I was worried that they would feel bored, but while they made themselves at home among the crowd, I stood, like a kid on her first day of kindergarten, unsure of how to join in.
“Which one is Mr. White?” Eleanor asked me.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted.
I didn’t know anything about Oliver White, but, judging by the excitement in the room, I guessed he was a pretty big deal in the art world.
Maggie’s deep green eyes pierced through me. Even in her seventies, she had a withering authority that must have come in handy in her years as town librarian.
“Why don’t you get out there and meet some people?” she scolded me. “There’s no point in coming to a place like this if you spend your time talking to a couple of old ladies.”
With that she nudged me forward. I moved three inches and took a deep breath, then changed my mind. Too late, though. When I turned around, Maggie and Eleanor had disappeared into the crowd. I stood self-consciously for a minute, but that only made me feel worse, so I tried, unsuccessfully, to break into a conversation three men were having. Then I got a glass of wine from a passing waiter. That helped. I wasn’t normally a wallflower, but so many of these people were artists. They did what I only dreamed about doing. I couldn’t imagine any conversation in which I wouldn’t sound like an idiot.
The only thing left to do was to look at the paintings. And it was quite a collection. Hung around the room were more than thirty paintings, mostly of women, covering nearly fifty years of White’s career.
According to the exhibit brochure, in the late fifties and early sixties Oliver White painted musicians, drug addicts, and beatniks in New York’s Greenwich Village. These early works were, to quote the brochure, “full of the pain and confusion of a man at odds with himself.” Whatever that meant. There were only a few examples from that period, but each was full of emptiness and anger.
One, called Nobody, was of a nude woman who at first appeared to be sleeping but was, on closer inspection, passed out in vomit on a dirty bed. I wondered what kind of person would paint this woman rather than help her, but I was strangely filled with envy. There was an energy and emotion in White’s work, a franticness to it. Any artist, or aspiring artist, would kill to be as good.
I took a few more steps and saw that his work had completely changed. These paintings and charcoal drawings, from what the brochure called “his pastoral period starting in the late seventies,” were mostly of people from small towns and farms in upstate New York. There were still nudes, but these women were actually awake and seemed a million miles away from that girl on the dirty bed. Still, there was something sad or even resentful in his depiction of them.
“Cool, huh?”
I turned to see a woman of about twenty, with a shock of long and seemingly unmanageable copper red hair that fell in her face. She was wearing jeans and a bright green cardigan over an orange T-shirt and tugged at a chunky pink plastic necklace that made loud noises as she moved.
“I’m Kennette,” she said brightly.
“Nell,” I replied. “It’s so different from his earlier stuff.”
“He got sober,” she said. “He was a drunk or an addict, or both, when he was painting in the city.”
“That explains it, I guess.” I turned back to the painting in front of me. “There’s something about his stuff . . .”
“I know,” she said. “It’s almost violent, which is weird, since he looks like such a sweet old man.”
She turned and nodded toward a very tall seventyish man with white hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He stood in the center of the room, smiling at two older women. It took less than a second for me to recognize them as Eleanor and Maggie.
“He’s talking to my grandmother.”
I was embarrassed, but I was also ashamed of myself for feeling embarrassed. Eleanor and Maggie were great, cool people. It was just that now I would meet the great Oliver White as a granddaughter and not as an artist. On the other hand, without Maggie and Eleanor, I would probably never have the chance to meet Oliver White at all.
Kennette was already walking over to join them, so I followed as quickly as I could.
“Nell, we’ve been talking about you.” Eleanor smiled.
“That’s what I was afraid of.” I knew I was blushing, but Oliver was holding out his hand, so there was no time to run.
“You are Nell,” he said in a warm English accent. “I’m so delighted.” He held my hand in both of his and studied my face with his soft gray-blue eyes. “You would make a wonderful model.”
“You apparently say that to every woman,” Maggie said.
Oliver nodded. “I believe it about every woman.” He moved from me to Kennette and gave her the same attention.
“So lucky am I,” he sighed. “I get to stare at women all I want, and no one can accuse me of being anything but professional.” He turned back to me. “Nell, I understand you’re also an artist.”
“No,” I said.
“Not yet,” Eleanor corrected. “She’s going to take art classes here.”
Oliver’s eyes widened. “How wonderful. I’m always envious of talent as it emerges. I can’t wait to see your work.”
I found myself a little off balance. The intensity of his stare made me feel as if he had discovered all my secrets.
“I didn’t realize you were English,” I said to change the subject. “I thought you were a local artist.”
“I came here from London in ’57, so I suppose I am a local artist, but I haven’t managed to lose the accent.” He smiled at me, then at Eleanor. “I guess I spend too much time alone to practice my American.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard,” Kennette jumped in. “I’ve heard you’ve dated everybody.”
Oliver nodded. “That was a long time ago. It’s now all fading memories and regrets, I’m afraid.”
“Not all regrets, surely.” Eleanor smiled. “You’ve created masterpieces.”
Oliver seemed to blush a little. “That’s very kind of you.” He stared at Eleanor long enough that Maggie and I exchanged looks, though my grandmother seemed neither embarrassed nor intimidated by the attention. Eventually Oliver turned back to us.
“Well, I have to take care of some business,” he said, “but I hope to talk to all of you later.”
As he walked away, the four of us openly stared at him. “He’s quite something,” Maggie said, summing up what we were all thinking.
“Ladies and Gentlemen: I want to thank you for coming to the opening of this exhibit of the works of Oliver White,” a man said into a microphone. “As you know, Oliver White is a renowned contemporary artist, best known for his paintings of the female form. His works hang in museums and private collections across the world, and they sell for tens of thousands of dollars. We are very proud to have him honor our small school with his presence and his work.” Around the room, people burst into applause. Oliver smiled and nodded. “And today,” the man continued, “he is bringing us even more.”
Oliver smiled, nodded again, and took the microphone. “I have spent the better part of my life trying to express myself in paint. I have sometimes failed,” he said to protests from the audience, “and I have sometimes succeeded.” He paused. “I have done so to the detriment of my personal life, leaving me with money but no one to share it with. This is my biggest regret.”
I thought his eyes moved toward our little cluster, but maybe I was imagining it.
“However,” he continued, “my regret is the Coulter Art Center’s good fortune. In my will, I have made the school my largest beneficiary. It is my plan to leave it the collection you see in this room, along with perhaps my greatest work, a piece I call Lost.
The room burst into applause as a large painting of a woman was revealed. It was all very dramatic, and, despite my resistance to anything that seemed too smooth and charming, I found myself caught up in the excitement.
Oliver stared at the painting, as did everyone else. From where
I was standing I could barely see it, but it looked like a woman in a blue dress, looking out a window.
“I hope that it will inspire students for years to come,” Oliver said and laughed. “And if not, sell the whole damn collection to buy some brushes and see what the young folks can come up with.” More applause.
It looked as if he were finished talking, but instead of handing back the microphone he paused. “And I intend to do one more thing. I intend, if I am allowed, to teach two classes this semester. In one I would like to invite advanced students to join me in figure drawing, and in the other,” he looked around the room, “I would like to teach aspiring artists, those taking their first steps into the deep, dark waters where I have spent my life.”
Gasps and applause drowned out whatever was said at the mic after that. Oliver looked around, smiling, while the crowd, and even the man who had introduced him, seemed stunned by the announcement.
“Did you hear what he said?” Maggie practically shouted. “You can take his class.”
I nodded, but inside I was trying to decide if I was excited or terrified at the idea.
CHAPTER 3
By the time we got home it was late, and Eleanor went straight to bed. I sat in the kitchen, drinking tea and wondering if I would one day be an artist as celebrated as Oliver White. It was a little difficult to get swept away in fantasy, however, because Barney kept nudging me to pay attention to the real star of the family—him.
Barney, a golden retriever, had just celebrated his twelfth birthday. His gifts from the quilt club—three dog-size quilts, several chew toys, and a large bone—cluttered up his bed and spilled onto the kitchen floor. He was nearly deaf and increasingly, I was beginning to think, forgetful. I watched him wander the kitchen as if he were looking for something, then stop, stand for several seconds, give up, and drop onto his bed. Once there, he discovered a squeaky rubber fish and began happily playing with it as if he’d been reunited with an old friend. He had the telltale gray hairs of an old golden but the enthusiasm of a puppy.
“You okay, old boy?” I patted his head, and he wagged back a yes. I gave him one of the dog biscuits that Eleanor had stopped feeding him, since she felt he was getting a little fat. But what’s wrong with being a little fat if you’re the dog equivalent of about a hundred years old? For that matter, what’s wrong with treating yourself to a real cookie if you’re scared about starting classes for the first time in five years? Since my grandmother wasn’t around to disagree, and Barney didn’t seem to mind, or would soon forget anyway, I dipped my hand into the cookie jar for one of Eleanor’s famous oatmeal raisins. I was about to take a bite when the ring from my cell phone made me drop the cookie like I’d been caught in the middle of a burglary.
I saw who it was on the caller ID, so I waited until the third ring and answered. “Hello,” I said, trying to sound casual and even a little bored.
“Hey, Nell. I’m sorry, the day just got away from me.” Jesse’s voice sounded exhausted. “Is it too late to call?”
“No. What happened?”
“Just a busy day.”
“What happened with the girl?”
I heard him make a grunting noise. “It’s going to be all over town tomorrow anyway,” he sighed. “It wasn’t a suicide, or it least it’s not looking that way. The coroner found red marks on her wrist.”
“Someone had tied her hands?”
“Something like that.”
“Did you find any rope or anything?”
“No, nothing.”
“So someone tied her hands, brought her to the river, then untied her and threw her in?” I asked. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Not so far,” he said. “Do you mind if we don’t talk shop?”
I settled into a kitchen chair. “Nope. What do you want to talk about?”
“Do I get a rain check for last night?”
I paused to make it seem like I was actually debating my answer. “I guess so.” I smiled. “As long as you show up this time.”
“Friday, then.”
“Quilt club,” I reminded him. “What about Saturday?”
“If I can get a babysitter. My mother is going to a wedding. The daughter of someone in her bridge club.”
“I’ll get a babysitter,” I said. “I’m sure I can find a volunteer from the club for such a good cause.”
“They consider our long-postponed first date a good cause?”
“Our long-postponed first kiss.”
He laughed. “I don’t care how many bodies are floating in the river. I’m not missing that.” I could hear the smile in his voice, and I wondered if he knew how happy I was to hear it.
After we hung up, I went upstairs to bed. I set the alarm for six, with a plan to be at the school no later than seven, even though registration didn’t begin until nine. Oliver’s offer would, no doubt, bring aspiring artists out of the woodwork. Scared or not, I didn’t want to miss out.
I thought I would have trouble falling asleep, with the excitement of registering for classes filling my head. Instead I was out the minute I pulled my lover’s knot quilt over me. But it was not a restful sleep. All night I had dreams of falling out of a vomit-covered bed into deep dark water, my hands tied, the current pulling me farther from shore.
When my alarm went off the next morning, I was so sleepy I had to wonder for a minute why I’d planned to get up so early. But as soon as it hit me, I jumped out of bed and into the shower. I was dressed and in the kitchen before Eleanor or Barney woke up, which was no easy feat.
I made myself some coffee and toast, left a note saying “Wish me luck,” and headed out the door. I knew I was going to be ridiculously early, so I brought a book, an apple, and several quilt blocks. I’d painted the blocks months ago but never got around to sewing them together. Waiting for registration, I decided, was as good a time as any to get started.
When I arrived at the Coulter Art Center, I expected to be the first person there. I wasn’t. About a dozen other students, ranging from their early twenties to their late sixties, were already waiting outside the office for a chance to register for class. I took my place in line behind them.
“Are you here for Oliver White’s class?” I asked the forty-something man in front of me.
“We’re all here for White’s class,” he said, a little frown on his face. “And I heard he’s only taking fifteen students.”
I quickly counted. I was number fourteen. “Well, then we’re all in,” I said.
He shook his head. “Several of the slots have already been filled by people who work at the center.”
I stared down at my class schedule, wondering if I should start looking for a backup. “How many slots are filled?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I think it’s more than one.”
The excitement about registering for art classes suddenly deflated, I tried to console myself with the two courses I was sure to get. I looked through the schedule once more and saw that two other drawing classes were being offered.
“One’s as good as another,” I told myself. But I didn’t really believe it.
After about twenty minutes of standing, one by one the prospective students sat. I put down my tote bag, ate my apple, and recounted the line just in case there were fewer people now that we were seated. No luck.
As the line behind me grew, and word got out that White’s class was probably filled, I decided to distract myself. I got out my hand-sewing project and started piecing together the little squares. Before the holidays I had painted snowmen, Santas, reindeer, and poinsettias on six-inch squares, with the plan of sewing a red batik sash between each square to make a cheery little Christmas wall hanging, but I hadn’t finished it in time. I slowly poked my needle in and out of the fabric, following the line I’d drawn on the back of the sash, and wondered if at this pace I’d have the thing done by next Christmas.
At nine the door to the registrar’s office opened. Everyone in line got to their fe
et and moved a few inches forward. As my turn came to move into the office, I didn’t have time to put my sewing away, so I scrunched the blocks in my hand, repeatedly sticking the needle into my thumb.
Though it was my turn, a woman a few years older than me refused to move away from the registrar’s table. She was wearing an insanely out-of-season sundress, military boots, a leather jacket, and a wool cap. The whole look screamed “I’m cool and alternative and way better than you.” I immediately felt annoyed and inferior, and then annoyed at myself for feeling inferior.
“What do you mean I can’t get a slot?” she was saying to the registrar behind the desk.
“Look, miss, I’ve said it ten times,” the registrar, a woman of about fifty, responded. “The class is full. You can stand here all afternoon but nothing will change that.” Then she leaned over and looked at me. “Next.”
I pushed ahead of the cooler-than-thou chick and took my place in the front of the line. “Hi,” I said, smiling and trying to look as friendly and cooperative as possible.
“What classes do you want?” The registrar peered up from her glasses. I showed her my registration form, already filled out. “White’s class is full,” she said. “The other two are open. Do you want a different class?”
I looked over at the sundress lady, who was still standing at the desk. Clearly she had already fought the fight.
“I guess so,” I said. “I can take the other Thursday drawing class.”
A Drunkard's Path Page 2