Work of Art ~ the Collection

by Ruth Clampett

  He smiles. “It wasn’t just flirting . . . I was completely taken with you.”

  “Really? Because when we left the restaurant, you abandoned me on the curb after you saw some model you knew. I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach. That was when I decided you could never be the one for me.”

  He lifts himself off the swing and takes several steps forward. I can see the tension in his body as he makes tight fists and curses to himself. Exasperated, he runs his hands through his hair and paces for a while. Finally, he stops and sits on the swing again.

  “See how I kept fucking things up for myself? That was so stupid. She didn’t mean anything to me.”

  “Could have fooled me,” I say glumly.

  “I just remember feeling intense and overwhelmed with you. She was a diversion.”

  “Really? Well, you definitely lost your appeal after that.”

  He nods. “I guess, deep down, I agreed with Adam and Jess that you should never be with a guy like me . . . a guy with my past. You deserve so much more.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that. I’m not perfect, you know.”

  “But that fucked up scene with Sheila . . .”

  “Yes, I wish I hadn’t come by that night. I think that will always haunt me.”

  “Well, if it’s any comfort, I’d give anything to go back in time and remove that night from both our memories. It was hellish to begin with, but when I realized you were a witness to my moment in hell, I just wanted to fucking die.”

  “Okay, we’re in agreement there. But, Max, as bad as it was, it’s not like you were cheating on your girlfriend. Other than getting caught up in a moment at the studio, we’ve only ever just been friends.”

  “No, Ava. You’re wrong, because I was cheating on the way I feel about you. I was lying to myself and trying to avoid what my heart was telling me.”

  His forthrightness surprises me. It’s almost he’s like a different Max . . . a man stripped of his bravado and manufactured persona . . . a man who senses he may never have the thing he wants most and is trying so hard to hold onto whatever he can.

  I drop my head to my chest, because I can’t find the words to respond. I just don’t know how to step forward.

  Can he tell that I’m lost?

  “Don’t worry, Ava. I’m not going to harass you. I can only hope that, when I’m doing better, you’ll give me a chance to show you who I really am inside.”

  “So, can we take things slow?” I hear hope in my voice.

  “Sure. I’ll take whatever I can get.” He gives me a long somber gaze, and the sincere look in his eyes makes me believe him.

  He stands and turns toward me. “Look, I have somewhere I’m supposed to be, and it’s going to take about an hour, but I really don’t want you to leave yet. You could come with me, or stay here and hang out while I’m gone . . . just, please don’t leave.”

  I stand. “I’ll go with you.”

  We go to the house, and he gathers a canvas and some paint supplies while I speak with Ann. When she asks me to join them for dinner, there’s optimism in her eyes, but just to be safe, I ask her if we can see how the afternoon goes. Normally, it would be rude to ask, but considering everything, I think she understands.

  Ann has worked out a tangible plan to help Max heal. Besides therapy, she’s strongly encouraged him to do charity work that will get him to focus on helping other people for a change.

  We take my car, so he doesn’t have to borrow his aunt’s. We pull up to the Sunrise Assisted Living Facility.

  “We’re going to see a woman named Helen in the Alzheimer’s wing.”

  I look up, surprised. “Is she related to you?”

  “No, I heard about her because they’ve discovered she’s an amazing artist.”

  “Was she always an artist?”

  “That’s the interesting part. Two years ago, a local art teacher came to work with the Alzheimer’s patients. As soon as they put a paintbrush in her hand, Helen came alive. Although she’d never painted before, and despite the effects of her disease, she’s created amazing paintings.”

  “Wow, I love that she’s creating art.”

  “Me too. I’ve worked with her several times now and am blown away.”

  After we enter the facility, the caregiver inputs numbers into the door keypad to The Neighborhood where the Alzheimer’s patients live. I’m nervous, but as soon as we’re inside, a patient sees Max and her face lights up.

  “That’s Helen,” Max whispers.

  She hurries over and puts her hands on his face. “Billy, you came back! Look, everyone, my handsome Billy is here.”

  Max seems unfazed by her greeting, and he gives her a hug and starts setting out the supplies on the table. She stays close by his side, and although her words have dissolved into gibberish, she still seems delighted that he’s there.

  The activities director brings out paper and supplies for the rest of the residents. Max directs me to go to the kitchen and bring back a paper plate, some paper towels, and a container with water.

  When I get back, Max has fanned out all of the colorful tubes of paint. He gently shows Helen and asks what colors she wants to start with. She points to an emerald green and a golden yellow. Max squeezes generous amounts on the plate and hands her a brush.

  Over the next hour, I’m transfixed watching Max gently coax and flirt with Helen as she paints with all of the confidence of a seasoned artist. The work is abstract, and the organic way she approaches the painting is amazing. She doesn’t hesitate or labor over her movements the way a lucid person might. Her painting is the purest form of expression.

  While she works, I walk around, watching the other residents attempt to color pages similar to something you would see in a preschool. Several of them can barely hold a crayon and appear to be much further along in the disease than Helen is, but everyone seems content, working.

  At one point, Helen grabs Max by the collar and says some mumbled words that I can’t make out. He nods and squeezes her hand affectionately. She picks up her brush, swirls it in the cobalt blue he’s just put out and starts painting again. Max smiles.

  I’m glad he shared this experience with me.

  Helen finishes the painting with the same assuredness she started with. She sets her brush down, walks over to a nearby couch and motions for Max to join her. I gather up the paints and take the brushes into the kitchen to wash them out.

  When I return, Max and Helen are on the couch, holding hands as she rests her head on his shoulder. Max is explaining how great it was to paint with her, but now he has to go. One of the caregivers distracts Helen, and we’re quietly led from The Neighborhood by another caregiver.

  Paintings line the long hallway to the lobby.

  “Are these Helen’s?”

  Max nods.

  They’re good . . . really good, and if I didn’t know the history behind them, I would’ve thought they were done by a noted artist. I turn to Max. “You know her work is really great. This is such a fascinating story. I’m surprised more people don’t know about her.”

  “That’s intentional, according to the wishes of her family. If people tell her story, she’ll become a spectacle—a circus freak show—and that wouldn’t be good for Helen. Painting is pure joy for her.”

  “I’m so glad I got to come here with you,” I say and gently take his hand. As we pass through the front door and onto the street, I realize Helen has probably already forgotten that we were there, but the effect she’s had on Max will stay with him the rest of his life.

  When we get back to the house, I grab the copy of his book from the car. Neither of us wants to address me leaving yet, so we make a snack of fruit, cheese and crackers and head to the backyard. Max brings his sketchbook, and I borrow one of Ann’s photography magazines. We sit quietly while I read and he draws. After several articles, I’m so relaxed that I can’t focus on the page.

  “I think it’s nap time for angel. Why don’t you stretch out for
a few?” He points to a hammock nestled between two trees.

  He doesn’t have to ask twice. I slowly walk to the hammock and steady it while I crawl inside. The sides wrap up around me, creating a womb-like effect, and after a few moments of swaying and feeling the warm sun and cool breeze brush over me, I fall into a deep sleep.

  When I wake up, I assume I’m in a dream as there’s a thick quilt over me and a pink cast over the entire yard. I slowly sit up and rub my eyes.

  Max is about twenty feet away with a canvas and easel. He’s painting and looks very content. He glances over. “Hey, sleepyhead. Did you have a nice nap?”

  I stretch out. “Heavenly. How long have I been asleep anyway?”

  “Over an hour.” He laughs as I almost lose my balance trying to get out of the hammock.

  “You’ve got to be kidding! I guess all those nights lying awake finally caught up with me. I’m sorry to be such lousy company.”

  “You could never be lousy company. There was something wonderful about having you here while I painted.”

  Ann comes out to the yard with two glasses of sangria. “Here,” she says as she hands us our glasses. “Enjoy the pink moment.”

  “Pink moment?” I glance up at the sky to discern where the color is coming from.

  “Since Ojai is lined up with an east-west mountain range, it’s one of the few towns in the world to have a pink moment as the sun sets. The fading sunlight creates a vivid shade of pink for several minutes on the Topatopa bluffs.”

  Max and I take our drinks and sit together on the swing, quietly rocking while we admire Mother Nature’s show. The pink has a few brilliant minutes until the sun sets and a soft violet washes over us. When most of the yard has fallen into dark shadow, we gather up our things and move inside.

  Ann bustles around the kitchen preparing dinner, and she’s delighted that I’ll be joining them. She prepares a penne pasta with a homemade Bolognese sauce topped with sautéed mushrooms and freshly grated parmesan. Max takes over salad duty, cutting up tomatoes, basil and mozzarella for a caprese salad. Ann tells us stories about her life in Ojai while we sip our drinks and eat.

  After dinner, Max pours me my third glass of sangria. Maybe he’s trying to get me drunk so I can’t drive back tonight. By nine, we’re still drinking and having fun, but it’s Ann who insists that I stay over in the guest room, while Max sleeps on the sofa. He heartily agrees, loaning me one of his T-shirts to sleep in. We turn in before eleven, and surprisingly, I fall asleep right away, despite my long nap.

  In the middle of the night, I wake with a thunderous headache. You fool. I chastise myself for drinking so much sangria. I fish around in my purse until I find some aspirin and then go to the kitchen for a glass of water.

  On my way back to bed, I notice a light on in the living room, and I peek inside. Max sits in the middle of the couch, holding the manila folder with his manuscript against his chest. His eyes are red-rimmed, he’s biting his lip, and his hair is wild.

  “What’s wrong, Max? Are you okay?” I ask as I draw nearer. He looks three steps away from shutting down. I don’t want to deal with that kind of drama when my head feels like it’s splitting open.

  A few moments pass, and then he looks up. “I don’t know what to say, Ava.” He holds the folder out in front of him.

  “Is it okay? God, I hope you like it.” I can’t tell what his expression means, but it worries me.

  His eyes are so wide that he looks stunned. “Like it? Like it? Ava, I knew you’d do a great job, but I didn’t realize it would be fucking amazing, ground breaking . . . it’s brilliant.”

  My insides flip cartwheels of joy. “You mean it?”

  “Hell, yes. My only concern is that I may never be able to live up to the man you wrote about.”

  “That’s not true, Max. You already do. You are that man, and I’m not just saying that to make you feel good.”

  He sets the folder down on the coffee table, holds out his arms, and beckons me. I sink onto the couch next to him, and he pulls me into a big hug and kisses me on the top of my head.

  “Thank you, angel. I could thank you every day for the rest of my life and it still wouldn’t be enough.”

  “Well, remember, despite the fact that you’re a real handful, I’ll always be your number one fan,” I say playfully.

  “Handful? Well, you can hold me in your hands anytime.”

  I laugh, deciding not to dwell on the sexual innuendo. “Okay, I’ll remember that.” I pause, considering if I should bring up what’s on my mind. My smile fades and I look away.

  “What?”

  “Since we’re making such headway in our friendship, can we talk about that night in the printing studio?”

  He tenses up, but he nods.

  “You know, when it all went wrong . . . why did you say you never wanted it to happen?”

  “I didn’t say that . . . I couldn’t have said that,” he groans.

  “Oh, yes you did, and it broke me. I’ve replayed that moment in my head a million times.”

  He shakes his head, frustrated. “Damn. I sure as hell didn’t mean it the way you took it.”

  I wait patiently for him to continue.

  “When you agreed to do the book project, I already had a thing for you, but I’d promised myself to wait until it was over before I pursued you. I guess, somewhere inside, I knew I would fuck things up.”

  I lean forward and try to keep my emotions in check as he finally vocalizes the feelings I’d always hoped I’d hear.

  “I have a history of being too obsessive. It wasn’t fair to you if I kept distracting you when you’d invested so much into the project. Besides, what was waiting ten or twelve weeks compared to a lifetime?”

  My fingers tighten on the couch cushion. His responses are overwhelming me.

  “So what I meant when I said I didn’t want this in the heat of the moment was that I didn’t want it to happen when it did and the way it did.”

  His expression changes from self-loathing to dark desire.

  “But that night in the studio . . . watching you move, the way you looked . . . in my entire life I’d never wanted anyone that much. The desire just took over.”

  My breath catches. “That was quite a moment.”

  “Yeah.” He smiles. “And you know what? I was actually restraining myself. I only showed you half of what burned inside of me.”

  Fire flares up my chest and across my face.

  “So, when you rejected me, I completely collapsed inside. All of the anger, frustrations, and disappointment all rolled into one ball of fury. It got so big that I thought I was going to explode, but instead, I just shut down. Luckily, you’d left by then.”

  “Sean told me about finding you.”

  “Great. My humiliation knows no bounds.”

  “But, Max, I wasn’t rejecting you. I can see why you would’ve thought that, but really I panicked because I thought, in your eyes, I was just another art groupie. I didn’t believe that I was anything special, and I couldn’t handle it.”

  “And that’s why you pushed me away? You thought you weren’t special to me?” His eyes are wide and incredulous.

  “Yes.” I curl into myself, remembering how bad that moment felt.

  “Fuck, Ava, if you’d only known. If you could’ve seen inside me, you would’ve understood that you aren’t just special . . . you’re the first girl I’ve met in years that I want more from.”

  “More than just sex?”

  “Yes, much more.” He wraps his arms around me and pulls me closer. I want to believe him, but I have to fight my natural instincts. One misstep and Max could flatten me emotionally again.

  “I can’t believe we made such a mess of things.”

  He rubs my arm gently. “Oh, Ava. I know . . . but look at us now. You’re here in my arms. Maybe one day . . .”

  He falls silent, as if he’s afraid to hope for too much.

  I remind myself of the promise we made to take things
slow.

  “I’m glad I came, but now I’d better go to bed.” I smile and rub my eyes before I rise from the couch.

  He stands and gives me one more hug. “Okay, get some sleep. We can talk more tomorrow.”

  When I wander into the kitchen the next morning, Ann is sitting at the table drinking coffee and reading the paper. Max is nowhere in sight.

  “Good morning, Ava. Did you sleep well?” She gets up and pours me a cup of coffee.

  “I did after I took some aspirin for my sangria headache.”

  “Yes, I think we all overdid it with the sangria. Max is out running to burn it off.” She sets the coffee in front of me, along with a mini pitcher of milk and bowl of sugar.

  “You know, my dear, I have to thank you. You being here has meant the world to Max. I think he’s finally turning the corner. He still has a lot of work to do, but he’s very motivated. I feel so hopeful now.”

  “I’m so glad to hear that. I really care about Max, and I want him to be happy . . . whatever form that takes,” I say, and slowly stir my coffee as I think about what she’s said.

  She smiles warmly. “Lizzy would’ve just loved you. You’re the exact type of girl she always hoped Max would end up with. Before she died, she said her greatest wish was that Max would find someone very special to spend his life with. God, she loved that boy.”

  Guilt swells up inside of me. She’s expecting way too much from our relationship. “You do understand that we’re going to take things slow. Just yesterday morning we weren’t even talking.”

  “Yes, and I’m sorry to be so presumptuous. I have such high hopes for Max, so I can’t help myself.”

  “That’s okay,” I reply with a smile. “At least now we’re making progress. Who knows what the future holds.”

  She returns my smile just as Max bounds through the backdoor. He looks so happy and hopeful. His face is radiant, and I don’t think it’s from the run. I see why Ann is so optimistic.