by Mara Purl
Miranda Jones watched the distant flash of the lighthouse for a moment, then looked away from her window to focus on a narrow band of thick paper scrolled across her studio floor. Inhaling deeply, she dipped the tapered fibers of her immense paintbrush and struggled to lift its wet mass from the inky bucket, then swept a black streak across the white paper.
She held the three-inch diameter brush handle upright—its top reaching to her waist—and resumed her bent-knee, wide-footed stance. Hoisting the fully saturated brush, she began the dance that would drag it rhythmically along the paper, creating a vertical image.
Placing her bare feet on the sheet, she stepped backwards, the weight of the sodden brush causing her arms to shake. Yet each motion synchronized with both the soft shakuhachi flute music that played over her stereo, and with the call the paper itself seemed to be whispering in her ear.
When she reached the end of the sheet, she walked back to her starting point, replaced the brush in its bucket, and stood entranced, her soul soaking up the experience even as the image soaked into the paper.
By now her studio was permeated with the distinct aroma of the sumi ink. Concocted of palm ash and glue, it also contained traces of camphor and musk oil. She inhaled again, agreeing with the legend that promised the ink’s special odor helped to induce the perfect meditative state.
She’d placed four black stones—smoothed and rounded from tumbling for years through the nearby surf—as weights to hold the scroll in place. Now they almost blended into the image, as though she’d added four extra smudges of ink. But, in fact, the stones would be removed and weren’t part of what she’d painted. She scrutinized the piece. When the stones are removed, will the piece look incomplete? Yes … it needs something more.
She felt the idea, more than she thought it. Focusing on an unfilled portion of the paper, she reached for a smaller brush that stood ready in its own bucket. She lifted it, then let her hand sweep through a series of motions. When she’d replaced the smaller brush, she closed her eyes and bowed over the paper, signaling the completion of the current scroll. My teacher would add a touch of vermillion… but I’m not ready for that yet.
During art school a few years earlier, she’d completed a course on sumi-e, and since then she’d occasionally used the ancient Japanese ink-wash painting as both a meditation and a discipline. Traditionally, it was both, from the almost ritualistic grinding of the ink stone into water, to the careful handling of brushes whose hairs were trimmed to a delicate point.
But more recently she’d been accepted into a workshop by the eminent American calligrapher Barbara Bash, who’d shared her unique approach of pouring sumi ink from half-gallon bottles and using an oversized brush to create her huge scrolls. I’ll never master this the way Barbara has, but I love how it centers my mind. It’s all about flow.
Is this a “head” or a “heart” process? If “head” was the answer, it wouldn’t be in an intellectual sense, because the ink almost seemed to be “thought-projected” onto the paper, the marks capturing a flow of movement uninterrupted by editorializing.
Though the actual painting of the ink-wash was necessarily quick, preparing for each piece was a lengthier process. At least it is for a relatively inexperienced calligrapher like me. The ink had to be poured, the paper laid, and the artist had to summon both energy and vision.
Miranda appreciated that this big-brush technique worked on three levels. As physical exercise, it felt similar to Tai Chi and to Yoga, both of which she enjoyed. As mental discipline, its immediacy permitted no distraction, no procrastination. A brush pressed a moment too long would cause ink to soak through and ruin both the paper and the image. She carried these lessons into her own watercolor work.
And though technically big-brush sumi-e was certainly a form of fine art, it was far enough away from her core practices of watercolor and acrylics, that it left her free from internal judgment. She could float above the brush, the paper and the image, allowing thoughts and feelings to surface freely. I know why I love it so much. It lets my heart speak.
The CD she was listening to came to an end, and a gust of wind rattled the windows. How many images have I done tonight? The new one makes four. And how long have I been at this? I’ve lost track of time again. She glanced out at the moon, noting it was lower now, its color beginning to shift from silver to gold as it sank toward the ocean. It’ll set soon, and we’ll have some black sky before dawn, so I’ll have a chance to sleep a little. I think I’m finished work for tonight.
Stepping to her worktable, she picked up her X-acto knife and carefully sliced below the end of the painted image, separating it from the heavy roll. She lifted the top edge enough to drag the long sheet parallel to the others, which were laid out on the studio floor to dry. Tomorrow she’d mount the stepladder and tack the vertical images to the wall. For now, she stared down at the new work and its three companion pieces, finished earlier that evening.
She stood back to examine the four scrolls. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “It’s the four seasons!” Amazed this hadn’t occurred to her before, she now saw clearly that the four six-foot-high water paintings described the subtle elements of California’s coastal seasons: a pine for winter; a blooming crape myrtle for spring; an olive tree for summer; and a persimmon for autumn. Maybe I didn’t notice at first because the images are black-and-white.
The piece she’d just finished was of the persimmon tree, its drooping-leaves and multi-stemmed trunk so reminiscent of Asia. Yet she learned they’d been imported to California in the 1800s, and they were now as much a part of the Central Coast as any native tree. The bright orange color of the fruit came into her mind, highlighting the fall season when it ripened.
She glanced down at the bottom corner, where she’d added that final swirl of paint. What is it? It looks like … a kitten! Kneeling, she inspected the small image more carefully. I know I had no particular definition in mind when I created it. She remembered laying the wet brush sideways, then dotting it here and there as she lifted it off the page. But now, there they were, the distinct feline features—head and whiskers, tail and feet.
“Hello,” she said to the impish picture. “Thanks for the visit!”
Tired to the bone, Miranda stood, stretched and sighed. Now for the cleanup. It took her a good half hour to wash the brushes, empty the buckets, and secure anything else she might’ve left open in her workspace. By the time she flipped the light switch and headed downstairs to her bedroom, she was already half asleep.
I’ll shower in the morning, she thought. But it’s already morning! Too tired to make sense of the chronology, she washed her face, brushed her teeth and collapsed under her comforter. It’d be nice to cuddle up with that little kitty I drew. She smiled at the fantasy and imagined the kitty tiptoeing across the covers.
Those four scrolls… they’re great, but I’d love to do them in full color. Maybe I can take the four seasons idea and incorporate it into my miniature watercolor postcards….
As she reached to turn out the light on her nightstand, something caused her to choke. Gasping, she reached for the water bottle she kept handy by the bed, sputtering as she took a gulp. What in the world? It wasn’t as though she’d gagged on a morsel of food, or swallowed down the wrong pipe. She’d been choking before she took the swig of water.
She shuddered, trying to sense the source of whatever she might be feeling. Is something bad about to happen?
No, not in Milford-Haven, she reassured herself. Bad things don’t happen here.
Jack Sawyer’s alarm clock stuttered into life, its plastic frame cracked from abuse. A heavy hand swept down and banged the “snooze” button, then retreated under the covers.
Jack hadn’t slept well. Keeping one step ahead of town, county, and state regulations didn’t usually keep him up at night. But now he had to contend with Samantha. No matter what he did, he could never seem to get away from that woman.
He swung his legs out from under the blanket and didn
’t notice its long-forgotten coffee stains. He focused for a moment on the clock’s digital display. The last digit no longer illumnated, so it was always a guess. He hoped it was still within a minute or two of 7 a.m.
Jack headed down the hall, his bare feet leaving an occasional imprint in the dusty floor. An hour-and-a-half from now, he’d be in his office and the irritating phone calls would start: from contractors trying to pick his brains; from prospects who said other contractors could outbid him; from incompetent workers with idiotic questions; from inspectors with nasty notices. But at least his home phone wouldn’t ring, and he wouldn’t turn on his cell till later. Plus—today held the promise of a new client.
He reached the bathroom and scowled at himself in the mirror. The fierce blue eyes were still clear. The hair had gone salt-and-pepper, the face a little jowly. Chest and arms remained firm, thanks to the fact he spent about as much time on his job sites as behind his desk. Jack’s gaze trailed down the rest of his six-foot frame—solidly packed with muscle, but with a little too much gut. Not bad for over fifty. Besides, only one thing really matters. Everything still functions.
Just then, his home phone did begin to ring. Damn! Who the hell would be calling me now? A sudden fit of coughing seized him, loud enough that he missed the next two rings of his phone, and on the fourth one his answering machine picked up.
“This is Jack Sawyer. I’m out. Leave a message if you expect me to call you back.” He paid no attention to his own gravelly voice on the outgoing message. But after the beep, when an authoritative female voice began speaking, Jack started coughing again.
“Jack, this is Sam calling.” As if he didn’t know. “I’ll leave a message at your office, but in case you don’t go there this morning, you should know you’ll be facing an injunction. Have a nice day.”
Kevin Ransom loved the mornings better than any other time of day. In autumn, it was still dark and chilly when he got up. He never knew whether the sky would look pink or orange or lavender, so it was always a surprise. He liked that best of all.
The view from Kevin’s porch raced down a steep incline through a stand of tall California pines. The smallness of the house was made up for by the size of the trees, which stood on protected land, so they’d never be cut down. The first rays of light penetrated the upper branches like the strobe lights of a National Geographic photographer. Guess the storm last night cleared out all the clouds.
The squirrel who occupied the back yard stepped onto the railing of the deck and walked gingerly toward Kevin, chattering for his morning nut. Today it would be a cashew, and Kevin couldn’t decide whether his squirrel was demanding an early Halloween treat, or stocking up for winter.
Kevin only had a few minutes before he had to leave for work. He liked to get there before Mr. Sawyer and make sure the coffee was made. It sometimes seemed to make Mr. Sawyer’s mood a little better.
“Hey, little fella.” He spoke quietly so as not to scare the squirrel off. “Want another one?” he asked. He wondered why it was always so much easier to talk to animals than it was to talk to people.
Sally O’Mally unlocked the back door of her restaurant and flipped on the kitchen lights, illuminating the gleaming steel sinks, pristine countertops, and the rows of shiny pans that hung from a large overhead rack. She caught the room’s faint odor of fresh lemons that lingered after last night’s cleaning. Though she’d been tired when she woke up this morning, she felt a spark of energy at seeing her workspace spotless and ready for a new day.
Mama trained me well. Still, I never do get up as early as she does. She pictured her mother in Arkansas, still living on the farm, still knitting, and still baking up a storm—biscuits, breads, and her signature pies.
Gotta get the first pot o’ coffee started. After putting her shoulder bag in the tiny private office she’d created out of a closet, she pulled the plastic lid off an industrial-sized tin of ground coffee, loaded several scoops into a filter paper, then snapped the basket-holder into place. Okay, now for the biscuits. Maybe I can get the first batch in before June gets here.
Her hands moved almost by their own volition as they found the chilled batter—prepared the night before—in the fridge, greased the baking sheets, dusted the cutting board, rolled out the dough and began pressing into it a round cutter. When the sheets were ready for the oven, she slid them in. Just then the back door swung open again.
“Mornin’, Sal,” June called cheerily in her distinctive Brooklyn accent. “Geez, it’s gettin’ light a lot later already!”
“Well, that’s September for ya,” Sally confirmed. “How you doin’ this mornin’?”
“Fine.”
Sally smiled at the long sound of June’s vowels. I s’ppose I sound just as funny to her as she does to me. Milford-Haven brings in all kinds.
Sawyer Construction Company was still closed and locked when early-morning sunlight slid past decade-old layers of dust on the Venetian blinds. There was no sign of life until the light on the office answering machine illuminated, and the cassette tape began to squeal softly while it turned.
Jack’s outgoing message crackled over the speaker. The voice did nothing to belay the gruff impatience that set the tone at his office. “You’ve reached Sawyer Construction. We’re out of the office at the moment, but leave your name, number and a brief message, and we’ll get back to you shortly. Wait for the beep.”
“Jack, it’s Samantha. I read in the paper this morning that you’ve announced the start of construction on that shopping center.” Not even the filtering of the tiny speaker on his machine could make her voice small. “You know perfectly well the plans have not yet been approved by the Planning Commission. I’d advise you to call me the minute you get to your office.”
Chapter 2
The tourist shops of Milford-Haven were still closed at this hour—especially now that summer had passed and the Central Coast was officially off-season. Main Street had almost no traffic except for local early risers looking for a good breakfast—and all of them had parked in front of Sally’s Restaurant.
In the row of windows facing the street, miniature pumpkins marched along window sills, and cotton curtains with a tiny floral print were pinched into ruffles along brass rods hung midway down the panes. From the outside a passerby could see the tops of heads, but not patrons’ faces. It was the only concession to privacy observed at this establishment, where the owner herself felt that any word spoken in her restaurant might as well have been spoken to her.
Inside, Sally’s was now a bustle of activity, as it usually was by 7 a.m. In the kitchen, two cooks performed miracles of multi-tasking: the fourth batch of biscuits was coming out of the professional-sized stainless steel oven, sending forth a yeasty, irresistible aroma; eggs flew on and off the griddle at record speed; and perfect rounds of pancake batter hissed as they turned golden brown. Meanwhile, June used her right arm to start another pot of coffee while balancing plates all the way up her left.
Out front at the well-worn counter, old Mr. Hargraves folded his newspaper and gave himself a startle as he elbowed his neighbor on the next stool—a straw man wearing overalls and mouthing a corncob pipe. As Sally served her customer a heaping plate of steaming grits and eggs over-easy, he complained, “Can’t get used to Mr. Hay, over here.”
Squeezing herself between two chairs to take another order, Sally replied, “Jus’ somethin’ we do in Arkansas, Mr. H. Don’t pay him no never mind.”
“Not sure he oughtta be smoking,” Mr. Hargraves said to her back, then dug into his eggs.
The screen door squealed and slammed as it always did. Dishes and stainless steel flatware clattered pleasantly, and Sally’s famous biscuits filled the room with an irresistible aroma as Jack plopped himself into a chair, with Kevin in tow.
“Well, good morning, folks. What’ll it be, the usual?” asked Sally.
Jack Sawyer had known Sally these four years, and still he hadn’t decided whether that Arkansas drawl was an annoyanc
e or part of the attraction. “Yes, Sally, and bring some coffee right away, will you?”
“That sounds good.” Kevin always agreed with whatever Jack ordered, apparently more eager to please him than to please his own palate.
“And whole wheat toast?” It grated on Jack, how she drew out the words and mangled the natural vowel sounds.
“Right.” Obviously, she committed this menu to memory long ago, yet her pencil remains poised above her pad.
She wet the lead with her tongue before she wrote down his answer. “And two eggs over hard?”
She always manages to make it sound like an aberration. Eggs over hard. I like them that way. What business is it of anyone else’s?
“That doesn’t sound so good.” Kevin’s quiet interjection was out of character, and it drew a smile from Sally.
“And bacon crispy?” She was still scribbling.
Jack was tired of the redundancy. “Sally, I did say that I’d have the usual, didn’t I? Have you ever known the usual to be something other than it usually is? And did I not ask you to bring some coffee right away?”
“Well, my word, Jack,” she said, “there’s no call for you to get all upset now. Just don’t get yourself in an uproar, and I’ll get it. I’ll put your order right in. Consider it done!” Sally turned towards the kitchen, putting on an automatic smile with the well-practiced professional calm of a person running a business.
Jack glanced across the restaurant and noticed old Mr. Hargraves give Sally a knowing wink. He’s got a nerve. As though to annoy Jack further, Sally sashayed away from Hargraves humming the little nondescript song she always sang to calm herself.
Jack mumbled, “What’s wrong with that girl?” It was a rhetorical question, one that he frequently voiced. But it masked his respect for the little slip of a woman who would let no one—not even him—push her around.
“Gee, Boss, nothing that I know of.”
