The Real

by James Cole

  “Is it Sticks River?”

  “Very good. How did you know?”

  “It looks like The Devil’s Crotch,” she replied without missing a beat.

  “You’ll never guess the artist.”

  “I have no idea.” Jinni tried to make out the signature in the bottom right corner.

  “Claire Wales,” obliged Jeremy.

  “Who?”

  “You might know her better as the hippie queen.”

  “I should have known this had something to do with her.” Jinni studied the painting for a bit before adding, “But I have to admit she’s very good.”

  “I wonder how much something like this costs?” Jeremy was picturing how awesome the painting would look on his living room wall.

  “It’s not for sale, but I can tell you it is one of the more expensive pieces in the gallery.”

  Jeremy twirled in the direction of the nasally voice. A well-groomed man with a diminutive frame had sidled up behind them. He wore a dated sports jacket and a white dress shirt open at the neck to reveal a large quantity of chest hair. Jeremy thought his style looked a bit like someone out of the ‘70s, reminiscent of a young Burt Reynolds or Engelbert Humperdinck. The man admired the painting for a long moment before directing his attention toward them.

  “Are you connected with the exhibit?” asked Jinni.

  “I am,” the man replied. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Quinton Gordy. And you are…?”

  “Jinni,” she obliged.

  “Charmed, I’m sure.” Borrowing a custom from a more genteel time, he held Jinni’s hand and lightly kissed it.

  Jeremy introduced himself. The man’s handshake revealed his hand to be extraordinarily soft and silky, like the hand of a well-pampered woman.

  “I gather that you own at least some of these lovely pieces?” Jeremy asked the question even though he recognized the name as being one of the contributing collectors.

  “I am only the humble caretaker. Works of art are meant to be shared, not owned.”

  “Is this one yours, Mr. Gordy?” asked Jeremy.

  “Please, call me Quinton,” he said. “And, yes, it is mine, I’m happy to say. I consider it the crown jewel of my collection.”

  “What do you know about the hippie queen?” asked Jeremy.

  Quinton laughed. “Ah, I see you have heard the circulating stories. I know a great deal about her painting techniques but I’m afraid I know only as much – or little – about her personally as the rumor mill allows.”

  “Jeremy’s interest in the hippie queen almost did me in,” interjected Jinni.

  “Pray tell, how so?” asked Quinton.

  “Coincidentally, it was right here,” she said as she pointed at the painting. “We almost drowned, right here in The Devil’s Crotch.”

  The collector returned a puzzled look.

  Jinni asked, “You are familiar with The Devil’s Crotch, are you not?”

  “No, I can’t say that I am,” he replied. “Please, enlighten me.”

  “The Devil’s Crotch,” Jeremy replied, “is a set of rapids on Sticks River. Jinni and I navigated them, so to speak, by canoe.”

  The collector turned back to the painting, rubbed his chin and muttered, more to himself than anyone else, “A real place – that explains a thing or two...”

  Jeremy and Jinni looked on curiously.

  Eventually, Quintin turned back to them and said, “I suppose that explains why the artist entitled this particular piece Wicked Water. I had no idea that the title referenced the proper name of the rapids, but I am very grateful to have learned this. Now, if you will, what were the circumstances of your visit to The Devil’s Crotch?”

  “Jeremy took me through the rapids all because he wanted to find the old ruins of the hippie queen’s commune,” said Jinni, “and almost drowned me in the process.”

  “That’s quite the story,” replied Quintin, clearly impressed. “Does the painting do the scene justice?”

  “Absolutely,” replied Jeremy. “I actually snapped some photos when we were there. I could send them to you if you want me to.”

  “Yes, yes,” the collector replied enthusiastically. He retrieved a business card from his front shirt pocket and handed it to Jeremy. “Feel free to contact me anytime.”

  “I can email them to you tomorrow,” said Jeremy.

  “Wonderful.”

  “What is your interpretation of the child in the painting?” asked Jeremy

  “The interpretation of art is subjective,” replied Quintin. “Don’t ask what she means to me. True meaning is found in the eye of the beholder.”

  “You know this painting better than anyone,” said Jeremy. “Why don’t you give us your expert interpretation? Being a student of science, my leanings are not of the artistic slant.”

  Quintin smiled. “We all have an artistic slant, no matter our vocation. What I can tell you is that the child is common to many of Claire’s paintings. Mine is not the only example of the nymph in the shadows.”

  Jinni asked, “How did you happen to obtain one of her paintings?”

  “Actually, it’s a little surprising.” The collector lowered his voice a notch. “It seems every year at the local flea market one surfaces. I got mine for a good price before the other collectors wised up to the pattern. Apparently, back in the day, Ms Wales used to peddle her paintings around town. No one really knows how many might still be out there. My fear is that a masterpiece could be melting away in some hot, humid attic, its value unbeknownst to its owner. My hope is that even the ignorant masses would see the appeal of these paintings and not expose them to ruinous conditions.”

  Jeremy asked, “If you don’t mind my asking, what might one expect to pay for one like this?”

  “If you can find one for less than six to eight thousand dollars, I would say snatch it up.”

  “Well, that leaves me out,” Jeremy muttered. “I guess I’ll have to settle for adoration from afar.”

  “Oh, you never know. The annual flea market commences a week from tomorrow. You could get lucky.”

  “Only if you are not there to bid against me,” Jeremy remarked.

  The collector laughed. “Well, it was nice meeting you all. I should get about the business of packing up. Closing time is upon us.”

  Before they left, Jeremy snapped a few pictures of the painting, including some close-ups of the child in the shadows.

  *****

  Back at Jeremy’s condo, they settled in to watch the tail end of a big game on television. Unlike most girls of Jeremy’s acquaintance, Jinni understood even the nuances of football and enjoyed watching it almost as much as did Jeremy. However, as entertaining as the double-overtime finish should have been, Jeremy could only think of their trip to the gallery and Claire’s painting. He replayed their conversation with the collector, and as he did, he reflected on one particular word Quintin used in reference to the child in the painting: He called her a nymph.

  Speaking of nymphs…

  Grady first made mention of nymphs in Reefers Woods, a statement Jeremy judged at the time to be completely ridiculous. Before tonight, Jeremy only had a vague sense of the term’s meaning, but after seeing the dreamy little girl, he had a clearer picture. If ever there was a nymph, she was it. And, consistent with Grady’s pontifications, she existed as part of Reefers Woods, even if it was the version of Reefers Woods that sprang from the imagination of the hippie queen.

  That Jeremy had witnessed children (nymphs?), creeping enigmatically from Reefers Woods to join in at Monika’s bonfire, was too much of a coincidence to ignore – but were they even real? Did anyone else present at the bonfire see them or was he the only one? After Jeremy dropped Jinni off at her house, he immediately rang up Tavalin.

  “Are you awake?”

  “You know I never sleep,” replied Tavalin. “What’s up?”

  “The reason I called…” Jeremy paused before reloading the sentence. “I’m calling because I’ve b
een meaning to ask you something – something about that night at the beach on the lake.”

  “What is it?”

  “Did you, by any chance, see anyone at the bonfire besides the ten or twelve people who were dancing when we first arrived?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” replied Tavalin before adding, “I do remember you asked me a similar question that night. What gives?”

  “Some of what I’m about to tell you might sound a little crazy,” cautioned Jeremy. “You remember after they quit dancing and that girl started to speak…?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, I saw, or I thought I saw, a group of young children and an old woman walk out of the woods to mingle with the others around the bonfire. They didn’t say anything and nobody else seemed to take notice. Did you see them?”

  “No, Jeremy, absolutely not. Are you off your rocker?”

  “I know how it sounds but I saw them, as clear as day.”

  “You are crazy,” said Tavalin. “Think about what you are saying. It makes no sense for children to be out there in the first place.”

  “Maybe you just couldn’t see from where you were,” said Jeremy, grasping at straws. “Maybe your view was hindered?”

  “I could see just fine.” Tavalin was adamant. “They weren’t there, plain and simple.”

  If Tavalin did not see them, Jeremy did not want to dwell on this any more than he had to. “It must have been some weird trick of the shadows,” replied Jeremy flippantly. “I’m glad that’s settled.”

  In reality, nothing had been settled in Jeremy’s mind, other than the observation that he, Grady, and Claire might or might not have seen young children lurking about Reefers Woods.

  Surprisingly, Tavalin did not pursue the subject. Instead, he asked, “What are you doing tomorrow?”

  “Nothing exciting. Jinni is coming over first thing. I promised I’d go shopping with her.”

  “In town?” asked Tavalin.

  “Yes. She wants to be at Holgram’s as soon as the doors open.”

  “That sounds pretty dull, but then again, I hear that’s exactly what married men do.”

  “I’m not married,” replied Jeremy.

  “You might as well be.”

  “You just wish you had a girlfriend.”

  Jeremy had not meant to counter with a remark so close to the truth, and he immediately felt bad for having said it.

  “Any plans for tomorrow night?” asked Tavalin, seeming not to notice the zinger.

  “I’m not sure but I’m pretty sure I’ll be with Jinni.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather go out on the town?” asked Tavalin. “It is Saturday night, you know.”

  For a moment Jeremy considered his friend’s proposition, not because he wanted to go out with Tavalin but because of a certain someone else he might meet up with if he happened to find himself at a place called Bar Nowhere on a Saturday night.

  When Jeremy did not respond, Tavalin added, “If you change your mind or Jinni goes home early, call me and maybe we can do something.”

  “I will, but don’t count on it.”

  “Like I said,” replied Tavalin despondently. “You might as well be married.”

  Just before Tavalin hung up, he said, “Let me know if you see any more children who aren’t real.”

  *****

  Reefers Woods – August, 1969

  (Thirty-nine years ago)

  The King's Pinnacle

  As soon as she heard the growl of the rapids, Claire’s anticipation caught fire. Now at least she could focus on this new liquid sound and try to ignore the maddening slosh-slosh sounds that emanated from her canteen with every step. The walk, made more difficult by the large number of limbs brought down by the remnants of Hurricane Camille, took longer than usual. For the duration, Claire kept telling herself it would be better if she waited. By the time she arrived at the rapids she was bursting in her desire. She spread her beach towel on a large flat rock overlooking the tail end of the white water and removed her shoes. When she finally drank, she shuddered a bit at the twang of the homemade wine. Though necessary, ingesting the lotus within an alcohol-laden drink was her least favorite part of the process. The alcohol in the wine served to extract the intoxicating ingredient from the roughly 20 blooms required for the desired effect.

  Claire jiggled the canteen and watched with crossed eyes as the last drop of her purple concoction dripped onto her eager tongue. Now all she had to do was relax and enjoy the day and her surroundings. Her present location was the rockiest area within Reefers Woods and the only place she knew where deposits of the King’s Yellow pigment could be found. The dominant feature of this setting was a sheer-walled rock formation that bordered the river and rose to a height well above the tops of the tallest trees. So unusual was the topography that she gave it a name. Initially, Claire referred to the area as the King’s Yellow Pinnacle, but the moniker soon got shortened to the King’s Pinnacle.

  The sunshine caressed Claire’s body while she waited. She knew the routine well. The first shot across the bow was characterized by nervousness and a slight wooziness. It would only be a few more minutes before the everyday world was transformed into a burning new world of euphoria.

  Finally, the moment Claire had been waiting for arrived. The first two hours were the most intense part of the trip, and were defined by her love of everything under the sun. She loved the river and the rocks and the towering walls of the King’s Pinnacle and the sky and the trees and how it felt to comb her fingers through her hair. She marveled at the working of her mind and whatever else she saw or heard or felt or thought. She climbed down to hang her feet in the ice-cold river and made short excursions into the woods. Wherever Claire happened to be at any given moment was the most excellent place in the universe.

  As morning turned to early afternoon, she settled into the less intense but still surreal phase of the lotus experience. Claire had wandered a few hundred yards from the river when a slight, out-of-place movement caught her eye. A boy, no more than ten years old, was quietly watching her from the shadows. At first she wondered if perhaps the boy was akin to the mysterious young girl who had been known to make her appearances to Claire at times like this.

  “Hello.”

  When he spoke, Claire assumed the boy to be real.

  “Are you lost?” she asked. She could not imagine why else a child of his age would be this deep in the forest.

  “No,” he answered indignantly. “I know my way home.”

  “Where do you live?” she asked.

  “Over yonder.”

  The boy pointed away from the river in the general direction of the road. Still, his presence here surprised Claire because there must be at least four miles of heavy forest in between here and the road.

  “Do your parents know where you are?”

  “I stay with my uncle but he don’t care where I go.” The boy stared at the ground and shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “I don’t like it too much where he is anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just don’t,” he replied meekly. In a stronger voice he added, “I like the woods better.”

  Claire knew something about an unhappy home life. “You know what? I like the woods too.”

  At this the boy smiled. It wasn’t until after they walked back to the river and sat down in close proximity that she noticed his strikingly-blue eyes. The boy saw her see them and averted his gaze.

  “What are you staring at?” he asked defensively. “Haven’t you ever seen a Negro with blue eyes?”

  “They’re beautiful,” replied Claire in all sincerity.

  “Most everybody just makes fun of them.”

  “They’re probably just jealous.”

  She and the boy shared a comfortable rapport, so much so that Claire thought that perhaps he had been sent to her for a reason. He did seem to know his way around, and she could think of no better person to help her search for any undiscovered lotus habitat. She t
ook him by their picked-over lotus swamp so he would know what he was looking for. She also showed him the commune so he would know where to find her. Portraying his good manners, the boy removed his muddy shoes before entering the hippies’ abode.

  “This is groovy,” he exclaimed as he padded around in his socks, looking at everything.

  Claire smiled to herself. She was pretty sure the word “groovy” was a new addition to the boy’s vocabulary. He had picked it up from her.

  After he left, having assured her that he knew his way back home, Claire got out her painting supplies and a fresh canvas. Painting solely from the vivid memories she had burned earlier in the day, she reproduced the scene from the King’s Pinnacle, as she had seen it through the prism of the purple lotus experience. She worked obsessively until the painting had taken on all the splendor of its final form. All, that is, with the exception of the melancholy child, whom she would not think to add in until a later date.

  Chapter 27

  Saturday, November 29

  Don't you want to come in with me?” Jinni asked. “You know, you could use some new clothes.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d rather wait out here.” Jeremy plopped down on the sidewalk bench.

  Jinni smiled. “Why does that not surprise me? I shouldn’t be long.”

  Jeremy loved this town, peculiar name and all. Destiny had somehow managed to preserve a certain quaintness that one might associate with an earlier, simpler time, when America was defined by the sum total of thousands of small, prosperous towns such as this. The shops and restaurants that lined the covered sidewalks were unique to Destiny, bearing names like Smitty’s and Miley’s Grocery and Holgram’s Department Store. While not overcrowded, the streets and shops were full of activity. There were soccer moms with shopping bags, babies in jogging strollers and toddlers with ice-cream-sticky hands. A smattering of senior citizens, primarily tourists and well-to-do retirees moved to town, also mulled about. Jeremy, however, found that he was most interested in the co-eds sauntering about on legs the same gold as the Indian summer sun.