Fall Love

by Anne Whitehouse

  Jeanne's reasoning appealed to Althea. It sounded plausible. By implying that she was too intense for Paul, and not that he disparaged or disliked her, it allowed her to preserve some dignity. She knew that she ought to try to accept Jeanne's explanation and get past it; still, part of her wanted to ask Jeanne for details of that weekend away. But Althea deliberately made the decision not to be that self-destructive. "Why did you go then?" she couldn't refrain from asking Jeanne.

  "Why not?" Jeanne's earnest expression faded. "You just admitted you would have gone with him if you'd had the opportunity, and you know more about his private life than I do. So how can you blame me?"

  Jeanne paused to drink the last drops of wine in her glass as the waiter appeared and removed their emptied plates—first hers, and then Althea's—which had remained too long at their places. She didn't expect Althea to reply. "Well, we've gotten this far!" she exclaimed then, wondering if she dared go further. She wanted to. If Althea's feelings about Paul revealed Althea at her most vulnerable, Jeanne thought, then the equivalent for herself might be her feelings about Althea. Even more than Paul, Jeanne believed, this issue was responsible for creating the gulf that had separated them all through the autumn. What are my true feelings about Althea? Jeanne wondered, as the waiter returned. Distracted by these thoughts, she refused dessert, asking only for an espresso. Althea ordered one, too.

  The breadcrumbs littering the tablecloth were brushed to the edge and gathered up. Soon the fragrant coffees arrived. Althea and Jeanne each took a heaping spoonful of sugar.

  "How decadent we are!" Jeanne's tone was mocking, ironic. "Althea, I have something more to ask you," she continued and paused, glancing at her friend. Althea's head was bowed as she stirred her coffee with a demitasse spoon, and Jeanne could not see her face. "What do you think about what happened between us on Block Island?"

  When Althea looked at Jeanne, her face was somber, elongated, and plain, her lips compressed in a thin line. "I have no opinion to convey," she said, her prim tone reminding Jeanne that she was a teacher. Jeanne thought, Her attitude is an act.

  "I don't believe you for a minute," Jeanne said.

  "You obviously want to discuss this, and I don't," Althea countered. "I refuse to talk about it."

  Jeanne wanted to plead with Althea, but she did not know what to say. Althea's voice sounded so fierce, her refusal so final. "Don't you want to understand… " Jeanne began.

  "No," replied Althea, "I have no wish at all to understand."

  "But I have a confession to make," said Jeanne. She was thinking that she wanted to explain to Althea how her desire for her was connected to feelings from their lost adolescence. She wanted to convey to Althea its quality of innocence and yearning.

  "Whatever you want to tell me, I don't want to hear it," Althea insisted. "How many times and in how many ways do I have to say it?"

  Jeanne stared back, speechless. She could not entreat Althea to hear her out. This time she was not going to prevail. Stung, she considered, Perhaps this lunch is a mistake after all. Althea must really hate me. Well, I don't need her.

  Jeanne stifled an urge to walk out of the restaurant and leave Althea forever. Why is my reaction so extreme? Why do I immediately consider the irremediable step? she asked herself. She might not need Althea, but she would miss her if they were to part in rancor.

  She was tired. The effort of self-control had its cost. An adult is supposed to be able to renounce, she reminded herself and felt better, as if she had somehow relieved herself of a burden. "Well," she said brightly, her voice faintly edged with sarcasm, "what else have you been doing besides admiring 'The Art of Penjing'?" She smiled a bright, false smile. In spite of my uplifting intentions, she realized, I am still angry with Althea.

  But Althea did not take offense. Clearly relieved to change the subject, she considered Jeanne's question. "To tell the truth, I had a disappointment yesterday," she admitted.

  "What happened?"

  "It's about a little boy in my Harlem school. He's artistically talented, and what's more, he's disciplined. He deserves the opportunity to develop his abilities. My residency at the school will be over by Christmas. I know he'd benefit from private art lessons. I broached the idea with him casually, and he seemed interested. This is the first time I've gotten involved in one of my students' lives outside of the classroom. I always prided myself on treating them equally and not bringing the job home with me. But Jamal is special. I would hate for his talents to be destroyed by neglect. His gifts deserve to be nurtured.

  "I was careful to be diplomatic. I considered that Jamal's family would probably be suspicious of me as a white woman. I discussed the idea of private art lessons with the principal and with Jamal's classroom teacher. They both supported me. I was so excited when I persuaded the Harlem Studio Museum to offer Jamal lessons free of charge. Their classes have a good reputation, and the museum is only about a half-mile from the project where Jamal lives. I asked the principal to contact Jamal's mother and tell her the good news because it would be better received coming from her than from me. I felt sure everything was going to work out until yesterday when Mrs. Fontaine—she's the principal—told me that Jamal's mother isn't interested. She says she can't take him to the lessons."

  "Maybe she's working," Jeanne suggested.

  "On Saturday morning? Even if she is working, why can't someone else in his family take him? I know he has an older brother. And the museum's only a ten-minute walk away. No, Jamal's mother just doesn't want to be bothered. Her attitude makes me so angry."

  "It does seem short-sighted and selfish," Jeanne commented.

  "Jamal told me that his brother had once been in jail. I want to try to save him from a fate like that. It's presumptuous of me."

  "That's true," Jeanne agreed, "but it doesn't mean it's wrong."

  "Sometimes I wonder what good I'm doing in these schools." Althea sighed. "It's exhausting to travel all over the city, it's difficult constantly to be a newcomer and have to deal with so many school administrations. From year to year, even from residency to residency, there's never a guarantee of more work, and the pay isn't enough to offset the uncertainty. If I can't make a difference to a student like Jamal, then maybe I should look for another job."

  "How do you know that you haven't already made a difference to him?"

  "I hope I have," Althea admitted, "but I'll soon be gone."

  "You did your best," Jeanne tried to console Althea. She was somewhat surprised to discover that Althea was so passionately involved in her teaching, since she also recalled hearing Althea refer to the work deprecatingly as "just a job."

  "If that's the best I can do, then I do blame myself, because it wasn't good enough," Althea said. "And if it's not the best I can do, then I also blame myself for not doing better."

  "You're too hard on yourself. You hold yourself to impossible standards. You're not responsible for Jamal. Most teachers wouldn't do what you did."

  "I know," Althea admitted, "but I don't think most teachers are truly interested in nurturing creativity. They care more about the result than the process. Not that I don't think the product isn't valuable, but for my students I'm more interested in the kind of attention that goes into making something." Althea stopped. "I'm sorry," she apologized, "I don't mean to bore you with a lesson on pedagogy."

  "Perhaps it is time for you to move on to something else," Jeanne considered. "I bet these arts-in-the-schools organizations have a high burnout rate."

  Althea shrugged. "Where would I go? What am I qualified to do? I don't want to be a classroom teacher and give up all my freedom."

  "I bet you could figure out something," Jeanne replied. "You've been good in the past at advising me."

  As they were speaking, the waiter brought the check on a silver tray. Althea watched silently as Jeanne claimed it. Then Jeanne took a credit card from her wallet and laid it and the bill on the tray. She handed the tray back to the waiter. Her motions were assured. Althea
thought that she herself might not have pulled off this ritual so well; she would have fumbled with the check or dropped the card.

  "Thank you," she said somewhat grudgingly. It made her uncomfortable to have to feel grateful to Jeanne. This meeting has been hard on both of us, she reflected; I did not really intend to snap so sharply at her, but there seemed no other way that I could get my point across. Well, soon the lunch will be over, and I can go.

  Yet Althea did not feel as anxious to leave as she had assumed she would.

  "Of course, the best solution would be for you to make a living from your art," Jeanne continued, unaware of Althea's train of thought. Her comment brought Althea back to their topic.

  Althea sighed. "I don't see that happening soon. No one's exactly beating a path to my door."

  "You haven't showed anyone the way," countered Jeanne. "You don't have a dealer yet, do you?"

  "No."

  "Have you approached dealers?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "I guess I'm afraid. I don't want to be rejected. I don't know if I'm ready for all that."

  "Do you believe in your work?"

  "Most of the time I do," Althea admitted.

  "What have you got to lose by getting the opinion of someone who could help you sell it?" asked Jeanne.

  Before Althea could reply, the waiter returned with the credit card slip and Jeanne's card. Althea waited while Jeanne computed the tip and signed her name. Althea stifled the desire to try to read the total.

  "Let's stay a few minutes and finish this conversation," said Jeanne, putting the credit card back in her wallet and glancing at her watch. "It's almost three-thirty, too late for lunch and too early for dinner. No one's waiting for our table."

  Althea nodded in assent. "I do think I have a lot to lose," she said in response to Jeanne's question. "What if the dealer says no? Then I've wasted that opportunity."

  "I doubt it works that way. Why couldn't you go back with different work later? I don't believe you just get one shot."

  "It's not only that." With surprise Althea realized that she was about to reveal a secret fear. "I don't know if I can market my paintings and continue to make them at the same time. I'm worried that pursuing the business angle will interfere with my creative concentration."

  "I don't think you've got that right," disagreed Jeanne. "A dealer will handle business for you and free you to paint. Supposedly having a dealer will help your creativity rather than hinder it."

  "But what if I painted only what the dealer wanted me to, because he or she thought it would sell, and who knows if it really would? What if I got into a rut and kept repeating myself, instead of continuing to develop and pursue my own ideas? What if I no longer recognized what my own vision was, because I was so influenced by what other people expected of me?"

  "Your worries are hypothetical and far-fetched," Jeanne commented.

  "Do you think so? They seem realistic to me." Althea sounded genuinely surprised.

  "Yes. I don't think it's going to be a problem. You've never done what other people expected you to, all your life. You're not a wimp, Althea. Your individuality isn't going to get bulldozed by the market."

  "I'm not implying anything that dramatic. I'm talking about a kind of mental confusion," objected Althea.

  "I think it could be just the opposite, that if you had a dealer who was selling your work, then you would feel confirmed in your individuality or vision or whatever you want to call it. You would feel freer to produce what you wanted, rather than more constrained."

  Althea was silent, taking in Jeanne's words. "I hadn't thought of it that way," she said. "Perhaps you're right."

  Jeanne felt a heady surge of confidence as she realized that Althea found her argument convincing. Boldly she continued, "And to turn the issue around, I don't think it need necessarily be so bad to take what other people want into consideration. The relationship need not be adversarial."

  Althea shook her head. "I'm not talking about competition. I'm talking about influence."

  "You're bound to object to whatever I say," Jeanne complained. "This discussion has gotten too theoretical. What are you working on now, anyway?"

  "I'm trying to finish a cycle of four paintings."

  "What are they?"

  "They're the ones I began on Block Island."

  "Oh. I never saw them."

  "I know."

  Jeanne felt accused. "As I recall, you didn't want me to look at them," she said. "You laid them out carefully in my closed car so they would dry, and you wouldn't let me or Paul get near them. Then before we left you put them in two portfolios with dividers."

  "You remember those portfolios?"

  "Yes, you've had them for years. You made it clear that you didn't want me to see the paintings until they were finished."

  "I'm not asking you to defend yourself," Althea said.

  "What are these mysterious paintings anyway? Are they scandalous erotica?"

  "Not at all," replied Althea, without cracking a smile. " There's not a human figure in them. How can I explain them to you? They're pieces of landscapes, abstracted, and at the same time essences of landscapes."

  "Will I be able to recognize what they are?"

  "What they represent," corrected Althea. "You'll have to see for yourself."

  "I'd like to. Shall I make an appointment?"

  "You might as well wait till they're done. I hope it won't be long now."

  "So far, what's the general consensus?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "What have people said about them?"

  "Nothing. No one has seen them."

  "So this secretiveness is your attitude in general, not just toward dealers. I wonder how you can tell if the paintings are good or not if you don't let anyone see them. I don't remember your having been so private about your work in the past. Why now?"

  Althea thought back on her difficult autumn. There had been times when she'd wondered if she'd go back to these paintings at all. She didn't want to have to explain this to Jeanne now. "I haven't felt ready to receive opinions, and so I haven't asked for them," she told her.

  "You're really amazing." Jeanne shook her head. "You can shut yourself up in a room painting without anyone knowing what you're doing and feel as much an artist as if people were asking all the time to see your work."

  "If you're an artist, it comes from yourself. Not from other people."

  "It must be hard to work on your own day after day without getting any support. I know I couldn't do it."

  "It is hard," Althea admitted. She wasn't sure how to take Jeanne's comment. Jeanne seemed to be praising her, while subtly denigrating her at the same time for being a fool. Althea was insecure enough to feel upset by it, but self-controlled enough not to try to defend herself.

  "Look, what are you doing for the rest of the afternoon? Why don't we visit some downtown galleries?" Jeanne suggested. "We're not far away. We'll ask about their exhibition schedules and find out if they're taking on more artists."

  "You mean, go right now?"

  "Why not? Are you busy?"

  "No, but we don't have much time. It's after three-thirty."

  "I believe some galleries keep late hours on Saturday."

  "I'm not sure the downtown galleries are right for me. I don't want you to talk about me. Please don't embarrass me." Anticipating the visits, Althea began to feel anxious.

  "I won't mention you if you prefer. Shall we walk? It looks beautiful outside. Remember, there's no commitment. You're just looking."

  "I see you won't take no for an answer." Althea realized that she was going to capitulate. She only hoped she wasn't making a mistake.

  "It seems to me that you're in a crisis with your career. You need to move ahead, to give up your obscurity." Jeanne leaned forward as she spoke; she was in earnest, inspired by her conviction. "From your interest in things Chinese, you may know that the Chinese symbol for crisis is composed of two ideograms, one
signifying danger and the other opportunity. Face the danger and grasp the opportunity," she urged.

  Althea thought to herself, I'm painting again. My crisis has passed. But how could Jeanne know about that? "You're full of suggestions today, aren't you?" she observed.

  Jeanne flushed. "When I was looking for work in the theater, I took your advice. Won't you take mine now?"

  Althea found Jeanne's eagerness both infectious and irritating. "I'll come with you if you agree not to lecture me anymore," she bargained, consoling herself with the thought, It's only for the afternoon.

  Chapter 19

  Bryce telephoned Paul again on Friday, November 21. His manner was brisk, even terse, as if he were still unsure of his welcome. "I'm back in Meridian," he announced, "and yes, I found your ticket to the Joyce Theater waiting for me. I've managed to book a flight to New York tomorrow. I'm scheduled to land at La Guardia by the mid-afternoon, so I'll be able to make the performance."

  "That's terrific," replied Paul. "I'd like to take a cab out to the airport to meet you. I'll let you know early tomorrow morning if I can be there."

  "Don't worry about it," said Bryce. "I don't have much luggage. I'll get a porter to help me."

  "Are you sure?"

  Paul didn't protest, and Bryce couldn't help feeling slightly disappointed. He realized, now that he had refused the offer, that he did want Paul to come meet him. Yet it was important to him to appear independent; he would never have told Paul that he'd changed his mind. But he did ask Paul wistfully if he would be at home to greet him when he arrived.

  "Of course," said Paul. "We'll have something to eat before I leave for the theater. Everything will be ready for you. Just tell me what time your plane gets in."

  "Around three-thirty."

  "Perfect," said Paul. "I'll be expecting you an hour later. Then tomorrow night I'll give you the performance of my life."

  "I'm looking forward to it and to seeing you at home."

  * * *