Art Lessons

by Katherine Koller

  Patting my hands together and singing my love to her: Toshie-toshie tosh-ie, mója droga Babci.

  Arranging flowers in a vase, propping them up against each other, yellows and reds and purples.

  Scolding, with her crooked pointer finger, but jabbing like it’s a joke on me.

  With the rosary, crystal cut beads draped over one hand, praying. Her way of floating, being alone and away.

  Patting down a fresh tablecloth.

  Planting a potato, fisting it down in the dirt.

  Brushing crumbs off the table and spilling them from her palm into the bird feeder.

  Hands sleeping, like now, curved into nests, on top of the waffle hospital blanket.

  Attached to the IV, taped and bruised.

  I try to find the exact position that will keep her hands alive. I wonder if I’m working in the right medium. Maybe the hands should be clay. But Matt said stick to what you know.

  Make your drawings sculptural, but don’t make sculpture unless you’re willing to start over.

  Okay, Matt.

  So I keep drawing. I’m going to take photos of her hands to send to Matt. He’s an assistant instructor now. And he’s getting married to a country girl who can do the farm books and loves the life. Will he see Babci’s arms like I do? Like branches, giving me the air I need. I keep looking at them, remembering them. Searching the camera in my head.

  Miss ya, Matt.

  Miss you, my darling, says the letter, translated by Mom. Must see you. The letter, to Babci from Iwona, in ornate, tall handwriting.

  Iwona, a friend from the mother country. She must see Babci, and stops in Edmonton for a few hours, en route from Vancouver to visit her son in Toronto. All the way from Argentina. I wonder why? Mom says Iwona referred to an urgent moral emergency. Is Iwona one of the postcard people, from the box I kept? The handwriting looks antique, old worldly. The stamp, Republica Argentina, with a map. The pictorial stamps on the back of foreign postcards intrigued me more than the distant landscapes or faded religious figures on the front. I examine Iwona’s words, calligraphic, precise and measured, in a language I recognize but don’t understand.

  Iwona took the boat to Argentina and Babci took the one to Canada. At seventeen, the age I am now.

  When they bought their one-way tickets across the ocean, in different directions, did they know it would be forever?

  Did they want it to be?

  Was it life and death?

  Had they not parted friends?

  Could they hardly wait to leave, like me?

  Like Darryl?

  I hadn’t seen him for three years, while he was at Vimy Ridge Academy for cadet training, but this year he was a guest performer at the Remembrance Day service at my school. He’s taller, broader, now more confident than nerdy. The kilt definitely works with the full uniform. And the sound of his bagpipes. Arresting. I waited for him after, while the crowd jammed the exits. His deep voice, luscious, radiophonic and commanding, surprised me.

  Hey, Cassie, I hoped I’d see you here.

  Darryl, hi. How’s the army?

  I start training right after graduation. I’ve actually finished my diploma already, but I’m taking a full load of foreign language courses to fill in the year. They’ve asked me to do a dual role: piping and intelligence work.

  Wow, I say. But Darryl’s already been spying on people all through school, perfecting his powers of observation by being so on the outside.

  They think I have the aptitude for it. I’m excited. But if it doesn’t work out, I’ll always have the bagpipes. You?

  Art school next year, if I get in.

  Of course you’ll get in. You, like me, have been preparing your whole life.

  But I’m not sure I can do it.

  That’s the fun of it, Darryl says. We never know.

  And with that, we’re bonded.

  This spring he sent me a letter, which surprised me even more.

  Garrison Petawawa, Quebec, 1998

  Dear Cassie,

  We’re supposed to write a letter to someone who matters to us, because we’re going on a tour abroad. I can’t say where, but it’s a stabilization operation. I picked you because I don’t really know any girls, but I feel like we have some connective tissue, at least about trees, from the day we skipped class to witness the slaughter. I’ll send you some photos of the trees where I go. Do you have email?

  I forgot to tell you: I checked, and I was right about dendochronology. You count the xylem, which brings the nutrients from the roots to the leaves. So the tree is “standing up,” when you count, which is how they should be left, in your opinion. So I “planted” a tree in the rainforest, in honour of your grandmother spruce, may she rest in peace. Oh, and the reason the centre of your tree cookie is darker in colour is because that is the heartwood. The colour difference is a chemical reaction to make the heartwood resistant to decay. Heartwood, then, is like the memory of the tree.

  Your contention that trees are like people has made me think about the characteristics that, in fact, trees and people share. They root. They transplant. They need light. They make their own food! They need rain (pain for people?) for growth. They scar. They like to live in groups. They’re tough but they bend with the wind. They are wise. However, I think trees may be smarter because they don’t have wars. They compete, but they coexist.

  I’ve developed “Tree Day” into one of my more popular anthems, and each time I play it, I think of you. Our time together was the best I had at school, actually. You listened to me. Thanks for the inspiration.

  Keep drawing.

  Affectionately, Your friend, Darryl

  He left a forwarding address so I need to send him a reply, but I haven’t figured out yet what to say. That was his best time? I’ll send him a care package with Squirrel Crunchy peanut butter to remind him of home and a drawing of that pissed-off squirrel, like Darryl, singing for the dead. I hope Darryl is not in danger and I wonder if he’s bagpiping or spying.

  Truck bombs.

  Land mines.

  Friendly fire.

  Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

  I’ll send him the feather from Dr. Kowalewski’s pillow because it has already survived a whole war. Darryl needs it more than I do. The softness of it. Especially if he’s really a spy. For his heart pocket.

  Affectionately? How to let him know that this does not mean I have romantic feelings for him? I hope he meets someone someday. I start a drawing in my mind, a sketch inspired by Bernini’s Apollo and Daphne, the branching hands of Daphne as she transforms into a laurel tree. Because she wants nothing to do with Apollo.

  But if I’m the only girl Darryl’s reached out to, I need to be careful, especially considering where he is. And to thank him for the rainforest tree. And his trees-as-people comments. I’ll draw him the squirrel. I wonder how many notes a squirrel can sing? That can be the title: How Many Notes?

  How many years have Babci and Iwona been parted? Babci’s hands show her years. They were unlined when she was a girl with Iwona.

  Her hands.

  Brushing her hair, dark auburn once, redder than mine.

  Applying Roman Red lipstick in the mirror.

  Buttoning up her navy coat, smoothing it over her hips.

  Firm around my waist, pulling the yellow measuring tape.

  Waving goodbye until she is a wiggling dot under her bountiful apple blossoms.

  I wonder what it’s like for a Pole to learn Spanish. Or anyone to learn Inuktituk.

  Yeva, the lunch lady who read T-shirts, sent a note to me, care of my junior high school. The secretary mailed it to me.

  Dear Kasia,

  The further north I go, the more honest people are. People are here from everywhere and that makes me feel at home. My son needs me to babysit his baby soon to be born
because he and his wife both have two jobs each. I will teach the baby all my languages.

  Your friend, Yeva

  I am in awe of her, and Darryl and Babci and Iwona. If they could leave home, can I?

  Iwona’s silver bracelets chime her into the hush of the hospital room, followed by Mom, shaking her head like she does when she’s miffed. Iwona is an elegant, erect, made-up woman. Not a dressmaker, say her diamonds, dangly earrings and wrist bling, her tan and her dyed black hair. She comes to me first and holds the side of my head with her hand.

  Little birdie. That’s what your babcia says.

  She says the word the proper Polish way; she doesn’t know my name for Babci, formed when I was so young. And she has no idea what little birdie means. When I was little, I thought I could fly up to treetops like a bird. Just by drawing. The only person I ever told that to was Babci. She called me my little birdie after that. Iwona has no right.

  Bonita, Iwona says. Beautiful, that is for me. She says it with a jealous wonder and defiance as if to say: you are lucky to be young but it won’t last; see how I must push away aging and the moment I give up I will die, like your babcia.

  I won’t look at her face; I only look at her charm bracelet, boasting memories of high life on her well-defined wrist reaching out of fur cuffs on a magenta sweater. Then she turns to Babci.

  O mój Zofja, she says. Spójrz na mnie.

  Babci opens her eyes wider than I’ve seen in a long time. She does not speak; she hasn’t in months. But she looks right at this Iwona. And there’s life in her eyes. I’m grateful to Iwona, right now, for lighting up Babci’s eyes.

  Babci reaches for Iwona’s multi-ringed hand with her own wrinkled nude one, but misses, her pinky finger leaning on Iwona’s thumb, like two birds side by side on a telephone wire.

  Iwona puts both hands on Babci’s, now hiding it under her emerald rings and magenta nails.

  I cannot stay terribly long, she says.

  Her English, remarkably good, is for Mom and me.

  In Polish to Babci, accompanied by the melody of her silver charms, she begins with a blessing and a kiss. Mom understands, and I look to her for a translation. She’s annoyed. She has to drive the boys to the airport later today for their summer training camp, but she’s just come from the airport with Iwona and must get her back for her connecting flight. She’s got the driving-all-day look, which flattens her into two dimensions.

  She wants to be forgiven, Mom whispers.

  I wonder why?

  I don’t know. But I bet it’s about money.

  Mom seems more than annoyed now. What could Iwona have to say to Babci now, for so long, from so far away?

  Babci’s gripping Iwona in that blue spruce stare of astonishment at the human failing of her loved ones. I’ve had lots of those, when I fight with my brothers, ignore my sister, tell off my parents, keep my distance from everyone. Desperate to go away to art school.

  What you need more school for? You draw, like I sew.

  That was before Babci stopped sewing, before she lay down in a hospital bed, before I could answer.

  But now I know: I need to find other people like me, like Matt. And because he can’t go, I have to.

  Lasha, one of my teachers at art camp, says there is no artist who doesn’t need a teacher. I need teachers like her to tell me: don’t stop. Lasha gave me a card, her own design, black-eyed susans, after the final show, with three lines of script and no signature:

  Sloth is the enemy.

  Lack of belief in yourself is another.

  False priorities a third.

  She didn’t single me out for attention at art camp, or talk to me, but then I hardly spoke to anyone but Matt. Lasha came by my work table at least once a day, though, and uttered a soft umm, as if not to scare or interrupt me, but to let me know she appreciated my effort. She probably gave everyone the same message. But for me, it confirms my plans.

  Dad says, You’re set on this?

  There’s nothing else I can do.

  That he understands. After Art, my other grades flatline.

  How will you live?

  I’ll probably have to teach. The instructors at art camp are all practicing artists, but they teach on the side.

  Then you need this degree.

  Dad looks away. Sending me to art camp was his idea, but if he ever knew about Nude Two.... Art camp may have saved me then, but he’s losing me now and he can’t picture my future. Neither can I, but I know art school must be my next step. I’m sure of the step, but not sure where it will take me. It’s risky, but Dad understands that. His business, oil and gas, is built on risk assessment. I like to think my taking a risk comes a little bit from him. But a lot from Babci. A country, an ocean and then a whole continent.

  Iwona’s clutching Babci’s hand tight and they’re in another place and time.

  Iwona wants to be forgiven for what? For not staying together? For jingling across continents while Babci lies silent?

  Is the Argentinean air so much better to preserve your skin like that? The climate? The food?

  After a Polish train like a zipper carried them from the bottom of the country north to the seaport of Gdansk, if they clasped hands and ran up the gang plank to the same boat, could I have been a dancing Argentinean girl with natural black hair and sun-kissed wrists circled in tinkling silver?

  I wonder what kind of trees grow in Argentina.

  What kind of birds.

  Iwona’s got a slim flat box that could hold a handkerchief or a fine leather wallet, and she’s thrusting it at Babci, who does not want to let go of Iwona’s other hand. She wants to be young a little longer.

  Mom has been listening to Iwona’s confession.

  The photo, Mom is saying, the two girls at the seaport.

  I know the one, tacked on the wall above Babci’s sewing machine. Young sailors with white scarves, smoking, queues to different ships, steam whistles blasting, her new white dress dyed with a delicate purple flower pattern and in a low-waisted, full-skirt style she’s invented herself, with matching fabric on her smart straw hat, ribbons in the wind. This is before parting and promising to send postcards all their lives.

  Iwona has brought it all back, but she opens the box, and it’s going now, going, going, gone with the money, Polish zloty, funny money, spilling on the blanket, ancient purple-red-orange bills and thin tinny coins.

  Mom is furious. She gets up to leave, to pull this woman away.

  Babci’s memory scatters. Her eyes go waxy, lidded, exhausted.

  Click. Iwona snaps her purse shut, sighs and puts out her hand to me. I want to shake Iwona, protect Babci from the cut of that sound. Click, it echoes in my brain. But Iwona is muscular as well as fine-boned and anticipates me with steely strength. She limits the shake to one sure stroke, then pivots and struts out, a one-woman band of miniature cymbals. The room smells of her perfume, flowers I don’t know.

  She included interest and accounted for inflation, Mom says.

  Mom kisses Babci, waits for my nod that I’ll stay and reluctantly follows Iwona’s parade. Mom’s seething.

  The sewing machine money, she says as she goes.

  We are quiet again, Babci and I.

  I collect the fallen money and return it to the box, which Babci pushes away, spilling it again. I am also offended by the clink of the coins, yet I count them up, with the bills. I need to know: 4,075 zloty.

  But this is much, much more than Babci had saved to buy a sewing machine in Canada forty-five years ago. Five hundred zloty went missing from her pillowcase two nights before she left, at a farewell party at home given for her and Iwona. Babci always thought her mother took it, considering the family now had one less wage earner. The lost zloty were wrongfully blamed on her own mother all that time. And why Babci had to work at a factory for years before buying a s
ewing machine of her own so she could stay with her two young daughters and work from home.

  The photograph of Zofja, before she became a mother or my Babci, and her tall friend, pinned above the only sewing machine Babci ever owned, rests in my box of postcards, along with drawings of Babci I made as a child, rescued by me when Mom cleaned out Babci’s house this year and sold it. Mom kept the sewing machine for me.

  So that was Iwona. Now I recognize the posture, that chesty stance, her store-bought suit, despite the fact that Zofja made all her friends’ and family’s clothes. The money. So now Babci knows why Iwona wore a new suit of pale pink wool to travel across the world.

  I scoop my hands under Babci’s, my palms lifting her featherweight fists. I want her to remember the hope, the promise, the excitement of that day at the ships. My hands need to know, too.

  I’m glad you didn’t get on the boat to Argentina, I whisper.

  Babci opens her eyes to me so I say my vow out loud.

  I’ll never dye my hair black again!

  She claps her hands, flying slowly, happily, in the heavy air, once. Like a bird’s wings, they close and then open to me.

  And Babci gives me the image I want for my suite of sketches. Hands like birds, here and there, doing this and that. Landing on my chin, on my head, in my dreams, with purpose, wit and compassion. Picking up threads, feathers, seeds.

  Babci’s hands fall to mine. They land like seed cones at the bottom of my heart, and take root.

  Tree of Possibilities

  The water’s hot, but I don’t adjust it. I take it as it comes. Being up all night chills me right through, but in the shower I thaw, relax and focus on the last of my packing. A few things left in the dryer, check the front hall for scarves and gloves, under the bed for whatever lurks there. Take it all. Pack it all up. Stuff it in. Who knows when I’ll come back?