Ellipsis

by Kristy McGinnis

  We spent hours each day teetering between George and the rocky beach at the end of the jetty. I snapped hundreds of photos of our progression from pale white to a soft caramel color. Sarah worked in the summer but pulled occasional days off to come join us, and for a little while we were just 14 and 18 again, sipping a stolen beer and giggling about the Vargas brothers.

  My parents came in handy in another way. Dating Jan had effectively broken my dating seal. Taking advantage of live-in child care providers and the temporary nature of our visit, I enjoyed a few very short-lived flirtations with some of the old “local boys.” None of it was ever meant to be serious, it was a beautiful summer reminder I wasn’t an old maid at all. Men still found me desirable, and I could still let go and just have a little breathless fun.

  As the magic of summer dwindled down, I toyed with a crazy idea. What if we packed up and moved here for good? I could get my MI teaching license. Charlie would do fine with the transition, I was sure. It would be nice to have the support of family nearby.

  My sister brought me back to earth, commenting, “You’re so lucky, you get to escape before the annual snow-hell commences.”

  I remembered then what had drawn me to Virginia. The history was appealing, the arts and culture scene was far superior to our little corner of northern Michigan, the diversity was better, but most important of all, the winters were mild. In the end, the temporary madness faded, and we returned to Virginia as we always did. So bitter is the taste in my mouth, when I remember making that choice.

  10

  When Charlie was ten years old, he graduated from children’s art classes at the Virginia Museum of Fine Art to private lessons with accomplished artist Ben Hamilton. One of the fresh-faced eager teachers at VMFA had approached me after class one day to suggest the tutorship. She felt like the simple arts and crafts offered in her class were doing Charlie a disservice, and she had a personal connection to Ben through his private curator. She explained Hamilton would mentor one or two young artists a year, and she thought Charlie was the perfect fit.

  “He’s special, Nell. Raw talent needs to be cultivated, so it isn’t wasted. Ben won’t be cheap, but he can identify and really pull that potential out.”

  I knew who Ben Hamilton was. He wasn’t just a local celebrity, he was a national treasure. I’d seen his exhibit numerous times at the VMFA and reproductions of his works decorated the walls of many local businesses. He was something of a mystery figure, though, the kind of man who granted a print interview with a publication like The New York Times or Salon every few years and otherwise seemed to disappear. I turned to internet sleuthing to learn more.

  Hamilton was 70 years old and lived on a large farm just outside of Richmond. He fell on the radar of the local art scene after his first juried art show at 15. A well-known New York art critic with Richmond ties took an interest in him and with his assistance, Hamilton found himself eventually attending the esteemed École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts in Paris. His meteoric rise following that was somewhat unusual and legendary in the art community. Ben Hamilton would not have to wait until he was dead to collect his earnings. Very little was mentioned about his personal life in the articles I found, but I did deduce he was single and had two living sons. There was also a vague reference to losing a third son in an old Art Scene Now article.

  For Hamilton, the palette of grief is blue, not black. When you study the catalogue of his paintings, it is difficult to find consistent works that rely heavily on blue tones except for that brief period following the death of his adult son. I ask him about this anomaly, and he smiles and then reminds me he isn’t here to discuss his personal life.

  I was intrigued and excited about the possibility of Charlie studying with such an acknowledged genius. When I told him about the possibility and asked if he’d be interested, his excitement mirrored my own.

  “Heck yeah, Mom!” he’d said, beaming.

  “I don’t think it’s guaranteed.” I warned him, “And Ashley did warn me he won’t be cheap, but let’s see if we can make this happen.”

  But “not cheap” was an understatement. I was a public school teacher who depended on increasingly unreliable child support from overseas to keep us in the small house I’d so proudly purchased four years before. Our idea of a vacation was driving to Michigan every summer to spend a month at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. We splurged and ate out once a week, every single Wednesday at Joe’s Pizza Shack and that was pretty much the full extent of our restaurant budget. I was also seriously saving for Charlie’s college; I knew the value of higher education, but I also knew the cost. Every spare penny was being socked away in a 529 plan for his future. The price Ben quoted us was completely out of our range.

  After spending a few hours with a spreadsheet, trying to make the numbers work, I finally threw my hands up in surrender. There was just no way to make it work. I reasoned that Narek had had no special art lessons as a child, he’d still pursued his passion and succeeded at it. Charlie, too, could always focus on art when he got to college. I’d made one critical mistake though; I’d told Charlie about the opportunity and now I had to let him down.

  I felt a lump in my throat as I told him, “Buddy, I am so sorry, I know I said we would make this happen, but I screwed up. We just can’t afford what Mr. Hamilton charges.”

  Charlie smiled at me, and I tried to resist the urge to poke the dimple in his cheek because the older he got, the louder his protests were when I did that.

  “It’s okay, Mom. You know all those art lessons are on YouTube, anyway. I can just teach myself, like Dad, right?”

  “Yes, your father learned all on his own at your age. Later though, he had proper training at art school. Someday you can have that kind of training too. I’m just really disappointed I couldn’t make this work, because I know how excited you were.”

  “I’m disappointed too; we should probably get ice cream!” he suggested with an impish smile.

  The disappointment was short-lived, though. Charlie’s teacher at VMFA contacted Ben directly and sent him a few more samples of his artwork. When he learned that Charlie was only ten years old, he called me back with an offer I couldn’t refuse. The samples he’d seen excited him and he was willing to negotiate down the price to something that felt reasonable to me. I thanked him profusely and then rushed to tell Charlie the good news.

  “Really? That’s so cool! I can’t wait to tell Dad!”

  I’d long since mastered the art of a fake smile whenever he mentioned “Dad.” Whatever I might have gotten not completely right during his early childhood, I’d protected him from my own feelings about Narek. In the past seven years, Narek had visited exactly twice. He was fairly dependable with his text messages to Charlie, but far less dependable with his child support payments. Too often, I was forced to send emails that made me feel like I was begging for coins. Several times I’d had to escalate to actual phone calls, something I absolutely hated.

  My feelings had recently become even more complicated, as Narek had finally married the year before, and he now had a two-month-old son in Armenia. A son he would raise legitimately, I thought bitterly. I wasn’t jealous of his wife or even the fact he’d found happiness. I fought an angry jealousy, though, when I thought about his new son, Davit, and what that might mean for Charlie. It was impossible to envision Narek playing house, being the dutiful husband and father, a half a world away and yet apparently, he was doing just that. With Herculean effort, I kept my bitterness hidden from Charlie.

  “Hm, yes, I’m sure your father will know exactly who Ben Hamilton is and why this is such an exciting thing. I’m sure he’ll be proud of you,” I said in the cheeriest voice I could muster.

  Narek was proud. He had eschewed personal social media, but maintained a professional presence on all the major platforms. Occasionally, I liked to torture myself by skimming his Facebook and Instagram pages to see his latest work. He had been a decent artist when we first met, but I had to grudgin
gly admit he was much better now. There was an emotional depth that his earlier work had lacked, that was present in his more mature paintings. I’d hesitantly opened his page after Charlie told him the news and was surprised to see an actual personal post, translated from Armenian to English by Facebook.

  “My son Charlie is being mentored by the great Ben Hamilton. Someday he will be a far better artist than me.”

  I felt a tiny twinge of something between melancholy and shared pride. So many years had passed, I rarely even remembered what it felt like to love Narek. It was unsettling that for just a moment, I indulged in a memory, a sweet one. Laying naked under our champagne-colored sheets, I was on my side, my belly large with Charlie. Narek lay behind me, spooning my figure perfectly, his arms wrapped around me, hands resting warmly on my belly. His rough chin nuzzled against the delicate back of my neck, and I felt him become hard at the same moment Charlie began kicking. Narek jumped a little, and then we both laughed. At that moment, everything was possible.

  Shaking the memory away to the secret place inside me that kept such memories locked away to keep them safe, I shut down the computer. Whatever other feelings I might have had, I did feel validated by Narek’s post. Ben Hamilton was exactly as big a deal as I’d surmised in my brief online reading. Charlie would be studying under a true master!

  His first lesson was on a rainy Monday afternoon. If he felt nervous at all, it didn’t show. I felt plenty of nerves for both of us as we made the drive to the outskirts of Powhatan. Ben’s studio was a large converted barn on his spacious rural property. His work might hang in some of the greatest museums in the world, but his personal preference was to stay out of the limelight, cocooned in a place where privacy and nature inspired his oil work. Driving down the mile-long dirt road that connected his art barn to the main road, I could see what drew him here. The scenery was beautiful, but more than that, the sheer serenity of a world without people mucking it up was enticing.

  He was waiting for us at the entrance to the barn. He was shorter than I’d imagined, based on the headshots I’d found online. At 5’5’, I could stand eye to eye with him. His wild white beard needed a trim, but his blue eyes sparkled with intellect. The callouses on the firm hand I shook surprised me; he wasn’t a stranger to physical labor. He looked at Charlie and for a moment, seemed to study him as if he were the subject of his next masterpiece.

  Charlie stared back confidently, and I realized with a start he was mirroring Ben’s studious look. “Hi, I’m Charlie,” he said simply, as if that was all the introduction he ever needed in the world.

  Ben smiled, and I liked the way his eyes crinkled. It gave him a kind face that put me at ease immediately. “I’m Ben, and I’m very pleased to meet you. You understand why you’re here?”

  Charlie nodded solemnly, we’d discussed needing to take this very seriously and I could see he was working hard to do just that.

  “You’re an art master, even better than my father, and you’re going to teach me how to paint right,” he explained.

  Ben laughed at that. “First lesson is, art is subjective. People can have favorite artists, but there isn’t really a magical scale that determines which artist is best. I looked at your father’s work after your mother contacted me, and he’s quite good. There’s a lot of debate over whether talent is actually hereditary, but having seen work by both of you, I think we can settle that debate once and for all.”

  He turned to me and said, “I know I live pretty far out here. You’re welcome to relax in the gazebo or your car, but I can also recommend a great little cafe downtown if you’d rather.”

  I understood; I wasn’t invited into their session. I glanced at Charlie, who seemed completely at ease with this stranger and back at Ben. I’d never been comfortable leaving Charlie with someone I didn’t know very well, as in years long well. Perhaps I was a little overprotective, but it kept him safe from harm for over ten years so I called the method successful. Still, this was only for a few hours and I knew exactly where he was. Charlie gave a tiny nudge of his head towards my car, and I smiled. It was time to let him fly.

  Following the directions Ben had given me, I made my way to Mabel’s where I hid in a corner with my book and a huge milkshake adorned with an actual donut. The rush of carbs and calories helped curb whatever worry I was trying not to indulge in. As I glanced around the dining room, a small painting caught my eye. I got up to investigate and was excited to see it was one of Ben’s. A tiny kingfisher sat on a branch overlooking a pond, its reflection in the water obscuring the faintest hint of a tiny fish below the surface. A placard identified the painting as a gift from Ben Hamilton. I couldn’t help but be impressed, this was an artist whose work was displayed in the Smithsonian, yet he was humble enough to donate work to a small local business.

  When I finally returned to the barn, a thrilled looking Charlie ran out to greet me. They hadn’t painted at all today, he explained. Instead, they’d talked a lot about color and had studied color wheels. I couldn’t help but smile at his excitement even as part of me wondered how I’d feel if I’d paid full cost for a few hours of chatting. As if reading my mind, Ben laughed and said, “Don’t worry, mama, he will be painting soon enough!”

  He had been telling the truth. Soon Charlie was painting. His earliest efforts were beautiful but also obviously juvenile. Then they began to evolve, and even my amateur eye could see something was happening with the work Charlie brought home. It was as if I was watching my child grow up on a canvas, well before the little boy himself would be grown. On his 12th birthday, Ben gifted him with a new set of what I could only assume were very expensive brushes, and the card said, “To my protege.” and I teared up at how Charlie beamed at the word protege.

  That birthday was “the best ever,” he proclaimed, and Ben’s gift was just part of what made it so great. His other favorite gift was from his father. Narek had been pushing me to allow him to send a “smartphone” to Charlie for some time. I saw no reason a child that young needed to walk around with a pocket-sized computer all day. He argued if Charlie had an iPhone, then he could Facetime him all the way from Armenia, and Charlie could get to know his brother more that way. I hated to admit it, but his point had merit and finally, I relented. The phone had been a massive hit with Charlie and his friends. As reluctant as I’d been about it, my heart swelled a little at his joy.

  The day after his birthday, after his friends had left, he made his first Facetime call to Narek. I popped into view for a minute to wave hello after Charlie insisted and felt a pang of something close to grief when I saw Narek’s smiling face and the small boy on his lap. I’d seen his picture before, but that felt different from seeing Narek physically engaging with the child. He was slightly darker than Charlie, and the dimple in his chin must have come from his mother’s side, but the resemblance was uncanny. If I’d put Charlie’s 18-month picture next to Davit’s, anyone would have known they were brothers. Brothers who would be almost strangers. Soon Davit would have a brother or sister to play with in real time. Narek’s wife was pregnant with their second child, something I tried not to think about too much. Charlie would always be my only. I was certain of that. I couldn’t help but envy that Narek knew what a real family felt like.

  Later, so much later, I could look back on Charlie’s 12th year and be thankful for how special it was. His hours with Ben, his growing talent in the studio, his boyhood friendships, his tenuous connection with his father from half a world away, his excitement over getting to know his brother and eventually his baby sister. Later, my hurt feelings and resentment didn’t matter anymore. The last year of Charlie’s life was also the happiest year of his life. I’m certain of that.

  Part 2

  11

  I’ve always disliked April. Other than Charlie’s birth, nothing good has ever happened in April for me. If I wasn’t miserably trying to avoid pollen and the requisite sinus infection, I was running to escape the relentless rain. I resented the fake summer-glimp
se April offered, that naïve way I’d step outside and say, “Oh, it’s so nice! I’m so ready for summer!” only to discover temperatures back in the 40s the next day. Charlie’s 13th birthday was on one of those glorious fake-summer days, and I let myself indulge in it. I let myself forget to be weary.

  You spend so much of your life imagining the worst, fearing the worst, watching for the worst, but the worst rarely happens when you’re looking for it. The worst is what happens when you’re blithely going about the dogged routine of your life, those moments when you’ve forgotten to have a guard up at all. The jogger obsessively checking his watch for calorie burn as he dreams of an indulgent lunch, runs right into a bus. The file clerk who argues with her husband about whose mother gets to see them for Christmas, over a Bluetooth earpiece as she carries a few large boxes of records down the hall, steps into an empty elevator shaft. A couple returns home from Disney World, eager to finally get their child to sleep in her own bed, and Dad has an embolism on the plane. As humans, our sense of doom is grossly overstated in literature and movies.

  Our morning that day was like every other school year morning, Charlie scarfing down a bowl of cereal as I finished my hair and makeup. Returning to the kitchen, I eyeballed the overflowing garbage can and stripped out the bag. Tying it, I sat it by the door and called out, “Take the trash out when you’re done eating.” and was rewarded with a grunt I hoped was an affirmation. A short while later, there was the familiar moment of me asking, “Do you have all your homework?” and his sheepish smile as he ran back into his room. There was really only one remarkable thing on that day to note, it was Charlie’s birthday.