by Julia Watts
One thing that I don’t have to worry about anymore is getting to Patrick’s after school, or maybe what I should really say is that I don’t have to worry about him anymore—or do I? I know I’d mentioned planning to end things with him, and I did plan to do that, I really did. But then I found myself wanting and actually really needing that physical connection that I don’t have and can’t safely have with anyone else around here, a sexual connection—I may as well say it. So I went over to his house, just like always, not even having to worry about making up some story about homework since school was out, and besides, by now I had Mama thinking Patrick and I were friends.
When I got there, all the curtains were drawn like nobody was home, or like someone was home but trying to pretend like they weren’t, in other words, like somebody was hiding. This had never happened before. I rang the doorbell, knocked and knocked, and then I rang the doorbell again. I was just about to leave when Patrick finally opened the door, looked me directly in the eyes and shouted, “What?” just like that.
I was stunned. I should have left right then and there, but instead I started to say, “I was just thinking—”
“Get in here before somebody sees you.” He grabbed my arm, hard, and pulled me inside. After we’d moved away from the door and into the living room, I stood in place rubbing the spot where his fingers left an imprint.
“Let’s don’t just stand out here,” Patrick said then. “One of my parents could come home any time.” He gestured toward his bedroom with his chin. I had never seen him like this before, but because we were heading into his bedroom now, I assumed that things were going to be the same as always.
As soon as he shut his bedroom door, he asked, “So what do you want?”
We had never talked about what we did—we just did it. I shrugged. “I don’t know, I just thought—”
Patrick shook his head, and then he slammed his fist into his hand. “No, you didn’t think.”
“I just thought—” I don’t know why I repeated it.
That’s when he did it. He slapped me across the face with his open palm, hard. “You thought what, Snow?”
It stung, and I stared at him in disbelief.
He slapped me again. And then again. “What? Tell me what you thought? I want to hear you say it.”
I shook my head. The sting of his hand hitting my face so many times was causing my eyes to burn and to water, so that everything was beginning to appear blurry.
“Nothing,” I said. I was feeling scared and trying to think of a way out of there.
“‘Nothing’ is right, Snow, man, because that’s exactly what you’re going to get here—nothing. It’s also exactly what there is between us: nothing! And nothing happened, ever.” He poked his finger into the middle of my chest. “You remember that.”
I turned to leave, but then he grabbed me in a headlock with one arm. “If you ever, ever tell anybody what went on here and I find out about it, you’re dead. Now get out of here.”
I couldn’t stop to think about what might have gone down between now and the last time I saw Patrick, which was only about three weeks ago. What had changed? For a fleeting moment I wondered if it was Patrick who’d murdered Michael Foster, but that didn’t make sense. I just left Patrick’s house and took off running and didn’t stop until I got a few blocks from home. I didn’t want Mama to catch me out of breath or notice that anything was unusual. I needed to think about this.
And I did think about it, especially in my room that night. But I came up with no conclusions other than some pretty bad thoughts about the world we live in, where Michael Foster is murdered and Patrick turns into a monster. As I was falling asleep, I somehow started thinking about Michael Foster as Sal Mineo in Rebel Without a Cause. Michael was small like Sal Mineo. Sal Mineo also gets killed in the movie, and in real life he was murdered too. And then, well, all I know is that all of these weird, Chagall-like dreams floated around and around in my head during the night—Michael Foster riding his bicycle across the sky; Patrick on a broomstick like the Wicked Witch of the West; and me and Syd riding in her mom’s car, the wind in our hair and our heads thrown back, laughing. If I did sleep, it certainly wasn’t restful, but I woke up having somehow resolved to buy some canvases and oil paint: it was time to get started. Mama had said that she didn’t want me doing “nothing” all summer, so this is what I’m going to do—paint.
IT’S WEIRD to think that Michael was still alive when Syd and I went for the drive together last Sunday. We didn’t talk about him then. After all, he was supposed to recover. Also, I think we both just wanted and needed to get away from everything. And we did too! At least for a while. But when we came back, Mama asked Syd to stay for supper, and that was awkward! And then after Syd left, Mama said that though she didn’t like all the black eye makeup Syd wears, she seems like a nice, smart girl. “Maybe a little too smart” were her last words to me on the subject that night, and then she gave me the look that she gives me when she wants to emphasize or call my attention to something. Whereas all Daddy had to say afterward was that Syd seemed more like a tomboy than a real girl.
I’VE BEEN going to the public library a lot this week, practically every day as a matter of fact. I don’t know what Mama thinks I’m doing, but she appears to be thrilled, as if I’m already studying for next year’s classes or working on some sort of invention that will make the family rich.
What I’m really doing is looking at art books. Studying them. The library is lacking when it comes to anything that’s post the pretty Impressionists, unless it’s stuff like the paintings of Norman Rockwell or Andrew Wyeth. But they do have several of the most popular art history texts, so that I’m able to look at and study the abstract work that I’m most interested in. I don’t know—it’s just that I tend to eventually get tired of looking at paintings that represent things or people or even animals or whatever. I’m not saying that some of the painters who made representational paintings aren’t great, that would be silly: Van Gogh and Rembrandt and Vermeer and all those guys—they’re fantastic. And Picasso is a total genius. He had so many styles, but he was always changing and growing; he could do it all. I think that’s cool. I’ve noticed what excites me most is when a painting that expresses what the painter was thinking and feeling also captures something of what I’m thinking and feeling. I don’t quite understand how this can happen, but I want to learn. I don’t know very much about art, but what I do know is this: if I were to tell Mama and Daddy what I was doing at the library, they’d reflect back to what I said that night when their friends were over—that I want to be a painter. And then they’d sit me down and get all serious and everything, and ultimately what they’d say would be something discouraging. “You can’t set out to be a painter, Rufus. People just don’t do that. Think about it. Do you know anybody in Vermillion who’s a painter? How would you support yourself? What about your family? Be practical!” And all that, never mind that I don’t plan to have a family, at least not in the way they define family. Whereas Josephine and Syd will be so excited when I tell them that I want to be a painter (I haven’t told Syd yet. I wanted to sit with it for a little longer). They’ll be excited and encouraging, and I know they’ll do anything they can to help me. And I think I’m going to need some help too, because I’ve found out that Vermillion does not have a single art supply store, nor is there any place I can buy oil paint here, at least not as far as I can figure out. The closest art supply store I can find is in Dothan, which means I need somebody to take me there.
I know I’m kind of racing, but that’s because I’m so excited. Looking through those art books, I saw some work that makes sense to me, that seems as if it’s talking to me, and I’m thinking maybe that’s because it’s a way I want to paint. I’ve seen a lot of Jackson Pollock’s paintings, and while I like them, I don’t ultimately think that’s along the lines of what I want to do. And the same goes for artists like Mark Rothko. The paintings are cool, but they’re just not me, not wh
at I envision myself doing. Probably the painter whose stuff I’ve seen that I like the best so far, in the sense of being closest to what I think I want to do, is this guy named Willem de Kooning. Not all of his stuff, but some of it is very cool. And there’s this other guy named Franz Kline whose paintings I like a lot too, except that he seems to use only black and white, and while I can appreciate that look, I think I’ll want to use color too. I’m realizing that I prefer big brushstrokes, and also paintings where the paint is put on thickly—at least from what I can tell by looking at reproductions in these books (that’s called “impasto”). Josephine told me about this place in Chicago, the Art Institute, which is a museum and a school. Of course there’s New York and the Museum of Modern Art and all of the great museums and schools there, but Chicago is closer. I know I’m getting way ahead of myself: first I have to make some good paintings.
I think I already know what my first painting is going to be. I want to paint something for Michael Foster, something in his honor that I’ll dedicate to him. And I’m even already sort of picturing it my mind—the colors I’ll use, and the shapes. Sort of.
All of this kind of makes it hard to calm down and go to sleep at night.
“RUFUS?”
It’s Josephine. She’s on her way out of the library, and I’m on my way in, but I didn’t even see her because my mind is somewhere else.
“Josephine!” We hug as much as we can since her arms are full of books. “Sorry I didn’t see you at first. I guess I’m in the clouds.”
“That’s all right. You just looked intent. And thoughtful.”
I shrug. “I guess I kind of am intent.”
She gestures toward the one bench on the lawn in front of the library. “Can you sit down for a minute?”
“Sure,” I say.
“Would you care to share what you’re so intent on and thoughtful about?”
I smile without even trying to, and Josephine smiles back. “I think I’ve figured out what I want to do, Josephine. With my life, I mean, what I want to be.”
I feel like I’m about to hyperventilate. I’m so excited to be telling her, so I pause to take a breath. “I’m really interested in painting and have been studying it lately.”
“You want to be a painter.” Josephine just looks at me for the longest time. I’d be feeling pretty uncomfortable if it weren’t for the smile on her face. She grabs my hand. “That is wonderful, Rufus. Just wonderful. I’m so happy for you. You know, some wise person, I don’t recall who, once said that we shouldn’t spend so much time asking ourselves who we are, because that’s an unanswerable labyrinth, but rather that we should ask ourselves what we like to do, and then do it with a vengeance.”
“I like that,” I say. And then I remember what I’ve wanted to ask her. “This is a completely different subject, Josephine, but I’ve been meaning to ask you, I mean, I’ve been wondering… do you know Cole McWhorter, the guy who works at Famous Florists?”
“Oh, of course. The McWhorter family goes way back here in Vermillion, as does my family, the Caldwells. In some ways I grew up with Cole, even though he’s almost a generation younger than I am; I even babysat him once when I was home from college. And of course I know about that unfortunate incident in his past, though I was living in Chicago at the time. He used to be such a lively boy, and now—”
I look at her. “I know.”
“Now, well… it’s terribly sad. And of course the death of this boy Michael Foster has just brought it all back. Probably for Cole too.” Josephine looks as if she’s about to cry, but then she adjusts her posture and seemingly gains control. “Did you know him?”
I shake my head.
“I believe your mother went to school with Cole McWhorter, didn’t she?”
Mama has never said anything to me about this. “What?”
“Sure, I think they’re even the same age. Ask her.”
“I will.”
Josephine starts fanning herself with one of her books. Suddenly, she starts batting her eyelashes and then fakes a deep Southern accent. “I suppose I should be going before I melt.”
I laugh. “But before you go, I was thinking about, well, wondering, if maybe we could have another movie afternoon at your place, and invite him. Cole, I mean. I don’t know, I just feel so bad for him. He seems like such a sweet guy, and well, it just seems like the right thing to do.”
“That’s a lovely thought, Rufus. Let’s do it. Talk to Syd and we’ll come up with a date, and then we’ll invite him. Meantime, I’ll start thinking about what movie we should watch.”
“You’re the best, Josephine.”
She stands up from the bench, kisses me on both cheeks, and then smiles. As she walks away she says, “I’m so happy about your news.”
Rufus
SYD AND I are in her mom’s car heading out of town again, only this time it’s Saturday morning and we’re on our way to Dothan, Alabama, to buy my art supplies. I offered to go with her this morning when she drove her mom to work, but Syd said that it would be easier if she just picked me up afterward. I don’t think she wants me to meet her mom, or for her mom to meet me, at least not yet.
As we near the outskirts of Vermillion—and let’s face it, the town’s skirts aren’t very long—Syd says, “Should we proclaim our disbelief again?” And so at the same time we both shout at the top of our lungs, “I don’t believe in God!” There’s no way around the fact that it is exhilarating.
Syd says it figures that there’s no interstate between Vermillion and Dothan. “So it’s all back roads for us,” which seems fitting since we consider ourselves outsiders, if not outlaws.
“I ran into Josephine at the library the other day,” I tell Syd. “She’s so great. I told her all about wanting to be a painter, and she was just so encouraging.”
“Of course she was.”
“She’s all for us having another movie afternoon too, and this time inviting Cole McWhorter to join us. She said to talk to you and for us to come up with a date.”
Though the two of us must appear pretty funny in a turquoise Mustang from the 20th century, I think Syd looks cool driving along—one hand on the steering wheel, the wind in her hair. But I’m thinking that she needs a great pair of sunglasses. “Hmm,” she says. “How about next Saturday, a week from today?”
I think for a few, but it’s not as if I have a lot of plans. “Works for me. I’ll let her know.”
We’re out in the country now. We pass a few old dive bars, and a lot of rotting houses and abandoned gas stations. It feels as if we’re somehow driving back in time.
“Josephine told me that Cole McWhorter and my mom went to school together. She thinks they were even in the same class.”
Syd looks at me as if she’s waiting for more. “Why is that news, other than the fact that Cole McWhorter looks about twenty years younger than your mom?”
I think about that and realize it’s true, even though it hurts a little and also makes me feel bad for Mama. “It’s news because my mom has never said anything about being in the same class as Cole, or even going to school with him.” I think about what I’m going to say next and then go ahead and say it. “I guess she and my dad have been too busy making fun of him all the time.”
Syd gives me a look that tells me she understands. But then, as is typical of her, she tries to lighten things up. “That reminds me, I’ve been meaning to ask you about the décor in your bedroom.”
I groan.
“I mean, the navy bedspread, and the navy curtains, and that painting of a ship—I had no idea that you were so nautically inclined.”
“I’m not, I’m naughtily inclined.”
“Good one!” Syd laughs.
“Think of it this way,” I continue, “it’s kind of like being in prison, or in the Army, where you have almost no control over your environment. But there is the Rebel Without a Cause poster Josephine gave me,” I remind her. “And also the pictures I put up over my dresser.”
“Amy Winehouse,” Syd says, and she looks sad.
“Yeah,” I sigh. “I just like everything about who she is—or was.”
“Kind of like Jimmie-Sue but better-looking and more talented. Although I’m sure Jimmie-Sue has her talents.”
I snort, and then Syd and I grow momentarily silent as we see the sign announcing that we’re about to leave Georgia and enter Alabama.
Syd laughs. “I’m driving across the state line with a minor in the car. That’s a felony!”
“This is our chance, Syd,” I say, looking at her. “Let’s keep going!”
She bangs her fist on the steering wheel. “Thelma and Louise, or Thelma and Louis!”
“I’ll be Thelma,” I say, and Syd and I fall into a laughing fit, she more in control than I, fortunately, since she’s driving.
WE’RE IN Dothan, driving around looking for the art supplies store I found online the last time I was at the library: Craig’s Arts & Crafts.
“I bet Craig is really artsy and craftsy,” Syd says with a wink as we pull into the parking lot. It’s in a strip mall, naturally.
I smile. “You think he’ll be here?”
Syd turns off the car and gives me a deadpan look. “No, I think Saturday is probably his day at home with Glen and the poodles.”
When we walk inside, I feel immediately discouraged, as the place is filled with middle-aged women picking over yarn, decoupage kits, and the like.
“Look around, Rufus,” Syd advises me as she scans the place, “These are your peers in the art world. This is your competition. We may as well be back in Vermillion.” And she’s right.
“It’s as if we never left.”
