by Shawn Inmon
Cassandra laughed.
“Everybody’s a critic,” the painter said, turning toward her.
“Oh, I didn’t mean it as a criticism! It’s so clever, it made me laugh!”
The scruffy young man was wearing a black, paint-splattered beret, which he tipped toward Cassandra. He also had a scruffy goatee and dressed like he was trying out for the role of “beatnik” on one of the Beach Blanket Bingo movies.
Either he never looks up from his easel, or no one has told him that the beatnik style is rapidly losing steam. Or, maybe he just doesn’t care.
The man stared at Cassandra. “I’m Ethan,” he said, reaching out a paint-covered hand.
“Cassandra,” she said, shaking it and not caring particularly that her hand was also now covered in paint.
“I’m just about done here for now,” Ethan said, even though he had just set up the easel a few minutes earlier. “Would you like to get a cup of coffee?”
Cassandra looked him over. He couldn’t have been further away from her All-American husband Jimmy. He was short where Jimmy was tall. He had hair sprouting at all angles, where Jimmy’s crewcut was never out of place. He did have one thing in common with Jimmy, though. He had kind eyes.
“Yes, I think I would.” She didn’t mention that she had a class due to start in half an hour.
I wouldn’t have gotten anything out of it anyway.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Five minutes later, they were standing in line at The Golden Bear. Cassandra ordered a coffee and Ethan ordered herbal tea.
Cassandra waited to see if he would offer to pay for her, but saw no indication of that, so she took a quarter and nickel out of her purse and paid for both of them.
“Oh, hey,” Ethan said. “Very cool. Thank you.” If he was nonplussed about having an ostensible date pay for his drink, he didn’t let on.
They sat at an empty table. There were times each day when The Bear was filled to overflowing, but 10:00 a.m. wasn’t one of them. Ethan folded up his easel and slid the small canvas under the table.
Cassandra watched Ethan make his tea. The way he poured the hot water over the bag, the time he let it steep, the precise amount of honey he added to it seemed like a little ritual.
I have this feeling that if you made tea in front of me a hundred times, each one would look just like that.
“Sorry that I peeped on your painting. I was just curious to see what your impression of Dwinelle was.”
“I’ve heard people call it the maze, so...”
Cassandra held up her hand. “You don’t have to tell me. It’s really good. I got it immediately.” She took a sip of her coffee and found it a bit too hot to drink. “I came to school here, hoping to study painting and sculpting, too, but I ended up taking a bunch of classes about literature, political science, and algebra.” She stuck her tongue out.
He clucked sympathetically. “The faculty is much more interested in creating another corporate vice-president than they are another Clyfford Still.”
Cassandra wanted to ask, “Who?” but instead made a mental note to look him up later.
“You’re getting to actually paint, so you must be what, third or fourth year?”
Ethan looked surprised. “Me? Oh, I’m not a student here. I can’t afford it. And besides, they wanted to make me take a lot of classes I wasn’t interested in. I just wanted to paint” He paused, then realized that was exactly what Cassandra had said.
Cassandra laughed, and agreed.
“I only lasted one semester. Tuition was expensive for out-of-state students, and my parents are middle class, so I didn’t qualify for any free money.” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, the international sign for moolah. “So, I dropped out. But, I like it here. That’s why I came out here from Ohio. I saw the protesters on the evening news and knew this was the place for me. Plus, if you’re careful, it can be a pretty cheap place to live.”
“But you’re still able to paint, I see.”
“Well, on Mondays, at least. The rest of the week I work as a ticket-taker at the California Theater. It’s a pretty good gig. I get to watch all the movies that way, even if it’s just a few minutes at a time.”
Mental note. Don’t draw too many conclusions about people. I would have thought he was a senior, maybe working on something to graduate. Instead, he’s a guy who works at a movie theater and likes to paint. Live and learn. Or maybe, he’s a guy who has been pretending to paint the same picture for years and uses it to pick up innocent young coeds from Oregon.
“So,” Ethan said, “what do you paint?”
That simple question hit Cassandra right between the eyes.
“Actually, I haven’t painted anything for a long time.”
You would never believe me if I told you exactly how long it’s been since I’ve held a brush.
“Why not? What’s stopping you?”
So, that’s your superpower then, Ethan. The ability to cut right to the heart of something in just a few questions.
Cassandra squirmed a little in her chair. “I feel a little silly about it now, but I guess I was waiting to come here and take some classes, and...” she trailed off, unsure how to end that sentence.
“—and, maybe have someone show you how they paint. How they see the world. What art looks like to them.” Ethan ran a spoon around the inside of his cup a few languid times, then took a sip. “Sure, I get it.”
“You’re pretty cocksure for talking to someone you just met.”
“Am I wrong?”
“How many paintings have you finished?”
“Finished? Well, I like to go back to them from time to time. I guess I’ll never really think they are finished until I sell one to someone else. So, by that standard, none.”
I was going to say, “Well, then, you should just shut up about it,” but you’re kind of cute when you’re vulnerable like that. Maybe you have more than one superpower.
“Can I see some of them?”
“Are you asking if you can come back to my place? You Berkeley girls are so forward in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and sixty-six.”
Cassandra blushed. She knew that free love and the Summer of Love weren’t far away, but her own reality was that she was a sheltered woman who had only ever been with one man. The thought that she could so easily be with someone else was both frightening and a little exciting.
“No, I’m not asking that,” she said daintily. “I’m just interested. I like the one you’re working on. I thought maybe a friend had painted it for you, and you just used it as bait to pick up women.”
Ethan snapped his fingers as if that was a brilliant idea. “Yes! California girls are always attracted to paint-stained wretches suffering for their art and living over the garage of an old widow lady.”
“You’re a smart aleck.” She contemplated saying “smart ass,” to appear younger, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
Ethan raised his teacup in a toast. “Now you’re getting to know me. Seriously, though, if you want to come take a look at what I’ve got, I’d love that. Hardly anyone’s ever seen them.”
Cassandra looked at Ethan, last name unknown, for a long moment, considering.
A few weeks ago, I nearly got abducted and could have had God-only-knows-what happen to me. Now, here I am, considering wandering off with a man that I’ve known all of half an hour. Am I that big a fool?
She leaned forward and noticed what a nice color of brown his eyes were. They were still kind and masked no apparent ill will.
“You know what? Let’s go. You only live once.”
Unless you’re Cassandra Collins. Then the normal rules don’t apply.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Not surprisingly, for a boy who didn’t rush to pay for a fifteen-cent cup of coffee for his date, Ethan didn’t own a car. Cassandra’s car was still parked in front of her shared house on the other side of campus.
So, on this crisp September mid-morning, th
ey set off on foot. Cassandra hadn’t forgotten about the class she was skipping. She just couldn’t face another day of being the most lost student there. Seeing Ethan painting had stirred something primal in the depths of her soul and she suddenly found herself yearning for paints, a canvas, and a set of brushes.
Ethan held the canvas away from him and Cassandra could see wet paint glistening in the morning sun.
That’s one thing, anyway. He really was painting, and not just using it as a conversation starter with whatever curious coed might pass by.
While they walked, they talked about who their favorite painters were. Ethan’s were mostly obscure, although he spoke about them with a reverence that seemed to bring them to life. Cassandra’s favorite painter had been much more mundane—Thomas Kinkade, who called himself The Painter of Light.
In fact, she had bought a number of his limited-edition prints and hung them in the house she shared with Jimmy in Middle Falls. When she had learned that Mr. Kinkade had also attended UC Berkeley, it had been like a knife-stab to her heart. He had followed his dream to paint and look what he had accomplished.
Of course, Kinkade wouldn’t become well-known until the mid-eighties, so Cassandra didn’t mention him to Ethan. Instead, she listened to him talk about the painters who influenced and enthralled him.
After they had walked half a mile away from campus, Ethan turned them down a series of streets until they arrived in front of an old Craftsman home. It was so classic and lovely, Cassandra thought it could have been one of the idealized images Kinkade had painted. A two-car garage sat beside the house with a staircase running up the side.
“Home sweet home,” Ethan said. Without waiting for Cassandra, he jogged up the steps. There was a small landing at the top, where he leaned the canvas against the side of the garage and fished a brass key out of his pocket. He looked down and noticed Cassandra still standing below. “Coming up? If you’re waiting for me to bring all my canvases down, you’re going to be waiting for a while. There are too many to carry.” He noticed she still hesitated and smiled softly at her. “No worries from me, Cass, I’m no wolf.”
I sense that too. Okay. And I like that he calls me Cass.
Cassandra climbed the steps and just as she got to the top, a side door opened and a plump, white-haired lady stepped outside with a broom. She looked up at Ethan and Cassandra and gave them a little wave.
“Home for a nooner then, Ethan?”
Cassandra’s mouth fell open, but Ethan only blushed and shook his head. “No, Mrs. Grant. This is just a friend. I’m showing her my paintings.”
The old woman squinted up at them. “You kids don’t know how good you have it. If I had a good-looking friend with me on this fine morning, I certainly wouldn’t be looking at dusty old paintings. I’d have other plans.”
With a sense of urgent desperation, Ethan fitted the key in the lock and disappeared inside with a feeble wave at Mrs. Grant.
Cassandra followed, and as soon as she was inside, she dissolved into giggles. “A nooner?” she said, when she got control of herself.
Ethan nodded sadly. “She’s a bit hot-blooded. Her husband died a few years back and she seems to entertain men quite a bit.” He chewed on his cheek, considering. “Let’s just say she entertains a lot more than I do.”
Cassandra looked around the space and gasped. Aside from a small bathroom tucked into one corner, the whole second floor of the garage was one large room. There was a counter with a hot plate and a sink built into it. Every other square inch was covered in canvases, easels, paints, and painting supplies.
“Do you live here too, or just your paintings?”
Ethan pointed to a twin mattress that she had originally missed, stuck into a corner.
Cassandra walked around looking at the paintings in wonder. There were an incredible variety—landscapes, still lifes, portraits, swirling images of color and a large canvas on the floor that looked like it might have been spattered by Jackson Pollock.
“You... you didn’t do all of these did you?”
Ethan, arms crossed and a bemused expression on his face, nodded.
“But there are so many different styles. Impressionism, modern, surreal, cubism. I’ve never known one painter who did so many styles.”
“I’m a painting schizophrenic. I just follow my heart every time I start a new canvas.” He ran a finger lightly down the edge of a painting of a surreal painting of a man in a business suit with a kite where his head should be. The kite’s tail functioned as the man’s tie. “But, I figure that if I’m not able to sell my own paintings, I can become a profitable forger.”
Cassandra’s jaw dropped open.
“Kidding, kidding,” Ethan said, raising his hands in surrender. “My back up plan is to fake my own death and then act as my twin brother to make money off all the paintings I leave behind.”
Cassandra shook her head and narrowed her eyes at Ethan.
“It’s good to have a plan. And right now, I plan to walk to the store and get some paints and a canvas. You’ve inspired me.”
“No need, no need. Here,” he said, riffling through a number of blank canvases. “You can have these two. And, I’ve got a bunch of half-used paint tubes around. I constantly get impatient looking for them and open another, and another. Here, let’s go on an Easter egg hunt.”
Cassandra wandered around the room, marveling at the paintings, breathing them in. Ethan grabbed a paper sack and began throwing tubes of paint and a few brushes into it.
“I can’t take all this. It’s too much.”
“Fine. I’ll trade you. The paints and canvases for a night at the movies. Torn Curtain, with Paul Newman and Julie Andrews is playing tonight.”
And I’ll bet you get in free on your days off. You’re too generous with your paint supplies, though, so I think you’re not miserly, you’re just poor. No crime in that. I’m heading that direction myself.
“Tell you what,” Cassandra said. “What time does it start? I’ll come by and pick you up.”
“Oh, you’ve got wheels? Coolio. Show starts at 7:30. Want to come by around 7:00?”
“It’s a date. How about if I leave my newfound largesse here and pick it up tonight?”
“Deal.” Ethan leaned in toward Cassandra and she thought for a moment he was going to kiss her, but he just brushed his lips gently against her cheek.
“See you here, Cass.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
That first date, if it could be called that, was fine. Cassandra picked Ethan up a little before seven. Mrs. Grant was once again outside as Cassandra climbed the stairs to Ethan’s room. She gave Cassandra a leer and a lascivious wink. Cassandra wiggled her fingers at her in an innocent wave.
When Ethan saw the Mustang, he said, “Oh, wow.” He had not been expecting her to be driving such a nice car.
Cassandra enjoyed the movie. She had always enjoyed older movies much more than the ones that had come out later in her life—movies that mistook superheroes, car chases, and explosions for plot.
Ethan got them into the theater by nodding to the girl out front who sat in the ticket booth. Cassandra bought them some popcorn and a Coke. She was learning that dating Ethan would be a bit of a pay-as-you-go experience.
After the movie, Cassandra thought Ethan might ask if she wanted to go somewhere else—a nightclub, or a bar, or even a restaurant for dessert. She was only eighteen, but thought she might have a chance to pass for twenty-one if a place wasn’t too uptight or attentive.
He climbed into the passenger seat of the Mustang, though, and seemed completely content to tap along to the beat of the music from KFRC. When the Mustang rolled to a stop at the curb in front of Mrs. Grant’s house, he continued to sit there, bobbing his head slightly to Dusty Springfield’s You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me.
Ethan, you are one odd duck.
At that moment, Ethan lit up like a light bulb had switched on.
“Oh!” he said, raising an index fing
er into the air. “I forgot to bring your supplies. Do you want to come up and get them, or shall I bring them back down to you?”
If you were a different man, I’d think you were making a move on me. I’m not sure you’re capable of that, though.
Cassandra slid the Mustang into park and said, “It’s no bother, I’ll come up and get them.”
Ethan continued to bob his head along to the music. Finally, he said, “Okay, then,” got out, and started to walk toward the garage.
Cassandra smiled, shook her head, and followed him up.
When she stepped inside, she nearly bumped into Ethan, who was standing just inside, holding her bag of paints in one hand and the canvases in the other.
“I stuck a drawing pad inside the bag for you, too, so you can sketch your ideas out before you waste paint on something that doesn’t turn out.”
“Don’t you need it?”
He shook his head, handed her the bag, then tapped his forehead. “I always see everything right up here. No need to sketch it out first.”
Cassandra reached out for the canvases, then paused to see if Ethan would say anything else.
He didn’t.
“Well, thanks for the movie, Ethan.”
His face was a pleasant blank.
You are one odd man, Ethan whose-last-name-I-still-don’t-know.
“See you around, then,” she ventured. He reached up and laid one hand on the door, ready to shut it as soon as she stepped out.
Cassandra heard the door click shut and the bolt slide home before she was two steps down the stairs. She opened the Mustang’s trunk and dropped the paints in. She spread a blanket she always kept in the trunk and laid the blank canvases on them.
As she drove the few miles home to the little blue house she shared, she thought about the paint, brushes, and canvases in the trunk.
Why has it been so long since I’ve tried to paint? All those years Jimmy and I lived together, I could have so easily practiced and painted to my heart’s content. Why did I think I needed instruction to put a little paint on a canvas? I did fine when I was a teenager, then I just stopped. That little sunroom we had at the back of the house would have had the perfect light. I let one single vision—that I had to go to Berkeley—stop me from making my real dream happen.
