“What’s her phone number?” asked Whitman, rubbing his jaw.
“Why? Leave her alone,” I said. “She’s just reached the conclusion that you’re an asshole sooner than most of us.”
“Just give me her number.”
Whitman went to the phone by the entrance of the lounge and dialed. He spoke for a minute then turned and waved goodbye to us. We could see him heading down the hallway to the elevators.
“What an idiot,” I said.
“Ginny or Whitman?” asked Norman. He finished his drink and looked around for the waitress.
“Ginny. What does she need with a jerk like that? Shit. Let’s go.”
“We could stay awhile.” Norman smiled hopefully.
“We could, but we aren’t. I want to see how Beethoven is doing.”
We gathered our things and Norman stopped at the bar to pay our tab. I noticed neither Ginny nor Whitman had left money for their drinks, but who was I to judge? I headed outside, jostling my way through the perfumed and cologned yuppies to get out the front door onto the street. Some guy grabbed my ass as I passed. I flipped him the bird over my shoulder and kept moving.
Norman joined me on the sidewalk out front. “Should I call for a cab?”
“Did you ever try a singles ad?” I asked.
“No. Did you?”
I smiled. “I sorta answered one once,” I said, thinking of Gladys. “But you know me, I didn’t meet a suitable partner. I didn’t even manage to meet someone human.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh, you never know who you’ll meet through the classifieds,” I said. “It might be someone completely inhuman.”
“What do you mean inhuman? Like an alien? You’re freaking me out.” Norman waved at cabs passing by.
“Ha. That’s what I said.”
“Do you think you might want to go and talk to someone, you know, maybe get some help?”
“Oh no. I know what happens. Before you know it, I’d be locked in some asylum. I know what they do with ladies who won’t behave.”
“You’ve completely lost me.” Norman waved wildly at the street.
“Apparently not, Norman, because you’re still here. As a matter of fact, you don’t seem to know how to get lost.”
A cab finally pulled over and I climbed in. Norman stood on the sidewalk.
“Aren’t you getting in?” I asked.
“No,” he said grimly, “I think I’m going to go for a walk.”
I shrugged and the cab pulled away. I counted the loonies and quarters in the bottom of my purse, hoping I had enough cash to pay for the fare.
I didn’t talk to Norman for the rest of the day after he’d asked the art society ladies in Kentucky about my talent, or lack of it. He was so remorseful, I forgave him by the following day, but I didn’t forgive myself. Two days later, I took all my paintings and sketches and went to sit beside the river that cut through the back of Norman’s property. The Barren River was small at that point in its journey, about seven feet across. There was a wooded hill on the far side, but Norman’s side was flat. I sat under a tree and went through the pictures, slowly noting each flaw and errant brushstroke. After I’d made a complete catalogue of all my defects, I sat and watched the river pass me by for a while and then I gave up.
When I was young, art gave me so much, even in the wild years. It was my cornerstone, but it now seemed to cause more pain than pleasure. I was tired of always being on the outside for no apparent reason, looking through what was ultimately nothing more than pigment, oil, and cotton on plywood. Perhaps if I stopped painting, I’d be able to participate in the life that everyone seemed so comfortably engaged in.
I put my head on my knees for a moment and then went and found a soft spot in the pine needles under a fallen tree. I dug as far down as I could with my hands, buried all my pictures there, and placed a stone on top. The end. No more Frieda Zweig the Artist. I scraped the dirt out from underneath my fingernails as I walked back to the house. I would become Frieda March the Kentucky Wife.
Norman didn’t mention that I’d stopped drawing and painting, probably afraid he’d upset me again. Maybe I should have left then, but I just wanted to do something right for once. I wanted to not feel like a freak. I’d try and make it work with Norman.
Three months later, Norman sent Lady March and me away to a spa for a week. When we returned limpid and glowing from our treatments, Norman said he had a surprise for me. He took my hand and led me upstairs. In what was once the “small ballroom” there was now an art studio, fully decked out with easels, canvases, and drop cloths. Perfect light shone through the vaulted windows.
“I’m hoping that you’ll stay here with us, Frieda.” He got down on one knee and took my hand. “Will you do me the honour of marrying me?”
I froze. I couldn’t speak or move. The dream, the fairy tale was becoming real. But where was the wicked witch, the ogre, or the troll? Oh, yes, it was me. I took my hand away.
“I don’t paint anymore, Norman.”
“But you should. You’re an artist.”
“What if I wasn’t? What if I was just Frieda the sales clerk? What then?”
“But you’re not just a sales clerk.”
“Yes I am. You don’t want to see it. Listen, if I were an artist, this would be a perfect set-up. I could paint and have a patron, have my socks washed and bills paid. You’d make the perfect wife of an artist, Norman. I could be the selfish painter in the studio bellowing for my dinner. It’s an artist’s dream and it almost never comes the way of a woman, but I can’t take it. I can’t do it. I won’t be the loser again. I’m missing something I need to be an artist. I’ve always been missing it, way, way back, that piano teacher bitch with the ruler knew it. I just haven’t got — it.”
“What is it?”
“I wish the hell I knew. Maybe your art society knows. I can’t marry you. You don’t know me. I don’t know me. None of this is mine.”
“It would be yours if you married me.”
I’d thought I could do it. I’d planned my answer, even practised the demure dip of my head as I said yes. If he’d asked me without building the studio, I likely would have dipped my head. But now I wasn’t sure who Norman wanted to marry, Frieda
Zweig the Artist, or Frieda Zweig, me. The money did appeal to some part of me. Me who’d lived from cheque to cheque for so long. Me who’d bonded with creditors and asked about their kids when they called to see when and if I’d manage to pay my bills. All my money worries gone. Poof. All I had to do was be Frieda, the artist in the flowered dress, and say one three-letter word. But I couldn’t. I’d lost myself once before coming to Kentucky and I hadn’t found myself there. I’d just walked into someone else’s life and taken on the role that was expected and now I was going to walk out again.
It took two weeks of tears and vomiting (by Norman), but I left. I couldn’t marry him. I felt horrible, like I’d led him on, like I’d been lying the whole time, but I’d really thought I could make it work. In the end, I couldn’t.
Norman came with me to the airport. It was the middle of the night, but the terminal was crowded. People bustled with purpose or walked slowly in bewilderment, stopping and looking hopelessly up at flight schedule announcements. Norman stood beside me, his face puffy from crying. He put his sunglasses on and gave me a wavering smile.
“I hope you find what it is you’re looking for, Frieda.”
“Thank you, Norman. I’m sorry.”
“You’ll write?”
I nodded. As I walked away, he muttered something.
“What?” I turned back.
“Chickenshit.” He sniffed twice and walked away, his face crumpling into tears again. I stood dumbfounded for a minute, jostled by the passengers trying to get by to board the plane. Then I turned and took my flight back to Winnipeg.
When I got home from the disastrous dinner at The Zone, Mr. H. was still sitting at the kitchen table. He looked tired.
“Tough crossword?” I asked.
“Where’s the rest of the crew?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.”
He nodded. “Beethoven died.”
“Oh no. How’s Miss Kesstle?”
“She’s sleeping now. I just came back home.”
Later that night I stared at the blank canvas on the desk. Now I knew what it was. It wasn’t a white cat with its eyes closed in a snowstorm. It was “Beethoven Gone to Heaven.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Great If You Like That Sort Of Thing
I picked the ringing telephone up with a wary “Hello.” There were very few people I could tolerate talking to before my morning coffee. It was Ginny, not a bearable pre-coffee person, but it was too late to hang up.
“Hi Frieda, is Whitman home yet?”
“I don’t know, I just got out of bed. What do you mean home yet? Did he stay overnight? Tell me you didn’t sleep with him.”
“Don’t lecture me. I just had the most horrible experience.”
“You slept with Whitman, I’m not surprised.”
“No, not that. He was actually very good. But this morning —”
“Don’t tell me, he snuck away at dawn without even leaving a note?”
“No, we got up and had breakfast together.”
“Really?” I tried to reach the coffee pot without tearing the phone out of the wall.
“He made me scrambled eggs in his underwear. It was romantic.”
“Probably would have been more romantic if he’d used a frying pan.”
“What?”
“Nothing. So, we’ve got Whitman in his underwear. That qualifies as horrible, but I don’t think that’s it.” Ha. Got the pot. Now could I reach the coffee?
“I had a meeting to go to, so we got dressed, and tomorrow is garbage day. I had my recycling by the front door. . .”
I couldn’t quite get to the food cupboard. “Can I call you back?”
“No. Listen to me. So as we’re leaving, Whitman offers to help me take the bags out. Then we’re down at the recycle bins in the back and there’s this weird chick all vampire-like by the bins in the alley, and she takes my bag of magazines from Whitman and says, ‘Thanks, saves me from digging through to get them.’ So whatever, right? I mean, she looks like she could use some fashion tips even if they are from used magazines. . .”
Maybe if I lay down on the counter I could reach the coffee cupboard. I tried it, my butt falling into the sink. Almost. Mr. H. walked in, struggling with two large orange garbage bags that he left beside the back door. I smiled at him horizontally. He shook his head, walked to the counter, picked up the pot, and started to make the coffee. I rolled off the cupboard, blew him kisses, and turned my attention back to Ginny.
“So Whitman starts talking to her, and then we end up following her, and a few blocks away in this dirty back alley is this big box, like a refrigerator box. I think she sleeps in it. It was awful.”
“I see,” I said. “You’ve gained a social conscience and you’re consumed with guilt about all the years and dollars you wasted getting manicures.”
“No. I was so embarrassed. My name is all over that box.”
“What?”
“She’s using the front and back covers of my magazines mixed in with God only knows what, photos or something, as siding for her box.”
Mr. H. handed me a coffee cup and disappeared into the study. It dawned on me what Ginny was talking about. She subscribed to those magazines; her name and address would be on the labels on the covers.
“That’s hilarious.”
“It’s not. What if people see it? They’ll think I live in a box in a back alley. It’s mortifying. We have to do something.”
“We?” I listened to the gurgling of the coffeepot. Ginny’s dramatic tone cut into my head like brain surgery with butter knives.
“Please,” said Ginny, “we have to make her move. We have to burn that box.”
“Sure, then maybe she could come and live with you. What did Whitman think?”
“He seemed pretty amused by the whole thing. I told him off, came back home, and called you. You have to help me.”
“Listen Ginny, I just got out of bed and I need to pee and have some coffee. I’ll call you back, okay?”
“Hurry.”
“Okay, bye.” I snickered all the way to the bathroom. How frigging funny could you get? When I came out of the bathroom, Mr. H. was sitting at the table. “Hey, Mr. H.” I poured myself a cup of coffee.
“Morning, Frieda. We seem to have lost some of our guests last night.”
“Damn boarders, never give you notice. What’s in the bags?”
“All of Miss Kesstle’s crocheting. The whole knit and whang-doodle. She wants it all out of the house. She’s a bit. . . hysterical. It was a piece of crochet cotton all wrapped up inside Beethoven that killed him.”
“Oh, shit. What’re you supposed to do with the crocheting?”
“She asked me to burn it. I told her I’d take it to the Art Centre instead. Someone should be able to make use of the yarn, and the doilies. . . well, someone will find some use for them.”
“Shouldn’t we save it all for her, I mean, until she feels better?”
“When she does feel better, she’ll have lots to do crocheting replacements.”
“I suppose. Should I go see her?”
“She’s napping again. I’d leave her be for now. So what happened to our company?”
“They’ll probably be back. Norman and I had a fight last night, and Ginny and Whitman kinda got together. And so it goes.”
“Despairs of the heart. I’m glad I’m past all that.”
“I have to go on a mission with Ginny. Is there anything you want me to pick up?”
“Maybe something for supper. Miss Kesstle doesn’t feel up to making dinner. First Sunday she’s missed in years. I’m off to the Art Centre. We’ve got a lot to do for the show next weekend. Are you coming? You could bring Ginny. The more the merrier.”
“I’ll ask her. See ya.”
A man weeded the flowerbeds in front of Ginny’s apartment building, the austere Trudgdain Towers. “Nice day,” I said.
He pushed back his baseball cap and said, “Great, if you like that sort of thing.”
I took it as a bad omen. It was.
Ginny was in a state. I’d like to say I was sympathetic, but I wasn’t. I found the whole thing too funny for words. When we went to leave, Ginny headed down to the underground parking lot for her car.
“I thought it was just a few blocks away,” I said.
“I’m not walking in that neighbourhood again.”
We got into the car, drove for a few blocks, turned right, and crossed the invisible line that divides the rich and semi-wealthy from the poor and semi-hungry. The place was only about a block and a half from the Downtown Art Centre. I snickered occasionally.
“This is not amusing,” said Ginny.
“Did you bring your blowtorch?” I asked. “Maybe we could have her arrested for impersonating a beauty queen.”
“Shut up,” said Ginny. “It’s right down here.”
We turned into an alley. Ginny parked the car off to the side and got out. I followed her to a spot hidden behind a parking garage wall and a large concrete column. The wind circled around in the corner, whipping up scraps of garbage and whirling the scent of rotten food and oil towards us. Sure enough, there was a large refrigerator box covered with glossy, wide-eyed, big-toothed model faces. Mixed in-between the magazine covers were black-and-white photos. I could still smell the urethane the owner had painted over top to protect the pictures.
“I think I recognize some of those photos —” I said as we got closer.
“It’s dangerous,” interrupted Ginny, looking over her shoulder towards the car. “Who knows who might see the address and come and rob and rape me?”
“You live on the twenty-second floor and your building has better security
than the houses of parliament. Listen, though, those photos are —”
I was interrupted by the owner of the domicile emerging from the far end of the box. I was right. The girl in the wrinkled purple velvet dress standing five feet away from us was Girl, the young Goth who attended the Art Centre, the one whose photo Norman had purchased. She had piercings in her lip, nose, and eyebrow. Her long dark hair was tangled and her eyes were outlined in black kohl.
“Hi,” I said. She stared at us and scratched her leg.
Ginny blurted, “You have to move. You can’t have this box anymore. I’m getting rid of it.”
“No you’re not,” said Girl, calmly still scratching her leg.
“Yes I am. Those are my magazines and I don’t want them in this alley.”
“You threw them out. They’re mine now.”
“They have my name on them, little girl.”
“Your name is in every phone book and probably on lots of bathroom walls. Those all belong to you too, bitch?”
“Screw this,” said Ginny. She walked over, reached out, and tore a ragged handful of covers off the box.
Girl grabbed her arm. “Get your hands off my property, you skank.”
Ginny dropped the covers and pushed her back. Great, Ginny and a street kid were going to brawl in a back alley. I hurried between them. “Wait. Stop. I’m a friend of Mr. Hausselman’s, from the Art Centre.” Girl looked at me. “There must be a way to settle this so everyone is happy.” They both looked at me. “I don’t know what it is right now, but there must be.” They both looked away. Ginny made another lunge towards the box. Girl growled. I stepped in front of Ginny. Office-speak. I needed the lingo. “The ramifications of this situation require special attention, correct?”
Ginny stopped. “Damn right,” she said.
“All right, you go home and I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”
She hesitated. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it,” I said. She started to walk away.
“And don’t come back, bitch!” yelled Girl at her back. Ginny got in her car, leaned out the window, and gave Girl the finger before she drove away.
Dance, Gladys, Dance Page 14