by Maura Weiler
“Thanks.” She looked at the floor. “I’ve always told myself it was God’s will for me to keep the paintings unseen, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe selling them is His will. Or maybe I don’t know what His will is.”
I certainly didn’t know.
“Do you think I could at least be anonymous?” she asked.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said.
Our eyes locked in a mental handshake as we mirrored each other on either side of the grille. Catherine’s distressed expression reflected my own fear that the show might have consequences far beyond what either of us wanted to imagine.
After Mass, my emotions alternated between excitement and concern. Thrilled as I was at the prospect of sharing more of my sister’s work with the public, I was wary of that same public and wished there was a way to show the paintings without exposing the artist. Just as I was slowing down my own life, everyone and everything around me seemed to be speeding up. I wasn’t sure that was a good thing.
Mother wasn’t sure either.
“I’ve never insisted Sister Catherine sell her work because I didn’t want to corrupt such a beautiful form of prayer,” Mother said as we met in the parlor after services. “But now that she’s suggesting it herself—”
“I think the show has real potential to inspire others to pray, not to mention make money for the cloister, but the publicity it generates will be a mixed blessing,” I said. “My articles have already attracted visitors with things other than contemplation on their minds.”
“There have been a few interesting characters appearing around here of late, but not so many as to disrupt our way of life.” Mother made the sign of the cross and looked heavenward.
“You don’t have a choice, do you?” I asked.
“I’m afraid not. Even if we move, we still won’t be out of the financial woods. Sister Catherine knows how bad things are and I suppose that’s why she’s changed her mind about selling her artwork.”
“Then I guess it’s settled.” I looked at the Sacred Heart of Jesus picture on the wall and hoped He approved.
• • •
Ten minutes later, I dialed Trish from Sister Teresa’s office phone as Mother stood by. I’d never seen the prioress on the public side of the convent before. She looked smaller and more vulnerable.
“You go, girl!” Trish prattled on the phone. “I knew you could wear her down!”
“Actually, she approached me. The cloister is really hurting financially, so the sooner the better. Any chance you could pull it off within say...” I looked at Mother, who held up three fingers. “Within three months?”
“Sure, sure. It’ll be tight but we can do it. And we can work the struggling nuns angle into the promos.”
“I was hoping to avoid that.” I wound the phone cord around my hand. “Catherine wants to remain anonymous.”
“We use her name and her story or it’s no deal,” Trish said flatly. “I’m not about to let all that beautiful publicity go away without capitalizing on it.”
“The work stands on its own.”
“That’s true for a lot of artists, but that doesn’t mean their stuff sells. We have an angle here, Dorie. We need to use it.”
“But—”
“Do you want your sister to make money or not? This is the art world we’re talking about. It’s fickle. It’s trendy. It’s downright impractical. When people buy a painting, they need to feel like they’re getting a piece of the artist as well or it’s not worth it.”
The gruesome image of people scavenging Catherine’s live body for religious relics came to mind. I shook my head to banish it.
“I’ll talk to her,” I said.
“Good. There’s a space at Bergamot Station that doesn’t have anything scheduled after this month because it’s going up for sale. Maybe they’ll let us rent it for a few weeks. And I’ll need to find a photographer right away to shoot in high resolution for the promotion.”
“I already have someone in mind for that,” I said.
“Who?”
“You haven’t heard of him. But he’s cheap and he’s good.”
“He’d better be. And what I save on him I can pay you, since I assume you’ll want to write the accompanying text.”
“I think I can manage the catalogue descriptions.” I looked at Mother, who nodded in silent agreement.
“We won’t have time to publish a complete catalogue, but we can throw together some glossy tri-folds. I’ll drive up tomorrow to see the paintings. Meanwhile, you should—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down.” I took a breath on Trish’s behalf. “Catherine’s just agreed to this. We can run around all we want behind the scenes, but we need to give her some time to get used to the idea before you pounce on her.”
“Fine. I’ll be up the day after tomorrow. But no later. If we’re going to put this together fast, we’re going to have to get our butts in gear.”
• • •
The campsite pay phone was ringing off the hook when I returned to my tent for the night. The other campers ignored it.
“It’s for you,” a backpacker in a hemp jacket and cargo pants informed me without getting up from his bedroll. “Some jackass has called for you six times in the last hour.”
“Sorry.” I watched an earthworm swim in a puddle of soapy water beside the outdoor shower stall and picked up the phone. “Let me guess. Phil?”
“How’d you know?”
“How did you get this number?”
“Your friend Trish called and spilled the beans about the gallery show. Wanted me to get in touch with you.”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course she did.”
“Write your next series about the show—the convent’s financial troubles, the prep, how your sister feels about it, and all that crap. Make sure you put in the part about her burning that painting. Can’t believe you didn’t tell me that, you sly dog.”
“Don’t you think people have had enough by now?” I asked, kicking myself for telling Trish about Catherine’s creative bonfire. I should have known she wouldn’t be able to keep such a juicy detail to herself.
“Not at all. Series ended yesterday, hundreds of calls and emails wanting more today. Already had inquiries about syndication.”
“That’s great, Phil. But I’m not sure another series is—”
“Triple your salary. Been meaning to do that anyway. Even throw in a stipend for you to stay up there and write it. Three pieces a week instead of five.”
Visions of paying off my debts without having to part with my father’s painting swirled in my brain, not to mention the prospect of the extra time I’d get to spend at the cloister. I bumped my forehead with the receiver to bring myself back to reality. My ability to justify ethically dubious career moves had become far too honed for my liking. I watched the earthworm wiggle away from the water and burrow back into the mud.
“I can’t, Phil. I don’t want to do anything that might lead to more trashed artwork.”
“You won’t. She’s agreed to do the show, which means she’s agreed to have her work seen, photographed, and talked about. Media’s going to be all over this thing whether that nun likes it or not. We’re not going to be left behind. Not when we, er you, started it.”
“Can’t you get Graciela or somebody else to write it?” I asked.
“Has to be you. You’re as much a part of the story as your twin. If the cloister is serious about selling those paintings, they’re going to have to submit to the publicity machine. They already know what coverage from you will look like. Bet you could get exclusive rights for a song.”
“Let’s not get too greedy.”
“Why not when it’s so much fun?”
“I’ll need some time to think about it.”
“Nothing to think about. Just get writing.” Phil hung up.
I put down the pay phone and wished I could pick it back up and dial Matt for his opinion. I already knew what he’d say, or did I? Maybe it was differe
nt now that the first series had benefited the sisters by introducing Catherine’s talent to the public. But was it right?
• • •
Neither Mother Benedicta nor I sat down during our next meeting in the parlor. Instead, we paced our respective sides of the grille.
“My editor wants me to write a series about the show.” I turned and strode the other direction. “I told him I wasn’t sure. What do you think?”
“It’s going to be written by somebody. I’d prefer it to be you. You know us better than anyone else.” Mother clutched her stomach and kept pacing. “In fact, I was going to ask you to do something of that sort.”
“Okay, I’ll do it, then.” I still wasn’t excited about writing the series, but I was relieved to have the prioress’s approval if not downright encouragement. “I was planning to go back to Los Angeles in a couple of days, but now that I’m writing more articles, I’ll be staying around until the show opens.”
“Well, we can’t have you stuck at that campground the whole time.”
“The paper’s going to give me a stipend, so I’ll be able to move into a hotel.”
“Nonsense. You can stay in the visiting priests’ quarters. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”
“I don’t want to impose,” I said.
“You don’t need to spend your money on a hotel when you’re here most of the day anyway. And it’ll give us more time to get to know you.”
“But...”
Mother raised a hand to silence me. “Just accept the offer.”
“I will. Thank you.”
“Since it’s convent business, you may also have cloister access to and from the studio and business office to help Sister prepare for the show.”
“That will help. I’ll make sure to stay out of the other areas.”
“Very good. What else do we need to do?” Mother asked.
“Let’s see. We’ll have to put the paintings somewhere accessible so Trish can look them over.”
“There’s a garage with a loading dock that we can use for the purpose.”
“That’ll be fine.”
We stopped pacing and looked at each other.
“Are we doing the right thing?” I wondered aloud.
“I wish I knew.” Mother sighed and touched her cross.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Outdoors, the wind that whipped over the autumn landscape left me feeling spiritually dry. Indoors, Catherine’s art drenched me in inspiration.
A Joan of Arc portrait depicted the saint astride her high-stepping horse, her right hand resembling my own as it curled around the flag she held up to God in triumph. The sun’s rays winked off of her studded armor like stabs of light thrown off a sparkler, short-lived but beautifully daring, like drops of rain falling up. The flag snapped in the breeze, the bright blankets on the horse glowed in lustrous hues, and the saint carried herself with the confidence that only comes with believing God is on your side.
The sheer monumentality of the composition challenged the viewer to leap headlong into passion, anticipation, fearlessness. I suddenly felt battle ready. Maybe we could pull off this show without doing too much damage to my twin’s artistic process.
As I helped Catherine sift through her work in the studio that night, I was soon saturated by my sister’s genius. Still, considering Catherine’s output, the actual number of completed canvases was smaller than I had expected, thanks, or, no thanks, to their constant reuse.
Several of the pieces were painted over with completely new work since my last studio visit two months earlier. Others were dramatically altered. In one painting, a formerly gray-toned Sea of Galilee now glistened under a cool blue wash. In another, shepherds now joined Mary, Joseph, and the cattle at Jesus’ Nativity. A few pieces remained unchanged, but I feared not for long. I couldn’t find a single blank canvas in the place.
“I assume these are all complete?” I hoped beyond hope.
“I guess.” Catherine shrugged. “They’re never really done.”
“I’ll take them out to the garage then.” I was anxious to remove pieces from the room before she had any more urges to recycle. “Are there any that you want to hold on to? We shouldn’t show Trish anything you don’t want to sell.”
“Take them all.” Catherine turned away from the paintings. “They’re not mine to keep.”
“I’d hate to do that. Why don’t we ask Mother Benedicta and the other sisters to choose a few for the cloister first? Then Trish can pick from the rest.”
Catherine nodded.
“Oh, hey.” I picked up the nearest canvas, saw something missing and set it down again. “You forgot to sign this one.”
“I never sign them.”
“Ever?” I was surprised I hadn’t noticed before.
Catherine shook her head. “It won’t matter since I’m going to be anonymous, right?”
“Unfortunately, you won’t be able to be anonymous after all,” I said. “Trish thinks we should take advantage of the publicity you’ve already received and—”
“I’m not the one who put those pictures in the paper!” Catherine walked in circles in the small room.
“Neither am I, though it’s my fault and I am sorry.” You have no idea how sorry, I thought. “But the more people know about the artist, the more interested they are in buying her art.”
I sat down, tired of being the bad guy despite originating the role.
“I don’t have a choice, do I?” Catherine stopped circling.
“I don’t think so. What Trish wants is pretty much the way it has to be, and I know she’d want you to sign and date them somewhere.”
Catherine considered. “Would a symbol on the back be enough?”
“A symbol and the date should be fine.” I started counting canvases and marking them in my notebook. “But we’ll have to use your name in the literature.”
Catherine took up a thin brush and dipped it in black paint. She carefully painted a small crucifix on the back of each canvas along with the year. At first I thought her decision to use the symbol of Christ offering Himself on the cross reflected the vulnerability she felt about showing her work in public. Then I realized she was signing God’s name instead of her own.
Goosebumps rose on my arms. I stopped taking inventory and watched in silence. After signing about a third of the paintings, Catherine straightened up.
“Maybe I would like to keep some,” she said.
“Of course.” I leapt up to help her. “Which ones?”
“All of them.” Her mournful eyes told me that she wasn’t joking.
“How do you go from being ready to give them all away to wanting to keep every one in five minutes?” I asked despite guessing the answer.
Catherine used the brush to draw a signature in the air.
“I’m sorry. I know how hard it must be for you to sign them.” I picked up as many of the signed paintings as I could carry without damaging them. “I’ll return the ones Trish can’t use in a day or two. Meantime, I’ll buy some fresh canvases in Carmel tomorrow in case you want to start something new.”
Catherine resumed her task, and then paused again.
“Maybe I’ll just make a few changes first,” she said.
She grabbed her palette and a larger brush and reached for the Joan of Arc canvas. Unable to accept the loss of any existing pieces, I held her arm and stopped her.
“Let’s leave these as they are,” I urged. “At least until Trish sees them.”
My twin twirled the brush in her hand before tossing it aside with a scowl.
“It’s not fair. People design plenty of buildings that never get built, compose operas that never get sung, write books that never get published. Why do these paintings have to be seen just because I had the means to bring them into complete being?”
I hoped her question was rhetorical, because I couldn’t answer it. Yet I spoke anyway.
“It’s okay to be afraid, you know,” I said, kicking my
self for how preachy it sounded.
“No, it’s not.” Catherine shook her head. “Dad wasn’t scared.”
“What makes you so sure?” I asked. “I didn’t know him, but I’m guessing he didn’t drink himself to death because he was thirsty.”
“Good point,” Catherine said.
I picked up her discarded brush, handed it to her, and then looked around at the paintings.
“On second thought, I don’t see any harm in you keeping a canvas or two to work on.”
My sister smiled at the small gesture. I wished I could have done more, and then remembered again that I might in fact do much, much more. I could sell Shift and use the proceeds to help the nuns, not to mention free myself up financially to join their community if I decided to. I dismissed the thought, as fearful as the rest of my family.
• • •
The next day, Catherine was temporarily excused from her regular duties to focus on painting.
“The rest of us will pick up the slack on her chores until after the gallery show,” Sister Teresa explained as we arranged the paintings around the garage in anticipation of Trish’s visit. “Whatever God asks us to do, we’ll do.”
“I’m sure Catherine will make good use of the extra time, especially since I brought her a ton of new supplies this morning.” I hung a small painting on a nail. “Would you mind if I went to see if she needs anything else? We’re pretty much done here.”
“Go ahead. I’ll hold down the fort.”
“Thanks.” I hurried out.
When I arrived at the studio, I found my sister placing the last blank canvas on the easel as her customary candle burned in the corner of the room. The other canvasses sat around the room in various stages of completion.
“I knew you’d be busy, but this is ridiculous,” I joked. I couldn’t see my twin’s face. “At this rate you’re going to run out of supplies again by tomorrow.”
“I’m going to redo all of them,” Catherine said with a quiet vibration in her voice. She pointed to the new canvases. “After a mistake, I have to let the paint dry before I can go over it.”
She dropped her plastic palette. It smeared wet color on the unprotected hem of her habit before it hit the ground. I rushed to help her.
