by Tom Reamy
The shirt was yellow and soft. He rubbed it on his face then slipped it over his head. It fit tight around his waist and the neck was open half way to his navel. He looked for buttons but there weren’t any. The sleeves were long and floppy and had little pearl snaps on the cuffs.
He slipped on the pants which had alternating dark brown and light brown vertical stripes. He was surprised to find that they didn’t come any higher than the shorts. He gave them an experimental tug and decided they wouldn’t fall off. They were tight almost to the knees and got loose and floppy at the bottom.
He sat on the commode to put on the shoes, but stood up again to hitch up the pants in back. He slipped on the soft, fuzzy gold socks. The shoes were brown and incredibly shiny. And they didn’t even have shoestrings. He stood up, gave the pants a hitch, and looked at himself in the mirror. He couldn’t make himself stop grinning.
He opened the bathroom door and walked out, still grinning. Pearl made his eyes go big and round and Sue leaned against one of the yellow bureaus with her mouth puckered up. John Lee walked nervously to them, the shoes making a thump at every step. “The pants are a little bit too tight,” he said and didn’t know what to do with his hands.
“Oh, Sugah, you are wrong about that!”
“If he had his hair slicked down with pomade, he’d look like an adagio dancer… or something,” Sue said in a flat voice.
Pearl lowered his eyebrows at her, then twirled his finger at John Lee. “Turn around.”
He turned nervously, worried because Sue didn’t seem pleased.
“John Lee, Sugah,” Pearl said in awe, “you have got the Power!”
“Pearl. Don’t you think you went a little overboard?” Sue put her hand on the back of John Lee’s neck. “If he walked down Hollywood Boulevard in that, he’d have to carry a machine gun.”
“Well!” Pearl swelled up in mock outrage. “At least they’re not lavender!”
Sue laughed. John Lee laughed too, but he wasn’t exactly sure why. They were saying things he didn’t understand again. But he felt an overwhelming fondness for Pearl at that moment. He reached out and shook Pearl’s hand. “Thank you, Pearl. I think the clothes are beautiful.” Then, because he felt Pearl would be pleased, he kissed him on the cheek.
The effect was startling. Pearl’s face seemed to run to putty and went through seven distinct expression changes. His mouth worked like a goldfish and he kept blinking his eyes.
Then he pulled himself together and said too loudly, “Listen, you all. Dinner will be ready in exactly seventy-two minutes. We’re having my world famous sow-belly and chittlin’ lasagna.” He hurried out, walking too fast.
John Lee was up very early the next morning. Sue opened the door still in her bathrobe. “I didn’t know what time you wanted me to come over,” he said apologetically. “Did I wake you up?”
Sue smiled and motioned him in. “Ordinarily, I’m not coordinated enough to tie my shoes before noon, but I woke up about two hours ago ready to go to work. I didn’t even take time to dress.” She indicated one wall of the room. “Check out the gallery while I put the wreck together.”
All the old sketches had been cleared away from the wall. John Lee saw himself thumbtacked in neat rows. “Golly,” he said, walking slowly down the rows. The sketches were all of his face: some sheets were covered with eyes, laughing, sleepy, dreamy, contemplative; others with mouths, smiling, grinning, pouting, pensive. There were noses and ears and combinations. He recognized some of the full-face sketches: this one was when he was talking about his mother; that one when he was petting Punkin; that one when he was telling of Aunt Rose and Aunt Lilah; another when he sat in rapt attention, listening to Sue.
She emerged from the bathroom dressed much as she had been the day before except that she wore a little makeup and her hair fell through the scarf, hanging long and fluffy down her back. John Lee thought she was absolutely gorgeous. “What do you think,” she asked tentatively, not quite smiling.
He couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t obvious to the eye, so he just grinned in extreme pleasure. She smiled happily. “I think I’ve caught you, John Lee. I really feel good about it. You’re just what I’ve been needing.”
“What’re you gonna draw today?”
She indicated a large canvas in position on the easel. “I’m ready to start if you are.”
Oh, Lord, he thought, just don’t turn red. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“You can keep your pants on for a while, if it’ll make you more comfortable. I’ll work on your head and torso.” She was businesslike, not seeming to notice his nervousness. It made him feel a little better.
He took a deep breath. “No… I might as well get it over with.” She nodded and began puttering around with paints and turpentine, not looking at him, without seeming to be deliberately not looking at him. He pulled the tee-shirt over his head and wondered what to do with it. Quit stalling, he admonished and slipped off his sneakers and socks. He looked at her but she was still ignoring him. He quickly pulled off his pants and shorts. He stood there feeling as if there were a cyclone in his stomach. “Well,” he said, “I’m ready.”
She turned and looked at him as if she had seen him naked every day of his life. “You have absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about, John Lee.”
“Well,” he said, “well…”
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know what to do with my hands!”
Then he couldn’t keep from laughing and she laughed with him. “What do you want me to do?”
“Let’s see…” She moved one of the chairs under the light. “Lean against the chair. I want you relaxed…”
“I’ll try,” he chuckled.
She smiled. “I want you relaxed and completely innocent of your nudity. Sort of the September Morn effect.”
“You’re asking a lot.” He leaned against the chair, trying to look innocent.
She gave a throaty laugh and shook her head. “You look more like a chicken thief. Don’t try too hard. Just relax and be comfortable, like you were yesterday.”
“I had my clothes on yesterday.”
“I know. You’ll do okay as soon as you get used to it.”
“I still don’t know what to do with my hands.”
“Don’t do anything with them. Just forget ’em; let them find their own position. I know it’s not easy. Just forget I’m here. Pretend you’re in the woods completely alone. You’ve just been swimming in a little lake and now you’re relaxing in the sun, leaning against a warm rock. Try to picture it.”
“Okay, I’ll try.”
“You’re not thinking about anything, just resting, feeling the sun on your body.” She watched him. A pucker of concentration appeared over his nose. He shifted his hips slightly to get more comfortable, and his fidgety hands finally came to rest at his sides. His diaphragm moved slowly as his breathing became softer. The frown gradually disappeared from his face, and the quality she couldn’t put a name to took its place. God, she thought, it brought back memories she had thought were put away forever. She felt like a giddy young girl.
“That’s it, John Lee,” she said very softly, trying not to disturb him, She picked up a stick of charcoal and began to work rapidly. A pleased smile flickered across his lips and then disappeared. “Beautiful, John Lee, beautiful. Don’t close your eyes; watch the sun reflecting on the water.”
She got the basic form the way she wanted it in charcoal, then began squeezing paint from tubes onto a palette. She applied the base colors quickly, almost off-handedly. After about fifteen minutes she said, “When you get tired, let me know and we’ll take a break.”
“No. I’m fine.”
After another half hour she saw his thumb twitch. “If you’re not tired,” she said, putting the palette down, “I am. Would you like some coffee?”
“Yeah,” he said without moving. “Are you sure I can get back in the same position again?”
“I’m sure.
” She tossed him her bathrobe and he put it on. “Do a few knee-bends and get the kinks out.” She poured two cups of coffee from the electric percolator. “I told you it was hard work.”
He grinned and stretched his arms forward, rolling the muscles in his shoulders. “I’m not tired.”
She handed him a cup. “You’ve been warned.” She opened the back door when she heard a plaintive cry from outside. Punkin strolled in and looked at her, demanding attention. She picked him up and he started purring loudly.
John Lee found it easy to keep the same position the rest of the morning. She had made him as comfortable as she could because of his inexperience. She worked steadily with concentration. He missed the easy chatter of the day before but he didn’t want to disturb her. They took periodic breaks, though she sometimes became so engrossed she forgot. Then she would admonish him gently for not reminding her. When they broke for lunch, she made him do knee-bends and pushups and then massaged his back and shoulders with green rubbing alcohol.
Daisy Mae strolled in with a foil-covered Pyrex dish. “You didn’t do that when Pearl and I posed for you,” he said with feigned huffiness and slipped the dish into the oven.
“Hello, Daisy Mae.” John Lee grinned, putting on the robe. “Look at the sketches.”
“Hello, John Lee. I knew Sue would get so absorbed she’d forget to feed you, so I brought leftover lasagna.” He looked over the sketches, critically, with his fingers theatrically stroking his chin. “I think the girl shows some promise, though I see years of study ahead.”
Sue kissed him on the cheek and began setting the table for three. Daisy Mae sprawled in a chair like a wilting lily. “God!” he grunted. “I got a call from Paramount this morning. I start back to work Thursday. We’re doing a west-tern. On lo-ca-tion. My God. In Arizona! Centipedes! Tarantulas! Scorpions! Rattlesnakes! Sweaty starlets! If I’m not back in five weeks, send the Ma-rines!”
Sue laughed. “You can console yourself with thoughts of all those butch cowboys.”
“Darling,” he said, arching his wrist at her, “some of those cowboys are about as butch as Pamela Tiffin. I could tell you stories…”
“Don’t bother. I’ve heard most of them.”
“I haven’t,” John Lee piped brightly.
Sue started to say something but Daisy Mae beat her to it. “Some day, John Lee. You’re much too young to lose all your illusions.”
When they had eaten, Sue thanked him for bringing the lasagna and shooed him out. He started to peek under the cloth covering the painting but she slapped his hand. “You know better than that.”
“Can John Lee bunk over here tomorrow night? I’m giving myself a going-away party before I’m exiled to the burning deserts, and it’s liable to last all night.”
She stood very still for a moment. Then she nodded with a jerk of her head. “Of course.” Daisy Mae waltzed out with his Pyrex dish. Sue looked after him for a moment, then at John Lee sitting bewildered on the day bed. She gave him a quick, nervous smile. “You ready?”
He took off the bathrobe, hardly feeling embarrassed at all, and took his place, bringing back the woods, the lake, and the warm rock, but needing them only for a moment to get started.
At four-thirty she covered the painting and began washing the brushes. She had said hardly anything at all since Daisy Mae left, giving him only an occasional soft-voiced direction. He put his clothes on and went to her. “Is it turning out the way you’d hoped?”
Her eyes met his. He saw sadness in them and something that had gotten lost. “Yes,” she said almost inaudibly. Then she smiled. “You’re a joy to paint, John Lee. Now, run along before Pearl comes traipsing in. I’d rather not have company this evening. Be over bright and early and I think we’ll finish it tomorrow.”
Punkin stopped him on the steps, wanting to be petted. He picked up the cat and glanced back to see Sue watching him through the window. She turned away quickly.
The painting was completed at three p. m. the next afternoon. Sue stood back from it and looked at John Lee, smiling. He went to her hesitantly, almost fearfully, still naked, and looked at it. “Golly,” he breathed. When she painted a nude, she really painted everything. He felt the heat starting at his ears and flowing downward. He was almost used to being naked in front of her, but it was an astonishing shock to see himself being naked.
She laughed fondly. “John Lee, you’re a regular traffic light.”
“No, I’m not,” he muttered and got even redder.
Suddenly, her arms were around him, hugging him tightly to her. He felt electricity bouncing in the bottom of his stomach. He threw his arms around her and wanted to be enveloped by her. “John Lee, my little lamb,” she whispered in his ear, bending her head because she was an inch taller, “do you like it?”
“Yes!” he breathed with that peculiar pain in the back of his throat again. “Oh, yes.”
He shifted his head slightly so he could see. The painting was done in pale, sun-washed colors. He leaned against a suggestion of something white which might have been a large rock. It was everything she had said she wanted, and more. He seemed totally innocent of clothing, so completely comfortable was he in his nudity. His body was relaxed but there was no lethargy in it. There was something slightly supernatural about the John Lee of the painting, as if perhaps he were a faun or a wood sprite; definitely an impression of a forest creature. The various shades of pale green in the background implied a forest, and there was a dappling of leaf-shadows on his shoulder and chest—but only a suggestion. However, these were unimportant. The figure dominated the painting, executed in fine detail, like a Raphael. The face was innocent, totally uncorrupted by worldly knowledge. But there was a quality in it even purer than simple innocence. The eyes were lost in reverie.
“Do I look like that?” he asked, slightly overwhelmed. “Well…” she said with a husky chuckle, “yes, you do. Although I will have to admit I idealized you somewhat.”
“Is it okay if I bring Pearl and Daisy Mae over to see it?” he asked with growing excitement. “Pearl was supposed to come home at noon today to help with the party. Only she… I mean he, calls it a Druid ritual.”
She laughed and released him. “All right.”
He raced happily to the door then skidded to a halt. He hurried back, grinning sheepishly, and picked up his pants. He put them on, hopping on one foot, then out the door, clattering down the steps. She looked at the empty doorway for a moment, then rubbed at her eyes but was unable to stop the tears.
“Hell!” she said out loud. “Oh, hell!”
John Lee came over from the party about ten o’clock dressed in his new clothes and carrying a Lufthansa flight bag Pearl had packed for him. He flopped into one of the chairs, grinning.
She was in the other, reading. She looked at him speculatively. Punkin leaped lightly from her lap and stretched mightily, his rear end high in the air, his chin against the floor, and his toes splayed. Then he hopped into John Lee’s lap. Stroking the cat and still grinning, he met her eyes. They both burst into a fit of giggles.
“John Lee, you have no staying power,” she choked out between gasps of laughter.
He got himself under control, gulping air. “I’d much rather be over here with you.”
“I hope Pearl gave you a whip and a chair to go with those clothes.”
“No, but he warned me to stay out of corners and, above all, bedrooms.”
There was a light tap on the door. “I’ve been expecting this,” she muttered. “Come on in!”
The door opened and a pale, slim, good looking young man wafted in like the queen of Rumania inspecting the hog pens. “Hello,” he sighed, not quite holding out his hand to be kissed. “Pearl was telling us about the painting you did of John Lee. May I see it?” He looked at John Lee and smiled anemically.
“Of course.” Sue got up and turned the light on over the easel. A shriek of laughter drifted over from next door. The young man strolled to the painting and stood
motionless for a full two minutes staring at it.
Then he sighed. “Pearl is so lucky. My last one ran off with my stereo, my Polaroid, and knocked out three fillings.”
“That’s… ah… too bad,” she said, valiantly not smiling.
“Yes,” he said and sighed again. “I’d like to buy it.”
“It’s not for sale.”
“I’ll give you a thousand.”
She shook her head.
“Two thousand.”
“Sorry.”
He sighed again as if he expected nothing from life but an endless series of defeats. “Oh, well. Thank you for letting me see it.”
“You’re extremely welcome.”
He drifted to the door like a wisp of fog, turned, gave John Lee a wan smile, and departed. They both stared at the closed door.
“I feel as if I just played the last act of La Traviata,” Sue said in a stunned voice.
“If I remember correctly,” John Lee said, “that was Cow-Cow.”
She lifted the painting from the easel. “There’s only one thing to do if we don’t want a parade through here all night. Be back shortly.” She left, taking the painting with her.
When she returned half an hour later, he was dozing. “The showing was an unqualified success. I was offered se-ven thou-sand dol-lars for it. You never saw so many erotic fantasies hanging out. It was like waving a haunch of beef at a bunch of half-starved tigers.” She put the painting back on the easel and stood looking at it. “It is good, though, isn’t it, John Lee?” She sounded only partially convinced. “It really is good.” She looked at him, sprawled in the chair, half asleep, smiling happily at her. “Well,” she laughed, “neither the artist nor the model are qualified judges. And that crowd at Pearl’s could only see a beautiful child with his privates exposed.”
She sat on the arm of the chair, putting her hand on the side of his face. He closed his eyes and moved his face against her hand the way Punkin would do. “You’re such a child, John Lee,” she said softly, feeling her eyes getting damp. “Your body may fool people for a while, but up here,” she caught her fingers in his hair, “up here, you’re an innocent, trusting, guileless child. And I think you may break my heart.” She closed her eyes, trying to hold back the tears, afraid she was making a fool of herself.