A Mind Within

by Kerry J Charles

  The gravity of the situation was beginning to dawn on Nick. Johnson really loved his food. “So you’re on a diet?” he asked, trying not to smile.

  “Yeah, you could say that. Plus, the wife and I made a bet. See, that was my big mistake. She said that I couldn’t lose ten pounds in a month. She even gave me a back-up. I can either lose the ten pounds, or I can walk 300,000 steps. She gave me this,” he took a little device off his belt. “It’s a pedometer. She writes down how many steps I do every night.” Johnson replaced it on his belt. “So far it’s been a week. I haven’t lost a pound, and I’ve only walked 37,562,” he glanced at the device, “No, make that 63, steps.”

  Nick was laughing now. “Do I dare ask what happens if you lose?”

  Johnson looked at the floor again and shoved his hands in his pockets. He said something that Nick couldn’t hear.

  “What’s that?”

  Johnson straightened up, eyed his partner squarely, and said, “A week for both of us at the La Dolce Vita Spa and Weight Loss Center. The former would be for her, the latter for me.”

  Nick began laughing harder. Johnson’s wife was an adorable, petite Italian woman who commanded his life outside of his work. Johnson loved every second of it and everything about her. She was devoted to him as well. Nick had never known there to be any strife between them. “Is Maria upset with you?” he asked.

  “No,” Johnson said almost mournfully. “I think she’s secretly hoping that I’ll lose so she can go!”

  Nick realized that, like Maria, he also assumed that Johnson would lose. Now he wondered what his end of the bet was. “What do you get if you win?”

  Johnson instantly perked up. He stood straighter and a smile spread across his face like a ray of sunshine. “A week in Florida to see the Red Sox in spring training every day, including VIP tickets! And she gets me beer and sausages whenever I want them!” Johnson looked giddy. He rattled out the words so fast that Nick could barely understand them.

  It was a grave situation, indeed.

  A thought occurred to Johnson. “Hey! How ‘bout if you wear this for a little while!” He started to take the pedometer off his belt again.

  “Oh, no! No way! I’m not going to help you cheat!”

  “Oh, c’mon! Just through lunch! I don’t think it works right on me anyway. It doesn’t count my steps right! Watch!” He walked down the aisle counting, then came back. “Ok, I said before I’d done something-something-63, right? So I just did fifteen steps It should be 78 now, right?” He looked down at the device, then back up at Nick. “Oh. It says 78. Okay, fine. It did work this time. But I swear…”

  Nick shook his head and turned back to the wine selection. “Yeah, Johnson, I’d say you’re in trouble. Right now, though, why don’t you go outside and walk to the end of the block and back again. By the time you’re at the door, I’ll be done here. That should add maybe another hundred or so steps?”

  Johnson sighed deeply and turned toward the door. “Yeah, okay. This place is kinda boring anyway.”

  The job of the artist

  is always to deepen

  the mystery.

  ― Francis Bacon

  CHAPTER 2

  Edith Bernstein was a decisive woman. She could size up anybody within the first ten seconds, and she was usually right. The only time that she had met Dr. Dulcinea Chambers, two years earlier, the conversation had consisted of exactly two words. “You’ll do,” she said.

  “Congratulations,” the board chairman had whispered to Dulcie after the woman had abruptly turned away. “Coming from her, that’s a resounding endorsement. An unequivocal ‘yes’.” Dulcie was not encouraged. She was glad that Edith Bernstein’s appearances in Maine were infrequent at best.

  Truth be told, Dulcie was more than a little intimidated by the woman, but she was determined not to let it show. Edith Bernstein may have wealth and a certain lofty standing, but that was not why Dulcie needed to talk with her. The subject at the moment was Edith’s nephew, Xander Bellamy.

  Dulcie wanted to include his work in the new exhibit. She had even considered having Xander demonstrate his talents, but had quickly put an end to that idea. She didn’t want him to seem like a circus side-show act. True, he did not speak and he lived a very closed and quiet life, but he seemed to project a level of dignity that Dulcie thought was too profound to be exploited. She had devised a possible solution, however. With Xander’s father in prison though, Edith Bernstein was now Xander’s guardian, and Dulcie needed her permission to carry out the idea.

  They sat in what was most likely the “drawing room” of old days in the mansion that Edith now shared with Xander. Edith had just poured tea and handed Dulcie a cup. Dulcie had put it down quickly to avoid the nervous rattling. So far, Edith had said nothing. After pouring herself tea, which she drank absolutely black, she put down her cup and sat back in her chair.

  “So,” she asked sharply, “which have you come for? My money, or my approval?”

  Dulcie took a very deep breath. “I think this would fit into the latter category,” she said, forcing herself to look directly at Edith.

  “Well, get on with it then,” the woman said. “I’m not getting any younger.”

  Dulcie wasted no time. “I’m putting together an exhibit focusing on Outsider Art. It’s a term that describes the artwork created by…”

  “Yes, yes, I know what it is,” Edith said waving her hand impatiently.

  “Right,” said Dulcie with a quick nod. “I was recently looking at your nephew’s work, and I would like to include a few pieces of his in the exhibit.”

  “Fine,” she said. The word shot out like a cannonball. “But that’s not why you’re here,” she added.

  “That’s true,” said Dulcie. “I’ll get right to the point.”

  “That would be appreciated,” Edith interjected.

  “I would like to film Xander while he’s painting, and show the video during the exhibit.”

  Edith paused. It was unusual for her. Dulcie held her breath. Edith considered the various aspects of the situation. Then, after a long five seconds, she said, “Yes. I’ll need to see and approve of this video first, of course, before I can allow it to be shown. Now finish your tea.” She pointed to Dulcie’s cup.

  Dulcie quickly lifted it and tried, unsuccessfully, not to slurp it down all it once. When she was finished she very carefully replaced the cup. “Of course, Mrs. Bernstein. I would be more than happy to share the video with you to make sure it’s acceptable.” Dulcie was trying to maintain her normal speaking tone, but her voice was rapidly emerging as a squeak. “Shall I coordinate with the housekeeper again to arrange a time to film Xander?”

  “Yes,” barked Edith. She saw Dulcie’s cup was empty. “Thank you for coming by,” she added more as a formality than a sentiment.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bernstein. I appreciate you taking your time to…”

  “Yes, yes,” said Edith, hoisting herself out of her chair. Dulcie quickly stood as well. Edith walked her to the door. As she was closing it behind Dulcie, she stopped. “I like you,” she barked. “Don’t screw it up.” Then she shut the door firmly.

  Dulcie barely made it back to her car before she began laughing.

  #

  Giselle had dusted the upstairs and was proceeding to the first level of the house. She liked to work from the top to the bottom so that she could gauge the mood of the others as the day progressed. She had always risen early, not because she liked to, but because she had found it was the best way to avoid everyone. Of course now this wasn’t entirely necessary, but it had become habit.

  She had been with the family for nearly twenty years. Her life had been devoted to theirs. Perhaps she should have left a long time ago. But what would she have done? Where would she have gone? Besides, there was Xander to take care of. Her boy. She had fallen in love with him the moment his mother had brought him home. That was a good thing, since his mother had been completely incapable of helping him.
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br />   Xander’s mother had died when Xander was seven years old. No one spoke of it. In actuality she hadn’t died, she had killed herself. Not suddenly and decisively, but slowly and inevitably. Her life had been a constant battle with alcohol and sleeping pills, and she had finally succumbed. Giselle remembered how angry she felt that someone could throw away their own life like that, hurting the life of their child in the process. Especially this child. This child was special.

  Giselle descended the stairs quietly and peeked in on Xander. He was painting, as always. Giselle opened the door a bit more, making it squeak. Xander did not acknowledge it or her in any way, yet she knew instinctively that he knew she was there.

  “I’ll make you some lunch in a little while, Xander. What about grilled cheese today? You haven’t had that in a week or so, and I know you like it.” He always gobbled down grilled cheese more quickly than the other lunches she made for him.

  Xander continued to paint. He seemed unaware that she was speaking. Giselle stepped into the room to see what he was working on. She stopped quickly when she saw the canvas. It was that woman. The one from the museum. Giselle looked around and saw three other paintings of her leaning against the wall.

  Xander had not painted a portrait of anyone but his father since he had been sent to prison two months earlier. Why this sudden change? Perhaps he was moving on with his thoughts? Did he actually have thoughts? Giselle simply shook her head and went back to the kitchen.

  He had known she was there, of course. She was always there, always had been there. She was the one who helped him with everything. He never understood who she was, but she had always helped him. He knew that was good.

  The other lady had not helped him very much. She had water coming from her eyes a lot. When the old man talked to her, shouted at her, her face bunched up and there was more water from her eyes. She always seemed to have a glass in her hand. She slept often. He had painted her sleeping several times. Then, one day, she didn’t wake up and they took her away.

  He was trying to understand the new lady that had visited, the one that he painted now. Painting helped him to understand people, in his own way. Most people were a mystery to him. They said and did things that never seemed to make any sense. For Xander, his life made complete sense. He got up every morning, washed, got dressed, ate, then he painted or drew. Sometimes he went for a walk with someone or they took him somewhere. Then he ate again. In the afternoon he painted and drew more, then he ate, then he went to bed.

  When he wasn’t doing these things, he was watching. He saw everything, every detail. Every nuance was cataloged in his mind. He could instantly recall any of the images, even those from years before when he was a little boy, and draw them with exact detail. It made him feel calm. Although he could never be able to describe it, drawing everything made him feel safe. It was how he put order into his world.

  The noises many months before had made him feel unsafe. They had scared him. At night he often could hear shouting. Once he heard a scream and something breaking. He had covered his head with a pillow but he could still hear. He rocked back and forth that night, trying to be calm.

  That’s when he had begun the sketchbook. Something told him that he should not let anyone know. He made tiny, detailed sketches with a black pen. They did not record what he had seen like all the other drawings that he had made. Instead, they showed what he thought was happening around him. What things might look like. He kept the sketchbook hidden in his room.

  They had lived in the big house with the old man for as long as Xander could remember. The old man and the other, younger one. Xander had seen that one, the younger one, holding the lady that had been taken away. He had seen water come from the man’s eyes.

  The old man had made Xander feel unsafe. Once the old man had taken one of Xander’s paintings and thrown it hard into the fireplace where it burned. Xander did not know why he had done that. It was a perfect, detailed picture of the lady and the man. Xander had painted it several years after she had gone away. The one that burned showed them the way he had seen them once, with the corners of their mouths turned up.

  Then, suddenly, the old man was gone. Xander thought that was good. The shouting had stopped. But then the younger man went away, too. Xander and the lady who made the food lived in the big house. That older lady had moved in, too. Auntedith. He kept hearing that sound. Auntedith. The older lady looked at him and shook her head a lot.

  #

  Edith Bernstein slid her cardigan on over her crisp white cotton blouse. They were her wardrobe staples. When she had moved in to the mansion after her nephew-in-law had been sent to prison, she had brought exactly two suitcases. One contained her blouses, cardigans, straight skirts and slacks, and the other contained her shoes and her notebooks and files. That was all she needed.

  Edith had no children of her own. She had married a much older man, who had promptly died and left her with quite a lot of money. Edith used it to travel the world extensively. She had few possessions because she wanted few possessions.

  Her brother had been different. He was covetous and spiteful. He had also married money, a silly woman named Lily, much younger than himself, who had come with the added bonus of a child in tow. The little daughter was timid, meek, and pale. Her life with Oscar Bernstein didn’t help. Oscar bullied her and the mother until one night, following a drunken spat, Lily had run off to the beach, tripped on some rocks, hit her head, then drowned in the incoming tide. It had been tragic.

  Edith took her niece whenever she could, hoping to expand the girl’s horizons. It had not worked. The girl was perpetually frightened by anything new. New York had been trying. London was a complete disaster. Eventually Edith gave up. How could she possibly put to right the lives of everyone else? Did they think she was a therapist or a magician? Or both?

  One ray of hope had come in the form of Lawrence Bellamy who, inexplicably as far as Edith was concerned, fell in love with her niece. They married and moved to his home in Canada. Evidently finances were tight there, however, so they wound up living under Oscar’s roof. With Xander’s autism as a constant source of criticism from Oscar, his mother had inevitably unraveled.

  Edith sighed. So much death in the family. Oscar had blamed Xander’s mother for Xander’s condition, saying it was her ‘bad seed’ that brought shame on the family. She couldn’t cope. No one knew if it was suicide or just an accidental overdose that had led to her early death. Not content to stop there, Edith’s stupid brother now had to provoke his son-in-law on a continuing basis. Lawrence became the new target. Edith wouldn’t have blamed him at all, even if he had actually done it. Oscar had it coming to him.

  Edith just wished that her nephew had not made that confession. She knew exactly why he had. The police, inept as always, she thought with a snort, were beginning to think that Xander killed his grandfather by pushing him out the window. Edith had been outraged. Wouldn’t it be so typical to take the easy way out and blame the ‘crazy kid’ who couldn’t talk? Lawrence had stepped forward at that point and confessed. They questioned him again and again, but he kept to his story. Damned fool.

  Edith looked in the mirror as she fastened the strand of pearls that were perpetually around her neck. She could see a few more wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. Was it age, or just stress? She chose to believe it was the latter. She gave the pearls one last pat, turned from the mirror, and went down the hallway to see if she could persuade her nephew to go on a short walk.

  Xander was in his studio, a large converted bedroom on the second floor of the mansion. It had huge, multi-paned windows that extended to built-in window seats below, letting the sunlight flood into the room. The windows looked over a stand of pine trees that cascaded down a steep hillside. Over the tops of the trees, the ocean extended in a vast, endless palette of blues and grays. Xander sat on one of the low seats in the window, drawing the birds flitting in the tops of the trees.

  Edith stopped in the doorway and watched him for
a moment. In her lifetime of travels, she had encountered many different kinds of people. She had learned to communicate at a basic level with nearly anyone, without the need for language. She was a straightforward, practical woman. Her communication, whether spoken or not, was the same.

  Xander did not look up, but Edith knew that he had acknowledged her. He had stopped drawing just for a moment and looked briefly at the floor. He knew that she was there. She quietly walked up to him. She pointed to his shoes, then her shoes, then at the trees. He put down his sketchbook, stood, and followed her down the stairs and outside.

  Edith saw Xander take a deep breath once they were outdoors. There was an onshore breeze, filled with the sweet smell of pine and sea spray. The closest expression to a smile that Xander ever made passed over his face. Edith knew that he was content. They continued slowly along the path that wound down through the trees and eventually opened onto a pebbled beach. The waves lapped against the little rocks softly.

  Edith saw a nearby log and sat. She patted the space next to her, and he sat too. She sighed. “Xander, I’m not certain what to do next,” she said aloud, knowing full well that he did not understand her. “Your grandfather is dead. That’s fine, since he was a bullying bastard anyway. Your mother is dead. Your father is in prison.” She shook her head fiercely. “He didn’t do it. We all know that. He was stupid to confess.”

  Xander stared across the water. He heard her talking in her punctuated voice, but did not understand. He knew very few words. If any. He did understand what he saw, however. A whale had surfaced in the water. It was barely visible, its flat back disrupting the gentle waves only slightly, but his keen eye saw it. He watched it, keeping the picture etched in his mind with the millions of other images. For a brief moment, his mind pictured what the whale looked like under the water.