Prose
Girl with the Porcelain Skin
Deborah Janke
The guy had turned away from the idling cars and so his sign asking for help was now impossible to make out. Ann Carter saw him each Tuesday and Thursday on her way to Richmond's art center. She grabbed one of the loose bills at the bottom of her bag and held it out the window. He walked to her car with the grace of a dancer and accepted the currency without glancing at it. "Blessed are the pure of heart for they shall see God," he said.
Twice a week Ann Carter, MFA and working artist, taught drawing and painting at Richmond's art center. Most of her students were senior citizens who had "never ever painted in their entire life."
"Their sister," they told her, "was the real artist."
Handing around the paint boxes, Ann nodded. "Since none of us here know your sister you can forget about her."
Floyd Willard's son enrolled him in Ann's class "because he needs something to keep his mind active." A small man paralyzed on one side, Floyd always kept his beige ski jacket zipped tight. A backpack hanging from the handles of his wheelchair held a plastic Pepsi bottle filled with tap water. Floyd requested that Ann place the bottle within his reach.
To Floyd, Ann was the girl with porcelain skin who resembled one of the fragile figurines his wife had collected: young ladies in hoop skirts with pink-tinged flesh.
Always early to class, Floyd waited for Ann's quick footsteps. He saw that the 7-Eleven coffee cup she invariably carried had a spill-proof lid. But he never noticed the odor of coffee when she leaned in to speak to him.
In Ann Carter's opinion, Floyd Willard's abstract expressionism rivaled De Koenig, Franz Kline and Clifford Still. Though the scale was by necessity small, eight-and-a-half by eleven, his work was astonishingly good. Floyd painted with his left hand, the right was unusable due to a massive stroke that he at eighty-six had expected. Floyd wondered why he hadn't died years before in North Africa with the rest of the Negro regiment. He regularly relived that brutally hot "R&R" day when troops pulled off their boots, shirts and pants and ran into the sea. Soon he heard their screams as rip tides dragged them under. Head in his hands, Floyd stood in the sand unable to save anyone. He'd always feared the ocean.
Ann listened.
Ann Carter had had two solo art shows. Two museums purchased her sculptures: nine-foot tall pieces which suggested an unwieldy ski or long-boat oar. Ann covered these totems top to bottom in meticulously smeared paint smudges.
Ann thought Floyd's color sensibility extraordinary. Using horizontals and verticals along with swirling Mobius strips, integrated form and hue - his paints purposefully bled. She asked him if she could study his paintings at home for a day or two. Floyd answered, "Sure, if I can tell you a story."
"Of course."
"Ask me something."
"Do you have any kids?"
"I had four but my daughter died when she was young."
He was staring at the table where Ann had taped down a piece of white construction paper. "When she was little that child loved Shirley Temple, watched all the movies, practiced the tap dances she saw Shirley do. When she begged for a Shirley Temple doll my wife said, 'What you want that for? She don't look like you at all.'"
Floyd grinned. "I said, 'Same thing applies to those figurines you buy, Ruby. They don't look like you neither.'"
"What did Ruby say?"
The old man laughed. "She said, ‘That's different, mine are investments. They go up in price.'"
He went on, "She was our only girl so we had to buy the doll. Ruby warned her, 'You take care of that thing, it cost a fortune.'"
Shoulders shaking, eyes shut tight, Floyd's voice broke. "She was good. Never played rough. That doll's curls stayed perfect, just like when she first got it. I wondered if she ever took it out of the box. I'd hear her talking soft, 'Shirley, you my best friend.'"
He recovered himself. "My son put the doll on a high shelf in his closet. Somebody told him he should try and sell it. He won't."
"What was your daughter's name?"
Floyd replied in a whisper, "Kimberly."
Ann needed to know. "Do you mind telling me how she died?"
"Got shot. Her husband swore it was an accident. Said the gun went off. He went to prison. So Ruby and I raised their son."
Reaching for his paintbrush, tone neutral, Floyd added, "Your turn now."
Ann wasn't ready for this; confiding in someone not a therapist. She didn't know what to say. Her life, both past and present, felt real only in her mind.
Floyd was unconcerned by the time she was taking. Ann glanced around the room. The students were dutifully copying objects she'd arranged for them: a plate of fruit topped off with a camellia. Taking a seat next to Floyd, Ann spoke fast.
"I grew up in Seattle, Washington, in a neighborhood called Queen Anne. Our house had this circular portico supported by Corinthian columns." She looked at Floyd. "Kind of like the White House, but a cut-rate version. From there we could see Puget Sound and the Space Needle. My father was a lawyer who made a ton of money investing in Microsoft before the company took off."
She stopped for a moment.
"On my way to school, I kept close watch on cracks in the sidewalk. To me these flaws were unbearable: cragged and weed-filled. They marred the squares of clean cement. I needed everything perfect. I made a decision to paint some of the segments in primary colors. I envisioned a path of square-cut jewels: rubies, sapphires and emeralds."
Floyd looked up, "Did you do it?"
"The fantasy dissolved when my parents divorced."
"How old were you?"
"Nine."
"How old are you now?"
Ann opened her eyes wide. "Twenty-three, almost twenty-four."
"'Bout what I figured."
Silence.
Floyd sighed. Painted sidewalks; that's the kind of project a girl like her would come up with, useless and dangerous.
He took a drink of water. "You don't lay oil-based paint on cured cement. Causes people to slip. Even driveway paint don't work. Color is added before the concrete is poured." Floyd smiled at her. "I never saw emerald sidewalks anywhere."
"How do you know all this?"
"I was a laborer for the city of St. Louis before we came to Richmond."
Ann said, "Oh."
Wondering if he'd hurt her feelings, Floyd asked politely, "You got more to say?"
Ann stood up, "I'll tell you on Thursday."
When Thursday came, Ann insisted Floyd speak first.
He explained how at age forty-three he'd been drafted into the army. This was despite having a wife and four young children. But that was the policy during the Second World War; men between the ages of eighteen and forty-five were eligible for the draft.
"I hated leaving. Hearing the children crying."
A lull followed.
Floyd grinned. "Ruby was a lot taller than me, over six feet. I loved big women which was good because when I was overseas Ruby gained one hundred pounds.
She was beautiful, men said so. One fellow told her he knew voodoo. That jackass said, 'Miss Ruby, I can put a hoo-doo on you. Mold your mind to where you'll beg me for it. All I need is one strand of your hair.' Ruby laughed and pulled out three, 'Here. Show me what you got, big shot.' The man slunk off."
Ann laughed.
Floyd said, "Today's still Thursday. I believe you owe me a story."
"First, I need to check on the class."
Ten minutes later, sketchpad open, sitting opposite him, Ann began drawing and talking.
"I like bird-watching. I'd never known anything about it until I met this guy who was an expert. It's not haphazard. You carry a book with write-ups on regional birds. Photos, too. You use binoculars and when you identify a species you check it off your list. You're always alert for rustling weeds, flapping wings, birdsongs.
We'd drive to the Delta when duck-hunting season was over. There are these blinds near the shallows - free-standing structures made with stalks of inch-thick bamboo. Hunters hide behind them waiting to shoot migrating geese and ducks."
Floyd saw her shudder.
"Blinds are also ideal for bird-watching. Because the birds seem to know when the hunting season is through.
We stay absolutely still, not talking, hardly breathing, cameras and binoculars ready. Then, sh-swish, the sound of a water landing. Or the soft noise of a bird taking its perch on a pliant twig. We make note of the color and markings as well as the songs."
She turned her sketch pad toward Floyd. He saw stalks of tall weeds tied together. Bamboo, he guessed; that is what she'd said. Cameras and binoculars protruded out from the gaps.
"Which birds were you hopin' to see?"
Ann returned to her drawing. "I didn't care. My favorites were everywhere: pelicans, red-wing blackbirds, barn swallows, egrets, Oregon juncos."
Floyd wanted to say that Ann herself was like a small bird, hollow-boned and nervous, jumping about, never at rest. She was petite and pretty, with brown hair cut short. When she walked her feet turned out. Her clothes were what white girls from Berkeley or Oakland bought- stuff that looked like it came from a thrift shop, but did not. Her wrists, an inch and a half in diameter, would snap in two with the right amount of pressure. Floyd had observed bruises on her see-through skin and prayed her boyfriend, the bird-watcher, hadn't caused them. Yes, her interest in birds made sense.
The following Tuesday Ann was late. When she arrived, forty minutes beyond her regular time, Floyd saw she'd been crying. After distributing paints, paper and brushes, Ann walked about making comments.
"I love the dew on this tea-rose, and your seascape makes me want to be at the beach."
When she approached Floyd's table she said, as usual, "Brilliant."
She added, "Whose turn is it? I forget."
“I got a story. Take a seat."
The sad-looking girl did as he said.
Floyd kept his eyes on the painting in front of him. "I told you we had four kids, three boys and Kimberly?"
Ann nodded.
"Ruby named our first son, Quentin. She came from Mississippi and liked Southern names. Don't ask me to explain.
Quentin was a very active child, on the run from the day he was born. You had to watch him every second. Ruby asked her mama to help out.
My mother-in-law hated the name ‘Quentin.’ She told Ruby, 'Why you want to name that boy after a prison?’
Ruby laughed. ‘Many distinguished men are called that. Quentin was a famous saint.'
My mother-in-law scoffed, 'Well, don't expect me to use that name. It's a curse that'll follow him all his life.'
One day when Ruby was on the other side of the house she heard her mama yelling. 'Ruby, come quick, come here, Penitentiary gone and crawled out the pet door!’"
Floyd was laughing and Ann joined in.
After a while, Ann said, "Was Ruby's mother right? About the name being a curse?"
Floyd was surprised at the anxiety in her voice. "Not so far. Quentin teaches ethnic studies at San Francisco State University."
On Thursday, Ann again had her sketch pad open. The class had dwindled to three students. Ann spoke swiftly. "Along with bird-watching, another thing I like is Alcoholics Anonymous. When I first started going, people thought I was a spy or some investigative journalist with an agenda. But when I stood up and confessed my addiction to booze, they understood.
One man with these tremulous hands commented. ‘The drink didn't mark you one bit, Lady.' He said it so kindly, made me cry. He had a weather-beaten face and his tan came from living on the streets. But he was really good-looking with thick blond hair. His hair had bits of leaves and twigs from sleeping under bushes."
"Y’awl become friends?"
Ann shook her head, "I never saw him again. I went to the meetings hoping to see him. Nothing. We had a lot in common."
She showed Floyd a portrait of the man she'd been describing.
"Looks just like you said."
"Thanks."
She tore the portrait from the sketch pad's spiral binding and set it aside. With a fresh sheet of paper, Ann continued to draw.
"Want to hear more about my life in Seattle?"
"I do."
"After the divorce, my father kept the 'White House' or 'Presidential Palace,' as my sister Charlotte called it. Charlotte and I lived with our mother. She got a tiny divorce settlement due to the prenuptial agreement. She didn't have enough cash to buy a real house. All she could afford was a trailer set on land miles from downtown. At least she owned it outright. The place had water, septic, electricity, and gas. She'll be there for the rest of her life."
Ann turned the tablet toward Floyd, who said, "Don't look like a trailer to me, more like a real nice house."
"It wasn't." Ann continued to draw.
"We were nearly fried alive. The wiring was messed up. My mother's boyfriend discovered the danger. He called the place 'hot' which is park parlance for wiring defects. My mother was very pretty and the guy rewired the place for free.
"Then, three months after the divorce was final, my father married a woman named Sally. Two years later he died of lung cancer. Sally inherited the ‘Presidential Palace,’ along with a huge amount of Microsoft stock."
"You and your sister get somethin'?"
"He left us fifty thousand dollars each, which may sound like a lot but went fast. I used mine to pay off college loans. Didn't leave anything to live on."
Ann grimaced. "My stepmother suffers from what I term, ‘The Winchester mystery house syndrome.’ Instead of obsessively adding on rooms, Sally's addiction is remodeling. The same principle applies: the more you remodel the less likely you are to die. Over the course of two years, she's torn out four kitchens and redid them. New countertops, three in granite, one in quartz, new cupboards, solid rosewood inside and out, new sinks and high-end appliances: Sub-Zero refrigerators. All that."
Floyd smiled. "Rich ladies account to nobody. She have kids of her own?"
"No. Charlotte is diabetic and her medication is expensive. I'm supposed to take anti-depressants which I cannot afford. I love teaching, but it doesn't pay enough to live on."
Floyd wanted to ask if the bird-watcher helped out but decided to keep quiet.
"Charlotte is a writer. Her stories are terrific, but nobody's interested."
Ann closed her tablet.
Floyd spoke up, "Always hard to find the right work. I had to take a job in a slaughterhouse."
After seconds of silence with Ann waiting, Floyd's shoulders started shaking.
"We used cudgels to kill the cows, one hard blow between their big ol' eyes. I can see them sliding down those steel shoots. Some were still alive, wailing with fear. Real pitiful."
He wiped his wet face with the heel of his good hand.
"On the day I die, I will see those pleading eyes."
The art center was closed the last two weeks in August when rooms were painted and repairs completed. Ann offered Floyd paper and paint so he could work at home. He refused with a smile, "Wouldn't be the same."
The class started up again after Labor Day.
Ann Carter seemed jumpy; Floyd sensed something big had happened.
"I got an offer to teach at Yale University. A temporary position that could lead to something permanent."
Floyd looked up, "Where's that at?"
"New Haven, Connecticut. I can take the train to New York City, a place that kind of matches me. I love the energy."
She began to speak faster.
"And my sister Charlotte eloped with a software engineer, Jon Spencer. They're buying a house in the Berkeley Hills. I don't need to worry about her anymore."
"When you leavin'?"
"A week from today."
"The bird-watcher goin' too?"
He thought he saw her clench her fist. "No."
Ann had announced her departure on Tuesday. By Thursday she was more subdued. After the class set-up was done she came to Floyd's table and sat down.
"Floyd, there are two things I need to know before I go. Do you compose your designs in your mind, ahead of time? I mean, before you lay on the color? Do you map it all out in your head?"
"Nah, can't say I do. I just pick a color that goes with the others. Or I mix 'em to match, like this." He demonstrated the process.
Ann nodded.
"The other thing is about your wife. Is Ruby still alive?"
He answered at once. "She passed ten years back, of lung cancer like your daddy. Ruby had a real good job with the Social Security Administration. She was a manager. Lots of folks, black and white, came to her funeral. They all said how kind and smart she was. Talked about her beautiful smile; how well she dressed; always in style. Some of them got carried away. Her deputy, a white man said, 'Her loss tore a hole in the fabric of the universe.' Ruby would have laughed at that. She could cook like nobody else, loved basketball, and she had this touch," he swallowed hard, "that made your pain…evaporate."
Ann was quiet.
Floyd sat up straight. "Before I forget, before you leave for good, I need you to hear one more story. It's real short."
Her voice brightened. "Okay."
"This happened when I was away in the army. I went into a bar where a jazz band was playing. Real talented musicians, the place was jumping. A man came up and asked me to dance. I said, 'Yes.' First time that happened in my whole life." Eyes shining, he looked down at his painting.
"Floyd, when you say 'dance,' do you mean...?"
He flashed her a look. Again his eyes shone. "I said, 'Yes.' Yes was what I meant."
That Thursday was Ann's last class.
Floyd continued to paint at Richmond's Art center until a bout with bronchitis made him stay home. Six months later Floyd Willard died. Ann Carter was not notified. No one had her address, no one was sure where she lived.
Two years after that, Professor Quentin Willard received a phone message at his office on the San Francisco State campus. He didn't recognize the name.
The woman said, "I'm Charlotte Spencer. My sister Ann Carter taught art to your father. Ann died, very suddenly. Among her things was a large envelope addressed to Floyd Willard in care of you. I looked inside and found paintings done by your dad. I will send them to the college. Ann included a note. I'll read it now:
Dear Professor Quentin Willard, Please create a book with the enclosed work. I would have done it myself but I don't have the funds. Kinkos will do an excellent job. You should ask the chairperson of your art department to organize a one-man show. An exhibition featuring the work of Floyd Willard would be wonderful.
Yours,
Ann Carter, MFA'"
Quentin called the number she'd left on his voicemail. Charlotte answered after the first ring. Saying how much his father respected Ann Carter, Quentin added, "How did your sister die?"
Charlotte replied, "Overdose. I don't think she did it on purpose. They said she was bipolar. I never believed it. She was super-sensitive, even to the sound of her own pulse. And she was full of self-doubt." Charlotte cleared her throat. "Ann was depressed when Yale didn't renew her contract. Losing her job was a huge blow." Charlotte stopped. "For a short time. Ann had been the darling of the New York art scene.
A paper taped to her bathroom mirror said, ‘Blessed are the pure of heart for they shall see God.’" Charlotte Spencer whispered, "Thank you for calling back."
Quentin, his eyes shut, gently hung up.
Twice a week Ann Carter, MFA and working artist, taught drawing and painting at Richmond's art center. Most of her students were senior citizens who had "never ever painted in their entire life."
"Their sister," they told her, "was the real artist."
Handing around the paint boxes, Ann nodded. "Since none of us here know your sister you can forget about her."
Floyd Willard's son enrolled him in Ann's class "because he needs something to keep his mind active." A small man paralyzed on one side, Floyd always kept his beige ski jacket zipped tight. A backpack hanging from the handles of his wheelchair held a plastic Pepsi bottle filled with tap water. Floyd requested that Ann place the bottle within his reach.
To Floyd, Ann was the girl with porcelain skin who resembled one of the fragile figurines his wife had collected: young ladies in hoop skirts with pink-tinged flesh.
Always early to class, Floyd waited for Ann's quick footsteps. He saw that the 7-Eleven coffee cup she invariably carried had a spill-proof lid. But he never noticed the odor of coffee when she leaned in to speak to him.
In Ann Carter's opinion, Floyd Willard's abstract expressionism rivaled De Koenig, Franz Kline and Clifford Still. Though the scale was by necessity small, eight-and-a-half by eleven, his work was astonishingly good. Floyd painted with his left hand, the right was unusable due to a massive stroke that he at eighty-six had expected. Floyd wondered why he hadn't died years before in North Africa with the rest of the Negro regiment. He regularly relived that brutally hot "R&R" day when troops pulled off their boots, shirts and pants and ran into the sea. Soon he heard their screams as rip tides dragged them under. Head in his hands, Floyd stood in the sand unable to save anyone. He'd always feared the ocean.
Ann listened.
Ann Carter had had two solo art shows. Two museums purchased her sculptures: nine-foot tall pieces which suggested an unwieldy ski or long-boat oar. Ann covered these totems top to bottom in meticulously smeared paint smudges.
Ann thought Floyd's color sensibility extraordinary. Using horizontals and verticals along with swirling Mobius strips, integrated form and hue - his paints purposefully bled. She asked him if she could study his paintings at home for a day or two. Floyd answered, "Sure, if I can tell you a story."
"Of course."
"Ask me something."
"Do you have any kids?"
"I had four but my daughter died when she was young."
He was staring at the table where Ann had taped down a piece of white construction paper. "When she was little that child loved Shirley Temple, watched all the movies, practiced the tap dances she saw Shirley do. When she begged for a Shirley Temple doll my wife said, 'What you want that for? She don't look like you at all.'"
Floyd grinned. "I said, 'Same thing applies to those figurines you buy, Ruby. They don't look like you neither.'"
"What did Ruby say?"
The old man laughed. "She said, ‘That's different, mine are investments. They go up in price.'"
He went on, "She was our only girl so we had to buy the doll. Ruby warned her, 'You take care of that thing, it cost a fortune.'"
Shoulders shaking, eyes shut tight, Floyd's voice broke. "She was good. Never played rough. That doll's curls stayed perfect, just like when she first got it. I wondered if she ever took it out of the box. I'd hear her talking soft, 'Shirley, you my best friend.'"
He recovered himself. "My son put the doll on a high shelf in his closet. Somebody told him he should try and sell it. He won't."
"What was your daughter's name?"
Floyd replied in a whisper, "Kimberly."
Ann needed to know. "Do you mind telling me how she died?"
"Got shot. Her husband swore it was an accident. Said the gun went off. He went to prison. So Ruby and I raised their son."
Reaching for his paintbrush, tone neutral, Floyd added, "Your turn now."
Ann wasn't ready for this; confiding in someone not a therapist. She didn't know what to say. Her life, both past and present, felt real only in her mind.
Floyd was unconcerned by the time she was taking. Ann glanced around the room. The students were dutifully copying objects she'd arranged for them: a plate of fruit topped off with a camellia. Taking a seat next to Floyd, Ann spoke fast.
"I grew up in Seattle, Washington, in a neighborhood called Queen Anne. Our house had this circular portico supported by Corinthian columns." She looked at Floyd. "Kind of like the White House, but a cut-rate version. From there we could see Puget Sound and the Space Needle. My father was a lawyer who made a ton of money investing in Microsoft before the company took off."
She stopped for a moment.
"On my way to school, I kept close watch on cracks in the sidewalk. To me these flaws were unbearable: cragged and weed-filled. They marred the squares of clean cement. I needed everything perfect. I made a decision to paint some of the segments in primary colors. I envisioned a path of square-cut jewels: rubies, sapphires and emeralds."
Floyd looked up, "Did you do it?"
"The fantasy dissolved when my parents divorced."
"How old were you?"
"Nine."
"How old are you now?"
Ann opened her eyes wide. "Twenty-three, almost twenty-four."
"'Bout what I figured."
Silence.
Floyd sighed. Painted sidewalks; that's the kind of project a girl like her would come up with, useless and dangerous.
He took a drink of water. "You don't lay oil-based paint on cured cement. Causes people to slip. Even driveway paint don't work. Color is added before the concrete is poured." Floyd smiled at her. "I never saw emerald sidewalks anywhere."
"How do you know all this?"
"I was a laborer for the city of St. Louis before we came to Richmond."
Ann said, "Oh."
Wondering if he'd hurt her feelings, Floyd asked politely, "You got more to say?"
Ann stood up, "I'll tell you on Thursday."
When Thursday came, Ann insisted Floyd speak first.
He explained how at age forty-three he'd been drafted into the army. This was despite having a wife and four young children. But that was the policy during the Second World War; men between the ages of eighteen and forty-five were eligible for the draft.
"I hated leaving. Hearing the children crying."
A lull followed.
Floyd grinned. "Ruby was a lot taller than me, over six feet. I loved big women which was good because when I was overseas Ruby gained one hundred pounds.
She was beautiful, men said so. One fellow told her he knew voodoo. That jackass said, 'Miss Ruby, I can put a hoo-doo on you. Mold your mind to where you'll beg me for it. All I need is one strand of your hair.' Ruby laughed and pulled out three, 'Here. Show me what you got, big shot.' The man slunk off."
Ann laughed.
Floyd said, "Today's still Thursday. I believe you owe me a story."
"First, I need to check on the class."
Ten minutes later, sketchpad open, sitting opposite him, Ann began drawing and talking.
"I like bird-watching. I'd never known anything about it until I met this guy who was an expert. It's not haphazard. You carry a book with write-ups on regional birds. Photos, too. You use binoculars and when you identify a species you check it off your list. You're always alert for rustling weeds, flapping wings, birdsongs.
We'd drive to the Delta when duck-hunting season was over. There are these blinds near the shallows - free-standing structures made with stalks of inch-thick bamboo. Hunters hide behind them waiting to shoot migrating geese and ducks."
Floyd saw her shudder.
"Blinds are also ideal for bird-watching. Because the birds seem to know when the hunting season is through.
We stay absolutely still, not talking, hardly breathing, cameras and binoculars ready. Then, sh-swish, the sound of a water landing. Or the soft noise of a bird taking its perch on a pliant twig. We make note of the color and markings as well as the songs."
She turned her sketch pad toward Floyd. He saw stalks of tall weeds tied together. Bamboo, he guessed; that is what she'd said. Cameras and binoculars protruded out from the gaps.
"Which birds were you hopin' to see?"
Ann returned to her drawing. "I didn't care. My favorites were everywhere: pelicans, red-wing blackbirds, barn swallows, egrets, Oregon juncos."
Floyd wanted to say that Ann herself was like a small bird, hollow-boned and nervous, jumping about, never at rest. She was petite and pretty, with brown hair cut short. When she walked her feet turned out. Her clothes were what white girls from Berkeley or Oakland bought- stuff that looked like it came from a thrift shop, but did not. Her wrists, an inch and a half in diameter, would snap in two with the right amount of pressure. Floyd had observed bruises on her see-through skin and prayed her boyfriend, the bird-watcher, hadn't caused them. Yes, her interest in birds made sense.
The following Tuesday Ann was late. When she arrived, forty minutes beyond her regular time, Floyd saw she'd been crying. After distributing paints, paper and brushes, Ann walked about making comments.
"I love the dew on this tea-rose, and your seascape makes me want to be at the beach."
When she approached Floyd's table she said, as usual, "Brilliant."
She added, "Whose turn is it? I forget."
“I got a story. Take a seat."
The sad-looking girl did as he said.
Floyd kept his eyes on the painting in front of him. "I told you we had four kids, three boys and Kimberly?"
Ann nodded.
"Ruby named our first son, Quentin. She came from Mississippi and liked Southern names. Don't ask me to explain.
Quentin was a very active child, on the run from the day he was born. You had to watch him every second. Ruby asked her mama to help out.
My mother-in-law hated the name ‘Quentin.’ She told Ruby, 'Why you want to name that boy after a prison?’
Ruby laughed. ‘Many distinguished men are called that. Quentin was a famous saint.'
My mother-in-law scoffed, 'Well, don't expect me to use that name. It's a curse that'll follow him all his life.'
One day when Ruby was on the other side of the house she heard her mama yelling. 'Ruby, come quick, come here, Penitentiary gone and crawled out the pet door!’"
Floyd was laughing and Ann joined in.
After a while, Ann said, "Was Ruby's mother right? About the name being a curse?"
Floyd was surprised at the anxiety in her voice. "Not so far. Quentin teaches ethnic studies at San Francisco State University."
On Thursday, Ann again had her sketch pad open. The class had dwindled to three students. Ann spoke swiftly. "Along with bird-watching, another thing I like is Alcoholics Anonymous. When I first started going, people thought I was a spy or some investigative journalist with an agenda. But when I stood up and confessed my addiction to booze, they understood.
One man with these tremulous hands commented. ‘The drink didn't mark you one bit, Lady.' He said it so kindly, made me cry. He had a weather-beaten face and his tan came from living on the streets. But he was really good-looking with thick blond hair. His hair had bits of leaves and twigs from sleeping under bushes."
"Y’awl become friends?"
Ann shook her head, "I never saw him again. I went to the meetings hoping to see him. Nothing. We had a lot in common."
She showed Floyd a portrait of the man she'd been describing.
"Looks just like you said."
"Thanks."
She tore the portrait from the sketch pad's spiral binding and set it aside. With a fresh sheet of paper, Ann continued to draw.
"Want to hear more about my life in Seattle?"
"I do."
"After the divorce, my father kept the 'White House' or 'Presidential Palace,' as my sister Charlotte called it. Charlotte and I lived with our mother. She got a tiny divorce settlement due to the prenuptial agreement. She didn't have enough cash to buy a real house. All she could afford was a trailer set on land miles from downtown. At least she owned it outright. The place had water, septic, electricity, and gas. She'll be there for the rest of her life."
Ann turned the tablet toward Floyd, who said, "Don't look like a trailer to me, more like a real nice house."
"It wasn't." Ann continued to draw.
"We were nearly fried alive. The wiring was messed up. My mother's boyfriend discovered the danger. He called the place 'hot' which is park parlance for wiring defects. My mother was very pretty and the guy rewired the place for free.
"Then, three months after the divorce was final, my father married a woman named Sally. Two years later he died of lung cancer. Sally inherited the ‘Presidential Palace,’ along with a huge amount of Microsoft stock."
"You and your sister get somethin'?"
"He left us fifty thousand dollars each, which may sound like a lot but went fast. I used mine to pay off college loans. Didn't leave anything to live on."
Ann grimaced. "My stepmother suffers from what I term, ‘The Winchester mystery house syndrome.’ Instead of obsessively adding on rooms, Sally's addiction is remodeling. The same principle applies: the more you remodel the less likely you are to die. Over the course of two years, she's torn out four kitchens and redid them. New countertops, three in granite, one in quartz, new cupboards, solid rosewood inside and out, new sinks and high-end appliances: Sub-Zero refrigerators. All that."
Floyd smiled. "Rich ladies account to nobody. She have kids of her own?"
"No. Charlotte is diabetic and her medication is expensive. I'm supposed to take anti-depressants which I cannot afford. I love teaching, but it doesn't pay enough to live on."
Floyd wanted to ask if the bird-watcher helped out but decided to keep quiet.
"Charlotte is a writer. Her stories are terrific, but nobody's interested."
Ann closed her tablet.
Floyd spoke up, "Always hard to find the right work. I had to take a job in a slaughterhouse."
After seconds of silence with Ann waiting, Floyd's shoulders started shaking.
"We used cudgels to kill the cows, one hard blow between their big ol' eyes. I can see them sliding down those steel shoots. Some were still alive, wailing with fear. Real pitiful."
He wiped his wet face with the heel of his good hand.
"On the day I die, I will see those pleading eyes."
The art center was closed the last two weeks in August when rooms were painted and repairs completed. Ann offered Floyd paper and paint so he could work at home. He refused with a smile, "Wouldn't be the same."
The class started up again after Labor Day.
Ann Carter seemed jumpy; Floyd sensed something big had happened.
"I got an offer to teach at Yale University. A temporary position that could lead to something permanent."
Floyd looked up, "Where's that at?"
"New Haven, Connecticut. I can take the train to New York City, a place that kind of matches me. I love the energy."
She began to speak faster.
"And my sister Charlotte eloped with a software engineer, Jon Spencer. They're buying a house in the Berkeley Hills. I don't need to worry about her anymore."
"When you leavin'?"
"A week from today."
"The bird-watcher goin' too?"
He thought he saw her clench her fist. "No."
Ann had announced her departure on Tuesday. By Thursday she was more subdued. After the class set-up was done she came to Floyd's table and sat down.
"Floyd, there are two things I need to know before I go. Do you compose your designs in your mind, ahead of time? I mean, before you lay on the color? Do you map it all out in your head?"
"Nah, can't say I do. I just pick a color that goes with the others. Or I mix 'em to match, like this." He demonstrated the process.
Ann nodded.
"The other thing is about your wife. Is Ruby still alive?"
He answered at once. "She passed ten years back, of lung cancer like your daddy. Ruby had a real good job with the Social Security Administration. She was a manager. Lots of folks, black and white, came to her funeral. They all said how kind and smart she was. Talked about her beautiful smile; how well she dressed; always in style. Some of them got carried away. Her deputy, a white man said, 'Her loss tore a hole in the fabric of the universe.' Ruby would have laughed at that. She could cook like nobody else, loved basketball, and she had this touch," he swallowed hard, "that made your pain…evaporate."
Ann was quiet.
Floyd sat up straight. "Before I forget, before you leave for good, I need you to hear one more story. It's real short."
Her voice brightened. "Okay."
"This happened when I was away in the army. I went into a bar where a jazz band was playing. Real talented musicians, the place was jumping. A man came up and asked me to dance. I said, 'Yes.' First time that happened in my whole life." Eyes shining, he looked down at his painting.
"Floyd, when you say 'dance,' do you mean...?"
He flashed her a look. Again his eyes shone. "I said, 'Yes.' Yes was what I meant."
That Thursday was Ann's last class.
Floyd continued to paint at Richmond's Art center until a bout with bronchitis made him stay home. Six months later Floyd Willard died. Ann Carter was not notified. No one had her address, no one was sure where she lived.
Two years after that, Professor Quentin Willard received a phone message at his office on the San Francisco State campus. He didn't recognize the name.
The woman said, "I'm Charlotte Spencer. My sister Ann Carter taught art to your father. Ann died, very suddenly. Among her things was a large envelope addressed to Floyd Willard in care of you. I looked inside and found paintings done by your dad. I will send them to the college. Ann included a note. I'll read it now:
Dear Professor Quentin Willard, Please create a book with the enclosed work. I would have done it myself but I don't have the funds. Kinkos will do an excellent job. You should ask the chairperson of your art department to organize a one-man show. An exhibition featuring the work of Floyd Willard would be wonderful.
Yours,
Ann Carter, MFA'"
Quentin called the number she'd left on his voicemail. Charlotte answered after the first ring. Saying how much his father respected Ann Carter, Quentin added, "How did your sister die?"
Charlotte replied, "Overdose. I don't think she did it on purpose. They said she was bipolar. I never believed it. She was super-sensitive, even to the sound of her own pulse. And she was full of self-doubt." Charlotte cleared her throat. "Ann was depressed when Yale didn't renew her contract. Losing her job was a huge blow." Charlotte stopped. "For a short time. Ann had been the darling of the New York art scene.
A paper taped to her bathroom mirror said, ‘Blessed are the pure of heart for they shall see God.’" Charlotte Spencer whispered, "Thank you for calling back."
Quentin, his eyes shut, gently hung up.
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Deborah Price Janke is the author of three novels: The Spy’s Familiar, The Spy’s Daughter, and Funeral Jewelry as well as numerous short stories and poetry. The back drop for her fiction is the San Francisco Bay Area. Deborah maintains that writing is easy because life itself feels like fiction. Executive Director of a non-profit specializing in Alzheimer’s services, Deborah resides with her husband Craig Janke in Lafayette, California.
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