Girl in Profile

by Zillah Bethell

  13 inch TV, a radio, and two tubs stuffed full. That’s all I got now.

  Even though the Bible says how beautiful heaven is, it’s tough to give up this life we have on earth. One day I’m ready, next day I have my doubts.

  Mary my ex-wife is struggling to get by. Two teenagers are expensive. Another year, John starts to drive and Skyla in two. Car insurance is high and I don’t want the kids suffering any more than they have. My way of helping would be to go on the way I’m headed. That way they could draw social security benefits. They can’t draw if I’m alive. Besides, my case was so grotesque or brutal that there isn’t a jury around that would forget seeing that. Give me involuntary manslaughter or murder second. Plus for armed criminal action I’ve got two twenty-year sentences that have to be served as well. Diminished capacity could bring a charge as low as involuntary manslaughter or as high as murder second, which is paroleable as well, but I’m sure it wouldn’t come back as murder one – but even with a murder second it would be a lot of years. Going my way would at least get the kids raised.

  The kind of peace I feel doesn’t come from medication. We get as impatient as heck and God just laughs at us because he knows.

  They locked my cellie up because his antenna was broken. He broke it that morning cleaning house and they locked us all down and he never had a chance to report it. He’s looking at rule 3, dangerous contraband, which means nine months to a year in the hole. He and I had grown real close. He brightened my day and was upbeat and positive. That’s another reason I don’t want to spend the rest of my life here in prison. Life here is so unstable. Buckwheat would never hurt no one. Someone would use the antenna as a knife or a shank to stab someone, but Buckwheat never would as he’s a super person.

  There’s a lot I never got to do like cliff diving in Acapulco or swimming and snorkelling or scuba diving in the Caribbean or the Bahamas. I never noticed how much water had to do with my life. I guess being raised by the mighty Mississippi had a long-term effect on my life. I was always at home in the water, swimming like a fish, only I had to surface to breathe once in a while.

  Ex-wife and kids are coming to see me Friday. It’ll be behind glass, I won’t be able to hug them or shake their hand, but I’ll get to see them nonetheless after three years. I kind of feel like I need to tell them something that will stick with them the rest of their life. I guess ‘I love you’ will probably have to do. I’m sure by now they know I screwed up…

  It was super, but after they left and I got back into the housing unit, it occurred to me that they still carried the same expressions on their faces that they had when they were little. John would make Skyla a little mad and she’d have that same mad look on her face she had when she was little. How glad I am that I was a part of their life at least for a while. It was truly a blessing.

  Things have moved on with my case finally, and they have now locked me up. At 2.30 p.m. to be exact. They’ve set the date for 12.01 a.m. Wednesday week. It shocked me a little, but I’ve known it was coming. I don’t think you’re ever ready for something like this even when you know it’s coming. I’ll take it as it comes though. Mizpah.

  Cardinals trying to catch the Arizona Diamond bucks for home field advantage.

  Have you ever ate pumpkin blossoms? My aunt fixes them real good. In your country, do you all raise soybeans and field corn? Over here in Missouri, Illinois, Iowa, Indiana and Nebraska, we have miles and miles of them both. The Midwest is also referred to as the corn belt, which is where most of our corn and beans are raised. I was thinking about pumpkin blossoms and it got me thinking about your country.

  I really couldn’t afford the meds on the street, but then again I really couldn’t afford not to buy them either.

  Not a lot going on here except time.

  So jazzed up with medication I couldn’t tell you where I was, but Ma said we spent a few years in the UK. Dad ran off and set up a new family. The first one didn’t measure up in his eyes.

  Gwen

  Flowers and Cats

  Rodin,

  I suspect that this shall be the last letter I shall write to you. You’re not going to receive a letter from me ever again. If you do not want to visit me then that is your choice, but I should like to say that I think it is the wrong choice. If I did anything to offend you in the past then I am sorry. I didn’t mean it. At least, if I meant it then, I don’t mean it now. We are both a little more âgé than we were. I, as you predicted, am a spinster who arranges flowers and keeps cats. You are the great man who will be buried with the statue of the Thinker in your pocket. Blasting your way into immortality. Imagine if I’d gone back to Wales. Spent my days in a Welsh valley, the mountains closing like seas over my head, my life cupped like a canary’s in blackened hands. I would never have met you. Never have felt you mould my soul with your short, strong, slippery fingers. Without you, I would have just been singing in the dark.

  (Oh Gwen, Gwen, do not send…)

  Elizabeth

  The Truth

  Dear Elizabeth,

  Thank you for the truth. The truth shall set you free, Jesus says. It sounds like you’ve done a lot of good in your life. It’s my turn now I guess. I stabbed my girlfriend twenty-six times. Before she died she managed to write my name in blood on the floor so they could track me down. Afterwards I just drove around till they got me. The prosecuting judge made a big thing of me taking my shoes off and creeping into the house, saying it was premeditated. I suppose it was. I knew she was going to leave me and I wanted to stop her. I guess I went about it the wrong way. It’ll take me seven minutes to die in the chamber of execution. They’ll give me an injection first to put me to sleep then some potassium chloride to stop the heart. There will be onlookers pressing their faces to the glass. My girlfriend’s family will applaud when I go. I don’t blame them. God bless you…

  Gwen

  Fuck Off

  Dear Rodin,

  This is the last letter I shall send. Oh, go to fucking hell. Go to hell with your bag of clay and God’s piss and sculpt a few fallen angels for yourself. Fuck those singed and hairy cunts while you’re burning up. Off you go now.

  Moth

  Just Because I Can

  Amazing how much grime accumulates in nine years of children. I’m a whirlwind of dishcloths, soapsuds, rubber gloves, elbow grease. I do more in two hours than I’ve done in two years. And I get a lunchbreak. Cheese sandwich, cup of tea, banana and biscuit. Wonder if she’s having fish fingers. Take Freckles for a walk in the land of sniffs and smells. Feel the rain on my face without having to discuss it. My hands deep deep in my pockets. It’s so very quiet.

  The house is so big. I do a dance move in the kitchen just because I can. Spread out on the settee just because I can. Soak my feet in an old herbal teabag, trim and shape my fingernails because hands and feet are the first to go. Beware ye women BC. Hands and feet are the first to go.

  Rearrange the coffee table. It’s so elegant. Wave at Hellboy rubbing his brass knocker. Nana rushing back home because little cunt’s done a shart. I’m a glossy advert for the perfect wife and mother in my shiny as a new pincushion house.

  I drive to collect Dove, planning my jobs for tomorrow.

  Elizabeth

  Maximilian

  The last few moments of his life are captured on film footage. It’s all on the CCTV of the Golden Gate Bridge. His body was so broken up underneath that we had to check it to make sure it was him. There he was, strolling along … small, dark-haired figure … puts something in his mouth – a stick of gum I think, though why you take a stick of gum to stop smoking when you’re going to kill yourself…? He just looks like a guy strolling leisurely up and down. Then suddenly, real quick, he sits up on the side and back rolls off. It’s real graceful, real beautiful, like he’s taking a back flip off a high board. What got me was how he was just leisurely strolling then, as if he got the guts, up and made a dash for it before he could change his mind. I don’t know why he did it. He never got
over my dad leaving I think. God bless us all.

  Thank you for giving me some of your time. Thank you for not turning your head away. Thank you for bearing to look beneath the surface.

  Gwen

  Pale Quiet Songs

  I have told John Quinn that I would like my paintings to be hung next to each other. They do not need frames and just short, self-explanatory titles (like Girl in Profile) are fine, but they do need to hang side by side. My work is cyclical and repetitious (like the life of a woman) with small but significant variations that can only be seen when they hang together. I want to show how it is to be a woman. We are full of hopeful expectancy, passive receptivity, empathic activity. Our lives are not linear like men’s. We go round and round on the carousel, seeing the same view slightly different every time. Only slightly different. My old friend Michael Salaman from the Slade referred to my paintings as “Pale Quiet Songs”, which pleased me very much, for the pale quiet songs are the ones you remember, the ones you keep in your heart.

  Elizabeth

  Horseshoe and Cocoa

  I sit and wait for death, ginger tom on my lap. How I wish there’d been more ginger toms. The moon blesses the bent heads of those dear old Caldey monks. Waiting and remembering. Are they action verbs? Are they even verbs at all? And. If. But. Do they conjunct, preposit? Do they connect?

  Mr Smith the caretaker pokes his head round the door. Working late. Seen my light. Cocoa? Yes, please. Like something out of Harry Potter he brings a tray of buns – midnight feast – licks the cream right out of one. I wish he’d lick the cream out of this crusty old dusty old tart. To be fucked once more, that’s all I ask. When you’re old, nobody touches you. You touch things but they don’t touch you. The senses go one by one as preparation for the end of age. A cursory hug if you’re lucky. A pat on the shoulder. This frail crumbling heap of decay might rub off on you, I suppose.

  “Make love to me,” I croak. And he does. Lifts me clean off the chair. Ginger tom scarpers. Lays me on my bed. Lifts up my nightdress. Undoes his belt. Shoves his cock in. None of this cootchety-coo crap. We’re done in six lunges. I come like a small dry hiccup, he with a short groan, his brace glinting eerily. Then he gets up and goes. He fucked me like I wanted to be fucked. Hard. Fast. Intense. He fucked me like I was still a stunner. He fucked me like I’m still alive.

  For the next few nights I leave my light on in the hope of Mr Smith and cocoa. Sometimes I think I dreamed the whole thing. Is dreaming an action verb? If it is then I guess I’ve lived a full and active life. If waiting and remembering are action verbs I’ve been busier than most.

  Gwen

  Mama Pussy

  Mère Poussepin should be the most serene of my paintings and yet she is not. I cannot keep her still. She is full of insubordination and giggles. She reminds me of me. As a child I had to take lessons lying on my back for my deportment, but my arms and legs twitched so much Father threatened to tie them up. Oh, Mama Pussy, I can’t get you right. Your eyes are too bright, all the better to see you with. Your nose is too long, all the better to sniff you with, and your mouth is saying that under the guise of religion you can do whatever you very well like. You have the exuberance of a flower. The sheer cheek of a raindrop. I can hear you shout aloud at existence. You definitely don’t belong on a prayer card.

  Moth

  Tomorrow

  There’s surprisingly little to do. I give the bathroom a zesty smile, change the bedsheets, press uniforms for the next two weeks. Prepare lunch at ten thirty. Eat it by ten thirty-five. Cheese sandwich, banana, cup of tea, biscuit. Wonder if she’s having fish fingers. Take Freckles for a walk in the land of sniffs and smells. Feel the rain on my face and explain the rain/earth cycle to an imaginary friend. It feels so silent. My hands deep deep in my pockets.

  The house is so empty. I do a dance move in the kitchen and feel ridiculous. Stretch out on the sofa, flick the remote. A quiz show, Inspector Poirot, Brief Encounter. Think about phoning Adam but that train’s passed. Maggie? On her way to the States. My father? Deaf, won’t answer.

  I rearrange the coffee table. That vase. It looks very sterile. I’m a glossy advert for the perfect wife and mother. On the surface.

  Calculate that if I walk very slowly I could set off for school at two, which means there’s only another hour and a half to get through.

  In the end, I leave at quarter to, reach the school at ten past. Another fifty minutes to wait. Luckily Rhys’ grandad hops up and we have a little chat about the weather.

  “How’s the lick lick littlun liking it?”

  “Loving it.”

  “And you? What are you doing?”

  “Lots of housework.”

  He spits his concern at me. “Well, you look after yourself.”

  “Will do.”

  Elizabeth

  Minnie Again

  Minnie puffs up my pillows. Rounder now. Nearly time. Nearly due. “So sorry you lost your friend, Nana. You must be terribly lonely. Wanted to see you one last time before Holly comes. Mum says she’ll help and Nick’s mother too. I’m so lucky. So I can finish my art degree. Tattoos have become a bit of a strain. Someone came in the other day wanting a devil fellating another devil on his shoulder. ‘Oh my,’ I said.”

  What is life after all but one little devil fellating another little devil? A dirty old man in a flasher mac suddenly shocking you. Suddenly popping out at you.

  “‘Chris’ll have to do that for you.’ I’m beginning to think the owner of the skin has too much say in the artwork. I want to control my own canvas (not just what goes on it), create my own canvases. Did you see that then? Holly kicked. No stretch marks yet. All those pumpkin seeds did the trick. Big news too. Uncle Ro’s engaged at last. Poor old Chiara had so long to wait. And he’s on the telly. I’ll let you know the channel. Mum’s made a breakthrough with the Seneca Valley virus. We found your old ballerina musical box when we cleared out the attic. Vintage kitsch. So sorry to make it short and sweet. Nick revving up the car as we speak. They’ll visit next week. If you can hang on. Love you, Nana.”

  “Love you too, Cheeks. Always will.” Hang on till next week, you stale old fart. Bows scraped out. Let the rains come. Nearly time. Nearly due. (The moon stares unflinching through the window, blessing me, blessing me.)

  Gwen

  Part of the Painting

  Ma Cherie,

  Thank you for the hours. Thank you for the moments. I do not think we shall meet again on this earth.

  The rest of his rather short note is unintelligible; his mind and hand have become so shaky. I think I can make out the word ‘paint’ and ‘body’, but I cannot be certain. I stick the note to the back of Girl in Profile next to the mauve ribbon he gave me. I tried to scratch you out but I still see you. I will always see you. Thank you for the hours. Thank you for the moments. Yes. We live our lives in a succession of moments, and in the end the physical fabric of our bodies will gently dissolve and we shall become invisible. Part of the light. Part of the painting.

  Elizabeth

  The Objects on my Shelf

  Just me in my room then. Just me in my room and the objects on my shelf. Is that what it all comes down to in the end? The nouns on our shelf. The small items left and the feelings we attach to them. That dandelion paperweight we found on honeymoon. I see in it the Eiffel Tower and the concierge with the moustache and the marmalade sandwiches, your execrable “deux big macs, siv vouz play”. The snow globe I shake on the perfect world of my children: the science awards, the gym competitions, the piano recitals. The wings I stitched, the wings that flew. Out of reach. The horseshoe we painted silver and hung on the garden gate. It reminds me of the paths I didn’t take, the love I didn’t make. Strange how when we have love we waste it and when we don’t have it it’s all we think about, all we crave. A postcard of the Thinker and a photograph of me at fifty-three in cap and gown by the statue of Lloyd George. I’ve got an ear-splitting grin and I’m punching the air. And the ballerina in her
box, bent and crouching till the music starts. My life. Pale and quiet. Waiting for the song.

  Gwen

  Girl in a Mulberry Dress

  I don’t know where the painting ends and my life starts. Edgar glares at me reproachfully – I have forgotten to feed him again. Gloria brings eggs and milk, scolds me for being too thin. Her small daughter, Thérèse (named after the saint), pitter-patters in the sweet peas. Mulberry dress. Girl in a mulberry dress. What will she turn into? Who will she be? God’s little flourish. Rodin’s little muse without any arms. Her father, the soldier, was shelled to bits. Augustus and I on the beach near Haverfordwest, collecting cowries in the sand, watching the neophytes plunge into baptism, their selkie heads breaking the sea’s caul in rebirth. As I am reborn in his hands. Prometheus. Mon maître. Buried with a statue of The Thinker in his pocket. His small blue eyes straining to heaven to see if the angels are wearing any knickers. Sometimes I sleep completely al fresco, feel the last dying colours of the earth, the raw siennas, red lakes, cerulean blues, the bolts of silk on a dressmaker’s ledge. Turning my colour wheel beyond the pale of the moon. Minerva – goddess of invention. The mystery of the human form in a spatial dimension. I need some more china white from Lefranc if I’m ever to finish Girl in a Mulberry Dress. A succession of moments distilled onto canvas. My sketches get smaller and smaller. Let there be light. The size of postage stamps. Counting my rosaries. A dot in infinity. Over and over. Reducing, reducing, ever reducing. Edgar slopes off with the girl in a mulberry dress in the hope of being fed. The callous indifference of children and cats. I rearrange the objects in my room, the flowers and brushes in a jam jar on the barley sugar leg table next to my smock stiff and bleached to china white. My shadow turns grey. Back to Tenby of the Fishes it fled. Cadwallader in his oilskins catching all the little shrimps in his net. All the little shadows.