Robin Black - Life Drawing

“You know,” I said, “Laine was so high risk for so long. Such a mess. It’s difficult for me to see her as the same person. I’m used to looking at her through a veil of worry, but now … now she seems all right. She seems so strong. It was really good to see that. Though the whole visit was a huge problem, of course. How is Nora doing?” I asked. “I’ve been assuming she’s okay, since you haven’t said otherwise.”

“Oh, I suppose she’s okay.”

“Any news on the job front?”

“I suspect she’s let that lapse since she’s been staying with Paul. There wouldn’t be any pressing need. Anyway, she hasn’t mentioned a thing.”

“Are you angry at her?” I asked. “You sound a little angry.”

“Excellent question. I don’t really know. Maybe. A little bit. Not really. I try not to be, anyway. None of it’s her fault. She’s just making the best of a bad lot. We’re the villains in the piece.”

“You’re not a villain, Alison.”

“Nice of you to say. But who knows? I’ve certainly made my fair share of mistakes.”

I suddenly remembered something. “Wait, you wanted to see me yesterday. I was supposed to stop by. I’m so sorry, in all the mess of things I forgot.”

She reached over and gave my arm a quick squeeze. “I was just going to tell you my news, that’s all. I’ve decided to stay. Through the whole year, I mean. Until next summer.”

“Really? That’s wonderful. Amazing.”

But her news had fallen on me in an unexpected way. Months . That was the word that came to mind. Months and months . It seemed like a long commitment, a weightier change in our lives than I’d ever anticipated.

“I’m glad you think so,” she said. “Will Owen be able to shake this off? Is he the sort to brood?”

It took me a moment to remember the topic. “Oh, he can be pretty broody,” I said. “But then also … I mean, he stuck with me, right? So that pretty much defines him as a forgiving type.” I didn’t tell her about the silence in which we had gone to sleep the night before, the cold that had seemed to emanate from his side of the bed. “We’ll be okay. It’s just going to take a little time. All those reopened wounds.”

“Yes,” she said. “All those reopened wounds, indeed.”

I had the sense that she was talking about something else, not me and Owen at all; but if so, she wasn’t going to elaborate. She took my arm in hers. “Come on,” she said. “Buck up. We still have four more rounds to go. Think of it as penance, if you like.”

Over the next few weeks, I remained cautious and undemanding as Owen thawed — though more slowly than I had hoped. His body remained out of reach, and I knew I would have to wait. I couldn’t hurry the timetable of his hurt or of his anger, as much as I wanted to. Meanwhile, we lay side by side each night like figures on paired sarcophagi, and instead of stopping for a caress or a kiss when our paths crossed in the kitchen, or on the stairs, we muttered things like excuse me , and sorry about that .

At work, I alternated between painting the boys — humbling for me — and painting their surroundings, which gave me a sense of accomplishment. For every leg or arm I tried to make look less like a plastic toy, I rewarded myself with the details of a rug, or the bark of a tree. I didn’t feel that I made much progress with the boys, but I felt like I had struck a fair balance between pushing myself, as Laine had advised, and allowing myself the escape my work had always given me.

As the last weekend of October passed, I knew Bill’s wedding must have as well. I waited for my mood to plummet, but the knowledge only made me a bit contemplative, maybe wistful, for a day or so. Nothing more. And meanwhile, as the temperatures outside continued to drop, Owen continued to warm. Alison and I took regular walks, admiring the trees at the height of their annual show; and I spoke to Jan every few days, not only comparing notes on our visits to our father, but also chatting about other things, just a bit, a tiny glance of contact beyond the efficient absolute minimum to which we had previously held ourselves.

And then one day I heard from Bill.

I’d been staring out my window watching rain begin to fall when a bell on my computer dinged. And there he was, his name in my inbox like a hallucination.

Dear Augie

,

I hope you’re well. And I hope you’re happy. I only just learned from Laine that she’d seen you and told you my recent news. I should have told you myself. I apologize for that. I didn’t know how to handle it, but now I see that I made the wrong call

.

As I read, I imagined him writing and deleting, phrasing and rephrasing. Just as I had done, writing Laine on the same topic, those weeks before. Polite. We had always been polite. But we hadn’t always been only polite, and I wondered (how could I not wonder?) what all this calm had required of him.

I know that had the tables been reversed, I would have preferred to hear the news from you. And really, Augie …

Right there. I could feel it, a crack in the sheen.

… I hope things have been good for you. Better than good. I hope everything is just how you want it to be. And thank you as always for being such a friend to Laine. She never stops talking about how wonderful you are and how you saved her life all those years back

.

B

.

ps She tells me your father is ill. I’m sorry to hear that and hope for the best

.

I read it several times. Then I responded right away.

Dear Bill

,

It’s really fine that I heard from Laine, and congratulations, of course. I hope this brings you everything you want

.

And yes, my father is far into Alzheimer’s. The past is gone, the present bizarre, and I suppose the best to hope for is that the future not drag on too miserably. That sounds glib. I don’t feel glib at all. And I thank you for your good wishes

.

A

.

Without rereading it, I pushed send. Then sat motionless for quite a time.

Outside, the rain slid over the turning leaves, watery paint drizzling hints of gold and red from the sky. This had been our season. Fall. September into January. Autumn days. A few winter weeks.

I stayed there for some minutes, doing something like checking my own emotional vital signs. Was my heart still in one piece? My mind still able to function? The answers were yes. I was misty, a bit, like the day, but I was okay.

I looked over again at the email, but with perfect timing, my computer set itself to sleep, the screen going black. I started to stand, to walk away, then remembered the old rules, the old ways, and woke it up, deleting the messages we’d exchanged, and then emptying the trash.

In the living room, the painting of the millinery shop caught my eye. Another marker of the end of our affair.

There I had sat, close to paralyzed with gratitude that after a year of mute brushes, silent paints, I was able to do anything at all again. With Bill, I had painted like a madwoman, like a woman possessed. Possessed by him and by the intoxication of secrecy. Secretly in love. Secretly in bed together. Secretly painting to please him. All of it, one magic spell. And then it was gone. All of it.

I’d been so certain that Ida would cast me away had she known what I was really doing there, that she would have been shocked and unsympathetic. But standing in my living room that day, I wondered if I had been right about that. Maybe she wouldn’t have given up on me, she who could turn bits and pieces of fabric into things of exquisite beauty. Maybe she would have known how to quilt the scraps of me together, the edges still frayed and likely to come apart at whatever seams I had hastily sewn.