by David Garaby
"My-my-my. This certainly is a first. The great Margo Sullivan is impressed with someone other than herself?! Must be getting mighty chilly in hell."
"Ah, stop your blabbering, Bertha. I can't wait to see your pathetic pinched face when the portrait is complete! Very macabre. Just the eye I need. You'll see. It will all be worth it."
"What exactly do you want him to paint? You already have portraits of yourself. Practically one in every hall."
"There are some things, Bertha, I don't need to share with you. I don't have to run everything through you. Especially something as important as this."
Bertha twisted her head in a huff, raised her eyebrow and signaled towards the grave house at the other end of the hacienda. "Well, I'm just not comfortable with the idea, and I still don't see why you're doing this. It's a risk, and you know it. It's not right that you're just letting this stranger into this house. Are you sure you want to go through with it? The boy might not be able to handle it. It might be too much for him. He is very young. His mind may wander. He may wander."
The wind began rustling the branches as violently dark and heavy clouds darkened the backyard. "I just hope she doesn't stir," Margo signaled towards the grave house and put out her cigarette out on the ground. "Make sure you have plenty of bottles of Kemproxin on hand. I don't want her waking up while the boy is here. Lower the temperature to fifty degrees. That usually keeps things calm. We also need to watch out for Nina, you know how she gets whenever she hear the voices."
Bertha nodded, "She's been quiet all this month. She shouldn't be any trouble. I'll put Nina on a drip if needed."
"Still, I want to be prepared. I don't want him going anywhere near the grave house. I don't want any more accidents. Nina already suspects. It was almost impossible to get the blood stains off the wall. The cats were still alive when you shoveled them away."
"At least she didn’t call the rats this last time," said Bertha. "I hate having to burn the bodies. Or the snakes. I hate the snakes the most."
Thunder rumbled in the distance.
Margo shook her head. "We should be fine. The Agent fed her two weeks ago. He told me she was satisfied. He said he’s catch more if he needs to. That’s never a problem."
Bertha nodded. "Yes. I don’t think you should worry. She won't stir. She won't be hungry for another few weeks."
The Encounter
February 7, 2014
THE HILLS COLLAPSED.
In a mere five hours the beautiful curves of Central Texas flattened as Adam made his way towards the lonely regions of deep South Texas. Oak trees became mesquite, humid air was now arid. He assumed, like many others, the U.S. border ended in San Antonio and was surprised by how populated the lowest area of Texas really was. The deeper he drove, however, the more he felt he was leaving his country altogether. He was entering a forgotten outpost for both America and Mexico, a new region where abandoned cultures fused. Poverty and wealth, a stark contrast where superstation rose in isolated corridors and legends met willing ears.
"I don't see why you have to stay there for two weeks. What the hell are you going to be doing there all that time?" his best friend, Ashley Harris', voice blasted from the speaker of his rental car. He turned down the volume. He met Ashley during his undergrad years at Texas State. She was the abrasive brunette girl in the corner whose good looks opened doors, but over-opinionated spunk made the call-backs hard to come by. He appreciated her blunt candor, her carefree attitude, and the fact that her silver tongue could burn just about anyone—including him.
"It won't be that long, Ash. She just wants to make sure I have enough time to get my information and probably sketch a few ideas for her."
"You know I love you like a son of a bitch, but you're running away," she said. "Quit being a little bitch, Adam."
"It’s a good opportunity," he said, unaware of whether it sounded sincere or even remotely legitimate.
"I know you're going crazy. I know you. You're looking for any excuse to get out. But I'm here for you. I'll stay with you," she sighed, "I'm just worried about you. You don't need to be going down to Mexico to forget about him—"
"—It's still Texas, fool—"
"—Anything below Austin is Mexico, fool! You don't need to go kiss an old ladies' ass. You're running away and he's still here. He'll still be here when we get back."
Adam could see the withered metal green sign of ‘DILLER,’ but most of the letter ‘D’ had been scraped off. A vandal had used a spray can to replace the eroded ‘D’ with a ‘K.’
"Jesus," said Adam.
"Speak up! I know you have me on speaker by the way!"
"Look, Ashley, I think I'm almost there. I'll call you later."
"Alright. You think about what I said and say 'Hi' to mommy for me."
END CALL.
— 2 —
FROM A DISTANCE the estate resembled an abbey, or a small monastery, its thick stucco walls protecting the small hacienda. Built in 1893, the Castilian was located on the northernmost part of the sleepy town of Diller. An almost forgotten town, it retained only a handful of elderly residents along the banks of the serpentine Rio Grande River.
He drove past the once vibrantly painted wooden houses of Diller; their skeletons were a bitter reminder of Time's arrogance. Sun-baked and weathered, their luster had been beaten off by the hostile summers, they looked even drearier under the low clouds and cold skies. There were fields lined with makeshift fences built with chicken wire and scrap lumber keeping goats and horses safe from coyotes and thieves. The tall sorghum sugar cane fields echoed the warm tones of the rust and cracked dirt that collected over the blistered shacks and abandoned vehicles of bygone eras.
The Castilian felt like a beacon on dangerous waters though, it was a jewel surrounded by caliche. As he drove past the thick concrete and stone walls and stopped in front of the black wrought iron door containing her monogram: MS. He found her palace.
Adam carried a black leather messenger bag across his shoulder, he brushed his hair back while inching his way up the steps towards the great oak door. He rang the bell. Why did he feel so nervous? It was as if he was going to his first job interview, only this was THE job. The one everyone wanted, he knew his classmates were hating him, wondering why an idiot like him got such a great opportunity. There was nothing special about his work, they all thought so. His hands were moist! He wiped them dry before he saw an expressionless, older woman at the door.
Bertha inspected every inch of him before allowing him to speak.
"Good morning. I'm Adam." The words fumbled. "I'm here to see Mrs. Sullivan."
Bertha nodded. "I know," her face was rigid. "Come in."
Adam wiped his shoes before entering the hacienda, what would he do in such a grand estate? He was, after all, no one of particular importance. Sure, his parents provided a comfortable life, but were by no means rubbing elbows with the Kennedy's. His good looks gave him access to a favorable life, but once the ice cream melts it loses its luster, growing soft and weak, forever resenting its former state. He felt as if he were escaping doom. This place, this home, the furnishings, the trinkets, the bland but regal color pallet of sophistication, this gave him comfort. Adam was no longer just a painter; he was a painter in the home of Margo Sullivan. He was infinitely better for being part of her world; he rejected the old world, rejected Justin and his stupid and lofty ideas, the mundane life of a college student, the sordid existence of a simple American. He was in the presence of something greater. He would not turn back, he knew that this acquaintance could blossom into a friendship and could erupt into networking with the right people. Adam was not walking through a door, he was walking into opportunity itself and quickly shut the door behind him to make sure none of the magic escaped.
The ceramic floors ricocheted their steps. The house was pristine, an exaggerated display of opulence flooded his eyes: thick walls with elaborate crown molding and white-on-white paneling. Bertha asked him to wait in the vestibule w
hile she called Margo.
He sat on a thin leather chair regarding a great mural at the end of the hall. Baroque-styled angels spied on visitors below them and when the room was completely silent he almost heard them whisper his name. After a few minutes she returned and asked him to follow her up the stairs into Margo's office.
The office is meticulously designed; an intricate pale-blue geometric wallpaper print floated throughout the room, gold and copper furnishings filled the space, it was feminine authority at its grandest. The entire motif was the height of sophistication, a thick glass desk in the middle of the room. His shoes shifted over the luxurious white carpet. Adam nervously walked towards the desk, he touched a fountain pen and regarded a small frame, it looked like an older man, perhaps her late husband.
Amid the papers and desk curios he found a typed page with several edit marks, he looks around before reaching for it and read it to himself:
* * *
Death is never as romantic as it seems. People envision a skeleton cowled (?) in black or angel wings and pearly gates opening automatically, eternally. Need to check the spelling on this, like the thing the monks wear?
But this is never the case. Death is a branch of life who feeds on misery, its roots are worms endlessly feeding on the bodies of mankind. It is the loss of breath, screams that escape when victims do not, it is fingers that choke and blisters that never heal. Fester in the wind. Fragment, Margo… what does this even mean?
I have seen death, and it is not the beautiful entity I thought. It is Terror; its sister is Horror. A horrible symphony of Monsters and Chimeras. It is the finality where eternitywas OR "is" promised. I hate death. The word "forever" should be removed from human language. It does not exist. It is a lie we perpetuate with hymns and hopeful tears.Good.
Talk about Daniel here, too? Perhaps...
Motherhood and Faith?
My husband began to rot before my eyes, his wounds were fingerprints of the inevitable.BLEAK!
I lost the man I thought I would spend the rest of my days with; he was not the only thing that died that day. My son is gone, too. My world is perpetually void. I died as well, and I've been trying to find my life ever since. My paintings are the closest thing I feel to living. In the brush strokes beats a pulse, the canvas is skin, and the frames are bones to hold it together. The paint is sensations and the marriage of hues are the emotions I feel. Yes. I feel. It took me a long time to realize this. I still feel and breathe and touch and smell and all the things other people do. And how very lucky to be able to have so many lives. So many lives I can share with people who can either hate or love them. Because in the end there is nothing romantic about my life: it is black or it is white. It is loyalty or treachery. ✓✓This is great! I want more!
Kiss me or kill me, I'll have it no other way.YES.✓
Mention more about 'Monsters and Chimeras' Elaborate. Who are your monsters? This is the stuff people want to hear. Not that sappy stuff.
--Peter.
* * *
"I see you've found the 'Forward' to my newest book," Margo's voice called from behind.
He set down the paper. "Sorry, I didn't mean to, it was just sitting there."
"They're just notes, dear. My editor insisted. He wants me to fix some of it, but what do I know about words?"
He wiped his hands. "It's an honor to meet you, Mrs. Sullivan. My name is Adam."
Margo walked towards her desk, extended her hands. As they shook she felt the cold breath of insecurity and quickly released her grip. Margo slowly raised her glasses and looked up at his face. The reptilian green eyes were on her.
As she inspected his face, she was taken aback by the twenty-something man who stood across from her. The unnaturally smooth skin and symmetrical features were ethereal. She was in complete awe.
All at once Margo felt inferior. Her hands seemed older than they really were, her voice was too deep. The wrinkles mucked her grace, and everything she was offended the delicate (the word fragility seems more appropriate) nature of his youth.
Bertha framed the doorway, staring at Margo's uncharacteristic reaction with disgust. Offended by the pathetic behavior Margo unconsciously exhibited, she cleared her throat loudly. Margo escaped the dream-like state and quickly regained composure before Bertha left the room.
Adam was blithely unaware of Margo’s nervousness and, in truth, was himself in awe. She was, after all, his hero—an idol. The envy of most of his classmates. Her presence and her mind fascinated him; just as his undeniable aesthetic superiority had shaken, one could almost say awoken, hers.
"I'm pleased to meet you, too, Adam. Your professor is a good friend. Tells me you're one of his top students." Why is lying so effortless?
He blushed. She wanted to smell his neck.
Adam sat across her. The beauty spoke of his education and admiration for her work. The spell he cast was intense, she had to force herself to stop looking at his lips as they moved, and stop following the curves of his shoulders—broad and inviting and the brute stubble. Cold but powerful eyes. She tapped her fountain pen slowly. Most of what he discussed floated above her. Adam could have confessed to murdering a family of Colombian refugees, or slit the throat of a Hungarian gypsy, and she could have smiled and nodded eagerly and intently. Fuck the refugees. Fuck the gypsies. Smile! Smile!
"Did you bring your portfolio?" She asked abruptly, leaning in towards him.
Adam opened his bag handed over his book.
"I love your work. I see many student exhibits and countless photographs of paintings and sketches sent to my email every day. Most of them get spammed, or don’t get read at all. All of them are so amateurish, so benign. They see and paint the obvious. It’s such a pretentious field, and such a lonely one. It’s impossible to be in the art world and have the capacity to love. To create is to hate, you see."
"I think I do," he didn't.
"And I knew you would. I knew you would agree with me. Just look here, look at these treasures." She pointed to his portfolio. "I don’t think you’re an artist. I think you are a creator. An innovator. I see this in your work and I admire this quality above all else, you see."
She continued flipping through his portfolio, nodding and smiling intently. "You are the perfect vessel. I need someone who will bring my vision to life." She closed the book.
"Someone as brilliant as you can create just about anything. Why don’t you just paint it yourself?"
"Because I cannot paint what I see. My artistic aesthetics prohibit me from completing the task."
"You never use the color green. You never have your subjects look you in the face. There is always a transgression, a metamorphosis; your work is the story of change, good or bad. Your shadows are always longer than your subjects. You never show your subjects smiling and they never touch the thing they desire most. There is always a snake, usually hidden of course."
"You know my work," she beamed.
"I love your work. Vestima hangs above my bed at home."
She smiled: "If I were to try to paint my vision, I would, subconsciously, try to include all the elements you’ve just described. It would be impossible to be objective, even if the idea was mine to begin with. I need a vessel to conceive my vision. Carry my creation to term, so to speak. My idea is ready, it just needs to be executed."
"So I'd be like a ghost writer? You'd give me the idea and I write out the story?"
"Paint it out, actually, but yes,” she paused for a moment. “I like you, Adam and I like your work. You will begin the painting tomorrow. I need the portrait completed for an intimate party I'm having in seven days."
"One week?" he said with some trepidation. "I didn't know you wanted it so soon. I don't think I can complete a portrait in such a short period. I don't even have my supplies. My studio is back in Austin. I thought I would come and do some sketches here and—"
"—We will use my studio, my tools."
He didn't say anything. He seemed void of all thought.
"Don't worry, Adam." She touched his chest. "I'm prepared to offer you twenty dollars per square inch, this being a 'Rush Job' and all. Four feet by six feet. Huge. I think it will be worth your while." She smiled, so did her eyes.
She reached into her desk and pulled out a check, it was already signed and made out to ‘Adam Betancourt.’ He couldn’t understand why the paper trembled lightly in her hands. Adam reached for it with some hesitation. Margo clasped her hands together and turned away.
His eyes widened: 70,000 dollars. He exhaled. The offer was more than generous, it was ridiculous.
"I can't accept this. I don't even charge this much, Mrs. Sullivan."
She shook her head and turned back to face him. "Please, call me Margo. And I see no reason why you wouldn't charge that. Your work is worth every penny."
Bertha walked into the room. "Excuse me for interrupting, but you have a phone call from your agent."
Margo nodded, "Adam, I'm afraid we're going to have to continue our conversation this afternoon. Bertha will show you to your room."
He nodded an OK then asked, "Mrs. Sullivan, I want to start thinking about this project, what exactly will I be painting?"
Margo looked at Bertha, who had been staring at her intensely this whole time. "A transgression," said Margo, "We're going to right a wrong inflicted on me."
Margo’s hands flew across her chest where she tried to hide the trembling.
As Adam exited her office, Bertha turned to Margo, shook her head and scoffed. "You just love to play with fire."
Romanticize the Monster
BERTHA LED ADAM back down the stairs, past the living area, and opened a small room for him at the end of the home. It was a modest room, presumably used as a maid's quarters in bygone eras. It wasn’t as meticulously decorated as the rest of the home, only large enough for a small bed, flat screen, nightstand and closet. Adam knew his place in the world again.