The Playboy

by Alice Ward

  When I arrived at the gallery, I found it to be a small, neat building with many eclectic works of art. The manager was irritated but polite when I showed up at nearly ten. Traffic was horrible, so I was a half hour past my appointment, one which he was reluctant to grant in the first place. He guided me to an empty room where Caitlyn’s art had been propped up against the wall.

  “I’m sorry these aren’t properly mounted, Mr. Preston, Ms. Ashcroft’s exhibit was a week ago. We were just preparing them to be picked up. In order to exhibit them here tonight, we had to unwrap them again,” he said with a note of bitter resentment.

  “It’s my pleasure to pay you for your time,” I offered as I put five hundred dollars in his hand.

  He seemed a bit happier once he had my money, although he moved to protest. “It’s not necessary to pay me. I’m only suggesting that with the perfect lighting and wall placement, these pieces are much more powerful.” He was backtracking, but not handing the cash back.

  “Consider it a donation,” I dismissed as I made my way over to the first painting.

  Her art immediately had me interested. She had raw talent, that was evident. It lacked refinement, but the lack of refinement was perfect for the subject matter she chose to paint. She had about ten paintings, all of which showed her gracious heart and reflected her view of a complicated world.

  The first piece that caught my attention was a canvas of a small girl standing in a dark alley slick with rain. The darkened skies obliterated a moon that was desperately trying to illuminate its way out of the blackness and shine on the decrepit city below. The girl had no shoes, her dress was in tatters, and her hair knotted. She was a tiny child, dwarfed by the menacing buildings enveloping her. The world around the child looked massive, as if it was swallowing her whole.

  I felt the intensity of that painting and knew exactly the emotion she was trying to capture. Those feelings of helplessness and dread that loomed over children, incarcerating them in their own cycle of fear and distrust.

  Tears burned the backs of my eyes at seeing such raw emotions captured so well. She had known something dark in her childhood. This painting was not a pitiful cry that begged for mercy. Rather, the piece was an act of defiance. Putting such innocence in peril said, “this small child can survive.” Even in tatters, the tiny girl had her hands defiantly mounted on her hips as she looked up to the sky as if to fight the very night for her own survival. She looked much like Caitlyn the night I met her in the restaurant.

  I moved on to the next painting which, oddly, seemed happier, even though it depicted a funeral scene. She used brighter colors, making the work more vibrant. In the foreground was an old woman who seemed ancient. Her face was streaked with deep wrinkles, and yet the woman’s eyes were hauntingly gorgeous. She seemed like quite a defiant character as she sneered at a picture hung on the wall above her head.

  The sneer wasn’t a look of hatred or loathing, it was more playful, as if she was holding a secret everyone wished they knew. The object of the woman’s scrutiny was a wedding photograph of newlyweds holding hands. Presumably, it was a picture of herself and her spouse when they were first married. While the subject of the painting had a playfully snarling expression, it was also loving and thoughtful. In this woman’s look, Caitlyn showed a lot of empathy. It was difficult for artists to capture a complex expression like the one the woman wore, and yet, she did.

  In the background was a throng of people inside a small church. Deeper into the painting, almost a speck in size, was a casket. And with this slice of life, the entire story was told. An old woman, most likely the surviving partner, looked on with love and a playful disdain as she gazed upon the wedding photo of her deceased spouse.

  Other paintings caught my attention. A boat alone on a calm body of water. I felt drawn to that tiny boat that appeared as if it had escaped something and was finally free. There was another of a flock of birds washing in dirty ditch water. I was fascinated by her work, which was thoughtful and haunting.

  Juxtaposed with these emotional works were cartoons and caricatures of everyday people that made you want to laugh at the depiction of their realness. After perusing the paintings for more than an hour, I asked the gallery owner — who I was sure was very ready for me to leave — if I could buy all of them.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Preston. As I said to your assistant on the phone this morning, these paintings are not for sale at the present time. If you wish to commission Ms. Ashcroft to do a painting for you, I’m sure she will consider it, but at the moment, these works are her own personal property.” He seemed tired and exasperated.

  “Why?” I too was growing irate.

  He yawned. “Because I must get permission from Ms. Ashcroft to sell them. I can call her in the morning.”

  “If that’s the best you will do, then I’ll have to agree to it. Let me know when you can have them ready for me.”

  While it was thrilling, the idea of owning these little treasures, I was impatient to leave the gallery and be away from its annoying owner.

  “As I said, I will call,” he reiterated as he ushered me toward the door. “Thanks for your interest, Mr. Preston. Have a good night and a safe drive back to New York.”

  I think I grunted as I left. I didn’t intentionally mean to be impolite, although I was disgruntled. I was simply too inspired to say more. Caitlyn now had dimension, color, and depth. She was no longer just a snarky little waitress I wanted to fuck, she was a mystery I needed to solve.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Caitlyn

  I wasn’t sure what time it was when I woke, but I knew my alarm hadn’t sounded yet. I had to teach the kids at the arts center starting at seven. Strangely, I woke up feeling giddy and I wasn’t sure why. Then the events of Sunday night came rushing back in quick succession, and I pinpointed the source of the weird butterfly feelings in my stomach.

  Ugh… him.

  I got out of bed, brushed my teeth, and checked in on Gran before heading out the door. She was still sleeping soundly. Initially, I thought that strange as she was usually up with the sun, but I figured she had stayed up way past her bedtime to watch her “stories” as she called them. I blew her a kiss and closed the door to let her get some more rest.

  I jumped in my Beater Kia, as I liked to call it, cause the damn thing barely ran, and headed out. The Youth Center for the Arts, a space where disadvantaged and troubled youth got arts training as therapy, had visual arts—one of the subjects I taught—performing arts, media arts and just about every kind of creative expression possible.

  When I arrived, my students were happy to see me. As usual, their smiling faces were enough to motivate me to walk into the room and focus all my attention on them. They always lifted my spirits. Despite the fact that many of them had come from abusive homes where they watched their parents suffer through drug addiction, domestic violence, and incarceration, they really wanted a chance at a new life. Each one of my students had a dark story to tell. Each kept some horrific truth buried within them. Yet they still had hope.

  I understood their stories so well and saw in their eyes much of what I saw in my own. I taught the one thing I had forever used to escape the feelings of pain, fear, and sadness clouding my daily existence. Seeing your father shoot your mother was not something you ever forgot. Living without both of them was debilitating at times. If I could give each of my students art as a means of coping, I knew I was doing my part to enrich humanity.

  I taught them to use their creativity, color, depth, and perception to escape the constant nagging pain of sorrow and disappointment. I felt like I was giving them a steel armor and sword to protect themselves from what society would continue to deliver and constantly awaken within them. Somehow, they knew I was one of them, and luckily, they listened and heeded my advice. I saw so much progress, not only in their artwork but also in their worldview and self-perception. Touching people like that, giving them skills, was something I adored.

  After I finished my
shift at the center, I went back home. I wouldn’t need to be at the diner until the dinner shift and Mondays were slow, so I took advantage of the few hours I had between jobs. When I pulled the Beater Kia up the drive, a shiver of dread raced up my spine. Something seemed wrong. I couldn’t pinpoint it, but the air was charged with an electricity that had my heart beating out of my skin. I raced up the walkway, fumbled for my keys, and burst through the door.

  “Gran, I’m home!”

  The house was deathly silent. I had expected to see her either cooking some light lunch for us in the kitchen or watching her favorite programs. Sometimes, I would find her in our garden, as she was always trying to grow impossible plants in the landscaping.

  “What about rutabaga? Do you think that’ll grow, Cat? I love a good roasted rutabaga,” she would muse.

  “Gross, Gran.” Fancy cabbage roots, no thanks.

  “Don’t turn your nose up to em, Cat, they’re delicious,” she scoffed.

  Alas, she was able to get a few sad-looking roots to grow, but they tasted bitter and unappetizing. We both had a good laugh. No, rutabaga didn’t really grow too well.

  Today, there was nothing but silence. Horrible, sickening silence. I ran as fast as I could to Gran’s room, only to find her still asleep. I must have stood there for a half hour, just making sure that she was still breathing. Finally, when I was convinced that she was breathing well enough, I gently woke her.

  “Hey, Gran, it’s three in the afternoon. Do you want to get up or sleep the day away?” I teased.

  Her eyes slowly opened, but she looked sick and disoriented.

  “What? I didn’t know it was so late,” she slurred, her voice listless, “must be really tired, I guess.”

  She slumped deeper into her pillow and closed her eyes again. For the first time in my life, I saw her as being frail and old. When I noticed that she was having some trouble breathing, I panicked and immediately called 911. I was probably being overly dramatic, but I didn’t want to risk losing her because I hadn’t gotten her the help she needed.

  When they came to take her to the hospital, she laughed at me for taking her laziness too seriously. I knew she wasn’t being lazy. There was something wrong.

  “It’s nothing. I’m old. Old people sleep in from time to time,” she grumbled, “it’s probably just gas.”

  “I hope so. What a story that would be if I called in the calvary because you had a mean ol’ fart brewin’.” We both chuckled, but the effort caused her pain, and fear bubbled in my chest as they loaded her into the back of the ambulance.

  “Be careful with her,” I instructed.

  They smiled, not in a condescending way exactly, because they knew my sentiment. However, they could do their jobs without me, I was sure.

  I jumped into the Beater Kia and followed behind them. Worried the entire twenty-minute drive to the hospital, when I arrived, they didn’t let me see her.

  “She’s going in for some tests,” a nurse at the front desk informed me.

  I attempted a smile, but my insides were ripping apart with stress and worry. Gran was all I had. I spent almost an hour playing Candy Crush on my old, crappy Samsung, freaked out because the whole “in for tests” thing was taking so much longer than I thought it should. I called Ma’s Diner and told them I would be late when I hadn’t heard anything more than “she’s resting comfortably, but can’t be disturbed.”

  Deep in my heart, I knew something bad was happening to my grandmother. Finally, I was able to see her for a few minutes. She only opened her eyes briefly. The doctors were not able to give me any kind of indication that she would be alright and they wouldn’t let me stay with her longer than fifteen minutes. By the time two hours passed sitting in the waiting area, I’d had enough. Either I was going to get some answers, or I needed someone else to come sit with me before I had a mental breakdown.

  I called Ma’s back and told them I wasn’t coming in that night.

  “Shoulda figured you’d skip town with your pile of cash,” Ma barked.

  If I hadn’t been so worried, I would have laughed. “Ma, it wasn’t that much money.”

  “Sure was a hell of a lot back in my day,” she snapped.

  “We’re not back in your day. In this day and age, it’s just a nice little extra. If you really need me, call, but Gran is in the hospital, and it looks like it might be something bad.”

  The old woman softened then. “Take your time. We’re fine here. Hope your Gran perks up. She’s a fighter.”

  “Thanks, Ma,” I said as I hung up and called my best friend.

  Tammy was like a sister and helped me with everything, and had since we were kids. She was especially good to have around when tragedy struck. We met in Girl Scouts; she lived around the corner and I practically grew up at her house. I learned to braid hair in beautiful African styles, and we both were schooled in how to make the perfect gumbo by her Creole auntie. I knew she would be getting off work soon, so I tried not to panic her by letting her know that Gran was in the hospital.

  “Why aren’t you working?” was how she answered the phone, “what’s wrong?”

  “Why does there have to be something wrong?” I asked, trying not to sound freaked out.

  “Cause you don’t call me during work hours. You call me after for cocktails or to come and chill with you, so this is something. What is it?” She didn’t have much patience at times. She wasn’t rude, just over protective.

  “Gran’s in the hospital, and they aren’t saying much. She’s been spaced out all day, and I can’t get her to talk to me. Doctors are doing tests and stuff, but it doesn’t sound good.” I tried to hide the fear in my voice, but she knew. She always knew.

  “I’m coming over right now. What hospital?” As soon as I answered, click. The phone went dead.

  She got there in record time, panting and sweating when she reached the lobby. I loved her. I knew she adored my grandmother as much as I did. Ambling in a few paces behind her was Ricky, my next-door neighbor. He moved in a few years ago with his husband. While his hubby spent most of the day at his job, Ricky worked from home, which meant he was always available for a cup of tea and lively conversation.

  “Hey, Cat, cavalry’s here,” he said with a big hug.

  “Alright girl, where are these no-good doctors who can’t tell you shit about Gran? I’ll get them doing their jobs, no good, overpaid…” She was pretty fired up.

  I tried to calm her down. “I think they’re doing their best, Tam.”

  “Ain’t good enough.” She was ready to march down the hall when Gran’s doctor, Dr. Pushkin, walked into the lobby.

  My heart sank. This was gonna be very bad if they’d had to call him in. Mondays were his day off. Dr. Pushkin had been Gran’s doctor for as long as I could remember. She had high blood pressure, and had been diagnosed with breast cancer seven years ago. They caught the cancer in time, cut it out, chemo’d the shit out of it, and it was officially gone nineteen months later.

  Gran had gone in for scans every year after that, with nothing showing up. Since she was a stubborn little lady, she stopped the scans last year, saying she was too old to know, good or bad, she just wanted to enjoy her life. Somehow, she had convinced me that was okay. Now, I regretted not tying her up and dragging her ass to the appointments.

  A middle-aged man in his late fifties, Dr. Pushkin always struck me as being mousy and small. It seemed strange that he was such an authority on medical matters when he was so light and wispy looking. While I should never judge anyone’s abilities based on their looks, the painter in me just saw him as an odd character. His temperament was always gray, regardless of the circumstance. He delivered news — whether good or bad — in the same monotonic manner. This time, his usually bland expression had a darker, more foreboding, quality. One I knew held the worst of all possible news.

  I stood up to greet him, and he breathed a heavy sigh, another sign that danger lurked ahead. He waved for us to sit down as he pulled up a
chair next to me.

  “Caitlyn,” he started, “please be seated.”

  I sat down silently.

  He cleared his throat as if he were about to deliver a death sentence.

  “I’ve had the chance to look over your grandmother’s preliminary tests, and I’m waiting to hear back from the oncology lab, but based on the MRI and CT results, it looks like your grandmother’s cancer has returned. I believe that it has possibly metastasized into the lungs and brain. She’s showing overall body weakness at the moment, diminished mental capacity, and limited lung function. The scans are indicating that there are several dark masses in both her brain and lungs, as well as other areas of her body. As I said before, nothing is definitive until I am able to see the oncology report.” He paused, waiting for this news to hit me like a freight train to hell.

  “Oh,” was all I could muster.

  Luckily, Tammy had more of her wits about her than I did.

  “So, what are our next steps? Does she need chemo again? And when can we bring her home? I’m sure she would prefer to have her treatments at home.” Tammy had her iPhone out and was ready to tap out notes or anything Dr. Pushkin said that I definitely would never remember.

  “I can’t say too much at the moment, only that we will be keeping her overnight and monitoring her progress. I’m sorry, but we can’t release her until I feel she is well enough to be at home on her own. Caitlyn, I know you live with her, but she might need twenty-four-hour care at this point.” His grave expression casted a dark shadow over the entire room.

  Ricky sensed what the doctor was saying — he had seen this kind of transition happen with all four of his grandparents. First, they started to show signs of age and illness, then the slow slide into eternity.