Terry Persun's Magical Realism Collection

by Persun, Terry

  The sky was dark around the cottage, the forest green-black. Lewis was on his knees with his hands against the pane, poised there. His eyes were open, but he saw only what we saw, what I saw. He wasn’t used to being able to see many places at once. He even viewed himself from a distance, so used to seeing himself in Jeffrey that he wasn’t shocked at the sight of himself kneeling inside the cottage. He eventually found me within common thought. I felt his presence. We were like two long separated friends finding one another in a dark alley, both scared until recognition kicked in.

  “You,” his mind said.

  I was shocked by the sound of his thoughts, so strong, so sure.

  “Have you done this?” he asked.

  But he knew the answer, and I didn’t know how to respond.

  “How long?” He continued to ask questions, forcing his mind into mine as I had forced mine into him, except that he could never hear me. Could he? Still, I was silent.

  “You must be the one.” Then a flash of memory appeared and disappeared. It was the Indian spirit he had seen. “No,” I said. “That was not me. That was you.”

  He could not understand me.

  “No,” I repeated. “No!” I pushed an image into him, the image of me from a distance. I suddenly felt exposed, and it felt exhilarating. There is nothing like nakedness, physical, mental, or emotional, to excite the soul.

  Lewis accepted the image and understood it. He flashed pictures, memories, at me, and I acknowledged him. He remembered the feel of my bark, and I approved and verified his memory, hoping he understood. Then he flashed the spirit before me. This time the spirit felt like me, had the look of me if I were human. It connected. The spirit was me, in his eyes. It was his way of explaining what he knew of me. Using images, he questioned me like a child just learning about the world, but I lacked the answers and a way to deliver them. I didn’t know the why’s of anything. It was all just natural, the way things worked. I’d get signatures of things to come, but even that was natural. I could only say what did happen, not why. Free will, as it related to humans, was foreign to me. My freedom stretched only so far, farther as my roots extended or as my top and sides grew, but minimally so. I could choose to shut off or open up, could enter animal thought only if allowed, and still have no control. No control. I tried to show him that, at least, he had control.

  He asked of signatures pertaining to his future, but I could not see any. He had to make his own choices. I would accept them and go on.

  When he pulled away, I felt all of common thought shiver. He had been so open, it was almost like a death when he went away. I imagine losing love, too, is almost like death. How is it that we learn to die so often during life, see it coming, feel it, and yet refuse death so violently when it arrives?

  Lewis stood up, his energy revived. I looked inside him. There was no communication between us. He had felt us all and held onto the feeling, yet not the contact. We were spirits, untouchables, to him, and I was the Indian pointing. I was also the tree. He felt protected, watched, helped, even though we never offered help. As through meditation, he felt completely rejuvenated. He had control of his life like never before because he thought he was being protected. My protests had done no good. I watched him leave, went with him. He did not go home. In the hot darkness of summer, Lewis walked to the stone fence and over it, into the field. Above him, the sky opened into sparkling stars, a glimpse of the Milky Way. The woods appeared deeper and more haunting. The field had dark patches of leafy grass, and hid field mice exploring the weeds for food. Lewis danced in his happiness, around and around. He had love, he had art, he had protection. The world was a better place, a happier place for him. When he felt ready, he ran and jumped the stone fence, rushing breathless into the woods. He had to curb his excitement quickly and slow down. The darkness didn’t permit carelessness. His eyes had to adjust. He skipped when he could see well enough, tried to break into a jog, but eventually accepted an excited walk. When he reached me, he caressed my trunk, hugged it. He knew it was me, felt my presence as that of his Indian guide. Inside him, some sort of metaphysical metamorphosis had taken place where I could be both tree and man to him. Just to be a part of him was enough. At least he knew of my presence.

  In the woods, Lewis relied on the darkness which sprang from him, as well as around him. Where people tended to be afraid while in the woods in the dark alone, Lewis felt comfortable. He knew the dark, understood it, and now felt protected in it as well.

  In all the time he spent exploring common thought, he still did not get a straight answer as to whether he should or should not marry Brittany. He knew only that he must paint. That night he came away with more canvases in his head, larger ones, and felt the pressures of them. Marriage, he decided, did not matter. It would be fine as long as his art came first, as long as she didn’t interfere. He still thought he needed her, so would take her the way which meant the most to her, regardless how he felt. Jeffrey was right in telling him to swallow his doubt.

  In a matter of weeks the wedding took place. Everything went along as planned by the three women. The men didn’t have to do anything but show up, say their piece, get drunk, go home and sleep. That is all except Lewis, for as the groom his responsibility was to the beautiful bride. As a joint gift from their parents, the newlywed couple had received a honeymoon in the Florida Keys.

  By the time they returned from the honeymoon, Brittany’s pregnancy was more apparent. It seemed almost overnight to me, and certainly surprised, yet also delighted, Lewis. The vacation had been good for them. They had spent all their time walking the beaches, eating, and copulating, just as tradition demands. It was a beautiful memory every time I viewed it. Lewis retained details well, and the time had been so extraordinarily wonderful that the memories were deeply etched into his mind. Finally, at home, Lewis walked over the threshold of the cottage, Brittany held high in his arms.

  A new life, the first morning of which Lewis dutifully began in his loft, painting from memory, from common thought experience, his first series of abstracts as a married man. His hand felt good holding a pencil, then a brush, lightly sketching over a new canvas, the shapes indicative of deer and mouse, the mystery of death, how it differs for man, plant and animal. Occasionally he added the short lives of insects, the scales from the snake or gills of fish. Lewis knew nature like no man has ever known it, in inner sight and sound, inner color and odor, and he made it became real in every painting. Lewis was the best at what he did, and after his recent encounter inside common thought, he had secured that position.

  I am still exhilarated every time I remember the strength and knowledge Lewis put into his work. There never was and will never be such a keen depiction of such a finely spun world as that of thought, natural thought.

  Everything remained almost perfect for Lewis, until the first signs of irritation began. Whether the actual buildup came from within Lewis unnecessarily, unprovoked, or was something that Brittany emitted, I dare not try to comprehend, for I don’t want to find it inside Lewis. However, even before the baby was born, something began to wedge between them.

  CHAPTER 12

  IT HAPPENED JUST BEFORE CHRISTMAS. Brittany was just too elated with everything: the oncoming holiday, the possibility of snow, their first Christmas together, the miracle of life inside her.

  Lewis had been working late hours, from before sun-up to well after dark. What he couldn’t remember, he created new; what he didn’t know, he extrapolated from what he did know. Every piece sold, or had a place to hang. The J. J. Max Gallery gave him an extended contract for originals, serigraphs, and prints, through an agreement made by Jeffrey. Lewis ignored all business transactions.

  In the early afternoon, on the 22nd of December, Brittany labored up the stairs to the loft. “It’s snowing!” she exclaimed happily.

  “Good.” Lewis lifted his arm to brush paint across the canvas.

  “Well, look at it.”

  He had his back to the window to let the gray
light from outside effect his painting. “I’m working.”

  “But, honey...”

  He laid the brush onto the canvas, but it wasn’t right.

  Brittany, oblivious to Lewis’ deep concentration, came over and took his elbow. “Turn around. Look.”

  “What the fuck for? It’s snow isn’t it?”

  Brittany’s glee faded quickly. Her eyes dropped, figuratively, to the floor. “It’s our first snow together,” she said. “I thought you’d want to see it with me.”

  “I’m trying to work,” he repeated.

  She stood beside him, both of them facing the window, one with eyes downward, one with eyes scanning the ceiling over the window, neither looking out. There was a long silence while Brittany waited for Lewis to apologize, something he had cultivated the last months, every time something went a little wrong. But this time he was working, it wasn’t a missing plate he had left in the living room, or a kiss he forgot to give her before he stepped out of the house. She had never been in his territory, the loft. He acted differently, thought differently. He wanted to work and be left alone.

  The silence continued for a long while.

  Finally, without uttering a sound, Lewis turned and began to paint again. Brittany’s hand slipped from his elbow. She remained facing the window. Eventually, tears trickled down her face and she sniffled. “I’m going downstairs if you’re going to work.”

  “Please do.”

  “You don’t care?”

  “Actually, I wish you would. I’ve been telling you, I’m trying to work. What do you want me to do, quit when you want me to look at something?” His strokes got more strained, but he continued, just so he didn’t have to focus on her. That’s what she wanted, he thought, for him to break down and give in. Even the tears were just manipulative. He wasn’t buying it, and wouldn’t allow his sensitive side to focus on her wrinkled nose, her sniffling and her tears.

  Brittany turned around and walked past him. A paintbrush he was hardly attached to anymore slipped over the canvas in front of him. “You’re mean.” Her pace picked up and she went downstairs.

  Lewis stopped painting and stood back to look at what he’d done while his concentration was shifted. He turned around and looked out the window at the soft flakes, like marshmallows, falling, just outside. He sat down on the sofa and turned so he could watch the snow. It touched him and he began to cry. He didn’t want to be mean to Brittany, yet he didn’t want her to interrupt his work any time she wished. He’d get nothing done. He had already lost this painting. In a fury of energy, Lewis stood up and kicked the easel over. The canvas fell, hitting its corner against the floor. Lewis heard the sound of snapped wood. The clank and boom of the easel and painting was loud. He sat back down and resumed crying.

  On the stairs, Brittany’s footsteps could be heard. She came up to the door and waited.

  Lewis waited.

  There was no sound on either side of the door. Then, eventually, Brittany walked in. She ran over to Lewis. He felt good and bad about what had happened: his sharp tongue and rejection, her interruption and tears. Maybe the painting could have been salvaged, but not now as it lay face down on the wood floor.

  Brittany saw that he had been crying and sat on the edge of the couch with him. “I’m so sorry,” she said through tears of her own.

  “So am I.” He stared past her, at the lost painting.

  “Did you ruin it?”

  He nodded.

  “Oh, Lewis.” She held him.

  “I needed to be alone.”

  “I know. I’ve always known, and I should have let you alone. I was being selfish.”

  “No, it’s okay.” He knew he shouldn’t say those words even as they came out.

  The loft had gotten very dark. The evening sky’s haze, and the snowfall, blocked the sun. His working light had diminished as only reflected light echoed from snowflake to snowflake into the loft. Shadows that stretched from tables and chairs began to merge. In the half-light, Brittany’s face seemed to glow. Tears had fallen onto her cheeks and her eyes were wet. They flashed at Lewis. He lifted his hand and ran it over her face, brushed the hair from her forehead. The air was cold in the loft, so he used an electric space heater. It kicked on and a red glow from its filaments added to the minimal light. The right side of Brittany’s face now reflected red. He kissed her moist lips and let his hand rest on her milk-full breast feeling the nipple rise below her blouse.

  “I just wanted you to see the snow.”

  He looked past her. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Our first.”

  “I know.” He rubbed her belly. “For all three of us.”

  Brittany’s lips curled into a shy smile. She turned to face the window with Lewis.

  Lewis made a place for her between his legs so that they could sit together. He put both his arms around her and placed his hands over her stomach.

  “He’s active tonight,” she said.

  “Where?”

  Brittany moved Lewis’ hands to a place where the baby was kicking.

  Lewis felt a small push and laughed.

  Brittany laughed too.

  “It’s so wonderful, isn’t it?” he said.

  “Having you as the father is.”

  “How did this ever happen?”

  “Let’s just be glad it did.”

  Lewis felt excited about the baby and their life, the three of them together, yet, deep down felt the loss of a painting. He remembered what Jeffrey had told him about swallowing his doubt and was glad he had listened. His mind wandered. Brittany began to talk about her day, mostly spent alone downstairs, but Lewis’ fatigue from long hours of painting and the expense of energy on getting angry, caused his eyes to close. His hands slid down Brit’s belly to her thighs.

  She turned to find him dozing and quietly kissed him. She slid his arms away. His head leaned far to one side, so she forced a cushion between his head and the sofa. Then she went over and lifted the painting from the floor. She leaned it against a small table where he kept paint and brushes in petite drawers, and stepped back to look at it in the glow of the heater and the fading dusk. She twisted her face and cocked her head. I wondered what she thought of it, an abstract depicting the rise of life from the ground. She didn’t look happy. “Lewis,” she said. “Lew!”

  Lewis opened his eyes, “I’m sorry, honey.”

  “What is this?” She pointed at the painting.

  “Worthless now.”

  “What was it, then?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “And why not?”

  “Not until it’s out of me.”

  “You said this was ruined.”

  He sat up. “That painting, not the idea. I like to keep it inside until I’m through. Especially with abstracts. They’re so difficult.”

  “It looks like an abortion.”

  “Well, it is now, I’m sure. Still.”

  “You painted an abortion? Don’t you want this child?”

  “No, you don’t get it. The painting isn’t of an abortion, it is one. I may be able to fix it, but I’d rather start over. Something in me says that one’s over.”

  “You’re not happy, are you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Then why this awful thing?”

  “It’s not awful.” He came around to look at it. “It shouldn’t be. Maybe that’s what screwed up. Maybe that’s why I can’t use it.”

  “It looks like you’re unhappy. You must be, how else could you carry such a thing around inside you.”

  “I carry everything inside me. It’s probably the light.”

  “You carry this inside you?” She pointed at what she saw as a disgusting painting of an abortion.

  “Even that. It’s not right, though. I’ll start again tomorrow.”

  “You were going to spend tomorrow with me, remember?”

  “Okay, then I’ll start the day after tomorrow, but I’ve got to paint it. It’s got to work or it’ll stay i
nside me.”

  “How could you do something like this?”

  “What?” He spread open his hands as if to question her.

  “It’s awful.”

  “Fine. You said that. You think it’s awful. I don’t.” There was a pause in his voice. “You never objected to anything else I did.”

  “But this.”

  “You act as if I’ve created a graphic representation of your mother’s murder.” He laughed and shook his head. “An abortion. That’s ridiculous. There’s no blood in this.”

  “There’s red here.” She pointed.

  “That’s brown. Very little red. Umber. It’s the light, too.”

  “It’s red.”

  “It’s earth, dammit, earth, not blood, not abortion, not anything. It’s ruined. It was no good to begin with.” He began to walk around the room screaming. “It’s a fucking painting. There’s earth and sky and nature. There isn’t a human element in there. Not one.” His arms were raised high. “So there. Now what the fuck do you want?”

  “Then don’t paint it,” she said.

  Lewis bent and whispered hoarsely, “What?”

  “Don’t paint this one. Do something nice. I don’t want people thinking you’re unhappy with me.”

  “I have to paint this over. It has to be finished.”

  “Then don’t use red.”

  Lewis just stared at her.

  “Make yourself happy. Do happier paintings. For the baby.”

  “The baby?” he whispered.