Fall Love

by Anne Whitehouse

  "Maybe that's why you've been rejected in the past."

  "That's not fair," Althea was quick to reply. "I hadn't been accepted or rejected. Because I hadn't tried."

  "Well, then, maybe that's why it was easier for you not to try," Jeanne smoothly amended her statement. "Not because you were afraid of being rejected, but of being accepted."

  "I guess I was afraid of both," admitted Althea. She thought to herself, I can't help it, Jeanne annoys me. All I really want is sympathy, but instead I get analysis. But that's Jeanne for you. I should have expected it. "I keep thinking of Van Gogh," Althea continued.

  "Why?"

  "It was impossible for him to sell his paintings. He either kept them or gave them away. I guess he couldn't bear to make a commodity out of them. His brother Theo, who was an art dealer, took over the selling for him. He was just experiencing his first successes when he killed himself: his paintings were beginning to sell, his work was getting reviewed. It's been argued that success was unbearable to him."

  "I know you're upset when you start digressing."

  "Of course I'm upset. What do you suggest I do about it?"

  "Let go," Jeanne said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You're so persistent. You hold on so hard. It's not always in your best interest. Maybe it can be said that everybody in his soul is an artist, but not everybody exhibits, publishes, performs in public. That's the difference. In my view you're an artist when you're able to let go of the things you've made. As long as you keep what you've done hidden, you're not connecting to anyone. You become an artist when you cross the frontier, step over the threshold to the public. Only then do you enable the world to give meaning to what you've done."

  There was a pause in which Althea took in Jeanne's words. "I'd like you to be right," she said, "because it makes me feel better about what I'm embarking on. If Hannah Clarke gets any offers for my work, maybe I can have a clause written into the contract allowing me to borrow my paintings for exhibitions. If anyone ever gives me an exhibition. You know, I'm also afraid of being exhibited. I'm afraid of listening to people's comments and having to answer questions. I'm afraid of reading criticism about my work. I'm a hopeless case. And yet I want all this to happen, too."

  "You'll deal with it when you have to."

  "It seems harder for me than for other people," observed Althea. "I wonder why." After a pause, she continued, "Now that I'd like to show you the Block Island paintings, I no longer have them. If you want to see them, you'll have to call the George Clarke Gallery and arrange for an appointment. Maybe it will help me by letting them think that my work is in demand."

  "We can get a campaign going," Jeanne suggested, "to influence them to exhibit your work, as well as try to sell it."

  "Yes." But Althea sounded doubtful.

  "So Paul and Bryce are giving a New Year's Eve party. You got an invitation," guessed Jeanne, changing the subject. "Are you planning to go?"

  "I don't know," Althea replied with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

  "Do you have other plans?"

  "Not really. I just don't know if I want to subject myself to greeting the happy couple and acting as if nothing ever happened. I don't think I'm up for it."

  "Who knows if they really are the happy couple. You'd find out, I guess, if you came. As for acting, we all acted in the hospital. Why do you feel different now?"

  "Why indeed?" echoed Althea bitterly.

  "I'd thought, after the accident, that you'd gotten over him."

  "Have you?" challenged Althea.

  "Yes," said Jeanne unequivocably. Then she confided, "I've met someone."

  Althea was caught off-guard by this news. She felt a pang of jealousy. I'm so bad at living, she thought. All I know how to do is work, and perhaps I am not so good at that either. She was filled with despair, and she couldn't speak.

  "His name is René," Jeanne continued. "He's an architect who specializes in historic preservation. I'm hoping he'll come to the party. Then you can meet him."

  "Perhaps I'll be there," Althea said carefully.

  "I thought if you knew I was going, you'd come, too."

  "That, too," said Althea.

  * * *

  The following day, the Friday before Christmas, marked the end of Althea's Harlem residency. After her session with Jamal's class was over, she asked him to step into the hall for a moment. "I have something for you," she told him, rummaging in her bag. She pulled out an oblong box of Rembrandt pastels. She gave it to him, a little afraid to look him in the eye. She had never allowed herself to single out a child like this before. She watched as he lifted the top of the box and touched the sticks of colors arranged side by side in their separate grooves. He looked at the smudges they left on his fingers.

  "Do you like it?" she asked anxiously and, without waiting for his answer, continued, "It's not the biggest box, but not the smallest either. I hope you'll make some beautiful pictures. I'll miss you, Jamal. Don't forget me."

  His class was lining up outside the door. His teacher called to him. "Thank you, Ms. Montgom'ry," Althea heard him say. He replaced the top carefully. Ducking his head, he turned to join the other children. She saw that he was holding the slender box with both hands.

  * * *

  The next morning she was still wondering why she had asked Jamal not to forget her. Suddenly pensive, she looked out the window: no seagull today. She stared at the back wall of the next apartment building. How this view hems me in! she thought. How it depresses me! There's nothing to see.

  Her glance slid over the wall disparagingly. Yet what she beheld made her look twice. In the pale winter light, the wall was a pattern of colored surfaces and textures. It's like a painting I'd like to paint, she thought. The morning sun cast in relief the tan brick wall, the rough patches of gray and pink cement on its bottom story, and the tiers of windows above. The windows were mostly old, with weather-beaten wooden frames, now in need of a fresh coat of paint. Behind one window five flights up, she glimpsed a blur of movement. Concentrating, she detected a bunched-up white cloth wielded by a slender arm. A woman was cleaning the glass.

  Althea thought of making a sketch of the sunlit wall. Several ideas—possibilities for a new painting—occurred to her. From these, she thought, perhaps one will inspire me, sustain me, and prod me into my next creation.

  What a relief to have even these inklings of what to paint next! she rejoiced, happy at the prospect of the Christmas vacation, with no teaching to interrupt her work. Will I be able to quit teaching and live off my art? she wondered. Will Hannah Clarke sell my paintings? She was obsessed with these questions, but now that she was ready to start the preliminaries to her next painting, it seemed easier to endure the uncertain wait.

  Once, when I was younger, I had an idea about being a great artist, of making something sublime, she recalled. How my ambitions have changed, how they have scaled down! Now I just want to be able to support myself by making art I want to make.

  * * *

  Influenced by a new spirit of practicality, Althea decided to respond to a bulletin board notice in the health food store advertising a second-hand air conditioner. The price was twenty five dollars. Why not? she thought. I won't find one cheaper. I ought to do something to help me survive next summer, if I can't afford to go away. She sighed, thinking of how soon, in January, the real estate agency on Block Island would be accepting reservations for the next summer's rentals. How I'd love to go back to the same house! she thought wistfully. But I don't have the money.

  The notice had a heading, "Moving Sale," and there were other items listed as well. When she telephoned the number indicated, a man's voice informed her that the air conditioner had been sold, but that she was welcome to come see if there was anything else she wanted. Something in his tone—an unusually musical timbre—so appealed to her that she found herself agreeing even though there was nothing on the list she could think of that she needed.

  His name was Cam Ri
chards, he told her, and it turned out that he lived just two blocks away from her, in a building on the corner of Broadway, on the eleventh floor. "I'm leaving town in two days, on Christmas Eve," he told her, "and I'll be back after New Year's. Then I'll be getting ready for the big move."

  "When's that?" Althea heard herself asking.

  "The end of January. But I'm quickly divesting myself of possessions, so come soon if you're interested. Now's as good a time as any, if you like."

  "All right," she heard herself say. Soon she was standing outside his apartment. She saw that the door was slightly ajar. She knocked, and when there was no response, she pushed it open.

  "Hello," she called out.

  She faced a foyer lined with bookcases. Ahead of her was an arched doorway. She called again.

  "I'm back here."

  She followed Cam's voice down a short, darkened hallway to a room opening off to the left, lit only by two tall windows. It was dusk, and the light was dim. The room was sparsely furnished. A tall man was sitting on a rug, reading a book by one window. The dim light fell on the page, while he was in shadow. He did not look up, but continued to read. He was slender; he wore a checked shirt, dark jeans. Tousled brown hair fell over his bent face.

  She was irritated that he didn't speak to her right away, since he had invited her over, but he looked so peaceful that she was loathe to disturb him.

  Entering the room behind her, an orange tabby cat surprised her. The cat went straight to him, ignoring her. Its back was arched, its tail raised. Cam patted it without looking up; to Althea he seemed as sure of his touch as a blind man.

  He laid the index finger of his other hand between the pages of his book like a bookmark. At last he acknowledged her.

  "It must be a good book," Althea said with a note of reprimand in her voice.

  He did not apologize. "Well, look around." He continued, "Whatever's left is probably for sale." And he went back to his reading.

  Perhaps I ought to leave, Althea thought. But she couldn't bring herself to go. It seemed as if she were waiting for something to happen, though she didn't know what it was. Instead, she looked at the things he had directed her to: a coffee table of carved wood and an armchair with frayed upholstery. She studied objects arranged on the floor at the edge of the rug: a battered radio, a floor lamp with a stained shade, an empty fish tank. There were boxes against another wall, but she didn't approach them. "I guess I was really only interested in the air conditioner," she admitted.

  At last he laid the book down. "That was the first to go. I guess I priced it low." He shrugged, as if to say—Althea thought—that he didn't really care. The last light fell on his handsome face: high cheekbones, straight brows, and narrow, light eyes—either green or blue, in the fading daylight she couldn't tell. His hair had a rough sheen; it hung tangled into his brows, over his perfect features. He wears his beauty carelessly, she thought, as if it mattered little to him. Not like Paul.

  Cam saw that she was staring at him. He smiled, as if indulging her. "Would you like some homemade vegetable soup?" he asked. "I have some on the stove."

  "Yes, I would."

  "Sit down," he said. "Make yourself at home."

  "May I turn on the lamp?"

  "Of course. It's gotten dark, hasn't it?" he observed, as if he'd only just noticed.

  The cat followed him out of the room. The lamp cast deep shadows. Althea, sitting cross-legged on the rug, picked up the book he had left there. It was a volume of Plato in the original Greek. She turned the pages, looking at the mysterious, beautiful letters of a language she couldn't decipher.

  She had not yet put down the book when he returned, bearing a tray. He set it on the coffee table.

  "Now I see why you couldn't put this book down," Althea said.

  "So you read Greek," Cam said, looking pleased to have discovered a kindred spirit.

  "No."

  Puzzled, he studied her for a moment. Then he burst out laughing. "Here, come sit at the coffee table. Have some soup," he said, giving her a white crockery bowl full to the brim with a broth thick with vegetables. "There's bread and butter, too."

  His remote expression vanished. For the first time, he really seemed to notice her. His eyes twinkled at her.

  She stirred the soup, releasing steam. She filled her spoon, blew on it to cool it, and let the contents slide into her mouth. There were potatoes, carrots, red beans, corn, and leafy green ribbons of Swiss chard in a tomato base. "It's very good," she complimented him. She took a round of the French bread, buttered it, and dipped it in the soup.

  He was eating, too. Suddenly they were like old companions.

  "So you're a Classicist."

  "No, a philosophy student."

  Soon he was telling her about himself. "It was a mistake for me to come to Columbia. Among the top faculty, there's no one in my field."

  "No one in Classical philosophy? I find that hard to believe."

  "No, that's an interest, but not my subject."

  "Which is—?"

  "Phenomenology." The word rolled trippingly off his tongue, intimidating Althea.

  "I'm transferring to McGill, in Montreal," Cam continued. "There's one professor I want to work with, and he's there."

  "Do you think you'll be happy in Montreal?"

  "I expect I will. It doesn't matter so much where I am. It's what I'm doing that's important."

  As Althea digested his words, she thought to herself, Maybe he's right, and I give too much importance to where I am.

  "When I was in school, I liked the idea of studying philosophy, but it was so hard for me that I grew discouraged," she confessed. "Sometimes I could just grasp it, but I couldn't hold onto it." She shook her head. "Naturally, this hindered my advance as a student. Since I didn't get too far, the idea of a life where your work is reading and thinking, and what you produce is more thought, is foreign to me."

  "Yeah, we get away with a lot, don't we?" He laughed and spooned up the last of his soup. "But I'm not arguing that studying philosophy is useful, just that it's meaningful to me."

  In him, an air of the ivory tower is mixed with a down-to earth quality, she thought. "Now you're a student, and one day you'll be a professor," she said. "You already know that you will probably live your life in a university, you want that. You will want students as you now desire this professor."

  "Oh yes," he said. "To have students seems wonderful to me. But first I must have something to give them. That's why I'm going to McGill, not to be a mouthpiece for him but to learn from him so that my ideas may be worthy of his."

  Althea found herself admiring the fervor with which he spoke. So when he said, "You seem opposed to this life," she replied, "Not at all. In a way I'm envious. In comparison, my life seems so unformed, so unknown to me. But I have to admit, this also attracts me."

  "But you must have a group of people you depend on for insight—other artists."

  She looked at him, surprised. "I don't remember telling you I was an artist."

  "You're wearing the evidence," he teased her.

  She was perplexed. "There's no paint on my clothes."

  "Look at your hands."

  Althea opened and closed her fists. There were crescents of paint under her fingernails. Faint ghosts of color dyed her skin.

  "When I came in to your apartment, you seemed so intent on your reading that I thought you noticed nothing else."

  "Is that so?" he asked with mild interest. There was a remote expression on his face again. She thought, At first he seemed elusive, like a will-of-the-wisp, and then he grew substantial. Now, once more, he's fading.

  She reached across the coffee table and touched his wrist, as if to reassure herself that he was still there, and then drew back. She surprised herself. When have I last touched a man before he touched me? she wondered.

  He took the touch for granted, like a friend. His attention returned to her. "I have a friend who's an artist." He mentioned a name: Christina Gray. Althe
a shook her head.

  "Perhaps she's heard of you," he said. "Which is your gallery?"

  "George Clarke." How easily the words came out, Althea thought, even though this is the first time I've given this answer to the question. Even though, as far as I know, nothing's yet been sold.

  "I'll ask her," he said. She expected that he wanted to tell her about his friend's art, but instead he wondered about her own.

  "I never know how to describe what I do," she said. "Whatever I say, I usually succeed in annoying myself. I'm sure you do a better job explaining Greek philosophy. Maybe after you see my paintings, you can explain them to me."

  "I might enjoy that," he said, surprising her. "Come," he said, rising to his feet, "have some more soup."

  With him, she felt permission to speak more boldly than she usually did. Trailing in the wake of his easy walk, she followed him back to the kitchen.

  It was a small, high room, with a glaring fluorescent tube on the ceiling, tile on the floor and halfway up the walls, and wooden cabinets obscured by many layers of paint. There was a gas range, a large porcelain sink, and an outdated refrigerator. It was a typical New York City apartment kitchen, the same vintage as hers, but a better version. Right in the middle of the floor is the best thing about it, Althea thought: a large, square butcher block table, a very old and beautiful one, with a scarred, uneven surface from years of use. Unlike the living room, the kitchen was still well-lived in, from the double row of racks on the walls from which hung pots and pans, to the fragrant steam of the soup kept hot on a low blue flame.

  Cam ladled out the soup. "Would you like some wine?" he asked. "I should have offered it to you already."

  Althea ran her hand over the gently sloping surfaces of the butcher block. "What a beautiful table, hallowed by use," she observed. She looked at him daringly. "I'd like to buy this, if it's for sale."

  "It's not," said Cam, getting down two glasses. "I can't bear to be parted from it." He poured white wine from a jug kept in the refrigerator and handed her a glass. "Although I found it in Massachusetts, it's actually from France—a provincial farmhouse, I'd guess. It's absolutely true that food chopped or sliced on it has a better taste. Shall we eat around it? You have to be careful how you place the dishes."