The Broken Canvas

by Tai Barnett

  Vernon looked at them with his face twisted and angrily walked toward one of the art vendors a little distance away. He started looking anxiously and crossly at the paintings while mumbling to himself.

  “Well, ya’ll can go meddle in the devil’s game. I ain’t gonna be a part of this shit. If ya’ll wanna book your tickets to hell from now, well, go right on a head. I ain’t gonna be the one to stop you!” Vernon shouted, still grumbling with his hands folded and talking to himself.

  Lauren looked up at her older brother and sighed.

  “Vernon’s right, Michael, maybe we shouldn’t be…”

  Michael shook his head and folded his hands that were packed with bags of gifts and tokens for me and the children.

  “Now listen here, I see you all the time calling mediums, meditating, going to pastors, holding prayer beads and saying all kinds a weird creepy shit that ain’t none of my business. Now Lauren, I know you are looking for answers. You’re looking for something to help you to move on with your life from Connor. What if, not saying I believe in all this nonsense but just what if, by some strange coincidence there is something in that store that can change your life?” Michael asked.

  Lauren sighed a second time as she looked back at Vernon with his hands by his side and still arguing to himself.

  “You came all this way; it won’t hurt to just go in for a minute. I hate to be the one to use this proverbial line but honey, do you really want to look back one day and say you should have just gone into that old voodoo store in the Quarter?” Michael said while laughing.

  Lauren sighed while smiling still in excitement.

  “Well, no, of course not,” Lauren said.

  “Of course not…now come on! Vernon will get over it, he always does,” Michael said escorting Lauren to the shop while smiling and winking at Vernon across the street.

  “Well, y’all go right on ahead, see if I’m gonna stop you either!” Vernon shouted.

  The Voodoo Sanctuary smelled like coconut oil and incense. It was a colorful little shop that looked more like an African Priestess’ or hoarder’s house with every inch stocked with candles, flowers, painted skull figurines, African statues and all the herbs, oils, and voodoo dolls one could imagine.

  “Bring your lover down to their knees with this spell-binding Practical Sanctuary Covet Cologne. Lauren, I’m definitely getting this, maybe even two,” said Michael while walking down the love and relationship aisle and picking up three bottles of the love potion.

  The African drum rhythm and chimes faintly played in the background while Lauren looked at the colorful rosaries and crosses.

  The languid looking attendant at the front desk seemed laid back, as though it made no difference if they bought anything or not. A few minutes later, a man came from the room that was separated at the back by a colorful ball-chain beaded curtain. He looked closely at the attendant as she read her book, somewhat shook his head and apparently told her that it was time for her break.

  The man was oddly tall and Caucasian with his head wrapped in a purple satin cloth and wearing a long white robe. Suddenly and without any warning, he walked over to Lauren as he stood calmly looking at her.

  “You are an old soul,” said the man.

  Michael looked at Lauren. They were both confused yet intrigued by him. As the svelte gentleman stared at Lauren, with a strange and almost uncomfortable grin on his diamond shaped face he started walking towards them.

  “Oh ahm…what do you mean by that…an old soul?” Lauren said while staring at the bags underneath his sleepy eyes

  The man looked intimidating, especially his height and piercing blue eyes. But his voice spoke a language of love and empathy, it was enchanting to the two siblings. He walked over to a counter with several books and took one out. There was nothing extraordinary about the book other than it was a jet black, calf leather finished book, looking almost like a bible.

  “I am going to give you this book to read, it’s on the house, don’t worry about paying.” The man said in an unruffled tone.

  He walked back towards Lauren and Michael and handed the book to her.

  “I can tell that you two don’t believe in the power of magic and are God-fearing people. Well, one more than the other.” He said while he glanced over at Michael

  Michael looked at Lauren and smiled.

  “Take this book,” he handed the book to Lauren. “It will give you some insight about what you’re seeking,” the strange man said to her.

  “What I am seeking… I don’t understand…” Lauren said

  “I will only say this, what you’re seeking, is not among the dead. Let the dead be liberated so that you may find peace and happiness and he…may finally be at rest.”

  Michael and Lauren looked at each other and then back at the man

  “And the one you need, the one who your soul shares a history with in life-times’ past, is closer than you think,” he murmured in a soothing voice.

  Michael and Lauren looked at each other and back at the gentleman and did not ask another question.

  Natasha Bishop

  There is nothing extraordinary about my story. It must neither be regarded as a series of ill-fated events and lady in undeserved pathos, a tale of a soul that has endured emotional or physical abuse—although, there was still some of that, nor is it perpetuated by the coming of age of a woman who somehow turns out to be the exemplary heroine in the end.

  For this story, is just like how most people’s stories are: eventful, unpredictable, imperfect—broken.

  Still, it is the happenings that make each moment amazing. All of the events and instances makes the ‘painting’ of our lives either undeniably disheartening or captivating.

  Either way, there were moments—moments that were lived and now some even forgotten. Yet, I have found that it is the ordinary mishaps and imperfections that make us relatable. It makes the painting—the image, more colorful and intriguing.

  ***

  They say I am woman of culture, austere, elegant, refine and successful. I was the daughter of the Vice Chancellor for the University of Surrey in Jamaica. My over achieving dad was the Chief Medical Officer of Obstetrics for 20 years until he turned to lecturing.

  I, my two older brothers Carl and Howard, and the youngest Nicholas, grew up reasonably affluent. Our house was on top of a hill overlooking the entire city of Kingston. We had a big yard that had all kinds of luscious fruit trees and indigenous flowers. Our house was cozy and had a marble paved patio leading to our pool and gazebo.

  My mother was the Chief Financial Officer for a prominent packaging company and my two older brothers managed their own legal consultancy firm, Bishop & Bishops for over 15 years.

  We went to the best schools, studied Spanish and French and each of us were required—by my dad of course, to play an instrument. We also frequented Europe and North America for summer vacations.

  At first, I really wanted to be a painter. But that dream was short-lived through a rude awakening from my merciless high school art teacher, Sister Hewitt.

  I never forgot when she told me, that a true artist can envision things within their minds and precisely capture the exact replica through painting, like a Rembrandt or a Picasso. She went on even further to quote Picasso saying, “Painting is a blind man’s profession. He paints not what he sees, but what he feels, what he tells himself about what he has seen.”

  Of course, I was dreadfully disappointed because I was the kind of artist that actually had to always see the object that I was painting. I had an unrelenting imagination but just could not accurately capture it in painting.

  I was so distraught that I completely had to reshuffle my entire career path by the opinions of one single grumpy old nun. I guess I was young and impressionable. So, the rest of seventh grade was spent daydreaming about how I was going to prove her wrong one day. I didn’t have the guts to say so to her face. Needless to say, by the end of that same year, Sister Hewitt retired, and it was rumore
d that she had been committed to a mental institution because she started hearing voices. She walked around the convent and shouted at the top of her voice sometimes for hours on end.

  Who knows, perhaps Sister Hewitt was right. On the other hand, how could I trust the words of an obvious clandestine mental case? But knowing me, I gave in to the negative, being the overly sensitive and gullible victimized girl, I was known to be back then. Although, I still am in many ways, I try to hide it.

  That did not stop me from painting either. It’s addicting and certainly therapeutic. In correct doses, it could momentarily appease the sometimes-uncontrollable urge to scream or to project at siblings, parents, and testosterone driven teenage boys who have a very unhealthy perspective on sex I might add.

  Yeah, my warped imagination and painting definitely helped with that menstrual demoness ‘Aunty Flo’ as my high school friends would call it, that visited me and my family every month. Call me strange but the empty painter’s canvas had a particular alluring appeal to me—like a moth to a flame.

  As a teenager, the paintings of famous artists of my home country grabbed my interest. I couldn’t get how they could illustrate the feeling of life on the island on a canvas so perfectly. All the colorful and lively markets, the boisterous and loud, dancehall and Reggae music. Not to mention, the food and definitely…the breathtaking views of the countryside, the sharp and warm colors of the landscape itself.

  I wondered how those local artists captured the souls and stories of each person and somehow, being able to project that same emotion onto the canvas. That is definitely a talent. I wanted to be able to do that one day even as a hobby.

  Sometimes I would stare at the blank canvas my great-aunt gave me as a gift for my 18th birthday for minutes at a time. Nicholas always stood quietly, watching at my bedroom door and wondering if I was going crazy just staring at nothing. Then quickly making a much bigger deal than it was to my overly protective mother who was not about to have any child that was on the brink of mental instability.

  Poor Carl and Howard. They were always concerned about their sister’s well-being and love life, even the baby of the family Nicholas. But no one could understand what I saw when I was staring at the white, blank piece of fabric. After all, that is what it was to people, just a blank piece of canvas. But to me, it was pure potential. It was the potential for life and motion to be depicted on what was once a blank rectangular material and shaven piece of wood.

  I would always have visions of what I wanted to paint on that canvas, always seeing in my head the image of a happy family; one boy and perhaps two girls. The backdrop and landscape were definitely there, perhaps, somewhere, that brought me some amount of joy. But for some strange reason, I was not certain if I could seize the image of a mother or a father figure. There was an outline of a mother, but the father was always misplaced. There was the sketch of a male and female, but their faces were always missing.

  But it seemed Sister Hewitt was right, I had to literally see these images to be able to effectively symbolize their sensations, their stories—that which is the poetry of their lives in portrait. Although, what I truly think is that my painting seemed to be waiting to paint itself through me, through my personal story. It’s amazing, because to me, the canvas is appearing more and more to be a metaphor for me and my turbulent life and particularly, my love life.

  ***

  When I turned 14, I, along with my younger brother Nicholas, father, and mother, immigrated to the United States, settling down in middle class community in Atlanta. It took a while to acclimate to their habits and lifestyle. And even longer to realize that we were now regarded among the minority in this country and not the ideal color or class as we were back home. Yet, people within the West Indian diaspora and immigrants in general were always working hard and making great strides.

  Still mesmerized by painting, I pursued a degree in Fine Arts but eventually completed another degree in creative writing. I was always strong headed and driven. Remember, I knew how to dodge the charm of the hormone driven teenagers since I was 13 years old. It never bothered me that much in college either that my social life had no resemblance to many of my more naive girlfriends.

  I also conceded the mark of virginity that many of them decidedly envied (although they denied this). In college, many young male admirers knew of my ‘sacred jewel’ and wanted to be the first to deflower this almost ‘perfect gem’. At least, in their heads. However, I gave none of them the satisfaction.

  So, these young guys just had to move on, in disbelief and ego trodden. But I knew what I was about, what I would and would never do; or so I thought.

  Then at 22, I moved to New York and got engaged to my college sweetheart, Nathan. Nathan did manage to woo me somehow. Maybe it was his rugged more mature looks. But he was also charismatic and very intelligent I must admit and by then, we were deeply in-love. A few years went by and I had a prominent position at an established editing company for eight years.

  Things were fine for a while, but then out of nowhere, everything seemed to change, and this man just suddenly became a different person.

  By the time I was 33, I became pregnant. Still unmarried and the flames of love dying out, I had about enough of his cheating, unfaithfulness, and disrespect. I left him about a million times before but now, I had saved enough money to move back to Atlanta with my daughter.

  I bought my first house close to my parents’ because I needed help with the baby, that’s when I hired Vernon. Luckily, my two cousins on my father’s side lived in the same area and we basically grew up together. We forged a friendship and bond that made us inseparable.

  Eventually, the following year was my breakthrough, because a friend of mine from my past job introduced me to a Hollywood producer who read one of my scripts and wanted to make it into a movie. Well, as they would say, that was that. Everything just flowed, and everything was speeding up exponentially.

  Somehow life just started working out for me. It’s like the universe had just planned to help my life to be successful somehow, right at that specific time. Synchronicity, it seems was now working in my favor back then.

  A few years later, I was collecting Oscars, wearing designer dresses and dating actors. I had really come a long way but love still had not shown me any favors just yet. But maybe I was the one that was being ungrateful for all that I already had.

  Love Is a Fickle Thing

  Love requires no thought at first, right? Just a torrent of ‘hyperbolized verbiage’ on career and success, larger than life, overly lyrical wooing accompanied by a series of gastronomic interludes. Well, hopefully an elegant one—providing, he is not too thrifty.

  Then there came the impressive restraint of not stealing a kiss on a first date or accepting the audacious proposal of a nightcap. He offered only a hug to appear even more exceedingly polite and gentlemanly.

  Naturally, by now I was finding myself swept away by the cruel misapprehensions of love’s fantasies! I was indisputably convinced that this one—this one is the one—definitely different.

  Nor does it end there, for most of us women, week after week he continued showing you that you are indelibly the central emphasis of his intention. You’re his focal point, like an antique fireplace mantel in an enchanting elegant ballroom.

  There are no hi-tech gadgets for a disturbance interrupting a date-night conversation, allowing you no room for idle thoughts or presumptions that there is definitely another woman.

  You are as they would say, for all intent and purposes his target, his sole and only interest. And for that brief moment of novelty and new love, his eyes are on you for the entire two to three months, give or take. And this feeling…this feeling is what you have been dreaming of all your life.

  Then, skins begin colliding and eight to ten years later the whimsy of soppiness and sensibility slowly begun to dissipate.

  This relationship is now becoming too much work and he has become more like an incongruous child, a greedy t
eenager, a dissatisfied sexual monster who preyed and fantasized about dominating in between the legs of every other woman that he met. And while sizing you up, he is even daring enough to compare you to them and verbally shattering your reason for existing.

  And now, your perfect love is bombarded by grim thoughts because every time you’re in the same room with him, he drains your energy. You smirk at his causal conversations, even though what you really want to do is to take up the freshly brewed coffee pot and hit him over the head because he is a damn liar and charlatan.

  And even after hearing that literally all your girlfriends or adult females in your life that you know have had some form of problems with infidelity, it’s still not sufficient to comfort this broken fairytale. You can’t leave because you love him too much and you hate him still because he keeps stepping out even after he knows that you found out his dirty little secrets.

  Then your gay best friend (best cousin in my case) who you turned to on the phone for comfort, shares unsolicited information trying to make light of an already toxic and hopeless situation.

  “Sweetie, when a man cheats on a woman, they don’t get all crazy, rowdy, and potentially dangerous just because of the sex. It is because at that point your position and self-worth as a woman is beginning to crumble. That is what shatters you females, allowing you to act all kinds of crazy and ghetto. Some of you are even still trying to keep these cheating lying sons of bitches, bawling that you can’t live without them, not throwing any stones here but…” Michael uttered in undertones.

  Of course, by the satirical tenor in his voice I knew he really meant me. Then he continued,

  “But it’s not just women either, hun. It’s a human thing because if you had been taught and prepared with the knowledge that people—male or female, are incapable of being exclusive, you would have probably been the one to throw a few packs of condom into his wallet and tell him to introduce you to her one day—am I right?” Michael asked as I sat there in silence, sighing, shaking my head and bawling on the other line. I didn’t want to believe Michael’s drivel at first. I mean…I was a romantic after all. But he did have a point.