Peter Heller - The Painter

I thought about leaving the canvas up here in this unholy spot as kind of a tombstone, but then I thought, Screw it, Steve will love it, I know him. He will scrunch up his lips and digest it and look at me sideways wondering what the fuck is going on with me, what’s true, and he will sell it for seven thousand dollars.

I backed out of the parking spot at the trailhead and swung a U-turn onto the two-lane and did a double take on a black El Camino parked on the shoulder across the road. The driver window was down and he looked straight at me, a dark bearded man in a trucker’s cap and aviator shades. The shock of recognition. Fucking Jason. He looked straight at me, made sure I saw him, saw him speaking emphatically into a cell phone. Fuck.

Steve called me as soon as I got back to my room.

“Do you have a camera in here?” I said.

“No, I have Kimberly at the front desk. You know, the gringa. Who, by the way, adores you.”

“Kimberly. You. And the cops.”

“A Detective Hinchman is on his way to see you. Very courteous. A bit fat. What time will you be at the Pantelas’ tomorrow? The canvas is already there, you know, since we expected you yesterday. I set it up in the piano room, remember? Off the courtyard with all the hollyhocks. Remember that big spacious room with the north light, where Julia serenades us with all that awful Bach. Imagine! Taking up piano at forty. Should be illegal. I always felt like I was at a kid’s recital. Why couldn’t they just let us tipple in peace? What time did you say? Ten a.m.? That seems perfect to me. Give the hairdresser time to get the girls up to running speed. Did I tell you they hired a hairdresser? Who specializes in kids?”

No he hadn’t told me, and I hadn’t said a time in the morning, but this was Steve and ten sounded right.

“Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“I better hang up and wash the blood off if Officer Hinchman is coming.”

Silence. Shocked probably.

“Ha!”

Steve was always nimble, never took him long to recover.

“Ha! Some joke. Speaking of which. You know I’ve been revisiting your last two paintings. The ones from last week.”

That usually meant he was reconsidering whether he should show them. Or that they hadn’t sold and he was going to offer buyers a further consideration or find other ways to discount them.

“Yeah.”

“They are disturbing, that’s all. Not really like anything you have ever done. Ah—”

“Wait till I show you the one I did this afternoon.”

“Really?” Excitement back in his voice. “You have another? Already? Well, you’re Jim Stegner of course. Wow. I—” He stopped like a car coming to a clanging railroad crossing.

“Is it dark and disturbing? I mean the paintings—something is going on with you. I thought you might want to talk about it. Do you?”

He couldn’t help himself. His tone now was completely free of affect. Kind of in awe.

“The phone is probably tapped,” I said.

“Oh oh. Of course. Okay.” He was flustered. “Okay, go up tomorrow at ten! Whoa.”

I hung up. I waited for Detective Hinchman. I waited for three minutes.

He called from the lobby. I invited him up. Don’t know why, but I placed the fresh canvas next to the hearth in the sitting room, face out. Maybe because I didn’t want him turning it around a la Sport, and because I knew he would see it eventually since I was going to let Steve show it. It could hang next to the others on the Wall of Confession.

A spirited double tap at the door, ta-da! announced Detective John Hinchman, homicide. He was fat and wheezed like a bulldog, and was the most cheerful man I’d ever met at death’s threshold. He seemed to be, anyway. Seemed about to drop from a cardiac at any second. He maneuvered through the door and was genuinely glad to meet me. His blurred smile was infectious. I say blurred, because it was hard to see him sharply through the cloud of good cheer he brought with him the way Pig-Pen brings his dust.

He said, “Been an admirer for years. Did you know you were the first man to paint magpies on furniture? I did the research.”

“Ouch.”

“I know, huh?” He chuckled. “You have a true creative impulse and within no time at all the market turns it into kitsch.” He shook his head in mirth. I offered him a seat in a wingback and he waved it away.

“May I?” he said.

“Be my guest.”

For such a big man he moved pretty smoothly, a little like a parade float. He studied the new picture.

“You paint that today? Still smells strong.”

“You must be a detective.”

A goofy smile stretched to his sideburns.

“One thing I love about this job. Nobody knows anything about being a detective except what they see on TV and in movies. So they talk like that. The dialogue, it usually runs along those lines. Even in interrogation. Makes it easier that way, everyone knows the protocol.” He laughed.

“What is it?” he said, bending down and looking more closely.

“Two guys. On a rough road.”

“Yep. Anyone you know?” He straightened.

“Probably Grant and Dellwood.”

His eyes widened.

“Well. Off script,” he said.

“Not really.”

“You’re a pretty straight shooter. I thought you would be. You can tell a lot about a person from his paintings.”

“You want a beer? That mini fridge is stuffed. I think there’s some fancy German beer in there.”

Waved it away again. “Any reason you’d be painting Mr. and Mr. Siminoe?”

“They’ve been on my mind a lot.”

Again his eyes. His smile at his own astonishment. Can a man really move through the world like this, with such droll good humor? I thought he was Buddha-like.

“How so? On your mind?” he said.

“Well, let’s see. Dellwood almost beat a horse to death in front of me, then fought me, then got himself murdered so everyone thinks I did it, so that’s Dellwood. Grant, well, he threatened my life a week ago and burned down my neighbor’s barn. Because of aforesaid horse and brother. So maybe that’s why.”

He nodded. He looked serious for the first time since he’d come through the door.

“These guys, in the picture, they’re having a really rough time.” He frowned. “The older one in front, that must be Grant, he’s trying to take care of his brother, protect him, like he’s done ever since the two of them went to foster care.”

It hit me like a blow. I felt dizzy. Not even sure why. Of course they were raised in foster homes. I guess of course.

He was watching me. I liked him. He seemed to be just about wincing, feeling my pain.

“They always went together. Since they were like ten and twelve. Couldn’t separate them. They tried, the state, but they always ran away and came back together. Child welfare just had to make allowances.”

“Right.”

“You don’t look so good.”

“I’m not.”

“You see Grant lately?”

“Never met him.”

“But he’s in the painting. Wrong scale, though. You’ve got him smaller than Dell. I’m assuming that’s Dell right? Yeah, Grant’s even bigger. Hard to believe he’s bigger, huh? Given how massive Dellwood is. Was.”

He looked at me. He wheezed. “The painting is real sad. Kinda makes me choke up. Don’t even know why. Sign of a great artist.”

He was watching me. “Want to sit down?” In a reversal he was offering me the same chair.