Catching the Light

  She had tried not to think about winning but something inside her had hoped—more than hoped, almost expected—to win. Why else had she felt like she was falling off the cliffs when she heard she hadn’t: the pressure in her head, the fast-elevator drop in her stomach? Here you go again, a failure. Cathy sat and stared straight ahead and the tears balled up in her chest but her eyes stayed dry. She’d lost Hutch because she’d sent in that picture and now she’d lost the contest anyway.

  Sarah had been so encouraging always. “You can do it! You can do anything you set your mind to.” Then she’d been treated like a genius by everyone in her year at NSCAD, and she wasn’t. Nobody had been surprised when her painting was picked to represent the school. People even said she was sure to win. She’d let it all go to her head.

  After an hour or so Cathy walked through the woods to the light and back by the road and the action made her feel better, the sun on her face, even the gulls jeering, thought you could win didn’t you? Go ahead and jeer, stupid gulls. This was not the same as failing grade seven. The manager of the gallery in St. John’s had agreed to an exhibition whether she won or not. So maybe she wasn’t the best in the country, but she was still good. And she was going to be better. Cathy was almost marching by the time she was back at the house.

  Never mind the internship. There was going to be an exhibition of her very own work and the whole upstairs at that gallery in St. John’s would be filled with Cathy Russell’s paintings. This was beyond all her dreams growing up—graduating from art school was beyond them, actually going to art school was her grandest dream back then and even that was something she never really expected. Still, it would have been nice to win that internship…she wondered what the winning entry was like. Was it all that much better than Cathy’s? It was called Far and Away so it could be a view of mountains or something from outer space. Anything.

  ***

  Cathy called the gallery manager and told him about losing the contest. He just said something in an encouraging voice about stiff competition and plans for the exhibition were still going ahead, just make sure she had that portrait there as the centrepiece, and they discussed the number of paintings and sizes and other mechanical details, and when to bring in all the exhibits.

  Then he started talking about an Official Opening and Cathy could picture half the town there—that’s what Mariners Cove did for one of its own. They’d see Hutch’s stump and this was home, worse than Halifax or Toronto. People gawping at it. Here was Cathy, trying to think up ways to make Hutch feel better, and she was about to betray him again in an even bigger way. It was way worse than Sarah. Cathy could not show his portrait.

  “Does there have to be an opening?”

  “Yes, of course.” he said, sounding shocked. What was she thinking? “And you have to be there. People always want to meet the artist. You have to be there for that whole first event. Absolutely.”

  “Well, I’ll be there but I’m not showing Hutch’s portrait.”

  The custodian went ballistic, said he’d started the planning, sent out preliminary publicity announcements featuring the portrait chosen to represent the NSCAD graduating class….

  He went on and on, finishing with saying, “Don’t expect me to do anything for you in future if you let me down now.”

  Ultimatum: noun: a final demand or statement of terms, the rejection of which will result in retaliation or a breakdown in relations.

  Oh, god. Cathy needed that manager. And she had to have that exhibition. Oh, god, god, god. So when he finally stopped for breath Cathy said well, all right. She’d loan the portrait to the gallery but she wasn’t selling it. He didn’t like that either but he accepted it.

  “Some artists do that. As long as it’s here on opening night.”

  Cathy spent the next five weeks wondering if she’d made the wrong decision, if she could still change her mind at the last minute. The exhibition was the middle two weeks in August and she prayed the portrait would be too late arriving from the mainland: that the truck would break down, that winds would be too high for the ferry crossing, that they’d have a hurricane, a blizzard, an earthquake…. But as she finished framing and preparing the other exhibits ready for the road, excitement and pride drowned out the worries. Her very own show. The first big step towards being an artist—first independent step.

  ***

  Dot’s daughter and family were coming to stay in Mariners Cove with Dot again for a month. Would Cathy like to house-sit in St. John’s? In the end Mom came too for a little holiday and they drove to Marianne’s together. The portrait was still in transit. Be late, be late, be too late.

  They went shopping for an outfit. They went everywhere: big stores, little stores, fancy ones and plain. They were about to give up when Cathy saw it, just like the time she bought the slinky bronze dress. They were passing an unlikely window, full of embroidered denim hats, and at the back was a long jacket, almost a coat. It was every colour in the yellow half of the colour wheel: all the way from purple through orange and round to the edge of green—colours you would never think of putting together except in a flower bed. It was a painter’s palette. It was Cathy.

  They bought soft beige shoes with a pattern cut out of them, like stencils, and a tiny heel. They were beautiful. Elegant. When she went back to Marianne’s house, Cathy hung her jacket over a picture in the living room and arranged the shoes in the middle of the floor where she could see them. She wouldn’t have bought them because of the price but Mom said they made a perfect graduation present—walking into the future and best foot forward and all that kind of stuff.

  “That outfit will work in any weather. Your coat of many colours.” Mom laughed, rubbing her hands together and giving a little shiver. “My daughter the artist.”

  Choices

  Sarah and Tim had those two little boys staying with them. For a little while. Cathy didn’t want them around, wanted Sarah all to herself so she could explain how she understood about the case study, maybe ask what to do about Hutch’s portrait. But when Cathy called, Sarah was all enthused about her meeting them.

  When she arrived, Sarah gave her a hug and said, “Never mind about the contest. Those decisions are totally subjective. Maybe the judge just prefers landscapes to portraits. Who knows? And you don’t need it. You have this big exhibition coming up. That’s so exciting.” Another hug and then she was introducing the boys. Yes, but Cathy could have learned so much from that internship….

  Now here she was, folded up on the floor with the three year old, Sam, playing with his Duplo. This involved admiring whatever he made, and having whatever Cathy made taken out of her hands and pulled apart. Over and over. The other boy, Craig, was almost six, going into grade one but small for his age. He was out at the front door now, playing with the deadbolt: click, click, click. “Craig come and talk to Cathy.” Click click, click. “Craig come in here please.” More clicks then the door opening and shutting with louder bangs every time.

  When Cathy first arrived he’d been running up and down the stairs madly and jumping off the second step, which seemed a bit high for a boy that size. Cathy pictured Hutch doing exactly that at the same age and smiled. Later he disappeared upstairs and they could hear water running. Sarah said there was a damp patch on the kitchen ceiling where he’d put in the plug upstairs one day and left the tap turned on.

  “Come up and see their rooms.” On the way they paused outside the bathroom. Craig had been washing his hands, turning the soap over and over under the running water until soap suds dripped off his elbows and there was a mound of bubbles up over the top of the wash basin.

  “Time to rinse them off now, Craig.” It took a lot of cold water before the bubbles were beaten down. Dry your hands, now. Show Cathy where you hang your towel.

  Cathy pulled out her sketch pad when she was back downstairs and drew a picture of Craig’s soapy elbows and the bubbles and his profi
le. He was back to messing with the front door and Sarah said he often did that when Tim was due home.

  Tim arrived and there was the usual confusion of greetings and then it was suppertime. He had brought home some kind of puzzle and after supper he was showing it to the boys at the kitchen table and they were all crowded around, so Cathy left them and sank back into a chair in the living room, pulled out her sketch pad, and started to draw. She’d not had much opportunity to study children this age. Craig had an interesting face. There was something in it she wanted to catch, something…empty? No. Unsatisfied? Closer, but still not right. She wasn’t in the mood for dictionaries and anyway a pencil might do it better. She looked up at his face as she drew, then the profile, full face again, then inwards with her mind’s eye.

  Something touched her arm and when she looked up, Craig was standing so close Cathy was surprised she hadn’t noticed earlier. He was gazing at the drawing, perfectly still. More still than he’d been all evening. She paused then continued drawing, but her focus was gone now so she added a final touch or two then tore out that page with great care and held it out to him. Cathy never tore pages out of her sketchbooks. He took it like it was something full to the brim, not taking his eyes off it for a second, then walked carefully out of the room.

  ***

  Sarah called the next day to ask Cathy if she’d come and give Craig an art lesson—well both boys but mostly Craig. He’d fallen asleep that night, still with her picture in his hand.

  “I’ll pay you the going rate for art lessons, I don’t expect you—”

  “Sarah, after all you’ve done for me? I’m not taking a cent. When?”

  They were not your traditional art lessons with scissors and glue and construction paper. He would get that in school or in group art classes. These were seeing lessons: just paper and crayon, pencil when he asked. Look at it, Craig. See this kettle? Is it straight or round, heavy or light? Hard, soft, smooth…? Now draw it. He didn’t ask how do you draw heavy? He just did it, as a child would, not knowing any reason why he couldn’t. It was nothing recognizable but maybe if he thought heavy or hard it would go into his picture one day. Maybe it was there already in a little boy way.

  Cathy couldn’t remember her youngest efforts at art. Her earliest memory was her father out painting the shed, giving her a little pot of his paint and a brush and saying go and paint on that rock. So after a few drawing-only lessons with Craig, she started on the paints Sarah had bought. Now draw with your brush.

  Sarah said he was calmer after those lessons and the calmness lasted at least an hour, which was wonderful. After-school art classes were going on the menu for grade one. But all through Cathy’s stay in St. John’s, she gave Craig a see-and-draw class almost every afternoon, with a few minutes for Sam. Tim put up a big cork board on Craig’s bedroom wall and they pinned up his pictures and Craig gave Cathy a portrait of her with huge snail-shell ears, because one day she had said don’t forget ears, and they’d looked at ears in his animal books and on photographs and at Sarah’s and Sam’s.

  Cathy sketched Craig again, but she didn’t show anybody this time and kept it in her sketchbook, and maybe there was less of the emptiness, but maybe that was wishful thinking because she so wanted to repay Sarah.

  She told Sarah the whole story, about the problem with Hutch’s portrait, asked what she would do, but Sarah said only Cathy could make that decision. She wouldn’t dream of giving advice for something so personal, so important. But she agreed it was pretty much a choice between love and career. Cathy argued and argued with herself but all the time, somewhere inside, she knew. Mom said the damage had already been done so what difference would this make? Dad was silent on the phone for a long time, so long that Cathy had to ask if he was still there. He said art was part of Cathy. How much did she want to be true to herself and how much to Hutch?

  And just as you have green lights all across town when you’re early and don’t care, or red ones when you’re late, nothing at all delayed delivery of Hutch’s portrait to Mariners Cove. Mom patted her hand when they heard, made her a cup of tea, and said what did she want to do?

  They went home to collect it and Cathy hardly said a word on the drive, and the manager set it up the Thursday before the opening and it did look good. It did. Hutch would arrive home on the middle weekend of the exhibition, so he wouldn’t be at the opening. But Cathy wondered if he would come at all, and what he would say.

  Fame

  The day after Paul left, Professor Barlow called Hutch back at the end of a class. Now what?

  “My niece had an exhibit in the gallery at NSCAD recently and I went to see it,” he said.“I saw a portrait of you.”

  Hutch didn’t know what to say. He looked away, tried not to show anything on his face.

  “My wife wondered if you would speak to her class. Grade twelve. She had them over there for a school outing—social studies.”

  “I’d rather not,” Hutch said, all stiff. There was a long silence and Hutch continued to look across the room, avoiding eye contact. “I’m not comfortable with that picture.”

  Paper crackling. Barlow pulled an envelope out of the top pocket in his jacket and held it out.

  “You’re free to say no, of course. Please don’t feel obliged because of me.” He flapped the letter up and down a couple of times. “But I would like you at least to read the letter she sent.” More flapping. “If you would.”

  Hutch looked down at it, kept on looking. Finally he took it and held it by one corner, a little away from himself.

  “Thank you,” said Professor Barlow and waited for a moment.

  Then Hutch collected himself and nodded and walked out. Two days later he had an email from Paul saying he’d heard the portrait had been chosen to go in the contest. His stump was going national.

  He left the envelope unopened for a few days then decided he’d better send a polite No. He opened the letter.

  …need to know that a young person can lead a satisfying life with a disability, as you obviously do…impressive…overcome…living example….

  He grunted and growled about it for the rest of the day and then phoned.

  More Fame

  So the evening of the exhibition arrived and everything looked good. Splendid, the manager said. And everyone Cathy thought might come did come, and they all sounded delighted and proud and there were comments about it putting Mariners Cove on the map and this would show the townies what Mariners Cove could do.

  There were also comments in a different kind of voice about how the portrait was “Hutch to a T,” and how many pictures Hutch was in, and “Oh, my,” and “Well, well,” and “Is there something you’re not telling us?” How to reply to such questions had kept her awake nights and Cathy had rehearsed and rehearsed. Now she just smiled and said he was an easy person to paint, and yes they’d been seeing each other for a little while but she hadn’t laid eyes on him for weeks. He’d be back in the province next week and she hoped he’d manage to come to the exhibition. The more times she said it the easier it became. She was proud of herself.

  But there were a few whispers about it not being very nice, painting his stump that way, and they wondered what Hutch thought. “Well he can’t have minded if he let her do it, right?” Cathy avoided looking to see who made those comments, tried not to think about them. Of course there were strangers looking around too but Cathy hardly gave them a thought, even though some of them might be actual customers.

  There was no sign of Hutch’s parents but his Aunt Liz was there with her family. She just said “Wonderful,” as she left and Cathy couldn’t read her face. The others didn’t say anything at all.

  Then the aunts arrived. The whole gang. “Fifteen of us for dinner at Rumplestiltskin’s last night!” Up until that moment, the only men at the exhibition had been townies or visitors, because it was the middle of the season for guys in the fishery or c
onstruction or “off counting blackflies,” which was how Hutch described her dad’s job in Labrador. But the uncles came. She heard them puffing up the stairs after the aunts.

  “Oh, my.”

  Silence. They’d reached Hutch’s portrait.

  “My lord. Cathy!” There was shock in that one.

  “That’s his scallywag face when you don’t know whether to kiss him or smack him.” That was Aunt Maisie.

  Uncle Reg, her husband, chuckled and said that must have been some kiss. And Aunt Gert and Aunt Elsie said, both at the same time, “Hope it wasn’t our Cathy.”

  Cathy’s insides were up in her throat and she could feel her face turning red. Then she heard Mom’s voice.

  “Oh, you guys. They’re all friends! There’s a picture of Paul Wilson round here too, and Jenny and Eugene.”

  And next thing they were crowding round the corner, remembering the crash in soft voices, sad, respectful, and soon after that they came to a picture of the aunts playing cards, and that caused a riot and a half.

  So by the time they reached Cathy they were full of comments about other paintings and only Uncle Reg gave her the gears. Not that he said anything. He just stood in front of her, clattering that unlit pipe from one side of his mouth to the other like he always did, gripping it in his teeth. But he had a grin and a saucy look on his face. And he winked. Panic. Cathy tried to think what Hutch would do and after a moment she winked back. He laughed out loud round his pipe and gripped her arm for a second then headed for the door. Cathy’s knees felt wobbly for ages after they all left.

  Sarah and Tim came with Paul’s parents and Bud’s parents, and Bud came with a gorgeous looking girl with really long hair. Paul was back in Montreal but he’d sent his good wishes and said he loved Hutch’s portrait. Sarah enthused of course and said Hutch should be proud of that picture, not ashamed of it. She said she would bring Craig in one day when the gallery was quiet.