Andrew Ervin - Burning Down George Orwell's House

“What happened to your face?”

He was clean-shaven, with a constellation of bloody toilet paper pieces orbiting his chin. His skin felt raw and taut. Exposed. “Your father is right about at least one thing,” he said. “You really are a little bitch.”

“I see now why he shot you. Anyway, I heard you were leaving.”

She knew where he was going. He hadn’t told anyone yet.

“Who else knows?”

“Everybody. Mind you, it wasn’t that difficult to figure out.”

“It’s funny how an attempted homicide can make you rethink your life.”

“Aren’t we being a bit melodramatic today?”

“Am I the only one who thinks getting shot is kind of a big deal?”

“I heard that the bullet only grazed you.”

“It was worse than that. Anyway, it’s more the intent that bothers me.”

Molly sat and helped herself to his plate of food. “How are you feeling otherwise?”

“The fever’s gone. But look.” He held his arm out and the coffee cup rattled in its saucer. “I have the shakes. It won’t stop.”

“Too much whisky last night?”

“Not enough. I haven’t had a drop since I got home. I’ve been shaking the entire time.”

“I hope you’re up for a walk. I’ve packed a picnic.”

“No way. I’m going to catch the ferry tomorrow and need to get some rest.”

“You are not going to spend your last day on Jura moping around this dreary house. There’s one more place I want you to see.”

“What is it?”

“I said I want you to see it, not hear about it. Jesus.” She ran upstairs to check on her easels and collect the few clothes she had left behind, which she carried back down in a bundle and stacked in the sitting room. “It appears that something is missing.”

“I should’ve asked. Is that going to be a problem?”

“Pack your raincoat and a blanket so we can sit without being eaten alive.”

Another unidentifiable dead animal lay prostrate on the steps. It was enormous — the size of a deer. They stepped over it. The sky was bright and the air sharp in his lungs. A bank of clouds in the distance promised a shower. The two of them walked westward or maybe northwestward at half their usual pace in deference to his wound. It felt more like a leisurely stroll than their typical forced march. The clouds moved in and an advance party of raindrops persuaded them to put their coats on and quicken the pace. It fell in sheets by the time they got to the cliff that overlooked the water and the island of Colonsay. “We never get to see the sunset from here,” Molly said with some disappointment. The storm sat swollen in the sky between them and the sun. “Mind you, I have another idea. Follow me,” she yelled over the sound of the rain and the surf.

Molly found a switchbacking path that led down the cliff and to the beach below. The descent was treacherous with mud and slick rocks. She moved as gracefully as a mountain lion and waited for him at the bottom, then took his hand and led him on farther. A lamb had spilled from the cliff and lay mangled on the ground, where it fed a murder undaunted by their presence. A crow popped out one of the animal’s white eyes and flew off pursued by his friends.

“Here we are,” Molly said. She pointed to the opening of a cave and ran inside. He shuffled after her. The cave smelled of rain and freshly mown hay. Spray-painted graffiti covered the walls and the small fire pit contained some charred beer cans. Molly pulled the blanket from his pack and spread it on the ground at the opening, just beyond the range of the dripping water. He sat with some difficulty. Molly curled up next to him for warmth and pulled one end of the blanket over the two of them.

Even with the ache in his side, Ray felt satisfied now: neither sad to leave Jura nor eager to return to Illinois. He enjoyed the quiet moment in Molly’s company and looked forward with equal parts anticipation and dread to whatever his life would present him with next. “It has occurred to me,” he said, “that I no longer have an email address or even a phone number, but once I get settled I’ll send you my contact info. I can look around for apartments, unless you want to live in the campus housing, which I don’t recommend. You’re going to love Chicago. I mean, it’ll be a little overwhelming at first, but you’ll—”

“I’m not going.”

“—find that. What?”

“Don’t be mad.”

“What do you mean you’re not going?”

“I’ve decided to stay on Jura.”

“Because of your father? You can’t listen to him! You need to decide for yourself.”

“Aye, he was against it, but this is my decision and mine only.”

“What are you going to do? Spend the rest of your life here?” He didn’t like the tone of his voice but didn’t know how to modulate it without sounding like even more of an asshole.

“Maybe I will, mind you. This is my home after all. I want to be a painter … no, I’m already a painter. No fancy university can make me get better at my art the way the sunlight and the sounds and the Paps will. I appreciate everything, Ray, I really do! But I belong here, at least for now.”

Ray felt like he had been shot all over again. Pitcairn had brainwashed this poor girl. There was no other explanation. The scholarship had cost him a fortune in the divorce settlement. Didn’t she understand the opportunity she was throwing away? “Don’t you understand the opportunity you’re throwing away?”

“I think I do. I’ll always be grateful to you, but there’s an opportunity here too.” The rain formed a wall in the mouth of the cave, but it appeared to be letting up. “To be honest, I’m a bit tired of every man I know telling me what I should be doing with my life.”

He closed his eyes and inhaled the musk of the cave and the sweat of Molly’s hair. Here he was, even further off the grid than ever before and outside of time, returned for a moment to a state of bucolic perfection. The rain slowed to a steady drip. Molly exhaled a wheezy snore. He slid her hair off her face and tucked the blanket under her chin. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re absolutely right.”

It was dark when they awoke. Neither of them had moved. “Oh hell,” she said. “I need to get home. My dad’s going to kill me.”

“You and me both.”

Ray stood and the soreness in his back and neck obscured the pain in his side. He helped Molly up. She kept the blanket wrapped around herself.

“I’ll come visit you in Chicago,” she said.

“I’d like that. I’ll need to find a place to live first, though. Speaking of which, my lease of Barnhill isn’t up for a few more months. If you have any more trouble at home you’re welcome to stay there.”

“What about the people from London?”

“If they offer you enough money for the place, take it.”

“I may just do that, thank you. It looks like I need some new art supplies.”

“Yeah, about that.”

Back at Barnhill, he had removed her self-portrait from the bedroom wall and, without asking, rolled it up and packed it with his things to bring to Chicago. It remained unfinished — she never got around to painting her hands or feet.

“I would’ve given it to you if you’d asked, you know. I do want you to have it.”

“Thank you — that means a lot to me. You can finish painting it when you come visit.”

“It is finished, Ray, or at least as finished as I want it to be. Portraits are unlucky here. They say that the woman who gets her portrait painted will never enjoy a day of health ever again.”

“Do you believe that?”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe. I’m glad that at least my image, if nothing else, will get off of Jura. Now I really have to get home. You can find your own way back. Leave my bike in the garage. I’ll get it another time. Look!”