Schooling

by Heather McGowan

  They met by the rearing horse, he came for her in the Fiat, window scrolled to half-mast. They drove with wind buffeting inside the car. An anomaly, a day like this in April, do you know what anomaly means? His cuffed elbow on the door frame where the window wasn’t, poking out easily as if it has been summer their entire history instead of today being a Deviation From the Norm, a day it might reach twenty. That being a celsius account.

  Insipid, you say? But he smiles as he walks toward her.

  In London, eighty degrees sent the English into bewildered fannings of newspapers. Damp missionaries stranded on the Bloomsbury veldt. Undone by heat. How well Gilbert handles an upswing in degrees remains to be seen. Shirt rolled to an easy forearm boded well. But careful examination revealed many errors. Points lost for black socks.

  Drab, you think? . . . he reaches her . . . Will you stay under that tree? Ignore the landscape I’ve taken such pains to provide? . . . Gilbert takes the bag from her . . . Come on, you can take heart from your great love, Thomas Cole and his Drab River School.

  She never said she loved Cole. Or had she. Perhaps she had. He arranges the paints, fanning out the tubes. Who does she love. A question that.

  At Christmas I saw a landscape I liked . . . taking the paintbrush Gilbert holds out to her . . . A postcard. They were having a picnic, men with pipes, a lady in a necklace.

  Picnic? You mean Déjeuner sur l’herbe? That ’s . . . a dry cough . . . Not what I would call a landscape. Certainly information to keep from Mr. Betts. He’ll fear a restaging of it on the hockey pitch.

  They snicker together because they are both anti-Betts because shrubs and greenery doth not a landscape make. Not when there’s nudity involved.

  A swell of wind shimmies the new leaves. A thin line of yellow to her paper, snaggling it for a leaf. What about this Dido, does the teacher love her still. A query to which old Gilbert hems, hums and improvises an artful analogy. Different sorts of loves. The foreground and background of ardor, Manet’s peaches versus his leaves. Platonic, romantic, the fuzzy line between. Does she understand. Well not really, but why did the teacher move his love from a peach in the foreground to a leaf in the back. Well, he says shyly these questions are highly irregular, but I found that my wife was herself after all, not the person I fashioned to love.

  Oh. And silently they paint together in their brown landscape quiet together. Side by side in their worlds considering who they love sharply in a foreground sort of way and who are the blurry ones, the victims of perspective.

  In the center of the canvas she has the beginning of a trunk, from the bottom up this time instead of the usual top down, so she has learned one thing. Although, it strikes her now that the most important features should appear slyly to one side.

  My tree’s smack in the middle and very bad to boot.

  Gilbert’s head jerks up . . . To boot? You sound so English saying that.

  He is tricking her.

  What’s the matter?

  I don’t want to sound like you.

  But I’ve been making a concerted effort not to sound so affected.

  No, the snooty voice is funny. In fact, I give you eighty-two percent for it.

  Has there been another panel? Where was I when that convened . . . Gilbert flicks something from his paper . . . Had I known, I would have trotted out some superior puns.

  Puns aren’t funny.

  Good to know. Still, eighty-two percent is not ninety-one. Though you have the challenge of not falling.

  I won’t fall.

  Gilbert acts glum, mutters hubris and youth so much promise so little compromise. She laughs at his show, the poor moron left in shadows. Wait, you’re laughing, he says, That’s worth an eighty-four, eighty-three at the very least which only makes her laugh harder. Eighty-five, eighty-six, he continues. Stop, she sobers, taking her landscape off the easel, I’m the judge.

  Gilbert watches her set the painting on a patch of dry mud. She steps back to let him see.

  My, my . . . he evaluates . . . Wild tree. And yellow. You’re a secret Fauvist, a—

  Faux vista?

  Fauvist. From the French, meaning wild beast. Meaning emotional exuberance, vivid color, unconventional form over the more traditional civilized lines.

  Then Gilbert sets down the paintbrush he’s been using to describe the air because in trying to reposition her easel she’s getting ludicrously tangled in its legs. Hold on, Hercules, he says walking over. Yes he does own too short trousers, bad socks and a limited hairwashing routine but Gilbert also owns strong hands that trick flesheating chemicals hands which are at present moving her easel to the north, precisioning new watercolor paper carefully, tacking sheet to easel. Her hands would leave the paper furling and smudged. Upper right bottom left like hospital corners the sheet of paper a bedsheet. White shirt. Laundry smell with an unwashed Wednesday souring—

  You smell nice, Mr. Gilbert.

  He looks down at her, sweeps her paper with the side of his hand, then moves away, back to his own easel. Dropping down next to the doctor’s bag to find a better brush.

  Didn’t mean to say it aloud. Dipping her brush in the water cup. A wrong thing to say. Wet brush aloft, surveying the uneasy land, uncivilized, a wild beast, she will choose caesious, orpiment, grege. Consider. Consider the words first. Gilbert never goes quiet. Has never simply left her to the stutter of birds. If this were a play he would stride over, he would do something dramatic or exit. Drama doesn’t bear silence. Or is that exactly what it bears. Silence to feel what are the actors feeling. In a play, they would have better background than this. Hillocks on their way to rocky mountains, edelweiss, a tricky brook. And there would be other characters. Stock hardy types found in all trustworthy British dramas. Morally upright in an unselfconscious way, not secretive or So You Might Think, undemanding and useful. The plot would not involve painting which when it comes right down to it is dull as mud to watch. No, the plot would expose a secret or two, held out to a thrilling conclusion, inevitable but at the same time surprising. A revelation concerning the hero. A transformation involving the villain. Instead, they are lodged in mud and Gilbert will not act as rehearsed.

  Suddenly he’s here holding a clean palette. Quietly . . . For you.

  She turns to say—but he flinches, a stab in his eyes. A fleeting look, something. Fear? He gives her the plastic disc. She would have preferred a wooden palette with a hole for the thumb. Shoulders hunched, Gilbert walks back through the stubble to his own easel.

  Silence. They paint.

  Memlinc.

  She looks up.

  Gilbert, absorbed, painting, a surmising nose scratch . . . Memlinc was a Flemish painter. From the Flanders school which is a region we now recognize as Belgium. You remember. France’s attempt to control the cloth-producing towns of Flanders led to the Hundred Years war.

  French flags festooned the list’s border. Allons-nous en Provence! announced the jovial title. The details were admirable. Apparently the weather in Southern France can be unpredictable. Who knew that hovercrafts usually depart on time? It seemed a meeting of participants would be held one night next week. This meticulous information, for the organizers had done their jobs scrupulously, was followed by a list of participants. Brickman, Craven, Curran and there it was. Or rather, wasn’t. A surprising omission between Eggles and Finch.

  Gilbert glances up . . . We won’t have any fun in France without you.

  Valor, Bucket, Foretold. Armed with Araigny’s vocabulary, they will only have words like Grief but will really know Grief if they ever need a Toilet. On the other hand, she knows the word for sandwich. And more than one type.

  Now, van der Neer, well, I attempted homage once . . . Gilbert’s shirttail’s out, fingers grasping waist, he dabs paint idly as if waiting for a bus . . . You’ve seen the results in Howlands. You said your mother liked dark paintings, didn’t you?

  She rinses her brush. A cloud moves back, tada, the sun. Catrine?

  She sque
egees out excess water.

  It gets boring, you know.

  What does?

  The constant deflection.

  The chemistry teacher walks briskly downstage. Hold on, the follow spot can’t keep up. He sets down his folding stool and takes the girl’s hands. All very deliberately. Silence. His rolled-up sleeves, the greasy hair, paint on his fingertips like a child. A long moment. They stare at each other. The audience grows restless, shuffles programs. Above, a caw of bird spills down, away.

  I asked you a question about your mother.

  The sun catches his scar, his nose becomes a blade.

  Don’t ignore me.

  Mr. Betts says Never Capitulate.

  Patrick Betts, need I remind you, IS NOT HERE. And what the hell does that mean? Surely Mr. Betts did not intend . . . Gilbert sighs, there’s no other word for it . . . Well who knows what he intended . . . taking her hands to his forehead, Gilbert cools himself after his exertion to make her tell, then drops them. It’s not good, he murmurs and returns to his easel.

  Propped before her, a yellow effort, incomplete, the underbelly of a rock. Fabrication, because the exact is never true. She chooses violet. Gilbert grumpily clanks his brush against the water bottle.

  Violet grass violet tree . . . My mother wouldn’t have liked the Fauvists.

  Don’t talk about her to appease me . . . still grumpy.

  She would have thought all that color was ugly.

  You’re inventing . . . brushing the air . . . Invent away.

  My mother didn’t—

  Doesn’t matter . . . and grumpier still . . . It’s all invention to circumvent feeling.

  That’s not true. My mother would have hated those painters. Gilbert yawns.

  She didn’t like a muddle—

  A muddle? Muddle? . . . Gilbert’s yawn turns into a snort . . . I can’t say I’ve ever heard an American say that. Muddle!

  Stop.

  You’ll be as snooty as me in no time.

  I said stop it.

  Why, what’s wrong with sounding English?

  You’re not funny for one.

  Gilbert stops laughing . . . What is it? . . . he walks over, kneels next to her tiny canvas chair.

  For some reason her hands cover her ears like a child cusped on tantrum. Paintbrush held in fist, sticking in her hair. Oh no oh no not now.

  At her height exactly, he appraises her, eyes flecked with hazel which could be a slogan for some type of chocolate. Muddle. How could she have been so stupid.

  Hold on a minute . . . Gilbert wipes her cheekbone with his thumb . . . Is this The Crying Scene?

  Go to hell.

  Gilbert is not taking the position he should, the sympathetic character employed hitherto. He stands, wet ovals mark his knees. Takes the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger.

  Stand up.

  No.

  Pulling her Never to his chest Capitulate what is his white shirt like pressing to a sheet so clean a handkerchief. Gilbert wraps his arms around her.

  I won’t cry for you . . . struggling . . . I’m not a Punchinello not your—

  He has her so tight wrapping his arms a vice advice It’s not a betrayal to sound like us platitudes he’s platonizing her taking her up so tightly his shoulders and back prepared to bear her weight and she she no.

  He is saying Your mother said you were not to cry for her, I knew it the very first time we met. And then he cries, yes yes it is Gilbert who sobs, sobs delicious in her hair, webbing it with snot and sympathy. What is he to Evans or Evans to him that he should cry for her.

  13

  He’s dropped her at the rearing horse, given her hand an extra squeeze and she’s up the hill toward school. Is it any accident that a word like Muddle proves distressing.

  Wha—she screams, a monstrous phoenix floats up from behind a letterbox.

  The bird goggles its eyes.

  Simon. Go away. Wander elsewhere. In the road for example. She increases her speed up the hill. Gilbert pressed her hand he. Simon matches her pace. She tries stopping abruptly. Skillfully, Puck dodges, avoiding collision.

  Go find Owen, why don’t you.

  Simon raises his beak.

  She begins to run.

  Mostly you try not to perform as expected.

  She doesn’t have the stamina. Simon catches up.

  But out it came beyond your control.

  What are you talking about.

  Explanations about libraries crème caramel canned vegetables how you were never supposed to eat them. Paintbrush gripped in your fist and Gilbert saying let it go let it go not about the paintbrush, not profound in his I knows because he shares a horror of unfresh beans but because once he had a sister yes fatherless they starved sharing false adagios in the parlor.

  You don’t know anything about it, Simon Puck.

  This is the way with sisters and mothers. They are never considerate of those they leave.

  Think I listen to some beakboy.

  Your mouth brutal against his neck nonsensical you’ve heard of it possession when the blabbing overtakes you couldn’t register your knees you ended at him ended with breath at his collar will end up making rude guttural noises in the scared dark verses you want if you could only remember the words.

  I never mewled about my mother.

  How you love his collar—

  She never had the back of his neck.

  Really, the boy has lost his mind.

  You want into his skin bloodstream want him osmotically. What a child he must think you heavy at his shoulders soggying his shirt with your foolish sorrows.

  Gilbert’s—

  Your someone to talk to your epic version your vergil your anomaly. Pigeon-brain. Your head’s in the sand, ostrich.

  Slung against him, a man with motivations, you thought about white spaces left when the paintings came off the wall those old letters she was always reading Dear Catherine Dear Henry Love Catherine Love Henry reading all about those separated married to other lovers. She cried didn’t she? Cried for love.

  Yes.

  Finally you let yourself lean amewl against his chest he murmured above he was a conch. In his chest you found the ocean.

  14

  Mountains. A desolate wilderness. The background contains a single tree and the sheer rock face of a cliff. They enter in stages of exhaustion. A difficult journey. Not much longer. Here is Brickie, trustworthy Athenian, a crow hooked on his arm. Another boy, a Stuart or Adam, with a magpie. Nervous first years porter luggage. Brickie is fine, eyes casting about with annoyance, projecting to his audience, straight to her it seems.

  I’ll be damned if I know where we are.

  Do you suppose we could find our way back home? . . . Adam stumbles . . . Hell.

  That’s where we’re headed alright . . . Brickie sighs . . . That’s where we’re headed.

  The seats are filled with masters, Stokes’ arms folded and smiling, casting his one good eye now and then to Bea who strums her fingers glad for an outing. Yes everyone’s here, handsome Duncan Peaks resident amnesiac, even old Araigny who has stopped knitting for once but perhaps only in order to cast Betts reproachful glances as he pets the wifely hand claiming his knee.

  Onstage, lights play on Brickie’s black hair, he has them in his thrall.

  Oh what a plan the race of birds could launch! Listen to me and power untold is yours.

  And here is Simon Puck center stage. Beak dirty from so many days, battered but no matter for he has gold and green wings, he dances.

  O Treachery O Treason to betray us so.

  It will be his grandest moment.

  Puck shrieks . . . These men are spies, their lives are lies, so kill without regret.

  Brickie cowers but is still strong.

  Neither shall the misty mountains, nor the foaming fountains save them from our beaks.

  Anon, Dr. Thorpe emerges as a prophet and Spenning is a lawyer shouting, Tis wings! Tis wings I crave!

 
Lo let them present Fi Hammond rolling in strung up on a machine propelled by those photogenic boys from the hockey pitch. Trouser clad, they bring her forward. And descending on this marvelous contraption, no doubt she tied the knots herself, Fiona is a messenger from the gods, shaking her fist with useless petulance.

  My father Zeus sent me down to say the Olympian gods desire a sacrifice.

  Brickie and Adam laugh, they turn their backs on her.

  Fiona tries again . . . Mankind must slaughter sheep on holy hearths, and fill their streets with smoke.

  Brickie quotes . . . Men are to worship birds not gods anymore. Now, go singe some youngsters with your lechery won’t you?

  Dido across the aisle laughs like a donkey. Betts turns to shush. Owen is missing, in the wings, perhaps. The play continues. A truce, a feast. Brickie splendidly gowned, newly winged reaches out his hand to the girl . . . Oh my lovely oh my sweet take my wings in your shining hands let me lift you lift you above the sky and soar beside you through the buoyant air.

  Puck flies . . . Noblest of the gods on high!

  Applause.

  THREE

  1

  Here it comes, a turning comment on pennies or the radio. Outside the land flashes past the yellowgreen you will know as jonquil tinge to the upper leaves though they travel down down leaving what little they have known. And remarkably, he is silent. Not to know she has his art in her prim hands. Handkerchief. Mappula. On the way. Father said, An honor it is to be chosen. Join these classes your Mr. Gilbert holds down south. That a teacher has it you show such promise you’re to stay with his very own family. After Easter lunch, roaming to show what they could do with the Felmar potting shed, convert it to something for her delight. Painting studio. Didn’t it amaze him, Father, for her to resound so in both chemistry and art. Talents seemingly opposed in nature. Painting trees to resemble lemons hardly qualifies for an accomplished eye. Surely. Yes, surely. Yet all of a sudden, private tutorials, studios. But what does she know really, about talent. Perhaps yellow signals genius as it can signal caution. Hazard ahead. Pure hands, a triangle around his art. Give Way. Hands scored by old eczema now clearing. Hands capable of a Déjeuner perhaps or Martyrdom. After all, you can’t assume she knows a thing. Juddering to avoid a sweater in the road. Arms up as if hailing. Come back Come back. Not knowing you never can. That’s the thing about sweaters, they lack a fundamental understanding. How did it go. That old sweet song. Fingertips against hipbones. Falling into a patch of lab bench sun. Leaning to give her cream for the eczema. Refrain something like. Stay.