I don’t know if my dad’s restrained, respectful whisper about the painting cued me to know it was special, or if I really did appreciate the miracle of it, but when I looked at that painting—the soft rolling greens and blues and yellows—something made me feel that magical, indescribable feeling for the first time. That’s what art is supposed to feel like.
My dad worked as a bank branch manager. He was a tall man with a medium build. I spent a lot of those early visits at eye-level with his belt or tipping my head way, way back to look up at his face. When he introduced me to Shari, the woman who would become my stepmom—my stepmom for a few years anyway—she finally explained it to him.
“You have to get down on her level, Roger,” she’d said. “You’re always towering over her. That’s intimidating for a little kid.”
Then she kneeled beside me. “Your daddy loves you so much, honey. But he works in a bank. There’re no kids in a bank.”
I liked Shari.
The museum remained a constant throughout my childhood and a staple of our relationship. When I was a little older, I took Saturday workshops. When I was in middle school, and thought I was far too cool to be seen in public with my dad, I was still happy to go to the art museum with him. We did other arts events too—the Three Rivers Arts festival downtown, galleries on the South Side, and some of the arts and crafts shows that I would later attend with Candy Blue.
One time I overheard my mom on the phone telling my aunt that she thought Dad took me to all the art events because, when he did that, he didn’t have to talk to me. I knew she was wrong and I told her so. My dad worked hard to find a way to reach me, to find something that would provide us with a language. Art was our language.
When I was in first grade and we had official art class in the big art room, I told my art teacher, on the very first day, that I’d been to the art museum at least five times.
“My dad takes me,” I’d told her. “We got passes.”
She had asked me what my favorite piece was. “Wheat Fields,” I’d announced. She probably thought I was a weird little kid.
I was excited about art and about meeting my art teacher. But more than that, I loved any opportunity to tell people at school that I actually had a dad and he did spend time with me. It was always my mom who took me to school and who met the teachers and who signed my permission slips.
I never thought of my dad as someone who was into fine arts. I certainly had never seen him draw a picture or look at art books. From what I could tell, my dad was interested in the news and sometimes sports and wearing ties and shiny shoes.
He probably didn’t really care about art before he bought those passes to the Carnegie museums. Maybe he developed an appreciation because he was forced to, out of sheer volume of exposure.
He was a pragmatic man who, I’m sure, would have preferred his daughter study a college major that had a direct route to a career like business or teaching or accounting. But he accepted it when I told him I wanted to study art.
“I’m not surprised,” he’d said with a flat, resigned tone. “You’ll be good at it, Morgan. Very good, I’m sure.” His smile was forced, but I appreciated the effort.
I tried to write my biography without reference to my dad, but the story just didn’t work without him.
I began my biography: “I was five years old when I discovered that art can help people transcend many of the constraints of the human condition. Of course, as a five year old, I couldn’t articulate that concept, even in my own mind. I just knew it was magical. My dad took me to Carnegie…”
After a paragraph about the museum outings with my dad, I wrote a little about discovering myself as an artist as I grew to adulthood. Most of the paper focused on growth and accomplishments during my undergrad years. I finished with a brief statement about Candy Blue, trusting that Mark was right—that my jewelry designs really were art. I don’t know if the admissions committee would see that favorably, but it was the truth.
I finished my statement in time to get to campus for my lunch date with Micah at her studio. It was too cold now to ride my bike over to the university, so I drove. I stopped at the deli for sandwiches and coffee for me and Micah.
While I was standing in line, my phone vibrated. I assumed it was Lee and smiled, but when I looked at my phone I felt my smile disintegrate instantly. It was Clint.
His text read. “Can you call me today?”
I typed, “Can’t, busy.” But I didn’t hit send. This is how I always end up letting him try to get close to me, I thought, by politely sidestepping him. I deleted “Can’t, busy.” I wrote a simple, “No.” and hit send.
I darkened the screen on my phone and put it away. Then I added a dozen cookies to my order. Maybe I would surprise Lee at the registrar’s office with some dessert.
When I met Micah at her studio, she was playing loud 70s rock and painting in abstract in pinks and whites on a canvas that was taller than she was.
Micah must not have noticed me enter the studio. She had her back to the door and was singing along to the music, adding too much glee to, “I’ll drink scotch whiskey and die behind the wheel.”
“Easy killer,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t startle her or upset her that I was interrupting her flow.
She ran across the room toward me on tiptoes, throwing her arms around me.
“Guess who has a university job after graduation?” she asked grinning.
“Ok, I didn’t know you wanted a job-job, but that’s cool, congratulations,” I said. I’d always assumed she would be able to make a living selling her art.
“I’m ok with being a poor artist, but not a starving artist,” Micah said. She explained that she had a job lined up as an administrative assistant at the on-campus gallery.
“I mean, it’s not glamorous. I’ll be answering phones and making coffee and stuff. But who cares?” Her smile seemed to be getting brighter by the second. “I’ll be working in a gallery. And it’s not a stressful job so, you know, I’m still going to work on my art. And I’ll make lots of connections.”
I tried my best to slap an enthusiastic look on my face. But it sounded kind of lame. I didn’t have to do the math to figure out that Micah was financially screwed. An administrative assistant does not bring in enough money to cover the almost six-digit student loans Micah had racked up at LHU.
“Ooh, and I didn’t even tell you the best part,” she said. “I get to keep my studio!”
Will they let you sleep in it? I thought. I nodded along. Would this be my future? Working hard, developing my art, building relationships with faculty and artists so that I could fail at clawing myself out of debt on a clerical worker’s salary when it’s all over?
“It is, like, the ideal day job,” Micah said.
No, it’s not, I thought. Candy Blue is the ideal day job.
Micah read my biography while we ate.
“I think the admissions faculty is going to love this,” she said.
I rolled my eyes. “You’re supposed to critique me,” I said. “You know? Rip it apart. I should have shown you this when you weren’t in such a good mood.”
When we were done I headed across the campus to Lee’s office. I had a box of cookies to give him. My phone vibrated again. This time my stomach lurched and I wished hard that it was Lee texting to say hi.
It wasn’t.
“I have something important to talk about with you,” Clint had written.
I put my phone away without replying.
When I got to the registrar’s office, I lingered behind a couple people at the counter, watching Lee work. He was in an especially hipster outfit today, dark jeans, white button-down, suspenders, and a bow tie. He had a relaxed, accepting way of dealing with the students. I had never seen him show impatience at anyone.
Finally, he noticed me. He was mid-sentence with a student when he made eye contact with me. He didn’t stop what he was saying, he just gave me that brilliant smile. I had gone there intending to drop
off the cookies and leave if he was busy. But now I was happy to wait until he had a free minute for me, no matter how long that took.
15.
No one can make Franklin lose his mind like the UPS guy can. The UPS guy embodies my dog’s two greatest enemies—strangers on the porch and hats. He gets whipped into such a frenzy that I’m afraid to open the front door because I might not be able to hold Franklin back from unleashing his full wrath on the poor delivery guy.
So when Frank the Tank is in full guard-dog mode I have to sneak out the back door, walk around the side of the house and accept the package by walking onto my own front porch. That usually startles the already-unnerved deliveryman, but I figure startled is better than eaten by Frank.
When the UPS man brought me the silk and fabric dyes I’d ordered for my new project, I did not enjoy creeping around the outside of my house, in my socks, on a chilly November morning. But when I saw the beautiful fabric and the rich colors of the dyes, I forgot all about my soggy feet.
Sophie came over just as I finished re-watching the YouTube tutorial explaining different techniques for painting on silk. (Thanks, art degree. Maybe I missed that day).
“Oooh, neat. Is this for the spring line?” Sophie asked as she watched me put the items on my kitchen table.
“Maybe,” I said. “I guess I’m just messing around right now. Anyway, you’re using your butter-Morgan-up voice. What’s up?”
“I am not!” Sophie said. “I don’t butter you up.”
“You’re, like, an octave higher than normal,” I said. “What’s going on?”
She sighed. “Hannah.”
“Ugh. What now?”
“She’s asking for some hair clips and stuff to match the jewelry.”
“That’s not so bad,” I said. “What’s the ‘and stuff’?”
“Tiaras.”
I faked a gagging sound. “Oh my god.”
Sophie’s eyes were wide and earnest. “I only told her I’d run it by you and we’d think about it. I didn’t make any promises. It’s totally up to you.”
She seemed sincere. But she also had that “cha-ching” look in her eye. I let out a heavy breath, shaking my head.
“You’re lucky I just got my new toys,” I said, rummaging through the box of dyes and silks. “I guess we should do it. If we’re really going to do a wedding jewelry thing for Candy Blue then I guess hair accessories would be good with that. Plus it really won’t be that difficult to put a few things together with the same patterns and stuff.”
Sophie grinned. “It’s a good business decision, really.”
“Sometimes I feel like this Clint/Hannah stuff is just never going to end,” I said. “It’s always something.”
“They definitely have an affinity for the drama.”
“No kidding,” I said. “Can you believe Clint is still bugging me? I wish I could block his number from my phone.”
“Maybe you should.”
“I want to, but I was trying to wait until the wedding was over. I want to keep things civil and I don’t want to create weirdness with Hannah.”
“If there’s weirdness with Hannah, It’s not your fault. It’s Clint’s fault,” Sophie said. “Do you think she knows you were still talking when they were dating? And that he’s still trying to talk to you?”
“She might,” I said as I examined a tub of royal blue dye and set it on my kitchen table next to leaf green. “The thing is, he always stays right on the line. The whole thing is inappropriate—it just feels icky—but through her eyes, even if she saw all the texts, maybe she could rationalize that Clint and I are just old friends.”
“Yeah. I can see that,” Sophie said. “Even though she’s a drama queen about jewelry, she does seem like she just wants to believe everything’s perfect-perfect with her fiancé.”
“I feel kind of bad for her.”
“Well,” Sophie said, “I do too, sort of. But it’s just not our place to, you know, fix that situation. Plus she’s partly to blame because she’s obviously blinded by his bank account.”
“Yeah, the whole thing isn’t pretty,” I said.
“And then there’s Lee,” Sophie said quietly, looking at me over her glasses.
“What about Lee?”
“Should he know about Clint? That he’s, you know, sort of bothering you?”
“Should he?”
Sophie didn’t answer me for a minute while a guilty sensation wormed its way into my stomach.
“I think you have every right to keep that information to yourself,” she said. “You haven’t had any sort of exclusivity talk, right?”
“Right. But I kind of thought it was implied,” I said. “Either way, there’s nothing romantic happening with Clint.”
Sophie nodded. “Then the answer,” she said, “is how close do you want to be? If he’s your friend and you care about each other, then maybe you want to share it with him just because.”
Maybe she was right. Lee and I already had physical intimacy. Emotional closeness seemed obvious. It was as if Sophie was reading my thoughts because the next thing she said was, “Let the walls down a little, Morgan. It won’t kill you.”
I stuck my tongue out at her.
She reached across the table and slid two of the dye containers toward her. “These are pretty colors,” she said. “Are you gonna tell me what this stuff is for? You’re being secretive.”
“No, I’m just not sure what I want to do yet,” I said as I removed one of the plain squares of silk fabric from the box and smoothed it out on the table. “Remember those ladies from the Hilltop festival? The cancer support group ladies?”
“Yeah,” Sophie said with a hint of surprise in her voice.
“I’m thinking maybe this is going to be something for them. Well, for everyone who likes scarves, but, you know, something special that can be worn as a head wrap or as a regular scarf. I’m going to try painting them.”
Sophie held up a pot of magenta dye and looked closely at it. “Are you going to do those pink awareness ribbons?”
I smiled. “Maybe a variation of those. Or maybe just a pretty design — something really colorful and life-affirming.”
16.
Lee’s apartment was tidy and welcoming. Tonight was the first time he’d invited me to his home. He was cooking dinner for us.
He rented a two bedroom apartment situated above a detached garage in one of the town’s old Victorian neighborhoods. Despite the fact that his front porch overlooked an alley, it was lovely. The porch wrapped around the side of the building and was shaded by a giant maple tree.
The inside of the apartment was exactly what you’d expect for a male Ph.D. student. The furniture was mismatched but it was all dark in color so the pieces all seemed to belong together. The floors were hardwood with occasional colorful throw rugs. The walls were a dusty shade of white, mostly bare with the exception of the random landscape photograph and a couple of items that looked like ancient artifacts: there were arrowheads in a wood and glass case and some other stone tools I didn’t recognize. Lively green houseplants added to the apartment’s shabby but welcoming vibe.
“I really like this place,” I said. “It’s very ‘Lee.’”
He laughed. “I don’t know how to take that. Do I give you a yard sale feeling?”
“No!” I said. I walked up to him, slipped my arms under his, and hugged him around his waist, resting my cheek against his chest. “You give me a comfortable but fun feeling.”
He hugged me tighter. “I’ll accept that,” he said with a chuckle.
We went into the kitchen where he finished making pasta salad and got the hamburger patties ready to grill. Then we opened a couple of beers and went onto his porch. After he put the burgers on the grill, Lee handed me his phone.
“Do you want to play DJ?” he asked me. “My phone is paired with speakers out here and inside.”
“Cool,” I said, reaching for his phone.
I thought it was great that
he was trusting me to hold his phone. And I really was trustworthy. I would not read his texts or poke around his email. I was too mature to do that. I wasn’t so mature and restrained that the thought didn’t cross my mind, but I wouldn’t actually do it.
I picked a Macklemore song. The half beer I’d drunk gave me the courage to nod my head to the beat. That’s ok, I thought. But I needed to stop before three drinks—that’s the threshold at which I start singing.
Lee was looking at me, waiting for me to notice him. I smiled at him. He raised his eyebrows and then flipped one of the burgers in the air.
I laughed and clapped. “Oooh, you’re a grilling badass.”
He gave a nod of exaggerated confidence, as if to say, ‘You want me and my awesome spatula talents.’
“Very skilled,” I said in my most patronizing tone.
While I was scrolling through Lee’s oddly extensive collection of 80s hair rock, my phone text alert chimed. I took my phone out of my pocket. When I looked at the screen, I was instantly disgusted. It was Clint, yet again.
“Are you home? I really need to talk to you,” his message said.
I sighed and let my head flop back onto my chair. I began typing my response. “Not home. I’m aware Hannah needs hair accessories and I’m working on it.”
I hit “send.” Then I took a shaky breath and texted “Please stop texting me.” I sighed and let my phone fall onto the chair cushion.
“Everything ok?” Lee asked.
His tender voice disarmed some of the anger and frustration I was feeling toward Clint. I thought about what Sophie had suggested—that telling Lee about this problem I was having might bring the two of us closer together.
“Yeah. I’m all right,” I said. I took a deep breath. “I stayed friends, just friends, with this guy I used to date. Well, now he’s engaged and his fiancée hired Candy Blue to make her jewelry for the wedding.”
Lee gritted his teeth, making an “ouch” face. “Sounds kind of awkward.”
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