The Fragile Flower

by Kerry J Charles

  The words that the nagging voice in her head uttered over and over were simple: get me out! She could not quite bring herself to act on them, however.

  #

  By Wednesday the mood among the students in Logan Dumbarton’s Master Class in Abstract Painting had changed considerably. Three had suffered through his humiliating commentary of their work. The remaining four knew it was only a matter of time before their turn would come.

  Tara and Mary were uncharacteristically silent, as they sat dabbing at their canvases. In spite of his experience as a teacher himself, Scott paced in front of his easel. He occasionally stopped, stared out at the ocean, picked up his brush, then put it down again. All three knew that the storm cloud was threatening, yet they still analyzed their work, wondering exactly what Logan the Great would find wrong with it.

  Only Kimberly appeared unflustered. She worked calmly, holding her brush with a steady hand, mixing colors, and applying paint as she best saw fit. She considered herself lucky. Her primary motivation for being there no longer was to perfect her technique. No, her motivation was to observe, analyze, and perhaps even predict what would happen next. Painting was secondary.

  She stopped only briefly to look back at the house when she heard the front door open. One glance was enough to tell her that most likely she, and everyone else, would be safe for today. A snuffling and sickly Logan had emerged.

  He shuffled over to Kimberly first. Honking his nose loudly into a crumpled handkerchief he muttered, “Fine. Your blues are good. Representational. Not literal. Watch the lines here,” he dabbed his finger into the paint on the canvas, then wiped it on his shirt.

  Kimberly slowly extended her brush and swept it over his fingerprint. He appeared not to notice. He nodded his head over and over. Kimberly thought that he had begun some sort of convulsion and would, at any moment, fall to the ground in a writhing fit.

  He did not. Instead, he turned abruptly, coughed loudly, and scuffled over to Scott. Kimberly couldn’t hear what was said, but she assumed he received the same treatment form the great master. She glanced over several times, her eyes straining to one side so that she wouldn’t have to move her head. Scott did not appear to be distressed.

  A dual personality. That seemed to be the key to Logan Dumbarton. But was it truly a psychological aberration, or was he simply worn down at times by work, drink, sleep deprivation, or whatever else was happening in his life? And which was his true personality? Kimberly couldn’t be sure.

  She put down her brush and stretched. It was a ruse to look around the lawn at her fellow students. As she did, Linda hurried out of the house. She held a glass of something that resembled tomato juice with a large plastic straw in it. When she reached Logan, he took it without acknowledging her presence. She quietly walked backwards away from him, never taking her eyes off him.

  Logan ignored the straw and took several large gulps. He closed his eyes for a moment and swayed from side to side. He raised the glass again, attempting to find the straw with his mouth without opening his eyes. His distorted lips located it at last, and he sipped slowly, draining half the glass before opening his eyes again. Color had come into his face and he seemed to have increased in height.

  At that moment Linda passed by Kimberly. “Linda, what’s in that drink?” she blurted out without thinking.

  Linda did not stop. She continued to walk backwards. When she was almost beyond earshot, Kimberly heard her whisper, “tomato juice, raw egg, Tabasco, and a large shot of vodka.”

  ‘So that’s it,’ thought Kimberly. She had seen it before. Alcohol brought out the devil in some people, and made everyone else’s world a living hell. Linda scurried back into the house. Logan finished his drink, then hurled the glass out toward the ocean. It shattered on the pebble beach. The twins were closest and both gasped. Logan turned slowly and eyed both of them.

  “Which of you is older?” he asked quietly.

  The twins looked at each other, then back at him. It was an odd question. “Technically, I am,” said Tara. “But only by about ten minutes.”

  “It shows. Your work is slightly more mature. But that’s not saying much.” He turned his back to them and gazed at the horizon.

  Mary and Tara moved their heads back in forth, nearly in unison, comparing each other’s work. Neither knew what to say. Feeling that it must be her duty since she was just defined as the eldest, Tara said, “What exactly determines whether a work is mature or immature? If it’s abstract, isn’t that up to the observer to decide?”

  Logan chuckled his low, condescending laugh. “You see,” he said, “That’s exactly the problem. The work has nothing to do with who observes it. It’s what the artist chooses to project.” He quickly turned, grabbed Mary’s canvas, and flung it like a Frisbee across the beach. It floated in the shallow surf, then disappeared with the next large wave. Both girls watched it bob up again, floating further out.

  “Now there’s a distinct improvement!” Logan continued. “If you’re producing total crap, you have to just let it go. Cast it aside! Begin again!”

  Mary opened her mouth, but no words emerged. ‘Total crap?’ she thought. ‘But, why?’

  As if reading Mary’s mind, Tara said, “And what exactly led you to the conclusion that it was total crap?”

  Slowly, Logan turned. He did not look at her. Instead, he fixated on a point in the sky somewhere over her head. “One just knows,” he said acidly. “Isn’t it obvious?” His eyes lowered and met hers. “But then, I suppose for you,” he gestured to the students around him, “well, let’s just say you’ll never know. Pity really, but none of you will ever make it.” He turned on his heel and walked back toward the house.

  Scott came running up to the twins. “Mary, your painting isn’t that far out. I can get it for you! I thought it was really good, and it won’t really be damaged that much…”

  “No, that’s OK. I’ll just start over,” Mary said in a small, wavering voice.

  “Look, Mary, I may not be as famous as Logan Dumbarton, but I am a professional artist. What you had started was certainly quite good. Don’t listen to him,” Scott nearly pleaded with Mary.

  Mary fought back tears. She had often wondered if she should really be pursuing a career in art. Tara was the talented one. Her works just emerged from the canvas. She never appeared to put in effort at all. Mary knew that her own work was the result of great labor. She loved it, but it was not easy.

  Scott had seen that. He had taught for long enough to recognize those who worked, those who struggled, and those who simply created as a natural part of their lives. Tara simply created. Mary was somewhere between working and struggling.

  Tears began streaming down Mary’s face as she watched her painting bob up and down in the ocean. Without thinking Scott pulled her toward him, turning her away from that awful scene. He wrapped his arms around her and she sobbed into his chest. ‘I’ll kill him,’ he thought. ‘No one should get away with that. No one should suffocate her sheer will to create.’

  Kimberly watched the entire scene. She carefully noted the details. One by one, the students picked up their brushes again and continued with their work. Kimberly edged herself from her chair and went to her car. Getting in, she clicked the door closed as quietly as possible. She slumped down in the seat so that she could just peak over the dashboard to watch the house. Then she dialed Dulcie’s number.

  Twenty minutes later, Dulcie pulled into the driveway of the Dumbarton’s rented house. She tried to appear calm. She wanted everyone to think that she had just stopped by. As she passed the house, she knocked on the door. Linda opened it.

  “Yes?” she said, without any attempt at a greeting.

  “I’m just stopping in to see the students’ progress. Is Logan on the lawn with them?”

  Linda hesitated. “Uh, no. He came back in to lie down. He has a splitting headache.”

  Dulcie shook her head. “So he’s not teaching his own class today? The students are working on thei
r own? Linda, I hired him to teach, not to sleep. Can’t he take an aspirin like everyone else?”

  Linda’s eyes narrowed. She stepped outside and closed the door behind her. “How dare you! Do you have any idea who you’re talking about? Do you have any idea how lucky you are to have him here in the first place? Who are you to tell him what to do?”

  “May I remind you, that you contacted me to set up this class. It was your idea. The museum is paying you well and covering your somewhat exorbitant expenses. All I ask is that Logan teach this class as we agreed, and to show some respect to the students who, I might add, have also paid a great deal of money to be here!” She had blurted out more than she intended.

  Show some respect. That was an interesting phrase to throw in, Linda thought. She had witnessed every one of Logan’s distasteful interactions with the students. Today had been the worst. ‘Someone must have ratted him out,’ she thought. She glanced at all of the students, until her eyes stopped at Kimberly.

  “You are lucky to have him here at all. That’s all I can say. If you want him out here right now, you’ll have to drag him out yourself.” Linda walked back into the house and decisively shut the door behind her.

  Dulcie took a deep breath. Then another. She stepped off the porch and strode across the grass.

  “Can I have everyone come over here for a moment?” she called out to all of the students. One by one, each put down brushes and palettes, and joined her. “I understand that the circumstances of this class have been, well, trying may be one way of putting it.”

  Willow snorted from the back of the group.

  “If any of you would like to drop out of the class, you’ll receive a full refund. I don’t want anyone to continue with an uncomfortable situation. Just let me know your decisions as soon as you can.”

  The students looked at each other. Willow spoke up. “He’s a total jerk, that’s for sure. But I could use this on my scholarship applications if I’m going to get any decent funding.”

  “That’s a really great point,” Scott said. “It’ll look good on my resume, even if he is a total ass.”

  Bryce had been remarkably silent. He waited until it appeared that no one else would speak up. Then he said, “What goes around, comes around. He’ll get his. And I for one would like to be there when it happens. I’d even like to help the karma along a bit,” he added ominously.

  The entire situation was spinning out of control. Dulcie could feel it. The class was scheduled to continue through the following week, but she didn’t see how that could happen. She imagined the students dropping out, one by one. She tried not to imagine the money that would have to be refunded, the Dumbarton expense that would have to be paid. ‘At least I can withhold his stipend if he fails to fulfill our contract,’ she thought, but then realized that she would need to check with the museum’s lawyer. Since he was also a member of the board, he would surely tell the others. Then the entire fiasco would be revealed before she would have time to prepare her own presentation of it, and the board would think that she was incompetent. It seemed hopeless.

  “Don’t give up.” Kimberly stood beside her. “A miracle could happen. Maybe he’ll come out that door, apologize, and be a ray of sunshine for the next week.”

  Dulcie laughed loudly in spite of herself. “You have no idea how much I needed that. I don’t believe a word of it, but I needed to hear it.”

  “Well, situations often have a way of sorting themselves out. You did the right thing. Everyone has an out if they want it, but I doubt they’ll take it. Call it morbid curiosity, but we all want to see how this turns out. It’s like watching a train wreck.”

  “You’ve got the last part right, for sure!” Dulcie replied. “And I hope you’re right about the rest. Thanks, Kimberly. You’ve been an enormous help.”

  “That’s the fun of it,” she said and went back to her painting.

  #

  Bethany’s ordered life had been shattered. It hadn’t taken much. The criticism of Logan Dumbarton, watching him blob paint all over her work, had opened the floodgates. Since her divorce she had carefully constructed her world, aligning all of the pieces, keeping everything precise. That had changed in an instant.

  She had tried to hold herself together. She still went to the painting class, but inwardly she seethed. Who was he to criticize her? He didn’t even know her! Ironically, he had said almost the same things that her ex-husband had said. She tried too hard. She was too rigid, too tightly wound.

  Looking back, Bethany should have seen the signs that her marriage was ending. Yet the first thing that she could recall was him coming home smelling odd. Finally, she had identified the odor. Paint. Since he was an accountant, she didn’t think he would be coming into contact with it in his work. When she confronted him, initially he had lied. He said the office next to his was being renovated. Bethany wasn’t buying that story. She pressed him further until she learned the ugly truth.

  He had found someone else. She was Bethany’s complete opposite. This woman was an artist, a painter. He found her attitude and lifestyle ‘freeing’ he had said. ‘Fine,’ Bethany thought. ‘You can be free all you want.’ She met with her lawyer the next day.

  She had been on her own for several months now. Bethany had never painted before, but lied about it so that she could get into the master class with Logan Dumbarton. She wanted to prove that she was just as good, that she could paint too. Yet when Logan’s criticism had been so harsh, when he had ridiculed her and her work, it was too much. He had crossed the line.

  Bethany wandered through the rooms of her perfect house. Everything was crisp, trim, clean, neat… all of those endless adjectives that she had found so comforting. Evidently he had found them restricting. When he left, he had simply packed one suitcase of his things. He wanted nothing to do with anything that had been their life together.

  She picked up a sofa pillow and adjusted it on the couch. She stepped back, tipping her head slightly to make sure that it was correctly aligned.

  The burning rage that came over her was sudden and impossible to predict. She grabbed the pillow and hurled it across the room. She did the same with another. She went to the kitchen and got a knife, then began stabbing and tearing apart all of the pillows, then the cushions on the sofa, then the chairs. She couldn’t stop. She cut herself. Her hand bled on the chintz fabric. She felt herself crying and angrily wiped away tears.

  When she had run out of pillows and cushions, she dropped the knife. Hearing it clatter to the floor, she began to sob. Her cheeks felt wet and her nose was running. She went into the bathroom to find the tissues, looked in the mirror and screamed. Her face was smeared with blood. Her hands were bloody. Then she remembered cutting herself.

  Her body still shuddering with sobs, she turned on the cold water and let it run over her hands, numbing the pain. She splashed it on her face. It seemed to calm her and wake her up at the same time. She splashed and splashed for a long time, getting water on the floor, the mirror, the walls.

  She finally stopped. She took the pristine, white towel from its rack and held it tightly against her cut hand. After a few moments, she took it away. The cut didn’t seem to be very deep. It would heal. She looked at the crimson stain on the towel. It was an oddly shaped kind of swirl, fading at the edges.

  Bethany stared, then began to laugh. There it was! Her art! She heard herself shrieking hysterically as she looked at the towel. She dabbed it again on her hand, then looked at the new stain. She was an artist! How funny was that!

  There are painters who

  transform the sun into a yellow spot,

  but there are others who,

  thanks to their art and intelligence,

  transform a yellow spot into the sun.

  ― Pablo Picasso

  CHAPTER 5

  The wind had howled all night. Dulcie wasn’t quite sure, but she thought she might have had three hours of sleep. Cumulative, not continuous. Between the Logan Dumbarton situation, wor
ries about budgets, and the wind, the night had been anything but restful.

  On the way to her office she stopped at Dan’s boat. “Anyone home?” she called out from the dock.

  Dan poked his head out from the cabin. “Yeeup. Just made coffee. Want some?”

  Dulcie looked at her watch. “Dammit! This thing stopped again. What time is it?”

  Dan disappeared then reappeared within several seconds. “Seven-forty. You’ve got plenty of time.”

  Dulcie crossed her eyes at him. “I have about fifteen minutes. I’m supposed to be in the office by eight.”

  “Says who? The boss can’t be late?”

  Dulcie smiled. It was the first time she had done that in at least two days, she thought. Leave it to Dan.

  “You’re right. I can always call Rachel and tell her I’m in a meeting.”

  “Assuming she’s on time,” Dan replied.

  “Rachel is always on time. One of the many things I love about her.”

  “And I love her bonny blue eyes, her radiant hair, her…”

  “That’s quite enough, Dan.” Dulcie took the coffee he handed her. They both sat down in the cabin, escaping the wind outside. “No trips today?” She asked.

  He shook his head swallowing a large mouthful of his own coffee vigorously. “Nope. Way too windy. It’ll kick up a sea farther out, too and I’d have seasick folks for sure. Not worth it.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, although I’m not sure how you do it, even on a good day.” Dulcie was the introvert of the family. Dan was the complete opposite.