seven
THE NEXT MORNING LaDonna lay in bed for a few minutes, remembering. What she really wanted to do was to jump up, dress, and run to the art building. See if she really did paint something new. See if she still liked it. There wasn’t time now. She’d make herself wait until noon.
She stretched, crawled out of bed, and, wrapped in a towel, headed for the hall bathroom. She wished she had her own bath, but the small house only had one bathroom and shower.
Dressing was easy. She had a sort of uniform she wore every day. Clothes weren’t important to her, plus she had little money to spend on extras. Buying paint really did take all she could scrape together. Jeans, tee-shirt or sweatshirt, depending on the season, sometimes an old shirt over the tee. The old shirt was usually paint-spotted. So were the jeans.
When she became a famous artist, would she dress differently? She daydreamed while she made her bed and gathered her books and notebooks. She might wear exotic gowns, or flowing wide pants of silk. She might design her own clothes and have someone sew them for her. But just for openings and parties. In her studio she’d look just like she did now. She’d continue to braid her hair in one braid, since it curled on its own and was out of control if she didn’t do something. It escaped all around her face in clean blond wisps. She hated dirty hair and always kept hers sparkling. She hoped that balanced out her limited wardrobe.
In the kitchen, her father sprawled at the table, a cup of coffee in one hand, the newspaper spread before him. He looked as if he’d just come from work.
“You on the night shift now, Daddy?” she asked, just to be polite.
“Yes.” He sipped the coffee. “It’s just awful.”
“I thought you liked working at night so you could go to the day games.” Her father’s voice sounded awful. Its tone made LaDonna have a little empathy for him.
“No, this.” He pushed the Bellponte Daily towards her.
She wished she’d never have looked. But who could avoid the huge picture and the screaming headlines.
CAMPUS COED BRUTALLY MURDERED
And the smaller type underneath.
Body Found In Practice Room
The photo was of one of the practice rooms at Old Main. It was horribly blood-splattered, and the sight sent shivers over LaDonna. Her stomach turned over and threatened to spill out the few sips of coffee she’d taken, the half bagel.
She didn’t want to read on, but she did.
When young, promising pianist, John Blair, went to find Katherine Taylor, planning to walk her to her campus room, he found instead her body and grisly evidence of foul play.
After lengthy questioning, Blair stayed with his story. It seems Katherine had interrupted him some two hours earlier saying she thought she had been followed across campus. She was nervous about walking home alone, so Blair volunteered his company when she was ready to leave.
Blair, a high school senior, studies piano at the college, and so uses the practice room on a regular basis as did Taylor, a junior music major at Bellponte.
An all-night search by the police found no other evidence. Bellponte coroner placed the time of death as soon after Taylor had talked to Blair. Blair is not being held at this time, and police have no suspects.
“Well, I hope not.” LaDonna bit her lip and blinked back tears. “They can’t think Johnny killed her, can they, Dad?”
“They can think anything they please.” Her father cupped both hands around his coffee mug and stared into the creamy liquid. “They can think I did it.”
“Were you there? Is that your building?” LaDonna hadn’t even considered that her father was a suspect, too. She didn’t much like him, or invite his company, but he wasn’t a murderer. Was he? The most curious sense of not knowing her father at all took hold of her.
Without meaning to, wanting to, she drew back into herself. Stared at her father with new eyes. He was rumpled, bleary eyed, needed a shave. He was also overweight. She certainly couldn’t imagine him running after someone on campus, or even hurrying after them. He moved at a turtle’s pace in everything he did.
“Did they question you? Did you see anything?” LaDonna just kept tossing out her own questions.
“The story is all in there.” Her father pushed the newspaper towards LaDonna. She read on to find her father’s name.
Janitor Sam Martindale was also questioned. According to his story, he arrived at Old Main after the time of Taylor’s death, but cleaned only the main floor. He saw nothing, heard nothing. Since the practice rooms are sound proof, the possibility of anyone hearing Taylor’s screams for help is slim.
LaDonna’s mind flew to Mary Lou Shoemaker running across the campus. Had Mary Lou gotten up to see this headline? Realized this murderer may have been the same person who followed her? She should call the police. Maybe LaDonna should call them, too.
She’d wait. She jumped up. “I’m going to school, Dad. See you later.”
Where she was going was to Johnny’s house. She flew out the door to find it raining. Stepping back inside, she grabbed a hooded jacket, slipped it on, then half walked, half ran to the Blairs’ house, only a block from hers.
“Is Johnny here?” she asked the sleepy woman who opened the door.
“Hi, LaDonna. He’s still at breakfast. Aren’t you early?”
“Yes. But I was worried about him.” LaDonna brushed past Mrs. Blair and ran to the kitchen.
Johnny was slumped over the newspaper. He glanced up at LaDonna, but said nothing. His hair stuck up all whichaway. His eyes were red. A stubble of golden fuzz fringed his chin. LaDonna was sure he hadn’t slept.
“Johnny, I’m so sorry.” She was sorry she’d felt the least bit jealous of Katherine and Johnny. She knew it was silly, but now it seemed even worse. “You’ve been up all night, haven’t you?” She stood beside him, touched his shoulder.
He nodded. “They made me tell my story over and over. Like I was a suspect. Like I could kill—kill—her.” Johnny acted as if he couldn’t call Katherine’s name. Like if he didn’t, this wouldn’t be her, dead.
“I know, Johnny, I know. They questioned my father, too. They’re desperate to find the killer. They don’t really believe you killed her. They couldn’t.”
“I think they could.” Johnny’s clothes were all wrinkled as if he’d slept in them. Had he even gone to bed?
“Don’t go to school, Johnny. You need some sleep. I’ll stop at the office and tell them.”
“Think you’ll have to?” Now Johnny’s voice sounded bitter. “Why did they have to print this photo? It was awful, LaDonna, just awful. I went there, expecting—expecting to—”
“I know, Johnny, I know. You don’t have to explain it to me. It’s a terrible thing to have to see.” She hugged him, cradling his head against her waist, feeling his crisp curly hair, the stubble of beard across his face.
“You want some company? I could cut classes, too.” She moved away from him, sat in one of the hard kitchen chairs.
Taking both of his hands in hers, she squeezed the long, strong fingers, staring at the close-cut nails, kept short for the piano. The tip of each finger was slightly calloused from seeking out the keys, from playing his music over and over until it was perfect. She had watched him play. He retreated into himself, caressed the piano, coaxing the melody from a black and white keyboard. If Johnny Blair even had a wife, she would come second to his music. His love affair would always be with his own compositions and composers long dead.
Johnny shook his head. “No. Thanks, though, LaDonna.”
She sat there a few minutes more. Shook her head no when Mrs. Blair offered her coffee.
Reluctantly she left. She walked slowly to Bellponte High, detouring around twisted limbs on the sidewalk. Drifts of leaves, branches, the aftermath of the night’s wind storm.
She found herself a celebrity because Johnny wasn’t there. Everyone knew they were friends. Everyone asked her about Johnny. She didn’t bother to answer, just whirled and wal
ked away. Inside her chest, a wild storm of her own built. People never spoke to her. Now they wanted gossip.
By ten o’clock, she’d had enough. Slamming her books into her locker, she marched out of the building. Let a teacher stop her. Let someone ask where she was going. She was eager to unleash her anger on whoever dared.
She reached the art building with no interference. Did she expect the campus to be swarming with uniformed searchers? What would they be looking for? They’d found her body. Any other evidence would have blown all the way to Canada last night.
There was no one in the art office to stop her. She hurried to the basement door, paused before it. Did she really want to hide out here? She didn’t know where else to go. She certainly wasn’t going home.
Stepping slowly onto each step, she listened to the groans and creaks, heard the old building whispering a welcome.
The gallery, as she had started calling it once she’d hung paintings, held a dim, smoky light at mid-morning. The smell of oil paint greeted her nostrils. She inhaled it gratefully. It was like a drug, one that calmed. Like Johnny’s music, her art was a place to retreat, to hide if you wanted to say that, to forget that a world where people could kill another human being existed.
She sat. Stared at the painting she had finished last night. The composition, the work was far superior to anything she had ever painted before. Had she really painted it herself? Maybe he had painted it. The style imitated his. She saw that at once. The eyes were dark as if smudged in with a thumbprint of kohl. The long, strong fingers of the child stretched, exaggerated because he was reaching. Reaching for what? The empty sky? The bare, lonely horizon? One had to imagine what he yearned for, but the yearning was on his face. Tears came into her eyes looking at the child. This was the first time she had captured such emotion in a painting. That made her question even more whether or not she’d achieved this level of work.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” The voice was low, silken, and it held a note of admiration.
“You painted it, didn’t you? The style is like yours.”
He laughed. “You think I painted that? I watched you paint it. Maybe I leaned over your shoulder, but you held the brush.”
Inadvertently, she glanced behind her. “Who are you? Where are you? Why can’t I see you?”
“Angry are we? Why are you angry, La Donna Martindale?”
She rubbed the frown line between her eyebrows. Bit her lip. “I—I’m not mad at you.”
“I know that. I know everything.”
“You know who killed her?”
“Let that go, LaDonna. It doesn’t concern you.”
“It does, too. They think Johnny did it.”
“What do you think?”
“Johnny couldn’t do such a thing.”
“Go with your heart, your passion.” He was silent for a few moments while LaDonna studied her painting. “Your passion went into this painting. You see that, don’t you?”
“Yes. But I’ve imitated your style. You see that, don’t you?” She still felt a grain of anger rubbing her, irritating her emotions into a bitter pearl of gray ice.
“There’s nothing wrong with that. A student often imitates her teacher. Look at all the old masters. Their students imitated them. That’s why there were schools of painting. All the Impressionists have similarities. Look at what followed Picasso’s lead.”
“Are you my teacher now?” She smiled, rather liking the idea.
“Would that please you?”
“I—I guess so. Who are you?”
“The night. You like the night.
‘Night, sable goddess from her ebony throne
In rayless majesty, now stretches forth
Her leaden septre o’er a slum’ring world.’”
“You’re a poet, too?” She smiled, running her fingers across the rough-textured painting. She’d used a palette knife for some parts, piling on paint for depth.
“Edward Young. One of my favorite poets. I only paint.”
“If you won’t tell me your name, I’m going to call you Mr. Sable. Night artist in this dark gallery.”
“Now you’re waxing poetic. And you’re in pain. Paint from that pain.”
“Right now?”
“Do you want to return to school?”
“No. I can’t.”
She slid another canvas board from her bag, prepared earlier with a wash of white gesso. She stared at the whiteness, the absence of color, emotion, passion. She let it hypnotize her until she reached deep inside herself. Without thought she dipped her brush into the black paint.
When she came out of her deep trance, that intense concentration she’d found the night before, she stared at the painting. A body slumped on a street curb just off center, curled into itself, blond head tucked into knees, arms circling legs, as if holding the body together. She imagined the body flying off in all directions, broken pieces strewing the street if it weren’t wrapped tightly. Long fingers bit into the leg flesh, holding tightly like the straps on a trunk, long sealed up, hiding a secret. The sky was leaden, threatening, as if it could easily swallow up the figure.
She’d alternated color on a corner of the brick building so that it imitated piano keys. But probably she was the only one who would see that in the painting.
“That’s your friend, isn’t it?” The low voice spoke for the first time. There had been no verbal communication while she painted, but now that she was aware, she thought she had probably felt his presence while she worked.
“He’s in pain.”
“You’ve captured it well.”
“Did—did you help me?”
“Do you think I did?”
“I don’t know.”
Had he guided her hand? Was this his work or hers? Did it matter? A sudden fit of laughter bubbled up.
“What am I going to tell Roddy, Mr.Sable? That a ghost helped me paint these new pictures. That I was heavily influenced by two paintings that have appeared on the wall in my dark gallery?”
She laughed out loud.
“Tell him they came from inside you. That side that is sensitive to others. You can’t escape the world around you.”
“How do you know?”
“I tried.”
“Tell me about it.” She cleaned her brushes, easing the creamy acrylic paint from the soft bristles.
“It doesn’t matter now.”
“What if it matters to me?”
“Then you’ll know sometime.” He left. She felt him go.
“Mr. Sable!” She stood and whirled around. “Why did you leave? I’m sorry I pried. I won’t ask questions. I don’t really care who are you. I don’t care about anything but your art. My painting.” She stared into the dim corners. Even walked over and opened the other door. It was the first time she’d opened that door. Something had kept her from doing so.
A dark musty smell floated over her, around her. Cold, dry darkness, empty. Goose bumps raised on her arms. Icy air stabbed her stomach. Pain—his pain. Loneliness—his loneliness.
She slammed the door, wanted to lock it, but there was no key in the small narrow slot under the cold brass knob.
Please don’t be really gone, she thought. Promise me you’ll be back.
She got no answer. She gathered her paints and last night’s painting. She left a final thought message. I’ll be back tonight. Please be here.
She couldn’t imagine losing him.
eight
LADONNA DASHED DOWN the hill, took the short cut to the high school, and was able to get back to school in time for art class. She took last night’s painting—had she only finished this last night? So much had happened it seemed weeks ago. She took the canvas board and placed it on her easel while people wandered into class and got settled. She stared at it, making sure she wanted Roddy to see it.
Yes, she was still pleased. In this light, the lack of color was even more effective. Dark stood out from light in a perfect balance.
She felt Roddy st
anding behind her before he spoke. “Did you paint this, LaDonna?” Roddy didn’t believe the painting was hers either. What should she tell him?
“I—I—yes, late last night.” She had placed the paint on the canvas. Where the inspiration came from was still an unknown, and there was no way she could explain it to Mr. Rodriguez.
“It’s—it’s wonderful. It has such emotion, something your paintings have lacked. What inspired you?” Roddy reached out carefully and touched some of the lines, ran his finger across the horizon.
“I’ve been looking at a lot of art work. I found a couple of paintings that I really liked, that touched me. I—I—imitated their style a little. Do you think that’s all right? To imitate someone’s style that you admire?”
“Of course, LaDonna. Sometimes we call that echoing. Music composers do it all the time, echo a phrase from an early symphony or concerto. Painters have been doing the same thing for all of time. Experts have looked at paintings and wondered if an old master painted it—Rembrandt for instance, but they suspect it was the work of one of his students. Whose paintings were you studying?”
“I’d rather not say.”
Roddy didn’t press her. “Well, whoever it was, it was a fortunate happening. Something in his work touched you, enabled you to take that leap of painting with emotion yourself. Emotion was really what was lacking in your work, LaDonna. I’ve just now realized it. I think you’ve taught me something. I tell students to paint from their hearts, but I can’t show them how to do that.”
“I have a confession to make, Roddy.”
“I’ll never tell.” He turned and smiled at her and there was pride in that smile. LaDonna took it in. She realized she badly needed Roddy’s praise.
“I cut classes this morning. People were pestering me about Johnny. Asking me questions since he wasn’t here to talk for himself. I couldn’t take it. I went—I went home and painted another picture. I’ll bring it in tomorrow.”
“Did you paint it with the anger that made you leave school?” He guessed her emotion.
“No, I painted from Johnny’s pain. I talked to him this morning. Then I put myself inside of him when I worked.”
The Gallery Page 5