by Steven Wolf
Eventually I removed the phone from the plush monkey. The only reason I didn’t suffer any severe injuries was because Comet had learned to tolerate ringing plastic in her mouth long enough to quickly flip the phone to the floor near my feet, where I could pick it up with a mechanical grabber. Despite her displeasure with the taste, Comet was occasionally spirited enough to bang the cell phone off the solid surface closest to my head. I learned to be judicious in my requests for the phone (only in emergencies!) and with treats. Comet was rewarded only if nothing was broken and no blood was spilled.
In a few short months, Comet learned enough service skills to significantly improve my quality of life. Tasks that used to make me feel pissed off and demoralized became exercises in teamwork—functional choreography that made us both feel immensely satisfied with ourselves. The fact that the training process was often hilarious was a bonus that boosted my endorphins, taking my mind off the reality that with each passing day, I was a little less “able.”
The biggest surprise was how our service training transformed my life outside our home. When Comet’s magnetic personality was brought into the shops and galleries of Sedona, my world began to expand in totally unexpected ways. Galleries outnumbered liquor establishments here, something I found astonishing. In the small towns where I grew up, only the churches outnumbered the bars. Linda was my guide to the creative community, introducing me to a host of talented painters, sculptors, and other artists. To me, the gallery scene was as exotic as a trip to Bali. The colors, textures, and even the smells—wood, oil paints, wool fibers, and mineral spirits—tingled my senses and ignited my imagination.
I couldn’t believe these were the same places I had driven past countless times, barely registering them as quirky little storefronts. Without Comet, I never would have thought to explore the galleries. It would have been too hard to navigate the spaces without stumbling, and I would have been too self-conscious about my body. With Comet, I opened the doors and we were beckoned inside.
Three weeks after I first met Linda, Comet and I stopped by her gallery to say hello. In a courtyard to the side of the building, I saw a tall, powerfully built man standing in front of a blank canvas that rested on a worn wooden easel. His back was to us, so all I could see was shoulder-length dark hair woven with threads of gray, the straight locks flowing over a white T-shirt tucked into beltless blue jeans.
Linda came to greet us and quietly said, “That’s Ben Wright. I’ve asked him to be an artist in residence this month.” She raised her voice and called, “Hey, Ben? Do you have time to meet some friends of mine?” Before he could answer she led us a few steps into the courtyard. On a shelf next to the easel I saw vials of paints and glass jars holding brushes, pencils, scrapers, knives, and other tools. A gentle wave of warm, dry air picked up the scent of mesquite, linseed oil, earth, and a hint of pungent sage. I’m sure that Comet was also absorbing the sounds and smells, but her eyes were focused on the back of the man who stood mutely in front of the canvas.
Just when the silence seemed to be reaching uncomfortable, the artist turned. His face was weathered, but his smile was bright, giving him a youthful look.
“Sorry,” he said. “I was just finishing blessing this space with some burning sage.” He stuck out his hand to shake mine, clearly assuming that an apology involving sage-smoke blessings was all in a day’s work. Just for an instant, I expected him to introduce himself as Gandalf.
Ben was about six foot three and as big-boned and broad-chested as a college tight end. Although he was part Cherokee, his appearance was more Texas Baptist. If ever there was a human who exuded as much calm as a greyhound, it was Ben, and Comet picked up on that immediately. Ben wasn’t wearing a uniform, but she forgave him, gliding over to where he stood and leaning her body against his legs. Within five minutes, she had lowered herself into a prone position in a shady spot next to Ben’s easel, inviting the work to continue.
Ben accepted Comet’s invitation. “Hey, Wolf, why don’t you guys stick around and watch me work? Maybe we can both learn something.” Thus began sessions that lasted several weeks and immersed me in a world as fascinating as any containing goblins and elves.
“I concentrate on Plains cultures and traditions,” Ben told us that first day. “I’ve personally explored how the ancient teachings are universal and applicable to everybody, all colors, all nations. Like many aboriginal tribes around the world, the Plains Indians believed that everything—every creature, person, insect, star—is connected and interdependent. Life is not to be lived as a pyramid, with man on top and everything else below. These cultures believed that life is a circle, connected to all and ending where it began. So even though I’m part Cherokee, my paintings try to enlighten everybody, spiritually and visually.” Ben stopped and grinned at me. “Heavy stuff for an Indian, huh?”
“Yeah, but heavier for someone so white he glows in the dark.”
That first afternoon, Ben didn’t draw a thing. No painting. No sketches. It was as if he were laying the invisible footings and foundation for a house. How could I not be mystified and excited? While we were in the courtyard, I hadn’t thought once about my own situation. I was in the moment for the first time in many months, maybe years. I looked at Comet in the rearview mirror as I drove home. “Art is magic, Comet. And I love magic.”
The next time we visited the courtyard studio, I asked Ben, “How do you know what to paint?” He laughed at the bluntness of my question but tried his best to answer it.
“I’ve been mentally composing for the past few days. This painting I’m working on now”—I double-checked; the canvas was still blank—“is inspired by some passages written by Guru Rinpoche. No, he’s not American Indian; he’s Buddhist. Anyway, he wrote about how Buddhists think the basic cause of suffering is self or ego, an obsession that keeps a person from knowing the real world. It’s a false world if ego is the center of the universe. I’m reading this and seeing the words as a face that has features from different ethnic groups. An indigenous universal man, if you will. I’m going to convey my interpretation of the guru’s thoughts by painting that man.”
By our next visit, Ben had begun to draw. As he worked, he explained technical aspects of painting—glazing, color mixing, composition, spacing, and other details that completely absorbed me. “I apply several thin layers of clear glaze to all of my paintings because it further highlights the colors and provides depth from the light shimmering over the surface of the canvas,” he told me.
Understanding a work of art was like peeling away the layers of earth covering an archaeological site. Each level was only one piece of the final discovery. Just learning about the meaning inherent in one symbol, for instance the medicine wheel, was a lesson containing layers all its own. The wheel designated far more than the four directions. It was like North America’s first encyclopedia, containing information about sacred colors and animals, earthly elements, spiritual signposts, and various human races. That was just one symbol. And Ben offered just one artist’s perspective. And Sedona was full of artists.
Art became my own version of Buddhism. Because much of the focus was on the understanding and portrayal of others—other cultures, viewpoints, times, and beliefs—it allowed me to remove what I was going through from the center of the universe. My own pain and regret were insignificant when compared with the world as it really was. Living was bigger and better and brighter than any one individual could be. I recalled that the actress Ethel Barrymore had observed something similar about getting outside of yourself: “The more things you love, the more you are interested in, the more you enjoy, the more you are indignant about, the more you have left when anything happens.”
On Valentine’s Day Freddie came down for a brief visit. Her eyes sparkled when she saw how far Comet and I had come in our training, and I could tell that she was proud of us. Even better, for the first time in much too long I had something fun to share with her. Comet and I escorted Freddie to our favorite galleries and
introduced her to Linda and a few other artist friends. The collection of Ben Wright’s work at Linda’s gallery left an especially strong impression on my wife. Sunday morning, as I began to shave, I saw a small picture of one of Ben’s paintings taped to the mirror above my sink.
“I can’t get the images out of my head,” Freddie confessed. “I know we may not have the money, but I cut that picture out of a magazine just to dream.”
“You’re right, we can’t afford it,” I said, but the wheels were already spinning.
I wanted to make a grand gesture. I wanted to inspire something in Freddie besides anxiety. Being parent, breadwinner, supervisor of employees, and the only glue that seemed to be holding the family together was eroding Freddie’s normally feisty spirit. That would have been difficult enough without the additional strain of worrying about my emotional and physical well-being. I had the distinct impression that despite her compassion, Freddie was reaching her limit. There was no denying that during our phone calls her remarks had become increasingly clipped and impatient. Being separated most of the year was a burden so heavy that it was obviously stressing the underlying structure of our marriage. Catastrophic failure was a distinct possibility. If I happened to reach one of the girls by phone, their end of the conversation was like a political press statement—brief and devoid of meaningful content. I wanted these incredible ladies to know that my love was constant even if I wasn’t.
When Freddie left after Valentine’s Day, I called Linda and told her that I wanted to give my wife something that would surprise and delight her and, if possible, pay homage to what was good about our life together. A few conversations later we had concocted a plan that I knew would fit the bill, timed to coincide with Freddie’s next visit around Easter.
The evening stars dimmed when I saw Freddie’s smile as she emerged from the airport shuttle on the night of the surprise. It would take place after a reception Linda was hosting at the gallery to honor some of the artists whose work was displayed there. Freddie had barely been able to contain herself when I told her about my Art 101 lessons with Ben Wright, and she knew that he would be in attendance that night along with many other artists. After the gallery reception, a group of about thirty of us met at a nearby restaurant, where Freddie and I were seated at a table with Ben, Linda, and a few other artists. Enjoying a fine meal in the company of creative minds was an experience completely at odds with the hundreds of law and medical gatherings we had attended in the past. These people saw the world differently. The discussion didn’t revolve around politics or local gossip; instead, they reported on a unique color spotted in the diffuse light at the base of a canyon, or laughed about how conversations were similar to the moving shadows in a stand of cottonwood trees, or marveled at how local river deposits could make the most wonderful adobe clay.
Shortly after the dessert course, Ben excused himself and walked to the front of the room, where an easel stood covered by a white sheet. While the space vibrated with anticipation, he explained that his new work portrayed a Lakota female ritual involving buffalo blood and a girl’s passage to womanhood. Ben then invited me to remove the sheet from his painting.
“Wolfie, what … ?” Freddie was confused by the request.
I walked to the easel and lifted the sheet to reveal a four-foot square canvas. A neon crimson young girl with boyishly short hair stood in a pool of red, highlighted by a vivid white background. A keyhole overlaid by a green cottonwood leaf was prominently centered on her upper chest. Many Indian tribes considered a budding cottonwood leaf to be the sign of spring and the beginning of new life. The keyhole was symbolic of passing the threshold to maturity.
I read the painting’s name to the audience. “Red Water.” Then I continued with a paragraph Ben had written to explain the piece. “A holy man is speaking. ‘We are buffalo on the plains and this is a waterhole; the water in it is red, for it is sacred and made by the Creator, and it is of and from Buffalo Women. Drink from it; be nourished; see that we are all connected, we are all related.’ These words are from a buffalo ceremony where a girl becomes a woman.” My voice quavered. I was overwhelmed at the enormity of the feelings that were welling up, along with visions of my own young ladies on their journey to womanhood. The scene in front of me blurred; I could see Freddie’s outline but not her reaction. I stared above the heads, swallowed, and continued, “Red Water symbolizes nourishment and health, survival and protection through endurance. This is buffalo power, this is the ‘red power.’ ”
There was barely enough oxygen left in the room for me to gasp out the planned finale. “Ben has allowed me to buy this painting in honor of my young girls and my loving wife, who is devoted far beyond what is good for her health.” Ben grabbed my shoulder, saving me any further explanation by leading the applause. I could no longer see Freddie’s shape through the standing people, but then she appeared in front of me, her expression so complex and seductive that it could have inspired epic bravery or brought about world peace. Instead, it caused a coward to find faith. I managed to stay composed until Freddie put her arms around me and whispered, “Beyond touching, Wolfie.”
10
JUNE–SEPTEMBER 2001—NEBRASKA
If I had known that reception would be the highlight of my next few years, I would have been more careful to savor the look on Freddie’s face and the warmth of my blessings that night. But it was over too quickly, and in another month, so was my Arizona exile. It was time to drive north.
When we arrived at the lake house for what was now being called my summer visit, I got out and walked to the back of the SUV to open the door for Comet, suddenly aware that the house seemed deserted. “Where are Cody and Sandoz?”
“All of the girls are busy, so the dogs are probably sleeping inside,” Freddie said tensely. “Don’t read anything into it. They are all growing up—things and people, seeing and doing …”
My stomach clenched as I said, “Come on, Comet. Let’s go post bail for those four-legged inmates.”
“Wolfie, before you go in, I have something to tell you,” Freddie called after me, but I wasn’t paying attention.
Even if I had been, it wouldn’t have made a damn bit of difference. There had been moments in my life when bad news had seemed to stop time and paralyze every organ in my body. Fortunately, there were only a few such moments, like four years earlier when I had learned that my dad’s heart valve had dissolved, along with his life, as he was lifting trout out of a Pagosa Springs river. Seeing Cody’s emaciated back legs and prominent rib cage as he wriggled to greet me now joined the list. Only his wagging tail, dripping tongue, and joy-filled eyes kept me standing upright.
“When you’re with him all the time, you just don’t notice the signs as much,” Freddie said softly. We were sitting at the kitchen table staring out the sliding glass doors, watching Comet and Sandoz romp up and down the beach. “I didn’t even realize Cody was losing weight until your sister commented on it. The vet said that pain from hip dysplasia keeps him from using his back legs, causing his muscles to atrophy. Swimming is the best therapy. Good thing, since he spends all day in the water.”
Cody had been the epitome of canine health when I had left last fall, his toned muscles on proud display as he shook water from his coat and strutted across the sand. The sight of his frail body was so jarring that I was still trying to process it as he came into the house, wiggling between me and Freddie. “That might explain his hips and the loss of mass in the hind area, but why is he so skinny?”
Wetness glinted in the corners of Freddie’s eyes as she held out a treat for Cody’s gulping acceptance. “The vet said he is about seven pounds lighter than last year, but he couldn’t find any obvious causes—no heartworms or hookworms, and he still plays in the water all day long. He said that since Cody is thirteen, it might be the heat getting to him faster, making him less hungry when it’s time to eat.”
I had seen dogs look like Cody, and it was never the heat that was the problem. “I thi
nk that for a while he should sleep with me rather than Jackie,” I said. “Maybe Cody’s having trouble getting up at night and going down the steps to eat when he’s hungry. I’ll keep his food in my room.” We had already decided that this summer I would sleep on the ground level so I wouldn’t have to negotiate the stairs to the upper story. Cody bobbed his square head under my arm, telling me that great discoveries were waiting outside the sliding door and down the wooden steps. “He’ll be okay.” I’m not sure I spoke loudly enough for Freddie to hear.
Everyone called Cody my dog, and I spent more time with him than the rest of the family did, but he had adopted the girls when they were little. He had quickly assumed the role of activities director and lifeguard, never hesitating to snarl and show his teeth to scare the girls back to the house if they tried something dangerous, like playing too near the icy lake. Cody was Freddie’s trusty pillow when she reclined in front of the hearth during the short, cold days of winter, the two of them seduced into napping by the glowing oak logs. He deserved a pain-free old age, and I was going to make sure he got every chance at it.
The following morning on her way out the door to work, Freddie handed me a list written on paper torn from one of Jackie’s notebooks. “These are your doctor appointments for this month.” Not only did Freddie work full-time and run the house, but I increasingly relied upon her to schedule doctor visits, keep track of my medications, and generally act as my personal assistant and nurse. I’m sure it would have been a relief if I had shown even the remotest interest in easing that burden, but my battles with pain were progressively robbing me of the ability to deal with any detail greater than just waking up and making it through the day. I rationalized my dependence on Freddie by reminding myself that every medical professional we knew felt compelled to seize control of all family issues involving health care. Freddie was no exception.