by Larry Watson
That was why it didn’t matter that Henry couldn’t describe the turn of Sonja’s hip or tell how the curve of her ankle differed from any other, because he didn’t need his senses to sense her. He hadn’t identified Sonja on that less-than-one-second glimpse through the window; he already knew—his being vibrated to hers.
And it almost struck Henry as funny that on the same day he made this discovery about the nature of love, he planned to burst in on his wife with a gun in his hand.
25
Henry waited in the garden behind Ned Weaver’s gallery, looking at the softball-size globes of spiky lavender that grew almost as high as his waist. He wished he knew the names of the flowers so that when Ned Weaver finally came out, Henry could point to these and say, “I was just admiring your ——.” But aside from the few that even children recognized—daisies, lilacs, roses—Henry did not know the names of flowers. Blossoms and petals, stems and stalks, grew all over the county, but to him they were seldom anything but shapes and colors. His eyes knew what to do with them, but they didn’t connect to anything in his mind. Flowers, they were just flowers.
He had left the pistol at home, wrapped in a bandana and placed in a coffee can on a shelf in the barn. Without it, Henry felt at a disadvantage, and he kept trying to think of things that might put him on equal footing with this artist. That right was on Henry’s side was somehow not enough.
That was why he asked the young woman in the gallery to have Weaver meet him outside. Henry thought that out here his size would work in his favor. Away from those white walls and the drawings and paintings that hung on them, Weaver might see that Henry had some power and authority of his own that had to be reckoned with.
Not that Henry was thinking of this situation as one where physical strength would matter. Henry was holding that in reserve, his next-to-last resort; in the line of persuasion, it came just before waving a gun under Weaver’s nose. This meeting would be talk, and that was why Henry wished he could put a name to this flower, so he could show this artist that he knew a thing or two himself. Maybe Weaver would come out eating an apple, and Henry could say, How do you like that McIntosh—tart enough for you? But it had begun to seem likely that Weaver simply wasn’t coming out. Henry had been waiting almost fifteen minutes, and the artist had not shown his face.
Then, just as Henry was about to give up and leave, Weaver walked out of the gallery’s back door. He was not eating an apple. A cigarette jutted from the corner of his mouth, and he was wiping his hands on a rag, which he jammed into the back pocket of his dungarees when he came within a few paces of Henry. He snapped his fingers and pointed at Henry. “Don’t tell me—your rifle! You’re looking to buy it back.”
Henry shook his head, struck speechless once again because he did not have the right opening into the conversation. Finally, he stammered out his name. “I’m Henry House.”
“Ned Weaver.” They shook hands, and the strength of the small man’s grip surprised Henry. But then he also noticed that under Weaver’s T-shirt was a flat belly, and his arms looked as dark, hard, and knotmuscled as carved wood. “What can I do for you?”
“Sonja is . . . I’m Sonja’s husband.”
Weaver nodded. “Okay.”
“You’ve been doing pictures of her.”
He smiled at Henry. “Now, don’t you suppose I know that?”
“But maybe you don’t know she’s married to me.”
Weaver shrugged and turned his palms up.
“What I mean is, did you know she’s a married woman? Did she tell you that?”
Weaver dropped his cigarette into the dirt and ground it out. “Let me see if I can’t hurry things along here. These questions of yours—they fit precisely in the long tradition of ignorance about what happens in the studio. Like most people, you don’t have a goddamn idea about what goes on, but you know that sometimes somebody’s naked, and that’s just enough to get your imagination running wild. You have as well a complete lack of understanding about the relationship between an artist and his model.”
Henry raised no more than a grunt of objection, and Weaver put up his hand and went on talking.
“I’ll present you with an analogy that might help you understand. What’s your favorite fruit?”
Here was an opportunity for Henry to establish his own expertise. Unfortunately, before thinking, he answered simply, “Apple.”
“Apples. All right. And I trust by that you mean apples are your favorite fruit to eat. But let’s say you’ve been given an assignment. You’re supposed to draw a picture of an apple. And you have an apple—no, a whole goddamn bowl of apples—in front of you to look at while you make your drawing. Now, even though you love to eat apples, you don’t eat any of these, do you? You might even be hungry as hell, but you’ll leave them alone. That’s not what they’re for, and that’s not what you’re for either. You’re a drawing man, not an eating man.”
“Jesus Christ,” Henry said in wonder. “If you can paint half as well as you can talk, you must really be something. Can I see these pictures?”
“Nope,” Weaver said. “Sorry.”
“I’m talking about the pictures of my wife.”
“But they’re my paintings.”
“Then I want you to stop making them. No more pictures of Sonja.”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“Whichever.”
Weaver laughed, a sound that in that sun-dappled garden came closer to the stony rustle of gravel underfoot than to the chatter of birds in the branches overhead. “Mr. House, let me tell you something about myself and my work. I go my own way. No one tells me what to do or not to do. I am not receptive to suggestions for alteration or revision, and I must have absolute freedom in my choice of subject and in my methods. Now, you may think you aren’t intruding on my art. You believe you’re simply trying to find out if I fucked your wife. But the fact of the matter is, you are interfering, and in an area in which I brook no interference. If God himself asked me what went on in my studio I’d tell him to mind his own fucking business.”
It was the sort of speech a man might deliver and then spin on his heel and stalk off. Instead, Weaver surprised Henry by smiling and saying, “You’re right. I can sling the bullshit, can’t I? Now, can you spare a cigarette? I’ve got to get something up my nose besides the smell of my wife’s fucking flowers.”
Henry brought out his Pall Malls and shook one out for each of them. Weaver struck a match before Henry could get his out of the cigarette pack’s cellophane.
Now what? Henry knew he couldn’t be the one to walk away. He had allowed Weaver to have both the first and last word, but here they were, smoking together; the argument—if there’d even been one—was over, wasn’t it? Was Henry supposed to turn the talk to weather?
Weaver relieved Henry of the responsibility of speech. He put his arm through Henry’s and began to walk him toward the gallery. “But I know what’s bothering you,” Weaver said. “You’re thinking, it’s not fair . . . the kind of access—visual access, mind you—this man has had to my wife. I understand your position completely. Now, I won’t say anything that will inflame your jealousies and fears. You’re no doubt letting your thoughts run away with you already.”
Men didn’t walk arm in arm like this, not unless they were father and son, yet Henry was reluctant to disengage himself from Weaver. The artist continued to talk, and Henry, with his bad ear, had to remain close or he wouldn’t be able to hear.
“The history of artists and their models is absolutely riddled with myths and misunderstandings. Models have been regarded as everything from pets to sorceresses, and painters have been seen as Pygmalions or seducers. It’s true that at times models were frequently enlisted from the ranks of prostitutes, but that was largely a matter of finding a group of available and willing females in suspicious, repressive times. The truth is, with few exceptions, the relationship is a professional one. And I have an idea of how I might illustrate that, and at the
same time even out what probably seems to you to be the inequality between us.”
Just before they reached the back door of the building, Henry heard a cry and looked back over his shoulder. A few gulls wheeled and hovered low in the sky just beyond the garden. Their presence shouldn’t have been a surprise; Fox Harbor and the lake were less than two hundred yards away. And Henry had been hearing these birds all his life; you’d think he’d be inured to them. But their squeals often alarmed him, sounding, as they did, like something—a puppy, a cat, a child—in distress.
Weaver opened the door and motioned Henry up a flight of stairs. They ascended, and at the top Weaver opened another door, ushering Henry into one of the gallery’s back rooms, a space largely devoted to storing and cataloging the paintings not yet on display or for sale.
Canvases, both framed and unframed, leaned against the walls, while empty wood and metal frames were stacked nearby. A large worktable was covered with rolled paper and cloth, mat boards, pieces of frames, a hammer and a jar of nails, a spool of wire, and coffee cans. A small desk held a typewriter and stacks of index cards.
“Harriet!” Weaver called out. “Are you still here?”
When no response came, Weaver said to Henry, “I don’t think she’s left for the day. Let me see if I can track her down.”
Left alone, Henry immediately began to inspect the paintings, uncertain whether he hoped to come upon Sonja’s image or not. He found pictures of the lake, of sailboats, of vases of flowers, of a bicycle leaning against what looked to be the porch of the nearby Loch Lomond Resort, but no humans, much less his wife. Henry was about to unroll one of the watercolors on the table when Weaver and a woman entered the room.
“Here she is, as promised! Mr. House, this is my wife, Harriet.”
The smiling woman who extended her hand was, Henry guessed, in her fifties, slightly younger than her husband. Her features were small and delicate, yet she was also fleshy and buxom—in body she reminded Henry a little of Frankie Rawling. She wore a sleeveless summer dress adorned with tiny pink and green triangles and squares.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. House.” Her hand was small and damp.
“Likewise.”
What had Weaver told her about him? She seemed uneasy in his presence, though the blush across her cheeks and at the base of her throat may have been caused by the heat. She tucked back a few strands of silver hair, and she kept putting her hands on her upper arms as though she was cold or embarrassed.
“I couldn’t hear you,” she said apologetically. “I was working in the garden out front.”
“I was telling Harriet,” Weaver said to Henry, “that you’re still struggling with some of the fundamental questions of art.”
She nodded enthusiastically, as though she knew not only what those questions were but also strongly approved of asking them.
“Do you work primarily in oils, Mr. House?”
An artist! She thought he was an artist! Well, why not. He and Weaver were dressed almost identically in T-shirts and dungarees, but Henry was wearing his workboots, the leather worn and scuffed almost to white, while Weaver was shod in torn, dirty sneakers. That someone might believe Henry and Weaver shared a profession flattered Henry.
“Henry is still searching,” Weaver said, “for his medium.”
Harriet looked expectantly at Henry.
“It’s true,” he said, although he was unsure of the truth he was acknowledging.
He didn’t have to worry; Weaver was quick to cover for him. “Henry has been concentrating on landscapes, but he wants to see what can be done with the human form. Henry’s had no professional training, so he’s never had a life drawing class, for example.”
Harriet continued to smile and stare at Henry, plainly waiting to learn why it was important that she meet this young man.
“I was explaining to Henry,” Weaver continued, “the value and importance of an experienced professional model. So many young artists believe they need nothing more than someone who’s willing to sit reasonably still.”
“It can be quite exhausting,” Harriet added.
“And the last thing you need is the distraction of a model bitching about being too hot or too cold, about being tired or stiff or bored.”
Was Weaver trying to tell Henry something about Sonja’s nature? Is that what this little meeting was for? Anger returned to replace Henry’s bewilderment. The nerve of this little son of a bitch—first he takes Sonja away from Henry and installs her as his private model, and then he acts as though he knows her better than her own husband.
“I told Henry you used to sit for me. And on a few occasions for other artists, isn’t that right?”
She nodded in assent, but wariness had now overtaken her features.
Weaver put his hands on his wife’s shoulders. “I hope I didn’t overstep my bounds, but I said you’d be willing to come out of retirement and sit for Mr. House.”
“Oh, Ned . . .”
“From what he tells me, you are exactly what he needs. He’s searching for a model embodying those rare, often incompatible, qualities of world-weariness and steadfastness. With, of course, her share of sensual beauty.”
She looked at Henry for confirmation. He said nothing, but he knew that the way alliances were swiftly forming in this room, his silence put him on Weaver’s side.
“This is something you’d be willing to do, isn’t it, Harriet?” Weaver’s voice assumed the tone adults use to soothe children to sleep, and though Weaver didn’t say “for me,” Henry believed those words were clearly implied.
Harriet glanced apprehensively from her husband to Henry and back again.
“He has to see the goods first, sweetheart,” Weaver said, slipping the strap of her dress from her shoulder.
If his touch had been ice or fire, she could not have flinched any faster.
Weaver laughed. “Harriet. Let’s not be ridiculous. This is for art. Since when have you been unwilling to do something for the sake of art?”
With the assurance of the long married who knows which way his mate will turn, Weaver stepped behind his wife just as she took a backward step. He gripped her bare arms and maneuvered her to face Henry head-on. Henry had held Sonja just like this when he made her look at herself in their mirror. Could Harriet see her reflection in his eyes?
Henry had not moved, but she shook her head quickly as if to warn him away from any action. “Please,” she said, “he’s only testing us.”
Weaver was barely visible behind his wife when he spoke. “Jesus Christ—the two of you! So you’re uncomfortable—what the hell does that matter! What if this . . . this collaboration between you led to a great painting—shit, even a good one? You’d be sorry as hell if you let a little embarrassment prevent that, wouldn’t you?”
“Wait . . .” She was pleading with Henry, not her husband. “He might lose interest.” Her arms hung limply at her sides, and she stared straight ahead without expression. Had Weaver somehow put her in a trance? Then Henry realized what Weaver was doing. He was unbuttoning his wife’s dress.
Henry had to say something. “Look, this is all a mistake. . . .”
“A mistake?” Weaver said. “You think this is a mistake?” With that, he pushed his wife’s dress forward so that it fell from her shoulders. It would have dropped all the way to the floor, but the material caught and gathered at her waist.
“Can you tell yet—will she serve your purposes?” From behind his wife, Weaver peered out at Henry. “Does she have the requisite attributes? I want you to look closely, but blur your eyes a little too. You have your own vision, I’m sure, but you have to be aware of all the possibilities your model offers as well.”
Slowly, delicately, Weaver slid the satiny straps of his wife’s brassiere from her shoulders, and only then did she make a move to cover herself. She did not, however, put her hands over her breasts; she clapped her arms over her stomach, and when she did, her husband reached around and swiftly pulled down
the cups of her brassiere.
She winced and let out a tiny mew of pain, as if her heavy breasts did not merely tumble free from their restraint but threatened to tear away from her flesh. She could not cover herself immediately—her own garments caught her arms at her sides—and though Henry tried to focus on Harriet Weaver’s face, he saw enough—large nipples and aureoles so palely pink they might have vanished were the surrounding flesh not so milky white. A second later, Harriet Weaver got her hands up over her breasts, an action that she somehow performed not frantically but with a kind of dignity, even while her eyes were welling with tears.
“Well, how about it? Are we there yet?” Weaver asked Henry. “Is your sense of justice satisfied?”
Because Harriet Weaver’s expression was so tightly drawn, Henry felt as though he could suddenly see what she looked like before the years added their layers and lines. And yet it did not seem as though time was falling away as he stared at her; instead, it accelerated, and he saw through to her skull, to the structure of chin, cheekbone, and brow that was responsible for her good looks and that would be left behind when her flesh fell away.
“Ma’am, if you give me the word, I’ll get ahold of the son of a bitch and break both of his arms before he can do another thing to embarrass both of us.”
Perhaps if Henry had made a different threat, Harriet Weaver might not have responded as she did. She suddenly seemed more frightened of Henry than of the man mistreating her. “Please please . . . don’t do anything,” she said. “Don’t you understand? He and I—we’re together. In spite of everything, we’re together.” That this plea came from a woman leaning toward Henry with her hands over her breasts gave it an urgency he had to heed.
