Lewis looked around to get himself oriented again. He had been blindly pacing, his eyes only seeing what was in his head. Where was he? The strong booze was in the cabinet over the sink. He reached up and pulled down a bottle of Scotch, grabbed a water glass from the dishwasher, rinsed it, and poured it half full with the thick liquid. He drank two swallows and let it burn down his throat as he opened his mouth wide and breathed in loudly. His eyes wide and his mind open, he took another two swallows almost emptying the glass. He refilled it. Common thought whined in his head, sounding like the whir of a tornado dropping to the ground and slipping along a field. He let the sound howl, eerily through his head, waiting for something to hit, for something to happen. He swilled down more Scotch and felt its texture in the pit of his stomach. He felt like spitting it out. His throat burned. His eyes watered. He grabbed the beer bottle and drank half what was left just to cool down his throat and remove the nauseating smell that crept into his nose from his stomach. He tumbled into a chair and put his head down. Consciously, he pulled color and line into his mind and began to create a painting.
He slipped from one thought to another, one painting to another, then, as though he had forgotten why he had been drinking in the first place, his mind cleared of art and he dropped into common thought and staggered through the trees and underbrush, frightening small animals with his confusion. Common thought began to reject his presence. It didn’t want to be a part of him, didn’t want to give him access to what it felt.
I agreed. The illness coming upon him was revolting. I pulled away, too, and connected enough to where only strong images came through. All other feelings of mobility and consciousness were pushed away. I watched him from the trees which stood outside the kitchen. I saw his head rolling from left to right, back and forth over his arm, which lay across the table, the beer bottle near his fingertips, the glass slightly to its right and almost empty for the second time. He looked up shortly and let his head fall back down. His shoulders slumped as though he had lost consciousness, but he hadn’t, he’d only fallen into some sort of tiredness, a fatigue brought on by the overabundance of alcohol.
Lewis tried to get up, but fell back down. He heard someone knock at the door, then passed out for a moment. When he came to, Jeffrey was there shaking his shoulders.
“My God, Lew, now what are you doing?” he said.
“I had a drink.”
“I can see that. Have you eaten?”
“Lunch.”
“What are you trying to do, get yourself put back into the hospital?”
Lewis wrinkled his nose and knitted his brow in confusion.
“Because they’ll see this as a harmful act,” Jeff answered Lewis’ questioning gaze.
Lewis put his finger to his mouth and made a shhh sound.
“I won’t tell, don’t worry.” Jeff put his hands under Lew’s armpits. “Now, let’s get you up and into a comfortable chair.”
Lewis tried to help but fell limp. His tolerance to the alcohol was much less than he had thought it would be when he took that first drink of Scotch.
“You’re a mess.” Jeff said, as he dragged Lewis into the living room. Once he felt confident that Lew was all right, he got a blanket from the bedroom and threw it over Lewis’ limp body. Then he got a bucket from under the bathroom sink in case Lew vomited. Jeff sat down in the living room and watched as his brother slept for several hours. He got up once to get himself a drink of water, but the rest of the time just sat and stared. The sun moved through the sky shifting the light and shadow in the cottage’s living room in slow motion. Shadows crept in and out of corners, from under furniture, dependent on the sun’s position. Jeffrey let the shadows overtake his brother and himself until, finally, he turned on a light. He moved the bucket away and bent down and put his hand on Lewis’ chest. He shook Lewis to wake him.
Eyes opened. “Jeff,” a quiet whisper came.
“How do you feel?”
“Drunk.”
“Still?”
“Weak.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t get sick all over your carpet here.”
“My head hurts.”
“It should. Can you get up? I’ll help you to a chair.”
Lewis lifted the blanket with his hand, then rubbed his forehead. “Thanks for the blanket. What’d you do, drag me in here?”
“Yes. By the hair.” Jeff couldn’t help but laugh at Lewis.
Lew followed suit and laughed with him, albeit much quieter and in some pain. “I was trying to get the muse back,” he admitted.
“Did you?”
“Not that I can remember. Wow, it just hit me like that.” They both fell quiet. Finally, out of discomfort, they both spoke the same word: “Well...”
“You go,” Jeff said.
Lewis took a deep breath. “It’s been a while since we’ve sat across from one another. You look just like me.”
“Does it still bother you?”
“Not like it used to. It used to feel like you were me and whenever you were around, I wasn’t. Now, I’m here, too, maybe weaker, but here.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It has nothing to do with you.”
“I didn’t think it did. I was just sorry you felt that way when in reality it should be just the opposite. But we’ve covered this ground. You’re the genius, you’re the gifted one. I’m second, if one of us has to be.”
“Do you really feel second?”
Jeff looked away. “No, I really don’t.”
“Well, I do.”
“Always?”
“No.” Lew sighed and rubbed his head. “But, like you said, we’ve been through all that before, no need to go through it again. What’s important is my work and what I’m going to do about it.” He paused, looked over at Jeff, his hand still cupped over his forehead, massaging his own temples. “I still feel a little drunk.”
“You want to lie down?”
“No.”
“What do you want?”
“It’s a big decision, Jeff. I don’t know what to do.”
“Still having problems?”
“If you could see the shit I’m producing, and it’s getting worse.”
“No.”
“Yes!” Lew struck the arm of the chair with a weak fist. “Dammit, I can’t paint for fucking shit. I’ve gone through my preliminary work, reacquainting myself with this,” he swept his hand across the air in front of him to indicate the cottage, the forest, the field, and in general, the lifestyle, “but nothing’s happened.” Seriously, he looked at Jeffrey and asked, “Do I have to be crazy to paint?”
“No. You weren’t crazy, as you put it, when you started, and your work was great then. In fact, this time, when you had a problem, your work went down hill. Look at it. Even before you went into the hospital, it started.”
“Maybe when I’m on the edge, teetering?”
“Don’t do this to yourself. For Christ’s sake. Maybe it’s anxiety, fear. Maybe you’re afraid that if you paint well you’ll go back into the hospital. Subconsciously. Well, it’s not true. That part of your life is over. Done with. That’s why you stayed this time. To make sure. You keep up with your appointments, right?”
“With the psychologist?” Lew nodded.
“Then that’s it, you’re safe. Don’t let fear stop you from doing what you love.”
“I have to get back to nature.”
“Do you?” Jeff looked like an old man to Lewis, sitting there across from him, safe, secure, staid.
“Yes, that’s how I feel. I feel like I’m,” he struck his chest with his index finger, “too much in control. I’ve got to let loose.”
“But you’re afraid.”
“Maybe.”
“What do you really want? I hate to repeat myself, but if you want to continue being in control, fearing what you may uncover, and not painting as well, then do it. Your work will get better, not like before, but compromised. It’ll sell.”
“I’m not
worried about selling.”
“Then fuck it, you have to be happy.”
An expression of realization came across Lew’s face.
“What?” Jeff said.
“I think you’ve helped.”
“Good. So what’d I help with?”
“I have to be happy.”
“You seem happy now, most of the time. When you’re not agonizing over your work, or lack of it.”
“I only look happy,” Lewis said.
“You act happy. Why not lay off painting for a while. Rest. Get your head together.”
“No, it’s just the opposite. I need to work more, get tired, get excited, close up some and let the world stew inside my chest.”
“Don’t overdo it.”
“But that’s just what I need to do. I’ve been pussy-footing-it long enough. Christ, I wait until I’ve had a good night’s rest, morning coffee, or breakfast, and I ease into it. It’s like I’m still at the hospital, in the psychiatric ward. There’s no fucking excitement there, there’s no pain.”
“I’m telling you that you don’t need pain.”
Lew stood up fast, “The fuck I don’t. That’s what makes me feel good. When it comes out.” He stretched his hands out to Jeff. Lewis looked down and saw his brother, the rational, calm, old, social side of himself. He didn’t need that side. He had to discard it, go back to being the balance, the recluse, the spacy one, the one on the edge, if necessary. He hated the horror of craziness, but couldn’t live without the exuberance, the excitement, of his art. “I can’t live like this any more.”
“I don’t want you killing yourself either. Got that?”
“I don’t want to live dead.”
Jeff looked away. He breathed heavily. “I don’t know what’s best.”
“Then let me decide.”
“Look, I can’t sit by and let you destroy yourself.”
“Can you watch me die unhappily? Slowly?”
Jeff had no answer.
“Don’t make me live a life that looks happy to you and the rest of the world. I’m more fulfilled when I’m quiet, when I’m alone with myself. If I want companionship I have the Indian, if I want sex there’s bars, parties.”
“That sounds sad.”
“To you! Let me live my life.”
“Even if it kills you?”
“I’d rather die tomorrow after painting something I feel is great, than live a hundred years without it. I don’t want a wife and family and vacations to Europe. I want to create life.” He raised his hands into the air. His head throbbed, but he felt invigorated. He turned to his brother. “Leave me alone.”
“For how long?”
“A couple of weeks. I need to be alone. To work. Nobody.”
“What if you do something like you did today?”
“Leave me alone. I’ll do what I think I have to.”
“I’ll just check on you. I won’t bother you a bit.”
“No,” he said softly.
“Lew, you’re being unreasonable.”
“No, I’m not. I’ll be fine.”
Jeff stood up. “I don’t know.”
Lew got Jeff’s coat and handed it to him.
“Now?”
“The sooner the better.”
“But...”
“I need to be alone to work. I’ve got to shake off the world, the human world, and embrace nature.”
“I don’t like this.”
“But you’ll respect my needs, my decision?”
“I hate to,” Jeff said putting on his coat.
“You must.”
With little more conversation, Jeff was convinced, pushed out of the house, and into his car. He sat staring out the windshield for a minute, maybe searching in himself for the truth about Lewis. He started the car and drove home.
CHAPTER 20
THAT NIGHT LEWIS DID NOT SLEEP. He wandered the house, took four aspirins every few hours to cut his continuously pounding headache to a minimum, ate another sandwich, and prepared three days worth of food and water. At one point, he climbed the stairs to the loft and looked through the paintings he’d been doing. “Shit,” he said aloud while flipping through them. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.” He slammed them back against the wall. “I can’t live like this,” he said. “It’s worse than being crazy. Woa, now, don’t over do it, here, Lew.” He looked around the room at the mess. “Christ, now you’re talking to yourself. Maybe you’re crazier than you think.” He yawned and put his hand over his mouth, then rubbed his temples. Methodically, he began to clean up the loft, placing all his sketches into the trash. There was a time where, under Jeff’s insistence, he would have saved them. “This is for me,” he said, responding to his memories of that time, “not Jeff and not the rest of the fucking population. For me.” After the papers were thrown out, he cleaned his brushes, wiped down his easels, emptied and cleaned knives, cans, cups. He made coffee and drank an entire pot while working. He swept the floor, organized his paints and brushes and knives and palettes. By sun-up he was finished. A second pot of coffee sat near the sink with one cup already poured and half gone.
Lewis dragged the couch over to the window and watched the light increase over the trees and field. A heavy frost had accumulated and, sitting that close to the window, he could smell the clean scent of December air coming through the glass, cold and fresh. He stared and, for the first time that night, dropped into common thought. Still very much under control, he was apparently there for one reason, to experience the waking of the forest and field. Excluding the fact that many animals in the area were nocturnal, a lot of activity was aroused early in the morning. Field mice scurried under leaves around the frost, still harvesting for winter. Squirrels spent their days out and about. Opossums and deer selected places to rest. What was left of leaves on the trees perked up, the pines stretched. Lewis could hear the brook gurgle and glup. The sun broke over the treetops and slammed into Lewis’ face. He squinted, letting its warmth blanket him through the glass. When the sun was well up, he went downstairs and took two more aspirins, then made himself a big breakfast of bacon and eggs, which he ate from the pan while leaning against the counter next to the sink. He felt excited about his plans, anxious, and somewhat relieved. He needed to be alone and not feel like an invalid that everybody had to check on. He was fine. He felt fine.
When the hour arose where the sporting goods store opened, he grabbed his coat and left the house walking face first into the morning air, the sun filtering through trees to run streaks across the ground in front of him. He breathed in the thin, cold air and smiled to himself, holding onto the wintry scent as long as he could.
He drove directly to the shopping center and walked into Harvey’s Sporting Goods, found a tent, sleeping bag, backpack, gas burner and cooking kit, and paid for it all using cash. The check-out girl gave him an odd look and jokingly asked if he’d be doing some camping this winter.
“No, just gearing up for next spring,” he told her.
Once back at the cottage, Lewis stripped and showered and made himself lunch. He went back upstairs and collected sketch pads, pencils, a small quantity of paints, thinner and brushes, an easel and two small canvases. Back downstairs with a kitchen filled with camping gear and art materials, he began to pack. Compacting everything as tightly and in as little space as possible was difficult, and took him three tries before he was happy with the results. The easel and canvases were strapped awkwardly to the outside of the filled pack. It would have been easy to make more than one trip, but he was determined to get to the enchanted forest with everything at once, just to be done with it. He wanted to walk away and not return for at least three days. Not long by most standards, but long enough for what Lewis had planned. He really didn’t expect to do much work. The art materials were only in case he recovered sooner than he thought, or for his immediate impressions, if he received any.
Once he satisfactorily packed up, Lewis made another sandwich, walking around the distorted-looki
ng backpack as he ate it. The phone rang, but he let it go. Alone. Totally alone, is what he had told Jeff.
Lewis had nurtured a methodical and controlled attitude while in the hospital. Carrying that discipline home with him, he washed the dishes after he ate and put them back in the cabinets so that the house was left just as he’d entered it weeks before: clean and well organized, as though he hadn’t returned from the hospital at all.
Lewis lifted the loaded backpack by crossing his arms to grab the straps and twisting it through the air and onto his back. The weight rested on a strap he tightened around his hips, resulting in only a mild tug at his shoulders. It would be warm in the sun, but for the night and for the dark, damp of the enchanted forest, he grabbed an additional sweatshirt on his way out the door. Walking through the field, he looked like an oddly decorated hiker with utensils hanging off the backpack near canvases and an easel. He watched the sky, turning to look back at the cottage only once. When he turned his face and placed his concentration back to the journey, the image of the cottage blinked and was gone from his mind.
The soft cushion of the ground pushed back as he leaned his weight into it. The sun spread warmth over his face even though the air was cool. Trees leaned towards him, then rustled their few remaining leaves and straightened when a fresh wind blew in from the Northwest. He tucked the neck of the sweatshirt behind the backpack strap near his waist to free his hands. As he made his way along the stone fence, he touched the heads of some of the weeds standing amid the wind-bent majority. He let his left hand slide over the stone top of the fence when he could do so without bending and reaching down. For a moment, his mind slipped into common thought, but he quickly retrieved it and again concentrated on his walk. Experiencing nature without common thought was also exciting to Lewis. To him common thought was merely another way to see nature, a different path to take. Even though it offered insights he had never imagined, it remained foreign to his human sensations, the ones he was born with. Common thought, even at his level of control and understanding, was still a mystery to Lewis, just as human movements and experiences were still a mystery to me. Lewis was determined to change all that during his stay in the woods. He knew it would be dangerous, that it could thrust him back into his insanity; it could remove his humanness completely, leaving him no better than a plant himself; but it could also lead him into a realm of total experience, total understanding, a place where he could be a part of nature without losing what he needed to work with in the human world. All he truly wanted was to paint as he once had. He knew his little three-day experiment could just as easily go beyond his hopes. It could kill him. It could leave him with nothing. But it could also allow him to regain that which had once explained his life, his art.
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