"...In 1937, Hendrik Van Loon wrote that 'The arts are an even better barometer of what is happening in our world than the stock market or the debates in congress.' Take Moslem Spain for example, even though there was a struggle for land and power between the Christians and Moslems, the collision of Moslem, Christian, Moorish, and Spanish influences created an art and architecture unique in the world reflecting a culture just as unique. Or Picasso's Guernica, it was painted in reaction to the bombing of Guernica, a town in Bilbao. The mural is not only a statement of personal turmoil but national tragedy. It's images are unproportional and unrealistic, but the feeling is wild and pure. It looks like it's been painted by an insane man -or a man driven by anger and helplessness. But Picasso wasn't helpless, his popularity allowed Guernica and its tragic message be conveyed to the whole world.'
"Picasso himself once said that, 'A painting is not thought out and settled in advance, while it is being done, it changes as one's thoughts change. And when it's finished, it goes on changing, according to the state of mind of whoever is looking at it.'
"Art, by definition according to the American Heritage Dictionary, is 'branch of learning.' Not only does the artist learn, but the audience. In a similar relationship, not only does history influence art, but art influences history. Art is mutable, progressive and powerful," Alex took a deep breath as he wound down.
"Very nice, Mr. Whitman," Mr. Sommers said from his desk. "Passionate, if confused. A solid report."
Alex moved from behind the podium. The history teacher called on the next student but Alex wasn't really listening. He saw Max give him a noncommital nod and Liz gave him a shy, empty smile.
When he sat in his chair, Isabel reached under the desk to squeeze his hand comfortingly. They looked into each other's eyes a minute, a little blankly. He squeezed her hand back, glad to be looking at anything other than the two empty chairs in front of him.
Two empty chairs. Empty, like his bedroom, but for the black ashes and singed curtains that swung in the window he still hadn't closed. He closed his eyes against the memory.
Art is powerful, he thought, it can break hearts.
But can it heal them?
***
When they found Maria, her face had been caught in a rictus of pain. She was sure the others had nightmares of her mouth stretched and cracked from one ear to the other in a perverted smile. Not her.
Not sleeping, never sleeping. Never again.
She washed, sometimes. Ivory soap, shampoo, and water. Didn't matter much, the fine grit of dust was still under her nails. Her hair was still stale. It was like she was a cigarette-smoker. Or someone else, anyone who wasn't herself.
The morning after, she'd bought the paper. Every copy from every newstand on every corner. They were still stuffed in the trunk of her car. She'd woken up a little after dawn, stolen copies off people's porches.
If there was no obit, then it meant he wasn't dead. Right?
Right.
It was the last time she'd left the house.
There was no funeral to go to, not even ashes to let fly in the wind. Nothing discernible from the other things destroyed in the conflagration. No sign.
No sign, no death?
Sometimes, she thought she'd gone a little crazy. Not enough to make her forget.
Most of the time, she stayed in her room, on the floor -never in bed. She'd shorn her bed of linen and taken to her mattress with a knife.
Most of the time, she rocked herself, crumpled newspaper to her breast and didn't cry.
She tried not to think of him, or how unfair it was. How short their time together was.
She tried not to think of how it had been her choice and it wasn't anybody's else's fault.
Flame-formed, Maria-Michael had searched out their other parts. The parts given and taken by the dream that was...Maria-Michael shut itself from that line of thought. Instead Maria-Michael concentrated on reclaiming themselves and devoured cleared clarified until the other was gone and Maria-Michael was complete and the same like an arrow they flew of one mind, of one heart in grief and love and oblivion as the world vibrated around and the dreaming returned to sleep to sleep as one and the fire had stilled and burnt itself out and it was beautiful and red and alive and they were together and the same and fire-
She remembered being forced apart, how she'd cried when her life was divorced from Michael's. That pain was the only thing that made her forget her father's death.
The papers said he died in a freak fire, his limo had exploded in the middle of the desert. There were pictures of the wreckage, but she didn't look at them.
She tried not to think in general. About anything.
"Maria?" The voice cut harshly into her silence.
She didn't turn around.
The crystal beaded curtain chimed as Michael entered her window.
She didn't turn around.
He stood behind her so she wouldn't have to look at him. "I'm sorry. So sorry. I never meant it to be this way, to hurt you more." He paused. "I didn't know it'd be like this."
She ignored him.
"I would die before hurting you," his words faded. "I guess you knew that. Talk to me, please? I know you can't forgive me, but I need to know that you're okay."
He moved in front of her and saw that her lips were tucked between her teeth, her hands wrapped around her knees. He crouched so he could see how fragile she looked, how dead. He needed to remember the blackness of her under-eyes, the dryness of her red, flaking skin. He needed to the memory to stay away from her, so that he wouldn't be tempted to hurt her -however, unintentionally- again.
He took one of her hands from her knee and pressed something small and hard into her palm. She didn't respond and he moved a little away. Sitting on the floor, he pulled out a chain from beneath his shirt. "It's a ring, we both have one. It's one-sided and as long as it touches your skin, it'll keep you safe from me. The ring, it's to keep our dreams separate. I promise.'
"It's, uh, got a part of me in it. The last thing I'm ever gonna make. I'm never going to paint again," he looked at his hands. "I promise, Maria, I promise."
She shifted her head so he could see the tears brimming her green eyes. "Don't-"
"I promise," he repeated, his voice not a little broken. "I promise I'll stay away."
She crumbled then, under a wall of memory, into his arms. She looked into his eyes and cried, "I just needed a little more time..."
He spoke no more of promises. Michael only held her, and she held him. And they cried soundlessly over things neither could have.
FIN.
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