She had bitten her tongue throughout most of this exchange, but since the self-control genie was out of the bottle, Clair blurted out, “You really are an asshole.”
“You, young missy, need to watch your tone. You have no idea what Dr. Worcestershire and I have been through.”
She turned her attention to Hunter, and more calmly than her husband, said, “I agree with your father, you must grow up, and the time is now.”
She paused for a moment, then asked, “How old are you?”
“In my twenties, Mother. Thanks for keeping up.”
“My point exactly. We're not getting any younger.”
Clair had heard enough.
“Yeah, Mrs. Worcestershire, I can tell it's taken a toll on you. It's written all over your face.”
Hunter did everything he could to contain himself. Mrs. Worcestershire gazed at Clair and didn't know if she was sympathetic, insulting or perhaps supportive. She was wrong, there was nothing supportive that came from Clair's mouth.
“Mom, dad, it will be all right, I promise.”
“I guess we'll have to wait and see, now won't we?”
The feuding subsided, and Hunter led everyone to a sitting area. Along the way, he got a tray of coffee; three black and one with a single cube of sugar for his mother. By now, the two pairs had settled in for some small talk, and most of the tension left the room.
Some time back as a side investment, Hunter's father bought a small chain of full-service car washes and insisted Hunter takes an assistant manager position at one of them. He accepted and was paid an above-average salary for what he did. It was his father's way of weaning him off his bank account and hoped one day he developed enough interest to manage the whole thing. Wishful thinking on Dad's part. Hunter had little desire to work for his father, and zero interest in running a car wash, but smart enough to take the cash. He was worthless while at work and never missed when he wasn't.
Though art was her passion, Clair had a certificate degree in accounting and worked part time at a small bookkeeping service since the eleventh grade. When Clair met Hunter's parents, she did not know her employer did record keeping for Dr. Worcestershire's company and his investments, but he knew of her. It was at that meeting, Dr. Worcestershire offered Clair a job after completing rehab, because in his words, he “liked her spunk.”
Hunter's father knew of their relationship and asked if she would be interested in the accounting clerk position at the main office.
“Awww, that is so sweet of you to offer.”
“You seem like a bright young woman, and I could use you on my team.”
He slapped Hunter on the back, and at his expense, joked, “Maybe you can help me keep him in line.”
Clair thought, “Maybe I should take the job and steal your ass blind.”
Instead of accepting his offer, declined and mumbled to herself, “I wouldn't work for a piece of shit, ass wipe, no good, douche-bag imitation of a father like you. Wow! Who needs therapy? That felt great!”
Chapter VIII
Hunter and Clair became treatment center superstars in the minds of many of the patients, and a few of the staff. They always took part in group sessions, led many twelve-step meetings and mentored several others, but this supposed good was a big joke. To some of the less naïve counselors, they were more like clowns in a circus.
They used their antics as a sideshow until they got there… wherever “there” was. Adding to their marching orders was their all-time favorite, “One fucking day at a time.” Those were Hunter's and Clair's words, not out of a handbook, but even the appropriate saying didn't fly well with Dr. Worcestershire. Having made it to the ripe old age of twenty-eight, and outlasting the likes of Hendrix, Joplin, Mama Cass, and Morrison, each one dead at twenty-seven, they felt like newborns. While together in treatment and comparing themselves to the ever-growing dead celebrity list, their thinking was this could be a whole new beginning.
Hunter and Clair had a chat one day and discussed the abuse they went through as children. Both were victims of sexual abuse, but he one-upped her with the addition of almost daily beatings. He could still hear his mother's threat in his head when he did something wrong or misbehaved.
“You just wait until your father comes home, young man!”
Her words were as terrifying as the beatings — maybe more. But being excellent note-takers, they learned somewhere along the way their abusers were most likely abused, and those who did it to them were probably abused too. It remained a mystery if Hunter's or Clair's parents were ever abused; those things were never talked about. It wasn't proper to discuss family business, but it's a sure bet they were victims as well.
Hunter and Clair made a commitment to end the cycle of abuse and knew it had to start with them. They made a pledge to each other during a break from one of the therapy sessions.
They sat in the lobby, and Clair slid her chair in front of Hunter, held both of his hands, and looked him square in the eyes.
“This has got to stop, and we're the ones to do it. Are you with me?”
Determined, Hunter said, “You're right, Clair. It starts now.”
She released his hands and sat up.
“Now don't you feel good about yourself?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“I suppose.”
They were pleased with their simple pledge, then both snickered when Hunter added, “This is the proudest moment of my life!”
“Me too!”
The two had accomplished little in their years, and a decision like this was a revelation. They sat back and relaxed before another session. Hunter was one of a handful who knew of Clair's attempts at hurting herself and endless desire to commit suicide. She always wore a light sweater or long-sleeved shirt to hide the scars, and while still sitting in the lobby, he turned to her and snatched one of her arms. He slid the sleeve up, exposing several healing cuts.
She tried to wiggle free from his grasp and asked in an elevated tone, “What the hell are you doing?” then under her breath exclaimed, “Let go of my arm!”
“Clair, you have to quit doing this shit to yourself and stop telling people the cat did it.”
“And why not?”
She freed her arm and repositioned the sleeve back in place. All the while looking around to see if anyone saw her wounds, then moved her chair a few inches away from him.
Hunter said, “For one thing, you know I am allergic to cats.”
“And?”
“You don't own a cat.”
“OK, it was a neighbor's cat.”
“Your building doesn't allow animals.”
Throwing her arms in the air, and in a fit, concedes.
“All right, smart-ass! I'll tell them a fucking mountain lion did it! There! How's that?”
Hunter moved even further away from Clair, and said, “That'll do the trick. I'd go with it.”
Although Hunter was a terrible boyfriend, he cared for her wellbeing and feared the worse. He knew there wasn't much he could do or say to prevent Clair from hurting or killing herself.
In a last effort, and perhaps his final plea, Hunter begged her. “Clair, promise me you will stop this.”
Clair held her head down, and in her own sort of surrender, said, “I'm not sure I can make that promise and keep it.”
* * *
Their days at the hospital were numbered. Clair was going to “graduate,” and Hunter was getting kicked out… again. He felt the whole ordeal was a big waste of time, but knew she wanted this more than anything if it would help them and their relationship. Clair hadn't a clue where they were going or in what direction, but with more clarity than before, knew she didn't want to go back to wherever or whatever it used to be.
Clair stumbled and staggered toward the cliff's edge for many years, but what rattled her most was, as they say, hitting rock bottom. After years of wandering closer to the rocky abyss below, the dread of falling had waned; what she feared most was the sudden stop. She
hadn't hit it yet, but damn sure knew where the drop-off was.
The day arrived for Clair and Hunter to say goodbye and were greeted by the staff and other patients. She was met by a senior counselor carrying roses and an AA handbook. He was marched out by an admin official with discharge papers and a bill.
The hospital held a brief 'letting go' ceremony. Clair passed her handbook around for them to sign like a high school yearbook. In it were the usual trite phrases. Stay clean and mean! One day at a time! You can do it! Keep praying to your higher power! One too many, a thousand never enough!
One inscription stood out from the rest. It read:
Clair, it's up to you to chase away the demons. The decision is yours. Let them linger or let them go. Your friend, Suerenia.
She studied the words for a few moments. Tears followed. She wiped them away with the back of her hand and read the last few words again— It's up to you.
So far, not much was ever up to her, so she thought. Clair spent many years reflecting about most of her life, realizing what little control she had with it, at least it felt that way.
She pondered about her demons and Suerenia's words about chasing them away, then answered to herself, “I hope so… if they let me.”
After the ceremony, there were many tears, hugs, and some laughter. Clair gathered her things and tossed them into a green, military-style duffel bag and said goodbye to her temporary roommate. She got to the downstairs exit, threw the bag over her shoulder, made it to the parking lot, and saluted the security guard. Hunter was waiting for her at his car.
He leaned against it, and a cigarette hung from his mouth like a scene reminiscent of a James Dean movie.
“How was the party?”
“Same as the last time. Let's get out of here,” she said while tossing the bag in the backseat.
Chapter IX
It had been almost six months since they left the hospital. Clair stopped drinking and even went back to a few AA meetings with a different attitude than before and took a break from trying to hurt herself. Hunter also went to an occasional support group for drug addicts, but his reason was to pick up girls. She has not seen him since leaving rehab because they chilled down the relationship until they felt the time was right, so, for now, she had the chance to dabble with some of her paintings without interference.
Clair was working on one of her projects and took a break for some hot tea. She sat alone studying her art and worried about the direction it was going, or in this case… not going. So far it wasn't much, just a few pencil sketches with no shape, rhyme or reason.
“I suppose I'll go with my gut on this one.”
She held the cup to her mouth, blew the hot liquid to cool it and took the first cautious sip.
Cup still in hand, she took another sip but forgot to blow.
“Dammit!”
Then spit the remains of the hot liquid back in the cup and lowered it toward the end table. On the way down, some of it spilled on her bare legs.
“Holy shit!”
She cleaned herself, stood up, walked toward the canvass, then stared at it and said aloud, “What are you saying? Talk to me! What do you want me to do?”
Clair gazed at it for an answer.
“So, it's come down to this, —” and laughed —, “I really am crazy! I'm having a conversation with pulp!”
There was a tap on the door. It was more of a knock-knock.
Clair lifted herself from the chair and asked, “Who's there?”
She opened the door with the security chain still doing its job and cracked it open enough to see who was there.
“Miss Reynolds, special delivery. I need a signature.”
She unlatched the chain, and instead of placing it on its little holder, she let it fall.
It swung back and forth like a pendulum, then flung the door wide open, and asked, “Who's it from?”
In a rude tone, he replied, “I don't know, lady, they pay me to deliver, not to read the details.”
He handed her a small box wrapped in butcher block paper and sealed with an endless roll of tape. The driver handed over a clipboard for her to sign the proof of delivery ticket. She signed the paper and handed it back. He tucked the clipboard and document under his left arm, then extended his right hand, palm side up, hinting at a tip.
While slamming the door in his face, she said, “You have got to be kidding me.”
Clair looked at the small package with curiosity.
“What have we here?”
Using the same X-acto knife as before, she cut through the tape and revealed its contents; one was a letter, the other was a small painting. She read the note aloud.
Ms. Reynolds,
We regret to inform you that your submission to the art contest did not meet our criteria for consideration. After a careful review of your work, our judging panel concluded it was weak on several levels. Your lines were not clear, and the coloring is annoying. Better luck next time.
Yours sincerely,
Madison Goodread, Curator, Bayview County Art Museum
At first, she was a little stunned and said nothing. Then it came.
“You snotty little bastard!”
She read the note one more time, laughed, crumpled it, and tossed the wadded note and the piece of art in the trash. She would have cried, but instead recalled something she'd read awhile back. It was a story about a gorilla that did a painting. They gave him an artist's palette with a dozen colors. His handlers gave the gorilla a brush and an hour to finish. When it was completed, or when they thought it was completed, tossed him a banana. But the study wasn't over with. His trainer took the piece to the same museum that rejected her and presented the work from an unknown painter. The curator was informed about the experiment and who the artist was.
The museum used the event as a fundraiser and held a formal cocktail party to celebrate this “masterpiece.” Patrons, board members, and invited guests eagerly lined up for the unveiling. The painting was concealed with a black, satin drape. One of the museum workers removed it and flung the covering like a magician revealing the rabbit and stepped away from the painting, giving the piece its proper due.
Those in attendance let out a big oooh and awww.
“It speaks to me!” said one guest.
“A spectacle of color!” another shouted.
And lastly, “Dazzling imagery!”
When the curator announced the experiment, the chatter from the crowd silenced. Several slammed their champagne in single gulps; the rest took another from the waiter's cocktail tray in ones and twos.
A lady in a full-length mink coat shouted, “Well, I never!” Then turned and walked out, followed by her wimpy, little husband.
The others continued viewing the painting, and the board president of the Bayview County Art Museum seized the arm of the curator, saying he'd like to have a word with him. He led him away like a teacher hauling a kid off to the principal's office… certainly not to discuss a pay raise.
That would explain her laughter, but numbed with more continued defeat.
Clair had been seeing a therapist for some time. His name was Glenn. He was tall; about six feet, thin, jet black hair and eyes to match. In Clair's opinion and a few others, Glenn was kind of a nerd, but to Clair, he was nerdy, cool, and asked herself if it was even possible. His clothes looked like they came from a yard sale and he used outdated words and expressions, but somehow, they always communicated.
She hadn't talked to Glenn for some time and wanted to have a chat and called his office on his direct line.
“Hello, this is Glenn. I'm not available to take your call. Leave me a message and I will call you back when it's convenient. Have a clean and sober day.”
“When it's convenient? What an asshole!”
She slammed the phone, looked at the blank canvas, and had another conversation with it.
“Let me get this straight….” then paced around.
“I work my ass off, put thought and em
otion into my art, work for days, weeks, sometimes months, and a damn ape with a paintbrush got more accolades than me?”
Clair continued the rant with, “Maybe I should wear a damn monkey suit and sit on a street corner.”
She calmed down and sat back on the chair. By now the tea had cooled, took a swig, then the phone rang. Glancing at the caller ID info, it displayed, 'unknown.' Thinking it may be a telemarketing call, answered with her memorized response.
“Clair isn't home, she died in the war.”
The caller laughed and said, “Hey, Clair, it's Glenn. Don't hang up.”
She perked up after hearing his voice.
“Oh, Hi Glenn. How are you?”
“I'm swell. You called? Is everything hunky-dory?”
He sounded concerned, but if he wasn't, he was hiding it well.
Mocking his words, she said, “Just peachy! I got another rejection letter.”
Then plopped in her chair.
“From the museum?”
“No, Glenn, from the five and dime. Of course the museum.”
He gave her his fullest attention and leaned forward from his chair.
“Aren't we being a little defensive?”
Clair had heard that tone from him before and imagined his face, suspecting he was doing his best not to grin maintaining a serious expression —and failing at it.
Changing position in her chair, sat up with both feet planted on the floor.
“No, we're not being defensive… I am.”
Clair settled down, slumped back, tucked both legs under, and sat cross-legged.
“I'm sorry. It pisses me off that the more I try, the more disappointed I get.”
Using words of wisdom, Glenn said, “No. Try not. Do. Or do not. There is no try.”
“That sounds familiar. Where have I heard it?” Clair asked.
“Star Wars. It was a quote from Yoda.”
“Oh yeah, I remember. I loved Star Wars.”
Then, Glenn changed the tone of the conversation.
“You don't want to hurt yourself, do you?”
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