“You’re right, honey.” She sounded like a wounded animal with its leg caught in a snare. “Forgiveness is what the Lord is all about. But I don’t know if I’m strong enough to do that, or if your father even wants it.”
On the way home I lowered my car window and listened to an oldies station playing artists like Diana Ross and The Supremes, Stevie Wonder, and Tina Turner. As I sang along, the brisk air lifting my hair off my scalp helped clear my mind. I didn’t want to think about my parents or work or Rob.
I carried my paint supplies into the kitchen. Setting the box on the table, I held the canvas at arm’s length. I’d probably assembled it myself by stretching linen across a wooden frame, then preparing it with white gesso. I tapped the canvas’s surface, and it resounded like a far-off drum, vibrating in my chest.
I headed into the living room and hauled the stack of magazines out from under the coffee table. Leafing through them page by page, I saw photographs of supermodels and landscapes, remodeled bathrooms and cheese soufflés. Nothing I wanted to paint. Just as I was about to give up, I noticed a photo of a woman with a toddler in her lap. The boy, his inquisitive eyes gazing up at his mother, reminded me of Rob at that age. Ripping the photo out of the magazine, I took it into the kitchen. In pencil I sketched a likeness onto the canvas. I opened the paint box, chose a brush, and tested the bristles, which were stiff but still pliable. I picked up one tube of paint and read the name cobalt blue. It didn’t sound familiar, and I tried to remember if I had liked the color or if it was left over because I didn’t like it. Unscrewing the cap, I squeezed an inch-long snake onto a plastic dish and was pleased with the blue’s brilliance. Then I did the same with other colors: phthalo green, cadmium yellow, alizarine crimson, and raw umber. I filled a jar with water and dipped the brush in to moisten it.
Four hours later I stepped back and looked at my creation. Where had this painting come from? I was surprised to find tears filling my eyes. Why was I crying? Nothing in life made sense anymore.
With great care I signed my first name at the bottom in deep amethyst. In college I’d used my last name, but that didn’t seem right now.
Viewing the work from another angle, I saw areas needing more definition. With a parent’s tender care, I worked briefly on the child’s face and arms. I wondered about the skin tone and whether the pattern on his shirt was legible. Finally, I accepted the colors and left the brushstrokes visible and loose.
I placed my plate of colors in the sink, where the tap water carried them in ribbons down the drain. Before allowing myself to inspect my work again, I also scrubbed my brush. Imagine using one old brush and such a small palette of colors, I thought. Back in school I would be cleaning a half-dozen paintbrushes and re-screwing the caps on twice as many tubes.
The cleanup complete, I stood on the other side of the kitchen and let my eyes rest on my piece.
“Dear God, it’s actually good.”
My shoulders felt taut, and the small of my back ached. Stretching my arms, I glanced out the window. The sun, now low in the sky, flooded the room with coral-colored light. The afternoon had flown by like a pebble snapped from a slingshot.
I felt restless; I didn’t want to be alone. Finishing a painting was like scaling Mount Everest; I was filled with a desire to share my news. My first thought was to tell Mom, but I didn’t want to be drawn into her sadness—not now. I would wait, talk to her later when I could listen patiently.
I called Tim at work, and his secretary put me through to him. We chatted for a few minutes before I said, “I’ve been painting most of the afternoon.”
“That’s a man’s job. Wouldn’t it be better to hire a professional?”
I realized he thought I’d been working on the interior of my house. “Not the living room, a painting-painting,” I said.
“Oh.” I could hear a clicking sound that must be his fingers working a computer keyboard. “I could come by after work to see it,” he offered.
Judging from his tone of voice, I wasn’t sure he understood what I meant. Unless he was an artist, himself, how could he? “My painting’s not ready for viewing yet,” I said, suddenly protective of my new creation. Then I said a hurried good-bye and hung up.
I got into my car and drove off without any destination in mind, yet ended up approaching Henry’s studio. From down the street, I could see him coming out the front door. By the time I reached the studio, he was walking around the hood of an old blue Ford pickup. I slowed, and he spotted me, giving me a wave. Rolling to a halt, I was tempted to fabricate an excuse for being there, but there was no reason in the world I would be in that neighborhood except to speak to him. I put down my window and said hello.
“What brings you by?” he asked.
“I was in the area. Just wanted to talk.”
“I’m glad you came when you did, you almost missed me. I was headed out for a bite to eat.”
“It can wait until Monday.”
“No, if you’re hungry, come join me. We can talk over dinner.”
I realized I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. But sitting across the table from him
