it, like right now that knife in my hand would feel like a sword, a shield. But against what? Audra’s beautiful home filled with her beautiful paintings? The plush towels? The decadent brie? The joyous smiles Audra flashes me? It is all so comfortable and comforting. And yet. I find myself prickling with anxiety. Teeth set on edge. As if the whole thing could crumble in an instant. Like I might be looking at everything from the wrong angle. The only thing I can possibly attribute this to is the unresolved tension between Audra and me. The unspoken tease of it all. It electrifies the air around us.
“When I was maybe nine or ten”—Audra’s voice cuts through the repetitive rhythms of the car, the crunch of the dirt and gravel beneath the tires and the low whisper of the heater—“I went out on a hike through the property. By myself. It was summertime. Pops was at work, Gram was up at the house working on the garden.” Audra eases down and through a major rut. I brace my hand against the door, teeth gritted. “Sorry,” she says quickly. “So, on this hike, I brought my backpack, I brought some water, I brought a compass, I brought my knife, I wore good shoes. I took it all very seriously.” She laughs. “I figured I’d be gone an hour, two, tops. Well, I got all turned around at a certain point, dropped the compass without knowing it somewhere along the way. One hour turned into two turned into four turned into six. Because I panicked. I kept moving in the direction I assumed was correct, but I was in so deep that everything looked the same. The trees, the clearings I passed through, the patches of sky I saw above me. I kept moving and moving, getting more and more lost.”
As she speaks, I look out into the dense forest surrounding us. To be lost somewhere in there. To be small, to be Audra, with her mane of auburn hair and her backpack. What a thing.
“I couldn’t hear or find any water to follow anywhere,” she continues. The road feels like a continuous rumble strip, my ankle sparkling with sharp jabs. Audra seems not to notice. “Nothing to give me any direction. I tried using the sun, to sort out which way our house was, but I just didn’t know. I couldn’t figure it out. So, as late afternoon set in, I did the only thing I could think of. I got out my knife and started cutting down brush, looking for the driest stuff to start with, piled it on a bald patch in a clearing. Luckily I had a lighter. I started a fire.” The road smooths out a bit, and I take three deep breaths, light sweat on my brow. “As it got going, I found wetter stuff so it would smoke. I kept the fire going and going, terrified I wouldn’t be able to contain it and I’d burn down the whole forest around me. But I didn’t, I managed to keep it pretty safe and good and smoky. On my, like, fourth round of cutting brush, I was rushing. I got careless, my hands were tired, and the sun was sinking, and I cut the palm of my left hand open.” She holds out her hand and shows me the white scar line that cuts across her palm.
“Jesus, Audra,” I hiss. She pauses in the story here and looks at me. She sees my wince. But she also sees my interest. I swallow, realizing that she knows I am imagining the colors in all this. She waits, her eyes turning back to the vacant road. “The gray-black smoke. The proud, brown tree trunks. The evergreens. The trailing, failing light.” She nods at my words. “And then, in all of this, the bright-red blood, like a cardinal through the trees.” My voice is almost a whisper, like the last remnants of light outside: barely there, hardly anything at all.
It’s so vivid in my mind, coming at me all at once, that I know it will be my next piece, that I must work on it once home. Maybe even sketch it out somewhere tonight, before we go to bed, so I don’t lose it. I can see the heavy daubs of paint creating topographies of foliage in seaweeds, basils, pines; a pale, young hand with a slash of ruby currant that splits the peace and the piece wide open.
“That’s right.” Her voice is gentle. A deep ripple of heat runs through my body. “So I grabbed the spare pair of hiking socks I’d packed in my bag and tied one as tightly around my hand as I could, to help staunch the bleeding. But it kept on bleeding, and it burned under the wool.” Audra raises her arm suddenly and points through the windshield—I catch the blaze of tiny, brown-and-white back legs as a rabbit vanishes into the depths of the woods on the left. “About thirty or forty-five minutes after I cut myself, I heard someone or something coming. Then I heard my name being called. It’s Pops. He found me because of the smoke. I was three miles deep into our neighbor’s land. Only about three-quarters of a mile from a proper road, the one our driveway is on.” She shakes her head at her younger self. “If I’d gotten to the road, I could have sorted myself out easily. Pops took me to the hospital, I got stitches, I learned my lesson: don’t lose your bearings and always bring a knife. The knife saved me.”
“It also harmed you.”
“Two evils, one is always the lesser.” Her voice is quiet and sure. “Most of the time, anyway. And I chalk that up to user error.”
I think of her left palm, that hand that has painted so many incredible things. That hand that rests so close to me in this car. I would like to grab it, seize it, kiss my way down the length of the scar. I would like to press on it, imagine the rawness of it that day, the cardinal blood, a vivid flutter added to young Audra’s panic.
The car slams down into a pothole.
“Fuck!” I bark, gritting my teeth.
“That’s a bad one,” and there’s almost the hint of a laugh in her voice as the car rises back up with a thunk. “Snuck up on me.” She eases around the next rut, saves me from another jolt.
The forest on the left is opening into a
low, wet marsh area. It’s like seeing the opening of a familiar movie from long ago. The marshy vista expands and widens, like curtains opening on a stage. The sky is painted in smeared marmalades. That feeling I had in the parking lot of the trading post leaps upon me—that I might be a man reliving the same moment twice: a double exposure. I stare out across the scenery and the dirt road, momentarily paralyzed, beleaguered with a kind of deranged sentimentality, wondering if it’s a feeling that could possibly belong to me.
“You alright, Max?” Audra is giving me a funny look. I nod.
“Fine,” I say, making myself smile.
“I’ll pull over here. Famous local spot for seeing moose. Out-of-towners always want to see moose.” She pulls over onto the side with the marsh, hugging as close to the edge as she dares. We look out at the purpling, bruised sky, the marsh grass pressed down and springing up in various lumps, pools of water lit as if from underneath. Broken husks and trunks of trees lean this way and that—tired, wounded soldiers. “Yeah, this is good.” We sit in silence for a few long moments, taking in the expanse, both beautiful and eerie in its desolation. Worry has crept into my bones, hazy and unnamable.
“Common sightseeing spot, huh?” I ask her, my throat constricting like a finger trap.
“Very. It’s not a guarantee to see something, but pretty close.” Okay. I swallow and take a breath. It’s a common place to go. Everyone goes here. Especially with out-of-towners. I was then. I am now. I devour the uncanny scenery, a memory arriving: In the daylight, the road had seemed almost white under the glaring sun. We drank warm, skunky beer. We talked about art. We talked about each other. We smiled, and we laughed and had not a care in the world.
Dark Things I Adore Page 10