The Cabin

by Alice Ward

  His eyebrows went up. “Oh?”

  Damn it, I would probably have to confess. I’d just dug myself a hole and jumped right in.

  “I just, it’s… fuck.” I couldn’t choke it out.

  He leaned forward in his seat. “It’s bad, whatever it is. How did you meet her? Are you two dating?”

  “Not yet, but we will.” Hell yes, we will.

  “She an actress? Anyone I know?” He could be a curious dickhead.

  “Nope, she’s definitely no one you know, and no one I’m ready to talk about.” Was I really desperate enough to ask this next question? Apparently. “If I was going to pursue this opportunity, what do you think the best way to close this kind of deal is? What do women want?”

  I thought he would laugh but surprised me when he took the question seriously. “First, you have to show her you care about the things she cares about.”

  “So, what did you do? Go to a lot of funerals?” I wanted to laugh, but it felt inappropriate.

  He shook his head. “No, when my little brother died, I truly appreciated the people who made him look like he did before cancer ravaged his body.” Crap, he was so real, I had to dial my sarcasm back.

  I remembered when Wilhelm died. He was only five. Lucas and I were three years older. I could never get over the shock of seeing his little body in that casket. It felt so final, like it was truly the end, which it was. I looked at my friend. Lucas and I also had that in common, little brothers with terminal illnesses.

  “I can see that. He looked just like he was, you know, before…” Fuck, feelings were hard.

  Lucas sat back in his seat and lightened the subject. “So, we had that in common, and we both like the Mets, opera, Cheese Wiz, and Star Wars. That was enough of a start for me.”

  It felt good to laugh. “Really, she had you at Cheese Wiz?”

  “Perfect cheese food in a can,” he confirmed.

  “Well, just don’t serve it at your wedding,” I cautioned.

  He laughed. “My only advice is to be real with her. I know that’s hard for you to do, but just be yourself. Show her that good guy you have buried under production deals, blockbuster movies, and a billion dollars, and you’ll be fine.”

  I really loved him. He was like a brother to me.

  We spent the rest of the meal catching up, talking politics and sports, and updating each other on family. I didn’t have much to say about my family. I’d been estranged from them for many years. He, on the other hand, was still very close to his mom, sister, and brothers. His father left them when they were young. His mother was an heiress, so she was plenty rich enough to maintain a large home in our childhood neighborhood. It was another thing I envied about him; he had a great relationship with his family. I didn’t wish to have the same kind of relationship with mine. My parents were a different breed of people, but watching the love Lucas and his family shared, even as adults, was a little painful at times.

  We finished lunch, rescheduled our weekly sparring match for Wednesday, and I finished the heinous director’s cut of a movie that was guaranteed to be a hit.

  I thought about what Lucas said in regard to showing interest in things women were passionate about. The trouble was, outside of knowing that Caitlyn was strong, independent, and unafraid of someone with a great deal more money than she, I didn’t know anything about her. I knew I wanted to have sex with her, badly. My cock twitched at the thought of her under me, her beautiful body writhing beneath mine as she begged for more of me inside her. Hopefully, the trip to the art gallery would prove enlightening and help me discover more about the feisty waitress.

  When I arrived at the gallery, I found it to be a small, neat building with many eclectic works of art. The manager was irritated but polite when I showed up at nearly ten. Traffic was horrible, so I was a half hour past my appointment, one which he was reluctant to grant in the first place. He guided me to an empty room where Caitlyn’s art had been propped up against the wall.

  “I’m sorry these aren’t properly mounted, Mr. Preston, Ms. Ashcroft’s exhibit was a week ago. We were just preparing them to be picked up. In order to exhibit them here tonight, we had to unwrap them again,” he said with a note of bitter resentment.

  “It’s my pleasure to pay you for your time,” I offered as I put five hundred dollars in his hand.

  He seemed a bit happier once he had my money, although he moved to protest. “It’s not necessary to pay me. I’m only suggesting that with the perfect lighting and wall placement, these pieces are much more powerful.” He was backtracking, but not handing the cash back.

  “Consider it a donation,” I dismissed as I made my way over to the first painting.

  Her art immediately had me interested. She had raw talent, that was evident. It lacked refinement, but the lack of refinement was perfect for the subject matter she chose to paint. She had about ten paintings, all of which showed her gracious heart and reflected her view of a complicated world.

  The first piece that caught my attention was a canvas of a small girl standing in a dark alley slick with rain. The darkened skies obliterated a moon that was desperately trying to illuminate its way out of the blackness and shine on the decrepit city below. The girl had no shoes, her dress was in tatters, and her hair knotted. She was a tiny child, dwarfed by the menacing buildings enveloping her. The world around the child looked massive, as if it was swallowing her whole.

  I felt the intensity of that painting and knew exactly the emotion she was trying to capture. Those feelings of helplessness and dread that loomed over children, incarcerating them in their own cycle of fear and distrust.

  Tears burned the backs of my eyes at seeing such raw emotions captured so well. She had known something dark in her childhood. This painting was not a pitiful cry that begged for mercy. Rather, the piece was an act of defiance. Putting such innocence in peril said, “this small child can survive.” Even in tatters, the tiny girl had her hands defiantly mounted on her hips as she looked up to the sky as if to fight the very night for her own survival. She looked much like Caitlyn the night I met her in the restaurant.

  I moved on to the next painting which, oddly, seemed happier, even though it depicted a funeral scene. She used brighter colors, making the work more vibrant. In the foreground was an old woman who seemed ancient. Her face was streaked with deep wrinkles, and yet the woman’s eyes were hauntingly gorgeous. She seemed like quite a defiant character as she sneered at a picture hung on the wall above her head.

  The sneer wasn’t a look of hatred or loathing, it was more playful, as if she was holding a secret everyone wished they knew. The object of the woman’s scrutiny was a wedding photograph of newlyweds holding hands. Presumably, it was a picture of herself and her spouse when they were first married. While the subject of the painting had a playfully snarling expression, it was also loving and thoughtful. In this woman’s look, Caitlyn showed a lot of empathy. It was difficult for artists to capture a complex expression like the one the woman wore, and yet, she did.

  In the background was a throng of people inside a small church. Deeper into the painting, almost a speck in size, was a casket. And with this slice of life, the entire story was told. An old woman, most likely the surviving partner, looked on with love and a playful disdain as she gazed upon the wedding photo of her deceased spouse.

  Other paintings caught my attention. A boat alone on a calm body of water. I felt drawn to that tiny boat that appeared as if it had escaped something and was finally free. There was another of a flock of birds washing in dirty ditch water. I was fascinated by her work, which was thoughtful and haunting.

  Juxtaposed with these emotional works were cartoons and caricatures of everyday people that made you want to laugh at the depiction of their realness. After perusing the paintings for more than an hour, I asked the gallery owner — who I was sure was very ready for me to leave — if I could buy all of them.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Preston. As I said to your assistant on the phone t
his morning, these paintings are not for sale at the present time. If you wish to commission Ms. Ashcroft to do a painting for you, I’m sure she will consider it, but at the moment, these works are her own personal property.” He seemed tired and exasperated.

  “Why?” I too was growing irate.

  He yawned. “Because I must get permission from Ms. Ashcroft to sell them. I can call her in the morning.”

  “If that’s the best you will do, then I’ll have to agree to it. Let me know when you can have them ready for me.”

  While it was thrilling, the idea of owning these little treasures, I was impatient to leave the gallery and be away from its annoying owner.

  “As I said, I will call,” he reiterated as he ushered me toward the door. “Thanks for your interest, Mr. Preston. Have a good night and a safe drive back to New York.”

  I think I grunted as I left. I didn’t intentionally mean to be impolite, although I was disgruntled. I was simply too inspired to say more. Caitlyn now had dimension, color, and depth. She was no longer just a snarky little waitress I wanted to fuck, she was a mystery I needed to solve.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Caitlyn

  I wasn’t sure what time it was when I woke, but I knew my alarm hadn’t sounded yet. I had to teach the kids at the arts center starting at seven. Strangely, I woke up feeling giddy and I wasn’t sure why. Then the events of Sunday night came rushing back in quick succession, and I pinpointed the source of the weird butterfly feelings in my stomach.

  Ugh… him.

  I got out of bed, brushed my teeth, and checked in on Gran before heading out the door. She was still sleeping soundly. Initially, I thought that strange as she was usually up with the sun, but I figured she had stayed up way past her bedtime to watch her “stories” as she called them. I blew her a kiss and closed the door to let her get some more rest.

  I jumped in my Beater Kia, as I liked to call it, cause the damn thing barely ran, and headed out. The Youth Center for the Arts, a space where disadvantaged and troubled youth got arts training as therapy, had visual arts—one of the subjects I taught—performing arts, media arts and just about every kind of creative expression possible.

  When I arrived, my students were happy to see me. As usual, their smiling faces were enough to motivate me to walk into the room and focus all my attention on them. They always lifted my spirits. Despite the fact that many of them had come from abusive homes where they watched their parents suffer through drug addiction, domestic violence, and incarceration, they really wanted a chance at a new life. Each one of my students had a dark story to tell. Each kept some horrific truth buried within them. Yet they still had hope.

  I understood their stories so well and saw in their eyes much of what I saw in my own. I taught the one thing I had forever used to escape the feelings of pain, fear, and sadness clouding my daily existence. Seeing your father shoot your mother was not something you ever forgot. Living without both of them was debilitating at times. If I could give each of my students art as a means of coping, I knew I was doing my part to enrich humanity.

  I taught them to use their creativity, color, depth, and perception to escape the constant nagging pain of sorrow and disappointment. I felt like I was giving them a steel armor and sword to protect themselves from what society would continue to deliver and constantly awaken within them. Somehow, they knew I was one of them, and luckily, they listened and heeded my advice. I saw so much progress, not only in their artwork but also in their worldview and self-perception. Touching people like that, giving them skills, was something I adored.

  After I finished my shift at the center, I went back home. I wouldn’t need to be at the diner until the dinner shift and Mondays were slow, so I took advantage of the few hours I had between jobs. When I pulled the Beater Kia up the drive, a shiver of dread raced up my spine. Something seemed wrong. I couldn’t pinpoint it, but the air was charged with an electricity that had my heart beating out of my skin. I raced up the walkway, fumbled for my keys, and burst through the door.

  “Gran, I’m home!”

  The house was deathly silent. I had expected to see her either cooking some light lunch for us in the kitchen or watching her favorite programs. Sometimes, I would find her in our garden, as she was always trying to grow impossible plants in the landscaping.

  “What about rutabaga? Do you think that’ll grow, Cat? I love a good roasted rutabaga,” she would muse.

  “Gross, Gran.” Fancy cabbage roots, no thanks.

  “Don’t turn your nose up to em, Cat, they’re delicious,” she scoffed.

  Alas, she was able to get a few sad-looking roots to grow, but they tasted bitter and unappetizing. We both had a good laugh. No, rutabaga didn’t really grow too well.

  Today, there was nothing but silence. Horrible, sickening silence. I ran as fast as I could to Gran’s room, only to find her still asleep. I must have stood there for a half hour, just making sure that she was still breathing. Finally, when I was convinced that she was breathing well enough, I gently woke her.

  “Hey, Gran, it’s three in the afternoon. Do you want to get up or sleep the day away?” I teased.

  Her eyes slowly opened, but she looked sick and disoriented.

  “What? I didn’t know it was so late,” she slurred, her voice listless, “must be really tired, I guess.”

  She slumped deeper into her pillow and closed her eyes again. For the first time in my life, I saw her as being frail and old. When I noticed that she was having some trouble breathing, I panicked and immediately called 911. I was probably being overly dramatic, but I didn’t want to risk losing her because I hadn’t gotten her the help she needed.

  When they came to take her to the hospital, she laughed at me for taking her laziness too seriously. I knew she wasn’t being lazy. There was something wrong.

  “It’s nothing. I’m old. Old people sleep in from time to time,” she grumbled, “it’s probably just gas.”

  “I hope so. What a story that would be if I called in the calvary because you had a mean ol’ fart brewin’.” We both chuckled, but the effort caused her pain, and fear bubbled in my chest as they loaded her into the back of the ambulance.

  “Be careful with her,” I instructed.

  They smiled, not in a condescending way exactly, because they knew my sentiment. However, they could do their jobs without me, I was sure.

  I jumped into the Beater Kia and followed behind them. Worried the entire twenty-minute drive to the hospital, when I arrived, they didn’t let me see her.

  “She’s going in for some tests,” a nurse at the front desk informed me.

  I attempted a smile, but my insides were ripping apart with stress and worry. Gran was all I had. I spent almost an hour playing Candy Crush on my old, crappy Samsung, freaked out because the whole “in for tests” thing was taking so much longer than I thought it should. I called Ma’s Diner and told them I would be late when I hadn’t heard anything more than “she’s resting comfortably, but can’t be disturbed.”

  Deep in my heart, I knew something bad was happening to my grandmother. Finally, I was able to see her for a few minutes. She only opened her eyes briefly. The doctors were not able to give me any kind of indication that she would be alright and they wouldn’t let me stay with her longer than fifteen minutes. By the time two hours passed sitting in the waiting area, I’d had enough. Either I was going to get some answers, or I needed someone else to come sit with me before I had a mental breakdown.

  I called Ma’s back and told them I wasn’t coming in that night.

  “Shoulda figured you’d skip town with your pile of cash,” Ma barked.

  If I hadn’t been so worried, I would have laughed. “Ma, it wasn’t that much money.”

  “Sure was a hell of a lot back in my day,” she snapped.

  “We’re not back in your day. In this day and age, it’s just a nice little extra. If you really need me, call, but Gran is in the hospital, and it looks like it might be somet
hing bad.”

  The old woman softened then. “Take your time. We’re fine here. Hope your Gran perks up. She’s a fighter.”

  “Thanks, Ma,” I said as I hung up and called my best friend.

  Tammy was like a sister and helped me with everything, and had since we were kids. She was especially good to have around when tragedy struck. We met in Girl Scouts; she lived around the corner and I practically grew up at her house. I learned to braid hair in beautiful African styles, and we both were schooled in how to make the perfect gumbo by her Creole auntie. I knew she would be getting off work soon, so I tried not to panic her by letting her know that Gran was in the hospital.

  “Why aren’t you working?” was how she answered the phone, “what’s wrong?”

  “Why does there have to be something wrong?” I asked, trying not to sound freaked out.

  “Cause you don’t call me during work hours. You call me after for cocktails or to come and chill with you, so this is something. What is it?” She didn’t have much patience at times. She wasn’t rude, just over protective.

  “Gran’s in the hospital, and they aren’t saying much. She’s been spaced out all day, and I can’t get her to talk to me. Doctors are doing tests and stuff, but it doesn’t sound good.” I tried to hide the fear in my voice, but she knew. She always knew.

  “I’m coming over right now. What hospital?” As soon as I answered, click. The phone went dead.

  She got there in record time, panting and sweating when she reached the lobby. I loved her. I knew she adored my grandmother as much as I did. Ambling in a few paces behind her was Ricky, my next-door neighbor. He moved in a few years ago with his husband. While his hubby spent most of the day at his job, Ricky worked from home, which meant he was always available for a cup of tea and lively conversation.

  “Hey, Cat, cavalry’s here,” he said with a big hug.

  “Alright girl, where are these no-good doctors who can’t tell you shit about Gran? I’ll get them doing their jobs, no good, overpaid…” She was pretty fired up.