Charles De Lint - Memory and Dream

“And somebody wants to buy Smither’s Oak as well?”

Albina nodded. “I have an offer of seven hundred dollars in on it.”

“Another anonymous buyer?”

“No. Kathryn Pollack wants to buy it.”

Izzy gave her a blank look.

“She owns Kathryn’s cafe, over on Battersfield Road. She said she knew you.”

“Oh, you mean Kitty. We met through filly, who’s got a part-time job there.” Izzy paused for a moment before adding, “She wants to pay that much for it?”

“Well, I’m sure she’d offer less, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

“No, no. It’s not that. I just wouldn’t expect her to pay that kind of money for one of my paintings.”

“She used to go to Butler U.,” Albina explained, “and that oak behind the library was one of her favorite places to sit and study. And probably to do other things as well. In my time we called it ‘the Kissing Oak.’”

“We thought of it as a part of what we called ‘the Wild Acre.’”

“It’s that, too. Doesn’t it bring back the memories.”

Izzy smiled. “As if you’re that old.”

“It was over thirty years ago,” Albina said, returning Izzy’s smile. “Truth is, I’ve some fond memories of that old tree myself. I think your painting’s worth every penny of that seven hundred dollars, if not more.”

“I just feel weird, selling certain paintings.”

“Because they feel like your children?”

Izzy nodded.

“I would think you’d be more pleased to have them hanging somewhere where they’ll be loved and appreciated, rather than piling up in the back of your cupboard.”

Izzy thought about Rushkin’s studio and all the breathtaking work that was in it, hidden from the world: hanging frame against frame, stacked in corners, piled up against the walls, five or six canvases deep.

“You’re right,” she said.

“So I can go ahead and complete the deals?”

“On Smither’s Oak,” Izzy said. “But I can’t sell the other one.”

“Five thousand dollars is a great deal of money,” Albina told her. “It buys a lot of art supplies.”

“I know. And it’d pay my rent for a year. It’s just ...”

She didn’t know how to explain it. Her experiments at the Grumbling Greenhouse Studio had proven to her that her art couldn’t magically transport beings from some otherworld into this one, but even knowing that, she couldn’t quite shake the conviction that John’s presence in her life was tied to the existence of The Spirit Is Strong; that as long as she kept it, everything would be fine between them.

“If you don’t want to sell it,” Albina said, “I’m not going to pressure you.”

Not on purpose, Izzy thought, she wasn’t. But it was five thousand dollars. And hadn’t Albina just finished saying that selling one of her paintings at that price would raise the selling price of all of her work? Who knew when that opportunity would arise again? Who knew if it ever would? But if she weighed her career against friendship, there was simply no contest.

“I can’t sell it,” she said. “It doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to the fellow who—” Little white lie time. “—sat for it. I just had the loan of it for the show.”

“Then that’s that,” Albina said. “Do you want to leave any of the other pieces here, or do you have something new you want to hang?”

Izzy thought of the paintings at the Grumbling Greenhouse Studio, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to give them up just yet. She also wasn’t sure what Rushkin’s reaction to them was going to be, since he’d made it quite plain that any work she did he wanted done in his studio. Their relationship had been going so smoothly of late that she didn’t want to throw a kink in the works. Rushkin was so quick to take offense at even fancied slights, she couldn’t imagine what he’d do if he found out about the paintings she’d done in the green-house—especially when she tried to explain why she’d done them there, not to mention the freedom she’d discovered working away from his studio in the coach house. She supposed she’d have to tell him at some point, but she planned to put that off for as long as she could. Hanging them in The Green Man Gallery was not the way to go about keeping them secret from him.

“Nothing at the moment,” she said, finally. “Do you really think any of these will sell now when no one wanted them in the show?”

Albina nodded. “They’re still good, Izzy. They’re just not as good as what you’re capable of. They may sit here for a while, but I guarantee we’ll have sold them all by the summer.”

“Really?”

“Really. So you’d better get started on some new pieces for me.” Albina laid her hand between her breasts. “But envision them from here. Put your heart into them, the way you did with Smither’s Oak and The Spirit Is Strong.”

III

That night, while they were sitting on a bench down by the Pier, Izzy tried to give John The Spirit Is Strong, but he wouldn’t take it.

“Where would I put it?” he asked. “It’s not like I’ve got my own place and I can’t really see it sharing the same wall as my aunt’s black velvet Elvis and her crucifixes. I’d rather you stored it for me.

I’d feel safer that way.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He looked blankly at her.

“Why would my storing the painting for you make you feel safer?” Izzy asked.

“Because if I kept it at my aunt’s place, she’d probably throw it out. Why? What were you thinking?” Then he laughed. “Are you still wondering if I’m real or not?”

“I can’t help feeling that if something happened to the painting it would happen to you as well.”

“Like what?”

“Like if I gave it away to anybody but you, you’d walk out of my life.”

“Izzy. You don’t have to—”

“I was offered five thousand dollars for that painting, but I turned it down.”

“Five thousand dollars?”

Izzy nodded.

“And you turned it down?”

“Well, what was I supposed to do? You’re like this big mystery in my life. I don’t know where you came from and I don’t know where you’re going. All I know is I painted this piece and you walked into my life. I can’t help but think that you’d walk right out again if anybody but you or I owned it.”

“You know that’s not going to happen. I’m not going to leave you because of some painting.”

Izzy shook her head. “No, I don’t know that. All I know is that I love you, but then I get all screwed up because I don’t even know who you are.”

“I’m what you see—nothing more or less.” He turned to face her, dark eyes serious, and put his hands on her shoulders. His gaze held hen. “There’s no mystery here.”

“I guess.”

John smiled. “But I have to tell you. Nobody ever thought I was worth anything before—and they certainly wouldn’t have given up five grand for my sake.” Keeping one arm around her shoulders, he leaned back against the bench once more and drew her close. “I appreciate it, Izzy.”

They looked out over the lake, watching the crowds at the concession stands and strolling along the boardwalk. The ferry made its return from Wolf Island, landed to exchange one load of passengers for another, then started back out across the water again.

“Tell me something about your past,” Izzy said.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Anything. You tell me about the reserve and your people, but never anything about yourself “

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“There’s got to be something.”

John shook his head. She had turned to look at him, but his gaze remained on the distant horizon.