Peter sipped his wine, a sad look on his face. “Did they ever find her?”
“She hasn’t come forward, didn’t attend Ella’s funeral or Bern’s graduation.” I wiped at a tear. “I feel like it’s my fault, because I finally had Roy. I had permission to be with him. He was mine, we were all on the same page.”
“I’m sorry—is she alive?” Peter asked very slowly.
I nodded my head. “She ran back to California, stayed with some people she met at Pride. Got on her feet, on her own. She’s an artist in San Francisco, but she’s done what most parents do to their gay children. She disowned her parents for lying to her.”
I saw Roy standing in the doorway of the house; he had two more bottles of wine in his hands. He kissed Ruth and Bern as he walked past and returned to us. “I’m sorry, I figured we needed more.”
I placed my hand on Roy’s wrist. “We’re almost done. Can you take these to the recycle bin? I don’t want us to look like alcoholics.”
He picked up the empties and left a full bottle, taking the other with him. I watched him weave through the people, topping their glasses as needed, and saw an afterthought of orange race past. I rubbed my eyes, laughing a little when I saw the orange ball that was handed back to JB.
“Tell me more,” Peter prompted.
“Ella took it very hard. With the passage of a few bills around the country, she felt it was time they divorce—she wanted to be with Mary. They’ve never stopped looking for Lyndie. Mary even set up a college fund for her through the public library.”
“Do you think she’ll ever come back?”
“I hope so, one day. We’ve apologized, but some hurts last longer. I can relate it in painting terms. As artists, we get lost in our paintings. We pile the paint on thick, but the cuts are deep—the slashes are unreachable sometimes, looking into the crevasse of a thick crest of antique white. Someday, she’ll scrape off that old paint, and she might see our fresh faces. Or pile more on top to forget.” I took a long sip of my wine.
Roy came back to sit beside me, and I clasped his hand. “What should we speak about next?”
Peter checked his notebook. “I hate to bring up more bad things.”
“It’s OK, son,” Roy said. “Life is full of bad. If it were all easy, we’d never learn anything.”
Peter seemed to take him at his word. “OK, I remember James saying something about Ella’s passing?”
“Ella had cancer. We did everything in our power to save her. She looked into new-age cures, healthier food choices, alternative medicines—Mary suggested they move to California for the remainder of their years together.”
I looked across the yard, at the painting I’d completed to commemorate her life, her passing, and her beauty. Roy had caught a shot of her laughing in an Adirondack chair on their patio. Their bungalow in Santa Barbara had overlooked the Pacific Ocean; it was 1998…all these shades of a deep midnight blue and a refreshing, life-affirming, dignified indigo.
“So you reunited with them?” Peter asked.
Roy answered, “It was just after Bern was accepted into the archivist Master’s program at UCLA. I moved in with James, Mary and Ella purchased a brown craftsman bungalow in the hills, and Bern stayed in campus housing.”
I placed my hand on Roy’s leg. “It was only a few years ago, and it still haunts us. The four of us connected on so many levels—I never had lady friends that I could sit and bitch with. The weekend parties Mary threw were legendary.” I smiled remembering the afternoon Mary came to my bungalow. “A few years before she left us, Mary showed up unannounced.” I chuckled to myself. “You know, she was the female version of me.” I looked over at Peter. “I’d just begun painting men—not their bodies, their form. I’d focus on specific body parts, which meant the models were nude, and this one afternoon, I was focusing on the backside of Yuri.”
Roy began to laugh. “Yuri? I don’t remember you ever telling me this, either.” He wiped tears from his eyes, from the laughter.
Peter looked between both of us as though we’d gone mad. “Who was this Yuri?”
“An exhibitionist,” I said, still laughing. “He was a nudist and never had trouble just taking off his clothes, though he didn’t have the stereotypical body type of a nudist. He was a professional weightlifter, and he was huge, which is what made him such an amazing specimen for my project at the time.”
Roy picked up the thread from me. “Oh, right the bodies. His was one of the few that had a face to go with it.”
I nodded. “Yes, because he told me, ‘You paint my butt, you paint my face. I am proud of both.’ He had this thick Russian accent—such a lovable bear of a man. His chest was covered in fur, but his backside was a smooth as a baby’s bum. So, I had him situate on some boxes, climbing up on the dining room table…” I got up and walked to the row of paintings along the wall of the house, grabbed a small canvas, and presented it to Peter. “‘Yuri Rises from Pool,’ or as I like to call it ‘Mary’s Surprise.’”
Peter took it. “The colors…so subdued, nothing like your Palette collection.”
“I don’t know why, but these were the colors that spoke to me… It might have been his thick, black beard or the curls that covered his chest that made me think of using such a dark palette.”
Peter studied the painting closer. “This is so simple, such definition in such a simple body. His muscles stand out in the shadowing. This man must have been…”
Roy nodded his head and winked. “Yes, he was.”
I said, “There was a knock at the door, and I told him to relax.”
“Big mistake.” Roy laughed.
“Yes it was, because I forgot the dining table faced the door. Mary stood there, hand raised to knock again, and then screamed and covered her eyes. I turned to see Yuri had climbed onto the table and lay spread out as though he were doing a centerfold photoshoot—cock in one hand, his other raised to twinkle his fingers in a wave.” I shook my head.
“Oh…” Peter was at a loss.
“Yes, I told him to take a break, and he climbed off the table and disappeared into the kitchen. Mary uncovered her eyes tentatively and said, ‘I didn’t want to believe this was a den of sin and sodomy, but I guess the stories are true.’ I laughed so hard that she couldn’t keep a straight face, and soon she was laughing as well. A few minutes later, Yuri strode into the living room in low-slung shorts, carrying a tray with glasses and sangria—‘You like something to drink?’ That summer, my drink of choice had been sangria.”
Roy jerked a thumb at me. “His sangria was legend in Venice. He’d have parties just to create it. He’d take one of those tin tubs and make the guests cut up bags of oranges and apples. Others would be in charge of the ice, a couple would have the bottles of orange juice and brandy ready for pouring—when they weren’t drinking it in between because the cutters were slow.
“Once the last orange was tossed in, I would pour half a bag of sugar over the concoction, followed by the orange juice and what was left of the brandy. Then he’d have someone, usually Yuri, open bottle after bottle of red wine. As soon as one was emptied another was poured in. More ice, and a gigantic spoon to stir the mixture.”
I could almost smell the zest from his description. “And what wasn’t finished would be placed into sterilized mason jars and would end up in every refrigerator from our street to Hollywood Boulevard—if it ever made it home.”
“I’d wanted him to bottle and sell it, but then those Bartles and James’ guys came along, and, well, they made history—changed it a little and called it the more classy ‘wine cooler.’” We both laughed but quickly sobered as I told the next part of our story.
“Mary took a glass from Yuri and downed it for the courage to speak. She said, ‘I know I won't have her for long, and because of this, I would like to commission a piece from you of Ella.’ I was shocked. I didn’t know if I could do it justice.
“She handed me the photograph of Ella laughing in the Adirondack chair
and said, ‘This is our favorite. Roy took it the afternoon you both visited us, telling your sordid tales of models and painting. She was the happiest that day, knowing she and Roy had made each other happy.’ Her voice was full of gravel and tears. She went on to tell me that that weekend was one her favorites. Ella had lain in her arms that night, thanking her for being so compassionate with Roy and me.”
“Is Mary still around?” Peter asked.
“Yes, oh, yes,” I confirmed with a smile. “And she’s still in our lives. She just got married a few weeks ago.”
Roy spoke up, “She asked me if it was all right—if Ella would have a problem—and I hugged her and said, ‘Ella was poly, she wouldn’t have minded at all. She’d want this for you.’”
Peter took a thoughtful sip of his wine. “So you eventually came out and named what you all had?”
“Yes, only as an afterthought. I think James pointed it out in an article in The Advocate in 1996, but prior to that, I don’t think we’d ever pinned it down. We just were happy with what we’d created.” Roy twisted the ring on his right hand.
“With Ella gone, do the two of you still practice this poly thing?” Peter looked at the people gathered around the art display-slash-reception.
I patted Roy on the knee. “Not really, though we’ve looked, but I think that we are happy finally just being the two of us.”
Roy grinned. “I think polyamory is a good thing. If either of us finds another partner, we’ll take it into consideration. Right now, I’m happy that we’ve finally tied the knot.”
“Everyone’s getting married. You never know how much time you have left in your life, you know?” I looked into Roy’s eyes and kissed him on the cheek.
“When did you guys decide to tie the knot?” Peter asked.
“I finally popped the question after Bern and Ruth said they were expecting their second child.”
“He wanted to make me an honest man, Peter.” Roy slid his arm around my waist, laughing.
I shook my head and explained, “Ruth wanted to name the boy after his future grandfather. I laughed and asked why she was coming to me. And she responded with, ‘We want to name him James.’” Tears came to my eyes. “She wanted to name her son after me. So I went home that night and proposed to Roy.” I looked over at Ruth, bouncing little James Brash Quinn on her hip. She was smiling. She blew a kiss in my direction. “Would you like to meet the woman who decided my Rainbow Squares needed to be collected?”
“Yes, I would. In fact, I’d like to get a picture of the two of you in front of the collection.”
Instead of doing the typical lazy movement, I actually stood up and did a stretch, holding onto Roy’s back before moving toward her on four-glasses-of-wine legs. I scanned the paintings lining the wall, and the many guests, friends, patrons, and neighbors. If I’d had a canvas in front of me right then, I’d have painted the differing heights, ages, colors of skin and hair…the bald man dabbing at his eyes, the girl with the faded violet—or was that heather?—hair, the mother holding two children, one on each arm…just the backs of their heads, all staring at my art.
As I reached Ruth, I held my hands out for JBQ, my little nickname for him. “Peter wants to meet you and take our picture.”
“James, are you sure? It’s your big day, your interview.” She brushed the hair out of her eyes. Ruth Quinn was a punk rock princess. Take a lead singer from a rock band, give her the smarts of Maryam Mirzakhani and you’ve got Ruth Quinn. A bottle rocket of energy. She’d be a great mama to the two darling Quinn children. I took her hand and led her back to Peter. “This is Ruth Quinn, my curator.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. London. I loved your piece during the election.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Quinn. What got you interested in Mr. Brash’s work?”
“Actually, I have a specialty in pottery and did my thesis on the work of Joan Brash, his talented sister. I’ve since discovered parallels between James’s work and his sister’s.
“Parallels?”
“Yes, her Rainbow Squares and his.”
I was as surprised when she said it as I was the first time she’d produced the photo of Joan’s square pattern pottery. The picture of the place setting had the colors of the rainbow, but each dish was unique in coloring. It had been something she and I had both dreamed of for our home—taking a palette of paint and using only that color to create something. Before Ruth showed me the photo, I hadn’t realized Joan had done the set of dishes; they had been commissioned by some Jewish attorney’s boyfriend for his birthday. Who would have thought ten years later that rainbow would end up being a symbol for all of us?
Ruth explained, “We’d been going through Ella and Mary’s art, and I cried when I saw her Indigo Square. Have you seen it? Maybe it has more meaning, since I only knew her a short while, but…the square had the same hue as the teapot from the collection. When I told him about it, he blushed. I asked him if he’d done other squares. And the rest is history.”
And it still made me blush. “It’s not like I set out to paint a rainbow. It started with the Red painting and the face of the Vietnamese man—there was so much anger in the late sixties. As we moved into the seventies, things were just as angry, but I discovered sangria and sunsets; I painted the Orange Square after a date with a Roy Quinn wannabe that left me dissatisfied. Afterward, I was daydreaming about him when I was greeted with the most beautiful sunset—if you look closely, Roy is in the center of the sun.”
“I fell in love with his story…” Ruth stood behind our stools, her hands on our shoulders. “Their story, and I discovered his collection. The Blue painting with Linda and Lyndie, the Yellow with Yuri, the Green with pride in full swing, a parade across the canvas…”
“That’s only six of the colors of the rainbow,” Peter said. “Have you released the seventh, which would be—”
“Violet,” Ruth piped up and slapped me on the shoulder as a prompt for me to say more.
“It’s in the final stages—I plan to have it finished soon, it’s missing something.”
“Finished soon?” Ruth had panic in her voice. “It’s being presented tonight.”
I was gazing into the distance, thinking of the empty canvas I had wanted to fill with those backs, when one of them turned, and we stared long into each other’s eyes.
“Do you think I could have a look?” Peter asked.
Ruth and Roy laughed.
“Son, I’ve lived with him off and on for over thirty years, and once a painting goes into the studio, no eyes see it save his.” Peter grinned; he thought Roy was fooling around. “No, honestly. I have a darkroom in a little closet, and when he paints, he puts all these folding screens up so no other eyes witness the work.” Roy laughed and shook his head.
I smiled. “Except for today, dear loves. Today…I think I have what belongs in it.” I jumped up and ran across the yard to the back door, slid into the hallway and down toward my studio—Joan’s old room. There, on the easel, stood the Violet Square.
The painting held several familiar faces: Joan and Linda in the corners near the top, Ella in her Adirondack, and an added Mary holding a tray of drinks with her new wife Brit, looking on from the edge of the terrace. Roy and I stood under the tree in my backyard, with the lanterns all aglow, and Ruth and Bern in exquisite white, their children holding little baskets of petals…
I wanted to believe I saw her, if for no other reason than to bring happiness to the family.
I squirted a little white, some mauve, violet, and heather. The brush wove through the colors, concocting a light violet. At the corner of the house, I painted her looking across the length of the canvas, her eyes closed, her mouth forming a frown…no. Her eyes were open, and from a distance, the frown that one expected was turned up into a smile.
Lyndie. Her violet-hued hair framing her face.
I stood back and saw it…and her, at the window. We stared at each other once again, and then she was off.
I ran out of
the room and chanced a shout from the front door. “Lyndie?”
She turned; her soft hair framed an angelic face. She shook her head. “No, I can’t.”
“Yes, yes…please, yes, you can.” I moved toward her.
“They hurt me, Uncle James.”
“They didn’t know what they did. They didn’t know what that was…there were no names for any of what we had or were.” I was within inches of her. Lyndie was here, as childlike as that weekend at Pride so long ago.
“I…but I read the letters. Mommy had a girlfriend, and when I came out, they didn’t say anything. They didn’t share what it was like. They weren’t proud. They lied and hid.”
“They did, but they hid because they didn’t want to lose you or anything they had.”
“But they lost me anyway. I’m not sure if I can let them in.”
I nodded my head. “Do you know what we’re celebrating?”
Her head bobbed in unison. “Your wedding, your art collection.”
“We’re celebrating our families. We’re celebrating our union, and our fifty-year relationship that has been up and down.”
“And Mommy?” She had tears in her eyes. Obviously, this hadn’t been an easy time for her either.
“Ella lost her battle a few years back—Mary recently married.”
“I know. I wondered if Daddy still remembers her.”
“Oh, Lyndie. Of course he does. He loved her, sweetie. He remembers everything. I loved her, too.” I reached for her hand, tugged, felt resistance, and then she was following. “I’ve got a painting of her, please…come in, please. If only for the reveal of my recent work?”
We stood at the threshold of the house. “I’m not sure if I’d be welcome.”
I opened my arms wide for her to enter.
“I’ve missed everyone so much,” she choked out.
“I know…but I want to show you first—my final painting. My Violet Square.”
I led her through the house to my studio and stepped to the side, allowing her a chance to see the painting, to take it in. Just as I’d hoped, she moved closer to it, her fingers hovering over the tree, the faces.
In His Arms Page 8
