Strive To Enter…Luke 13:24
“Okay, Julia. That’s great.” I’m standing in the lounge, holding the phone, and I feel an incredible sense of calm. She’s telling me that six of my paintings have already sold, even at the frankly-unbelievable-to-me prices she put on them.
“There’s another appointment tomorrow, with Gillian West—you remember, you met her at the opening? She’s very anxious to buy a piece, and she might very well be interested in being your sponsor for another show. What do you think? Did you like her?”
I can’t tell her the truth: that just thinking about starting work again practically makes me want to vomit. I guess all artists go through that feeling in the aftermath of finishing a big project, but right now having to muster the energy to even listen to a critic or to Julia is terrifying. There’s just nothing more I have to say, no more memories I want to commit to canvas. I can’t imagine beginning anything else. And I didn’t like Gillian West. But I make my voice sound interested. “Wow. That would be great. She sponsors a lot of young artists, doesn’t she?”
“Only the really good ones,” Julia tells me. She lowers her voice a little. “I was wondering if I could show her the other canvases. You know—”
“No. ” I interrupt her sharply. “I’m sorry, Julia. Just…don’t show them.” I didn’t want to make a big deal before the opening, but those canvases are coming back here. Immediately. The idea of her showing those pictures to that skinny socialite arty wannabe—
Cool it, I tell myself.
“Marie.” She sounds gently reproving. “You’ve got to believe me. Those are incredible pieces. You don’t have to sell them if you don’t want, but you have to let people see everything you can do. I want to show them what a great range you have.”
“I know.” I take a deep breath and get it all back under control. “I don’t want those shown to anyone unless I’m there. They’re personal.” Which is as much as I can admit to her.
She sighs. “All right, sweetie. Just keep it in mind. And congratulations again. This is a huge first step for you.” She sounds ecstatic, thrilled, so happy for me.
I wish I felt the same way.
“Thanks. So…do you need anything else?”
“Not right now, since you got the notes I sent from the opening. Those are the most important patrons to respond to, and the buyers are on top. Although if you should happen to be in the area tomorrow…I’m sure Gillian would love to talk to you again, more personally.”
I rub a hand over my face tiredly. “I can’t tomorrow.” I just want to get off the phone now.
“Okay. It’s fine—we can always set something up later, lunch or something. I’ll let you know what she says.”
“Great.” We say goodbye and I hang up the phone. I stand for a minute, looking out at the grounds. It’s sunset, and there’s a beautiful pink glow on the horizon. I push down the automatic tendency to make a note of the color. I don’t need to mix paints today; wouldn’t have time even if I wanted to.
I hadn’t quite realized how much there would be to do. No one told me about thanking patrons for attending your show, no one told me about buyers wanting to ‘meet the artist’ before they write a check. Makes you wonder what’s really for sale here. Julia’s sent me a special delivery envelope of notes, clippings, I don’t even know what all she put in here. Most of it I shove back into the envelope unread; the notes from the buyers deserve an answer, I guess. I flick through them, wondering what anyone would feel like they had to say to me.
Most of them are congratulating themselves more than me. ‘So glad to have been among the first to recognize your talent.’ ‘Looking forward to introducing you to the Uptown Art World,’ complete with unnecessary capitalization. One claims to have purchased from the first shows of seven artists who are now in MoMA.
I remember most of the buyers. Some guy from Wall Street bought two of the Church paintings. They were the most expensive; I don’t know why, Julia did the pricing. I also don’t know why anyone would want them, but he says they’re “powerful” and he’d like to speak to me about a special commission for his office. That one I don’t answer. I’d never make anything on purpose for someone who could actually want to look at those things day after day.
There’s one note I like. It’s from a woman who bought a small painting, not much more than a sketch really, from the New Orleans series. She starts out kind of stiffly by saying she’s never bought anything from an art gallery before, but she’s the only one who really tells me why she bought the painting.
I love the colors. I love the warmth. I’m from Baton Rouge and it reminds me of home and it reminds me of a night I’ll never forget.
I don’t remember her. I wish I did. I guess she wasn’t an Important Buyer to be squired around by Julia and introduced. I wish it were her that Julia wanted me to meet tomorrow; then things might be different. Just for a moment, as I re-read the letter, I feel my throat tighten up.
It’s good. Somebody did understand what I made.
I spend the rest of the evening at a writing desk, working. Kitty looks in at some point and tries to drag me off to dinner. “It’s the Jewish mother in me,” she says, and I smile. “Come on. You haven’t been eating nearly enough lately, and the show’s open—you can’t still be stressing about that.”
Stress is only part of the reason I haven’t been going to dinner. “I’m not. I’m just tired. I’ll get a sandwich or something when I’m done here and have it upstairs, okay?” I feel bad lying to Kitty; she’s only being nice. But after all this time, lying about something so small is easy. Kitty frowns at me but I turn back to what I’m writing. Then suddenly I feel her arms around my shoulders, giving me a hug—and I tense, automatically. Even after all this time, I don’t like being surprised by touch. Nothing has happened, but it could.
She lets go quickly. “I’m being careful,” she says reprovingly. And at that I feel a flash of anger so strong it surprises me. Who asked you to come in here? Who asked you to try and fix things?
Oh, god, that is not fair of me, and from the look on her face some of what I’m feeling must be showing in mine. “I’m sorry. You just startled me.” I stand up and put my arms around her—it’s easier for me that way, so I can be sure of where their exposed skin is. She hugs me tightly for a minute, and though it’s awkward for me and unfamiliar, I’m glad she won’t go away thinking I’m mad at her. I close my eyes just for a second. Her curly brown hair smells sweet and I recognize the scent of the shampoo I’ve borrowed a dozen times.
“Thanks, Kit. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.” And I let her go. She squeezes my hand briefly and steps back.
“Okay. I’m going out with Peter tonight, but I’ll be home early. If you want to talk.” Her brown eyes still look a little concerned, but I’ve reassured her. And that’s not a lie. I will be fine.
She leaves and I finish up my writing. I pick up the envelopes lying in a little pile and bring them upstairs with me. I avoid going past the noisy rec room, and walk quickly past the common area on my way to my room. I don’t want to see anyone else—Kitty’s concern was hard enough to face. I hate it when people worry about me.
I close the door of my room with a sigh of relief and look around. For once, it’s clean. My painting supplies are all neatly packed away in the closet, I’ve vacuumed, the bed is freshly made. My dresser is spotless and tidy; all my various gloves and scarves are folded into their drawers. It’s nice to feel like everything’s where it’s supposed to be.
I set the stack of letters down in the center of the dresser and go to take a shower.
I take my time under the water, letting its heat sink into me, running my hands over my naked body—the only hands that will ever do that, and even though they’re ungloved, they move clinically, impersonally. I scrub myself all over, making sure no traces of paint are left under my nails. When I begin to feel sleepy, I turn off the shower, get out and towel myself dry. I dress myself in a soft shirt and silk pajama pants, a pair of socks. I hang my towel up on the rack, and the last thing I do before I leave the room is to toss the empty container that’s standing on the sink into the trash.
I sit on the edge of my bed and pull on a pair of gloves. I don’t usually wear them to bed, but tonight is different. I’m feeling slightly dazed now and I have to concentrate to get the gloves over my fingers. I lie down, then remember something.
I meant to burn that last photograph. It’s lying across the room, on the dresser, and I try to sit up, to go and complete that final task. But it’s too much of an effort, and I sink back down. Everything is dulled now, but I feel a pang of regret; despite what I’ve written, that picture lying next to my letters is going to give the impression that he was what I was thinking of when I did this. And he’s not. He’s not.
I won’t think about him. I can’t. I roll to the side and find the plastic bag I left there, ready for me, but my fingers won’t work any more and I can’t get it over my head. I’m dizzy with the effort and I close my eyes, feeling my consciousness spiraling away.
I find myself in my room for the last time. It’s utterly silent, or maybe I just can’t hear anything any more. I don’t even glance at the other doors, and I can’t be walking, but suddenly I’m at the golden door and it’s opening, it’s open and there’s light coming from it, and I’m falling into the light—
Marie is waiting for me.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Okay, I've never believed in hijacking the material with warnings. Still. Be warned. This chapter contains some disturbing stuff. And that's...pretty much all I'm going to say about that.
Chapter End Notes:
I'm sorry. Please don't hate me.