by Clayton Wood
“Did anyone follow you?” he asked, turning from the door and putting his hands on his hips. She sighed.
“No Grandpa.”
“Did you see any police?” he pressed.
“No Grandpa,” she repeated, rubbing her aching shoulders. “You met that friend of yours again, didn’t you,” she accused. He was always like this afterward.
“You’re sure you didn’t see any…”
“Grandpa!” Bella exclaimed exasperatedly. His shoulders slumped.
“Fine,” he mumbled. He eyed her for a moment. “Caught doodling again?” he guessed.
“Yeah.”
“Show me,” he requested, holding out a hand. She sighed, kneeling down to rummage in her backpack. She found her notebook, handing it to him. Grandpa flipped to the proper page with a practiced hand, peering over his spectacles at it. “Hmm, it’s good,” he admitted.
“Mrs. Pittersworth didn’t think so.”
“Bah,” Grandpa scoffed, giving her a look. “Only concern yourself with what people who think think,” he counseled. “Believe me, they’re few and far between.”
Bella smiled at that. Grandpa had a low opinion of most people, Mrs. Pittersworth included. He often mused on how he’d spent the first part of his life trying to make friends…and the remainder trying to get rid of them. He must’ve done a good job, seeing as how he only had one friend left in this world…and Bella, of course. He could stand to have more, she knew. As it was, all he did was sit at his desk and write books that he wouldn’t let anyone read. He left their tiny apartment a few times a year at most, even paying their downstairs neighbor to go grocery shopping for him. It was profoundly unhealthy if you asked her, but trying to get Grandpa to change was like smashing her head repeatedly against a brick wall: the only thing she got out of it was a splitting headache.
“Guess I’ll be in the dining room,” she sighed, grabbing her backpack by one strap and lugging it out of the narrow hallway and across the living room. “Did you eat today?”
“Doing what?” Grandpa inquired, ignoring her question. Which meant he hadn’t.
“Grandpa,” Bella scolded exasperatedly, stopping to glare at him. “You have to eat!”
“Doing what?” he repeated.
“Hard labor,” Bella answered, continuing into their small dining room and tossing her backpack atop the old wooden table there. She began extracting her books.
“No no,” Grandpa retorted, following her and grabbing her by the arm. “You can do that nonsense later. I want to show you something.”
“Grandpa,” she complained wearily. “I really need to get this done. And you need to eat something. I made you that chicken you like last night, remember?”
“Later, later,” he insisted. “Come,” he added, dragging her back into the living room. She sighed, allowing herself to be led toward one of the three small bedrooms in their little apartment. She spotted Grandpa’s old wooden desk in the living room, set against the far wall. His notebooks were stacked haphazardly upon it, with framed drawings of mushrooms of all kinds displayed at the desk’s edges, sketches Bella had drawn for him. She loved mushrooms, but not eating them. There was something magical about things that thrived in dark places.
She slowed, staring at the desk. There was something…off about it. She frowned, then realized what it was.
There was a painting hanging above it. A very large painting.
She stopped, studying it. Nearly as tall as the ceiling and a good three feet wide, it was of a graveyard bathed in ghostly moonlight. Tombstones rose from the dank earth like rotted teeth, and before these lay a body sprawled on its belly over the dirt. A naked body with dead eyes staring right at her.
“Oh god!” Bella gasped, bringing her hand to her mouth. “Grandpa!”
It was Grandpa…an eerie likeness of him, anyway. Grandpa followed her gaze, his eyes lighting up.
“Do you like it?” he inquired. “My friend painted it for me.”
She didn’t have to ask which friend, of course; he only had one. She’d never met the man, and strongly suspected she never would.
“He painted you dead in a graveyard,” she stated. He nodded happily. “You sure he’s your friend?” she pressed.
“Well, we did have a bit of a falling out years ago,” Grandpa admitted, scratching his short beard. “He sort of ruined my life, actually. But he’s doing his best to make it up to me.”
“Huh.”
“What do you think of it?” he pressed.
“I like everything except my naked dead Grandpa staring at me.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Tell me you didn’t pose for this,” she pleaded, eyeing him warily. He gave her a look that was far too innocent. “That’s it, I’m shampooing the carpet,” she grumbled.
“I laid on some towels,” he reassured her. “And threw them in the wash,” he added hastily.
“Just…why, Grandpa?”
“Well, my naughty bits were on them, you see, and I…”
“The painting Grandpa.”
He chuckled, then regarded the painting for a quiet moment.
“It helps remind me of what’s coming,” he answered at last. “And that every beginning has an end…and every end a new beginning.”
“There you go, being all mysterious again,” Bella muttered. Grandpa was always saying things like that.
“I’m a writer,” he replied matter-of-factly, as if that explained it. It was his excuse for just about everything he did.
“You’re really going to keep that up there, aren’t you?”
“Just be glad I wasn’t on my back,” Grandpa replied with a wicked grin, waggling his bushy eyebrows. She pretended to retch, and he laughed. “Come on sweetheart,” he urged, pulling her toward one of the bedrooms again. “I want to show you something.”
“I think I’ve seen enough,” she retorted. But she let herself be led, and they entered the small spare bedroom Grandpa used as a storage room. To her surprise, it’d been cleaned out…and at the far end of the room stood a wooden easel, a fresh canvas sitting upon it.
She drew a sharp breath in, her eyes widening.
“Happy birthday sweetheart,” he declared, gesturing at the easel. She just stared at it, her mouth agape. She closed it with an audible click.
“How…?”
“I had the neighbor get them,” Grandpa explained.
“Grandpa, this…” Bella said, shaking her head. She gave him a big hug, wiping sudden moisture from her eyes. “Thank you Grandpa.”
“You’re welcome.”
They disengaged, and she walked up to the easel, running her fingertips over the rough canvas. For the first time that day, she felt a burst of excitement. A spark of life. He’d gotten her everything…the easel and canvas, a palette, brushes, and boxes and boxes of paints.
“You always said you wanted to be a painter like your mother,” Grandpa reminded her, gazing at the gifts with a satisfied smile. “And if you want to be something…”
“You have to do it,” Bella recited.
“Right,” he agreed. “I thought we’d start you off with acrylics.”
“This is great,” Bella murmured, shaking her head slowly. She turned to Grandpa then, her hands on her hips. “How much did it cost?”
“I’ve been saving,” he stated rather defensively.
“I counted our money last week,” she retorted. “We barely had enough for rent!”
“I’ve been saving,” he insisted. “I put some cash away.” Her eyebrows rose.
“You hid money from me?”
“I wanted it to be a surprise,” he explained. “You only turn sixteen once you know.”
“Is this why you haven’t been eating?” she pressed. He grimaced, but held his ground.
“We can afford it,” he insisted. “We have to afford it. Yes this cost a lot, but not following your dreams will cost you far more.”
She sighed, dropping her hands to her
sides. The thought that Grandpa had gone hungry, lying awake at night starving…and all for her…was heartbreaking. But it was clear that he was absolutely delighted with the result, his eyes twinkling with excitement. She gave a reluctant smile, and Grandpa beamed back at her. She stepped up to him, giving him another hug.
“Thanks Grandpa.”
He gave her a squeeze, then pushed her away gently, gesturing at the canvas.
“Go on,” he urged. “Try it out!”
She turned to the easel, stepping up to it. Then she hesitated. The pristine whiteness of the canvas was suddenly intimidating, a perfect emptiness that she could only ruin.
“I don’t know…”
“Of course you don’t,” he agreed. “You’ve never painted before.”
“Can you teach me?” she asked. He scoffed.
“I’m a writer, not a painter.”
“But I don’t know what to do,” she pointed out.
“Well it’s easy,” he replied. “Squeeze some paint on this,” he instructed, pointing to the wooden palette, “…then dip your brush in it. Then wipe your brush on the canvas.”
Bella shot him a withering glare, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Thanks for the tip,” she grumbled.
“Have fun!” he exclaimed, walking out of the small room and closing the door behind him. She stared at the door for a long moment, then turned to give similar treatment to the canvas.
Its perfect emptiness was vast, an unconquerable wasteland. She stepped up to it slowly, feeling overwhelmed. The thought of doing homework was suddenly far preferable, and she turned back to the door, opening it.
And found Grandpa standing there, arms crossed over his chest.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded.
“I…don’t know what to paint.”
He relaxed visibly, a smile lighting his features.
“Ah, of course,” he replied, leading her back to the easel. “Terrifying, isn’t it?” he added, gesturing at the canvas. “A blank page is the artist’s most dreaded enemy.” He wrapped a bony arm around her shoulders. “I feel the same way when I’m writing.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes,” he confirmed. “That perfect blankness! Untouched. Pure!” He looked down at her with a conspiratorial smile, his eyes twinkling. “Ruin it.”
She blinked, and his smile broadened.
“Go on,” he urged.
“What?”
“Ruin it!” he cried, grabbing the package of paintbrushes and tearing one free from its window of plastic wrap. He grabbed a tube of acrylic, squirting it directly onto the brush, then presenting it to Bella.
“But…”
“No buts!” he retorted, shoving the brush into her hands. He pointed at the canvas. “Destroy!”
Bella hesitated, eyeing the canvas. Then she stepped forward, looming over it. She glanced back at Grandpa, who made violent slashing motions with one arm, as if conducting a mad orchestra. She smiled reluctantly, facing the canvas.
And brought the paintbrush down upon it, violating its perfection with an angry black gash.
“Ha!” Grandpa cried in triumph, beaming at Bella. She broke out into a bigger smile, eyeing her handiwork. The canvas was utterly ruined.
“Now you can paint,” he declared.
“But…what if it’s bad?”
“Oh, it will be,” Grandpa answered matter-of-factly. He gestured to the right of the easel then, at an enormous number of canvases stacked on top of each other, forming a tower that threatened to touch the ceiling. He pointed to the top of it. “This one will be too,” he added. Then he pointed to the canvas at the bottom of the stack. “But this one, ahhh…I can’t wait to see it!”
Bella must have looked entirely unconvinced.
“You’ll be terrible,” he assured her. “Even your mother was at first. And she ended up being the second-best painter I ever met.”
“But…”
“Just paint,” he interjected. “When you’re done, I promise I’ll devour that delicious meal you made me.” Then he turned about, leaving the room and shutting the door behind him again.
Bella sighed, trudging up to the easel, then glancing down at the tubes of acrylic paint set neatly in their packaging to her left. She knew full-well that Grandpa really wouldn’t eat until she’d filled the canvas with paint. He’d clearly lost weight this month, and couldn’t afford to lose much more. They were barely getting by on him selling his stories.
She sighed again, looking down at the paintbrush in her hand. Suddenly she felt silly wasting her time painting. There was a mountain of homework she still had to do, after all. She had to do well in school to have a chance at getting a good job…one that would let her take care of both of them. Mrs. Pittersworth had been right, of course; Bella would never make a living doodling.
But she couldn’t not paint, not after what Grandpa had sacrificed to get this for her.
“Just paint, huh?” she mumbled to herself. She took a deep breath in, squaring her shoulders and focusing on the blighted canvas. “All right Bella, you can do this.”
And with that, she got to work, proving herself utterly and horribly wrong.
Chapter 2
That day, Bella did a painting of an orchid she kept on her windowsill, attempting to transform the angry black gash she’d made into its stem.
It was a disaster.
Her colors were garish and grotesque, her lines far too thick. Every attempt to salvage the painting only made things worse, each stroke of her brush driving it further from her original vision. Her frustration mounting – and matched only by her despair – she’d finally thrown up her hands in surrender, fleeing the scene of the crime and slamming the door behind her to hide the evidence. To her relief, Grandpa took this as undeniable proof that she’d performed the task he’d given her, and he did not ask to witness the gruesome result. Holding up his end of the bargain, he’d devoured every last morsel of the meal she’d cooked for him.
She’d been so distressed by her utter failure that she’d almost given up on painting altogether…and would have if Grandpa hadn’t threatened to go on another hunger strike. He’d insisted that she paint every day, no matter what. Even if she didn’t feel like it. Especially if she didn’t feel like it.
And so she did.
Days passed, each bringing yet another failure. But each was a smaller failure than the last, and the usual dread she experienced with each fresh canvas gradually dwindled, until that once-awful white void was simply an invitation to fill it. She began to experiment with mixing colors, and with brushes of different shapes and sizes. And while the results were hardly to her standards, they got closer bit-by-bit, until the thought of revealing them to another soul no longer filled her with terror.
Grandpa never asked to see the paintings, taking her at her word that she’d painted them. His only request was that he see the last painting, the one from the canvas at the bottom of the heap. Two weeks later, she found herself reaching for that very one.
It was then that she returned to her very first painting, still set against the wall, facing away from her in shame. She turned it around, staring at it for a while. Then, with a deep breath and squared shoulders, she retrieved the orchid from her bedroom that had inspired it, setting it on the windowsill next to the easel.
And she painted.
By the time the sun began to set on that Sunday afternoon, Bella set the final stroke of her brush upon the canvas, backing away from her painting and regarding it for a long moment. To her surprise, it was rather good. A fine orchid with sun-kissed purple and white petals that cast gentle shadows on the leaves below, supported by a slender, stately stem.
“Huh,” she said, tapping her chin with her brush. Then she frowned, realizing she’d painted a purple blotch there. She set her brush down, exiting her little studio and crossing through the living room to go to the bathroom and wash it off. Grandpa was home, of course, sitting on his perennial perch at his de
sk.
“All done?” he inquired, looking up from his notebook. He still wrote his books longhand, refusing to use a computer.
“Yep,” she called out as she passed, reaching the bathroom and washing her face. She emerged, stretching her stiff back. “Ooof.”
“There’s still time for one more,” he stated.
“We’re out of canvases,” she replied…and instantly regretted it. Grandpa’s eyebrows rose.
“Already?”
“Yeah,” she admitted.
He stood from his chair with a grunt, gesturing at the door to her studio.
“Then I suppose it’s time,” he proclaimed. “Lead the way!”
Bella sighed, dutifully grabbing Grandpa’s arm and leading him toward the studio.
“Should I cover my eyes?” he inquired.
“Definitely.”
He did just that, allowing Bella to pull him into the studio. She brought him to stand before the easel.
“Okay,” she declared. “You can look.”
He dropped his hand, studying the painting for a long, silent moment. Then he leaned in close, peering at the brushstrokes while scratching his scraggly white beard. Bella chewed a fingernail nervously, the suspense threatening to drive her mad.
“Well?” she blurted out at last. Grandpa stood up as straight as he could, turning to face her.
“It’s good,” he proclaimed, breaking into a smile. “Well done, Bella!”
“You think so?” she asked, daring to hope. He shot her a look, and she smiled. Grandpa was a vicious critic, incapable of telling a lie for the sake of sparing someone’s feelings. A trait Bella had inherited…and almost certainly the reason why they both had trouble keeping friends.
“Where’s your first painting?” he inquired. She pointed to one of the paintings facing the wall. “May I see it?”
“I guess.”
He retrieved the painting, turning it around and eyeing it critically. She looked over his shoulder, cringing at the sheer awfulness of it.
