Joseph Caldwell: Lazarus Rising

The light came blaring from the right side onto the figure of Lazarus, an explosion blasting against his flesh. This would be the force created by Jesus’s command, “Lazarus, come forth!”—a dry run for the Judgment Day, when the bodies of all the dead would be called out from the earth, from the sea, from the dust, from the fire. The word, here, would become not flesh but light, and the light itself would be the irresistible pull, up and out of the tomb.

Lazarus was twisted to the left, away from the light, allowing parts of the body to emerge from darker and deeper shadows. An exercise in good old chiaroscuro. Dempsey reveled in it and had felt herself, if not a master, at least a worthy practitioner. But it had not been the lure of drama that had prompted her to show the figure twisting away, out of the light. It was not for effect, it was not a pretext for display. This was the truth itself. Lazarus—her Lazarus—was a Lazarus enraged—a wrath she’d finally been able to instill in Johnny.

Dempsey took in the full painting. There the man was, summoned from the slumber his fevers and sufferings had earned for him. Not at all confused was he, rising here. Not like a sleepwalker did her Lazarus come forth. What she saw before her now was a ravening beast at the entrance to its lair. Unappeasable wrath disfigured his face, widening the defiant eyes, drawing taut the mouth, pulling the jaw inward. The outstretched hand shot forward to stop the light from coming further. The hand curved toward the chest was taking the aspect of a claw, readying itself for battle. Horrified that he was being disturbed at the core of his being, he was preparing to spring, to gouge and rip and shred. He was prepared to howl and roar, to curse the injustice that had robbed him of his dying and of his death.

There, behind him, was the embering fire into which Dempsey had consigned him. There, at his feet, were the ashes from which he had been made to rise. The flames, feeble now against the blaring light, still flickered against the thigh, the ribbed side, still willing to lick, to speak with a persisting tongue, telling of lost refuge, of shattered peace.

Dempsey continued to stare at the painting. She judged it to be worthy. She had feared melodrama; she’d even risked it, deliberately, but knew, looking at the painting now, that without effort she had employed an honesty that was the only sure escape from the temptations of excess. The eyes were of particular interest. Defiant, unyielding, they refused to be impressed by miracle. Their disdain was absolute. For all the fury of the roused body, the eyes held fast to the accusation: I had prepared myself for death; I had submitted; I had accepted. I had made myself ready. In pain and in turmoil had I done this. In fear and in terror had I found my way. In grief and in sorrow I had made my lasting peace. And now I am robbed of all that I had earned. But I will not be robbed. I will not surrender my body to this intrusion. I will not receive again the troubled soul I had so freely given up. If I must rise, I rise in wrath and in judgment.

She took the second dose of pills. For a few seconds she tried to detect the taste of the oregano, but when it failed to happen, she poured some water into the glass and drank down a good mouthful. The water, this time, awakened the oregano and the taste remained on her tongue even after the pills were down.

To test the effect of the pills—if there was any effect—she looked more closely at the painting, at the details. She felt neither weary nor woozy. Patience, apparently, was part of the process. She was prepared to be patient. The painting could occupy her nicely until occupation would no longer be necessary.

Then she saw it: the left knee. Hidden, but still visible to her appraising eye was a face. In among the swirls and creases, she found first two eyes, one closed as if in a wink, then a mouth, stretched thin, then lifting to a silly grin. There was even a dimple on the chin. She leaned forward for a closer look. She blinked; she held her eyes shut then quickly opened them, wide. The face was still there. She raised and lowered her head to see if it was caused by the angle of her vision. The face, satisfied with itself, was still there, embedded in the knee. She forced herself to shift her gaze. First she looked at the figure’s arm, the hand turning in toward the chest. The anatomy was fine, the gesture exactly what she’d wanted. The hand, palm outward, caught her attention before she could scrutinize the hand itself. The hand had been given particular care. Minutely she had—as a gift to Johnny—traced there the long lines of life and love, making them visible to the world, held out in proof of complex humanity. Slowly she nodded her head in approval of what she had done.

But then she detected a flaw. The lines crisscrossing each other were in a pattern suitable for a game of tic-tac-toe. There were even two o’s and an x suggested in their separate frames.

Dempsey got up and rattled among her brushes. She would remove the self-satisfied face on the knee and obliterate the game of tic-tac-toe. While she was searching among the capped paint tubes, she saw her wristwatch. She moved around the table and checked the time. Three minutes and twenty-seven seconds until the timer would sound again. She would hurry and find the right tubes. She was sure she remembered what colors she’d used. When she had found the first three—the Burnt Umber, Burnt Sienna, and Mars Red—she set them near the end of the table. The beeper sounded, little chirping noises like newly hatched chicks. She went to the stool where the pills were waiting. She placed two on her tongue. She took two gulps of water. The water was getting warmer. Before she would take the pills again, she must refill the pitcher. She couldn’t risk nausea. And besides, fresh water was a simple pleasure, not to be denied whatever the circumstance.

She would work on the knee first. If the face were removed, if the winking eye were obliterated, she would have no trouble with the hand.

But the face kept reappearing. No matter how thick she spread the paint, using even the palette knife, the smile and the wink were still there. Then the palette knife slid upward, smoothing out, then burying the fine hair she’d so meticulously given to the thigh.

Again the pill dispenser repeated its bright chirp to the count of three, then three times more. The brushes she let fall to the floor after she’d used them. She wouldn’t bother to clean them. Winnie knew how to clean brushes. Let her take care of them. Dempsey was unable, however, not to cap the tubes. This she did slowly, as if listening to instructions from somewhere far off. When she’d finished, after she’d matched the caps to the colors, she went back to the chair and sat down.

Dutifully she took the pills, then reset the timer. It surprised her that she didn’t feel more tired. Relaxed, a little heavy in the bones, in the arms and legs, but not really tired. It was the heaviness that would probably bring her down. Perhaps what the pills did was make her that much more susceptible to the pull of gravity. Her density was increasing. Every part of her was taking on an added weight. She was pulling into herself, each organ, each muscle accepting the other as it anticipated the end.

Only her head remained light, almost buoyant. It was no trouble at all to hold it erect. It was the lightness of the head that drew her entire body, heavy as it was, upright in the chair. And her vision, she noticed, her vision was far from impaired. It seemed, as a matter of fact, to have improved. The face on the knee was gone, and on the palm of the outstretched hand, the game of tic-tac-toe was still visible, but at least now the game had been resolved. Without intending to, she had painted in the necessary o ’s and x ’s, giving victory to the o ’s, a diagonal straight across the hand itself. That had not been her intention, but she was far from dissatisfied. It seemed a proper proclamation, declaring the painting finished.