Scorpio Rising

by Monique Domovitch

  Andrew shrugged in a futile attempt to appear indifferent.

  Alex studied the plans carefully. The revisions were simple. He needed to move a bathtub to the opposite side of a bathroom. He was to add a powder room near the entrance. Enthusiastically, he set to work.

  Within an hour of starting, his back was aching from constantly bending over the sketches. He would have happily given an entire week's paycheck for a comfortable chair and a proper drafting table. Better not ask for any favors. But I’ll be damned if I’ll work under these conditions.

  Saturday, his first day off, Alex got up early. An hour later, he walked into a drafting-supply shop. He looked through the store until he found what he wanted. At the cash register, he pulled out his wallet and counted out the money. This was one purchase he knew he would not regret. How can I expect to do a good job if I have to work on a wobbly old table?

  Monday morning, Alex was sketching away when Andrew McGregor walked in. “Nice table. Where did you get it?” he asked, a dumbfounded expression on his freckled face.

  “A gift from God,” he answered calmly, knowing Andrew would go crazy wondering why Alex got a new drafting table and he did not. Alex went back to work, whistling happily.

  A few days later, another drafting table suddenly appeared at Andrew's end of the room. Alex waited for a moment when nobody else was around. “Hey! Andrew! How much did you pay for yours?”

  It took a moment for the meaning to sink in. Andrew looked at Alex in surprise. “You mean you…?” He burst out laughing. “You bastard! You got me. You really got me.”

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  After an exhausting twenty-two hours of labor, the eight-pound baby boy made his appearance shortly before midnight. He's beautiful, thought Brigitte as he was handed to her, still slippery and wet. She lie on the hospital bed, tired but ecstatic, and gazed down at her son in wonderment. He had a fuzz of bright copper hair on his head and his unfocused eyes were a deep shade of jade. She scrutinized his small face and was infinitely relieved to find no resemblance to Lucien. More importantly, he was pink all over, and he had all his fingers and toes. And judging from the way he was screaming, he had a good pair of lungs. You look just like me. Her reaction was unexpected and immediate. I love you. Don’t worry, I won’t leave you.

  Her baby was healthy. David. That's what I'll call you, because you are so small, and I want you to be strong and face life without fear.

  The next day Doctor Beaulieu stopped by Brigitte's room during his hospital rounds. “How is our new mother doing?” he asked as he palpated her abdomen. “Looks like you're doing just fine,” he said after completing his examination. “And how is your son?”

  Brigitte's smile lit the room. “How did you know?” she asked.

  The doctor looked puzzled. “Know what?”

  “You predicted I would have a boy and you were right. How did you know?”

  “Is that what I predicted?” He chuckled. “Let me tell you my little secret. It's really very simple. All pregnant mothers want to know the sex of their baby. I always tell them the same thing—that they're expecting a boy—but I write down in my book that they're expecting a girl. I have a fifty-fifty chance of being right. When I'm right the mothers don't question it. When I'm wrong, I just open my book, show them my notes and tell them they must have misunderstood.” He chuckled again. “One way or another, I'm never wrong.”

  When he was one week old, Brigitte took David home. As soon as she was strong enough, she bought a crib at the flea market. For his blankets and sheets, she used the Porthaux and Descamps sheets Marcel had purchased for her. This is what I think of your fancy sheets. She tore the expensive linen into crib-size pieces of fabric. Then she painstakingly hand-sewed the hems on each piece and put her baby to bed in his new crib. Suffused with love and happiness for her child, she stood watching while he slept. Thank you God for keeping him healthy. Finally, she could put her fears behind her.

  * * *

  What Brigitte wanted most was to be a good mother. “I want to give you everything I never had,” she cooed into her baby's ears. “I will love you and protect you and never, ever abandon you.”

  She took her new role to heart. Every time David cried, she panicked. Was he hungry? Did he have colic? Or did he simply need a diaper change? She consulted her child-care book constantly. Sometimes in the middle of the night she would wake up with a start, convinced that he had stopped breathing. She would rush over to his crib only to find him sleeping peacefully.

  “Don't worry so much. He's fine,” Réjeanne Sauvé, Brigitte's landlord and downstairs neighbor told her repeatedly. Although Réjeanne Sauvé was not an attractive woman, nobody noticed. What people saw was a short, comfortably plump widow with a heart of gold. Although her deceased husband had left her a duplex with a large mortgage and a miniscule income, she was always willing to help others in need. When Brigitte first rented her upstairs apartment, Réjeanne Sauvé adopted her the same way she adopted everyone in her life.

  Réjeanne sat at Brigitte's small table, drinking another cup of café au lait. “I don't see what you're so worried about. Look at him. I've never seen such a healthy looking baby,” she said, laughing fondly. “Everybody knows you should let a baby cry. It's good for their lungs.”

  “How can you even say that?” asked Brigitte horrified as she cradled her son in her arms. Never, not in a million years.

  Soon, though, she learned the difference between David's many cries. Loud, frantic screaming meant hunger. The milder wailing meant he needed a diaper change. Whimpering meant he wanted to be picked up. As Brigitte became a more confident mother, David became a more contented baby and his crying all but disappeared.

  Brigitte settled into a calm, if somewhat solitary life, and soon was painting again. Now, there was a new urgency to her efforts, a new purpose to her art. Foremost on her mind was the fact that she had a child to support. She could not afford the luxury of painting for pleasure. She needed to sell her work.

  With this in mind, she chose to create bright and vivid still-life paintings. She used everyday objects—cracked vases, fruit, bits of ribbon and lace—and created interesting compositions of diametrically-opposing shapes, colors, and textures. Every one of her paintings was arresting, bold and interesting. Still, she was never satisfied. It seemed to her that the effect she wanted to create was always just out of her reach.

  She needed to have a few good paintings before she could even dream of selling them. Like a woman possessed she began early in the morning and stopped only when daylight faded. Her only breaks came when David needed attention.

  “What I need is better lighting in here,” she told Réjeanne one evening as she put away her paints, twisting on the paint-tube caps tightly. Good quality oils were horrifyingly expensive and tended to dry out quickly. “If I had proper lighting…”

  “You work day and night,” interrupted Réjeanne. “It's nearly nine o'clock now and I know you've been working since six this morning.”

  Brigitte looked up from her paint box.

  “I can hear you from downstairs when you walk around,” explained Réjeanne.

  “I'll try not to make so much noise.”

  “My goodness! You are in a mood. The noise doesn't bother me. I'm only worried about you. You've just had a baby, Brigitte. When are you going to start taking care of yourself?” She went to the ice box and opened the door. “Look at this. There's nothing in here.” She picked up a limp carrot. “This isn't even good enough to use as a model for a painting. It looks sick. I bet you haven't had a bite to eat all day, have you?”

  “I-I guess I got so carried away with my painting, I forgot.”

  “You forgot! How can you forget to eat?”

  “Don't worry. I make sure David is fed.”

  “That's not what I'm worried about.” She hesitated. “Brigitte, what are you doing for money?”

  “I-I'm sort of short right now but…” Brigitte voice quivered
and she turned her eyes away.

  “Brigitte, if you like…”

  “No! I don't want to owe anybody anything.”

  “Who said anything about borrowing? I was just going to say, you should think about meeting a man. There's this man I know who'd be perfect…”

  “Réjeanne, finding a man is not the answer to everything. I don't want to hear about meeting anyone right now.”

  Réjeanne sighed. “I'm only trying to help. You're so young and so pretty. You could make someone happy, and you could be happy, too. Besides, I don't know about you, but I think life without love is very empty.” Réjeanne poured herself another cup of coffee. “Okay, so back to your financial situation. Your paintings are really good. Why don't you go the carré and try to sell them there?”

  Brigitte hesitated. “That's what I'm planning to do, but I don't think I'm ready.”

  “Ready! Ready for what? For someone to come knocking on your door to discover you?”

  “I just don't like the idea of David being outside all day. He's still so young.”

  “Seems to me like you don't really have a choice. You have to feed him. How else are you planning to make money?”

  “I know you're right,” answered Brigitte hesitantly. “I don't have a choice.” She bitterly remembered another time when she'd had no choice, as Marcel had pointed out.

  Réjeanne smiled reassuringly. “One thing I have learned, chérie, is to trust life. Things always work out somehow. I'm free tomorrow. If you want to stop by the carré and give it a chance, you don’t have to take David with you. I'll be happy to mind him for you.”

  After Réjeanne had left, Brigitte put David back to bed and stayed with him until he was asleep. Then she returned to the living area and poured the contents of her purse onto the couch. She counted out the money, and sighed. There was barely enough to carry her through the next few weeks.

  Things always work out somehow, she reminded herself. She put the money away and settled on the couch for the night. No matter how much she tried, sleep did not come. She thought of Réjeanne's offer to find her a boyfriend. The woman was convinced that finding a man would solve all of Brigitte’s problems. I believed that, too, once. But I won't make that mistake again. I was so eager to be saved that I wanted to believe everything Marcel told me.

  She remembered the apartment on the Avenue George V and the life of luxury she had enjoyed for such a short time. Dear God, she asked bitterly in the night. Tell me what makes You decide that someone like Marcel Latreille would have so much money, while I have to worry about feeding my baby?

  She buried her head into her pillow and cried.

  * * *

  “Come here,” the man said. He was blonde with deep blue eyes, and Brigitte felt herself drawn to him. He smiled and lifted his hands to her breasts.

  She moaned.

  “You like that don't you?” His voice was low and caressing.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “No, no I don’t.”

  “You won't tell anyone about this will you? This is our little secret.”

  The voice sounded familiar, horrifyingly familiar. Brigitte's eyes flew open. Inches away was her step father's mean face grinning down at her.

  Brigitte screamed. She sat up in bed, startled, the sound of his voice still echoing in her ears. Just a dream, she told herself and hugged herself tightly under the covers. Just a bad dream. Lucien is out of my life. He can't hurt me anymore. It was hours before she went back to sleep.

  The next morning she got all of her things together, gave Réjeanne dozens of instructions, kissed David goodbye and set off for the carré. She could hear her son’s cries behind her, but she walked on resolutely. What else can I do? It’s not as if I have any choice.

  * * *

  Sometimes it seemed to Brigitte that she was destined for poverty. Exhaustion followed her twenty-four hours a day. There were countless chores to do. In the morning, there was David's formula to prepare, his diapers to rinse out in the toilet, and wash by hand in the sink before hanging them on the line to dry. There was dusting and cleaning, dishes to wash, and clothes to mend. After her housework and a few minutes with David, she ran off to the square where she spent the rest of the day trying to sell her paintings. No matter how hard she worked, there was never enough money.

  The worst was the guilt. Poor David. I love him, but I'm never there for him. What kind of life is that for a child?

  “You won't believe it,” Réjeanne told Brigitte when she came home one evening. “Today, David crawled for the first time.”

  “What a good boy,” Brigitte cooed to her son. “Maman is so proud of you.” Another milestone I wasn't there to see, she thought. But, as long as he is happy and healthy, that's all that really counts. I must spend more time with him. Money isn't everything.

  At the end of the day, when Brigitte tried to find sleep, it often evaded her. When it finally came, it was filled with nightmares of Lucien. The next morning, she dragged herself out of bed to begin another demanding day. I am like a gerbil in a cage, running around and around but never getting anywhere. But as long as I have David, and he has me, that's all that matters.

  When David spoke his first words at eleven months, Réjeanne was there. When he sang his first song, Brigitte only heard about it after he was already in bed. Because her time with David was scarce, it became even more precious.

  After finishing her housework, she tiptoed into his room and watched him sleep. My beautiful baby, I don't know what I would do without you. I love you, David.

  * * *

  Brigitte walked briskly in the midmorning sun. It was not yet noon and already the nape of her neck was damp with perspiration. It would be a sweltering day. She was sore from carrying her easel under one arm and her stool and paint box under the other. She hurried on. As she turned the corner of the Avenue Junot, a flock of pigeons flew off. Dozens of wings flapped in the air, lifting a faint cloud of dust from the sidewalk before settling down again. Brigitte squinted. Down the street a few hundred meters she could see the square.

  It looked no different than it had every morning since she became a regular nearly three years ago. Still, she felt her breath catch in her throat. Imagine, she told herself. The world's greatest artists began there. In her mind she could see them all: Picasso, Toulouse Lautrec, Renoir, and countless others, standing before their easels, capturing genius on canvas.

  In reality, the small park in Montmartre had long ago lost its charm. It was now no more than a patchwork of weeds and dry earth. Its outline was fenced in by a rusted iron-picket fence, along which a trove of mangy artists displayed the fruit of their mediocre to non-existent talent.

  Brigitte saw none of that. To her, the square was a wondrous place where, every day, her soul soared. In her eyes, every haggard painter was another colorful character destined to become one of the great artists of tomorrow. Apart from David, who was now a bright and cheerful three year old, and Réjeanne Sauvé, who had become family to her, these people were her only friends.

  “Bonjour Brigitte. You're late this morning. I saved your spot for you.”

  “Thank you, Julien. David wouldn't let me leave this morning. He wanted to read me his new book.”

  The skinny young man in the loose white shirt and black bérêt rushed over to help her unfold her easel. Julien embraced his role of artist with passion and dressing the part was a responsibility he enthusiastically performed. “Read? What do you mean read?”

  “Well, he doesn't really. I've read David his favorite book so often, he has it memorized. He pretends he can read and I play along with him.” Brigitte opened her paint box and pulled out a dozen small, colorful paintings and set them up along her small piece of sidewalk.

  “What else is new?” asked Julien as he picked up his charcoal and resumed his sketch of the café across the street.

  “Don't ask. My rent is due tomorrow and I don't have a single franc!”

  “Rough times lately?”

&nbs
p; Brigitte sighed. “Rough times lately,” she admitted.

  “Tell me about it.” Julien grinned suddenly. “Hey, that one is good.” He was looking at the painting Brigitte had just set up on her easel. “Hate to tell you, but you'd make a lot more money if you painted more of these. That's what tourists buy.” He pointed to his own, a series of scenic drawings, similar to those popularized on postcards.

  “I know. I just don't seem to have the knack for them the way you do,” answered Brigitte, generously. “I'll only try them if I get absolutely desperate.”

  “And you're not desperate now, with your rent due tomorrow?”