10
Framed Stories
"How much for that one?"
He froze, cursing under his breath as he tried to hide "that one." It was arguably his best painting, and it was also his only work here at the stall with people in it, the only one with people he had. It featured a couple in a room filled with browns in various lights cast by the now dying fire. He had made the focus two glittering blue eyes reflecting both the warmth of the fire and the warmth of the heart of the young woman clothed in a scarlet sweater. To her left was a young man with browns in his eyes deeper than any of the room's furnishings. He smiled brightly next to her, their matching black hair meshing together into a semi-solid cloud of night behind their heads as he rested his on her shoulder.
"Excuse me," she said, shocking him back into reality. "But how much is that painting worth?" She shifted from one foot to the other as he stood up and move the painting back into the leather satchel it had fallen out of. He would need to replace it.
"It's not for sale," he said quickly, darting his eyes away and not wanting to continue this conversation. He hoped without much conviction that she would leave it at that.
She frowned. "Money isn't an issue for me." He looked at her closer. She certainly looked the part: sleek business suit, sharp grey eyes, neat and orderly hair in the same peat black color as her suit. Even her voice seemed orderly, as if what she said was a well-rehearsed speech for a company meeting. It was definitely out of place in a market square composed of artists willing to do anything not to conform.
"Really, I can get you any painting here," he told her while waving to the back of his stall," even a personal commission, just not… not that one." She said nothing as he glanced behind frantically and pulled one with an old, desiccated forest in light tans, surrounded by lush fields and a clear sunny sky off the back wall. He had painted it for the dissonance of such life being interrupted by something jagged and dead. The businesswoman was unfazed, she just shifted her weight again. Everything about her was mature on the outside, but her mannerisms were oddly juvenile. "I named it the 'Cypress Forest,'" he said.
Her frown deepened into a scowl. "Why are they dead when everything around them is alive?"
"All of my paintings have a story, and this one is quite interesting. This forest has quite a few local legends about it, and, if you want, I can tell you the most common one." He knew he was stalling her, knew he was mostly lying, but perhaps what she wanted was a good conversation starter for work or home, and a good story could convince her that this painting was better. She maintained her solemn look, so he presumed he could begin.
"In the forests up north, in the deep shadows of the trees lie many dangers, none more so than the cause of these trees. Local people say that for a long time, there were two nations who fought constantly over the only sea-bound river large enough for trade. The subjects of these nations, while supportive at first for the prospect of trade, grew miserable as the war continued to eat up the money and food of the land. One day, a poor embittered farmer decided to end the war at any cost, and traveled deep into the cypress forest long forbidden by the elders. It was alive and healthy then, green and wild, home to a powerful witch. When prompted, she said she would give him control over the essence of life if he swore undying loyalty to her. He was eager and willing, and so swore to serve her forever. Immediately, he went before the two kings and demanded they surrender their nations to him. As they were unaware of his power, they merely laughed, and died as he took the life from their very cores. Now the ruler of one kingdom, the former farmer was leader of a prosperous and peaceful land."
He paused to look at any reaction, a comment or a question. Finding nothing, he continued. "Over the years, however, this new King of Life grew twisted and gnarled inside, forcing many of his people into poverty and misery. When they petitioned him for answers, he had them imprisoned, driving another citizen into the cypress lair of the King's master. She was initially there to ask for her family's freedom, but instead asked for the King's removal. The Witch was well aware of her disciple's growing disloyalty and arrogance and thus agreed. When she arrived, he tried to kill her by taking her life force for his own, so she turned him into a forest as corrupt on the outside as he was on the inside, and to this day, nothing grows there."
She remained stone-faced when he finished his story, and it took her a moment to respond. "Um, the painting is well made, and the story is… interesting, but it's too dark. Really, I just want the one of the couple. I'll give you five thousand dollars for it."
He shook his head, and put the painting back on the wall. Too dark? He could work with that. His eyes scanned the wall again for a lighter picture. They settled on one of his more Impressionistic pieces painted for the variety it provided. In it, the scenery was drenched in the golden-orange glow of the sun sinking on the horizon, with the frothy waves identical to sand dunes in color. One could imagine that the blurry ships off the coast were marooned in dry seas boiled away in the ever-present orange light. The main focus of this painting was an angelic statue gazing out with arms reaching towards the sea, formed from silver and with his back turned to the viewer.
"Okay, that last story was dark, but this one is far brighter in both form and origin," he told her with a half smile.
"Here to the west," he began," there is a lovely little port town that the people swear is blessed by an angel, represented by a silver statue. This angel came, and the sources are divided as to why, either willingly, as a test or right of passage. Anyways, he descended to the town and went to live amongst humanity in disguise. A young silversmith was the only one to offer him a place to live, only asking that the newcomer served as his apprentice. He accepted the young man's offer and over the angel's tenure, as they grew closer to one another, one of them found himself falling in love. Again, the people are split as to who fell for whom, though more people say it was the angel than the silversmith. Both agree on what followed shortly, however, when one of them told the other and was interrupted by a passionate kiss from their love in reply. Many years later when the silversmith passed away, the angel made a statue of him as an angel to remind the town of the joys of generosity before returning to the heavens to be with him forever. The townsfolk say that for ten years the seas were favorable, and while storms visit today, their port is the safest around."
He tried gauging her feelings again as he finished this story. Her face gave away nothing and her gaze was still focused on him and not the painting. His shoulders slumped and his hope began evaporating. "Definitely a happier story, eh?" He prodded with words what his eyes couldn't find out, and smiled with mixed results.
"Yes… but the painting isn't 'happy.' The way the statue is reaching out, as though he's longing for someone…" He flinched, and his half-smile faded. "I will pay you five thousand dollars for every painting here if I can buy the one with the couple for ten." She didn't sound hostile, but it was clear she was done hearing about other paintings and their fantastical stories.
"Why that one?"He wanted to sound forceful, or at least respectable, but his words came out in naked desperation. "There are millions of paintings of couples around; why mine?"
She thought about it for a moment before answering."Because they both look so happy, so perfect together." Her eyes clouded over like the sky and his face burned as he took the painting out of the satchel again, eyes cast down.
"You…" he sighed in defeat. "You can have it. If you listen to its story." She nodded eagerly.
He took in a deep breath. "To the east, in the next city over, two years ago, there was a woman named Marie, more loving and lovely than any other. I loved, still love, her. We went all over town together, ate at every restaurant, saw every movie. Comedies were the best, because whenever she laughed, she'd snort and get embarrassed but it was so cute. We were both artists of a kind, but where I only rarely painted and just for us, she was generous in her shows as she danced for the world to see. Few things made her smile and laugh like seeing the audience cheering her on, some people in tears from her shows. Nothing came close to watching her flow across stage, every motion performed as if underwater. It never failed to enchant me no matter how she moved or how many times I watched. One time, she brought me on stage to dance with her, and I believe the audience still thinks it was an honest comedy." His eyes misted over as every day spent with her resurfaced. He doubted the women noticed.
"I don't believe any picture, painting, or movie could show you what it's like when she dances. Her energy, vitality made it impossible for an image to fully capture it. She always had to be doing something, working or practicing. I couldn't stop her from living her life, so I never painted her. Her eyes were the most difficult when I tried. They had a luster the sun envied, and it took forever to make the blue in this picture. That vitality still didn't turn out right." He found his eyes drawn down to the painting, looking at her again. "You could tell who she was at heart with one look and you'd talk as if you'd known her forever. And she was always helping people." When he looked up, he saw a layer a confusion over her stone-like face. It must have taken some effort to show, so he assumed he appeared overly wistful. "Oh, but, you need the painting's story and I was, um, rambling." He sighed.
"Two years ago, we were engaged and to be married within the month. It was growing dark and I was driving us home after one of her recitals. We turned down our street when I was blinded with a flash of light and deafened by a horrendous metallic tearing sound. I woke up later to flashing lights, sirens, and people in uniform blurrily lifting me onto a stretcher and then into an ambulance before passing out again. When I woke up later, it was to sterile white walls and filtered sunlight leaching in on a hospital bed. There were a few bandages on me, but no cast. Still in a daze, I watched the IV drip slowly down into my arm until a nurse entered the room. I asked him what happened, and he politely summarised last night. There was a drunk driver, both cars were totaled, the other driver had died, and I escaped with a minor concussion. But Marie… She was in a coma. He had to restrain me so I wouldn't hurt myself in my rush to get out, but once the IV was removed, he told me where to go. I thanked him, and hobbled out into the hall, where people in scrubs of bright pinks and greens and blues dotted the deathly white walls and floor.
"I slowly moved to Room Three-Forty-Three and lightly opened the door to a room identical to mine down to the pictures on the wall, but Marie was in the bed with tubes running in and around her. Tears fell down my face and I wanted to scream, to pass out, or to wake up." He didn't look at the businesswoman and her stone face again, just shut his eyes or kept them centered on the painting. "I was there all day until one of the nurses suggested I go home for the night. They assured me they were doing everything they could, that she was okay here. But our house was too empty and cold alone with just my paintings of a bright and vibrant world mocking me as this one was now so hollow. My time spent at the hospital grew more everyday to avoid the solitude of our home. I couldn't sleep anywhere without nightmares of the crash running through my mind, or worse, the soft dreams of how she used to be only interrupted by a cruel reality, so I stayed in the hospital. Our families visited and left gifts, but Room Three-Forty-Three became my home. It became the prison of my own choosing so I could be close to her.
"It wasn't long before I brought my painting supplies to occupy my time. It was the first time I could paint her, and it took a tragedy. The first was of her as she was, comatose like a modern Snow White with no prince. The screaming they told me was mine almost got me banned so I never made I painted her as she should have been, out in lush spring fields, in the midst of blooming flowers and beautiful nature. At play with others in a river, freeing themselves from the oppressive summer sun. Resting on a beach as the azure light of dawn pushed back the inky purples of night, watching the sun set the clouds ablaze with its glow. She could be anywhere when I painted her but to my left in this hospital. As long as she was away from this cell, from the tubes and the death-white and machines, she was safe.
"The walls steadily became covered with paintings in her room, and then in her hall and her floor. The hospital never seemed to mind. People continued to visit her, but I ignored them and continued painting. Food and sleep were replaced by the brush and canvas as time continued moving on. For six months I painted her watching snow fall and plants grow, perform acrobatics and learning to ski. Six months, and then she woke up. Time went from pause to fast-forward as we were prepared for release to our old lives, but it felt too late. We were six months behind.
"She went to every therapy available for body and mind, striving on to rejoin the world she was removed from. When she wasn't in therapy, we were at parties congratulating her return from family and friends. Our wedding was still postponed until we were both ready. I had expected relief as she woke up and our lives could get back to what they should have been, but I kept painting and kept having nightmares as if she were still lost to sleep. Within four months, she had recovered enough to have her appointments moved from daily to every other day. It was slow at first, slow and hard. She told me nothing was worse than the first four months, where she could do nothing without assistance. Over a year, the monotonous routines of life were returned to her, and I watched her grow stronger and more independent. But I was still painting, still waking up in terror from nightmares where she couldn't wake up. In a panic, I would struggle to wake her if she was asleep, and rush to start painting when she woke. I saw her grow strong as my fear consumed me and she never acted like anything was wrong with me.
"Another year passed, she was still recovering when I began drawing the background of that painting about a month ago. It was just her originally, sitting by the fire in the forest. She asked why I never painted myself, and asked me to put us together in this one so she wouldn't be alone. I complied, erasing the forest and constructing a scene in a rustic cabin where we were close. Closer than the nightmares allowed in real life. She loved it, but all I could think of was that this was who we should be, who I was not. I decided that two years was long enough to move on for me. No more running into a painting to hide, no more frightening her with fears that only belong to me.
"She became so worried about me, though. She started staying up to catch me whenever a nightmare brought me up, always ready with a barrage of questions. And she had another set to wonder why I wasn't painting, and her asking to place us in whatever scene, and she… her… I saw as her smile grew more and more forced when she asked, and she stopped going to her therapies to make sure I was okay. I couldn't watch her fall again, not when it was my fault, so I decided to leave until she-"
"Wait," the woman said, piercing his memories, "you left her?" He nodded, eyes opening to parting grey skies and grey eyes filled with disbelief tinged by anger. "Why?" Anger gave an edge to her voice, driving out any impressions of her being juvenile.
"I-I wasn't helping her by being there." His voice was small.
"How were you helping by running away? Did you say anything to her about your decision?" He opened his mouth, but no words came out. "So you shut yourself away and ran when she wanted to know why? When she wanted to help you?" She looked like she expected an answer. He just looked away as tears welled up and broke free. Anger had been replaced by disgust in her face, no longer stone-like and still, but repulsed. "You can keep it. If I had known that was a thoughtless coward, I would have kept walking." She turned contemptuously and walked away. He watched as the clouds parted and the sun shone on his paintings.
Twenty one, twenty two, twenty three… She stopped her sit-ups two short of her goal when someone knocked on the door. She checked her watch, sighing as the numbers seven twenty eight flashed back at her. It was too late for relatives to be visiting, and whoever it was was intruding upon her recovery. She made her way to the door, past the note on the table that seemed to taunt her now. Shaking her head, she opened the door.
"Sorry, but I'm not interested in purchasing or investing or what-have-you," she said. "So you can… " The words left her when it wasn't a man in a suit, but a thin young man with sad brown eyes in a paint-smeared jacket she knew used to be solid red. The note's words flashed before her: "I'm leaving. Don't look for me. I love you." Whether it was worse he had left or returned she wasn't sure.
"Marie, I'm sorry," Jacob said. He was smaller than when he had left, visibly as fragile as he was inside. She wanted to pull him close as much as push him away when she noticed the painting he was carrying. "I shouldn't have left, not when you were trying to help me. I was so afraid of hurting you I didn't think of how you felt, and I'm sorry." For a moment it looked like he was going to say more, but he just pushed the painting forward. The two images made a perfect before-and-after of him, with the painting full of love and hope while now he was vacant of anything. She briefly wondered how she would compare as she took the picture from his paint-stained hands and looked at themselves. He turned to walk away.
She reached and held his hand back. "I thought you said you shouldn't have left." A bit of hope lightened his eyes, only to be covered by doubt.
"But I-"
"I know. And I forgave you then. But I'm not letting you go this time." She pulled him closer to her and wrapped her arms around him whispering "I love you. Remember that."
"I will," he replied just as quietly. After a moment of holding each other, he whispered, "I missed you. Every day I was gone." He tried to bury his head in her shoulder, but she lifted his head up to her and kissed him lightly on the lips.
"Let's go inside," she suggested. He nodded, and while opening the door to go inside, she looked back at the painting of them and left it outside.