Lomita For Ever

by Trevor Eve

  But had he not waited until he saw her carrying the washing in the basket from the house and then put the match to the gunpowder?

  No, he had not done that.

  No, for sure, in the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ he was not crazy. Where did that religious fervour come from?

  *

  He was beaten by his mother with a wooden spoon.

  Three dining chairs were piled onto him as he sat in the green and brown striped Parker Knoll chair; then these were tied down with string. He had no desire to move even if he could because he would be beaten again.

  Ever was still smallish and was yet to experience the viral pneumonia that would nearly kill him and keep him bedridden for months. It was during this illness, an illness that hit him when he was fifteen, that he grew.

  Not in proportion, as his body grew but his legs stayed short. He emerged months later from his bed six inches taller; six inches taller in his body. His legs later caught up by a couple of inches but he looked a weird one for a while.

  A scrawny, out-of-proportion weird one.

  His mother was still alive, though.

  Next time.

  Eh?

  *

  He was telling this story to Lomita.

  He was pushing her around the indefectibly groomed sidewalks of Beverly Hills, where the grass seemed to know that it is not allowed to grow over onto the sidewalk and where women, mostly women, walked with sun-visors at a quick pace wearing trainers and tracksuits. This was the activity of the streets, the prolonging of life through the speed walk. He wanted so much to unload the burden of his Oedipal experience on Lomita but felt that it threw an obvious question mark over their relationship.

  Although he didn’t think in any way he was looking for a relationship with a mother figure. Lomita was more intent on discussing how they, or how Ever, was going to deal with the showing of his father’s paintings on Wednesday. How would he deal with whatever they revealed themselves to be?

  *

  The Good the Bad or the Ugly.

  Even the Mediocre. Which would it be?

  Lomita was thinking this through; she couldn’t believe that she was being pushed through these empty streets by a man who was contemplating murder. On every other level he was a sensitive, caring human being but this madness had blocked his life and she was surmising, being pushed, that this wasn’t the whole story: the whole reason for seeking this retribution for his father.

  And now there was the complication of revelation in her life.

  Did she also have the desire before, before Ever, to know the truth about herself, to analyse what she had lived through?

  Is this what these two people recognised in each other: the desire to unload the truth?

  To find it. To be honest, to unburden; did it not make the world they lived in start on an unfair level every day? Did the accumulation of these events in their lives cause a twist and a discomfiture in the brain that built up and made it an impossible place to inhabit?

  Is this what bonded them without them knowing?

  She could see the help that she could give to ease the accumulation of pain that builds through wrongdoing. The difference between them was that he had the misconception that by the destruction of a life and the destruction of his own, he could right whatever he felt was wrong. And she had holed up, and was now extending a hand, as a lifeline to care for someone, after a life of hiding her own pain and lying to all around, including herself, that everything was all right.

  Would it help if she showed him what she had been through?

  Lomita had interpreted the attempt at matricide without any judgement; the random behaviour of a bored, early-teenaged boy.

  Ever had not included the bits about when he had actually lit the fuse.

  And did he shout?

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The day came.

  The Wednesday. The nervous pair were driven to the gallery by Manita in the black Suburban. All felt dark, as if an enormous gulf had opened up between them in the aftermath of a row, a serious disagreement, but there had been no such thing.

  Silence accompanied them on the drive.

  The drive downtown: the journey to the viewing of John Everett Millen’s work. They were deposited by the car at the entrance with no need to valet as Manita was in charge of the black mass. They got out, the wheelchair was pulled from the back, Ever took her arm and walked her to the ease of her chair. They then adopted the familiar position of pushed and pusher and entered the gallery.

  They walked to the section with the hermetically sealed glass doors, which opened without any effort from either of them, and towards the desk, millennia of metamorphic rock beneath their feet, to the waiting Miss Money-Root.

  ‘Good morning. Are we ready?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Was all Ever could produce, he thought that charm and the attempt at conversation were over as she was needed no more.

  They were escorted to a small gallery at the back of the building with a stone column carved with Private No Entry, vertically. It stood by the twenty-foot-high door, which Miss Money-Root opened with the minimum of effort despite its size. What was it with these doors? Ever brought his head back to an upright position, having read the sign.

  ‘I will leave you to it.’

  Was her exit line.

  Ever was in one of his sweats. And a panic, of course, and the shakes. He was about to see the reality of what he had kept inside him, of his father as a painter with a stymied talent, a genius cut off in his prime.

  Lomita wheeled herself to the centre of the gallery, which was comparatively small by the standards of the rest of the building. She sat without a word.

  There were twenty paintings: ten each on opposite walls and none on the other two. That was the first thing that struck Ever about the curating: why hadn’t they spread them evenly around the room?

  The canvases were a blur, his nerves were making his eyes lose focus, this gave him time to make a prayer for them to be everything he wanted them to be. He prayed till the focus returned, for the lens, like a camera to pull to the point of precision.

  And then.

  Some of the paintings he recognised; his head swept across them all, fast, wanting to take them all in at once. He had seen some of them before, had spoken to his father about them.

  There was the giant abstract of The Wave and The People on a Bright Day, contorted figures blasted by a yellow smear across their faces. A series of paintings of a woman walking away in a swirl of colour around her, as she, painting by painting, disappeared further into the distance. A series of five. There were explosions of colour thrown onto the canvas in enthusiasm, anger, or despair; some return to figurative pieces, the face of an old hobo, his face engraved with deep grooves, grotesque, like fissures in stone, starting to ooze the first signs of blood, such was their depth.

  But there was one he had never seen before.

  It stopped all awareness of nerves and shaking and rendered him in a suspended state of a past and drowning life: it framed itself in front of his eyes in a jumping, inconstant rhythm that through four words made him believe and disbelieve all in one moment; he would have been granted a blessing if he was removed from the world in this second of seeing.

  It was a graphic piece, in that it was on a background of white: large black lettering spilling over at the sides spelling out.

  WELL, DID YOU EVER?

  After the initial time-freeze, the song from High Society played as a pacifier in his mind – he remembered listening to it on the radio on his drive back from Palm Springs. But that thought could only provide a millisecond of avoidance.

  He knew that spelling to be WELL, DID YOU EVAH? It was A-H, A-H for God’s sake.

  What next offered itself as a diversion, was to scrutinise. He was walking towards it, staring at the brush strokes that made up the lettering, looking for the emotion in the stroke, the shake, the bend, the curve, the deviation from an exact calligraphic replication
of the letters. Looking for a deviation from precision. It was done by hand as opposed to print or stencil. But it was calm, it had been pondered on till the emotion in the execution was gone. The emotion, all connection with the words had passed. It was unavoidable.

  He sat in front of this piece on one of the benches covered in black studded leather that were centred in the room.

  Ever wondered, no he just feared, with no more distracting thoughts, that the agony was – is – that he will never know. For as long as he was, in that moment, unfortunate to live.

  ‘What do you think?’

  Said Lomita.

  ‘What do you think?’

  Was sent straight back after two more prompts of the question.

  ‘I feel that he ran out of himself, he had nothing left and these were… I don’t know if they were the last things he ever did.’

  ‘Amongst them.’

  Replied Ever.

  ‘But they don’t seem to have any passionate content. Or seem to have taken a lot of time.’

  ‘Is that a criterion – the time?’

  ‘I don’t know, I mean commitment.’

  ‘What the fuck do you mean?’

  Came from the contortion that had shaped Ever’s mouth; he was still seated and still staring. He was not with Lomita’s attempts at encouraging an analytical discussion.

  Lomita’s head turned in a questioning movement, at both his tone and choice of word.

  ‘I mean. There is nothing that hasn’t been said before and probably by him. If every spark has a life and every star burns out, it looks like he was on the way to burning.’

  Lomita knew she was on dangerous ground, but she had to express what she felt to be her honest opinion. This man had harboured the belief his father was wronged and maybe he wasn’t.

  ‘I love them.’

  Said Ever, unconvincingly, still staring at the lettering.

  There was nothing left for Ever at that moment. No life. No future. Nothing. He felt as if all had left him, that he was responsible: had broken the spirit of his father and mother. That he was all that was wrong. He just wanted to sit. He could do nothing. He never wanted to leave this room because if he did he would have to face it all.

  Didn’t anybody understand this?

  ‘Don’t you understand this?’

  He said as if he had been having the conversation with Lomita.

  ‘Yes.’

  She replied, because he had.

  ‘Do you like any of them?’

  Ever said, after a while.

  ‘Do you mean enough to buy? To live with?’

  ‘I don’t know, let’s just start with like. At all. Shall we?’

  ‘I like The Wave. I like the first image of the disappearing woman. I don’t understand writing paintings. Never have.’

  ‘I do.’

  Offered Ever.

  ‘I think.’

  More time passed in a silence; then Ever said,

  ‘Do you want to go?’

  ‘If you like?’

  Ever was tempted to photograph the exhibition on his phone, but that would encapsulate, what? A memory of sadness, regret – negativity.

  Will I never see them again? Are they gone now? Is that it? Back to a warehouse.

  Tears were pouring down his face but there was no noise coming from the face. Did no one understand what it was like to be trapped in perpetual doubt and sadness and regret? For even breathing.

  Lomita sat and watched and knew.

  She knew.

  *

  This was the moment.

  Did those paintings deserve to have never seen the light of day after one exhibition?

  This was the question Lomita felt propelled to answer and would it make any difference whatever she said: where did she begin? She could most definitely see talent, she could see why the artist had attracted attention in the first place. But did he meet the wrong people when he came into town? Did he not meet his Tarantino? Was he like her? He didn’t make the right person sit in wonder and awe. Is that because he never met them, or because his work was not good enough to demand that response? Would anyone ever know the answer to the question of luck, good fortune and synchronicity. Being in the right place, to meet the right people, at the right time?

  Was it just that?

  Lomita wheeled herself towards the door.

  ‘Please stay. Tell me all that you were just thinking.’

  ‘I think he was alone.’

  Lomita delicately suggested.

  ‘And if you don’t have a spiritual guide, you need a human one, I don’t think he had that. He was good Ever, he was.’

  ‘But not brilliant, genius?’

  ‘You know the answer to that. How many are in a century? Or not necessarily even every century. But it doesn’t change anything. What we make, do, create, are.’

  ‘Of course it does. It defines us.’

  ‘Then no, he wasn’t a genius. Is that what you want to hear? Does it make it better if I say he was?’

  ‘Why do we make such a lot of fuss about being on this planet, why do we put ourselves through such pain? Is it to be immortal? Why are we so driven to be successful?’

  ‘Not everyone is.’

  ‘He wanted to be. He thought he deserved to be.’

  ‘How do you calculate that?’

  ‘What?’

  Said Ever.

  ‘Deserving? Through the agony you put yourself or others through? That doesn’t make you better.’

  Ever opened the door, with no effort; they passed Miss Money-Root at her marble slice of a desk.

  ‘Would you ask Mr Lorken if indeed he is free for lunch on Friday, as it was suggested he might be?’

  ‘Of course, Miss Nairn. His only two days at the gallery here are Monday and Friday, so he does get extremely busy, but if he suggested Friday then I am sure it is in his diary. I will email Mr Jacob to confirm.’

  ‘Would you please bring the car round.’

  Ever was told directly, and oddly, as he wasn’t driving, but correctly sensing the suggestion of dismissal, he obeyed and went to inform Manita. Lomita stayed with Miss Money-Root with the intention of purpose; and Miss Money-Root, in anticipation of purpose, paid attention.

  Lomita followed in due course, wheeling with an energy, but making a slow and proud exit. Ever stood waiting with the door open to the car, on the street outside the gallery.

  *

  John Everett Millen had got his showing in the Gehry building after all.

  A posthumous exhibition.

  Aren’t they meant to be the best?

  Carry the most romantic concept of a lost talent, bringing more value and appreciation to the remaining works?

  *

  Ever received an email alert.

  This interrupted his reflection on Monday and Friday being Mr Lorken’s only days at the gallery. That information had been imparted with ease, accessed without effort.

  The email was from Dr Aran, telling him the initial blood tests were clear of any viral infection. But he would need another after a six-week period from the date of intercourse.

  Thanks: his flippancy towards the information reflected the fact that he couldn’t have cared less, either way.

  He couldn’t speak in the car, he was drained: an empty sink but full of residue.

  It was as if he had just witnessed the death of his father all over again.

  He was bleeding for his father; for what this son had done to him. When emotion turned in on itself: it was directed at the easiest target, after all, and it was always a bullseye.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  They arrived back at Oakhurst Drive.

  In what had seemed a much quicker time than their trip had taken to the gallery. The usual procedure took place and Lomita even asked, in an almost exact replica of his very first time there, if they could please have some tea. Ever took her arm and Manita took the car.

  Lomita could only think of showing him something that was a
s shocking to her as she felt the truth of his father’s work or the burial of his father’s work was to him. When they got inside she asked Ever to follow her to the screening room.

  She laced up the projector, pulled the blinds down and waited for the tea to arrive. This would not shock or upset Lomita anymore, but she was interested in what it would do to Ever.

  The tea arrived in silence and the exquisite movement followed, with her pouring. After they had had a couple of sips she quite calmly asked,

  ‘Are you ready now, my sweet?’

  For what, he had no idea.

  ‘Yes.’

  He stuttered anyway.

  The lights were dimmed and the whirr of the projector began to throw its flicker on the screen. The one thing Lomita could not bear was the sound, so that was down. The images started to appear on the screen and the discomfort was instant; not from the content initially, but from the bad quality of the acting. The preambling set-up. The 8 mm celluloid spooling its way through the light of the projector added a vulgarity of colour to the image. It gave it an instant feeling of authenticity, of stark reality, of it happening now, the handheld inexactitude giving it the sense of capturing a real event. Unrehearsed and captured as a once-only. A do or die: now or never.

  The first physical onslaught of this beautiful girl took place and then the unquestionable reality hit. Hard and relentless. Ever could instantly recognise it to be Lomita, she was so innocently breathtaking in her beauty. The events that followed he could barely watch, he kept looking at Lomita in an unspoken demand for it to stop. She returned, by gesture, his eyes to the screen.

  It was sick-making.

  Truly sick-making and Ever wanted to complete the physical act of vomiting. He was prone to a chunder. He kept his face turned to the screen, but Lomita was unable to see his eyes close at the parts that were unbearable to watch. Eventually the rape came to an end and Lomita stood, to put the lights on, and turn off the projector.

  ‘That was my film debut.’