Joe Burke's Last Stand

by John Moncure Wetterau

  “Bye.” He was out the door and into an old blue pickup before she could think of anything else to say. It wasn't me, she thought. I didn't do that. It was my arm, like a damned dowsing rod.

  Two guys came in for coffee and bagels. A steady flow of customers kept her occupied; by noon she was over the embarrassment. But she was on alert. At dinner she said to Amber, “My goddamn arm was out of control.” Amber clapped. “Oh, great,” Willow said. “I'm groping strangers, and you think everything's fine.”

  “It is fine. You just need to get laid, that's all. And how can you call Patrick a stranger? You've known him for a month.”

  “Get laid—that's your solution for everything.”

  “No, no. It's a help; it takes the pressure off. And it's interesting, Willow. Men are so different. Now, we're not talking babies, here.” Amber took a bite of bread. “Mmm, this bread . . . “ She swallowed. “Yumm. You're getting it; those first couple of loaves were kind of a workout. You could get some good men, Willow; they're around. You need a strategy.”

  “I'll pass out numbers at the News Shop,” Willow said.

  Amber laughed. “Give number one to Patrick. Maybe number two to that cute Claude. Leave Art out; I'm not done with him. He's got a lot of talent, Willow. You know what he told me last night?”

  “Let's see . . . “

  “He's buying another old barn—for its frame. He's going to put the frame against his house barn, end-to-end. He wants to roof it and hang one room in a quarter of the upper level, leaving the rest open. Can't you see them: the finished barn and the design together, sort of turning into each other?”

  “Neat idea,” Willow said. “O.K., I'll leave Art out.”

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Amber said. “There's a big party, Saturday night. It's going to be on the mountain at a place called, `Mead's Meadow.' Art says they have it every year. It goes on all night; some people bring sleeping bags. Kegs, music—why don't you ride up with us?”

  “Maybe I will,” Willow said. “If I have any numbers left.”

  5

  Patrick held the brush handle between his palms and walked to the middle of the Van Slyke's lawn, rubbing his hands back and forth, spinning the brush until it was dry. “See if you can finish the garage by four,” Parker had said. Good deal, it couldn't be later than three. The paint cans were stacked by the ladder and the folded drop cloths. He put the brush on top of the cans, took the rag and the putty knife out of his back pockets, and stepped back. Amazing how much better a paint job looks from twenty feet away, he thought.

  “Looks good,” Hendrik said from the kitchen door.

  “Yes,” Patrick said.

  “Where your wheels?”

  “Parker's going to pick me up.”

  “Have a beer while you wait?”

  “Excellent,” Patrick said. Hendrik went into the kitchen and reappeared with two bottles of Heineken. He waved Patrick over to a picnic table and opened the bottles with a pocket knife. He was a strong man with a brooding expression and a flattened nose. He looked like someone who might have painted a famous picture of a boxer. “Happy days,” Hendrik said.

  “Prosit.” There are few things better than the first swallow of cold beer after a day's work. “Yes!” Patrick said.

  “Looks good,” Hendrik repeated. “Have to keep after these old houses.”

  “You've got a nice one. Is that your studio over there?”

  “Yep.”

  “Could I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “What is art, anyway?” Hendrik raised his eyebrows. He took several long swallows of Heineken. “I've met a lot of artists in this town,” Patrick went on, “and I realized that I don't understand it.”

  “Bunch of bullshit, mostly.”

  Patrick waited. Hendrik looked at him and sighed. He took another swallow of Heineken and indicated the valley with one hand. “Everybody wants to be an artist,” he said. “Doctors. I saw a clinic the other day—said `Medical Arts Group' on the building.” He burped. “It's like this, Patrick: there's art, capital A—fine art, it's called sometimes—and there's everything else.”

  “So what is this `fine art?”'

  Hendrik shook his head. He went into the house and came out with two more beers. “Let's start with everything else,” he said. “It's easier.” He pried off the bottle caps. “Everything else is commercial art—calendar graphics or posters or paintings of lighthouses, fall foliage, the streets of Paris—that kind of stuff, done in familiar styles. Nothing wrong with it. But it isn't art; it's craft.” He drank. “It's craft because the painters know what they're doing when they start. Some of the paintings seem magical, but it's trick magic. They know how to get the rabbit out of the hat. An artist—capital A—doesn't know what's in the hat or how to get it out.”

  “Hmm,” Patrick said.

  “A guy in Vermont came up with that comparison—Robert Francis. It's like this, Patrick: an artist needs to make a picture that expresses how he feels about something or someone or some place. Since every artist is different, good paintings, true paintings, are original.”

  “True?”

  “Yeah, true to the artist's feelings,” Hendrik said.

  “True,” Patrick said, turning the word over in his mind.

  “It's not so easy. What the hell, I'll show you.” Hendrik got up and led Patrick to his studio.

  “Look there,” he said, pointing at a wall covered with charcoal drawings of a nude Julie Van Slyke, fifteen years younger. “Those are studies I made before I did the painting. You can see how I kept circling around the central idea, this line here.” He moved one hand through the air as though he were stroking her hip. “Once I got it right, it was mostly a matter of color. Not a bad painting, as it turned out.”

  Patrick saw what Hendrik meant through a light haze of embarrassment. He took a drink from his bottle of Heineken and acted grown up. Mrs. Van Slyke was leaning forward. She had unexpectedly exotic breasts that hung and then swelled upwards. “The thing is, it can take a while before you get it. Sometimes you never get it. I've been working on this one all year.” Hendrik walked over to a heavy wooden easel. A canvas, half painted, half sketched in pencil, showed a young man sitting by a fireplace and holding a guitar. His chair was sideways to the fire. His body and guitar were turned toward the painter. There was a wine bottle on the floor next to the chair.

  “No glass,” Patrick said.

  “He's drinking alone.”

  “Why is he turned? Who is he looking at?”

  “Maybe if I knew that, I could paint the goddamned thing.”

  “Oh,” Patrick said. “I like it—so far, anyway. Pretty intense.”

  “Hendrik, are you there with Patrick?” Mrs. Van Slyke's voice came loudly through an intercom. Hendrik made a face, went over to the door, and pressed a plastic button.

  “Yes, Dear.”

  “Parker is here for Patrick.”

  “Be right there,” Hendrik said.

  They walked side by side to the main house. Patrick felt himself looking at Mrs. Van Slyke differently; he was seeing her partly through Hendrik's eyes, as Hendrik had painted her. She was more female.

  “Patrick asked what art is,” Hendrik explained.

  “Are you clear on that now?” Mrs. Van Slyke asked as she took the empty bottles from their hands. Parker was grinning on the sideline.

  “Umm—it's over there,” Patrick said, waving at the studio.

  “Of course it is,” Mrs. Van Slyke said without changing expression. “What wonderful crews you have, Parker! The place looks marvelous. I hope you will be able to do the studio next year.”

  “It will be first on on my list,” Parker promised. “Come, Patrick, let's get the ladder on the rack.”

  “Thanks for the Heineken,” Patrick said to Hendrik.

  “Good job,” Hendrik said.

  “Goodbye, Patrick. I hope that we see you again.” Mrs. Van Slyke smiled and waited for his reactio
n.

  “Bye,” he said. They hustled off. On their way down the mountain, he felt the mood lighten. “Whew,” he said.

  “Nice going, Patrick. A raise is in order—$2.25, retroactive to the beginning of this week.”

  “No shit!”

  Parker slapped one knee. “It's over there—ha, ha—art . . . “

  “Well it was, is,” Patrick said.

  “Yes, yes, no doubt.”

  Parker dropped him off at the Depresso. “Thanks for the raise.”

  “You earned it, Patrick. See you in the morning.”

  Patrick skipped down the stone steps to the Depresso patio. Willow was reading at a table, leaning back, her long legs stretched out before her, crossed at the ankles.

  “Hey, Willow.”

  “Hello, Patrick. Hungry already?”

  Patrick patted his stomach. “You make great sandwiches, but—I'm celebrating. I got a raise.”

  “Impressive,” Willow said.

  “I'll tell you about it, if you'd like. But I've got to get a beer. Want one?”

  “No thanks.”

  Patrick returned with a Heineken, his new favorite. “Yeah, I finished a house and garage up on the mountain. The Van Slyke's. Do you know them?” Willow shook her head, no. “He's a painter, and she's a—looker. He showed me his studio. Do you know what art is, Willow?”

  “God, Patrick,” she said.

  “What's the matter?”

  “You ask the most amazing questions.”

  “Well, I asked Hendrik—Mr. Van Slyke—and he showed me his studio.”

  “Modest Hendrik.”

  “He was modest, in a frustrated way. He showed me a painting that he's been working on all year. Said he couldn't get it. He said that art had to be true.”

  “He didn't!” Willow clapped her hand over her mouth.

  Patrick looked at her. “You think I'm a moron.” She took her hand away. “I am. But I'm a persistent moron.” He took a swallow of beer. “True,” he said. “I know about true. In science, what is true can be verified. What is true, is true for everybody. But Hendrik's true is only true for Hendrik.”

  “Especially true for Hendrik,” Willow said.

  “So, it's a different kind of true,” Patrick finished.

  “Different from science,” Willow said, “but useful.”

  “Useful . . . “ Patrick thought.

  “Like Beethoven or Dylan true,” she said.

  Patrick watched people on the sidewalk. “There's more,” he said, after a moment. “There's more about this art and science stuff. I don't understand it, yet. What's the matter?” he asked for the second time. Willow was wiping tears from her cheeks.

  “It's not your fault,” she said. She stood suddenly. “I'm going now.” She pedaled away with her book in the basket. What did I say? he wondered. He went inside scratching his head. Sue and Jim were at the bar. He thought about his usual dinner of rice and vegetables. To hell with it. Deanie's, he said to himself and went back outside. Willow was gone.

  He walked past the News Shop and Ann's Deli and turned down the hill to Deanie's for a celebratory steak, still wondering what had upset Willow. The dining room was comfortably filled, cheerful without being noisy. A bar stretched the length of one end of the room. Sam was there by himself and said hello. Patrick excused himself as soon as he could and sat at a small table on the other side of the room. Sam was always mouthing off about the government and asking everyone where he could score some grass. He was nervous in a way that put Patrick off. Patrick didn't want to hassle with anyone who worked for Parker, so he kept his mouth shut and avoided him. “Meat,” he said to Sam. “I've got this craving for meat. Got to have it!”

  “Yeah, man.” Sam's eyes darted around as Patrick escaped.

  “Medium rare,” Patrick ordered, and, by God, that's what he was served. Delicious. He ate slowly, each bite a mini-ceremony. Eating out was important to Patrick. While he was working, he worked hard, concentrating. Dinner was a time to relax, to think, and to look around. He enjoyed being in the midst of people without necessarily having to talk to anyone. The Deanie's crowd was straighter than the Depresso crowd. IBM'rs and local business people mixed with musicians and artists. The waitresses were middle-aged. The pies were particularly good.

  This was Patrick's third dinner at Deanie's. He was beginning to feel more at home in Woodstock. His landlady, Gert, had become more friendly. Patrick was willing to help with little things around the house, that probably had something to do with it. She was a reader, too, he'd discovered. They talked about books. The other day, he'd asked her what she was reading.

  “Every story is a love story, isn't it, Patrick?” She had chuckled comfortably and continued reading. He didn't know what to make of that. Did she mean every story about anything? Or every story a writer felt was worth the effort? She had said it as though it were self evident, as though he shouldn't be pestering her for an explanation. Or maybe he was supposed to figure it out for himself.

  “Wonderful pie,” he said to the waitress.

  “We make a lot of them,” she said. Patrick left a big tip and walked slowly toward home. He had an urge for a Hershey bar as he passed Ann's. Ann took his change without comment.

  “Willow makes a good sandwich,” he said.

  “You like her, don't you,” she said accusingly. He didn't know what to say. Ann glared at him. “You young people think we don't feel anything. Well, you're wrong. What's your name?”

  “Patrick.”

  “We have feelings, too. You think we weren't young once?”

  “Sorry,” he said, unsure. “Night.” He moved toward the door.

  “Remember that, Patrick,” she flung at his back. Another upset woman. What was getting into everybody? He looked into the window of the Depresso. Sue and Jim weren't there. The Go player who had annoyed him on his first night in town was sitting on a stool in a corner, playing a banjo. The metallic beat followed him a short distance up Tinker Street, a sort of urban bluegrass. It was a relief to go quietly to bed with his book on mathematics.

  The next morning it was pouring. Patrick trudged to the News Shop, where Parker declared a washout. Gino, as senior man, got to work on an inside job. Everyone else was off for the day. The group milled around, joking with a drunk who kept coming in and out, clapping people on the back, breathing beer fumes in their faces, and saying, “How ya doing, buddy? How ya doing? That good, huh? Ha, ha, ha.”

  “Good to see you, Billy. Good to see you.”

  “So who's this?” he asked, putting one arm around Wilson and the other around Patrick.

  “Patrick, Billy. This is Patrick.”

  “Top o' the mornin', Patrick.” Patrick found himself laughing along with him.

  “By Jesus,” he said, “top o' the mornin' to you, too.” They were leaving. Billy escorted them to the open doorway.

  “Quack,” he said, propelling them down the steps into the rain.

  “Quack is right,” Patrick said. “See you, Willy.” Habit took him along the street to Ann's where he hesitated and then went in. “Hi, Willow. Rained out!”

  Willow looked up. No one else was in the deli. “Patrick, I'm sorry I left so abruptly last night. I just couldn't . . . “

  “That's O.K.; I won't talk about art anymore.”

  She smiled at him reprovingly.

  “Anyway, I can't live without your sandwiches. How about turkey, today?” He stowed the sandwich in a small army surplus backpack that he'd bought after his first week in town.

  “What are you going to do today?”

  “I don't know,” Patrick said. “Go to the library, I guess. I'm reading a great book on mathematics.”

  “There's supposed to be a party this weekend, Saturday, on the mountain. Mead's meadow, wherever that is. Music, kegs, a big blowout. Art says it's a good time. They do it every year.”

  “You going?”

  “Yeah, for a while anyway.”

  “Maybe I'll see you th
ere,” Patrick said. “Day after tomorrow—the rain should be over by then.” Willow seemed pleased, and Patrick left for the library. Hard to figure, he thought. Last night she wouldn't talk to me; this morning she invites me to a party. He thought he'd go, if he could find it. Maybe Art would fall off the mountain.

  The library was pleasant and well lit. The science section was a bit out of date. There were many expensive art books locked in a big case. The children's room was large and cheerful with a painted wooden riding horse in one corner. He read for an hour and thought of writing to his parents, but he hadn't looked up his father's friend. He wanted to do that before he wrote, so he asked for a telephone book. Heidi Merrill was listed with an address on Lower Byrdcliffe Road. There was no pay phone in the library, so he walked over to the Woodstock Laundromat.

  Joe Burke was folding clothes, standing at a counter beside a tall slender woman with long hair. She was teasing him about his folding. He leaned and said something softly in her ear that made her laugh. Her voice was low and appealing; it sounded to Patrick as though it had started in Texas and traveled around the world before it got to the laundromat. The energy between the two was intense and relaxed at the same time. Patrick stared.

  “Hello, Patrick,” Joe said, turning. “This is Daisy.”

  “Hello, Patrick,” Daisy echoed. She looked at him with calm gray eyes and then picked up her basket of clothes. “Well . . . “ she said.

  “Onward,” Joe said.

  “Yes.” Their eyes met, and she left, walking as though she were going slightly uphill. Patrick felt suddenly lonely.

  “So, Patrick, what's happening?”

  Patrick looked back from the door. “Oh. I'm trying to find someone named Heidi Merrill. Do you know where she lives?”

  “Sure do, going right by there, if you want a lift.” What the hell, Patrick thought, nothing else to do. It doesn't matter if she's home or not.

  “Good deal.”

  They drove out of Library Lane, passing Billy at the entrance to Tinker Street. Joe rolled his window all the way open. “Hey, Billy. Want a lift?”

  “Quack. You want me to miss my shower?”