It dawned hot in Georgia. Don rubbed his head and blinked. He got out
of bed and paused before a makeshift easel where a drawing, taped to a
board, showed a woman sitting on a park bench. She was large, dressed
in layers of multi-colored cotton. She reminded him of the Renoir woman
in her plush living room, the dog sprawled at her feet, but she was
smarter. The line across her eyebrows and tapering along her jaw was
right. He'd left out a lot, but that didn't matter. If what was there
was true enough, you knew the rest--like a Michelangelo shoulder
emerging from stone.
He went into the bathroom and splashed water on his face.
After coffee and a piece of toast, he rolled the drawing and took it to
the park where the woman fed pigeons every day. She wasn't there. She
wasn't there the next day, either. The following day Don brought a loaf
of bread, sat on her bench, and tossed white pellets into the air.
Birds fought for each piece. He prepared the remaining bread and
scattered it in one throw. "There you go--something for everybody.
She'll be back soon."
A week later, she showed up. Don moved aside and asked, "Where you
been?"
"Took sick."
"I've been feeding the pigeons."
"I was worrying. Thank you."
"I did a drawing of you. I wanted to name it, but--I didn't know your
name."
"Ruby."
"Ruby, ah. I'm Don. You want to see it? I'll bring it tomorrow."
"Sure."
"O.K. How you feeling?"
"Better, now."
"Good." He walked to his usual bench and sat down. The sun beat on the
live oak trees and sage-green strings of Spanish moss while the birds
made happy sounds in front of Ruby. She had lost weight, he thought,
but it was hard to tell, the way she dressed. She was a beauty once. He
remembered his bloodshot eyes in the bathroom mirror. None of us
getting any younger. He would give her the drawing in the morning and
take off. It was time to leave Savannah, past time. Head for Portland
again. Look up Lorna.
Lorna. The Art Students League. It seemed like last week that she was
looking carefully into his eyes and shaking his hand, curious and
unafraid, different from him in many ways, but similar in that.
Painter's eyes, he thought, clear and unblinking. Couldn't tell how
good she was, though--eyes are one thing; talent is another. And hard
work is another.
She lived in a studio behind her parents' house on a mountain
road--what was it called?--the Glasco Turnpike. Her father, Lad
Charles, was a painter, a friendly guy who wore bow ties and was well
liked in town. Lorna was protected, highly educated, out of reach for
Don Delahanty.
He was blocky. She was slim. His neck was thick and turned with his
body; her neck was graceful and turned by itself. His eyes were a
slatey blue--the color of the sea on a cloudy day. Hers were almond
with flecks of green. He was fair skinned. Lorna was tanned. His hair
was sand colored, prematurely grizzled. Hers was light brown, sun
streaked, thick, and cut short--perfect for small gold earrings. She
brought with her the smell of spring. He smelled like upstate New
York--dirt, dairy farms, and industrial towns. She was kind. They both
were, although he had a bitter streak that dragged at him.
The pigeons took off in a sudden rush, flapping and swerving around the
trees. Don stood and walked slowly across the square. "So long, Ruby."
"Be good, now," she said.
You can survive unloved, but you can't make it without loving
somebody--or something. Ruby loved her birds. And who knows who else?
He loved Lorna. Lorna loved Pike, or used to, and Molly, their
daughter. Molly herself would be falling in love any time now, if she
weren't already. Round and round we go, getting the job done. Except he
hadn't gotten the job done, not unless you counted the paintings as
kids. Not a happy train of thought. Piss on it, he'd have a waffle at
Cleary's. Tide him over until the big feed.
On Thursdays they had the big feed, he and Riles and Kai. Thursdays,
because weekends were unpredictable. He walked the six blocks to
Cleary's, just around the corner from the house--Riles's house, Kai's
house--he couldn't call it home exactly, although he'd spent more
winters than he cared to remember in the basement studio reserved for
caretakers or indigent relatives. He was a little of each--an old
friend of Riles and useful around the place, watching the gallery
several times a week and doing the framing jobs that came along.
The Cleary's waitresses were wearing _Midnight in the Garden of Good
and Evil_ T-shirts. Not a bad image, from the cover of the best seller,
but it annoyed him to see his friends wearing advertisements.
"Pecan waffle, Don?"
"Yes, Ma'm--for my strength. It's that time again. I'm going north."
"Take me with you."
"Can't afford you."
"Next year," she suggested.
"Do my best," Don said. "Something to live for. There's not much up
there, Jilly, just Yankees, shivering and eating beans."
"I could stand the shivering. Want some grits?"
"Read my mind," Don said.
He ate slowly, drank an extra cup of coffee, left a big tip, and got on
with packing. By cocktail hour he had cleaned his room and stashed his
belongings in a footlocker and a duffel bag. The easel and the painting
gear stayed, part of the decor. He packed his best brushes, his
watercolors, and a block of good paper. There was no limit to the
number of lighthouse and/or lobster boat paintings he could sell, if
they were cheap enough. The portraits and the figures were different.
Drawn or done fully in oils, they were given away, or nearly. It was
hard to put a price on them.
"How well you look, Don," Kai said.
"Thank you. I'm having my annual burst of optimism. Did Riles tell you
that I'm off to Maine tomorrow?"
"Riles never tells me anything."
"Mother, really!" Riles appeared and put an arm around her shoulders.
They were handsome together, short and dark with identical flashing
smiles. Riles's hairline had receded considerably, and Kai's hair had
long ago turned a tarnished silver, but they both were slim and upright
and moved with a lack of effort that made Don feel as though he were
dragging a wagon behind him. "I only just found out. Don is secretive,
you know."
"Don is not good at planning," Don said.
"We must count on the turning of the seasons, Mother, the great
migrations, to bring him back to Sherman's Retreat."
"He is not a goose, Dear." She turned to Don. "The sooner you come
back, the better."
"Honk," Don said, embarrassed, and added, "if you love Jesus."
"I think this calls for a Riles Blaster. Don? Mother?"
Riles Blasters were made from light rum, Grand Marnier, lime juice, and
other secret ingredients combined with ice and served, after great
roaring from the blender, in sweating silver tumblers. Riles claimed
that they prolonged life by rendering stress inoperable and irrelevant.
A Riles Blaster, he pronounced, allowed one to focus on what mattered.
"What mattered" was left undefined, allowing to each a certain
latitude. They toasted what mattered and then "Absent loved ones."
Blasters were reliable--one brought a sigh; two put a helpless smile on
your face. It was best to switch to wine at that point. Another virtue:
"A modest red becomes--acceptable." Riles pronounced each syllable of
"acceptable" so lightly and with such pleasure that you had to agree.
The dark side of Riles was private. Don understood and left it alone.
"Will you be seeing that attractive friend of yours?" Kai made her
innocent face.
"I usually do--at least once. I'll try."
"I love that oil of her as a young woman. Would you part with it? We
think it belongs in the permanent collection."