The Color of Cold and Ice

by J. Schlenker

  “Okay, if you say so,” he said with a pronounced eye roll.

  “Didn’t you notice all the colors that Van Gogh used when we were looking at the painting earlier?”

  “Yeah, he probably used the same number that is in the big Crayola box,” he said, stretching both of his arms out as widely as possible. Emerald smiled at her son’s brilliant way of understanding and the way he could simplify matters.

  “Yes, he probably did, but he didn’t always paint like that.”

  “He didn’t?”

  “No, he started out with using lots of earth tones.”

  “What are earth tones?”

  “Well, they are colors of the earth, like what you see in the park. What do you see in the park?”

  “Green,” Chad shouted.

  “Yes, green, also browns like the leaves that fall from the trees. Van Gogh used lots of dark browns. But then he studied Ruben, another painter, a painter who lived a couple of hundred years before he was even born. It was after observing Ruben’s paintings that Van Gogh decided to broaden his palette. He added carmine. That’s a red. Cobalt blue, and emerald.”

  “Green, your name,” Chad said with a look of satisfaction of knowing that his mom’s name meant green.

  “Yes, my name.”

  “Mom, is that why you like Van Gogh so much?”

  “No, I just love Van Gogh, well, because looking at his paintings is like a religious experience for me.”

  “Oh,” Chad said.

  Did he understand? She doubted it. She smiled, looking at his small eight year old frame, appreciating the fact he was trying to interact with her on a level beyond his years.

  She explained, as if it were somehow important to hear her own words reflected back at her. “At first, Van Gogh was going to be a pastor or go into some kind of church service, but then he started painting. Just think of the millions of people he has reached through his paintings. He reaches people beyond mere words. With color, he captured the space between the words, something we can’t describe. His painting was his ministry. Actually, I had never thought of it in this way before, but your questions made me think of it. Thank you, Chad.”

  “Mom, I really don’t understand all of this. You need an adult to talk to.” The wisdom coming from this small man resounded through her being. She placed one of her hands over Chad’s, feeling its warmth, while noticing the absence of Michael’s hand grasping her free hand as they walked from the ice rink.

  Emerald ruffled his hair once again, smiling. “Tomorrow, after school, maybe we can visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I want to show you a self-portrait that Van Gogh did. Wait until you see all the colors he used for skin. Also, his painting of Shoes is there. Those were painted a year later. Not as much color there, but still you will detect a lot. We better get back home. You have school tomorrow.”

  “Mom, is all we are going to do is visit museums, since you don’t have to work at the coffee shop anymore?”

  “No, not all. We might work on your math after that bad grade you brought home.”

  “Oh, Mom, I hate math.”

  “Your father loved math. And if you want to be an architect, you need to be good at math.”

  Chapter 17

  Mark

  * * *

  IT WAS AFTER midnight. John and Allison’s muffled voices echoed through the wall. A moment of silence ensued, followed by the rhythmic sound of box springs moving up and down. It was at that point he decided to go downstairs and grab a beer from the refrigerator.

  No beer to be found, not even a half opened bottle of wine. Just an assortment of Trader Joe’s and 365 labels looking back at him. He poured himself some of Little John’s apple juice. It was organic. Allison had the kids’ welfare in mind. He sat on the bar stool and saw the Apple logo glaring back at him. He flipped the lid open. Layers of recipes stared back. Great, she was still signed on. He opened a new tab and Googled Columbia University, perusing over courses. He labored through the business offerings. What was he interested in? Nothing he read appealed to him at all. He found himself involuntarily clicking on the humanities department and finally landing on the music department. His parents weren’t going to pay for a music major. He clicked the back button towards business once again but due to some gut reaction, opened another tab instead and Googled The Iceman.

  He gave workshops, workshops he couldn’t afford. Then there was the travel. He was dreaming. It turned out his workshops weren’t in The Netherlands at all but rather Poland. Somehow, going to Poland didn’t seem as appealing as The Netherlands. Maybe he wasn’t ready to commit to something like this.

  He pulled up and watched every YouTube video he could find on The Iceman, as he was called. He read all he could of his book, Becoming the Iceman online. By the time he finished the first three chapters, which were free online, he was hooked. He put in his credit card number and purchased the eBook.

  This kid, college kid, who appeared to be as dirt poor as he was, did everything in his power to get to Poland to take a workshop. Why couldn’t he?

  He was just finishing the book when Molly came running down the steps. He looked up to see sun coming through the kitchen blinds.

  Allison wasn’t far behind Molly. “Did you go to bed last night?” she asked as she opened the refrigerator door, getting out some oranges, sitting them by the juicer on the counter.

  “For a little while. I got up and started reading, and couldn’t stop until I finished the book.”

  “Must have been good.”

  “Well, it has got me to thinking.” He paused, noticing the fresh glow emanating from his sister. “You seem a lot better this morning. Is everything okay with you and John?”

  “I am, and yes, I think it is.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Yes you did,” she said, giving him a knowing smile.

  John came in the room followed by Little John. “Did you go to bed at all?” John repeated Allison’s inquiry.

  “Yes, for a bit. Ali just asked me that. I think I’ll go back up and get some sleep before I head to the record shop. John, I ordered a book. I think you might be interested in it. It’s on the computer if you want to read it. I’ll see you guys later.”

  Chapter 18

  John

  * * *

  JOHN OPENED UP his iPad on the subway and began reading the book he had transferred before he left for work. It had been so long since he had taken the time to read anything other than headlines or medical reports or papers. A mystery would be nice, Dan Brown or Stephen King, some fiction that wouldn’t tax his brain too much, on a warm beach, sea gulls in the background, the sound of waves crashing near his feet, sea air, something far removed from the city. No kids. A second honeymoon, the one they said they would take but never got around to.

  Both the experience of the cold and the old Greek man had unlocked a world of possibilities. Last night with Allison had opened up a new realm, a parallel universe of sorts. It made him realize he had been living in the wrong one. They talked, not about house renovations, bills, or the children, but really talked, something they hadn’t done in a long time, maybe something they had never done. They made love, had sex, not a Fifty Shades of Grey kind of sex, but something tender. They exposed more than their naked flesh. They opened up to each other, exposed their vulnerabilities. Something changed between them. Maybe it took several years and a couple of kids to really know each other.

  Valentine’s Day, a holiday that this time actually meant something, not a burden or a last-minute rush like in years past, was coming up. It was probably too late to schedule anything now. But maybe he could book something after the fact, give Allison a card with a rain check for the following weekend. Did it really matter if they celebrated on that exact day? Shouldn’t every day be Valentine’s Day? Live in the moment, his new philosophy. He and Mark had talked about living in the moment once during one of their save-the-world be
er fests.

  He had thought about bringing up a getaway to Allison last night after their lovemaking. He had thought again about bringing it up when she handed him a fresh squeezed glass of orange juice this morning, but thought, no, let it be a surprise. No country inns, something totally different. What if it should fall through? Better not to jinx it. After Valentine’s Day, it would be less crowded, probably a lot easier to get reservations, plus better rates, especially during the winter, but where would they go? Maybe he could take some extra time for lunch, start Googling places at his desk. He would check with Doris, see what his day looked like. Maybe he could take off a little early. Did they have the money to spend? He would have to reschedule appointments or see if Dr. Roberts could cover for him in his absence. The little old man’s words came back to him. “Life is short.” Yes, this had to happen.

  He looked down at his iPad. Luckily he read fast, something he had learned in college. He scanned through the pages, a science major’s account of this life-changing event in meeting The Iceman. He was telling his story. Everything about the book was factual. He wrote part of the book, and the other parts were written by The Iceman himself. Besides being a superhuman of some sort, the man was brilliant. He spoke ten languages including Sanskrit. He admired anyone who spoke even a second language. He had always wanted to learn French but never had the time. He didn’t take the time. That’s probably what the little old Greek man might say.

  They could go to his restaurant for Valentine’s Day. It wasn’t anything fancy, and it was just down the street. Funny, he had walked down that street on several occasions, but the restaurant had never registered with him. They could all go out for Valentine’s Day. He would present Allison with a card with the reservations or plane ticket inside, as well as cards for the kids, too, consolation gifts. They hadn’t eaten out as a family in ages.

  France, that was a thought. Wouldn’t that pronouncement floor Allison? Spring break was coming up. Her parents could take the kids. How often had Allison’s mom said they needed a vacation? What was the currency rate? He would have to look that up during lunch. Mexico would be cheap enough, but somehow that just didn’t resonate with him. Were their passports up to date? He doubted it. There was no way to get them in order in a couple of weeks. That would be a lot of stress. The whole point was no stress. They could save another country for another time.

  New Orleans. They spoke a little French down there. Or, so he thought. He had always wanted to go. His roommate in college went once during spring break. He missed out. Too concerned over a class he was nearly flunking. But wasn’t Mardi Gras in February? He wasn’t sure exactly when that took place. He would check it out when he got to the office. They could take a paddlewheel ride down the Mississippi, take a haunted tour, eat jambalaya, fresh oysters, and tour the bars on Bourbon Street. Wasn’t New Orleans Faulkner’s old haunting ground? He could bone up on Faulkner, hadn’t read him since college lit, or any classics since college for that matter.

  Three station stops and he was only a third of the way through the book. His mind kept drifting to Allison. Concentrate. Everything this man claimed was backed up scientifically. What interested him the most was the immunity factor. He would also have to search more about this back at the office. This man’s philosophy could put him out of business, that is if people would actually do the work. Who was going to do breathing exercises and swim in icy waters in the dead of winter when they could sit inside their comfortable homes in front of their gas fireplaces and pop pills. And where would they swim? In the Hudson or East River? Maybe they had pristine lakes and streams in Europe but none that he knew of in New York City. In the book, it said that his wife was depressed. He wondered what prescriptions she was taking. A lot of people taking certain drugs ended up committing suicide. That’s something the medical industry didn’t like to admit.

  What about Amsterdam? That was where The Iceman was from. Maybe they should take Mark? No, that wouldn’t fly. This was supposed to be romantic. Besides, they couldn’t afford to take Mark. They might be seeing a lot of Mark in the near future. They hadn’t really discussed how long this living arrangement might be. Mark had always lived with someone, someone with whom he shared the rent. At the moment, he had no one.

  He could see where one of The Iceman’s workshops might do Mark good. It might do him good, too, but he wasn’t into these kinds of things like Mark was. Sure, this did interest him, but not now. Maybe down the road. First, he wanted to deal with his marriage, get that on track, take it down a different road from the one it almost detoured to. If Mark was going to travel abroad and take one of The Iceman’s workshops, he needed to do this now, between girlfriends. Who knows who he might hook up with next? Mark didn’t have such great luck with women, well, not good luck in finding the right woman.

  Allison’s parents could afford to send him for a workshop. Maybe he could put in a good word for him. It would be his professional opinion that Mark needed this trip. It was what he needed to get his life on course. He wouldn’t be lying. After reading about The Iceman, he actually believed that. Mark could come back and teach him the method. Maybe he would even suggest some of his patients take the workshop. This was not going to get his student loans paid off.

  Mark might meet a Dutch woman. Wouldn’t that be something? He might decide to move there. Perhaps his music would take off there.

  His stop. Should he grab a coffee? What was that place called, The Java Bean, The Java Factory? He began walking in that direction. He noticed how light his steps were. He remembered how heavy they had been the night before. Last night. Somehow that seemed so long ago. This morning, he stepped into a different world. Everything about it looked different. He passed all the people in their black attire. He passed the familiar green sign and headed for the bright orange one. How could he miss it? The Java Bean Factory. Cute name.

  “I’ll have a regular coffee, hmm, and one of those banana muffins.” At least the banana part was healthy. “There was a girl working in here yesterday. Short hair.”

  “Yeah, yesterday was her last day.”

  “Oh.”

  “Name?”

  “What?”

  “Name on your cup?”

  “John.”

  * * *

  “Good morning, Doris.” The surprised expression on her face at the musical tone of his greeting didn’t escape him.

  “Good morning, Dr. Gray.”

  “Who’s my first patient?”

  “Peg Jenkins.”

  “But I just saw her yesterday morning.”

  “She phoned early. Said it was an emergency. She promised it wouldn’t take long.”

  “All right. Give me fifteen minutes, then send her in.”

  * * *

  “Mrs. Jenkins, how are we today?”

  “Horrible. My husband came home last night and asked me for a divorce.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, but how can I help? I’m not a counselor.”

  “Yes, I know. It’s just that he’s been seeing someone else, a younger woman. Look at me. My eyes are swollen. I’ve been crying all night. I’m desperate. I have to do something. My friend, Gloria, said that maybe if I had kept myself up better. She wanted me to see her plastic surgeon, but she had some problems last year. Surely, you must know of someone good. And, the Xanax, that hasn’t been working. I’m going to need something stronger. Something to get me through this. I just know he’s going to ask for the apartment. I don’t want to give it up.”

  “Mrs. Jenkins, I’m really sorry for what you are going through, but I don’t think plastic surgery is the answer. And what kind of friend is Gloria? I hope you will forgive me for saying this, but you might want to look into acquiring a different friend.”

  “Well, she is a gossip,” Mrs. Jenkins said in disgust.

  “Anyway, that’s all kind of beside the point. Listen, perhaps you just need a change of scenery for a while.”

  “You know, Doctor, you’re right. I have other f
riends. We could go to Palm Springs or Las Vegas, run up my husband’s credit card before it’s too late. That would serve him right.”

  “No, that’s not what I meant.”

  “Oh — well, what did you mean?”

  “Mrs. Jenkins,” John said.

  She interrupted him and put her hand on his arm, giving him a sheepish grin. “Call me Peg. After all, how long have I been coming to you?”

  Was she flirting with him? Yes, she was definitely flirting with him. Of course, she was distraught. She didn’t know how to handle it. She probably took more Xanax then the directions indicated. A lot of his patients did. Several of them were seeing other doctors as well, racking up a whole slew of prescriptions.

  “Mrs. Jenkins, I don’t think that would be too professional.”

  “Well, whatever you say, Doctor,” She removed her hand as if she had been scorned by a man for the second time in twenty-four hours. Then she broke down and cried.

  John handed her some tissues.

  “Dr. Gray, I’m just depressed. I don’t know what to do. I’m so tired of everything, tired of keeping up appearances, tired of this city.”

  John smiled to reassure her. “This morning I was reading something. Maybe it could help you.” Was this coming out of his mouth? He hadn’t even thoroughly checked this out yet. Could he get into trouble for even mentioning this to a patient? He caught himself and proceeded with caution.

  “Well, what I’m trying to say, maybe you need some type of get away, something like a spa, or something along those lines.”

  “Well, maybe, but where would I go? What do you recommend?”

  “Mrs. Jenkins, please just go home and rest. Let me check some things out, maybe confer with some other doctors.” He knew, even though he said that, he had no intention of conferring with anyone else, at least not yet. He was going to read more about this Iceman. He was claiming his methods really worked with depression. He had lost his wife to depression. He sounded sincere. At least he would check out spas or yoga retreats. Most of his patients needed something like this. He needed it. Now, that’s a thought, a nice yoga or spa retreat as a second honeymoon. “I will call you no later than tomorrow before the office closes. Is that okay?”