“We got an invitation today, and I think we should accept.”
It’s a few days later, and I haven’t been to Mom’s house once. I’ve just been here, alone with this man. I put my brush down. How can I work when he is always interrupting me? It’s strange enough to be working in a corner of the unfinished gallery we live in. “Stanley is doing one of his nude landscapes. He wants volunteers to become as one with the huge piles of plowed snow outside the museum.” “Oh god. Then what? Will he photograph them or send them straight to the hospital for hypothermia?” “He’ll throw a party first and get us pleasantly drunk, so we don’t feel the cold. Also, we will generate body heat from our sheer numbers.” Richard seems to have made up his mind that we’re going to this thing. He can’t tell a good concept from a cliché, looks like. And does he even know that the liveliest art spaces are in lofts and warehouses, burnt out train stations and bombed churches? It’s the people and art that make a scene, not hype. “I don’t drink, remember, and I’m susceptible to bronchitis. This level of silliness is contra-indicated for me.” “Come on. It would be great publicity, a nice bridge between your previous and forthcoming shows. You were a nude model in art school, for god’s sake. This shouldn’t make you uncomfortable.” Is he really double-daring me? “Except physically.” He should want to protect his investment, shouldn’t he? “If you catch cold, I’ll make you lots of chicken soup and rub your chest with Vick’s.” He gathers me in his arms and I feel a steely insistence where the cajoling should be. I sigh. Some things aren’t worth the fight. He takes my exhale as agreement, releases me, and goes to the computer to RSVP. The first twenty minutes of the reception are annoying. Richard immediately leaves me to bend over some nude girl with a glass of champagne. She doesn’t like him, clearly, but accepts the drink while she scans the room for someone to save her. I’d do it, but I’m chatting up the artist/photographer, the only person in the room with clothes on. “It will be a comment on collective behavior,” Stanley is saying to me. He is refining his verbal artist’s statement for when the arts writer from the paper gets here. “Is that why you made the waiters strip down, too?” “No. That was pure whimsy.” “Was it whimsy when one of them resisted the mandatory nakedness and you immediately kicked him out?” “At least he was dressed for it.” “Dressed for what?” “The cold.” Stanley excuses himself. He doesn’t want to talk to me anymore, and besides, the reporter has appeared, shucking off her clothes at the door. Stanley tries to tell her it’s unnecessary, waving his arms wildly as if to shield her. From the corner I see Richard miming applause at her striptease, and only then do I notice that this naked woman is Maryann. Her body is better than mine, but mine was as good when I was her age. She really has her heart set on Richard, I see. It must be because she knows about me and him. Unavailable men are sexier to some women. She loses no time in wafting over to him in a cloud of spicy perfume. Why I should put myself through this, again? Maybe I shouldn’t. I should just leave. But that would mean defeat. Something in me always wants to win, even if it’s a booby prize like Richard. Well, he’s not really a booby prize, but I can’t help thinking he’s no prince. I try to listen to the conversation between Maryann and Richard. Words form in their mouths and slant downward with their frowns. My brain doesn’t get it and my body seizes up with a clenching apprehension. I head for a bedroom, any bedroom, to lie down. Stanley has other ideas for me, and everyone else. He calls us to order. We all file out in a single line and begin to climb an enormous, hard-packed snowdrift. The photographer wants a neat line but soon people are slipping off the cold grey mountain, leaving gaps in the procession. I’m already shaking and every time I try to latch onto a knob of ice to pull myself up, I lose my grip and begin to fall. Hieronymus Bosch-like hands beneath me shove me back up. When I finally fall all the way, it feels like the distance to the ground is longer than it actually is. The strongest muscles of the crowd keep ascending, digging a color-swatch of flesh tones into the side of the snowy rock-face. At the very top, the first man who reaches the pinnacle dances around in the pale sun, penis flapping. That man is Richard. The pictures taken, point made, we run back into the building to put on our coats. My panic has backed down, surprisingly. Sometimes my anxiety acts like a cutter who trades psychic pain for a smaller, immediate, physical pain from tiny slashes. Inside, our company feels more like a regular gathering now, with small fights breaking out, slurred words about aesthetics and politics. One woman drunkenly lets in a stray dog from the street, several of the men chasing it back outside, yelling “Refugee! Deport it!” and laughing wildly. Since we are now clothed, some of us encourage the photographer to strip; to be the only nude in a room full of winter coats might make a statement complementary to the nudes on snow mountain. His eyes widen, and there are many hands pulling at him. He’s blinded by the flash of many tiny cameras. I’ve got to look away; his terror is real, and my symptoms rise up and sink again like waves of grief. I’ve got to get out of here. I take a cab to the apartment. I pour a hot bath, but the thing that really warms me is a sense of simmering anger. The experience with all those bodies did not make me feel at one with humanity. Quite the contrary. What I now feel is humiliation. I pick up a CD, thinking music will calm me. The disc is titled with a favorite song of mine and when I open the jacket I am delighted to see many other pieces listed, too. It takes a minute for me to realize my glitch. An album always has more than one song. I throw myself on the bed and give myself over to an anxiety attack. When Richard comes in, it’s very late. I have been suffering for hours, and my episode is only just now sputtering to a halt. He roughly pries me out of the fetal position. Is he angry? Why is he angry? I smell spicy perfume. “Why are you acting like that, all sweaty and twitchy? I can’t talk to you when you’re like this!” Richard’s voice is shot through with ill will. “Can you snap out of it, please? I need to ask you some questions.” He yanks my head toward him so I will look him in the eye. He’s too close. All I see is a bald eyeball, with green veins dangling just under the skin. I stare at him for too long and Richard heaves an exasperated sigh, finally pushing me away. He has already begun to abandon me. I knew he would. They all do. His figure fades as he walks toward the door, and disappears entirely when he slams it behind him. My mouth opens on words sticky as syrup, closing down on silence. With Richard gone, I can’t get out of bed. I mean, every morning I stagger to the door to let the construction workers in, but then I crawl back under sheets that smell of Richard. The noise the men make is punishing, but I make myself take it. I must deserve it, but I no longer can remember why. Hours or days later, my family troops in with soup, as if I’m sick. Have we all made up, then? Clara cajoles me into getting washed and dressed. I can’t really focus on what the boys are talking about between themselves, and when they talk directly to me, they choose their words so carefully, it’s like they think I’m a child. They act like I can’t understand. I may not be able to speak much, but I can listen. That lyric about how you can’t always get what you want, but sometimes you get what you need, plays in my head as I listen to my family speak. Eddie, who is thumbing through one of Richard’s ledgers, asks “Is this yours, Mandy? The book you record your anxiety attacks in?” “No. That’s Richard’s. He doesn’t let anyone touch it. My record books are still at home.” Steven moves with studied nonchalance over to Eddie, to look at the book. Eddie runs his fingers down the rows of data, and the three of them clearly understand something I don’t. To me the symbols are nothing but scattered insects on the page. Clara helps me pack a few things in my grey case. ”I remember when we got this piece of luggage,” she says softly. “We gave that girl Phylandra such a hard time about it,” I smile. “She couldn’t believe we wanted nothing to do with her time-share, and we were just there for the free gift.” “Remember how her boss kept turning up the thermostat? She thought she could sweat a commitment out of us.” “Uh-huh. So where are we going now?” I realize I don’t care. I’m ready to be led wherever they want to lead me. “Come home for a while. Why not? Mom misses you. You have lots of art supplies there and you don’t know when Richard is coming back. When he does, he’ll know where to find you.” “What about the workmen? Who will let them in?” “That’s Richard’s problem, isn’t it?” “I guess.” “Can I see the red shoes before we go, just for fun?” Clara asks. “They’re in the closet right in front of all the copied paintings,” I say. “What copied paintings?” All three of them rush to the closet. The red shoes are not there. Did Richard take them all with him? Does that mean he’s not coming back? The air is full of electricity. My skin prickles. The family’s faces reveal nothing, but I’m missing something, I just know it. “The paintings are like the ones Richard is always trying to make me do.” Clara unrolls a painting, and I identify the artist and title of the painting. She’s excited. Why? I don’t get it. “We should get out of here. Ready to go?” Steven’s voice is urgent. We lock up the apartment. The boys each carry out a ledger and an armful of mailing tubes. When I protest, Eddie says, “We’re not done with them,” in the same voice Dad used to use to end a discussion. It’s good to be home. I don’t know how long I’ll be allowed to stay, but it feels like I belong here, the same as always. I wander the rooms to check that everything is where it’s supposed to be: the curio cabinet in the corner, Mom propped up on the white sectional with her can of Ensure, all my objects marching along the dresser as usual. Everything is the same, just a little more faded somehow. Maybe I just need to clean the windows. They’re not letting in enough light. I get a sponge and glass cleaning spray from the kitchen and start to work. A pall clings to the glass and I have to really put all the strength of my arms to get it clean. I destroy a sponge with all my rubbing and go to get a new one from the drawer. I forget which drawer holds them, and I open the wrong one. It’s full of knives, collected over a lifetime: steak knives, paring knives, butcher’s knives. I wonder why Mom or Eddie didn’t change the drawer they are stored in, after the fuss they made when I was sleeping with them under my pillow, or when I cut my tongue that night after the show. I take out the cake knife I last used. I look over its serrated teeth and a shiver climbs my spine. I run my thumb over the mother-of-pearl handle and cradle it in my hand. It has a certain heft. A gleam that’s mesmerizing. I’m horrified as I watch myself draw the sharp side across the inside of my wrist. Before I can do much damage, I become aware of an insistent ringing in my brain. Through the window above the sink I can see the figure of Richard. It’s not my imagination. He’s standing on the porch, in the flesh, poking the doorbell like an eye. I put the knife down on the counter, and unlock the door. “What happened to you?” I say, pointing to his black eye and scabbed lip. “I walked into a door. Why aren’t you at home? The contractors haven’t been able to get in for hours.” “First off, I am home.” Being under the shingled wings of the house gives me lots of courage to back-talk him. When did I lose my knack for that, anyways? It used to be my forte. Richard blinks, surprised. Then he stares at me, unblinking, for longer than I ever imagined a human could. He dismantles me, brick by brick, with that stare. Then he pulls me to him as if he expects me to kiss his bloody lip. My fists are against his chest, but turned in the wrong direction for pushing him away. He takes his hands from my waist and puts them on my shoulders. He pushes down and I sink slowly past his unbuckled belt and unzipped fly. I’m unconvinced the linoleum floor will catch all the pieces of my disintegrating flesh. He changes his mind about what he wants from me as I dissolve beneath him. He has heard voices coming from the other room, coming closer. He pulls me up by my hair, and quickly rights his clothes. “When will you grow up and quit running home to mother?” “You were the one who left! What was I supposed to think? You’re the original enigma wrapped in a conundrum. I can’t read you.” “You could if you had any empathy.” Empathy. That’s one quality where the doctors tell me I’m deficient. But it’s not a vitamin. I can’t just find some and stock up, so I don’t go home with Richard, and he doesn’t try to make me. I stay put, but two days later, he’s in my kitchen again. I put the bag of groceries I just brought in on the counter, and say, as mildly as I can, “How did you get in?” “The door was wide open. You should be more careful. I just stopped by to see how the big project is going. Your studio is locked.” He waggles his fingers, which are holding a lit cigarette. I didn’t know he smoked. Doesn’t he remember I’m allergic to smoke? I peer into his face, which today bears no evidence of being in a fight or walking into a wall. “Yeah, I keep the studio locked when I’m not in it,” I say, pulling out my key. I curse the quaver in my voice. I know he’s mad that I won’t come home with him but he doesn’t seem to think we’ve broken up, either. “I can’t really work at the apartment. I know you’re remodeling it for me and I’m grateful. It’s just that right now there are too many construction men around making too much noise. I’ve done some good work here, while you were away. You said you wanted wild. Come in, and I’ll give you wild.” The studio door squeals open and I silently present my new pictures to him. He scowls. The contortion of his features confuses me. It’s not what I expected. I review the possibilities and decide he’s scowling because his bruised eye hurts. “These aren’t really wild enough, Amanda. This one is too muddy,” he points out. “This one is much too brushy. And this portrait is too disjointed.” “I think you’re missing the point,” I say, offended. “In my portraits, I use color freely to express the subject’s personality while the facial features remain realistic.” I look for the change in his posture, the surrender I always feel in his body when I talk about art. It’s not there this time. “Here, let me show you what I think the point is.” He loads a brush with black paint and paints over my marks on the canvas. “What the hell!” “What? You don’t mind do you? Our work is basically collaborative, after all.” How does he figure that? Richard puts the brush down and stands behind me to pull my hair out of my collar. “We’ll have to do something about this hair, too,” he murmurs. By the time we come out of the studio, my new pictures have all been mangled, and I have been left as burned out as the ash on Richard’s cigarette. I’m still fuming when I describe his trespass to Clara, and she reflects the anger right back at me. “What nerve! He’s a control freak! A vandal! I knew you shouldn’t trust him,” she says. She picks up the brush still dripping with the black paint Richard used to ruin my pictures. She carefully wipes it on a rag and places it in a glass jar filled with turpentine. “Look. He left your favorite sable brush in a shambles.” She peers more closely at the mutilated painting. “It looks like he was trying to imitate your style here, with this gesture. Over here too. What nerve!” “He must have picked that up by watching me paint at home.” Clara stiffens at that characterization of Richard’s place and I smile inwardly. “That’s why I don’t like to be watched. It’s like a chef giving away her secrets.” “That’s why you don’t like to join art groups?” “Yeah. Look at this. What is it? Remember when I was in school, and I’d imitate Kandinsky and Klee, all those guys? My homages even then were so much better than Richard’s puny marks.” “Well, you’re the real thing, and he seems intent on hitching his wagon to your star. What that phrase you always use about people who want a piece of you, take a number?” Funny, Clara’s fallen right back into her cheerleading role. “Yeah, except now I can’t even give it away. There is no other gallery knocking at my door, and Richard’s already gone to so much trouble to put together the new show. I guess I’ll have to put up with his interference. What do I have without him? Who else would turn his apartment into a gallery for me?” “Take a look around this house, why don’t you. Every wall is covered in your work, from your student days onward. It’s like a retrospective in a museum. Can’t you want what you already have, for a change?” No, I can’t. If I stop moving forward, I’ll get stuck, I’ll sink. People need to see my work. If I can’t get them to look, it will be as if I’ve blinded them all. I get back into my studio the following day to erase Richard’s influence. To get in the right mood, I stare at my reflection in the mirror until the features distance themselves and I can no longer recognize my own face. That’s how I know I’m ready. I swipe the canvas with color, vibrating, saturated hues that mean something, I don’t know what, not yet. I want something spontaneous to happen. I wait for an image to form in my mind. I paint it. After developing the space and losing and getting back the image many times, I can recapture the original image, and merge the figurative with the abstract. But first I have to turn on some music. My senses overlap, and I begin to paint the way the music sounds. My perpetual theme of vision emerges. Pursuing the idea of vision, to find what blocks understanding, raises the memory I’ve spent a lifetime pushing down. The little boy I blinded would be an older man by now. He’s spent decades trapped in the dark and this act of mine is the only way I can lead him out of it. With my brush, I build an igloo of blue blocks housing two figures. Their bodies are made of the same blocks and one is leading the other off the page. I use blue, black, and white. The only other color is pale yellow, applied to the corner of the eye of the dominant figure, and streaked across the forehead of the other, whose eyes are empty. Clara knocks on my door, which she never does when I’m painting. A breach. “What do you want?” “Can you help me with Mom?” It’s hardly an emergency, but I guess the standards for interrupting my work have changed here too. Mom has decided to go without her dentures again, and Clara wants me to get her attention while she, Clara, inserts the teeth from the back. “What good is this going to do?” “It’s supposed to be less traumatic if the old person can’t see what you’re doing. Otherwise, it feels like an attack.” “So you’re sure I’m allowed to touch her?’ Clara nods, curtly. “Why didn’t you take her to the dentist? He said he would put her teeth back in any time.” “He won’t do it anymore because she just takes them out. Lots of dementia patients quit wearing their dentures. Nothing awful happens to them. Old people all over the world are toothless. She’s already eating only soft food and milkshakes, so she doesn’t really need teeth. But let’s try one more time.” “God, she looks so old without them. It makes her lose all her looks.” “So? She is old. And she’s not going to enter any beauty pageants. The sight of her toothless face probably just reminds you she is on her way out. If this doesn’t work, we’ll all have to get used to it.” Already, Mom is pushing our hands away, along with her last chance at having a smile. “The last dentist wanted her to get a new set of dentures.” “I bet he did. They’re expensive. But she’d take the new ones out, too.” “Well, there’s no point, then.” “Why are you so disappointed, Mandy? Think about it, how would any dentist get Mom to open her mouth long enough to create a mold and all the other steps to making a new denture? She’d have to keep her mouth open for a long time, over several visits. She’d have to be able to follow instructions.” “He could put her to sleep.” “What? Anesthesia? That stuff is what made her slip off her Alzheimer’s plateau when she broke her hip! Even the pain pills she took for her recent fracture deepened her dementia! How can you even think of putting her through that?” “I guess I can’t, if none of you wants to but me. I know I don’t get a vote.” “If Mom takes the new dentures out anyway, plus her brain is further damaged by the anesthesia, it would have all been for nothing. It’s way too high a price to pay.” “But the last dentist said she has practically no bone left in her jaw and he has to build it up or it’ll just cave in or something.” I curse the whining tone creeping into my voice. “That’s better than losing the last bit of her mental capabilities.” “Oh, you’re so dramatic!” I explode. We still have no luck getting Mom to accept the dentures, so Clara takes them to the sink, rinses them, and sets them on a paper towel on the counter. She pauses as if she has something more to say but leaves the room instead. I pick up the teeth from the counter. Mom shows her gums to me in her new version of a smile, and I shake the dentures at her, and then open and close them in a parody of biting. Mom looks puzzled, so I pretend to hit her with them. I keep doing it until she raises her arms to protect herself. I put the dentures in my pocket and leave the kitchen before Clara comes back. In the studio, I set the false teeth on the table with my brushes and pigments, and begin to paint a small face, mouth open, trapped in red and black circles. On the right, in the foreground, I make a green figure tormenting the helpless one. The sadist has a vicious look on its face. Richard will like this one, I bet. It’s perfect, he’ll say.
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AuthorCheryl Snell is an award-winning poet and novelist, author of the new family saga Bombay Trilogy, a retelling of her previous novels Shiva's Arms, Rescuing Ranu, and Kalpavriksha. Archives
October 2020
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