TWENTY-ONE Detente
A fter dropping the kids off, I ran a few errands, then pulled up in front of Coastal ArtWorks about quarter to noon. I smiled at the sparkly, vividly violet, fifty-plus-year-old Dodge Challenger parked in front of me. That car was Jessie on wheels.
I grabbed my purse and the tote full of my purchases from the market and got out of the car.
A horn blared nearby, close enough for me to jump and yank my door close. A late-model pickup rolled by, and the driver—whom I recognized as the guy who kept the lighthouse—glared at me and shouted through his open passenger window, “Watch where you’re going!”
I had checked my mirrors before I’d opened my door. That asshole’s truck had been plenty far enough back to have had ample time to see me open my door and adjust accordingly.
His horn had startled me, and his nasty shout had pissed me off. Ergo, I flipped him off and yelled, “Fuck off!”
Neighborly? No. But he’d started it. That guy was really a jerk.
He heard me; I know this because he slammed on his brakes and threw his truck into Reverse, like he intended to screech backward and start an actual road rage incident.
I decided to ignore him. I closed my car door and made my way—as calmly as I could manage—to the sidewalk. After a second, he returned to Drive and continued on his way.
Kind of ironic that the one person who seemed most displeased about my return to town wasn’t from here and had never known me.
Before I reached for the door to the gallery, I saw Peter Greyfather standing on the sidewalk across the street, holding a leash with a solid black German Shepherd at the other end.
“You okay?” he called when he saw me see him.
“Yeah, fine,” I called back. “Probably not my best moment, but that guy’s a jerk.”
Peter laughed. “Finn’s a little crusty, sure. But he’s okay once you get to know him.”
We would have to agree to disagree on that point. “If you say so. See you!”
He waved and continued walking his dog. I turned and opened the door to Coastal ArtWorks.
With Jessie skipping town almost as soon as I landed back in it and being gone for weeks, I hadn’t had a chance yet to do more than peer through the windows at her gallery. As I stepped through the front door—painted bright purple—I caught a whiff of a scent that I would always associate with my friend. Primarily oil paint and turpentine, with hints of wood, chalk, clay, and canvas. I let the door close and paused right there to take the space in.
Jessie had come from the womb an artist and a free spirit. Even as a kid, I don’t think she’d ever cared about what was popular, what was considered ‘normal,’ or what other people thought of her. Most of us take a long journey from trying to be like everybody else to arriving at self-actualization, many of us never get there, but Jessie has always been Jessie and perfectly comfortable in her skin.
Her personal style might best be described as ‘Clown School Lost and Found,’ full of bright colors and wild fabrics, often not close to matching. She doesn’t even bother to match socks.
Her naturally red hair is thick and wild. Not really curly, but prone to messiness—and Jessie lets it do whatever it wants. I think she might brush her hair as much as once or twice a week.
She laughs loud and often. She eats fast and eagerly. She bounds into every space like a caffeinated Labrador retriever.
Jessie is, in short, a lot. But there is no better person on the planet. She is the definition of ride or die, loyal to the end. She will give a stranger the mismatched clothes off her back and a friend her back itself. She judges virtually no one. The only way to get on her bad side is to punch down, to be cruel or callous to someone in need. Even then, she does not hold a grudge. If you’re sorry, Jessie forgives. Period.
She is an astonishing example of the ideal human, is what I’m getting at.
In our early days of school, kids tried to tease her for the ways she was different, but even at the age of five, Jessie was impervious to ridicule. She truly does not care what other people think about her. The bullies gave it up pretty quickly; they got no satisfaction from picking on someone who barely noticed.
As I stood inside her art gallery—the realization of a dream she’d had since she was eight—Jessie was present in every square foot of the space. The white walls in this front room soared to the ceiling, probably twenty feet high at least. The ducts and pipes were exposed up there, of course. Nearly every inch of wall space was covered by artwork—paintings in oil, tempera, watercolor, acrylic; framed art photos; textiles and multimedia pieces; ceramics and metalwork. Dangling from the industrial ceiling were mobiles and lighted sculptures, and Chihuly-style blown glass.
Artfully placed on the glazed concrete floor were square white plinths supporting sculptures, pottery, and glass. Scattered amongst the plinths were diverse seating arrangements: several low arm chairs in rainbow-bright leather (or maybe pleather), a Victorian-style divan upholstered in purple faux fur, and a collection of ottoman puffs in funky fabrics.
Though I recognized Jessie’s touch on several paintings, the work was by a number of different artists, some of whom were clearly Indigenous (or working in indigenous art forms, but I didn’t see Jessie trafficking in appropriated art). She obviously had strong connections in the art community around these parts. I was proud to see that she was doing exactly what she’d always wanted.
A staircase on the left side of the gallery led up to a loft space. Along the wall concealing the staircase was a long stretch of flat file cases, all in glossy black melamine, where I assumed (and now I know) art prints were stored. At the very back of the main floor was the sales counter. It was long and sleek and looked like a bar. There were even bar stools—chrome and bright-hued pleather—lined up before it.
I was the only person in that room for about ninety seconds. Then the door behind the sales counter burst open, and Jessie charged forward.
“There’s my girl!” she cried as she bounded toward me. I set my shopping bags down so I could accept her full-body hug.
“Hey!” I called, laughing as we embraced. There is something truly magical about a friendship that can thrive despite nearly twenty years of neglect. “How was your trip?”
She leaned back and grinned up at me. “It was great, and I’ll tell you all about it, but I want you to gird your loins before we eat.”
“I have to gird my loins for lunch? What did you make?” I tried to cock an eyebrow at her, but I’ve never been able to do that, so I think I just wadded up my face.
Jessie laughed at my attempt and patted my cheek with affected sympathy. “Still trying to do that, I see. And still failing.” Then she did an excellent eyebrow-cock herself.
“I’m so jealous,” I sighed. “Why do I need to gird?”
Her expression became sheepish. “I might have conspired. Possibly meddled. But with only the best of intentions.”
Oh boy. I already knew what she’d answer when I asked, “What did you do, Jessica?”
“Um ...” She grinned. “I invited Erin to lunch, too.”
Yep. As I suspected. Erin had been avoiding me. Of course, I suppose I’d been avoiding her as well. I hadn’t made another attempt to see her since that first visit to the tavern. I’d been trying to reconcile myself to not being able to reconcile with her.
I sighed. “Did she know I was coming?”
“Not until about ten minutes ago, no. And yes, she’s pissed—but! I convinced her to stay! That means we can work things out. Get it out in the open and deal with it so we can be the Fates again!”
“Or she stayed so she can tell me how much I suck again.”
“Which would be venting—and venting gets the bad stuff out. That’s progress.”
“Maybe. If you squint.”
“So let’s squint!” Jessie picked up my shopping bags with one hand and hooked the other arm around mine. She dragged me toward the back.
This was going to be an interesting meal. I suspected I would be the entrée.
THE BACK OF THE GALLERY was both work space and break space, and clearly not only for Jessie. Everything was covered in paint or smeared with dried clay. A front corner was fashioned into a potting studio. Toward the back, surrounded by black pads on the walls and floor that I assumed were fireproofing, was a metal sculpture in progress. Three large work tables were scattered in the middle.
One of those tables was covered by a vintage floral tablecloth, and the beginnings of a lunch spread were laid out on it—plates and flatware, a couple bottles of wine, three wine glasses, a charcuterie board laden with meats I was sure came from Roman, and a couple of bowls of salads.
Sitting on a metal stool at the back of the table, her arms crossed and her brow furrowed, was Erin O’Grady, the third of the Fates.
“Hey,” I said with a smile. “I’m happy to see you.”
“Don’t think this means we’re friends again,” she said and then turned to Jessie. “And you’re on fucking probation. I can’t believe you did this.”
Jessie gave me a little shove and sent me toward the table. “We have been a team of three since before kindergarten. I’m not giving that up.” She set my shopping bags on the table
“We were a team of three since before kindergarten,” Erin countered. “She’s the one that gave it up. Ran out in the middle of the night without a word. Like a rat.”
“I’m sorry, Erin. I don’t have a great excuse, but I want to explain, if you want to hear it.” I sat on a metal stool at the opposite side of the table and started emptying my bags from the Granary: a small brie and fruit arrangement, a box of fresh fry bread, strawberries in balsamic glaze, and six cheesecake tarts.
“I don’t,” she answered flatly.
Jessie sighed. “Er-Bear, come on ! I know you’re glad Lennie’s back. I know you are. How many times did we—”
“Shut up, Jess. Don’t say it.”
Jessie plowed forward anyway. “How many times did we wonder where she was and hope she was okay? All these years, we’ve been wondering and hoping.”
Erin looked straight at me when she said, “Twenty years, wondering and hoping. And she never let us know. Not once in all those years.”
We stared at each other for a few seconds that felt like a few centuries. Jessie was quiet as well; we’d managed to subdue our irrepressible girl. Maybe it was that, seeing Jessie look so suddenly disheartened, that prodded Erin to ease up a millimeter. “Does your explanation cover that?”
As I opened the brie and fruit, I nodded. “It’s the feature. Would you like to hear it?”
Erin’s attention had shifted to the box I’d just opened. “Is that brie?”
“With figs and peaches.”
“No crackers, though. Jessie said you were bringing crackers.” Her voice carried a challenge, as if the fate of the world rested on the availability of crackers for the brie.
I pulled a box of water crackers from the bottom of a bag. “Will these do?”
She unfolded her arms and reached for the brie. “If you want to talk while I eat, I don’t guess I can stop you.”
Jessie enlivened at once. “I’ll get a corkscrew!”
As we commenced the first meal the three of us had shared since our high school graduation dinner, I started the story of the past twenty years.
And hoped I told it well enough to reclaim the best thing in my life before those years: the Three Fates.