by Geri Krotow
WILL CLIMBED the marble steps to the Albright Knox Art Gallery. A cold breeze rose up off the lake and gently buffeted his back. He paused to glance over his shoulder at Delaware Park.
It was a view that probably hadn’t changed in nearly a century. The green leaf buds were already visible on all the deciduous trees. The daffodils weren’t far behind the crocuses peeking through the remnants of snow.
Conscious of a sense of history, he turned back to the museum. Debra was part of this history, part of his history. Her work, which she’d so often relegated to second place behind his and the children’s needs, was on display and would reveal to the world what a talent she had.
He smiled to himself. He couldn’t wait to see the show.
Debra
“I NEED ONE MORE SPOTLIGHT, in the far right exhibit, over the black-and-white of Martin Luther King.”
I spoke on the tiny walkie-talkie to the museum employee who was assigned to me throughout the life of the exhibit.
In fifteen minutes, the doors would open. Tonight was for invited guests—mostly my family, friends, gallery board members and other artists. Tomorrow morning the month-long public exhibit would commence. In four weeks I’d be on the road to Atlanta, then Denver, as the collection toured the country.
“Light’s on over the King exhibit, Ms. Bradley. Anything else you need?”
“No, thank you, Jenny.” The young art student had done a superb job for me ever since we’d started the setup the previous weekend.
I needed the last ten minutes to do my usual walk-through before the doors opened. I pressed the button on the walkie-talkie.
“Jen?”
“Yes, Ms. Bradley?”
“Don’t open the doors until I meet you out front, okay? I’m going to do one final check.”
“Got it. See you in ten.”
I smiled. So polite, but still a reminder to be by the entrance in no more than ten minutes. No doubt Jen had worked with enough eccentric and egocentric artists to necessitate the prompt.
I took a deep breath and started my last private tour.
WILL MET ME at the front of the gallery. I smiled at him. The electric jolt that raced down my arms and spine weren’t from nerves, but from the awareness that this exhibit meant nothing to me unless it meant everything to him.
“Hi, sweetheart.” I walked over and lifted my face for his kiss.
He kissed me and pulled back. “You look fantastic. You are such a beautiful—” he leaned in, his lips against my ear “—sexy—” he straightened “—woman.”
“All for you.” I grasped his hand. I’d bought the dress just for this evening—a champagne-hued slip, covered with black lace. The sleeveless bodice came in snug at my waist, then flared out in party fashion until the skirt ended just above my knees. Tiny iridescent black bugle beads were sewn all over the skirt and neck edges, adding a festive touch.
I felt as though we were walking in to the wedding reception we’d never had.
“Come on, handsome. I have something to show you.” I smiled at the man who was my best friend, my confidant, my lover, my life’s mate. He smiled back and my breath was swept away by how gorgeous he looked in the charcoal suit.
“Lead the way.”
And so I did. Through the entire display of my work, my art.
But it wasn’t just a portfolio of my art, or even of the history of my nation during those years.
It was our story.
I’d included all of my most significant fiber art pieces—macrame from the seventies, wall hangings from the eighties, tapestries and weavings from the past few years. But also, mixed in with my actual artwork I’d included the pieces of my life. Of our life together these past forty-plus years.
I had blown up images of significant historical events from the time we were born in the early 1950s, through the Civil Rights era, the Vietnam War, Watergate, the Buffalo Blizzard of 1977. I took the visitor on a tour of the 1980s and 1990s, through the sorrow of September 11, 2001, up until today.
I included my work from all those times, from each phase of my life.
But what neither Will nor anyone else expected was that I’d personalize it so minutely. I’d included photos of our family, in all its stages, blown up as large as the historical photos.
Because for us, this was our life. Our events were as meaningful to us as the national ones.
Will was speechless throughout the tour. He paused at length in front of the picture taken on our wedding day. He, Angie and I in our tiny first apartment.
But what brought my man to tears was the photo I’d had made of Violet and Dr. Bradley, placed next to the V-Day photos taken in downtown Buffalo. Their marriage made Will’s life possible, and thus, my life with Will.
The shawl I’d made Violet was displayed here, its tattered fibers obviously worn with love.
“You…you brought my family back together.”
“We brought your family back together, Will. Our love did.” I turned him into my arms. “It’s always been us, Will. And you’ve always been the only man for me.”
We stood in each other’s arms for a few moments.
The doors would open to the rest of the family and other guests in about three minutes.
“I was so wrong to accuse you of being ashamed of our relationship,” he whispered.
“No, you weren’t. I was never ashamed of us, Will, but I did feel responsible for whatever way others might treat our kids. I don’t anymore. You understand that, don’t you?”
“And how.” He pressed his forehead to mine, then looked back at the photo of his parents.
“I wish Dad were here.”
“He is.”
We stayed a bit longer.
“Come here. I have one more thing to show you.” I led Will around the corner and we stood, hand in hand, in front of my favorite piece.
The showpiece of the exhibit.
The tapestry hung from the rafters, and took up the better part of the far wall. It wasn’t just a weaving of a large tree against the Buffalo skyline. It was our family tree, not emblazoned with names or words, but with seasons, colors, emotions.
“Oh, Debra.” Will’s voice reflected my heart’s song. “This is what it’s all about. Family.”
My walkie-talkie buzzed.
“Ms. Bradley?”
“Yes, Jen, we’re on our way.”
“Doors open in one minute.”
I looked back up at Will. I knew that Blair, Stella, Brian and Angie were waiting with Violet. Angie had made it back in time from Paris, after all.
Even my mother and Fred had come to see the big event.
But only one opinion mattered to me.
“So what do you think, Will?”
“I think Mama’s going to burst with pride. I already am.”
“My sweet Will.” I kissed him and he responded tenderly, his hands warm on my bare arms.
“The best is yet to come, Debra,” he said in a low voice.
“Yes—the best is yet to come.” I leaned into him as we looked at our family. Blair had announced Stella’s pregnancy a week ago, and their joy was reflected in their wide grins. Brian’s new girlfriend, the first he’d ever brought home to meet us, stood at his side. A visibly pregnant Angie was there, too…and looking forward to Jesse’s return home, to Buffalo.
Violet sat comfortably in the wheelchair she’d fought against but had given in to once the kids had assured her one of them would stay with her throughout the night. She wore her pearls and a fine silk blouse. Her lap was covered not by a fancy scarf or throw but by the tattered afghan I’d knitted all those years ago.
Will’s hand tightened on my waist and I looked up into his beloved face.
“Ready, Deb?”
“Ready.”
We turned back toward the family. “Thank you all so much for being here,” I said. “I know I would never have come this far without my family. I love you all.”
ISBN: 978-1-4268-2820-1
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nbsp; WHAT FAMILY MEANS
Copyright © 2009 by Geri Krotow.
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