Portrait of a Girl Running

by J. B. Chicoine

  Myles respected that Brigham had left to the imagination whether he could really belt it out or had understated his ability.

  “What about you? Do you play or just listen?”

  “Sax,” Myles replied, ending the exchange.

  A month later, Myles had heard that Brigham, conscripted to jam with the school rock band during the finale at the homecoming dance, had significantly minimized his ability.

  ~

  Ignoring post-run whispers and gawks, Leila, sat in homeroom, listening to the drone of announcements over the public address system. Although Mr. Myles read as usual, she sensed something amiss. He hadn’t attempted to engage her in any way, but his utter stillness begged she look at him.

  His gaze had already settled upon her. When their eyes met, he arched one brow. Although it raised the hair on her arms, she kept her eyes on his. Did he expect her to recoil? She refused to look away. His expression morphed. It wasn’t quite an almost-smile, in fact, the curve of his mouth did not change nor did the narrowing of his eyes. Perhaps it was as subtle as dilating pupils or an imperceptible twitch—it didn’t matter; something passed between them and neither could take it back.

  ~

  In art class, Miss Michaels set out the watercolors. It should have been an easy exercise, but Leila’s brush, paints, and water wrestled on the paper, creating an uneven, splotchy mess. At home they behaved better, but in class, with Miss Michaels hovering, Leila’s hand cramped. She tore off the top page and began again with a little better result. She then flipped the page back and proceeded to sketch her instructor, a lax image upon which to embellish. She laid out all the angles, taking special note of the lighting so she could later add detail.

  When time came for Miss Michaels to review the class’ progress, Leila flipped back to the day’s lesson and received her teacher’s usual commendation. Even though it sounded canned, it was better than her father’s less-than-enthusiastic praise, a means of buying from her another hour of silent drawing in the corner. Anything to keep her content as the band worked on their sound.

  ~

  Leila woke without the alarm on Saturday morning. She rolled to glance at the clock. Six-ten. She had hoped to sleep in on one of her only days off, but even in her dim, shade-drawn room, she couldn’t drift back to sleep. It might have been a dream that woke her or over-stimulation from her first week at school. Either way, she lay awake but did not want to get out of bed.

  If she had someone to take care of her, to bring her breakfast or lunch in bed, someone to clean her house and pick up groceries, perhaps she might stay in her room for days at a time the way her father sometimes had. It hadn’t occurred frequently—most of the time he had more energy and enthusiasm for life than anyone she had ever known, but when he plummeted, he hit hard and it scared her.

  “Don’t worry, he’ll snap out of it,” Joe would always say, but it had scared him, too. Those were the times when Joe stepped in and played father. Sometimes, she wished Joe were her father with his kind and accepting ways. In his opinion, she could do no wrong. Not that he spoiled her, but he was more the nurturer, band-aiding scraped knees and pinning her artwork to the walls, picking her up from school, the one who more often said, “Love you, Baby.”

  Her father could be fun, too, but that was on his way ‘up.’ That’s when he got along with everyone. His moods were easy and less intense. He smiled more and seemed satisfied with Leila’s piano progress, but once he hit the ceiling—and that sometimes lasted weeks and weeks—his expectations of her would grow and so would his restlessness. They would soon be moving. And then he would crash.

  Leila inched her way from under her sheet onto her tummy and to the edge of the bed. She reached for the shade. With a tug, it furled with repeating thumps, illuminating the room as if she had flipped the light switch.

  She flopped to her back. An irregular crack ran through rough ceiling plaster and formed the crooked smile of an abstract face. Every ceiling she had ever slept under hid a hundred different faces waiting to smile or frown or scream in horror, depending on the light. As she stared, her sinuses burned and her vision blurred. She waited for a tear—enough to wipe away—but the waters always receded. Pushing herself to sit at the end of her bed, she gazed at her reflection in the dresser mirror.

  “Just keep busy,” she said under her breath. Her focus shifted to Ian Brigham’s card at the corner of her mirror, then to the postcard from Joe, and down to the vacant dresser top. Commencing her morning ritual, she replaced the canister where it would spend another day. After prying off the lid, she peeked inside at the measuring spoon sitting atop ashes. Time for another excursion. She bent, peering at Ian’s card to read the address, and then brought Joe’s postcard to the kitchen table. While she waited for water to boil, she wrote:

  Dear Joe,

  Thanks for the postcard—Artie really liked it too. We’re glad things are going well. And thanks for the money you wired—you didn’t have to send so much, I’m actually getting by really well. I think Artie is doing pretty good too, but sometimes he forgets things, and I think his cough might be getting worse, but don’t worry. I still spend every Saturday night playing with him and Buddy. I love listening to his guitar—he sounds just like you.

  School is great. I’m making lots of new friends. I hope you’ll be able to make it home for my graduation. Have you met anyone special yet? I bet there’s lots of pretty ladies in Amsterdam or Paris, or Vienna, or wherever you are now. I hope when you do find someone, she won’t be just a groupie.

  Here’s a little painting for you. I think I’m finally getting the hang of it. Remember how you used to hang all my drawings on the refrigerator?… I miss that … I miss you. Please call sometime soon.

  Love, Leila

  She sealed it in an envelope and scribbled the address. A half hour later, she jogged to the nearest mailbox where the parcel began its journey to Amsterdam, but who knew how long before it would find Joe—sometimes it took days, even weeks to make contact, like when her father had died.

  From the mailbox, she continued her journey to the high school and then farther south. Most of the streets in this part of Millville ended at or ran along one of the canals that emptied into the Great South Bay. Now that early September had arrived, she could venture to the village beach without worrying about bystanders crowding the waterfront.

  Nearing the beach, she passed an empty track and softball field. The parking lot was vacant, although a few villagers sat at picnic tables. Leila paused at the sight of a mother pushing her toddler on the beachside swing set. Had her mother ever played with her that way? As much as Leila would have liked to imagine it, she didn’t dare. Fantasies like those solidified images that made her mother seem real—she was better off not missing what she never knew, real or imagined.

  Leila walked her way out to the end of the jetty and watched for a break in the light water traffic where boats entered and exited the mouth of the canal near the yacht club. A rainbow of color floated atop the water, narrowing and widening, and breaking her reflection. She tugged the folded handkerchief from her pocket and stared at the ashes—each time she prepared for the ritual, the heap of ash scooped into the handkerchief increased in volume. She let out a sigh as she sat, checked the wind direction, and then emptied it without ceremony.

  On the beach, the squeals and laughter of children stirred something churning within her—a longing, like a child, watching her favorite ball float out to sea. As soon as she felt the burning, she came to her feet, walked the jetty back to the sand, and started her run home. On second thought, perhaps she would run a lap on the beach track. It reminded her of the community center track where she had first started running at around nine or ten years old. It neighbored an apartment they lived in with a window overlooking the track, which was the only reason her father permitted her out of his reach. After he fell sick, she never asked permission. She ran when and wherever she liked.

  ~

  Standing in fron
t of Artie’s range, Leila turned pork chops in his iron skillet. Any waft of frying food drew Buddy from next door. “We go way back to Prohibition days,” Artie had told her. “Got ourselves in a mess with the Klan and had to migrate.” Buddy had confirmed it with a head-wagging “Oooeee!” Since they had to leave everything behind, she was glad that in their old age they still had each other.

  The door to Artie’s apartment creaked and then slammed shut. “Mmm, Mmm—sure smells good in here,” Buddy bellowed.

  Leila set a platter of chops on the table where Artie already sat. “Might as well join us,” he said, as always.

  Leila ate with them and listened. Most of the conversation consisted of repeating what each had just said, only louder, but neither old man seemed to mind. It didn’t matter to Leila—she had already heard most of it anyway.

  “Did you get that amp fixed yet?” Buddy shouted.

  “You know I haven’t,” Artie snapped back at him. “Nothing’s preventing you from bringing yours. If you put your hearing aid in it wouldn’t matter if the volume don’t work so good.”

  Buddy laughed, his large belly jiggling as he shoveled in another mouthful.

  By eight o’clock, they started tuning up. Leila sat at the piano, stroking uneven ivories. A wave of melancholy settled in her chest and weighted her hands. Buddy plucked his bass as if it were the fibers of her heart. When Artie hummed a few chords, her fingers responded, striking one key and then another. She closed her eyes and imagined her dad. As Artie bent a few notes, the twang of it conjured images of Joe. Before tears had a chance to form, she answered their chords with a few notes. She didn’t think much about how she played—not like when her father had sat beside her, drilling her on scales and chords. Now, the music came automatically.

  By nine o’clock, a few other locals showed up with guitars and another visitor grabbed bongos from the closet. Many of Artie’s songs Leila had grown up with, but he also had a new repertoire—her favorite, “Ain’t Got No Home,” moved her every time he sang it.

  Don’t nobody want me,

  Ain’t got no place,

  Momma says she don’t want to see my face.

  I been all around, my feets so tired

  My head needs a pillow, my soul needs some space.

  Gonna make my way, gonna go where I can,

  Gonna make my peace, Ain’t gonna run from the man.

  With her heart simultaneously heavy and light, time passed as music rolled over and under, weaving its way into the laughter and chatter.

  Near midnight, Leila went to the kitchen for a glass of water and returned to the doorway, her gaze scanning the room. Two black, octogenarian Mississippi refugees, one Cuban, a Puerto Rican, and several other locals sat amidst dilapidated furniture, laughing and playing. They all talked so fast and loud. She couldn’t help smiling at the lot of them. Was this as close as she would come to fitting in? In a way she did fit—just like with her father’s band. The biggest difference was the lack of cigarette haze, on account of Artie's lungs, though the scent of pot smoke drifted in from the porch when someone came or went. Although she knew most of the guys by name, they still stared and seemed to wonder at her. She felt conspicuous, like a kitten adopted into a litter of pups.

  She sidled up to Artie, between Buddy and Pedro.

  “I’m calling it a night,” she said and patted his sparse hair.

  Buddy tipped his chin toward her. “Where’s my suga’?”

  Leila thumped his head. He feigned injury.

  “G’night, Angel,” one after another said as she left.

  She climbed into bed. Music wafted through the floorboards, enveloping her in a comforting blues lullaby—like when she was a child, falling asleep to the sound of the band.

  Chapter 9

  Every morning Leila woke, blanketed with so many restrictions, and each day she longed to shed their weight. So much of her growing up felt undisciplined at the time, when in fact unstated rules had controlled her life. Don’t disrupt the quiet. Don’t talk about home at school. Don’t tell that you have two fathers—one black, one white—and no mother. Don’t ask about your mother. Don’t wake Dad. Don’t get caught drawing unless you’ve practiced piano. Don’t make friends—you’ll be moving as soon as you get attached. Don’t pass up an opportunity to eat. Don’t trust authority. And most of all, Don’t trust men you don’t know.

  If her classmates realized she now lived on her own without any supervision, coming and going as she pleased, they would envy her freedom. Yet she lived like a creature born in captivity, afraid to leave her cage—afraid someone might find out.

  “They’ll put you in foster care,” her father had warned, as if that would expose her to the worst abuses, to the horrors he had suffered as a displaced child. He never elaborated on those horrors, but when she was older, Joe told her that her dad had been molested in ways a young girl shouldn’t even know about. She never doubted the truth of her father’s fear and had adopted it as her own. But now, what was the worst that could happen? After all, she wasn’t a four-year-old. Would the courts place her in an unsafe environment? Would they make an issue of her unsupervised status, now, only eight months from her eighteenth birthday? She could wiggle her way through all the loopholes and out of danger—perceived or real—but like a child trying to conquer a fear of heights, she could not bring herself to step too near the edge without retreating to the safety of rules.

  Dread settled in her core, weighing down her body as she lay in bed, contemplating her Sunday—her life. Why did her peers seem to be having all the fun while she remained trapped in limbo between adolescence and adulthood? Indeed, her father had left her the legacy of adulthood but none of the privileges.

  “Get out of bed,” she told herself. Instead, she rolled to her stomach and pulled the sheet over her head. She scowled at the thought of going for a run. If she hadn’t resorted to running as a way to push everything from her mind, she wouldn’t have drawn unwanted attention—she wouldn’t have been noticed, not by Thorpe and Weiss, and not by Ian Brigham. And she wouldn’t be regretting the price she had put on her privacy simply to get out of gym class. And she certainly wouldn’t be contemplating what she might be willing to sacrifice for Ian Brigham.

  When lying in bed became more uncomfortable than confronting her day, she rose and went to the refrigerator. After removing a carton of orange juice, she shut the door and stared at her calendar, at the repeating cycle of days. Summer was like remission—all happy and hopeful but bound to end, and end it did. As she sipped from the carton, she flipped the pages forward to May and let them settle back to the previous months.

  From the kitchen, she took six steps to her new drawing table, glanced at her despicable sneakers by the door and then sat. Within a half hour, she had laid the wash for the portrait of Miss Michaels. If she built up the layers without turning the paint to mud, it might even look like her teacher—at least a fair representation. As she added detail, she replayed her exchange with Ian regarding his photography.

  Leila knew how risky it felt to show someone—someone whose opinion mattered—something into which she had poured her heart. She had lived with the artistic temperament, with insecure musicians, her whole life, and she understood that levels of confidence and self-acceptance varied from very insecure to arrogant. She knew where in the lineup she fell, but what about Ian? She sensed that he was not far ahead of her, but where did he draw the line between what he exhibited and what he reserved? Or did he draw a line between those whom he allowed in and those he excluded? She wanted to be on the intimate side of the boundary, seeing not just some sanitized version of his work, but the entire body of it. What inspired and drove him? Did his artistic ego match the creative boldness she had seen in his photographs at school?

  The bigger question was, what value would Ian place on exposing himself if she were to press him? The notion made her wish for his uncensored reaction, forbidding him opportunity to overthink or rethink, to revise or edit. S
uch a proposition could not take place in the school setting and not with Karen Weiss anywhere around.

  As she waited for the paint to dry, Leila pulled out her sketch of Kyle Schultz running, and the subsequent drawing of Ian Brigham.

  ~

  Ian lingered between his sheets. Having spent too many nights in Karen’s waterbed, he now relished his firm mattress and the solitude of his own room on a Sunday morning. As he rolled over, a stream of light walked a slow path across the floor and turned his oak dresser a warm gold. The hardwood planking throughout the house had sold him on the fixer-upper. Even though he had little better than minimal experience with carpentry when he rescued her from foreclosure, she had allowed him to practice on her, yielding to his eager desire to learn and to do her justice. Yes, he thought of his pretty cottage in feminine terms. Petite and unassuming, unappreciated for years, the ugly sister withering between two domineering and over-indulged edifices. Ian took pride in bringing out her potential. She would repay his kindness. After all, he had spent the last of his savings—and the last two summers—salvaging her.

  Wearing only his jeans and sipping coffee, he ambled from the kitchen to the foyer and into his studio. Light poured from floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking his backyard, where the canal offered an illusion of privacy. He would forgo a morning sail and even his morning jog. A few hours in the darkroom better suited his mood.

  In complete darkness, feeding a strip of film into the canister required full concentration—a reprieve from thinking. When he flipped the light switch back on, his pondering returned.

  It had been nearly two weeks since he had picked up where he left off with Karen Weiss, but already he had too easily allowed the whims of opportunity and convenience to draw him back into the relationship. In many ways, they were again at square one, full of passion yet emotionally tentative. In such a short time, she had become uncomfortably possessive. Now Ian hoped the flames of the relationship would extinguish like all of his past liaisons. Nevertheless, like a kettle swirling with emotion, a flame ignited under his desire for intimacy—true intimacy—yet he was unsure if it was Karen or Leila stirring the pot.