by Sarah Black
What had he done? The painting hit me like a two by four across the face. He’d painted me like Jesus, hanging from the cross, ten feet tall, and as The Original said, buck naked. And the cross I was hanging from was covered with money, twenty-dollar bills plastered over the wood, some peeling off, some falling to the ground. Crucified on a cross of American money. My mouth fell open.
I was wearing the boots and the hat, but the riata hadn’t made it into the picture. My cock looked about two feet long, and the tattoos on my arms, the devil dog and USMC, were perfect. I was me, but I was every Marine too, every single one who had died in an American war. I felt a weird buzzing in my head, thought I might be about to pass out.
There was an automatic weapon in one dead hand, and smoking pieces of black shrapnel coming out of my chest. I reached up, rubbed the scar. Coming out of my back were the angel’s wings, long black wings that looked like they were made of feathers of some iridescent black metal, the same metal that was sticking out of my chest. A dead warrior angel, killed by my own kind.
I turned around, tried to walk out the door, but I bumped into one of the unfinished canvases. When I looked at it closer, I saw he had sketched in the next angel, and the next, all the canvases had the central figure drawn, and that figure looked a lot like me.
I went into the house, into my room, shut the door, then I realized I hadn’t had a shower since I’d come back from my run. I grabbed a change of clothes and stayed under the hot water for a long time. I didn’t let myself think. I avoided my own face in the bathroom mirror, and when I came out and walked down to the kitchen, The Original was standing next to the stove, frying bacon. He turned around, gave me a sharp-eyed look, and I sat down at the table, pulled the newspaper over, and opened it to the comics page. I was staring blankly down at it when he set a cup of coffee next to me. His hand came down on my shoulder.
“Son… I don’t know what to say.”
“Where is he?”
“Out in the studio. Painting. He said the background isn’t finished.”
“Oh. I didn’t notice.”
He turned back to the stove. “Fried or scrambled?”
We ate in silence, and nobody thought to call Jesse in from the studio for breakfast. The scar on my chest was aching like a bitch, and I couldn’t stop myself from rubbing it, over and over. “The thing is,” I said, like we were in the middle of a conversation, “I understand how you could use a person’s image as a symbol in a painting. But that’s not what that is.” I pointed out toward the studio. “That’s not a symbol. That’s me. It’s very obviously and personally me.”
“Yes, it is. Jesse must have some powerful feelings for you, Lorenzo. I’ve never seen…. His paintings, they tend to be gentle, some of them, or amused, you know? Like he finds the world funny. I’ve never seen anything like this, like he’s furious. Furious at the shrapnel that nearly killed you.” He pushed his plate away. “Let me ask you this. How did it affect you, looking at it?”
“I felt like I’d been punched in the face. I couldn’t breathe right.”
“How would you feel if it wasn’t you? If he’d painted one of your brothers, hanging from a cross covered with money? Holding his weapon, with a devil dog on his arm and blood dripping down his chest?”
I stared down into my plate, thought about the cartoons I had been drawing, my platoon going off to war, with shoddy equipment we knew wasn’t going to do the job. Jesse had been thinking about war too.
“It’s too powerful. I’m not the only one who’s gonna feel that like a punch in the face. He managed to say something about politics, religion, and race, all at once.” The Original looked confused. “My Navajo face, and I’m wearing a replica of a US Cavalry hat, from about the days when they rounded us up and put us in Bosque Redondo. That’s the design he drew for my boots. It doesn’t matter. That might be too subtle for most of America to get, what with the crucifix covered in money, and the dead cowboy Marine hanging there with shrapnel in his chest. He said something once, when we first came down here, about Jesus, Geronimo, and the Marlboro Man, American Icons, how he wanted to find a way to put them all together. I should have paid more attention when he was talking.”
“But you, Lorenzo. How do you feel about the fact he painted you, not a symbol, I agree, but you, like that, without asking you?”
Objectified. Betrayed. Like he used me. I shook my head. “I can’t talk about this, sir.”
He patted my arm. “Son… I can’t tell you how sorry I am. He thinks art matters more than people. You do understand that about him, Lorenzo?”
“I do now.”
I walked back out to the studio, started putting my papers away, folding them up, and closing the computer down. Jesse didn’t come over from his half of the studio, and I didn’t say anything to him. I could hear him moving around over there, but I just kept thinking, I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to get out of here before the old boyfriend shows up and makes everything worse. I looked at the cartoon he’d drawn of us, Yoda and Luke Skywalker, and thought about leaving it, but I put it with the rest of the papers and carried everything in the house.
It took me less than ten minutes to pack. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, wondering if I should write him a note to say good-bye, when I heard the car pull up outside.
Jesse’s voice, and another man’s I didn’t know. They talked for a moment, then their voices disappeared. Out to the studio, I suspected. I felt my stomach knot down at the thought of a stranger looking at that painting of me. The Original was out on the porch. “Did Sadie get home okay?”
“He says he dropped her at her mom’s.”
“I’ve got to get out of here.”
“Are you coming back, son?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Lorenzo… I know this is probably for the best. For now. But don’t make it permanent. Let me know where you are.”
“Yes, sir.” I thought he was telling me that he’d let me know when the coast was clear, when Jesse had gone back to San Francisco, and I could come back. I didn’t think I could bear it, though.
I went into the house, carried my bags out to the truck, and was setting the computer case down in the front seat when Jesse came around the corner of the house with Sam. Sam was older, probably forty, and his sweet-faced good looks weren’t going to last much longer. Honey-brown hair and freckles, big brown eyes, and an easy, pretty smile. He was wearing jeans with the hems rolled up and a pair of sneakers without socks and a jacket made out of the same cream silk and linen as the pants Jesse had been wearing when he got in the bar fight, up in Alpine. Great. They were sharing clothes.
“I know you,” he said, holding out his hand. “You’re the Grievous Angel.” I could no more shake his hand without breaking his arm than I could breathe underwater.
Jesse stared at the truck, his mouth open, and I turned around and slammed the door. “You’re leaving? You’re just packing up and leaving? What….”
Sam was laughing. “Oh, I get it. Jesse, Jesse, how many times have I told you, you can’t sleep with your models! They always fall in love with you, beautiful, and then there’s the messy—” He stopped speaking when I reached out and grabbed the front of his jacket, lifted him off the ground.
“Get your hands off me! What the hell’s the matter with you?”
Jesse gave me an unfriendly look. “Oh, for God’s sake, put him down. Sam, would you mind? Shutting the hell up and leaving us alone?”
I dropped him, and he straightened his jacket, glaring at me. Jesse and I stood, staring at each other, waiting for him to go. By the time he was around the corner of the house, Jesse was livid. “You were going to sneak out of here without saying a word to me? What the fuck is that about?”
I lifted him up and shook him, so furious all of a sudden I was ready to break his skinny neck in my hands. I pushed him back against the door of the truck, his feet dangling off the ground, and he was kicking me with those red sneakers, the ro
und rubber toes bouncing harmlessly off my knees. I was crying then, and kissed him so hard I could taste blood, and I didn’t care if it was his or mine. I kissed him again, and he was crying now, wrapped around me, legs around my waist, arms around my neck, saying, please, zo-zo, please, please don’t leave, and I pulled him off roughly, set him down, and climbed in my truck and drove away. I didn’t let myself look in the rearview mirror. His tears were mixed with mine on my face, and I put them in my mouth, so I could taste both of us together one last time.
Chapter Eleven
I DROVE, then I drove some more, let the endless miles numb my mind until I could breathe like a normal person. I got a hotel room in Amarillo, but I was afraid to keep going. The lonesome plains lay ahead, the saddest, flattest landscape in America, and I wasn’t sure I would make it to the Rockies alive. I just wanted to keep driving, not thinking, not feeling, just drive, drive, and not let the smell of Jesse’s hair into my mind, the taste of his mouth. I’d never lost like this before. I’d never had something shatter at my feet, utterly lost, and I didn’t know how to handle it. I wasn’t a drinker, not growing up out on the rez. But for the first time, I felt some sympathy for the terrible grief that would come rolling off some of those old men, holding their bottles.
My mind had shut down. I didn’t want to be around other people. I didn’t want to go home. The painting hung in front of my eyes, opened or closed, and it saved me, because I was thinking about it when I thought about going into the desert. Forty days and forty nights? And he had to pass some tests, right, resist the temptation of the devil or something, and then the angels came and fed him.
Forty days in the desert. I could do that, and I’d come out the other side with Jesse burned out of my blood. I’d burn him out of my heart, let the harsh wind blow my soul clean, and then I’d be able to get to work again.
I picked up the phone, called The Original. Jesse answered the phone, and my chest got so tight I nearly couldn’t speak. “Jesse, let me speak to your granddad.”
“Mary, please….”
I didn’t answer. He waited a moment, then handed the phone over. “Lorenzo? You okay, son?”
“Yes, sir, I’m fine.”
“Why don’t you come on back home? Jesse has something he wants to say to you.”
“No. What I’d like to do is this, if it’s okay with you.” I was pleased that my voice sounded strong, determined. “I’m going down into Big Bend. I’m going camping for a while. You think Jesse will be done with his paintings in two months? So I can come back and we can finish what we started with the comic?”
“Yes. I’ll make sure he’s done. You have everything you need?”
“I’ll get it. I have my mail forwarded to your house. Can we just leave it for now? If there is some sort of emergency, I’ll be in Big Bend. The rangers will know where I am.”
“You come home whenever you’re ready, Lorenzo.”
“I don’t want to see him.” I heard him suck in his breath, like I’d punched him. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t.”
“I understand.” His voice was gruff. “You call me, check in, okay? So I know you’re alive.”
“Yes, sir.”
I bought a camper, a little sixteen-foot Bambi Airstream, just big enough for one. It took almost half of the money I’d saved. I filled up the pickup with supplies, hooked up the camper, and drove back down the length of Texas. I cut across to Terlingua, so I could go into Big Bend without passing through Marathon, and drove as far as I could go in the park, down to the Rio Grande campground. It was cool and green next to the river, and I found a site back away from everyone, under a broad, shady tree.
I spent the days hiking, the afternoons stretched out in a hammock, asleep, and the nights staring at the ceiling, loving Jesse in my memory. It seemed like my mind wouldn’t let him go, wouldn’t let me push him away until I had remembered every minute in his company, every time he’d let me taste him, the way he nuzzled under my arms, or the way his shoulders felt when I slung my arm around him and pulled him close. And I had to see his face a million times, his face handing me a condom, saying, please, zo-zo, reaching for the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head, sliding his hand down into the waistband of his boxers. A million times, and I thought the memories were going to burn right through my chest, leaving gaping, smoking black scars on my skin. But when I finally woke up, gasping like I had a rock sitting on my chest, I’d touch my skin, find nothing had changed.
I remembered driving back from Lajitas with my new boots, thinking I was going to win him, and we were going to live and love happily together for our entire lives, and make beautiful art, and there was just no option for failure. Well, things didn’t always work out, did they? I kept telling myself that, and it felt like something in my head was tied up, gagged, ready to get loose and run, screaming, all the way back to Marathon, fast as I could go, throw myself in Jesse’s arms and beg him never to leave me. I’d tell him he could do anything to me and I’d still love him, he could do anything…. And that’s when I’d put my shoes on and go out for a run, and I’d run until I was as empty as I had ever been. But then I had to lie back down at night, stare at the ceiling and remember Jesse’s face, and it started all over again.
I had been down at the campground a couple of weeks, and I’d had a bad night. I took a long run, and when I came back, Jesse was there, sitting on the back end of his granddad’s truck. There was a bag of groceries on the picnic table, and a stack of mail. I walked over to the camper, pulled a towel out, and ran it over my face and neck. “What are you doing here?”
At least he didn’t say he’d come to bring me food and mail. “I need to talk to you.”
I sat down at the picnic table, pulled some strawberries and bananas out of the bag. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He was looking at my feet, like he wasn’t sure how to start. “Mary, I need to try to explain what happened. It’s got me all tangled up. I can’t sleep, trying to think how things got out of hand. I don’t know how to fix this.”
“Are you talking about you and me? Or your painting?”
“The painting, both. I don’t know. You and me, that had nothing to do with the painting. Don’t listen to what Sammy said. He was just being a fuckhead. I wasn’t sleeping with you to talk you into being my model.”
“Well, I’m happy to hear that. But I never thought you were.”
He looked up, met my eyes. He hadn’t been sleeping. His eyes were haunted, and his face looked thin and miserable.
“So, you feel like you need to explain something to me? I don’t think so.” I stood up, dismissing him. “I let you take photographs of me. I wasn’t thinking, but if I had been I would have known what you were going to do with them. It’s fine, Jesse. It’s done. Don’t worry about it.”
He didn’t move, and his face looked worse now, something dark and frantic in his blue eyes. “Please, please let me explain.” His voice was a whisper, and my eyes filled with tears before I could stop them.
“Do me a favor, okay? Just go off and have a happy life, and enjoy your success. I think that Death of a Grievous Angel is brilliant. Painful and brilliant. Don’t think about me. Don’t let the way I feel about this bother you, okay? It’s not your fault I thought there was more going on between us. There’s nothing to salvage here, Jesse, between you and me. But I’m glad your painting is a success.”
“They gave me two hundred thousand dollars for it.” I suspected, bitterly, that he was going to spend all of it trying to save his junkie cousin. “I’d give every penny back, if I could just find a way to explain to you…. I was just trying to paint my cowboy angels, Mary. That was all. And then you got too real, you got into my head, I smelled you and tasted you and it changed, I was painting you, the real you, and I got madder and madder, and next thing I knew, I was painting those twenty-dollar bills on that cross.”
I sat down again. “Jesse, I get that. I understand what happened.”
�
��Then why did you leave? Why are you still so mad?”
“Because when you figured out what was going on with your painting, you didn’t tell me. You knew what that painting was turning into. You knew exactly how good it was. And you carefully weighed what was more important, and decided not to tell me. You didn’t want me to try and stop you. You taped paper over it every night, Jesse, so I wouldn’t accidently see it.”
“Okay, yes. I did. Yes, yes, and yes. I did everything you said. Are you going to forgive me?”
I stood up again. “Nothing to forgive.”
“Bullshit!” He lost his cool then, got up and hammered me in the chest with his fists. “You’re gonna make me suffer and suffer for the rest of my fucking life? What happened to I love you? And I love you again? Oh, right, you didn’t really know me, did you? You were just in love with some symbol of me. And when you got to know the real me, when you got down to the bones, you got in your truck and ran away from me as fast as you possibly could. Who did you think I was?”
I grabbed his fists, held him off. “Stop it. You sound like an idiot. You never had to live with the consequences of your choices, before now?”
He jerked free, then put his arms around me. I didn’t move. “How can I have turned your beautiful heart to stone? Tell me that. Because I can’t bear to think I’ve hurt you this much.”
“You used my uniform, Jesse, my uniform. It’s like a little piece of my soul. You never served. You don’t understand what it means to be a Marine. You stole that from me and used it to make a point in a piece of art.” I let him hold me, and just for one moment, I put my arms around him, held him so tightly I squeezed a little grunt out of him. His neck was salty and damp in the heat, and I touched his skin with my mouth. “Please leave me alone. I can’t stand this.”
And his arms fell away. He stared up at me, those stormy blue eyes full of tears. He wiped a tear off my face with his thumb. Then he got back in his granddad’s pickup truck and drove away.