“In here,” Dad said as we entered a huge room at the back of the house.
Light poured in from outside. The room was walled in by glass. It was white and clean and inviting. Things were organized, unlike the constant mess he’d worked in back in the day when he was doing abstract, even before the drinking had started. In those days, the studio had been messy but exciting and flamboyant. The perfect setting for an “Artiste’s Studio.”
This studio was calm and thoughtful. No raucous bullshit. All the painting supplies were racked and organized. Canvases were lined up in neat rows. Any supplies not in use were neatly arranged or put away in drawers. Yet it had this inviting feeling, like I wanted to dive in and start painting right here myself. It was the perfect balance halfway between a disaster area and an antiseptic surgical theater.
I noticed dozens of glass bottles containing dry pigment of every color in the rainbow resting along a counter top. “Are you mixing your own oils?” I marveled. Nobody mixed their own paint. It was such a pain in the ass. I ordered mine online.
“Yeah,” Dad answered. “I got tired of having to reorder everything. Besides, it connects me to the work more if I mix the paint from scratch myself. The old masters like Rembrandt had to make their own paint. Why shouldn’t I? Anyway, it’s my own personal protest against all the modernization in the world. Everything is too detached nowadays. I know a guy who gets his ultramarine pigment straight from the lapis lazuli mines in Afghanistan. That guy has some hair raising stories about buying pigment, let me tell you.”
“I can’t even imagine,” Samantha said. She looked like a kid at a campfire listening to mythical tales about gods and monsters.
Dad continued, “I’m thinking about flying over with him to Afghanistan the next time he goes, just to see the mines and thank the guys who are breaking their backs digging up rocks so I can paint in a cush studio.”
“Warn me in advance if you do,” I said. “I’ll come with you.”
“You’d go to Afghanistan?” Samantha asked in disbelief. “Isn’t that super dangerous?”
“Imagine the stories you’d bring back,” I said.
My dad said, “Samantha, you should come with us.”
“Oh, I couldn’t afford it,” Samantha said, “Besides, I’ve never done anything like that. I don’t know if I could, even if I had the money.”
“Sure you could,” my dad said.
I winked at Samantha, “Now you know where I get my sense of adventure, agápi mou.”
“That’s an understatement,” she chuckled.
I glanced around the studio, feeling like a kid in a candy store. That was when I noticed the paintings on all the easels were portraits. My dad hadn’t painted portraits since before I was born.
I walked over to one of the easels. “Holy shit. This is grandad.”
“Yeah,” my dad said. “He’s been sitting for me the last several weekends.”
“This is where grandad has been coming?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
The painting was amazing.
Samantha walked over to look at it. “Oh my god, that’s Spiridon!” She reached out to touch the painting. “I mean, that’s him! It looks like he’s standing behind the picture frame.”
She wasn’t kidding. I’d always known my dad was fucking unreal when it came to painting realism. I got all choked up. Who had stolen my alcoholic dad and replaced him with the heroic guy standing beside me?
If my mom could only see him now. She’d flip. This version of my dad was the man she’d married, not the one she’d left.
I asked, “Do you guys mind if I use the bathroom?”
“You remember where it is?” my dad said.
“Considering there’s like, what eight?” I said.
“Ten,” dad chuckled.
“Ten,” I nodded, “I’m sure I’ll find one or two before I piss myself.”
Samantha and my dad laughed and continued talking as I walked out of the room. The second I turned the corner, tears were dripping down my face.
Mom.
I missed my mom like fucking crazy.
She never would’ve left the man standing twenty feet behind me and split our family apart.
I wept silently as I made my way to the closest guest bathroom. I locked the door behind me, put the lid down on the toilet seat, and dropped on top so I could bawl silent tears as I clenched the sides of my head in agony.
Sadness tore me apart.
Mom.
I missed her so much.
Why couldn’t she have stayed?
I hitched and sobbed in silence for another twenty minutes.
===
“Did you fall in?” my dad asked me as I returned from the bathroom.
“Almost,” I joked liked I was kick back happy. “If it wasn’t for the rescue crew that lowered the rope ladder down from the helicopter, I would’ve been a goner.”
My dad chuckled.
“I thought maybe you were constipated,” Samantha blurted, then clapped a hand over her mouth.
“I like this girl,” Nikolos grinned.
“Me too,” I said to him. “She cuts straight to the point. But yeah,” I said sarcastically, “after the rescue crew pulled me out, they got the guys with the oil drilling rig to bore down into my ass until the turd came out. I had my butt cheeks up in the air when the thing blew. You should’ve seen it. Brown rain.”
“That is foul,” Samantha grimaced and stuck her tongue out.
“Hey,” I chuckled, “you brought up the constipation.”
“And you ran with it across the finish line,” she smiled.
“If these jokes get any dirtier,” my dad laughed, “I’m going to have to go get my hip waders. I’m already up to my knees in shit jokes.”
Samantha cackled with laughter.
We spent the next two hours in the studio trading jokes like old pals and talking art. I could tell Samantha was having a blast.
“Anybody want dinner?” my dad suggested as the sun was going down for its nightly nap.
“What’s on the menu at Chateaux Manos?” Samantha joked, making the S in Manos silent, like it was French.
“We’re going out,” Dad said.
“What, is it the chef’s night off?” Samantha said sarcastically. She was totally comfortable with my Dad after only a few hours.
“It is,” he said. “I could stir something up in the kitchen, but I was thinking of going out.”
“I hope you have someplace fancy in mind,” Samantha said.
“I was thinking ‘berto’s,” Dad said.
“As in Roberto’s?” Samantha said.
“Of course as in Roberto’s,” he laughed. “What other ‘berto’s could I mean?”
“I don’t know,” she said, “Alberto’s or maybe Rigoberto’s, or Tio Alberto’s or Filiburto’s?”
“Wow,” I chuckled, “you’re really turning into a local San Diegan, agápi mou.”
She nodded proudly.
“That’s all well and good,” Dad said, “but we all know Roberto’s is still the best.”
We climbed into my Camaro and I drove the three of us to the Roberto’s in Encinitas.
My dad ordered for everyone while Samantha and I grabbed the salsa bottles and napkins and found a table outside.
“Okay,” Samantha said, “your dad is like totally awesome.” She was grinning from ear to ear. “Why have you been hiding him from me all this time?”
After spending several hours with my dad, seeing the studio, and touring his house, it had become clear it wasn’t an act. He’d literally transformed himself since my last visit. “This is the new and improved Nikolos Manos. Remember I told you about his drinking?”
“Yeah?”
“He is a changed man. I haven’t seen him like this since years ago.”
“Well, he’s awesome now, that’s for sure.”
“True that,” I smiled.
“How awesome is it that he’s like a billionaire, a
nd he wants to have cheap Mexican food for dinner?”
“He’s not a billionaire, but he is epic awesome,” I grinned.
My dad carried two trays with carne asada burritos outside a few minutes later. “I got chips and extra guac for everyone,” he smiled as he set the trays down on the colorful mosaic table top.
We chowed down on our grub.
“So,” Dad glanced at me and said, “your grandad tells me you’ve been having a little trouble with your new paintings?”
With my mouth still full of delicious carne asada, I mumbled, “Fucking kill me now.” It came out like I thought it was funny, and my dad chuckled. But inside, everything tightened up. Now that my dad had thrown away the booze and turned into a tea totaling ass kicking painter, I couldn’t tell him about my downhill slide. It would kill him.
Sam flashed me a quick look. She knew the score, but I knew she wouldn’t talk.
“What’s been giving you grief?” my dad asked.
In the past, I would’ve dodged the question. My dad had had so many problems of his own, we never had time to talk about mine. But he had opened the door. By the look in his eyes, he wanted to know. Where to begin? Fuck it. I was going balls deep on the ass fucking that my painting had been giving me lately. “Did you hear that Stanford Wentworth came by the studio?”
“The Stanford Wentworth?” Dad marveled. “I didn’t realize you’d gotten famous so quick.”
“More like infamous. Wentworth hated my new shit.”
“Bullshit,” my dad spat. “I saw your work at the solo show. It was beautiful.”
“Wait till you see my new stuff,” I grinned cockily. I knew I’d made substantial progress since doing those old paintings. “Technically, my new shit’s way better. Anyway, Wentworth hated them.”
“Then he’s an idiot,” my dad chuckled around the food in his mouth.
Talking about Wentworth should’ve sent me searching for a fifth of bourbon. It would have yesterday. But the stress I had around the topic of Wentworth had up and vanished.
As lame as it sounded, I think it was because of the simple fact I was sitting across from my dad like not a day had gone by since things were still good with him and Mom, when we were still a happy family. The happiest ever. I’d felt those good feelings coming back throughout the day today. Well, half back, which was fucking awesome because half of the greatest family unit on the planet seemed pretty incredible to me. Plus, I had Samantha.
What more could a guy ask for?
(mom)
“Two things,” Dad said. “One, we’re hopping on a plane to wherever the fuck Wentworth is at the moment so I can break his jaw.”
I grinned, “I hear he’s in St. Petersburg looking at some Russian painter’s new work. Cold as shit that far north of the equator. Wait until Wentworth heads down to Italy. I hear that’s where he spends Spring. Then I’ll join you.”
“That sounds like a fun trip,” Samantha smiled after wiping salsa from her lips. “Do we go to the ultramarine mines in Afghanistan afterward?”
“Totally!” I joked.
“Perfect,” she said before biting delicately on more burrito.
“What was the other thing?” I asked my dad.
“The other thing is, I need to see your new work so I can figure out what made Wentworth say that. As much as I’ve always disliked the guy, he knows what he’s talking about. I want to figure out why he said what he did. But I can’t make any comments until I see your new paintings in person. Otherwise, I’ll be blowing smoke up your ass, and you know how much I hate to get my lips close to your puckered butthole.” He leaned over toward Samantha and whispered conspiratorially, “This kid was a fart factory when I used to change his diapers.”
Samantha blurted laughter.
“Puckered butthole?” I asked doubtfully.
“I hear how the kids talk. No reason why I have to sound like an antique.”
“No kids talk like that,” I laughed.
“So I’m a fucking trend setter,” Dad smiled.
He was that. You didn’t make millions by being an also-ran copycat or an idiot.
===
“I think I see what Wentworth was talking about,” my Dad said thoughtfully as we stood in front of my painting of Sophia in the studio at my grandfather’s house.
Samantha stood next to me. My grandfather was right behind us.
“Technically,” Dad continued, “it’s incredible. But it’s stale.” He said it with no judgment. It was an observation, like he was thinking things through out loud. I knew my dad well enough to know he would say more when he had a clear concept in mind.
My grandfather chuckled, “You should’ve heard the way Wentworth was telling Christos to change things on the now-defunct painting of Isabella. If I hadn’t walked out of the room, I would’ve thrown Wentworth out of the house.”
I rubbed my grandad affectionately on the shoulder, “Thanks, Pappoús.”
“I really wish you hadn’t trashed that painting,” my grandad said. “It was excellent.”
Boom. Silence.
My grandad had accidentally let the cat out of the bag.
My dad knew exactly what caused an artist to trash a painting. He’d had plenty of personal experience.
“I’m sorry,” my grandad said. “I shouldn’t have—” he stopped short. “I’m going to go make some lemonade. Anyone want a glass?”
“Uhh…” Samantha stammered, “I’ll help? Don’t we need to pick some fresh lemons first? I think I saw a lemon tree down the block.”
“It’s spring,” I said sarcastically. “The lemons don’t come in for another couple months.”
“We’ll wait?” Samantha said. “Let’s go, Spiridon, before we miss the lemons ripening?”
The two of them walked out of the room.
My dad raised his eyebrows at me. “When did you start trashing paintings?”
“It was just one,” I said with a combination of guilt and defensiveness. “The one Wentworth didn’t like. I had to agree with him.”
My dad pulled a couple of chairs in front of my painting of Sophia and sat us both down.
“Was it like this one?” he motioned to the painting of Sophia.
“Better.”
“So why’d you trash it? And what did your grandad mean by trash? You weren’t drinking, were you?”
I could’ve blown a smokescreen and denied it, but come on, he would know. He’d been through it all himself. “Yeah,” I sighed.
“How bad is it?”
“The drinking or the painting?” I joked.
“I’m sure your painting was terrific.”
I clamped my hand around my jaw and rubbed the stubble nervously, “Like you said, technically, it kicked ass.”
“And the drinking? Is it kicking your ass?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
My dad shook his head. “That’s what I told myself. Remember where that put me?”
My stomach suddenly felt like someone had run a sewer line right down my throat and it was pumping toxic waste into me by the gallon. I needed a tub to vomit in.
“That good, huh?” Dad said.
I hung my head and shrugged my shoulders.
“You’ve gotta make a choice, paidí mou. The longer you slide down hill, the harder it gets to stop yourself from crashing into the bottom. You’ve got to take the reins or the drinking will.”
If it wasn’t for the fact that my dad obviously knew what he was talking about, I would’ve written off everything he’d just said as a bunch of empty platitudes. But he’d lived at rock bottom for years. I’d seen it myself. It was sort of hard to believe he’d turned himself into the clean and sober man sitting next to me in a year’s time. But he had.
I needed to take what he said seriously.
In that moment it hit me that I’d been trying so hard to convince everyone for the last couple years that I had my shit together, I’d started believing my own bullshit. Deep down, that same old
self doubt still ate away at me. Time to change that. My dad’s successes, both as an artist and a human being, gave me the confidence to finally speak with total honestly. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Bampás,” I said softly. Saying that out loud was the hardest thing I’d done in a long time.
I noticed my father’s eyes moisten when I called him Bampás.
His voice caught when he said, “None of us ever does, paidí mou. All any of us can do is keep moving forward and hope for the best. Sometimes things work out, sometimes they don’t. But you have to keep trying until you run out of try. That’s all there is to it.”
“That sounds fucking stupid,” I chuckled as silent tears dripped down my face.
My father laughed softly. “I know, but it doesn’t make it any less true.” He placed a comforting hand on my shoulder.
The next thing I knew, I was opening up about everything to my father. “I’m running out of money, Bampás. I’m burning through cash paying Russell to work on my defense against that guy Hunter Blakeley. My paintings are shit, and Brandon is barking up my ass about having everything ready for my next solo show yesterday. At the rate I’m ruining paintings, I’m never going to finish them. Everything is spinning out of control and I can’t stop it.”
My father looked at me thoughtfully for a long time. Eventually, his eyes lit up and he nodded. “I think I figured out why.”
This was the point where my father always dropped some big piece of wisdom that made me think about what he’d said for weeks if not months afterward. He was good at that sort of thing.
“Why?” I asked.
He tapped two fingers lightly against my chest. “Your heart.”
“My heart?”
“You left your heart out of every one of these paintings.” He motioned at the canvases surrounding us in my grandfather’s studio. “These are Brandon’s paintings, not yours. Did you pick any of these models?”
“I approved them. I mean, I picked them out of a bunch of headshots Brandon sent me.”
“But you don’t care about any of them. It’s obvious. I can see it. I’m sure they’re all nice women. But you don’t care about painting beautiful young women like you used to.”
“Nope,” I grinned. He was right.
“You’ve changed. You know why, don’t you?”
Painless (The Story of Samantha Smith #3) Page 33
