Page 64 - WTP Vol. X #2

Dark Passage (continued from page 34)
That night, Vic picked up her pen. The article that Alfred had published the year before Christian died rankled her. Christian was a fine abstract expression- ist but no longer the best. That tall North Dakotan Clyfford Still, whose jagged fissures of black dug into red canvas, was anointed the most “original.” Chris- tian, numb with hurt, had knocked his coffee across the journal. Vic gripped the pen hard. She could not remember a single review when Alfred had praised
a woman artist, except for his former wife whose career he had to advance.
Alfred,
Thank you for your kind offer. It’s not a route that I can take. I am committed to my new artistic direction wherever it leads me. Christian and I have always been grateful for all that you have done for us. I wish you and Ellen the best. I have frozen her cake.
Vic
As she sealed the envelope, Vic knew that, going for- ward, she would do everything possible to separate Alfred’s name from theirs. Alfred’s beliefs were overbearing, his need for their success too greedy. Vic could manage Christian’s estate by herself and in time attract another advocate who would treat her with respect.
Vic called her friend Grace before dusk. “Can you come here sooner?”
“I’ll be there by sunup,” Grace, the early riser, the one soul that Vic trusted with her moods, answered.
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Grace put down her vinyl suitcase, scruffy from use, and hitched up her cuffed Levi’s jeans. She pushed her short curly hair, prematurely white, behind her ears and held her friend’s hand. “You look tired, Vic.’’
“Sleep is a devil.”
Copper pots shone on the living room wall. Vic set out coffee cups on the pine table, built by Christian. She tilted her nose downward to inhale the sharp earthy aroma. “It’s gotten hard again,” Vic said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have left the city.”
“You had to try living here again,” Grace said. “It may work out yet.”
Vic’s student portrait stared down at them from the wall. In it, standing outside under the trees, Vic wore
a painter’s apron. Her eyes insolent, her lips as or- ange as the pigment on her brush, she regarded na- ture with disdain. She would not “copy” it as others did. She would find a rhythm, an exchange between what was felt and seen.
“Remember how we weren’t allowed to draw the dead fish in the basement,” Grace said. “Only the boys could. That didn’t stop you. You snuck downstairs and painted its firm flesh.”
“Of course, I did.” Vic laughed. “My dad was the best fishmonger in Brooklyn. I drew that haddock’s silver skin, its white belly lined with pink, better than any of those midtown jerks.”
“Yep. And it got you suspended for a week.” Grace clapped her strong hands. “What are we doing to- day?”
“Cleaning out the barn and making it mine.”
A low whistle emerged from Grace’s lips as they stepped inside. On the walls were feverish markings against cooler washes of blue. Grace cupped Vic’s shoulder. “My God. You’ve taken on the sea, been pushed down by its waves. Swallowed its salt.” She pressed her palm against Vic’s neck. “You’re breaking new ground. Your feelings come out like pistols of power.”
“I’m proud of what I feel.”
“As you should be. Yet don’t forget to breathe. You push back hard no matter what the cost. Don’t burn yourself out.” Grace’s finger smoothed a long thick mark on the wall. “Christian would love this drip.”
“And be jealous too.”
“Oh, yes.” Grace winked and shook one of his sticks. “Let’s get busy.”
Together, they carted out crusted tins, used rags, and syringes that Christian had used to paint. Grace, the supreme mover. She had taken the mistress’s clothes from Vic’s closet after Christian had died. The ingé- nue had moved in while Vic slept in Paris. A summer jumpsuit with black polka dots, a sheer white scarf that set off the beauty’s dark seductive eyes had hung on Vic’s hangers. She couldn’t stand that fame- seeker’s brazen nerve.
Vic bent over to scrape up two long jabs of blue paint on the floor. They curved inward like a crab’s round- ed hind legs. After Christian had crashed his Olds
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