Brigitte said nothing for a moment, and then shook her head, her mane of red hair bouncing. “I want to do something different.” She could not tell Julien that his work was no different than any other artist’s in the square any more than she could tell him that what she created was better. As long as she was the only one who liked her own work, she was as much a failure as any other artist struggling to eke out a living.
“If so many artists choose to paint in this style, it's for a good reason. It sells!” Lucien put on his most charming smile and called out to the tourists swarming the square, switching effortlessly from his native French to a heavily accented English or German. “Bonjour Madame. That is a pretty hat you're wearing. Kommen Sie hier ein moment, bitte.”
The tourists stopped and looked. A few charcoal sketches sold, and a client posed for a quick pastel drawing. If the picture was flattering, Julien was occasionally rewarded with a generous tip.
Meanwhile, Brigitte painted on quietly, carefully hiding any envy she might have felt toward her neighbor for his brisk trade. Her own business was slow today, but it was not always so. Some days, people stopped by her easel to watch and admire. Even though they were more expensive than any others on the square, she sold enough of her paintings to pay the bills. When she did, she would pocket the money gratefully and hand over the canvas with mixed emotions. As much as she needed the money, parting with her oils was like giving away small pieces of her heart.
By the time the day began to fade, Julien had sold two pastel drawings, one small charcoal, and had extracted a promise from another customer to come back the next day for one of his oils. All in all, he'd had a great day. “Hey! Brigitte, how did you do?” he called out as he put away his paintings.
Brigitte shook her head. “Nothing.” She folded up her easel, put away her paints into their wooden case, and picked up her paintings. “Tomorrow will better. The rent will just have to wait. God bless my landlady. She is the most understanding person in the world.” She waved to Julien and hurried off.
In her rush to leave, she did not notice the small oil she left leaning against the fence. Moments later, Julien found it. He looked off in the direction Brigitte had taken and decided she was already too far. I'll give it to her tomorrow, he told himself and threw it in among his own.
What am I going to do? Brigitte asked herself as she walked home. Although Réjeanne was the most understanding landlady anyone could hope for, Brigitte hated having to make her wait. Tonight, there was also dinner to worry about. She mentally reviewed the contents of the icebox. There were a few carrots and potatoes, and a small piece of leftover meat from last night. She could throw it all together and make a soup. She sighed and walked on. It wasn't much, but it was enough for a frugal dinner.
A few blocks later, just a hundred meters from the church of St Pierre, was the small apartment she called home. She ran up the rickety stairs and flung open the door. “Here I am, Réjeanne.”
A moment later Réjeanne Sauvé appeared. “David is sleeping,” she said. “I fed him his dinner a half hour ago. He seemed more tired than usual today.”
“Thank you,” replied Brigitte, keeping the disappointment from her voice. She had hoped to give David his dinner and put him to bed herself.
“So how did you do today?”
“Not so good,” answered Brigitte with a grimace.
“Well, don't worry about the rent. Pay me whenever you can. But there's something I want to talk to you about. There's this very nice man I know. You might have seen him. He owns a small restaurant down the street. He'd be perfect for you. Why don't you let me introduce you? We could go out, some time, and have dinner there…”
Brigitte interrupted. “Réjeanne, please. You know how I feel about that.”
Réjeanne shook her head. “It's been three years since David was born. Don't you think it's time you got yourself a life? You need a husband, Brigitte. It's not healthy for a grown woman to live alone.”
Brigitte sighed wearily. She had heard all of this a hundred times before. “Réjeanne, I love you dearly, but this is my life.” Before she could go any further, a cry, followed by a loud, repeated banging came from the other room. “What is going on?” asked Brigitte puzzled. She rushed over to the door and tore it open. “Oh my God, David!”
David was thrashing in his crib, his small body seized by a series of convulsions. With each spasm, the crib banged against the wall.
“No!”
From the other room Réjeanne heard her cry and ran over. “What is it? What's wrong?” She froze in shock. “Dear God! What’s wrong with him?”
Brigitte was holding David's body down, trying to prevent the pudgy little arms from flailing about. “Quick, get help!”
Réjeanne turned about and hurried to the telephone.
* * *
The hospital waiting room was filled beyond capacity. In a small area meant to comfortably seat a dozen people, nearly forty tired and cranky people waited impatiently. They sat two to a chair, or on the floor, or even leaned against the walls. From beyond the curtained examining room came the sound of a baby crying.
“What do you think is taking so long?” asked Brigitte, her voice quivering. It had been over three hours since David had disappeared behind those curtains. It felt like a life time. “I don't think I would survive if anything happened to him.”
“Don’t even say that. He’ll be fine, you’ll see,” replied Réjeanne reassuringly. The memory of David thrashing about in his bed sent shivers down her back.
At that moment the physician appeared. “Madame Dartois?”
“Yes!” both Brigitte and Réjeanne replied in unison.
He looked from one to the other.
“I'm Madame Dartois,” said Brigitte.
“Your son is fine,” said the doctor, flatly. “From now on, he needs to be on medication to control the seizures…”
“What seizures? You mean this might happen again?” Brigitte was frantic.
“Madame Dartois, your son has epilepsy. He has just suffered what is called a grand mal seizure. There was loss of consciousness, severe convulsions, and urinary and fecal incontinence. At the moment he is sleeping. When he wakes up, he will most likely have some muscle soreness and be quiet and disoriented for a short time. If we do not take preventative measures, he most likely will have this kind of epileptic attack again.”
“Oh my God,” said Brigitte, tears welling in her eyes. “Is it dangerous? Can he…?”
The doctor averted his eyes. “Rarely, but it can happen. Sometimes one seizure follows another with no intervening period of consciousness. Such an attack could persist for hours or days and can sometimes be fatal. We might have to experiment with different medications to find the right drug and the right dosage, but when we find it, he won’t have any more seizures.”
Brigitte no longer heard anything the doctor was saying. The same words played over and over in her mind, '…and can sometimes be fatal.’ This could not be happening—not to her David. Please God, not to David.
For the next few weeks, Brigitte did not let her son out of her sight, and in her panic to keep her son safe, she abandoned painting.
“If you want to go to the square I can take care of him…”
Brigitte was adamant. “Thanks Réjeanne, but I don't want to leave David right now.”
The woman hesitated. “You'll have to go back sometime.”
“Yes, yes I know. But not just now. Not until his medication is stabilized. Then I promise I will. I'm sorry, Réjeanne. I won't be able to pay the rent until then.”
“Don't worry about the rent. I don't mind.” She paused for a moment. “I guess now is not the time to tell you about this man I know.” She saw the look on Brigitte's face and blushed. “I'm sorry, chérie. I just wish you would allow yourself some happiness. But, if you don't want me to bring it up any more, I won't. I'll go on downstairs. If you need me for anything, just call.”
* * *
Chapter 13
&nb
sp; During the next few months Alex put in eight to ten hours a day at William Brandon & Company, and then he rode the bus across town to Durring & Durring where he worked another five. After a few hours of sleep, a quick shower and a shave, he hurried back to William Brandon & Co. and started all over again. I cannot take the risk of quitting Durring & Durring until I feel secure at the firm. Although he had been on salary from the first day, Brandon had never officially told Alex that his position was secure.
In the morning, Alex was the first to arrive, and by the end of the day, he had completed more work than anyone else. He rarely took breaks, and his lunches usually consisted of a quick sandwich at his drafting table. Alex's plan was simple. He would keep working harder and produce more than anyone else. In time, surely it would come to the boss's attention.
“Good day, Mr. Ivanov. You sure are getting here early every morning. Don't you sleep nights like normal people do?” The cleaning woman paused in her vacuuming and greeted Alex.
“Good morning, Hazel. Got important work to do.” Who am I fooling? There is no important work. Moreover, the only person who is impressed with my diligence is the cleaning lady!
One person did notice, though. It was a non-ending source of irritation to Andrew McGregor that every morning when he arrived, Alex was already there; that every afternoon when he left, Alex was still at work.
“He's trying to make the rest of us look bad,” he muttered to himself one night as he walked out of the building and into the parking lot. He hopped into his new car—a red Corvette with white inserts—and turned the ignition key. The motor growled to life. He threw the gearshift into drive and took off in a spray of gravel. Forty minutes later, he pulled into the driveway of his parents' house—a modern concrete structure with large expanses of windows. He automatically reached into the glove compartment for his Rolaids. A moment later, he opened the front door and walked into the marble foyer.
“Andrew, is that you?” his father called out from the den.
Andrew felt the familiar burning sensation flare up in his stomach. He popped a second Rolaids, hoping it would take effect soon. “Yes, sir,” he called out.
Daniel McGregor appeared. He was as tall as Andrew was short and as frail as his son was muscular. “Where are you going?”
“I thought I would workout before dinner.” Andrew headed for the long curving staircase.
Daniel McGregor watched his son walk away. “Don't imagine for a minute that you're fooling me.”
Andrew stopped, one hand on the railing, and turned to face his father. “How exactly am I trying to fool you?”
“Every time I try to draw you into a conversation, you lock yourself in your room under the pretext of lifting weights.”
“That's because I am lifting weights.”
“That's not the point. The point is you avoid me.”
Andrew hesitated. “Give me fifteen minutes and I'll join you in the den.”
Half an hour later, Andrew walked into the small wood paneled room. His father motioned him toward the second leather wing chair.
“How is everything going at work?” the old man asked with an inscrutable expression.
“Everything is going fine. You have nothing to worry about. I've been there nearly a year now, and I'm doing all right.”
“That is just what worries me.” The old man sounded exasperated. “‘All right’ might be good enough for you, but it isn't good enough for me.”
Andrew grimaced. Here we go again.
“Don't make that face when I'm talking to you. Your grandfather was an internationally respected architect, and so am I. With the connections this family has, you should already be on your way to a world-class career. But my son doesn’t want my help. He wants to do it all by himself. Well, if that’s what you want, that's fine with me, but from what I can see, son, you're going nowhere fast.”
“Dad!” It had been years since he had last addressed him so informally. His father stopped, surprised. “Maybe it's time you accepted it,” Andrew said wearily. “I'm not as good as you and grandfather. I don’t have the talent. Don’t you understand?”
The truth of the simple statement hit Daniel McGregor like a punch. Years of hope and ambition dissolved. He had always hoped his son would someday take his place in the annals of world-renowned architects. For as long as he could remember, he had pressured his son to share those same ambitions, but to no avail. Daniel McGregor suddenly felt old. “You could if you tried,” he said weakly.
Andrew shook his head. “No, I can't. And you know it.”
The old man nodded sadly. “I thought that if I gave you a hand…” In his disappointment, he looked older.
“It would take more than a hand, Dad. I'm just not cut out to be an architect.”
Daniel McGregor was confused. “So, what is it you want to do?”
Andrew hesitated. “I don't know. I just don't know.” His father held his comment, but the look on his face spoke loudly. Andrew got up and walked to the bar. “Now, why don't you tell me again what a disappointment I am to the family?” he said, and poured himself a drink.
* * *
Andrew watched Alex calculate and measure the plan in front of him. The concentration and excitement in Alex's eyes was plain to see. Why can't I feel that way? In the last few months, witnessing his coworker’s dedication made him painfully aware of his own ineptitude and unhappiness.
He walked over to the percolator in the corner and poured himself a coffee. “Want one, Alex?” he called out. There was no reply. Andrew shrugged and came back. He sipped quietly as he watched Alex study the drawing before him. He tried again. “Hey Alex, how is everything?”
“Same as usual,” Alex answered distractedly. His concentration was on the plan before him. He leaned in and studied it more closely—another budget house plan like hundreds he had seen since joining the company. This particular one showed a small, two-story house with three bedrooms. The rooms were cramped, the layout uninspired. He could think of at least a dozen inexpensive ways he could improve the aesthetic and practical aspects of the house. I could design a better house than this.
“What are you looking at?”
Startled, Alex glanced up. He’d been so immersed in his work that he hadn’t noticed Andrew standing nearby. “I was just thinking about something.” He hesitated for a moment. “Come and take a look at this. This plan, it’s not too bad, but not too good. Right?” Andrew examined it as Alex continued. “Anybody can come up with designs way better than this one. Have you ever visited a Brandon house?”
Andrew laughed. “I don't need to go anywhere to see them. I see enough of them right here at work.”
“If we want to move up in this company, I suggest we do more than that,” replied Alex.
“Has anybody told you you’re nuts?” Andrew walked away shaking his head and muttering under his breath. “Great! Now he's going to start doing house inspections on weekends.”
* * *
The idea of visiting Brandon-built houses stayed on Alex's mind, and the more he thought about it, the more it seemed like a good idea. The only problem was that with the closest project miles out of the city, Alex had no way of getting there. In the meantime, he studied every Brandon plan he could get his hands on. He analyzed the average square footage of the houses, their typical layout, identifying the strengths and weaknesses of each design. Then he went to work.
Every spare minute he had, he devoted to his new project. Instead of napping during his night shift at Durring & Durring and going out on weekends, he worked on his plans. I don't know how long I can keep this up. Somehow, he was not tired. Rather, he felt more energized than ever. It seemed that the more he pushed himself, the happier he was. As long as I work this hard, I'm bound to get somewhere.
Andrew, a silent witness to Alex's efforts, watched with grudging admiration. Have to give the guy credit. He's a determined bastard. Slowly, Andrew's curiosity got the better of him until one day, feeling particularly indu
lgent, he approached Alex. “I hear Brandon has a residential development going up about twenty minutes out of the city. I thought I might drive out to see it on Saturday. Want to come along for the ride?”
“Sounds good,” Alex answered, wisely choosing not to show too much eagerness.
“Fine. I'll pick you up around one. What's your address?”
The following Saturday Andrew arrived on schedule. Alex climbed into the Corvette and the two drove off.
Alex noticed every luxurious detail of the sports car, the leather seats, the high-gloss steering-wheel, the multitude of dials on the dashboard. “Nice car,” he said his voice full of admiration.
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