Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
SEASONS CHANGE
Two Weeks Later
“Oh my god, Char! Is this you?” I can barely hear Mariah under my noise cancelling headphones. I peel one back and look over my shoulder. She’s unfurled the almost six-foot tall canvas leaning against our kitchen counter.
I sigh and confirm, “Yeah, that’s the one.”
Last week, I’d finally sat down and filled Mariah in on everything that had happened with Devo and the painting. I gave her the high-level details, at least.
Right now, I’d very much like to get back to the sketchpad in front of me, but I know Mariah is going to continue.
“It’s beautiful!” she exclaims as she goes to hold down the corners with cans of garbanzo beans and crushed tomatoes. I shrug. Although... even now, I can admit to myself that the painting is in fact, stunning. If you’re into that kind of art, I mean. I don’t know if I am anymore.
Devo’s sandy-haired assistant had delivered the canvas late last Friday. I’d been wary of deliveries ever since my Muse Painting reveal. I wasn’t in the mood to have anyone else weigh in on my lifestyle and choices via ominous letter.
From the top step of my stoop, I looked the assistant up and down with pursed lips. Devo, of course, was nowhere in sight. What could he and his team still want from me? My soul?
The young man and I assessed each other for a moment longer than what would be considered normal. He cocked his head as he took in my crossed arms and defensive stance.
“You must have made quite the impression,” he started off.
I scoffed. “Says who?”
He went to scratch his temple and seemed to consider his next words carefully. “Do you, remember... who my boss is?”
“Yes!” I snapped. My poker face is often poor.
I wear it all on my sleeve and everyone around me is in the danger zone until I stabilize.
Guilt tugged at my heart—I knew he was just doing his job.
“Yes,” I managed to repeat more calmly. I smoothed my hands down my light-wash jeans.
“I do,” I jumped back in before he could respond, “And I’m sorry, what’s your name? ”
“My name’s John.” He put his hand to his chest.
“Charlotte,” I said, holding out my hand—my attempt at re-establishing some civility.
He took my hand but looked me in the eye as he chuckled. “Yes, I know.”
My ears pricked with heat.
“I’m here because my boss wanted you to have this.” He pushed forward a very tall cylindrical container with a white plastic cap. I grasped the cardboard tube from him in silence. “You can do whatever you want with it”—he waved at it—“it’s worth a lot of money to the right buyers.”
I had my suspicions about what was rolled up in the container.
“Why am I receiving this?” I said mechanically. Resistance stirred in my gut. I didn’t want a souvenir. I’d wanted a conversation. Or even a phone call.
At this point, I wanted nothing to do with any of it.
“I don’t know.” John shrugged. “He normally sells his pieces and funnels the majority of the fee into the studio he held the residency at.”
My eyes narrowed.
“He did ah, make a donation to your studio,” he rushed to add, “but he wouldn’t take any offers on the painting you two”—he scratched the back of his neck—“ah, worked on together.”
How much did he know about how Devo conducts himself in these collaborations, I wondered. He seemed to know a lot.
I nodded, bordering on speechless.
“Thank you,” I stuttered, not really meaning it and turning to head back inside.
“Wait!” John scrabbled to recapture my attention. “And he wanted you to have this.”
I glanced back down at John as he held out a letter. It’s too late, I thought. I took it anyway, nodded at John and headed back inside. I didn’t look back to see what John’s new impression of me was.
I hadn’t cared.
It’s been three days since that delivery and Mariah has just returned from a weekend away.
She’d been visiting her folks down in Virginia.
Saturday was her parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary and they’d arranged for a nice dinner in their hometown.
Mariah had sent me plenty of check-in texts while she’d been gone though, most of which I’d answered monosyllabically; at least I’d had the decorum to include some exclamation points.
Saturday, 9:05 PM:
Hey Char! You doing things that bring you joy? <3
Yup!
Just remember, boys are bad except for dad!
…
I mean, not your dad specifically. My b. It’s just a stupid rhyme!
Ok!
Not everyone will abandon you!
It’s ok
Ahhh! Sorry I’ve had a few cocktails with my parents. I’ll be home Monday morning!
Yay!
My weekend, on the other hand, had been one long hyperfixation on the new sketches that I might want to transfer to canvas. Without Mariah here to advocate for my mental health and forcing me to “spark joy,” I’d barely left the apartment.
She’s been back for all of two minutes and is already diving into things I’ve been avoiding for days.
Mariah is currently kneeling on the ground beside the flattened canvas.
I watch as she leans in towards different areas of the painting, taking in the detail—the splatters and whirls of blue, black, green and gray.
My heart squeezes at the memories of how I felt leading up to the creation of that painting. Lustful, nervous, safe, blissful... I’d mostly cycled through those, I think. It’d been a much more fun cycle than the last week or two—angry, numb, sad… determined.
At least this cycle had given me a kind of fuel. Before, I hadn't known how to get what I wanted, and I was afraid of losing something before I even had it. That fear had come to fruition. Now, I’ve fully let go.
“And you two no longer speak?” Mariah is tracing the implied tendrils of my hair with her fingertip. You’d think someone might be embarrassed seeing a depiction of their friend in the throes of sexual bliss. But that’s not how Mariah works.
“Well, his assistant John did include this letter as well.” I toss the sealed white envelope down from the counter and it lands beside her.
I’d neither touched the rolled-up canvas nor his letter since I placed them inside our apartment on Friday.
I’d been channeling my emotions into a new conceptual collection.
Which is what I’d been working on in my sketchbook when Mariah had arrived.
I hear a gasp as I pick my way back over to my desk against the window in our common space. “You haven’t opened it?!”
I shrug again, not really sure how to explain it. I think... I’m afraid of what it might say. Its existence makes my teeth grind and my heart palpitate. I don’t want to deal with it.
“Well…” Mariah hesitates. “May I open it for you?”
“Sure,” I release on an exhale. There’s the sound of ripping paper and then, silence.
“What does it say?” I roll my eyes, already feeling myself rejecting the message.
“It says—” Mariah trails off for a moment. “It says, ‘I’ll come back one day. Hope you’re well. XO, D’.”
It takes a moment for the words to settle in my psyche. And then the teeth grinding intensifies.
Mariah flips over the paper and then looks once again inside the envelope. “Huh,” she says, “that’s it.”
“Yeah,” I deadpan, “that’s it.” I look at the painting, that’s it and that’s all it ever was.
Mariah takes in my closed-off expression. “It says he’ll come back,” she ventures. “That... is good! Right?”
“I don’t care,” I say. “I’m not falling for his mysterious vigilante persona anymore.”
“Vigilante?” Mariah mutters.
“Whatever.” I flick my hands in the air. “His whole charade! I’m out.”
Mariah nods, letting me have my reaction. She decides to roll up the evidence of mine and Devo’s “special” connection. “I’m just going to put this in the front hall closet then,” she says softly.
“Thank you,” I whisper. Once again, I don’t deserve her.
I sit down at my desk in a huff. I’m on my fifth sketch of an image that had aggressively arrived in the front of my mind.
It’s a white marble statue of a woman from the bellybutton up.
The statue is surrounded by red velvet ropes holding back crowds of people with cameras and cellphones held above their heads.
A single tear runs down the sculpture’s cheek and a hand with a chisel can be seen along the edge and away from the crowd, as if the sculptor had abandoned his piece.
It feels modern. I’d never featured digital technology in my art before, but here we are.
This is the world I live in. This isn’t the Renaissance.
As I work on deciding whether there’s a roof over the statue’s head or just a chasm to the stars, my phone dings.
I glance over and see I’ve gotten a notification from a dating app I’d downloaded out of spite.
I’d been dissatisfied in more ways than one in the last couple of weeks.
At least this part I can do something about.
I unlock my phone and glance between my sketchpad and my new suitor. His name is Anton. A tentative smile touches my lips as my eyes land on his profession. I’m in control of my new direction.
Let my next chapter begin.