Blood Water Paint

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Blood Water Paint Page 5

by Joy McCullough


  When Malachi did not return with his fellow scout, Judith was certain he must have infiltrated Assyrian ranks, searched for a way to take out their captain and thereby halt the onward Assyrian march.

  Finally, though, Judith faced the truth: Malachi would not return. Her only comfort was the thought that his death would serve a purpose. Bethulia’s leaders would have to make a choice—flee or fight, it hardly mattered. As long as there was action. A reason for her heartbeat’s death.

  But now—now!—she’s learned the only plan is hunker down and die. They could have done that without Malachi’s sacrifice! Without Judith’s sacrifice!

  The servant pricks herself. A drop of blood blooms on the smooth pad of her finger. It’s nothing. The servant would continue with her labors if she weren’t concerned with staining the dress. But Judith swoops in as though Abra has been stabbed. She dabs the blood away with the hem of her skirt.

  Abra sighs. One more stain to remove.

  “Are you listening to me, Abra?”

  The servant whistles the tune Judith’s mother used to sing before Judith left for Malachi’s village, taking with her only Abra, her righteous anger, and her love.

  Judith stills Abra’s hands, meets her eyes. “I know you heard me.”

  Abra doesn’t have so many years on Judith. She’s more older sister than wizened aunt. But no matter her age, she’ll always be a servant.

  “The Assyrians. I heard. And what business is it of ours?” Abra resumes her stitching as Judith resumes her rant. The pinprick of a moment before is forgotten as a much deeper stab of worry slices through Abra’s heart. Judith isn’t only outraged. Judith is planning something. There are things she can do, as a woman, Judith insists, that no man would think of, much less pull off.

  When Judith finally takes a breath, Abra sets aside her mending. “Leave me out of it.”

  Perhaps the world has taught Abra she has nothing to offer but mending, cooking, cleaning. But Judith must do this thing that’s only just beginning to take shape in her mind. Because she is not small. She is not weak. She will never, ever be feebleminded.

  And above all, she is outraged.

  The world will tell you not to be outraged, love. They will tell you to sit quietly, be kind. Be a lady.

  And when they do? Be Judith instead.

  29.

  No matter

  how many layers

  of paint pile on,

  I will always be

  the sketch beneath.

  Useful, even crucial,

  but never what’s

  admired by the world.

  If Father gave me leave

  I’d fly away from here,

  gone before he’d rinsed

  the charcoal from his hands.

  But where to go?

  No answer to that

  question, no point

  in even asking.

  Instead I pull out my Susanna,

  the one I’ve hidden from my father

  for fear his criticisms will dissuade me.

  If one of the elders

  leering at Susanna

  should bear a slight resemblance

  to Orazio Gentileschi

  as he leers at a young woman’s form,

  that’s just

  a trick of the eye.

  If the viewer sees a spark

  inside Susanna’s fear,

  a hint she may be capable

  of more than any man

  has ever dreamed,

  the faintest whisper

  that at any moment

  she might risk everything

  to whirl around

  and stare them in the eye,

  that’s just

  a flight of fancy.

  30.

  i.

  Why so blue?

  Susanna pulses

  through me

  so entirely

  I do not feel

  the

  world

  tilting

  until a hand

  rests on my shoulder.

  Artemisia, why so blue?

  I allow my heart to surge

  at Tino’s voice, concern.

  One man, finally

  who is not here

  to use me.

  But I do not

  let him see

  my pleasure.

  Instead I stare, petulant,

  at the canvas before me.

  Do you have

  another suggestion

  for the sky?

  I meant your temperament,

  my dear.

  When you paint,

  you glow.

  You radiate like the sun.

  And there,

  he’s done it.

  Hoisted me out

  of the depths,

  turned me

  on my head

  again. I fight a smile.

  I’m not blue.

  You are positively

  cerulean.

  I consider him,

  his face a blank canvas,

  my next words

  the paint.

  But he is here

  to be my teacher,

  not my confidant.

  I pick up the brush,

  consider Susanna.

  She’s naked, too.

  It’s my father.

  Tino’s movement stutters.

  Truly? He bears

  an uncanny resemblance

  to Susanna in the garden.

  I meant—

  You are remarkable,

  to have survived

  your lout of a father

  this long with such grace.

  He turns to Susanna.

  If Orazio cannot see

  what you are doing here,

  cannot understand

  the risk you take when you

  paint Susanna in a new light,

  then do something

  for me.

  Anything.

  Cast him out of your mind.

  He’s your father, yes.

  But you are the artist in this house.

  You want to experiment?

  Try something your father

  doesn’t approve of?

  You trust your heart.

  He speaks of my Susanna,

  how I’m trying to capture

  her fear

  rather than

  her beauty.

  How I’ve made her

  attackers handsome

  wise

  respected,

  rather than vulgar

  and obvious.

  He understands!

  ii.

  Trust your heart,

  he says, but his words

  make me want to reach

  deep inside for that piece of me that trusts,

  dusty, unused

  since my mother’s death,

  and hand it over,

  rust and all.

  My father hasn’t seen

  this Susanna.

  I watch Tino

  take this in.

  He turns, waits,

  like nothing is more important

  or more pressing in his day.

  I tire of being his model.

  His brow wrinkles,

  confusion blurs

  his usual certainty.

  Until finally:

  Ah.

  I don’t mean

  to pour myself

  out before him

  and yet.

  If he’d let me do the painting myself it would be


  better than his clumsy efforts

  to reproduce my form.

  From what I understand,

  you do most of the painting

  anyway.

  And yet he insists on the nudes.

  iii.

  His face falls

  into shadow,

  a Caravaggio

  without the light.

  I’ve overstepped.

  For all our jokes,

  familiarity,

  I never should have—

  Your father . . . ?

  He takes a paintbrush

  from my workspace,

  turns it over

  in his hands.

  I step closer.

  We’ve stood

  this close before,

  but always with

  our gazes trained

  on the canvas.

  Now we’re

  face to face,

  heart to heart.

  Your father . . .

  The paintbrush snaps.

  I startle at the crack.

  His eyes meet mine,

  shift from rage

  to soothing silk.

  I’m sorry,

  my darling.

  I must—

  Your father’s never . . . ?

  My skin crawls.

  My father’s never laid

  a hand on me.

  It’s true, he orders me to strip,

  to be his model

  puppet

  slave

  but I am not—at least—that.

  I tear my eyes

  from Tino’s,

  mumble to the floor:

  No.

  And then

  (I did not think it possible)

  Tino draws yet closer.

  Good.

  If anyone ever hurt you . . .

  He drops the broken brush,

  grinds the pieces

  to splinters

  beneath his boot.

  I lift my eyes to meet his,

  grope for words.

  For all the men

  who populate

  my world, there’s never been a one

  who wished to be

  my champion.

  I can survive, a solitary creature.

  I have thus far.

  But just the thought that someone else

  might care what fate befalls me—

  it changes everything.

  His fingers worry

  the lining

  of his blouse.

  But then,

  you do not need

  me to play

  the older brother.

  Some force compels me forward—

  not my will, not his.

  I stand so near

  I see the very brushstrokes

  of each eyebrow,

  the unsubtle scrapes

  of the sculptor

  who formed his jaw.

  So don’t.

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  And then his lips

  are one with mine.

  PART III

  31.

  The house is a still life.

  Except, perhaps, for the mice

  no doubt scampering

  through the pantry,

  all is motionless.

  Father’s returned from his revelries,

  drunk on all he gets out there

  he cannot find in here

  and dead to the world

  until he must wake

  to face his disappointment.

  Tuzia’s sculpted from marble

  on the cot next to mine

  (though not so silent).

  The boys float through the dreams of those

  who’ll never have to fight to be heard.

  I slip from bed

  to studio

  as silent as the mice.

  We thieves in the night

  steal what we must

  when no one is watching.

  The candles lit,

  I search behind old canvases

  and stretching bars until I find

  my prize: a dusty mirror,

  once my mother’s and

  last in use when time and again

  I sketched my own face,

  working out proportions

  my father couldn’t explain.

  His grasp on female form—

  a woman’s body—

  is even less precise.

  But Susanna deserves better

  than a man’s idea

  of what a woman should be.

  I set the mirror on the easel,

  listen again for footsteps, judgment.

  Then, satisfied I am alone,

  expose a shoulder to the air.

  32.

  Reflected in the looking glass,

  neck curves into shoulder,

  one shade blends into another.

  As I lean closer, the glass reveals

  a constellation of freckles

  I’ve never noticed.

  Emboldened by discovery

  I let the fabric pool around my waist.

  The midnight air

  sends shivers up my spine.

  My nipples tighten

  against the creeping draft.

  Even the greatest painters

  portray a breast as though

  it is one thing and then another:

  a tiny, perfect drop of pigment

  atop a milky dome.

  But even in the guttering candle’s light

  I see something different,

  more complex.

  All around the pinkest tip

  the color pools and fades

  by gradual shades

  into my ivory skin.

  My fingers wander up, explore.

  A breast rests in each palm,

  the weight surprising.

  The way men paint them

  I might have thought

  they’d float away

  if they weren’t tethered

  to my earthly flesh.

  I lean to the side,

  Susanna cringing from the elders’ gaze.

  In my mother’s mirror,

  my breasts follow.

  They’re not half spheres, unyielding,

  behaving how a man believes they ought.

  They shift and change,

  they’re form and function, and

  they’re mine.

  33.

  Back in my cramped room,

  beneath my sheets,

  I know I should sleep.

  But my mind hums.

  My hands don’t stop exploring.

  How have I lived this long

  with my own body

  in darkness?

  The disconnect of men

  to women’s bodies

  stands to reason.

  They’d have to care enough

  to see the other as a subject

  worthy of their earnest study.

  My own oblivion horrifies me more.

  I’ve been here all along

  but somehow not.

  And now there’s Agostino.

  I can’t pretend

  these new discoveries

  are solely for the sake of art.

  Though every time he’s near

  it feels like brushstrokes

  on a canvas, light, provoking,

  transforming me to something new.

  My
fingers flutter lower

  toward the pulse

  I’ve steadfastly avoided.

  Until now.

  34.

  When Tuzia grunts

  to rouse me,

  I startle from

  the most delicious dream,

  then hide under

  my blanket, ashamed

  of what she’d think

  if she could read

  my mind.

  If Mother were here

  would I tell her

  how I woke heart pounding,

  skin ablaze, ask eager questions,

  drink up every answer?

  Instead, there’s only Tuzia.

  We’ll take a carriage to Mass.

  35.

  My cheeks still flame

  inside the carriage

  as we jolt along

  the cobblestones,

  a hired ride

  our luxury

  when Father’s been out

  drinking late

  and does not come to Mass,

  so Tuzia shames him

  into paying for our fare.

  We’ve only just turned

  onto Via della Lungara

  when the carriage stops,

  nowhere near our parish.

  Tuzia leans forward,

  puffed with temporary power

  of being served

  and not the servant.

  We say our Mass

  at San Giovanni.

  Why have we stopped?

  You’ve room for more.

  The voice is not

  our carriage driver’s.

  Tino! I exclaim

  and if I thought

  I’d flushed before

  my face must now

  be carmine red.

  What nerve (of his!)

  to flag our carriage down

  as we are on the way to Mass!

  What nerve (of mine!)

  to call him by his name

  as though we are united!

  Tuzia’s eyes cannot decide

  if they should glare at me

  or at our interloper.

  Tino makes a move

  to climb inside our carriage—

  a violation of the rules

  of decency, our code, our social order.

  A moment’s hesitation

  —I should not touch him

  as though we’re so familiar

  but neither do I see another way

  to stop him so—

  my hand shoots out

  and grabs his forearm.

  I feel his muscle, power, spark

  and drop him as the fire

  of my nighttime discoveries

  jolts through my mind.

  You must not join us,

  sir.

  I’ve never called him sir before.

  I try to tell him

  with a glare

  what I cannot say plainly.

 

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