“He’s a teenager,” Brit said, “but he still acts like a child sometimes.”
Lewis followed her into the cottage. “We all act like children sometimes.”
Brit turned to face him. She looked surprised and hurt. “I didn’t mean anything...”
“No, no, I know that. Neither did I. I was only making conversation.”
Chris, Robert, and Jeff came in carrying bags, paintings, easels. “Where do you want all this shit?” Jeff yelled.
“In the bedroom for now. I’ll move things upstairs as I need them.”
“Into the bedroom, it is,” Christopher said, leading the others down the hall.
“Talking about that, I’m going to run upstairs real quick. Make my peace with my old studio.”
“Okay,” Brit looked into his face, then touched his shoulders with her hands. “It’s good to see you.”
“Thanks.” Lewis walked up the stairs and opened the door to the loft. His first feeling was shock. Nothing felt familiar. He walked slowly over to the window and let his mind drop into common thought. He was suddenly overcome by the rush of concern, interest. All of common thought missed him. The overwhelming love and elation concerning his return washed over him, bombarded him, and forced him into sudden tears as he looked out over the field.
“Dad?”
“Oh,” He wiped his eyes and turned. “Christopher. I’m sorry.”
“You okay?”
“Yes. I’m just so happy to be back. Everything’s so strange, though. I’ll get used to it.” He had snapped out of common thought so effortlessly, that it let us all down, making us feel upset, like having the telephone hung up on you even though you knew there was an emergency on the other end.
Christopher took his father’s hand. There was a comfort in his son’s touch. “You want to go downstairs with the others or stay up here?”
“We’ll go down.”
“Mom made a nice big lunch.”
“More like dinner.”
“Yeah, well it’s after lunch.”
“That’s good,” Lew put his hand on Christopher’s shoulder and hugged him close to his side, “I’m starved.”
Chris wiped at something in the corner of his eye, while Lew dried his eyes on his sweatshirt sleeve. “I love you, Chris.”
“I know, Dad. I love you, too.”
They walked down the stairs together, then into the kitchen.
“Surprise!” The rest of them stood around the table, a big sheet cake lighted with sparklers read: Welcome Home.
Lewis smiled. He held back more tears and felt a terribly large lump in his throat that he couldn’t swallow. “Thank you all so much,” he squeaked out, and everyone laughed and smiled. This time their faces wore the broad childlike smiles. Christopher stood back and held onto his father’s hand, and Lewis felt as though he had really been missed.
They sat down and ate, then made their way, coffee cups in hand, into the living room. At first, they talked about how happy they all were to have Lewis back, then about themselves, filling him in on family matters. But finally, the conversation worked its way around to art. Lewis started it by asking, “How’s business?”
Jeffrey and Marsha looked at each other. “Your older pieces have gone through the roof. You saw the prints of your “Land and Sky” series. They still sell well, especially in the Midwest.”
“That so?”
“Business is fine, Lew.”
“They want more?”
Jeff cocked his head and shrugged his shoulders in a half-hearted affirmative. “Don’t think about it.”
“The stuff I did in the hospital is crap.”
“Now, Lew...” Jeff began, but was cut off.
“I like it,” Chris said, “and so does Mom.” Brittany nodded.
Lew smiled, but what he felt was sadness. “I couldn’t work there. I had to make them understand I was all right.”
“You could have walked out any time you wanted. You know that,” Jeff said.
“I know. I just wanted them to realize I was ready.”
“Fuck them!”
“Jeff!” Marsha screamed at him.
“Sorry kids,” Jeff said. Robert snickered. “It’s not them that matters, though.”
“I know, but I feel better knowing they believe it.”
“Fine, but it’s got to be for you.”
“I understand Barnaby Schott’s work is gaining ground.”
“It’s not a race.”
“I didn’t mean that. I just meant you were right to pick him up.”
“Oh, yeah, he’s doing well.”
“I was surprised,” Marsha said, “because I’m not crazy about his stuff. But you two were right.”
Lewis smiled, he felt happy for them. He didn’t want to be the reason for things to go wrong. He wanted everything to be all right. “I’m going to get started again,” Lewis announced softly, dramatically. “You’ll see I still have what it takes.”
“I know you do,” Jeff said. “Just take it easy.”
“I will. I’ve thought a lot about it. I’ve got to get back into it, familiarize myself with my hands, this place, put it all together again. I know it may take some time.”
“As long as you know that and don’t rush it.”
“I’ll take long walks, go to bed early. I won’t stay in front of an easel for more than four or five hours a day.” Lew leaned forward in his chair. “That suit you okay?”
He and Jeff smiled at one another.
“Can I walk with you, sometimes?” Chris asked.
“Any time,” Lew said.
Everything went fine that afternoon and evening. Mr. and Mrs. Marshal appeared late in the day, and Mrs. Marshal held Lewis for a long time while Mr. Marshal looked on. He must have said, it’s good to have you home, son, a dozen times. When they arrived, like a light switch being flipped, the conversation jumped into small talk. There was a new mall being built. Land was sold nearby and townhouses were going to be put up. The townspeople lobbied against the location of the new garbage dump being so close to the Lake. And on and on until the evening disappeared into darkness and stars.
The air was cold when everyone left. Afterwards, Jeffrey offered to stay the night with Lew. It was a kind, generous offer, Lew felt, but he refused. “I’ve got to do this alone,” he said.
“Just thought you might want to ease into it.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I could stay,” Chris offered.
“Not tonight, son, it’d worry your mother.” He winked at Brittany. “Besides, like I said, it’s something I have to do alone. Next week, okay?”
“Okay, Dad.” They hugged.
“Everybody have a good night, now,” Lew yelled behind them.
“You, too.” Marsha kissed his cheek. “If you need anything...” she left it open-ended.
“I appreciate all you’ve done. Everyone. If I need something, though, I’ll call.”
Brittany held him for a long while, before letting go.
Lewis shut the door and the noise of their conversation was gone. “I’ll be fine,” he said aloud just to hear how a lone voice sounded inside the cottage. He noticed how spotless the cottage had been kept, yet how it still looked lived-in, as though he hadn’t been gone so long. It was beginning to feel more familiar. It looked perfect. He imagined that he had been shifted off the canvas of his own life, or had chosen to stand far back and to the left, hidden by a year and a half, obscured by all the things that had gone on during his absence.
He thought back to earlier that evening when he had wanted to watch the sun set over the field, but couldn’t because of all the excitement everyone was exerting in his direction. He had to be attentive. He was on stage for the evening. He had to be untypically conversational, animated about things he found unimportant. Yet, it was good for him to deal with them. They were a large part of his life and he had to learn to live in their world if they couldn’t live in his. That, briefly, was the decision he h
ad made while in the hospital.
Lewis went around cleaning up the odd pieces of china and silverware sitting in the living room. Brittany had cleared the earlier dishes and they were all nestled nicely in the dishwasher. Lew filled it by squeezing in a few more coffee cups and two plates the kids had used for extra cake, then turned the knob to normal wash and pulled. The dishwasher’s timer clicked once or twice then the loud hum of gushing water swallowed that corner of the kitchen.
Lewis turned out the kitchen lights, grabbed a jacket from the front closet and stepped outside. Down the path towards the stone fence, which still surrounded the field, Lewis heard the momentary rustle of a small animal, probably a chipmunk or field mouse, as he walked. At the field, the sky opened into a great mass of stars.
Slowly, as if testing the ground before him, Lewis lowered (or raised) himself into common thought. This time he was not so overwhelmed. Common thought recognized his caution and, in return, allowed him to explore first, to widen his grasp, before rushing in. So, while sitting on the stone fence, his face skyward, Lewis began to accept, first tree, then bush and field, then animal. He searched in common thought for colors. That’s the only way to explain what he did. Each thing which touched him, each that he felt, had its own color. As though looking through old photographs, Lewis opened to all portions of common thought he had been away from for so long. One by one, from the trees to the animals, he reached out and accepted them. When he got to me, amazingly, for I have never seen the acceptance of common thought while he was at the hospital, even though he must have practiced somewhere, he accepted me not as the Indian spirit, but as I truly am. Before long, Lewis was engulfed in common thought, but without the anxiety he had once experienced. It was as though he was born to it, that common thought was his natural world and he was glad to be home.
An hour or two passed. It was as though he took each individual into his grasp and re-acquainted himself, yet he couldn’t have done so because of the shear numbers. Nonetheless, like shaking hands at a party and gazing into familiar eyes, Lewis moved among common thought with his hand extended to meet a receiving line of life beyond human life.
Much of the time, if this can be understood, even though he sat physically on the stone fence, he mentally stood beside me. When finally he turned to me, I wanted to consume him, but could not. He had learned much, yet without a trace of it in his memory, or without allowing me to see that portion of it. I opened up and placed the image of the Indian in his head, holding it out to him as a way of acceptance. He took that image in the grip of his own mind, then added himself and allowed them to hug. It was the most amazing sensation I had ever received from Lewis, but it didn’t stop there. What he did next took calm, patience and mental dexterity. The Indian, while still being held by Lewis’ strong arms, turned into me. First the arms bulked and textured into wood branches, then the head faded into life and growth like only plants can understand. Finally, the body changed into a trunk and grew, pushing the branches up and out. Lewis stood back, then, and embraced me in common thought.
His journey ended, Lewis pulled away and remained sitting on the fence, looking out over the field for a while. When he returned to the cottage, he was exhausted. He cleared his bed of the things Chris, Rob, and Jeff had haphazardly thrown there, then undressed and collapsed on top of the bedspread and fell quickly off to sleep.
CHAPTER 19
FOR WEEKS, LEWIS TRIED every evening to recreate the feel and sensation of the field he had experienced in childhood. On one occasion, he set up two easels and worked paint into two versions of the same painting. Both were technically good paintings, but both lacked the tension apparent in his older works. Lewis practiced with line and color what he had remembered, but reached for something much greater than a remembered technique. What he reached for, and did not receive, was a mind-to-hand connection, a knowledge of the field’s existence, its being, not its appearance. He hoped that through a return to his childhood, he could gain back what a year and a half in the hospital had stolen from him. But the return to childhood was proving to be impossible. He stood back from the two paintings in front of him, both the same, yet both slightly different, neither of them working the way he wanted. Both lacked the feel he so desperately tried for. He looked around the room. Sketches were scattered over the couch and floor. More paintings of the field leaned against the wall, facing the wall, away from his view. He pushed one of the easels over and it clattered to the floor, but first hit the corner of the stand where he stored his paints, pushing a hole through the painting. He heard the canvas tear. A small pain pushed through him at the sound, but he quickly rejected it. The painting was no good anyway.
He lifted the torn canvas from the floor, removed it from the easel and placed it with the others against the wall. He removed the second painting and did the same. That night he slept on the couch in the loft. At sun-up, Lewis sat up and looked around the room, at how the morning sunlight stretched over the couch and scurried into dark corners. The sun beamed from well above treetop level. Orange clouds had already turned back to white. At a distance, a far mountain showed light and dark green where the sun lay across it, and where shadows spread over it, cast from the clouds above. The field was crisp with morning frost, and sparkled as though pieces of broken glass had been spread over it. Lewis stood close to the window and could feel the cold permeate it. The anxiety in him expanded and swelled. Had he lost it, completely?
Lewis walked downstairs and made coffee rather than refill the pot upstairs. Out the kitchen window, the dark trunks of trees shot up from the ground and disappeared out of view through the window. He sat with his hands wrapped around the warm cup, the steam rolling into his face as he breathed it in during each inhaled. He looked to the refrigerator and thought of cooking eggs for breakfast, but just as quickly dropped the idea. He slammed his fist onto the top of the table in a fury which came on so quickly I wasn’t ready for it. He stood and took a long drink from his cup, then set it down hard. He pulled a winter coat from the hall closet and slipped it on over his sweatshirt, then stepped into the cold, early December air and began to walk towards the field. Steadily, he made his way to the fence, walking around it to the old tractor road. When he reached me, he stopped and sat down at the base of my trunk. Once there, he closed his eyes and opened to common thought.
I could feel his muscles, his breathing, could feel the warmth of the sun hit his right thigh and the coldness of the shade on his other. He wanted help. More than any feeling I was getting was the one of grief for his predicament. He had not expected to lose what he had, only to gain control of his mind so it didn’t distort his world. But during his search for control, it happened that he also lost whatever it was that gave him that sixth sense. He opened up to ask for that sixth sense back, but it wasn’t mine to give. It never had been.
Lewis wished for his old self to return, the one who knew how to transfer nature to canvas, the unseen to the seen. Yet, also raging inside him was the need to be in control so that he didn’t lose his mind.
If he could only transfer the tension he was feeling onto canvas, he’d have it back. That’s what was missing, but there was no way for me to give that ability to him. I forced the image of the Indian into his head and he turned it into me. I forced it again, never realizing I’d ever want him to see me as the Indian, but it was the only method I had to communicate. So, I forced the image, then made it point. In the past, he had accepted that action in different ways, had transferred the pointing into a special meaning through some secret code in his head. Each time it had helped him. Would it now? I held it as long as I could, then let go, but it did not fade, which meant that he held to it also. What was it giving him. I waited to find out.
Even when Lewis accepted common thought, not everything was available to me. There were always deep thoughts, if you will, that couldn’t be picked up. Memories were easiest to obtain, or open-thoughts, feelings, immediate things. So, until he began to accept an idea, I couldn’t
just reach in and grab it, not easily, and definitely not if he kept me out, which he often did. He let common thought in so he could explore, not to be fed images as I had done, yet he had held the image of the Indian.
Lewis explored every nook and cranny in common thought he had access to, looking for the hook he needed to bring his paintings back to life. In his head, he converted tree to line, squirrel to color, just as he used to. Everything had its own personal, shorthand, stroke or hue, its own signature, but even in his mind the pieces were not fitting together perfectly. For hours, he connected item to item, forming and reforming shape and color into completed works, but nothing climbed off the canvas to grab you, nothing was even ‘about to happen’.
Lewis let go of common thought and stood up simultaneously. He reached out and held to my trunk to steady himself. A quick dizziness came over him. After his natural balance took over and his eyes re-adjusted to the light, he walked back to the cottage. He turned up the heat, then went to the kitchen and made himself a sandwich, had a beer, and paced the floor. He was beginning to make a connection between craziness and art. Once he had conformed to the normal, he became the normal. And, consequently, lost his special talent. Did it have to be that way?
Pieces of bread fell to the floor while he tore into the sandwich. His breathing picked up. Tears welled into his eyes. He did not want to be horrified by the world. He did not want himself to disappear into the world. He had to have both! His arms raised and lowered and jutted out as though he were talking out loud, but all the talk was going on inside his head. He spilled his beer and retrieved the final third, drank it down in one big swallow, then pulled another from the refrigerator. He bit into the sandwich and filled his mouth with its texture and taste, tried unsuccessfully to transfer it into compelling shape and color, got only an idea of its reality. He shifted the translation, first one way, then another. Tears burst from his eyes. He chugged half his beer. Maybe drunkenness would let him reach that frightening side, the side where his paintings found life.
Terry Persun's Magical Realism Collection Page 20