The Missionary and the Artist

by Perkes Adam

  The Missionary and the Artist

  A Ravenous Romance™ Panamour™ Original Publication

  Adam Perkes

  A Ravenous Romance™ Original Publication

  www.ravenousromance.com

  The Missionary and the Artist

  Copyright © 2009 by Adam Perkes

  Ravenous Romance™

  100 Cummings Center

  Suite 125G

  Beverly, MA 01915

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-60777-202-6

  This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  They say to knock on every door. They say to leave no stone unturned. There are windows into every man's heart, secret keys to unlock the fountain of truth. We will push into the mountains of every country.

  At least, that's what they say.

  Until my companion and I knocked on Jared's door, I had yet to find the key to anybody's heart, man or woman. I had been in the field for seven months without a single baptism. The mission president reassured us that we were planting seeds which could later blossom into a full testimony of Jesus. Despite the brutal optimism of those around me, I was feeling terribly discouraged.

  There was no protocol for proselytizing in gated communities or in secure complexes.

  Apparently, people who could afford such luxuries were consequently in danger of not entering the Celestial Kingdom. When I told my first companion this, he merely laughed and said it was easier for a camel to walk through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. Justification for anything can be found in the Bible, even the damnation of the upper class. Robespierre would be proud.

  Fortunately, Jared did not live in a gated community. His loft, though expansive, was situated in a building that was likely to crumble before the second coming of Christ. Elder Batton and I sidestepped a group of dangerous-looking teenagers on the porch before entering the lobby. For a moment I was afraid my companion was going to attempt to give them a Book of Mormon. Elder Batton had a knack for finding and isolating the most dubious clientele for our spiritual message. It was no small relief to me that he allowed himself to let these kids slide through the cracks; they did not seem like the type to cower in the presence of the Lord's holy priesthood.

  No one in Jared's building let us in. Some slammed doors in our face, some hid behind the peephole and giggled. After seven months, these grievances become fairly routine. At first, I didn't know if I could handle all the rejection without taking it as a personal insult. But I adapted. My skin became thick.

  Jared was an artist and we had caught him in the middle of a project. I gathered this from the paint splattered across his bare chest and pajama pants. The easel was nowhere to be seen.

  Elder Batton, always the salesmen, jumped on the opportunity to make a friend. Not for himself, but for me. Making friends is more difficult than saving souls. At least, that's what they say.

  "Are you a painter?" Batton said, presumptuously shoving his head through the doorway.

  "My companion here is an artist." He slapped me on the back and I offered my hand, feeling the blood rushing into my cheeks. I dislike being used as bait.

  "Sort of an artist, not really," I stammered, aware of Jared's inquiring, confused stare. "I haven't done much since high school." That was all I could think of to say. Jared shook my hand and I could feel the hardened flakes of paint on his palm, like a second skin.

  "That's great," he said, one eyebrow cocked in amusement, "It's nice to meet men in touch with the sensitive side of expression. So many of us try so mightily to deny that part of ourselves."

  "Well that's Elder Grant here for ya," Elder Batton bellowed, hitting me again across the shoulder blades. "Sensitive like an open wound. Used to cry himself to sleep."

  It wasn't true, of course. I hadn't cried myself to sleep since childhood. I felt the need to defend myself to this half-naked stranger, but something in his look let me know that I didn't need to. He felt the same way about Elder Batton as I did.

  "We're not here to discuss my limited artistic abilities, of course," I said after a moment, trying to salvage Batton's unwieldy icebreaker. "We're from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and we were wondering if you would have some time today to discuss our faith with us."

  He didn't flinch or stutter like those unsuspecting folk generally did. Instead, Jared just smiled. He had a charming smile, both dimpled and blazingly white. "Of course. I love to discuss faith. Good conversation about eternity is so difficult to come by. Most people just pop by for a quickie. Come on in."

  His apartment smelled like cloves. Despite living in such a rundown building, Jared had managed to disguise his surroundings in relative comfort. The lighting was subdued and warm, mixing pleasantly with the earthy furniture and walls. There wasn't enough time, as we walked down the hallway, to adequately explore the numerous trinkets that decorated the space, but from a passing glance, Jared appeared to be well traveled.

  "Would you like a cup of tea?" he offered.

  "I'm sorry, we don't drink tea as part of our religion," Elder Batton stated proudly.

  "Oh?" Jared said, showing us to our seats and entering the kitchen. "I've never heard of such a thing. Most religions adore tea. I hope you don't mind if I drink it in front of you," he said, returning with a teapot and a mug. He placed the items on the coffee table and slouched into the chair facing us. He was not wearing shoes and his feet were pale and angular.

  "Do you have any herbal tea, actually?" I asked. Elder Batton stiffened beside me as he usually did during my moments of modest rebellion. "Anything without caffeine should be fine."

  Jared laughed and hopped out of the loveseat. "Of course, I have gads and wads of tea.

  Please have as much as you like. I can't drink it all on my own." Batton rolled his eyes as Jared called out names from the kitchen. "I've got Orange Spice, Raspberry Lime, Chamomile, Lemon Serengeti Twist, among many others. You'd really have to come in here to get a sense of the scope."

  "Raspberry Lime sounds great," I yelled back. He bounced back into the room and tossed me a bag, which I clumsily caught between my fingers.

  "That one's euphoric," he said, pulling his feet beneath him and reaching for the teapot.

  "Excellent choice, excellent taste. Are you sure you wouldn't like some..." he squinted to read my companion's name tag, "Elder Batton?"

  "No, thank you," was the gruff reply. Jared gave me a conspiratorial look, which I took to be kindly sympathetic to my cause.

  We taught the first discussion in the formatted style. Jared listened politely, only stopping once to pull his blond hair back into a small ponytail. When we had completed our message, he asked us a few questions regarding our statements on eternal families. I could tell he was not truly interested, but Elder Batton did not hesitate to make arrangements for future discussions. Jared deftly maneuvered the assault, saying that he would have to check with his gallery before making any future plans.

  "Do you have an exhibition coming up?" I asked.

  "I have been promised one, but they have yet to concretize the date. You know how that crap is." He stood, indicating the time had come for us to leave.

  "Here is our card with the number you can reach us at," Batton said, shoving the thing in Jared's direction. He pocketed it without taking his eyes from mine.

  Suddenly, I felt terrified. Desperately looking for something to filter his intensity, I said, "Nice meeting you. Perhaps next time you
can show us some of your work."

  "Actually, would you like to take a look at my piece in progress?" he said, walking away.

  "It's up on the easel in my bedroom."

  "We've got to get going. We have a regional meeting," Elder Batton said. "Thanks, though." He grabbed my elbow and led me in the opposite direction. Instead of being offended by the condescending gesture, I was relived to be given some guidance.

  "All right, next time perhaps," Jared said, spinning on his heel and leading us to the door.

  He shook hands with Elder Batton, but when he reached for mine, I realized I was still clinging nervously to my teacup. He took it from me and, alarmingly, grabbed me by the wrist. "Would you like to take some tea for the road?"

  "I, I don't know," I stammered. It was unlikely that Elder Batton would take kindly to there being tea on the premises. I could feel my senior companion's hot gaze pulling me towards the door. But Jared persisted.

  "Come on and pick out a box. I insist, as payment for your candor." He trickled his fingers down my palm and tugged at my knuckles. "It will only take a second," he said for Batton's benefit. "I promise."

  "All right, thank you," I said, drifting hazily down the hallway. The kitchen was around the corner. Jared opened the cabinet and pulled out a box of Raspberry Lime. Snatching a pen from the counter, he wrote something on the inside of the lid.

  "Have you ever done any modeling?" he asked, looking up.

  His eyes were dirty green, like pine needles on the forest floor. "What do you mean?" I replied, not sure if I understood the question.

  "I think you are beautiful. I would like to paint you." He said, handing me the box. The blood dropped out of my head and I felt darkness closing in around the periphery of my vision.

  "I can't, no. I'm sorry."

  "Why?" he whispered, "It would mean so much to me. I would pay you."

  "No," I said. "I have to go. I can't accept your payment." I turned to leave, but Jared grabbed me by the shoulder and twisted me around. His hand rested at the side of my neck, my heartbeat pulsing against his palm.

  "Please. Come back," he whispered again. His eyes were moist, as if he were on the verge of tears. "Please let me paint you."

  I stood in silence, deeply aware that Batton could become impatient and come to meet us.

  There was nothing I could think of to say that would appease Jared's plea. Flattering as it was to be so strongly desired, I couldn't help but continue to feel nauseated.

  "I can't get away from my companion," I said finally, secure that I had found a sound excuse. "We're not allowed to separate."

  Jared's dimples recessed like frosting with the candles removed. "If you could get away from him, would you come?"

  Elder Batton's voice careened from around the corner. "Elder Grant? We have a regional meeting!"

  "It would definitely be a much-needed change of pace," I said, and turned the corner.

  Batton was already walking towards me, his cheeks flushed with anger.

  "Got your tea?" he grunted. "Good, now come on." Jared waved to us as we descended the stairwell. At the landing, I looked up in time to see him hitch up his pajama bottoms. He was watching me as if from a very long distance. Then he closed the door.

  * * * *

  I didn't open the tea for several days. It sat on our kitchen counter, between the toaster and stove, eyeing me with amused disdain. In my heart, I longed to know what Jared had written on the inside of the lid, but my fearful mind kept me from looking. A week after we had entered the artist's apartment, Elder Batton brought the box to my attention.

  "Are you going to drink that," he said over breakfast, "or are you just gonna leave it there for the mission president to see?"

  "I don't think I'll drink it."

  "Then I'm going to throw it away." He pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. For no uncertain reason, I felt an instant rush of pained adrenaline.

  "No, don't," I quickly stammered, searching for an innocent excuse. "We can use it as a reason to return for a second discussion."

  "I thought you said he had plenty," Batton said with a knowing smirk.

  "I did. He does," I continued, feeling my ears turn warm. "But it's still a good icebreaker, right?"

  "If you say so, man," he said and threw the tea in my direction. "I'm pretty sure he wasn't all that interested in what we had to say. He was clearly gay."

  "You never know," I replied quietly. I slid the box towards me and nonchalantly opened the lid. Jared's message was written there in a scratchy, angular print. I read it quickly, trying not to look interested.

  "These are laxatives. Give them to your friend. They will keep him more than occupied.

  Then you can come to me."

  I looked closer and saw three blue pills sitting atop the teabags. I hadn't seen Jared put them in the box. He must have put them in there when he first left the room. He had been planning ahead.

  The next day I made breakfast for the two of us. While Elder Batton sat at the table, reading his scriptures, I gently crushed the pills with a spoon. I saved the baby blue powder for the last two pancakes.

  When I put the stack on the table, Batton forked the top three for himself. I should have felt guilt, I should have been ashamed. The thought, however, of my companion being trapped in the bathroom only filled me with delight.

  "These taste funny," he grunted, barely pausing between mouthfuls. "Did you put something else in them this time?"

  "No, just the usual batter," I said with confidence. "They do taste a little strange, now that you mention it. It's a new box. Maybe it's off."

  "Must be," he said, grabbing another cake off the stack. We finished the rest of our breakfast in silence.

  I had never taken a laxative, so there was no telling how long they would take to kick in.

  We put on our jackets and rode our bicycles in the direction of Kensington Avenue. I began to worry that Batton's stomach would not react to only three pills, as he was singing, "Come, Come Ye Saints" at the top of his lungs. He did not sound like a man who desperately needed to empty his bowels.

  When we reached Canyon Road, we stopped to wait for traffic. I casually looked at his face and was relieved to see signs of discomfort beginning to evidence themselves there.

  Batton's complexion was far paler than normal and his expression was one of confusion.

  Suddenly, he buckled over his handlebars and let out a primal groan.

  "Are you all right?" I asked. "You don't look so good."

  "I think I might be getting sick. I need to find..." Here he paused to let out another painful moan. The light changed to green and then back again.

  "Do we need to go back?"

  "No, I think I'll be fine." He sat up again and I thought that was going to be it, that Jared's plan had not taken into account the resilience of Elder Batton's digestive system. I had seen my companion shovel enough debris into that mouth to feed several heads of cattle.

  Fortunately, when the signal changed, Batton was unable to cross the street. Instead, he screamed, "Oh shit, I gotta go!" and pedaled crookedly away. I watched him stop after a block, drop his bike to the pavement, and run into a grove of trees. Yet another traffic cycle passed by while I laughed. It was the first time I had ever heard him swear. In fact, it may very well have been the Elder's very first sin. I turned my wheels in the direction of Jared's apartment.

  Suddenly the image of Batton soiling himself felt like a minor triviality. His sin was nothing in comparison to the one's coursing through my mind.

  * * * *

  When Jared opened the door to his flat, I felt a rush of supreme panic. For a moment I had thought he might not be home. The notion of being alone in his apartment without the constant nagging of Elder Batton was now a horrifying one. At first he said nothing. He simply smiled at me with peaceful relief. He was wearing a tight brown shirt. His jeans were littered with holes and he was still barefoot.

  "You came. Thank God, you came."
He pulled in by my elbow and shut the door. Once inside, I felt all my trepidation melt away. For the first time, I sensed I was embarking on a great adventure, one that would change me forever.

  He led me to the bedroom. Paintings were propped up around the entire perimeter. Some of them were abstract, some realistic. It would be foolish of me to try to judge a painter's skill with my limited training. They were, however, all painted in the most melancholy of colors: blue, green and purple.

  "You can sit on the bed if you'd like." He grabbed a hanger from the closet. "You can hang your clothes on this so they don't get wrinkled."

  "What do you want me to wear?"

  Jared cocked his head. "Oh, I thought...I mean, usually I paint..." He paused. "You can wear whatever you want."

  I looked more closely at the paintings scattered around the room. I then began to see a theme beyond their cool choice of colors: the subjects were all naked. They looked nothing like the realistic nude paintings I had seen from the Renaissance, but they were naked all the same. I felt mortified by my own naiveté.

  "Oh, I see. You meant...I guess I didn't realize."

  "It's fine," he said, smiling warmly. His eyes were the color of his paintings. Blue and green and purple. "You can keep your clothes on. I understand."