The hug felt good. Neither said anything for a couple of blocks. LaDonna wondered if they were getting to be more than friends. A part of her wished they would. A part said, no, friends is best. A part of her said, you’re silly to even think about it. Johnny is your best friend—your only friend.
Luis Rodriquez was her friend, she realized. As much as a teacher can be a friend. This was her third year in one of his art classes.
Whoopee-do, she thought. The girl with two friends. She felt her mouth stretch into a big grin.
“Penny?” Johnny offered.
“I’m glad you’re my friend, Johnny Blair. Thanks.”
“No problem, ma’am.” He lifted an imaginary hat. “Glad to be of service.”
“Are we weird, Johnny? Should I give it all up and go out for the cheerleading squad?”
“Think you’d make it?” Johnny fingered the piece of tissue on his chin. Zit or razor cut? she wondered. Shaving was making his skin clear up. When had he started to be cute?
“No. But I don’t think I’m going to make Miss-Likely-to-Succeed, either.”
“You’ve been in a slump before. I think it’s nothing that a double chocolate mocha almond fudge at Josh and John’s after school wouldn’t cure.”
“You think it’s that simple?” LaDonna laughed. At least Johnny was cheering her up. “I’m willing to try anything.”
“Yes. Deal?” Johnny put out the palm of his hand.
LaDonna slapped it. “Deal. On our way to the campus after art class.”
By the time art class was over, LaDonna needed chocolate. A student teacher showed up in their art class. Roddy had accepted student teachers before, but never one as nerdy as Eric Hunter. He was a hunter all right—a predator. He had his arm around every female in class before the hour was over—when Roddy wasn’t looking. And LaDonna could see that Marilee Morris, of course, was already in love with Eric by the end of the period. Marilee fell in and out of love so fast, you’d get dizzy trying to keep up with her social life.
LaDonna spun around to face Eric before he could touch her.
Eric grinned at her, probably because she had anticipated his move. “Rodriquez says you’re the most promising artist in the class. Got a portfolio I can look at?” He made the word sound suggestive.
“No. I’ve thrown out my last three attempts.”
“Oh, a perfectionist.”
“A realist.”
A small smile flitted across Eric’s lips and his dark eyes undressed her. His eyes were nearly black and could have been beautiful. He was clearly a weight lifter, looking more like an artist’s model than an artist. More like a jock than a painter. Tall, compact, Eric held himself loosely, draping one arm around the class skeleton to talk to her. A square jaw brought to mind a picture of a halfway civilized cave man. Put him in a leopard skin and maybe he’d be successful at painting cave walls.
“Smile at him and he’ll drag you away by your braid,” Johnny whispered behind her as Eric gave up and sauntered away, looking for easier prey.
“Doesn’t he wish?” LaDonna didn’t even bother to whisper. But she laughed inside to know how much she and Johnny thought alike.
“I’m glad you still have good taste in men.” Johnny wiped his paint brush on a muddy rag. “Ready for a taste adventure in chocolate?”
“Please.” She tossed her brush into a mayonnaise jar of water and wiped her hands on her smock. Catching Roddy’s eye, she waved, grabbed her notebook and geometry text, and headed for the back door. “Ah, fresh air.”
“It’s going to be a long semester,” Johnny agreed, knowing she meant their enduring Eric Hunter.
“Why us? I lived for sixth period.”
“Maybe he’ll cool off. Or maybe Merilee Morris will take the bait. He’d be an improvement over Leo the Linebacker.”
“Why, Johnny Blair. You do keep up with the Bellponte High soaps.”
“Gives me something to do in chemistry class.”
They climbed Seventeenth Street hill, then cut across the college campus to The Hill shops. Josh and John’s was half way up Thirteenth Street and packed with hungry students. An outside table freed up just as they got there.
“Grab that table, LaDonna,” Johnny said. “I’ll treat.”
LaDonna was glad to sit there and watch the ant hill of students coming and going. She resolved to speak to Roddy before she’d let Eric spoil art class. Then she put him aside to think about her first day on her new job and the sinful ice cream cone Johnny was bringing her.
“I’ll be sick,” she joked.
“But think how sensuous it’ll be going down.” Johnny groaned with pleasure, licking chocolate drips from his fingers.
“Sensuous? Are you going through puberty again, Blair?”
“God, I hope not. I’d break my fingers first.”
LaDonna looked at the long, strong fingers wrapped around the cone. Brown milky rivers oozed over the side of the double dip and down his knuckles. She shivered, and not from the cold ice cream.
Talk about puberty, I am going nuts, she thought. What’s wrong with me? When did I stop thinking of Johnny Blair as more than a brother?
“What time are you going home?” Johnny asked when they headed back towards the campus.
“Oh, don’t make me say, Johnny. I need to lose myself for a few hours.”
“Ditto. I’ll see you if I see you.”
“Thanks, Johnny. For the ice cream and for understanding.”
LaDonna practically ran to the art building, tugged open the heavy door, and stepped into the hall.
She found the small door at the end of the hall that looked like a closet, pulled it closed behind her after flipping on the dim light over the stairs.
She took a deep breath before she stepped down. The word “cave” flashed back into her mind. How silly.
She bounced lightly down the steps, hearing them creak underfoot, snapped off the two-way light at the bottom, then went from string to string lighting the way to the room where she’d work.
The air seemed thick with a century’s collection of dust. Her feet padded in slow motion across wine-painted cement which had faded and mottled to several shades of pink and purple as well as the deep shade of vintage brew. The arm that reached for the next string felt heavy, rose slowly.
When she reached her workroom, she felt guilty not turning off the lights behind her, although she would have liked to keep them all on, so she went back. As she started at the bottom of the stairs again, pulling the lights off, darkness followed her. But the lighted room pulled her along, like sun sliding out from clouds after a rain. Something inside her yearned for the light. She moved faster and faster until when she stepped back into the lighted room, she was out of breath.
“You’re being silly,” she whispered. “You’ll talk yourself out of this job like the last girl to try it.”
She leaned on the table in the middle of the floor and looked around. There was a closed door at the far end. One chair. Otherwise the room was bare. As empty as a room could get. The longer she stood and looked around, though, the better she felt.
The hall had frightened her. Not the room. She relaxed. Breathed normally. The room was safe. She closed the door to the hall. Closed herself in.
She piled her books on the only chair, wooden, hard, straight backed. Quickly she lifted a painting from its box. Placed it on the table. Studied it.
Greens and blues blurred. A brown cottage wavered as if under water. She blinked her eyes. Blinked again. Looked behind her. Looked at both closed doors.
She concentrated on the painting again. Sun slid out from under clouds like the room, when it was lighted. Warm. The sun warmed the painting. The room was warm, not too warm. Comfortable. She would have expected it to be cool. The air in the room surrounded her like—like Johnny’s arms. His hug this morning. The room was a warm presence.
No. Not the room. Something. Someone. The same someone she had sensed the first time she was here.
<
br /> She—she was not alone.
three
“WHO’S THERE?” HER voice echoed in the hollow room, resonated in her mind.
There, there, there. Here, here, here.
She felt foolish asking. No one was here with her.
She laughed. Pulled another painting from the carton.
She had worked in the art building feeling comfortable with whoever or whatever was there with her—no longer questioning it—for three weeks when the first painting appeared, hanging on the wall.
In that three weeks, twenty-one days, five hundred and four hours, thirty-thousand two hundred and forty minutes—she’d worked out this triviality one day in algebra class—she felt she was running through molasses. Every day moved in slow motion. She swam underwater, treading minutes and hours uselessly.
Her art work got worse. During the class hour, she stared at an empty canvas, or one muddied with paint-overs.
“I’ve seen slumps, LaDonna. I’ve been blocked,” Roddy said, looking over her shoulder. “This is classic.”
“What can I do?” LaDonna asked. She begged Roddy to help her, pleaded silently for someone, something to happen.
“I don’t know,” Roddy admitted. “Is anything wrong at home?”
“No.” Her home life was out of the ordinary, but it had been that way for so long she was used to it. She ignored her father. She lived for art class and the time she spent painting in her room.
The student teacher, Eric Hunter, tried to put the moves on her again. She hardly noticed. He gave up and looked for easier prey, but often she caught him looking at her.
“What’s wrong with you, LaDonna?” Johnny asked on the way up to the campus. “You’re not here. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you left three weeks ago. When you got that job. Are you all right? Is the job all right?”
Should she try to explain to Johnny? What—explain what? That she now lived for that job. That she felt alive only when she was in that basement room, closed in with—with—with whatever, whoever was there. He’d think she was nuts.
She thought she was nuts.
As she approached the art building she began to feel as if she was surrounded by some field of energy. Her mind seemed to vibrate. Prickles of excitement ran up and down her spine. The hair on the back of her neck rose and sent shivers through her body.
“I’ll try to explain it soon, Johnny. Something is going on and I don’t know what. I don’t know how to tell you about it. But I’ve got to tell someone. And soon.”
Johnny didn’t press her to explain. But he did pick up on her apprehension, her confusion. When they reached the art building, he turned and pulled her into his arms. Held her close for a minute or more. She snuggled into his shoulder, smelling his familiar scent, perspiration mixed with some spicy aftershave he’d probably stolen from his father. She couldn’t imagine his buying it for himself. She wished he would stay with her. Even wished she’d never heard of this job.
Did she really?
“I’ll come by your house tonight, LaDonna.”
“No, don’t. Please don’t. I’ll come to your place. Is that all right? After dinner. About seven?”
“Please, LaDonna. I don’t want to worry about you. But I am worried. You might as well know it.”
“Thanks, Johnny.” LaDonna stared into his blue eyes. “You’re a good friend, Johnny Blair. The only one I have.”
She pulled away and opened the art building’s heavy door. The metal bar was cold on her hand. The lie was cold on her tongue. She had three friends. Johnny. Roddy.
And him.
The walk to the basement had become routine. Her feelings were anything but normal. There was a pull, like a room full of warm magnets, to the soft yellow light. She no longer needed to turn on each light on the way. She left the stair light on, followed the river of vibrating air to her space, tugged on the overhead chain. The warm air bathed her in well being, comforted her, transformed her beyond the warmth of Johnny’s arms.
One night, at home alone, the word ghost floated into her mind. But ghosts were scary. And they drifted on cold currents, drafty swirls of energy. Besides, if her friend was a ghost, he meant no harm. He was not there to frighten her.
The bare concrete walls of the basement room depressed her. It didn’t take long for her to do something about that. Around the top of each wall, about two feet down, ran a wooden railing from which to hang pictures. She didn’t question why it was there. She didn’t remember seeing it the first time she came here. Perhaps the room had not always been bare.
Carefully, she had weeded out the worst paintings, sketches, and placed them in a pile to be discarded. When she came across a good picture, or one that she wasn’t sure about, she hung it. Soon she had created her own personal art gallery.
The paintings had done wonders for the bare room. Now it vibrated with color—well, not too much color. Most of the paintings were landscapes, all green and brown with some flowers and flowering trees. A few had water, so splashes of blue drew her eye and relieved the lush vegetation. A few of the paintings were impressionistic, but most were realistic, imitating photographs.
On one wall she had hung all the pictures of Bellponte, New York, or the Atlantic Ocean. A few were of the buildings on the college campus with their white tile roofs. Snowy landscapes and sailing scenes. Fall colors, New York’s woods in golden red and orange flames, shimmering on sunny autumn days. Those colors were her favorites. She had hated the pink painting she’d tried to do.
Tonight as she turned, reviewing what she had selected so far as possible “keepers,” she stopped.
On the south wall, at eye level, so she couldn’t possibly miss it, hung another painting. One she hadn’t placed there. One that was so different in style she would have noticed it immediately even had she tugged it from a cardboard carton.
She gasped at its haunting beauty. A shiver ran the full length of her body, leaving her limp. Stepping back, she leaned on the wooden table, grasping the edge with both hands.
For a fleeting moment she felt as if she had been sucked into the center of the landscape. Into the empty space that seemed to be waiting, waiting for her presence. Yet when she was there, in the picture, she felt a chill, an icy draft that left her frozen and breathless.
It took all her strength to return to the room. She blinked her eyes. Blinked again. She gained the distance she needed to be herself. To look at the picture, to study it without emotion.
The sky had the stormy brooding nature of an El Greco—that combination of light and dark the Italians called chiaroscuro. Blues, grays, black and white. At any moment lightning would splinter the clouds.
On either side, as if lining a street, waiting, stood many hooded figures, their gowns drawn with loose, sweeping brush strokes. Their eyes had the dark brooding stare favored by the Mexican painter José Orozco.
The center of the painting obsessed LaDonna, forced her to clutch the table as if it waited for her to come in. On the horizon floated the warm yellow light, the light she was drawn to every day when she came to work. Except in the painting, centered there, alone, the effect was one of loneliness, a haunting emptiness. A need. As if the artist was able to paint, by not painting, his yearning for something, someone. His hollow longing.
Suddenly LaDonna felt she couldn’t breathe. She was suffocating. All the oxygen in the room was used up. Choking, she turned, twisted the slick door knob to escape, dashed down the hall, up the stairs, outside. Leaning on the cold bricks, she sucked in the cool, spring air. She breathed deeply until she felt normal, until her lungs could rise and fall in a normal rhythm.
Glen Walker stepped out of the art building while she fought for control. “LaDonna, how’s it going? Sorry I haven’t been down to check on you, but this se mester has been a scramble to keep up.” He didn’t notice her distressed state. La Donna was grateful for that.
“You haven’t been downstairs, Mr. Walker? I’ve hung up some of the art. You didn’t come in and
hang another painting alongside those I’ve picked out?”
She knew he hadn’t.
“No. I just don’t have much free time. I trust your judgement, LaDonna. Roddy told me I could. And to tell the truth, I don’t expect you to find any masterpieces in all that mess.”
“Well—well—let’s hope we’re both surprised.” She gave him permission to leave. To hurry on his way. He was obviously pressed for time. She had regained her composure.
“Sure. Goodnight. Don’t work too late, you hear?” He turned and walked briskly toward the parking lot.
She could go back inside now. She had been silly. She had let her imagination run away, double time. A smile crept across her face. What would he think of her?
She entered the building slowly. On seeing that Walker’s secretary, Mrs. Coombs, was in her office, LaDonna had an idea. She didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of it before.
“Mrs. Coombs,” she said, after waiting for the secretary to get off the phone. “Do you have the phone number of that girl who tried to do this job that I’m doing? You know, the one who worked for an hour and quit.”
Mrs. Coombs looked at LaDonna for a moment as if she had to remember what LaDonna meant. She didn’t have to remember. “Mr. Walker told you that story after all? He said maybe he’d better keep it to himself and I agreed.” She finally smiled.
“No, he didn’t tell me. My art teacher at school mentioned it before I even came up here. I’m glad she didn’t like working here, though. Her turning the job down was my good luck.”
Mrs. Coombs had been looking back in her day timer while they talked. She took a sheet of scrap paper and scribbled on it. “Minette Waterson. Here’s her number. Why do you want it? Anything wrong?” She asked the question as if she expected there to be a problem.
“No, nothing wrong. Curiosity, I guess. Thanks, Mrs. Coombs.” LaDonna escaped before the secretary could question her further.
Well, almost. “LaDonna.” Mrs. Coombs called her back. “You aren’t working late at night any more, are you?”
“Not much. And I’m really careful. Don’t worry about me.”
The Gallery Page 2