by Kim Aubrey
“I thought so,” said Miriam, who’d left her seat to take a closer look. She shook her head at André. “You’re always suspecting a colour conspiracy.”
He shrugged. “It looked different tonight.”
Barry scraped the edge of a razor blade across the paper to make flecks of white surf. “I’m going to stop there,” he said.
“Beautiful,” Katya said.
The students dispersed. André followed Katya back to her seat. He watched her tape paper to a board and squeeze paint onto her palette.
“Is this sable?” He picked up one of her brushes, stroking it across the knuckles of his other hand, imagining Katya’s lush brown hair falling against his skin.
“Just start your painting.” She pushed him away. “Get on with it. You’re up to your old delaying tactics. You have to jump in, get your brush wet.”
“So to speak.” He smiled. “You won’t let me get away with anything.” The place on his shoulder where she’d touched him felt warm. His shirtsleeve, resting lightly against his skin, seemed to kiss the imprint of her hand. Maybe it would be a good night after all.
He looked at his copy of the photo Barry had given the class. It differed a little from the teacher’s. The boat was larger, closer to the shore, and there was an island. He made a small sketch to get the composition right. Then he laid down washes, lost himself in the act of painting. He looked up when Barry walked by, nodding at him. That meant things were going okay, so far. He painted the oblong of a big rock, but started to do the shadow too soon, and the paint ran. That flower of dark spreading across the rock tweaked his old impatience with himself. He felt the bad mood rise in his chest, rush through his blood. Now he wouldn’t be able to finish. Now the night was goddamn ruined. Liz was the one responsible for these moods. The goddamn divorce couldn’t come soon enough. Katya was painting happily beside him, her rock edged and shadowed in three bold, innocent strokes.
He tried to fix his painting, adding more rocks to conceal the blurry shadow, using a palette knife to scrape away some of the paint and create planes of light where the sun hit the foreground. But when he stepped back, he saw that the rocks were too big and too much alike, and the white sailboat, which was supposed to be sailing bravely out of the harbour, seemed to be drawn hopelessly towards them.
“I’ve had enough,” he said.
“Leaving early again?” Miriam asked.
André packed up his paints and brushes. “I’ll finish it at home,” he said, knowing he wouldn’t. “My son’s waiting for me.”
Intent on her painting, Katya didn’t respond, didn’t even look his way.
“I’m done,” he said as he passed Barry at the front of the room.
One side of Barry’s mouth turned up, more a grimace than a smile. “You should try to stay for the critique sometime. You might learn something.”
André shrugged, and adjusted the shoulder strap of his black portfolio. “I have to get home to my son before bedtime.”
Barry turned away. André stood there waiting for something—another word from his teacher, absolution, praise for being a good father, a wave from Katya, a nod from Miriam. But heads were lowered, intent on finishing touches, and Barry stood silent, immovable, arms crossed, ready for the students to bring him their paintings so he could place them one at a time on the easel for critique.
André hurried out the door to the parking lot. Pulling his keys from his pocket, searching for the right one, he dropped them onto the pavement. “Goddamn!” He leaned his portfolio against the black Jeep, and bent down to retrieve the keys. The November night smelled fresh as spring, but, flushed with anger and hot in his leather jacket, he couldn’t enjoy it, didn’t know when he’d last enjoyed anything. He’d yet to finish a painting, and each week it seemed less and less likely that Katya would go out with him, that he’d even find the words to ask her.
At home, he dropped his portfolio onto the floor next to Braden’s running shoes, removed his jacket, and hung it in the closet.
“Daddy!” his son’s voice squealed from upstairs. “I’m still awake.”
“I’ll be up in a minute,” André called. He unlaced his work shoes, slipped on leather moccasins, and headed for the kitchen, his footsteps echoing through the big, empty house. He imagined Katya sitting at the kitchen table with a bowl of hot borscht, her lips crimson from the beets. Then, noticing the dirty dishes in the sink, his familiar anger flooded back. He’d planned to make hot chocolate for three—himself, Braden, and Bridget, the nanny. Now Bridget wouldn’t get a mug. He filled the kettle, and switched on the burner. She always let him down just when he’d started to hope she was on top of her job. She hadn’t even wiped the counters. She’d probably say Braden hadn’t left her alone for one minute, that she was hired as nanny not housekeeper. But he’d been very clear about her responsibilities when she’d first arrived. One good thing about Liz—she’d been fanatical about the house, couldn’t go to bed at night if the kitchen wasn’t clean, or out the door in the morning without vacuuming the wall-to-wall.
He filled the mugs with hot water, stirred in the mix. No, he wasn’t in the mood for marshmallows tonight. Braden would be disappointed, but he just couldn’t reach into that high cupboard, undo the twist tie on the bag, smell that whiff of vanilla. Damn Liz! Even a marshmallow could remind him of her, how she used to bake for him during what she referred to as her Suzy Homemaker phase, when she’d taken a six-month leave from her job at the art gallery while they’d tried to get pregnant.
He’d loved coming home to a wife fragrant with baking, her cotton pullover dusted with flour, her tongue sweet from cookie dough or cake batter. He remembered licking a smudge of chocolate off her chin as he undressed her on the living-room rug. When they’d failed to conceive, she’d claimed that his enthusiasm for getting her pregnant was making her feel ambivalent, afraid of becoming what he seemed so much to want her to be—nothing more or less than a mother and a wife.
“I don’t feel like myself,” she’d said. “I need to go back to work so I can remember why having a baby seemed like a good idea.”
“Fine,” he’d said. “But no more ten-hour days or skipping lunch. Your body is going to be nourishing our child.”
When she’d finally gotten pregnant, he’d tried to persuade her to quit work for good, to leave those modern monstrosities of paint and plaster behind to stay home with the baby.
“You can start painting again in your spare time,” he’d said.
“What spare time? At least at the gallery I can talk about painting, and help other artists get their work noticed.”
Liz had taken the standard maternity leave, and André had spent two weeks at home, sleeping in with her, cooking big breakfasts while she nursed Braden, the three of them napping on their queen-size bed through the quiet winter afternoons. If he woke before Braden, he’d bury his face between Liz’s heavy breasts, counting the seconds to discover how long he could hold his breath, then tasting each nipple to see which one was sweeter.
“The left one today.” He’d held it between his fingers, watching the milk spurt up in a thin bluish fountain.
“Bradie doesn’t notice any difference,” Liz had said, turning away to stroke their son’s sleeping face. “You always have to be judging everything.”
Even with Liz’s moodiness, those two weeks stood out as the happiest of his life, but, returning to the law firm, he’d been penalized for them, his biggest client handed over to one of the junior partners.
Holding the hot mugs out in front of him, André walked upstairs, watching for toys on the steps.
Braden was in bed, reading his favourite book—Green Eggs and Ham. His fine brown hair had been cut short and straight across his forehead by André’s barber. The soft down on his cheeks and nose glowed in the lamplight, which cast his shadow, large and diffuse, onto the opposite wall.
“Daddy!” He put do
wn his book. “Hot chocolate!”
André set Braden’s mug onto the bedside table. “Where’s Bridget?”
“In her room. She got a phone call.”
Long distance no doubt. Better not be collect. Bridget had dozens of long-winded friends and relatives in New Brunswick, where she’d grown up and lived until just a few months ago.
“No marshmallows?” Braden asked, showing André his sad face, lower lip pushed out, hound dog eyes.
“Not tonight. How was school?”
“We made poppies for Remember Day, to remember the soldiers who died. Mrs. Skinner put my poppy on the wall.”
“Good.” André sipped his cocoa, thinking of his high school art teacher, Mrs. Flynn, how she’d praised him, misleading him to believe he could be an artist. Now, with Barry’s terse encouragement, he was trying to paint again. Liz would laugh at him if she found out. She used to call watercolours old-lady paintings.
“What about Winslow Homer?” he’d asked her. “What about Sargent? Their watercolours are more artful than those blobs of paint on a canvas you love so much.”
“They were both old ladies,” she’d replied with that tenderly mocking smile of hers.
Would she call him an old lady too? Would she call Katya an old lady? Katya’s paintings made Barry’s eyes light up. Liz did used to say that André was old-fashioned. When they were dating, she had seemed to like that about him, liked how he’d worn a tie when he took her out to dinner, and opened the car door for her. But sometime during their marriage, it had become a deficit, a sticking point.
Braden said, “We’re singing a song for Remember Day in the gym. Can you and Mommy come watch me?”
“Sorry, Bradie, I have to work.”
“Can you ask Mommy?”
“I guess so.” A brief spasm shot through his chest, a mere twinge of what he’d feel if he phoned Liz. Even if he called her, she might not show up, too busy with her new job in acquisitions, paying ridiculous sums of money for paintings that looked like nothing at all. There’d been a picture of one in the paper yesterday—a plain blue canvas with a snaking yellow line. The brashness of it had made his eyes itch. Katya’s paintings had an abstract quality, but they always suggested something real.
He grabbed hold of Braden’s hand, gently squeezing it. “I wish I could be there to hear your class sing.”
“That’s okay. Mommy will come.”
“She may be busy.” She didn’t see enough of Braden, but the little she did was too much for André. He begrudged her any part of the comforting burden of their son’s love.
“Goodnight.” He kissed Braden’s forehead, and turned off the light.
With the dark came panic like a rush of water into his lungs. He had to breathe slowly and deeply to make it recede. Tomorrow he’d talk to Liz. Right now he wanted to fall into bed and forget. He heard the kettle hiss. Bridget was off the phone, making herself a hot drink. He’d tell her she had to smarten up if she wanted to stay. But when he entered the kitchen, she was washing the dishes.
“Do you want some tea?” she asked, her face flushed and smiling, as if she’d been on the phone with a boyfriend.
“No thanks. Braden and I had hot chocolate.”
Even the back of her neck where it met her shoulders was pink. He remembered kissing Liz in that exact spot while she stood stirring cake batter. He’d felt her muscles move under his lips as she leaned back against him.
Bridget was wearing a T-shirt and flannel pyjama pants. He wanted to stand close behind her, to lift the T-shirt off over her head. But she was nineteen, exactly half his age, and Braden’s nanny. He felt nauseous with fatigue and confusion. If only he’d worked up the nerve to ask Katya out.
“Goodnight.” He headed for the stairs, rubbing his neck.
André didn’t mind the morning drive. He listened to the all-news channel, and reviewed his schedule for the day. But his drive home that night killed him. As his Jeep crawled along the highway, his bones aching, he kicked the day around in his head. There’d been a client’s complaints, a hint from the senior partner that he wasn’t clocking enough hours, a co-worker’s snide remark about his choice of tie: “Wife pick that one out for you, Andy?” Had that been deliberate cruelty? Did the man realize that André no longer had a wife?
“You hate it there,” Liz would have told him. “When are you going to start your own practice like you’re always saying?” He’d put off phoning her all day. He’d have to call tonight. After dinner. He hoped Bridget had remembered to cook the fresh salmon he’d bought at the market.
When he opened the door, Bridget was sprawled across the sofa, reading a novel, while Braden sat inches from the blaring television. He wondered what Katya was doing right now, tried to picture her relaxing after work in soft, old jeans like the ones Liz used to wear, but he couldn’t envision her surroundings, and realized he knew nothing about her life outside of class.
“Turn that thing down,” he yelled.
Bridget reached for the remote.
“What have you done about dinner?” He removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes.
“It’s fish sticks and French fries,” Bridget said without looking at him. “Yours is in the oven. Braden and I have already eaten.”
“What happened to the salmon I brought home yesterday?”
“I’ll make it tomorrow.”
“It won’t be fresh tomorrow. That fish cost me twenty bucks.”
“D’you want me to cook it now?” She stood up, hands on hips.
“You can do it in the microwave with teriyaki sauce. It’ll take five minutes.”
“So why don’t you make it yourself?”
“Why don’t I do everything myself? Because I pay you to help me do the things I don’t have the time or energy for.”
“Well, I want a raise.” She glared at him, challenging him like a teenage girl standing up to her father. With her clear, blue-grey eyes, pink and white skin, and the freckles scattered across her nose, she could have been Braden’s sister. “If you want me to do all this fancy cooking, I want a raise.”
“We’ll talk about it later,” he said, suddenly exhausted. “Just cook the salmon and make a salad while I change.”
Bridget stomped into the kitchen.
Braden continued watching television. André wondered how many times his son had had to do this very thing—enter that other reality in order to tune out his parents’ fighting. He wished he could crawl in there with him. Often he too sought refuge in television, the Internet, or one of the other distractions life offered with such apparent generosity—work, drink, anger. Painting was different. He’d followed it like any other escape route away from himself, from the memory of Liz saying that all he was to her was a big mistake, but every week it led him right back to that cracked place inside.
When André came downstairs, Bridget was fixing a salad. “Since I’m making salad for you, I might as well make some for myself. I need to eat more healthy. You’ve got so much junk food around here.”
“You don’t have to eat the junk food. The chips and cookies are treats for Braden, not for you to stuff your face all day.”
She slit her eyes at him.
“You should be more respectful. If I was this rude to my boss, she’d fire me in a second.”
“So why don’t you fire me?” She tilted her head, and a hint of a smile crossed her face, as if she guessed why, as if she wasn’t really angry.
“If you don’t smarten up…” He couldn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t want to fire Bridget. He wanted to kiss her.
“I do my job,” she said. “Braden likes me. I take good care of him. I don’t see why I have to uphold your bourgeois standards and fancy foods.”
“Because that’s what I pay you to do.” His skin tingled with something like happiness. “I pay you to uphold my bourgeois standa
rds, and take care of my bourgeois child.” Arguing with Bridget felt fun and bracing like a game, not like fights with Liz, which had left him feeling damaged and desolate. “And I pay you to help me create a comfortable, nurturing environment for him so that his mother doesn’t have a leg to stand on if she tries to get custody.”
“Will she try?” Bridget looked down at the rings of red pepper she’d just sliced on the cutting board, her splendid anger dissolved into sympathy.
He shouldn’t have mentioned Liz, or even thought about her. “She doesn’t seem to know what she wants.”
“She hardly ever comes to see him.” Bridget dumped the pepper rings into the salad. “It looks like you’re safe.”
“It’s not safety I want.”
The next day, he came home to a clean house and a pot of homemade chili.
“Have you thought about that raise?” Bridget asked, while the three sat eating.
“This is good.” Braden smiled conspiratorially at Bridget.
“Thanks. It’s my father’s recipe.”
“Okay,” André said, “but you have to keep this up.”
“Keep what up?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“You know what. The cleaning and cooking, the stuff you’re paid to do.”
“Whatever.” The kitchen light seemed to shine right through her skin, making it as translucent as one of Barry’s washes.
André watched the corners of her eyes and mouth turn up into a private, self-congratulatory smile, the kind of smile he’d sometimes caught on Liz’s face in the middle of breakfast, or when she kicked off her heels after coming home late from work. He’d never seen Katya smile like that. She grinned openly or not at all.
“Is Mommy coming to my assembly?” Braden asked.
“I’m going to call her tonight.”
The last time they’d spoken, he’d found himself yelling into the phone. She’d picked up Braden from school without telling André first.
“This yelling is the reason I didn’t call you,” she’d said. “I’d like to see Braden more often, but I hate having to go through you all the time.”
