The Color of Light

by Helen Maryles Shankman

“No. She was already gone.”

  “Maybe she went back to the studio.”

  Rachel was dressed in street clothes, leaving for the day. She sought out Tessa. “I’m going to the office to tell them I don’t want to model for her,” she said matter-of-factly. “I can live with the pornographic poses. It’s the negative energy she’s putting out that makes me uncomfortable. Sorry.”

  Like a whirlwind, Portia was back, picking up her supplies. Her long, narrow face was impossibly pink. Even her hair seemed furious, blond hairs snapping loose from her tight bun. As she slammed her paints into her box, she appeared to be holding back turbulent emotions with great difficulty.

  “I’m sorry.” said Tessa, touching her arm. “So sorry.”

  “Why?” Uncharacteristically biting off the words. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I didn’t do anything at all,” she said regretfully. “I should have told her she couldn’t talk to you that way.”

  Portia stopped throwing her things into her art box. “Tessa,” she said. “Don’t blame yourself. She took us all by surprise. Anyway, she’s right. I do need to focus more on composition. She just said it in a jaw-droppingly inappropriate, unacceptable, inexcusable way. So I went to the office and transferred out of her class.”

  “You can do that?” said one of the sculptors. “Out of my way.”

  There was a hasty exodus to the office. In an instant the room emptied out. A handful of students remained. “Why are you still here?” demanded Portia. “Go, now. If we all walk out of her class together, we make a powerful statement about who we are and what we want from this school.”

  Ben shrugged. “I’m a sculptor. What do I care what she says about my composition? I just need a body in front of me.”

  But in Clayton’s pale eyes burned the fire of a zealot, and he gave Portia a dazzling smile when he replied, “You know, I think I’ll do just fine here, thank you.”

  “Tessa.” But Tessa wouldn’t meet her gaze, she was focusing her attention on wiping paint off of her brushes. “What are you doing here? Run, do not walk, to the office and transfer to Geoff Anderson’s class. There are a few openings left.”

  “I can’t,” she said abruptly. “I can’t transfer. I’m the monitor. I need the work-study hours. Also,” she hung her head, ashamed even as she formed the words, “April is Lucian’s new best friend. What would he think if I transferred out after the first day?”

  Portia didn’t give a damn what Lucian thought. “I really don’t think this is a good idea,” she said carefully.

  “I’ll be fine. She has to make nice to me if she wants to stay in Lucian’s good graces.”

  “What about you, David?”

  David was wiping his palette down with turpentine. “Nah, I think I’ll stick around for the Clayton and April fireworks extravaganza,” he said. “Even if it is detrimental to both my education and my self-esteem.”

  “Should be good,” Graham said. “I’m in.”

  “You people are insane,” said Portia firmly as she lifted her bucket of paints to her shoulder. “I will not be responsible for repairing any damage, emotional or otherwise. Tessa, are we still on for tonight?”

  “Is today Friday?” In the turmoil of the past week, she had lost track.

  “Yeah.” said David. “Can you still whip up lamb tagine with your arm bandaged up like that?”

  Tessa flexed her wrist up and down. It felt tight, the skin stretched to the limit. “Maybe we should make it next week.”

  Groans of disappointment all around. “Aw, Tessa. It’s not Friday night without your challah,” said Ben.

  “I can’t get through the week without your kreplach,” added David.

  “You are not the first man to tell me that.”

  “Please?” Clayton pleaded. “I’ll pick up the Manishewitz.”

  “I’m going over to the Green Market in Union Square. I’ll bring fruit,” Portia volunteered.

  “All right.” Tessa gave in. She liked having friends over for Shabbos dinner. “See you at seven. But no Manishewitz, Clayton. I’m not kidding. And if I hear one more obsessive crack about vampires, you go home.”

  She picked up the space heaters and headed for the office. It was already twelve o’clock. She was going to have to hurry if her bread was going to be baked before sundown.

  8

  The challahs were warm and doughy, the lamb fell off the bone. Tessa made kiddush over a very nice George Duboeuf Clayton picked out that came highly recommended by the knowledgeable fellow at Crossroads on 14th Street. The artists filed into her kitchen to wash hands, then waited respectfully for her to make the blessing over the bread before they tore it to pieces and washed it down with Clayton’s Beaujolais.

  The tagine, scented with cinnamon and cardamom, fell apart at the touch of a spoon. Tessa’s current roommate, a French Moroccan NYU business student, pressed her slice of challah to her nose to savor the aroma before devouring it. She kissed her fingers, flicked them in the air. “Magnifique,” she told her. “Better than in Paris.”

  The men followed her every move as she shoveled food into her mouth with shameless pleasure, licking her fingers, oohing and ahhing and mmming with gustatory abandon.

  She pulled a last piece of challah off of the loaf, swiped it across her plate and swallowed it. “Bon,” she announced, pushing away from the table and embracing Tessa on both cheeks. “Good Shabbat. I am going to see Daniel. I will see you later.” She smoothed her glossy hair behind her ear, tossed her leather knapsack and tennis racquet over her shoulder and bounded off like a panther, slamming the door behind her.

  “You can stop drooling now,” said Tessa. “She won’t be back till tomorrow.”

  “Is this one a keeper?” asked Portia. “How long has it been?”

  “Six weeks,” said Tessa. “She seems nice. What do you think, guys, does she seem nice to you?”

  “I think I speak for everybody when I say, very very nice.” Ben said.

  Harker fished a packet of Zig-Zag out of his breast pocket. The scent of tobacco perfumed the room.

  “Hey Tess.” Harker frowned as he licked the edge of the rolling paper, twisted the cigarette tight. “I thought Jews weren’t allowed to make graven images. That’s what my Daddy said.” Harker’s father was a minister. “Isn’t it in the bible somewhere?”

  “I think I’m squeaking by on a technicality,” she replied. “I’m not actually praying to the graven images.”

  “I don’t think I’m allowed to, either,” added Ben. “Witnesses are pretty strict about that sort of thing.”

  “You’re a Witness, huh? The door-to-door kind?” Harker flipped a hand-rolled cigarette into the corner of his mouth, a neat trick that made everybody go, “Ooooh,” in an admiring sort of way.

  “That’s right. In Indianapolis, I used to go every Sunday with my mother and my auntie until I was big enough to say no.”

  “How do they feel about your career choice?”

  “Well…it’s not exactly a choice, is it.” Ben rubbed the stubble accumulating on his chin. “If they weren’t Witnesses, I think they’d be proud. But as it is, they don’t ask and I don’t tell.”

  “So, you’ve never had a birthday party.” said David.

  He shook his head matter-of-factly.

  “Never dressed up like Superman for Halloween. Never been trick or treating.” said Harker.

  “Never got a present on Christmas?” said Clayton. “I respect all religions, my brother, but that is harsh.”

  “Would you raise your children the same way?” Tessa was curious. Ben chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m not looking to get married.”

  “Why not?”

  “Art is my mistress. And she is a jealous, demanding, hellbitch of a mistress.”

  “Gee,” said Graham. “I’ve never actually heard anybody put it that way before. That’s kind of beautiful.”

  “Look. You fall in love, you get married. Before you know it, you have a ki
d. If you’re a man, you have to support a family. You fellas know what I’m talking about. So, you get a job. Nothing too grueling, maybe painting murals for Dreamland Studios, or freelance graphic design. You can still do your thing at night, on weekends. Then your wife says she’s tired of pushing the stroller around junkies passed out in doorways and using the hall closet for a second bedroom. She’s ready for a house in the burbs. So you get a better job, the kind that requires you to wear a suit and put in long hours. Before you know it, art is a hobby on weekends, slipped in there between raking the lawn, fixing the leaky faucet, fourth grade homework and little league. You tell yourself that someday you’ll get back to it.”

  “That’s cheery,” said David. “I think I’ll just go into the bathroom and slit my wrists.”

  Ben shrugged. “That’s just how it is. Unless you have a trust fund.”

  “Hey,” said Portia. “Leave my trust fund out of it.”

  Tessa poured herself more wine. “I thought only people in movies had trust funds.”

  Portia leaned her willowy body back in her chair, crossed her long legs, held her glass out for a refill. “Everybody I went to school with had a trust fund. After high school they all just quit. They didn’t feel like going to college. They didn’t have to work. They waste their lives hanging out at the club, going to parties and talking about other parties they’re going to later.”

  Graham said, “Where do I sign up?”

  “I was in school with kids like that,” said David. “Some of them were pretty messed up.”

  “So how come you’re not messed up?” Harker asked Portia.

  “I just have a small trust fund.”

  “Speaking of messed up,” said David. “How about that April Huffman.”

  “Tessa, you’re her monitor. Did you happen to notice three sixes tattooed anywhere on her person?” Clayton was completely serious.

  “Who can we tell?” asked Portia gloomily. “Who would believe us?”

  “The student liaison committee,” said Tessa, lifting herself up from the table to get dessert. A little unsteady on two glasses of wine, she swayed into the small galley kitchen, returned with a pan of brownies. “They can tell Mr. Sinclair. He’d want to know.”

  “I don’t think he can do anything about it,” said Graham morosely.

  “Why not? It’s his damn school.”

  “The board and the teachers are separate but equal,” he explained. “Turner’s the chairman of the painting department. He’s supposed to be independent of the board’s influence. This April Huffman snafu is his baby.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Portia said. “I’m sure he’ll tell her to tone it down.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” replied Graham.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The ivory towers of academia are filled with personalities who have supersize egos and happy meal paychecks. They fill the gap with petty bickering and backstabbing. I’ve heard some things.”

  “What kind of things?” said Portia, leaning forward, elbows on the table, her eyes narrowing.

  “That Raphael Sinclair and Whit Turner hate each other. That Turner is trying to wrest control of the school away from Sinclair. That Turner is shopping around for names, not talent. Famous artists who might sprinkle a little magic fairy dust on our quaint school. Even if they don’t know how to draw Binky.”

  “He can’t do that,” protested Tessa angrily. “We’re the only classical art school in the country. It’s right there in the catalogue. If I wanted to paint like April Huffman, I would have stayed at Parsons.”

  “Gentlemen,” said Graham, lifting his glass. “Arm yourselves. I think we are about to be witness to a holy war over the soul of this school.”

  “Bring it on,” said Clayton, a peculiar joy lighting up his face. “I love being on the side of the righteous.”

  They carried their dinner plates into the kitchen and scraped them into the garbage, piled them up next to the sink. Tessa arranged Portia’s apples in an Armenian pottery bowl and set it on the table.

  With the cigarette still dangling from his lips, Harker reached for an apple. “Say, Portia. What’s that sketch in your studio supposed to mean? The one with the kid in footsie pajamas, and the bald guy holding up a feather.”

  “Oh,” she smiled bashfully. “I don’t know yet. Sometimes ideas just come to me, and I get them down as fast as I can. The meaning comes later.”

  Graham was brushing crumbs from his lap. “As long as we’re on the subject. I’ve been wondering about a sketch I saw on your wall, Tessa. By the way, did you make these brownies? I’d eat the whole pan, but it would go straight to my hips.”

  “Which sketch?”

  “The woman covering a child’s eyes.”

  “Oh.” She was relieved she wasn’t going to have to explain the one with the naked girl on the bed. “It’s about the Holocaust. My grandparents are survivors. Their families died in the camps.”

  The table fell silent.

  “This month’s Cosmo says that bringing up Auschwitz is a great way to jump start conversation at a dinner party,” Graham finally said.

  “I had a friend whose father was in a concentration camp,” said Portia, ignoring him. “He never talked about it. But whenever we had sleepovers, I’d hear him having these awful nightmares in the middle of the night, calling out in German.”

  Tessa nodded. “My grandfather never talks about it either. He came from this really big family. They all died. After the war he moved to Chicago. And that’s all I know.” She picked out an apple, began to take off the peel in one long ribbon. “I’ve been wondering ever since I was a little girl. What he had to do to survive. Who he lost. What life in his town was like before the war. What happens to you when you lose everybody you ever knew, everybody you ever cared about? How do you survive that? How do you go on?”

  “You have a right to know,” said Portia. “It’s your story, too.”

  “It’s like a hole in the world,” she murmured pensively. “The past is a blank canvas.”

  “You should tell him that it’s for history’s sake. Everyone should hear these stories.”

  Tessa pictured her grandfather, eating soup like he was afraid someone was going to steal it from him, her grandmother hovering nearby in case he needed anything.

  “I don’t think that’s ever going to happen,” she said quietly. “Sorry, guys. I’m drunk. More brownies, anybody?”

  After the third bottle of wine was gone, Harker got up from the table, stretched, patted his flat belly. “Well, folks. I hate to eat and run, but I got a gig in a dive on the Lower East Side tonight. Thanks for the eats, Tessa.”

  “Did you choose your adviser yet?” Graham asked him, picking at the remains of the brownies.

  “Yeah. Turner.” They glared at him accusingly. “Hey, the man’s a good teacher.”

  “I’m going to go, too,” said Graham. “If I run, I can still catch Breakfast at Tiffany’s at Film Forum.”

  “I’m going to a party at NYU,” said Clayton. “Come with me, Ben, otherwise I’ll look like I’m all by myself and no one will talk to me.”

  “If I go with you, you have to model for me tomorrow. I need a male figure for my thesis project.”

  “Who am I?”

  Ben smiled. “The devil, of course.”

  Harker and Graham left with the sculptors, engaged in arguing about whether Clayton had to pose clothed or nude.

  “I have to go too,” David said. “If I don’t call by ten on Friday night, Sara thinks I’m out with another girl.”

  He really was very handsome, Tessa realized. He had dark hair that he kept cut short over laughing blue eyes. A chin that jutted just enough. Cheekbones out to here. Straight narrow nose. A bemused mouth. Nice shoulders, slim hips.

  She walked him to the door. “Where’s Lucian tonight?” he said deliberately. “Doesn’t he ever come to your Friday night dinners?”

  “He has these meetings,” she started t
o explain, then faltered and fell silent. David, seeing something cringe inside her eyes, was instantly sorry he had said anything.

  “Good night, Tessa.” he said, his eyes seeking and meeting hers. “Can’t get through the week without your kreplach.”

  He held her gaze longer than was considered polite, and she knew that he’d stay if she asked him to. “Good night,” she said. “See you on Monday.”

  He turned, walked the short distance down her hallway and rounded the corner. She heard the door to the building squeal open and closed.

  “I told you he liked you,” said Portia when she returned to the table.

  “He has a girlfriend.”

  “My mother says it’s not over till there’s a ring on the finger.”

  “Hey,” muttered Tessa. “Kind of involved here. There’s this famous artist. Saved his life once.”

  “Tessa,” said Portia, then stopped, after three glasses of wine unsure of the right combination of words. “You deserve better. Someone who is there for you.”

  “I don’t want better,” she said mournfully. “I want him.”

  9

  Levon.”

  Levon jumped out of his chair. Bernard Blesser, standing next to him, clapped his hand to his throat. The founder of the school was framed in the doorway, the brim of his fedora pulled low over his eyes.

  “Damn it, Rafe! You could say something.”

  Rafe smiled, enjoying his little parlor trick. He came into the room, flopped carelessly down in a chair in front of Levon’s desk. With one gorgeous gesture he swept his hat off and held it restlessly in his lap. “Sorry. Listen, I was just passing through, and I saw Blesser in here with you. How is it looking, Bernard? Are we going to be able to afford to put in that ventilation system this year?”

  Blesser held up his hand, indicating that he needed another moment to catch his breath, then rapped his white knuckles on Levon’s desk. “Knock on wood, if the furnace holds up for one more winter.”

  Rafe nodded. Good. Gracie was right, the students were getting stoned on turpentine fumes. He leaned in closer. “Have we heard from the Rockwell Foundation?”