Dark Things I Adore

by Katie Lattari

  “It’s beautiful,” Max says as he runs his fingers over the surface. “Real quality.” I nod and take a sip of my wine. “So, he had his own company?”

  “Yes, eventually. What was a carpentry outfit became a cabinet-making outfit became a full-on building contracting company over the years. He was very successful locally. No Mr. Moneybags, but he did well, invested well. Sold the business for a nice sum when it was time to retire.” He places a gentle hand on my back, strokes it. I am painfully aware of every gentle brush of his fingertips on my shirt, on my back. His hand. My body. I swallow a rising queasiness.

  “You miss them, don’t you,” he says more than asks, his voice gentle.

  “Very much. Every day.” I can feel his eyes drinking me in. Gathering material.

  “It’s quite a loss, Audra. How horrible it must have been as each of them was taken from you.” There he goes, doing what he does best. But it won’t work on me. I swallow down my genuine pangs of sadness. I steel myself.

  “C’est la vie,” I reply and sip. Max looks at me, and I look at him. He removes his hand from my back.

  “And these paintings—they must be yours. They can be no one’s but yours,” he says, regaining himself. He goes over to stare wonderingly at one of them.

  “They are.” I laugh. “I did them in high school. Maybe one after high school, but just after.” His nose is inches from the surface of one now. He’s looking. Really looking. The majority of them are mine, but one isn’t, though the styles are similar. I see mostly appreciation in him, only a sprinkle of jealousy. But the jealousy is there. Oh, yes.

  “The early works of Audra Colfax,” he breathes, almost to himself. “Wow.” I stand there quietly and realize he’s really having a moment. He moves from the first to the second, and then to the third. He spends a full minute looking at each one, his eyes studying fixedly and casting about for details, brush strokes. He looks at the illegible jumble of letters making up my signature in the lower right corner of one. All three are paintings of the lake, of a nearby shore my family always visited.

  “These will be worth something one day,” he murmurs. He looks at me then turns back to the paintings. We are silent for a few moments. “Your grandfather must have been very proud of you.” Max nods. “I bet he insisted on framing these, putting them in a place of honor. You would have been too humble.” He laughs, eyes hungry on the canvases. I look over at him, struck and a little unnerved. Because he’s right. Pops begged me to let him get these professionally framed, to let them be in his office where he sometimes conducted business with clients. I’d felt silly and unworthy, a mere amateur, but Pops was determined. He believed in me long before I did. And here they are. Still. “My god, Audra. These are wonderful.” I feel an unexpected stab of gratitude toward Max then, watching him admiring my work. It is a weak moment for me, a sliver of appreciation for which I feel ashamed. I sensed from the beginning with Max that he thought my work—maybe even me—a wonder.

  Not that I care what he thinks, ultimately. I can’t afford to.

  “Thank you, Max.” He comes to me. He takes my hand and squeezes it. Then I lead him out of the study and show him two guest rooms down the hall.

  “I feel embarrassed to say this,” Max says as I show him the sunroom full of plush furniture and verdant ferns, “but I don’t think I know very much about your parents. I don’t know that you’ve ever offered it, and I don’t know that I’ve ever asked.” He looks out through the glass wall at the rough, hilly field beyond.

  “Yeah, I’ve not really talked about them much. I haven’t with anyone, really, mostly because I don’t know a lot about them myself,” I say. I touch the waxy leaf of the palm plant to my right. “Come.” I guide him from the sunroom and into the hall. “My dad was young and flaked not long after I was born. My mom died when I was just a baby. Like one year old or something. So I never knew them. Her parents, my grandparents, raised me.” Max is quiet. I start climbing the stairs, him behind me, toward his bedroom. There are more rooms up here, more I could show him while I talk. “It was tough. Tough on my grandparents, too. I mean, they lost their daughter and suddenly became parents all over again.” I grasp the railing on the stairs tightly as we ascend.

  “God, I am so sorry, Audra. That is so sad. So tragic.”

  “Yes,” I reply. “It is. It was. But my grandparents were wonderful, amazing people. They were kind to me. Loved me like their own daughter. I was very lucky.” We turn to face each other in the wide, carpeted hallway. Sun glow filters in through the octagonal, stained-glass window at the end of the hall. It gives Max a gold-dusted look. His eyes are tender, gentle as he takes this in. “When they passed, they left everything to me.” I laugh now, shaking my head. “Sorry. I know assets are kind of a douchey thing to talk about.”

  “No, not at all,” Max says. “It’s okay to be well taken care of.”

  “It’s not like I’m set for life or anything, but it’s definitely softened the blow of getting through school. And I’m a homeowner.” I raise my arms to gesture at the house.

  “Well, amen and god bless. Probably had enough cushion to do whatever you wanted, and you came to us.” He holds up his glass to me as if to cheers. I gulp down the last of my wine. It was a gift to be able to go to the institute to work on my art. But the reputation of the school itself is not why I applied there or ended up there. Max is. I came for Max. He may not know it, but I do.

  Because there are some things a man just can’t outrun.

  The timer I’d set on my phone hums from my pocket.

  “The brie,” I say hungrily, starting to head back down the stairs, dismissing the timer with the flick of my thumb. “I can show you the other rooms later, and the finished basement. Come, now. Food!” Max descends behind me. I can feel his eyes on my back, I can feel him thinking about my land, my house, my life. The paintings on the walls. The books on my shelves. My abandoning father. My dead mother. How much more expansive I am getting. That large raven hanging, dark, proud, wings spread wide open. Croaking prophecies only I can hear.

  You are alone. You are abandoned.

  You are mine.

  Thesis

  Her Dark Things by Audra Colfax

  Piece #2: Like Stardust on Me

  Oil and mixed media on canvas. 36″ x 48″.

  [Image of giant, golden swoops evocative of thick wings given dimension with slate-gray, midnight-black, olive-green shading. Found objects incorporated throughout by layering.]

  Note on loose-leaf paper found under the drawer liner in the laundry room of the Dunn residence.

  I dunno

  about Brady

  he’s just alright

  safe boring traditional

  has no real goals no big ideas for himself

  he does stay though

  and he thinks I’m really talented

  pretty nice of him

  that is

  staying and saying these nice things

  I need to hear

  I dunno

  we’ve liked each other in some kinda way since sophomore year

  I think he likes that I’m not afraid of anything

  not afraid to hurt—

  myself, mostly

  he says I’m brave

  with my past

  with my cutting and bruises and cigarette burns

  like

  bravery

  has anything the fuck to do with it.

  if it does:

  I’m the bravest cunt north of Boston.

  —Mar88. CD.

  Note on Lisa Frank stationery found folded in Cindy Dunn’s bedside table.

  Thelma said maybe she can help me with

  a job she says

  her old pal Gus runs this

  wild place

  the Lupine Valley Arts Collective in Ki
ng City

  he needs a girl

  to clean and guess what she said you can be around art and artists

  and fresh air make money

  I said

  yeah okay I need a job

  it would be good

  I need money for school

  —May88. CD.

  Note on torn graph paper found in an envelope filled with turkey feathers in a desk drawer at the Dunn residence.

  A little something

  to celebrate this new chapter

  it’s a dove

  doves are supposed to bring

  peace

  mom told me this and gave me a

  meaningful look

  we hugged for a long time

  for longer than we have hugged in a long time

  she touched

  my cheek and pulled my fancy tasseled scarf—

  she calls it yellow

  I call it butterscotch—

  (she says that’s the ARTEEST in you)

  around me better

  I’ve been wearing the necklace the

  gold little

  necklace like stardust on me

  ever since.

  —May88. CD.

  Note on pink scratch paper found folded and tucked under a floorboard at the Dunn residence.

  I started at Lupine Valley I use my

  body I work my

  body I use my

  hands in this different way on

  pounds and pounds of laundry and on scrub brushes against floors and my hands are in a shock about it a shock about it but

  Gus is a nice enough man and a photographer, an artist too

  I move between the cabins

  a ghost

  silent

  cleaning and rectifying and saving all manner of things

  and I watch them all

  move in and out of classroom sessions and workshops

  and someday I will be them and

  some days I am them

  —May88. CD.

  Note on pink scratch paper found pressed inside Watership Down by Richard Adams in the den of the Dunn residence.

  Me and Brady are fighting

  ever just want to hurt?

  —May88. CD.

  Note on pink scratch paper found taped inside a tissue box cover in the Dunn residence.

  Brady won’t talk to me

  right now

  because I slipped he said

  I stopped taking my meds which made

  the sex real good for a while

  which I thought he’d like

  which I did for him

  but it made me worse

  I threw a ROCK through his passenger

  window when he tried to drive AWAY from me

  like he was scared

  —May88. CD.

  Three

  Go On, Torture Yourself

  Juniper

  May 25, 1988

  Ash, Barley, and Trillium are already with Zephyr in her cabin drinking beer by the time Moss and I get there. Zephyr has little candles burning everywhere, dripping wax onto wood, their flames flickering in the gentle cross-breeze of the open windows. It’s like we’re about to hold a séance.

  We crack open some beers and immediately begin to gossip about the only thing there is to gossip about in our little community right now: the newly hired staff. Pretty Lotus ran off with a man from Kokadjo who’s easily twice her age almost two weeks ago now, so they had to find a new cleaner. And one of the cooks broke his femur in a four-wheeling accident and also had to be replaced. We’re all really hoping Mantis will come hang tonight and give us the full lowdown. Mantis has become our man on the inside for all things staff drama and camp gossip. When Mantis isn’t around, Moss refers to his stories as the Townie Chronicles, which usually gets a snicker out of the group. But it makes me uncomfortable. Like the locals are some sort of soap opera built for our own amusement, and that feels wrong. But Mantis seems to like the attention and gravitas it gives him. In this, he’s the expert, and we’re his students, and you can tell he relishes it. He explains the politics between Gus and the senior staff or the past sexual histories that entwine the winter snowplow guy with a string of lovers from sessions gone by, and we all are rapt. And he is in his glory.

  So after we’ve exhausted our sans Mantis capacity for projecting about the newbies, our focus turns to—what else—ourselves. Our work.

  Zephyr shows us a few examples of her latest, which are meticulously complex abstract paintings done on 4” by 4” white bathroom tiles. She’s unsure if they will ultimately make up some larger mosaic or if they will each be individual pieces unto themselves.

  “I keep needing to buy new tiles.” Zephyr laughs. “I come stomping in here in my tennis shoes after one of our classes and forget I have them all over the floor. Crack, crack, crack.” Her smile is broad, sparkling white. She shakes her head, her skin deep and smooth, an onyx goddess. I feel a flutter in my chest when she turns her brown eyes on me, full of warmth. “Clumsy girl.”

  I smile back, unable to do anything else under her gaze.

  About an hour in, Moss is regaling the group with one of his grand tales, arms flourishing, pushing his hair back again and again in his soliloquy, drawing all eyes on him, when Mantis shows up with a six-pack. The crowd cheers as he enters.

  “This is the last cabin I checked, of course,” he grumbles.

  “Glad you were able to make it. We missed you last time,” I tell him as he settles in next to me. I pat him on the back then crack one open for Mantis and me to share, seeing as how the six-pack won’t cover all of us without a little selflessness. Moss has turned notably quiet. His story forgotten.

  “Yeah, we really did!” Trillium chimes in, cracking her own beer open.

  “Just the one,” Mantis tells her, and seventeen-year-old Trillium nods sheepishly.

  “You have to tell us about this new cook. And the four-wheeler crash. We want details,” Barley says now. Mantis smiles, feeling the power balance shift his way. Us, rapt. He takes his turn with our shared beer and holds court.

  ***

  Hours later, after our group’s social séance has disbanded, Moss and I stumble our way back to Focus. It’s almost three in the morning, my flashlight guiding us along in our bouncing two-person parade, laughing too loudly, whispering like we have real secrets to keep.

  When we get inside his cabin, he lights his oil lantern, and I tell him how impressed I am with Zephyr’s tile pieces and how funny it is that she keeps accidentally breaking them. He offers me a nightcap—absinthe in a tin cup—before I have the chance to take my leave. I take it in my hands and start sipping, still talking, laughing, half-pained for the poor broken-legged cook Mantis told us about.

  Moss gathers a mass of sketch paper from the bed and dumps it on his desk. He seems to be looking for something under all the mess but eventually gives up, giving me boring answers in return to my questions about Zephyr’s tiles, Zephyr’s cabin décor, Zephyr’s warmth and kindness.

  His place is a wreck, per usual. Covered in canvases, sketch pads, crumpled pieces of paper, food scraps, empty wine bottles.

  I pad around the small space as he takes a seat on his bed, looking at the explosion of stuff. I find and look at some of his work. I see multiple iterations of the Ledge in daybreak colors, from different vantage points, in different palettes, on different-size canvases and pieces of sketch paper. Then another series, the Ledge with a man—probably Moss—conflated into equal, magnificent sizes. Interesting primary color juxtapositions.

  “Lots of Ledge,” I say as I thumb through some more, lift corners of sketch paper on the floor, my tin cup in the other hand. The paintings are just okay.

  “I think it’s out of me now,” he says,
throwing his oversize canvas jacket and leather moccasins in a corner.

  “Something new moving in?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He grins, setting down his notebook, pencil, and multi-tool on the desk. “Someone.” We catch each other’s eyes, a sudden panic stirring in me. He smiles, and at first there’s a note of cruelty in it. Then it softens. “Not Zephyr, I promise. I know you love her or what-the-fuck-ever.” I throw a crumpled piece of paper at his head, which he ducks. He laughs hard and loud, like a bully on a playground.

  Zephyr. A forty-something abstract impressionist with buzzed pink hair. Breaker of tiles. And sure—I think I might be in love with her.

  “No, no, it’s good.” He smiles his real dickish smile. “Glad to see you’re ready to love again.” I roll my eyes at him and down the rest of my absinthe, which immediately makes me nauseous. I toss the tin cup on his bed.

  “Goodnight, M,” I say, annoyed.

  “J, come on. I’m just playing. I’m honestly a little offended you don’t think I could have my own girl. That I’d be brought so low as to have to fight you over the same one.” He plops down on the edge of his bed.

  “Trillium?” I ask him.

  “Not Trillium,” he says thoughtfully. “But not not Trillium. I mean, maybe. She’s incredibly beautiful.” He says this last part as if it’s only just occurred to him. “Maybe her.”

  “That easy, huh?”

  He waves me off. “Trillium isn’t who’s captured my attention at any rate. No, I’ve found someone a bit more…inspired. And if it means anything at all to you, I think she’s into you, too. Zephyr, I mean.” I look over at him, unsure if he’s fucking with me. His face is earnest.

  “She’s my student,” I say. Moss shrugs.

  “She’s like ten years older than you. It balances it out.”

  I want her. I do. She’s all I’ve been thinking about lately. I scratch my head, unsure. I think of my chances. I think of the ethics. I think through repercussions if I make a move and find out I’ve read it all wrong.

  He knows before I do that I won’t do it.

  “You coward.” He flops back on his bed and laughs, turns over on his side so his back is to me. “Go on, torture yourself.” He yawns. “For now. But you’ll come around.” I watch his ribs expand and deflate, expand and deflate in the yellow light of the lantern. Watching it is soothing, steadying.