by David Garaby
— 2 —
FLUORESCENT LIGHTS FLICKERED above him.
Adam perused through the narrow corridors of Oslow-Brenner Hall, making his way to Room 228. He found his professor, Dr. James Hudd, in his office skimming through emails with his back turned against him. Despite Hudd's smaller frame, he was intimidating. Even at fifty-nine, the polo-built professor remained trim and toned with stiff features. The hollow eyes and militant glare were a cold reminder of what occurs when one settles into an unfulfilled life.
"Dr. Hudd—"
"—I said eight," Hudd did not turn back.
Adam looked at his watch: 8:11.
He stepped into the darkened cave—the wooden blinds hid the morning's light. The room was small, but at least Hudd didn't have to share his office with the other Professors and Lecturers. He had been in the University the longest. While others came and went, Hudd and Dr. Olivia Wexler were the only tenured professors with plaques on their doors.
"Well, get in already," Hudd glared at Adam through a small mirror attached to his computer screen. His eyes were much bluer from the glass.
Poster replicas of Dali and Matisse and Carrington were meticulously placed art books on floating black shelves. Peruvian head masks and African statues were scattered throughout the small space.
Hudd turned his face. "Pull that chair there. Just move the books. Place them on the floor. Carefully." Adam wondered how such a diminutive man, with a such an annoying little voice, was allowed to reproduce. Yet there they were, next to the framed and signed photograph of the artist Leonor Carrington: four little girls surrounding a much younger-looking Hudd, and his thick, beaming wife.
Adam did as instructed and wondered about the "great opportunity," Hudd had in mind. A new fellowship? A new job? Anything to help keep his mind off Justin.
Hudd swung his leather chair around, his face was stoic arrogance. "I do believe I'm looking at the world's luckiest man," he said with a sardonic lilt. "For reasons which I am yet unaware, SHE has chosen you." There was emphasis on "She," but a sneer on "you."
He stared into Adam's eyes intensely, inspecting them through his glasses. It's like he was a tiger staring into the eyes of a foreign cub. Adam couldn't tell if Hudd wanted to raise or consume him. Or worse, both.
Hudd broke the stare and reached for a paper. "I received an email yesterday. She has also extended an invitation to stay at her home while the project is completed. You will, of course, accept the invitation."
"Wait a second, go where? Who exactly are we talking about, Dr. Hudd."
"Margo Sullivan."
His heart's beat quickened. "She agreed?" the words came out before his jaw fell. Margo Sullivan was an Educational Partner and former Art History professor. A revered and controversial Surrealist painter whose career peaked in the mid 1990's. Best known for her haunting, transgressive imagery, Sullivan painted her fears and deepest desires, often blending two concepts in a beautifully twisted yet esoteric state. Every painting carried its own mythology. She was also revered among feminists and homosexual communities of the time for embracing counterculture and liberal themes in her work. She and the Mexican surrealist artist, Remedios Varo, were Adam's inspiration. A poster of Margo's famous "Vestima" painting hung above his headboard. He loved her subtle use of imagery, the way she gave each of her paintings a story. The "Vestima" story was a retelling of the Garden of Eden. In this story, Eve was both woman and snake, her torso was human, a bare-breasted beauty with long red locks. Her bottom half was reptilian, the legs contoured to form a giant snake’s head.
The professor shot a contemptuous grimace and handed the paper to Adam. He read the FROM line: MARGO SULLIVAN. Adam let his jaw drop. "Un-be-freaking-lievable," he said.
"My sentiments exactly. I didn't know what to expect when I told her about your little proposal, but she was very keen on the idea of being the subject of your thesis. I really shouldn't be surprised though, she loves to talk about herself," Hudd removes his glasses, cleans them as he speaks. "She's also looking for a fresh voice to paint her portrait. She asked me to send her samples of student work and links to their online portfolios. I forgot I included yours. Of the more qualified, she chose you. She has agreed to talk to you at length for your thesis. It appears you've struck a chord with her."
Adam was too excited to pay any mind to the professor's sarcasm and odious nature. He blushed. "I can't believe this. I have her Vestima painting over my—"
Hudd snatched the paper back, "She wants you to begin the portrait soon. I will write a letter to all of your professors explaining this golden opportunity. I'm sure they will have no qualms about excusing you. That being said, when can you go down there? She wants a specific date." He reached for a pen.
Adam sat back into his chair, exhaling heavily as he thought. "I can leave on Thursday if she doesn't mind. Yes. Yes, this Thursday should be good."
Hudd scribbled the date on the paper. "I'll e-mail her assistant, Bertha, and let her know. She believes one to two weeks is a good time frame. You can stay in her hacienda. Is that alright?"
"Yes. Where exactly is that?" he asked, the question seemed to offend Hudd.
"And this is someone you admire?" he scoffed.
"That's not what I meant. She has homes in Denver and upstate New York. Which one?"
"Don't get too excited, she also has an hacienda in South Texas, in her childhood home of Diller. It’s about five hours south of here. She's there now, been living there a few years actually. Why any human being would choose to live down in the border is beyond me. She can live anywhere. I often wonder why she chose to move back there for her winter years. I would want to go out in style. Budapest, London, perhaps Paris. But my pockets are obviously not as full as hers. We have some extra travel funds this semester. I'll have Rita set aside some for you."
Adam nodded. He'd charge his credit cards or borrow money from his parents if needed. He didn't care, money was the last thing on his mind. He wanted to leave and start packing that very second.
"She's working on an exhibit right now, it's her first show in over two decades. I heard it's called ‘Monsters and Chimeras,’ at least that's what a friend from ArtWeek told me. It's supposed to deal with the death of her son. Did you hear about what happened to him? To Daniel? The way he died." Hudd's face changed suddenly. The rigidity of his persona withered instantly.
Adam remembered reading an article in The New Yorker one year ago, the headline read: Surrealist Artist's Real-Life Horror: A Decapitation in Mexico. Her only son, Daniel, was found dead. His body stuffed in an oil barrel and left in the border town of Seguro, Mexico. The thirty-three year old was decapitated, his head was never recovered. Because of the brutal nature of the crime, officials believed it to be the work of drug cartels trying to extort money from the prominent artist. Mrs. Sullivan denied having ever being called for a ransom, the case remains unsolved.
"Yes," Adam said, "Happened a year ago. How horrible."
Hudd looked away pensively, his became narrow. "I knew Daniel. I knew him well. Margo used to lecture here a long time ago. He was so young. Terrible thing that happened to him." Hudd cleared his throat. "She'll be busy, you see. Still wrapping things up for her exhibit, it will be a good time to watch her work. She's got a book coming out next Spring, too, so you'll work with her when she is ready. You are on her time, remember that."
"I understand." Adam rose from his chair.
He was about to walk out the door when he felt Dr. Hudd's cold hand grab his arm.
Hudd stared at the floor and never made eye contact: "I have a small request. A favor, if you will." He recoiled, as if repulsed by his own words. "It’s important."
"What's that?" replied Adam. Hudd release his grip.
The professor squirmed, "Since you're going to be working with Margo, why don't you ask her to show you her older paintings? Some of her drawings. Ask if you can take photos of them as a way of inspiring you. When you have a chance you can also text them over to
me. I'd love to see them. You can tell her you need photographs for a project you're required to present. That's how you're able to take time off from school. She'll understand, she respects academia."
"Sure," it was a frail tone. "I mean if she lets me."
"I'm sure she will. Margo seems very receptive and adamant. She specifically wants you to paint her. I'm sure she will honor any request you have."
Adam nodded.
"Mr. Betancourt," he paused, tilting his head upward. "If you find a drawing, especially a drawing of a little girl, a baby actually, please make sure you take a picture and send it to me. I remember the drawing but I'd like to see it again." His eyes turned dull and his entire expression glazed over.
"Of course. I'll keep an eye out for it."
Hudd broke the stone and managed a weak smile. "Yes, please do. It's charcoal. The little girl wrapped in silk, she has a crown over her head. I don't know if she has it anymore, maybe it was sold, or in storage. Please keep your eyes open. It's important."
"Alright, not a problem Dr. Hudd."
Hudd smiled lightly. "I'll make the call."
As Adam stepped out of the office he turned back to make sure he hadn't forgotten any of his belongings. He saw Hudd's eyes through the little mirror attached to his computer. Hudd vigorously wiped away the falling tears to expose ferocious, red eyes.
Enter the Storm
February 5, 2016
A SMALL FIRE burned between them.
Casual observers would assume Bertha and Margo were lovers, the nurse hanging onto every word the painter said. But there was nothing equal about their relationship—the painter was the stronger of the two. The wind died just before Margo suggested the pair drink a glass of Port wine in the backyard.
Bertha was glad she asked the grounds man, Miguel, to built a small fire pit for such chilly nights, but was nervous he laid it too close to an old Mesquite tree. She made sure the fire never got too hot.
Margo rested against a wrought iron chair sipping her wine. "We become the thing we hate the most," she said.
"What makes you say that?" Bertha probed at the pit with a long stick. "Guess that wine’s doing its job."
Margo scoffed. "Well, just look at yourself, Bertha. Don't you hate yourself? You strike me as someone who spends many hours looking in the mirror wondering why life has chiseled in the wrinkles and has never been generous in love. Please use the cream I bought you, dear."
Bertha touched the side of her right cheek offended, beaten, "Hate is such a strong word."
The statement was asserted: "Hate is the perfect word! The only word!" Margo glared into Bertha's eyes rabidly. "Look at your life, for Christ's sake. You are a nurse and you hate people. You're the misanthropic Florence Nightingale. I know you do. That's why we get along so well. We are both hateful women. You give care to those you would rather see writhing. You hate yourself. It's better to embrace it, dear. Accept it and stop living a lie."
There was uncomfortable silence now. Bertha brushed back her hair, she felt a long strand linger in her palms. She inspected the hair carefully, even with the weak flames she could see that parts her hair's pigment were weakening, beginning to turn white. She instantly realized that time was no longer on her side. Had it ever? Bertha questioned Margo's observation: Did she really hate herself? The question never quite made it to the surface, there were always more pressing things. At some point though, Bertha understood that her life no longer mattered. She was in charge or making sure another person, one far better than she could ever be, thrived and conquered. She remembered the first time she saw Margo Sullivan on the television set, it was the seventies then, her hair was raven black and her skin bright and delicate. Bertha left her mind's eye and focused on reality and on the warm glow of embers made Margo’s face glow. Bertha felt an innate fascination, a deep attraction to the aging beauty. Did Bertha hate herself? Did it really matter at this stage of the game. The important thing was that she was with Margo. She survived the many years and slowly the walls had come down. Bertha felt honored by the candid nature of their relationship. She knew the pomp and circumstance that comes with having a pseudo-relationship with Margo Sullivan. She knew her customs and the way she sneered at her supposed friends after they kissed their goodbyes. At least with Bertha she was real, and this was something to be grateful for at least, something not to hate at all.
The wind rustled the trees and broke Bertha's thought. She looked up at the sporadic leaves, still too weak to look into Margo's eyes, "I never said I loved my life. I just don't hate it." She considered telling Margo about her thoughts and feelings, but knew this conversation would fall on deaf ears. While she smoked her cigarette, Margo would be thinking about the paintings. Would it work well in the beginning or at the end of her show? Or on ways to get under her daughter-in-law, Nina’s, skin. Or on whether to paint a pink or a lilac sky, anything and everything else was on her mind. She had better things to do than think and listen to Bertha’s miniscule problems. Margo was better than that.
"Yes," Bertha finally said, "I do."
Margo leaned forward, "Well this obvious. You are the picture of self-loathing."
"And do you hate yourself?"
"Immensely," Margo’s wry smile twisted quickly. "The secret of happiness is unapologetic stupidity."
"But you have so much."
"I adapt and I acquire. This is the only way to survive."
Bertha shook her head and stirred her glass, "I am sure many people would kill to have what you do. I think you sell yourself short."
"It's not easy to be me, Bertha. You know that very well."
"Well, it's not easy to be anyone!"
The remark seemed to offend Margo. "Are you serious?" she sneered. "It's easy to be you. It's easy to be my mousy daughter-in-law. Easier still to be my mother. You're all so desperately simple. It's a dream come true."
"We all have our complexities."
She flicked a cigarette, "Don't mistake complexities for dependencies. I don't have dependencies. I have complexities. There is a big difference."
"What am I dependent on?" Bertha regretted asking the moment it left her mouth.
"Well my money for one." There it was. Margo never held back. "And Nina, well, she depended on my son and now on me, too. She thinks I'm her complexity but I'm really her dependency. She resents and hates me not for what I have done to her, but what I can do for her. I can buy her anything she wants, and she resents that. Little climbers like her always fall the hardest—she resents the fact that I have everything she wants, but will never have. Talent. Sophistication. Wealth."
"Humility," Bertha sniggered under breath, "The way you speak about yourself doesn't sound like you've become the thing you hate the most."
Margo sighed, "And yet I have, Bertha. I'm complex, and my work and persona depends on my complexity. It would be wonderful if my talent came from a better place. A place where happiness lived. A warm glow, a feeling of glimmering love and serenity. But it's the nature of things. I hate my success because it's dependent on my misery. That's the thing I've always hated: Miserable people. I swore I would never rot on the vine and end up bitter like my mother and two husbands. But my life is dependent on my misery." She took a deep breath and inhaled her smoke. "Isn't that the most hateful thing you've ever heard." Her face formed a sneer.
Bertha’s eyes suddenly grew. "What did the doctor say this morning?"
"He's not chatty like Dr. Waller. I don't know what to think of him." Margo massaged the temples of her forehead then sighed suddenly.
"But what did he tell you? About your hands?"
Margo stared at them for a moment, curling and straightening her fingers slowly. "He took some blood work and an x-ray."
"And?"
"And? Why does there have to be an 'And' after all of your sentences, Bertha?"
She rolled her eyes. "What did he say?"
"They need to run more test," she snapped. "Said I shouldn't work for a while. Not that
I could work even if I wanted. My hands move to much. My brushstrokes looks like blobs. My work is starting to look like those ridiculous Jackson Pollock paintings," she laughed at her observation before turning cold again. "Rest is what I needed they said. The stress of Daniel took a toll on my nerves apparently. That's why I shake," she stared into Bertha's wide eyes. "That's what they say."
"You don't have it,” affirmed Bertha. “You'd be much worse off right now. I've seen Parkinson's. You don't have it."
"What if they're wrong? What if they're just trying to keep me calm?"
"It's just an age thing."
"Menopause is just an age thing, Bertha. This is serious. I'm only fifty-three for fuck’s sake. I can't even sit sometimes," she whispered. "Not like I used to. Not like I used to. For hours I would work. Now. I can't. I just. Can't." She massaged and rotated her neck.
They both stared into the fire.
After a minute of silence Bertha cleared her throat. "The boy should be here tomorrow. The university student you wanted. Hudd said he will be here Thursday. I received the call earlier this morning."
Margo’s eyebrows flew north, her voice perked. "Tomorrow."
"Hudd said he'll paint your portrait, but he wanted to remind you that the student needs to write something on you for one of his classes. A ‘doctor report’ or something like that."
"It's a Thesis," she corrected.
"Important stuff?"
"It's up there," she said with an air of pride.
"Said the boy wants to get it published. It could be good if it gets published, you know. At least that's what he said."
"I don't know how comfortable I am with that after all."
"You can always tell him 'no.'"
"Well, I don't want to do that either. I don't think he'll work on my painting if I don't help him with his paper. Have you seen his work?"
"No."
"Oh, the boy is really very good. I'm very excited about meeting him. You'll see why soon."