Pearl

by Deirdre Riordan Hall

  I struggle to pull open the heavy wooden door, nearly closing it on my shoulder and backpack with a foreboding feeling like I missed a sign that said, Turn back, you’re about to get your ass handed to you. A susurrant hum comes from the depths of the building, like in a church or water flowing over rocks in a brook, like futures are made and broken here. Then a phone rings, startling me.

  “Yes,” asks the woman with a tight black bun streaked with silver, seated behind an oak desk.

  “I received a note to come down here this morning.” I show it to her.

  “Ah, yes, Justine Baptiste, your advisor. I’ll let her know you’re here.”

  The beginning of relief washes through me as I take a seat on the edge of a plush chair. I’ve learned to be cautious around people with titles and secretaries. Because Uncle Gary and Aunt Beverly enrolled me late, I didn’t get to choose my classes, so perhaps she wants to meet me and see how the semester is going. Wishful thinking.

  “You must be Pearl,” says a tall woman, extending her hand. Braids twine together at the back of her head and reach down to her waist.

  “Pearl, PJ, yeah,” I say, looking down at my chest as if the name tag from the first day is still there.

  I follow her down the corridor to an office with a desk, table, and filing cabinets piled with papers, pamphlets, and books. Looking down on the papery mess is an oil painting of a woman, her gaze even, her lips pursed; bold blocks of color surround her, a village perhaps.

  Justine follows my line of vision and smiles. “My grandmother painted that portrait of my mother and her sisters, back in Haiti,” she says, pointing. She sighs as she settles in her chair and folds her arms across her chest. “I understand you were enrolled last-minute?”

  “Yeah, I um—”

  “You must be exceptional,” she says, the word lengthening on her tongue.

  “Actually, no. I was—”

  She holds up her hand. “When I found out I had a last-minute advisee, without a transcript, I thought it best not to ask questions. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for asking questions, but—” She nods as if she knows it’s better I keep my story to myself. “Your transcript finally came in on Friday, and I was able to apply your science credits. So, unless you really enjoy biology, you can switch out to fulfill another requirement or an elective. We didn’t have any humanities or art classes left open when I created your schedule, but there have been a few openings since then.”

  “In what?”

  “Well, there’s Econ, Psych 101, and an art class. Painting IV. Rasmus Shale,” Justine says, cocking an eyebrow in my direction.

  I shrug mildly. “OK.”

  She glances at her computer and then swivels the monitor toward me. “I see here you have numerous art credits under your belt, so you have permission for that level class, if you’re interested.”

  “Definitely. I mean, I draw mostly, but I love painting too.”

  “How much do you love painting?” she asks measuredly.

  “A lot. I love art,” I say, uncertain where she’s driving the conversation.

  “This class sees a lot of withdrawals. There’s a reason for that, but OK. Painting IV it is.” She taps away at the computer. “Rasmus Shale,” she repeats. “Trial by fire, as they say.” She locks me in her gaze, and then her lips spread into a thin smile. “I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

  That wasn’t much of a vote of confidence, but I take my newly printed schedule and exit.

  “Nice to meet you, Pearl, and good luck, you might need it.”

  Unfortunately, I do need the good luck, because I’m five minutes late for first period, which used to be bio, with an ancient teacher who forgave tardiness because the clock in the classroom was slow and she couldn’t see it, but now my schedule directs me to the art building, on the opposite end of campus.

  I walk up the three flights of stairs to the top level. The floorboards creak beneath my feet, and the dust motes, always written so poetically, dance in a shaft of light. The door at the very end of the hall hangs halfway open, and a man’s accented voice booms.

  “You will not waste my time or materials. You will worship this canvas, this brush, and these colors as if they are the only means by which you will be fed, clothed, and sheltered.”

  When I push the door all the way open, I watch as he takes the canvas from a student’s easel and tosses it on a table. I edge into the room. The floor creaks, and he turns sharply in my direction, then stalks over to me.

  I brace myself.

  “Who are you?” He has a broad forehead and white hair swept back, in need of a trim. His bearded face, the hair going white at the roots, conceals any suggestion he knows how to smile. He’s tall, purposeful in his movements, like a great beast that requires a lot of energy to move, but his tongue is fast, sharp.

  “I’m Pearl Jaeger.” I clear my throat. “PJ. My advisor found I already had science credits, so she said—”

  He puts his hand up to silence me. “I do not care. If you want to take this class, you will show me why you are here.” He gestures around the room. “Find an available easel. We are doing still life. Get to work.”

  There are a half dozen available easels to the six already occupied. A dark-haired figure stands at the other end of the room. I walk cautiously toward her.

  “Charmindy?” I ask, surprised to discover my roommate, queen of AP classes, is in the art studio.

  “Sh,” she says, almost below a whisper. “Can’t talk now.”

  “Quiet,” the teacher bellows. “When you are in here, you are working. I will only say it one more time. Embody the canvas, the brush, the oil, the lines and curves. There is no separation.”

  I study Charmindy’s vessel of flowers and the way she’s captured the light exactly as it is in the image tacked to the top of her easel. On a table in the middle of the room a shallow box contains more photos and clippings of famous still life paintings. I select one with a bowl of fruit and gather paints and other supplies before I get started. Just as I’m about to touch brush to canvas, a hand grips mine tightly. Gray eyes, the color of the sky in winter, bore into mine.

  “You do not sketch first?” he asks, surprised.

  “Oh, was I supposed to?” I ask, my hand still suspended in his. The evidence of years of painting has fossilized underneath the line of his fingernails.

  “No. It is not allowed,” he answers, not taking his eyes off mine. “Continue.”

  I sense Charmindy watching us, but as he releases my hand, she’s intent on her canvas.

  I step back, just to be sure my assessment of the light, shadows, and highlights was accurate, before I apply thin spheres of paint to the canvas, forming the base of the fruit. I continue, adding layers and dimensions, losing myself in the motion of creating stillness. Instead of a chime or bell, like in the other buildings, Shale barks at us when the class is over.

  I hustle to clean up my space and then dart out of the classroom, not wanting to be late for my next class or endure any more of Shale’s wrath. I try to catch up with Charmindy, but she’s already gone.

  Instead, Sorel catches up with me, claiming she’s cutting class. “Come with. Woods. Smokes.”

  The workload, compared to public school, has me so busy I hardly have time to sneak off with Sorel. She assures me I’ll get used to it and will eventually have time to not get into trouble, her way of saying go to the woods, smoke, or sneak to her boyfriend’s dorm at night, along with whatever other rules she breaks. With her, it’s just a game to see how far she can push the limits. For me, it’s a matter of not being kicked out and landing on the street.

  “You look like you could use one,” she prods after I tell her no.

  “I just transferred into an art class. Painting IV.”

  “Tell me you don’t have Shale.”

  “I have Sh—”

&n
bsp; “Badass. But you need a cigarette. I didn’t survive Painting I. He’s known around here as the Norwegian Nightmare.”

  I start to follow her, but then spot Charmindy outside Cullen Hall, the mathematics building. “I have to go. Catch up with you later.” I know I’ll see Charmindy back at Viv Brooks, but I’m shell-shocked from Shale’s class and need info.

  “Charmindy,” I call.

  She stops on the steps.

  “Can’t be late. I know what you’re going to ask me, and I promise I’ll tell you later.” Then she disappears through the door.

  Each week I write my mother letters, pouring my insides out, describing Charmindy, Sorel, and Grant, the minutiae of days, answering questions I wish she’d ask. Normal questions, like how are you, to inquiries about the secret garden of my heart. Today I describe Rasmus Shale, the frontier of his eyes like everything they’ve seen can only be expressed through oil on canvas. I tell her he terrified and ignited me in equal measure. Something about that classroom, his hardcore reaction to that poor kid and his canvas, his inquisition when I didn’t sketch first, and the latent poetry of paint makes me want to go back tomorrow.

  I sign my name at the bottom of this latest letter just as Charmindy enters and collapses on the bed, her bag still strapped across her shoulder. “Can you wake me up next June? No, scratch that, in two Junes. No, wait; I have eight years of higher education after graduation. Just wake me up when you start to see gray hairs, OK?”

  “Only if you tell me why I didn’t know you took a painting class.” I stuff the letter in an envelope, doubtful I’ll hear back from JJ.

  “Because I’m a glutton for punishment.” She sits up, planting both feet on the floor. “Obviously I love painting, and he’s the best.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “That’s because you focus more on fashion and sketching and less on the oil painting community. He’s a rock star. A guru, a legend.”

  “Then why does he teach at a private school in the middle of nowhere?”

  “That’s what everyone wants to know. Tragedy? Delinquency? Angry ex-wife? I have no idea. No one does. But he believes enough in his students to stick around. At least that’s what I tell myself.”

  “Do your parents know?”

  Her eyes grow wide. “No. No way. Painting is my silent rebellion. They see my progress reports and grades, but I, um, I arranged it, as a special favor with my advisor and the art department, to keep it off the copy sent to them. I know it’s wrong, but that class is the only thing I have that’s for me. I started last year, taking art because I couldn’t cope with the pressure. I needed an outlet.”

  “Yeah, but odd choice if you’re looking to relieve stress, if it’s true that Shale is tough—”

  Charmindy lets out a laugh that borders on crazy, and her eyebrow lifts in question. “Tough? Brutal, vicious, honest. But if I’m going to go through all the trouble of concealing an art class, I’m going to take the best one available. When I found out who he was, basically this famous outlaw painter, I couldn’t say no.”

  “What’s he done?”

  She flips on her laptop. “What hasn’t he done? He started with skies, these crazy Norwegian winter storm clouds. It was intense. Then figures. There’s this entire catalog of beautiful men and women, they’re demure and lovely, but also somehow carry the ferocity of those skies he knew so well. Then there was a period with nothing, though I doubt someone like him stopped painting. Then out of nowhere, a painting, black on canvas, appeared. It’s called The Starless Night. Then after that . . .” She leans back as gorgeous images rendered in thick lines tapering to thin, blending, moving, shifting my perspective of this stoic man, appear on the computer screen. “Then after that it’s like everything blew up, like he created the cosmos anew.”

  I scroll down to find his latest works. In each successive painting it’s like fire gives way to feathers to fish to ocean and sky. There aren’t words to describe it, other than awe.

  “See, told you. He’s—there are no words,” she echoes.

  “No words,” I repeat, wishing I could clear my schedule and spend twenty-four/seven working with Shale, because I want to paint that wordless feeling, permanently, into my life.

  Chapter 8

  Days before break, Uncle Gary informs me Janet will remain in rehab, canceling my visit to New York for Thanksgiving.

  I decline Sorel’s invitation to her house for the holiday. She insists her parents won’t mind, but when she and I sneak off for a last smoke before vacation, she says, “It’s better you don’t come anyway. Sheila and Blake are such asses.” Her eyes are heavy, like something weighs on her mind, but she quickly changes the subject. “While I’m home I’ll try to bring back some more booze. Halloween was epic.”

  I wonder if Grant told her about my not-so-epic moment. I’ve been avoiding him as much as possible, breezing through lunch and dinner if we’re at the same table in the dining hall, which is almost guaranteed. Although I might want to deny it, when we’re in the room together, the air ionizes, stirring up the molecules of what could be.

  As polished sedans and passenger vans carry students home and to the airport, I stay on campus with a small collection of international students, including Charmindy. The American History teacher has us to his period home for dinner and engages us in discussion about the origins of our great nation.

  That night Charmindy and I hatch a plan to go to the studio the next day to work on the still life assignment. Earlier in the week, we’d arrived in class and everyone’s canvases were missing. Shale told us we disgraced and disappointed him and ordered everyone to start over.

  The next day, Black Friday, while shoppers feverishly fill their carts and bags with electronics and other sale-priced merchandise, during the early hours, I get ready to go to the studio. When I return from the bathroom, Charmindy moans in her bed.

  “I think some of the clams Hodges served off his early American menu disagreed with me.”

  “I told you not to eat them. Shellfish, not good,” I say, shaking my head.

  “I was being polite.”

  “What can I get you?” I ask.

  She suddenly sits up, her face the color of the asparagus also on the table last night. Tangled in the bedsheets, she stumbles past me and out the door. I go to the basement where there’s a soda machine, get a can of ginger ale, and nab some crackers from the kitchenette on the first floor. I leave these items by Charmindy’s bed.

  As I slip through the dorm, if I didn’t know better, I’d think this was a regular morning and everyone was still asleep in bed. Only Connie sleeps off yesterday’s meal, having stayed behind, allowing us to remain in the dorm, because her family lives far away in one of the Dakotas.

  The door to the studio is ajar when I get there, and the scent of turpentine nips my already chilly nose. The room is still, the high windows diffusing the light. I get a new canvas and mix my paints, optioning this time to start on the fruit bowl, a mixture of blue gray that reminds me of smoke or, looking up from my palette, Shale’s eyes.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks abruptly.

  “Painting.”

  “On your vacation?” He clasps his hands behind his back and straightens.

  “Yeah. Charmindy was coming too, but she’s sick in bed. Bad clams.” I dab the brush in the paint and, without another word, begin blocking in the bowl, then adding volume by focusing on the movement of light across the rim. I forget Shale stands at my shoulder until he clears his throat.

  “Where did you learn this?”

  “I, uh, Mrs. Salucci, my art teacher freshman and sophomore year, books, the Internet. I draw, though, mostly, sketches, fashion design.”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “You didn’t learn this from those places. You learned it because you are disciplined, because you practice, because you got up at dawn on a Frid
ay morning and came here when you could have been sleeping in.”

  I wonder why he’s here.

  I resume painting in companionable silence until my stomach grumbles. I ignore it, finding the silky press of the brush soothing, wiping away the last months of madness in clearly defined lines, giving shape to oranges, grapes, and plums.

  The sun lowers in the November sky, and my stomach now clenches with hunger, making the fruit taking shape look delicious. I step back, admiring my work, an exact replica of the image tacked to the top of my easel.

  “Pretty good so far, huh?” I say, nearly forgetting Shale is in the room, standing at my shoulder. He must be as starved as I am.

  “It’s perfect.” He makes a tsking noise and picks up the canvas, assessing it. “Perfection is overrated. It is a lie.” Then he breaks it over his knee, the wooden frame splintering. “No. Nope. Nope. Nope.”

  I stand back, my eyes widening with shock, then narrowing with anger. “Why did you do that?”

  “You think it’s good. It goes in the trash. We do not become attached to our work.”

  “But you said we are the same as the canvas, the paint, the brush. How could I not become attached?” I say, my voice rising.

  He leans toward me. “Because when you are attached you hold back. There’s still this much separation between you and your work,” he says, pinching his fingers an inch apart. “There is no difference.”

  “But that was just an exercise. You said last week that we have to learn the rules, replicate the masters who made the mistakes first, paving the way for us. If I were painting my own piece, something I’d thought up, then, I would pour everything into it. You said yourself that it was perfect. I don’t understand.”

  “I want what’s beyond perfection.” With that, he sweeps away, and my tears smatter the wrecked canvas at my feet.

  Everyone returns to campus tripped out on tryptophan except for Mr. Meshcheryakov. The sub who takes his place writes her name on the whiteboard, Mrs. Dittly. Grant pulls up next to my desk when she assigns us to work as partners. My month-long embarrassment trickles away in the comfort of his cerulean eyes, like the promise of a clear blue sky.