2. A New Leaf
Having cleaned the van and stacked the back with some twenty canvases, Thaw returned to the cabin, showered, and dressed. In his efforts to become better known as a painter or land a position at Nick-Sue—and in the process to become more of what Natalie’s friends would agree was more marriageable—Thaw had purchased some new white shirts, three ties with various small or muted patterns, one gray-black and one greenish-blue tweed sport coat, a pair of light wool dark gray trousers, a slate blue pair of twills, five pairs of black knee high dress socks, and a pair of black loafers. To cover their costs he had painted the house of an older widow who had insisted on paying him top dollar and included daily a simple lunch which he ate alone at a picnic table in her backyard. The clothes had cost him just about all that he had made on the job.
The early spring weather seemed to be holding, so he needed only a tweed jacket for warmth. His hair was combed back from his face and he had had it trimmed and thinned at a length just below his hairline. It’s slightly greased look suggested he might have run his hands through it a number of times. As in every season, his face and hands’ ruddy tanned look emphasized the pale hazel of his eyes and fit well with the lines of his muscular body beneath the soft fabric of the jacket. He hung the spare pants on the hook behind the driver’s seat, tossed in his backpack, removed the album from the front seat, stood it between the driver’s and passenger’s seats, whistled Tufty onto the now empty passenger’s seat, and started down the rugged road from the cabin toward Route 3N. He swung by his buddy Lem’s house, braked and parked, and as the smiling face with the curly matted hair of early awakening appeared at the open door, Thaw reached for the passenger side door to let out Tufty, who ran with wagging tail toward Lem.
“With any luck I’ll see you at latest Sunday before dark, Lem. If things don’t go as well I hope with Natalie, I’ll be back either late tomorrow or early Saturday. I’ll call when I know what I am doing.”
“It doesn’t matter. Take your time. You could always use the weekend for poking around in the galleries and museums if they’re open.”
“Thanks, Lem.”
“You’re welcome. Good luck.”
Thaw had set up a full weekend for himself that started with an appointment on Thursday to see Rory, the framer, and on Friday a plan to stop by the Nick-Sue art department. Since Natalie had decided three months ago that she needed time to think, Thaw had neither seen nor heard from her. He had not dared call her because although he missed her and would have liked to see her, he could offer her no more now than he had when last they talked. Until Natalie’s tearful admission about what an embarrassment he was to her among her friends and family, the thought had never occurred to him that she might want marriage and children. Nor had it occurred to him that he might want the same thing. But wanting it and having it were two different kettles of critters, so after a long slump in which Thaw did a lot of fishing, not much painting and some half-hearted sculpting, a plan to entice Natalie back into spending time with him began to form. Now he was hoping that if he called her at work this morning when he arrived in Bain that she might at least be willing to see him for lunch today or tomorrow. What he was really hoping for, however, was a longer time with her…any time, any place over the coming weekend.
Thaw thought about himself. He reviewed how he was no longer the lanky, irresponsible, hashish-loving guy he had once been and how the cabin to which he had chosen to withdraw to enjoy being strung out had turned, oddly enough, into a grounding place. He’d made friends with Lem, a man about the same age as his father, but wiser and more available. He saw this had been possible not only because Lem was retired whereas his father was still working—and would probably continue to work until infirmities or death prevented it—but mostly because Lem was that kind of a guy: open, relaxed, warm, enthusiastic, optimistic; and, unlike Thaw’s father, he even liked Thaw. And then with Natalie he had reached down into himself and found depths he’d never known he had. He wasn’t sure if it was because he had reached his mid-thirties or if it was Natalie or a mixture of the two, but it was like tapping a geyser. Just being himself, talking, laughing, loving, fishing, painting, talking…spending time with Natalie, he had begun to blossom and deepen emotionally as he had never dreamed possible. But not only had his ability to feel and enjoy increased, his thinking had also matured. He had taken to getting books from the library and reading one or two a month. He followed the news regularly and he and Natalie talked politics and fished, talked art and walked, talked about all kinds of things. It turned out that Natalie with her two degrees, was so darned well-informed that she kept him jumping to keep up with her. In fact, he’d often found himself testing out ideas on Lem as a prelude to discussing them with Natalie. Both Natalie and Lem were always ready to discuss anything. Ideas didn’t scare either of them. Differences didn’t scare them either. Neither of them just got mad and stopped talking the way some people he knew would do. Which was not to say Natalie was any kind of a pushover. As time passed, it seemed to Thaw that he had come to have as many original ideas as Lem and Natalie on a variety of subjects and could quite offer his own views on political issues, the environment, etc.
Thaw also considered how his painting style had evolved. By now he had a identifiable style that someone might recognize as his even before looking at the signature. And he was on his way to Bain—with Lem’s blessings and a glimmer of hope that he could once again reach out successfully to Natalie. He’d a framer’s card in his pocket. A guy named Rory. Little guy. Very affable but with a kind of intensity about him when he talked that sort of caught you up in his positivity.
Thaw had met Rory at a flea market. He and his pretty little Irish girlfriend had looked at some of his work. Rory had talked with the two of them about the coherence of Thaw’s work, the clarity of its style, its appeal. Rory’s girlfriend commented on the “power” of Thaw’s use of color and the “delicacy” of what usually marked the center of interest in his paintings. She also asked if she could pick up one of his carvings so she could rotate it and inspect it from all sides. “Very nice. Nice,” she commented as she did so.
“Well, man,” Rory had announced with a lift to his toes to add to his height, “if you ever decide to show your work and go for the big bucks, look me up. I can do for your paintings what any agent might wish he could.” Thaw noted how Rory had again lifted himself on his toes. “Pull those colors right out. With my framing and your work we’ll make those rich gals’ tongues hang out to have just one hanging on their walls! But it’s going to cost you a bit…maybe a couple a hundred a throw…maybe more…they’re pretty good sized…” (there was that body lift again) “…except I always try to go easy with the artists.” With that Rory smiled and handed Thaw his card. Thaw felt a small thrill move through his upper arms:
La Petite Gallerie,
382 University Avenue,
Bain, New Carlton 36011.
“Where taste and satisfaction meet.”
The young entrepreneur offered Thaw his hand. “Name’s Rory. And this is Doreen.”
“Nice to meet you, Doreen…Rory…Thanks,” said Thaw, cautious not to look too eager but smiling and responding with a firm shake. “I’ll think about. It’s definitely something to think about.”
3. Ariana, April 11, 2020: On the Road
The traffic light on the old secondary road that led north to the thruway was still working. Quite possibly those traveling it were still unaware of the disaster. The trees might have hidden the fires from drivers’ views. Also, those coming south may have been too far north to have seen the fire’s first flare. Jason still wasn’t sure if what looked like an enormous conflagration indicated a meltdown or was just a really big fire, and they weren’t hanging around to find out.
Given the thorough preparations his mom had provided for him, Jason was quite sure they had left the house within five minutes and definitely in less than ten of seeing the blaze—or whatever it was. Beyond the fact the
y were hitching, all looked as usual.
Jason maintained a pace just fast enough to permit Marty to stay beside him without having to run. Within eight or nine minutes they were at the thruway. He figured if they could get a ride in the next five minutes, in thirty-five minutes they might be some twenty-five minutes north of Ariana or about fifty miles from Magdum Heights. He doubted that on such a windless day any fallout would reach that far north so quickly—unless the force of the explosion had propelled it—but he had never heard that factored in at such a distance and he had not seen a plume. If he could just keep them moving north, his plan was to grab a lift on the thruway north, travel seventy-five miles and be one hundred miles from The Plant within an hour or two. So soon after an event, one hundred miles would be home free—if they could just reach Bain before dinner hour, if someone would just stop.
The traffic on the highway was still light and as soon as there was a break, they crossed its four lanes to the east side and started walking north. Each time a car approached, Jason raised his thumb. After a bit, an old man in a truck with homemade wooden sides on it stopped. The driver called out to them through the half open window. “Whatchu’ boys upta, now? Why ain’tcha in school?”
“Parent-teacher conference day. We need to get to Waxton.” Jason guessed that the truck had no air conditioning. It was also possible it had no radio.
“Yeah,” chimed in Marty. “We have to meet our grandparents there.”
“They tell you to hitchhike?’
“Yeah.” Marty again. “My dad’s truck broke down near ’em.”
Boy, Marty was good! Jason picked up the beat. Indicating his bag he said, “Yeah, I have to bring him some spark plugs and jumper cables.”
“Yeah.” Marty again.
“Okay, hop in. I don’t usually do this, but I don’t like to see kids out on the road. Got grandkids uv m’own, ya’ know.”
In the effort to separate the man from Marty, Jason climbed in first, just in case. He lodged his backpack on the floor beside his feet. Beneath him, the seat bumped up somewhat uncomfortably. He stretched his feet to the right of the bump in the floor above the transmission. This left little remaining room for Marty’s feet and backpack, but anything that would get them closer to Bain was fine with him.
Marty settled in beside his brother, his backpack beside Jason’s and his feet squidged tight against the seat. The truck door needed oiling, but with a second pull from Jason, it closed and the truck veered off onto the road.
Jason sighed. They were on their way.
4. Neville
Dody and Neville, and when he could get there, Mike, were to clean out Martha’s house. It was one of those gray days and the dampness clung even after one entered the house; it left them shivering inside the door as they waited for the heat to penetrate. Who would have believed that a house which just five years ago had been as well kept as any in the village could arrive at this degree of disrepair? The biggest culprits had been the cold and dampness. The carpets were vintage wall-to-wall orange or green shag. But, despite their outdated style and even less desirable colors, after she purchased the house, Martha might not have immediately removed them. However, after his father’s death and while the house stood empty, the previous owner’s son, in the effort to cut costs as he waited to sell the property, had turned off the heat. Thereafter when the pipes burst, he then claimed to have understood that the radiators had been filled with antifreeze though they were not. And now, even where water may not have soaked the carpets and repairs were not required, an ever-penetrating smell of mold and mildew necessitated that every carpet in the house be torn up and carted away. So today, with a combination of rug cutter blades and brute strength, Dody and Neville were hacking away, Dody doing the cutting and Neville doing the pulling and carting until such time as Mike was to arrive and Neville would take Dody’s blade and Mike would do the pulling and carting. It was a dirty, dusty job to say the least. Neither man wore a mask. “Khu-khu-khu,” coughed Dody. “Damn it all, anyway. Where is that Mike? Told me he’d be here first thing he arrived back from college. Somewhere around 2:00. Already 2:15. Khu-khu-khu. I’m gettin’ too old for this kind of work.”
Neville pulled steadily with all his strength on the length of carpet started by Dody. It peeled from the floor like the loose skin of an orange. Ripping in straight lines, it gave off a dull, tearing sound and dust that swirled visibly in the air around Neville’s feet.
Neville speculated on the reason for Mike’s lateness. “Some of those mountain streams been floodin’ lately. He mighta got caught up with one. He’ll be along.”
“If it were anybody other than Mike coming home from college on a weekend I’d be much quicker to guess he probably was late because he had to sleep one off. Dang blast it. Where is he?”
“I saw Thaw the other day.”
“Dang it all!” yelled Dody, grabbing his hand and squeezing it between his knees. “Nicked my finger!” explained Dody, shoving his left ring finger into his mouth and talking around it. “Blasted blade must be gettin’ dull.”
“He was all suited up. Looked like he was headed for a date. Getting gas on 22. No sign of Tufty with him. In kind of a hurry. Probably headed to Bain. No place around here have to get that dressed up for. Especially that early in the morning. Sure wasn’t going fishin’ in those clothes.”
“Neville, where’d I leave those other blades? Coulda sworn I put ‘em on the windowsill there.”
“They’re there,” stated Neville reaching for Dody’s work gloves. “Just gotta look. Your gloves were layin on top.” He handed Dody the box. Dody was still standing with the finger in his mouth, periodically taking it out to inspect it visually.
“Here. Why don’t you put on your gloves. Protect you some.”
“Yeah,” answered Dody, checking his finger. “Guess I won’t bleed to death.” He shoved his left hand into the left glove and then pulled on the right.
“Didja hear me? Didja hear what I said? I never even thought he owned such nice clothes. But there he was. All decked out. Probably headed to Bain.”
No answer.
“Dody, did you hear what I said about Thaw?”
“Yeah. I heard yah.”
“Well, you didn’t act like you did.”
“Well, I cut my finger.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“And the last time I mentioned Thaw, you just remembered you’d forgot to turn the thermostat down.”
“Can’t expect a man to be perfect. Everybody forgets things sometimes.”
“And the time before that you just remembered you’d forgot to pick up your wife.”
It was Dody’s second wife to whom Neville referred. About five years after Thaw’s mother had left the picture, Dody remarried a pleasant but private woman named Grace, about whom people knew only the barest of facts. She had a couple of grown daughters and was known to be neat and clean. They had met while Dody was on some kind of a job in Hartsville. After their marriage she continued to work in Hartsville, apparently finding the hour commute doable. Meantime, just as he had done after his mom was no longer there, Thaw continued to stay with his grandmother. Among the villagers, the general consensus was that Grace and Dody lived like two peas-in-a-pod: Grace put meals on the table and kept the house neat and clean; Dody enjoyed Grace’s cooking and upgraded the house in modest stages in ways that pleased them both. And Grace and Thaw’s grandmother got along fine and on Sunday’s they would often all eat together.
“Told ya I’m not perfect. Danged finger!” He pulled his hand out from the glove, sucked on it and then shoved the glove back on, once more covering it.
But Neville was not to be distracted. He just kept on tugging and each time he gave a pull, he added another related comment. This time he reminded Dody of the time they were painting with oil based Rustoleum and how when he had mentioned Thaw, Dody had dropped the paintbrush, forcing Neville to run for turpentine rather than wait for a response.
“Good
you were fast, Neville. Rustoleum can really be tough to clean up if you let it dry.”
Neville caved. He decided he would not bring up the time before that as he knew Dody would just find some other sidewise compliment or philosophic statement to prevent them from discussing Thaw or Dody’s relationship with Thaw. The silence lasted longer than most between Dody and Neville. Finally, Neville had to speak. It was a comment more to himself that to Dody, but Dody never could keep his mouth shut longer than five seconds. “I just don’t get it.” The words had come out almost in a sotto voice, but there was nothing wrong with Dody’s hearing.
“Get what? What’s there to get? You bring the news. I hear the news. What else is there to do?”
“Just stop it. Just stop it.”
“Whatdja gettin so excited about? I’m not doing anything.” Dody was back to doing some serious cutting again and Neville held and pulled on the length of carpet as Dody counter-pulled. It was a new strip and they were standing face to face or would have been except Dody was looking at his knife and Neville was looking down on the top of Dody’s head.
“Y’are doin somethin’.”
“Yeah, what I am doin’?” asked Dody, still not looking up. “I’ll tell you what I’m doing. I’m working, that’s what I’m doing! That’s what I do, what I’ve always done, what I’m gonna keep right on doin ‘til I drop. Dang blast it. You gonna pull that sucker or not? Where the hell is Mike?”
“What didja just remember? You have to go some place?” The hint of sarcasm and irony in his voice was not to be missed. But Dody chose to miss it.
“You workin’ with me or against me? Pull that sucker! Pull it.”
Neville pulled the end of the strip free, rolled it tightly and carted it out to the truck parked on the front lawn. Dody kept on cutting, muttering to himself as he did. “Dang, Neville. Gettin’ just like them other young’uns. Thinks he’s gonna waste time with me talking about stuff he doesn’t know anything about, doesn’t understand, and if I drew him a map, never would understand!”
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