Chapter 17 and 18 of The Trickster

Skip

It was an unusually warm December day. We were traveling in circles searching for a service station with propane. It was my nephew’s 9^th birthday and his dinner request was an old fashion backyard bar-b-cue. But when my sister, Catherine, tried to start up the grill, she discovered that the propane canister was empty. So my father volunteered the two of us to refill the tank.

Hey, I piped up, dismayed that Skip had conscripted me.

I need an extra set of eyes.

He was in an understandably, ornery mood. Inimitably levelled by a painful truth, the cancer in his body had spread and his death sentence issued. As we drove down Sherbrooke, Skip complained: bemoaning the other drivers he shared the road with. Clearly distraught, he dismissed the December bar-b-cue as a stupid idea. Who cooks outside in the middle of goddamn winter?

Come on. It’s almost 15 Celsius. Why not?

Because it’s a waste of time, he shook his head. Stuck driving around searching for a propane refill; I’ve got more important things to do with my time.

I tried to lighten the mood. What could be more important than spending some quality time with your son? Besides, you volunteered me for this joy ride…

He ignored my assertion. Dad was already a phantom gliding through the realms of night, death only a half-dozen or so weeks away.

We drove on in silence for five minutes, before Skip bitched again. Where the Christ is that Goddamn service station?

You passed one, two blocks back.

Why didn’t you tell me?

I figured that you’d seen it.

Skip shook his head and turned the car around. Did the station have a propane tank?

I didn’t notice.

Dad shot me a look of disbelief. What did you think I meant when I told you I needed an extra set of eyes?

Retracing our route, we approached station we had just passed, Skip gestured with his hand towards the phallic shaped propane tank. How the Christ could you not notice that?

Frustrated with his cavalier tone, I fired back. How in the fuck am I supposed to know what a propane tank looks like? I’ve never had to fill one up before.

Well, what do you think that is? He pointed at the towering penis-shaped obelisk, scolding me with his eyes.

With a smile on my face, I answered in a slow, calm voice… Well, it does remind me a bit of you. So I’d have to say it looks a giant prick!

And suddenly there was spontaneous laughter. Both of us were in stitches. It wasn’t until Skip parked his vehicle that his laughter subsided. I haven’t laughed that hard in a while. The spell of anger was lifting. The joy that habitually danced in my father’s eyes was returning. I’m proud of you Valek, you’ve grown into a wonderful man.

As the sire blesses his son, the son blesses the father. I love you too dad.

Prelude

After saying goodbye to Stone, I leave the café and begin walking down St Laurent. I still have a couple of hours to kill before my shift starts. As I hurry towards my studio, my cell vibrates. After retrieving the device from my jacket pocket, I hold it up to my ear, Hello.

Val.

Siobhan. I plug my right ear with my finger to block out the sound of the traffic rolling up St Laurent. How are you?

I have some wonderful news. Mom’s voice is filled with sunshine, something I haven’t heard much of since Skip passed.

The wind is in my face. I cup my hand over the phone: What is it?

That brother of yours is such a sneaky little bugger. Joy is bursting through the receiver.

What did he do now?

When Greg visited last month, did you know he had a job interview?

I had no clue.

Well, apparently the interview went great and he’s been hired to teach English at John Abbott.

No way, I cross St Laurent and approach the first door just below Marianne. John Abbott, I think to myself. First, it’s Stone’s fireman obituary triggering memories of the fireman’s lot from my dream. Now it’s John Abbott College and I’m reliving the shit Shirley dropped on the late PM’s grave. I shake my head: I inquire after Greg’s wife. What about Stephanie?

The bank is transferring her to Montreal. The news, like music, makes Siobhan’s heart sing. The irony cuts like a knife. All she wants is her family close at hand. She’s not unlike Judith and Claude. The realization stabs at my chest. I feel so selfish.

When are they moving back? I open the ground floor door that leads up to my studio and hustle up the stairs two at a time towards the second floor.

July... Anyway, I was so happy I couldn’t wait to share the news with you and your sister. Mom laughs I’m going to call Catherine right now. She’s going to be so thrilled. You two are still coming to dinner this weekend.

Of course, we’re looking forward to it.

I love you.

I love you too.

She disconnects the line.

After I unlock the door to my studio, I flip on the lights and the space resounds with a rainbow of pigment. I draw in a deep breath and soak up the color and imagery covering the walls. The frenzy locked in my heart begins to recede and I rub the belly of the black porcelain Buddha that that sits on a stool, facing east.

I move towards the middle of the room, stop and take in the canvases that surround me. Twenty-two works pinned to the four walls stare back at me. All of the tableaus, in various states of completion, are destined for NYC. Astonished by the sight, I stand aghast, proud of what I have accomplished. My career hinges on these paintings and although I’ve been plagued with self-doubt in the past, now there is no fear. The mixed-media works, combining collage and acrylic are minimalist by design. The majority of the canvases, dominated by negative space, shimmer with vibrant hues and images that leap off the white background.

I pick up a can of black paint and a fine-tipped brush and walk over to a work that features a photograph of Molly’s ultrasound glued to a canvas. Circling the fetus, three planetary rings, similar to the hoops that halo Jupiter or Saturn, orbit around the image of our unborn child. One of the planetary rings is just barely touching the extended hand of the 24 week-old embryo. Stencilled above the celestial body is the number 34. When I came back to the painting a couple of weeks ago I smeared two thumbs worth of baby blue and electric pink paint at the top and bottom of the foetus, creating an axis on which the spheres appear to roll. You need a name girl, I laugh to myself and dip the tip of the brush into a pot of black ink and with a steady hand I etch the name Shirley above the 34.

Not so oddly, scribbling the name Shirley onto the canvas is about as much creativity as I can muster. I feel dejected and sit down at my drafting table, acutely aware that my muse didn’t arrive with me at the studio. Whenever Molly and I are at odds my desire to paint begins to wane. I should probably call her. Stone is right. Childbirth is her show, not mine. Why do I always have to sabotage a good thing?

If only I could learn to be a little less selfish. Even if I’m not overly impressed with Molly’s clan, the benefits of an extended family aren't something to be scoffed at. They are purchasing us a house after-all. But I’m so self-righteous and quick to dismiss Molly’s needs. It’s no wonder that they’ve initiated the house purchase behind my back.

Still, she could have discussed her parents’ proposal with me. I would never entertain a decision like that without speaking to her about it first. It’s that Molly quality – constantly springing her plans upon me - that holds me back from picking up the phone. Although a part of me wants to call her, I think it’s too soon. We'll both be more reasonable once evening rolls around...

I thought we’d worked through our trust issues and were beginning to believe in each other again…

Shaking my head, I look around my space. It saddens me, the thought of having to give up this studio. For the last seven years, this was my sanctuary. It’s the one place where I can hide from the world and try to make sense of things. Even the smell of the place, saturated with the purple draught of turpentine, paint, marijuana and incense leaves me feeling alive and invigorated.

I stand up and walk over to the three marijuana plants growing on the window ledge. Their leaves stretch towards the sky. The bud on the plants seems to have doubled in size overnight. They're practically the size of cobs of corn: big, fat and sticky. I gently squeeze the tops between thumb and forefinger. If I'm lucky these girls will keep me in herb for the next three months.

I empty the contents of a plastic jug filled with water into the soil of the plants. This is something I won't be able to continue doing in Hudson. I can just imagine how Claude and Judith would object to marijuana being grown in the house they’ve purchased. Their bluster: like tsunami rage won’t be restrained. They’ll accuse me of being a hippy, a beatnik and a criminal and they’ll begin chewing me out for exposing their grandchild to dangerous drugs.

Shrugging, I suppose I could always plant some seeds near the golf course. Damn that golf course. It tempts me. The illusion of Ithaca’s emerging hills, rising above manicured fairways, makes me second guess myself. Living so close to the first tee… I could probably shave six or seven strokes off my game.

I decide to fill the silence with music. I’m hoping Lou Reed will rouse my muse from her slumber. I flip through a stack of CDs looking for Magic and Loss. If dad was still alive I know exactly what he’d tell me to do. His words well weighed would resound with benign judgment. Skip would remind me how lucky I am to have a woman like Molly in my life. Stop bellyaching, he would insist, and start doing what's right for your woman and child.

Unable to wrap my mind around the work I should be doing, I fire up the espresso maker, light a stick of incense and hunt for my stash. After the coffee maker bubbles and hisses and spits out an espresso, I sit down at my desk and roll a joint. The heady herb smells of blueberry and pine. I add a pinch of tobacco to the chopped up bud and roll a tight fat one. It’s a bit early in the day for a joint, but as I inhale the intoxicating cloud of smoke I immediately feel lighter. By the third toke tranquility is rising up my backbone.

After twenty minutes without inspiration I turn on my iPhone and visit a chess site to play some ten minute blitz chess. I love the game’s rapid fire intensity that fills the bravest heart with pressurized demands.

Although I’m confident that I have the chops to become a successful artist, I've been honing my craft long enough to know that fortune may never shower me with wealth. It is a precarious tightrope. One nasty review from an influential insider and my reputation could be cast into a doleful darkness worse than death. If I am poorly received in NYC and I don't sell a single piece… Just the thought of being stuck out in Hudson, broke and unemployed; the laughingstock of the art world, not only would I feel like a failure, I’d be left totally dependent on Molly and, god forbid, her family… the worst sort of kept man.

I take a deep breath and make my first move. I’m playing white. D4. I jump out of the gate and engage, steeling myself against the game’s rapid decay into a brawl.

Maybe I should be thinking a bit more along the lines Genghis Khan. Not just on the board, but as an artist. The Mongol warlord ordered every bridge that his army crossed burned. Retreat was not an option! The only path was victory or death. If only I could wrap my imagination around that kind of leap of faith. Burn my bridges and move to Hudson…

Filling the studio with melancholy, Lou Reed sings about cancer and chemotherapy. Every note and melody remind me of dad. The album, about illness and death, never much appealed to me before. But since dad's passing Magic and Loss has found a home in my heart.

Normally I wouldn’t let spare time like this go to waste by playing chess. But when inspiration is in short supply, there is no point in forcing myself to work through the lull. I suppose the prosaic hours could be filled with sketch work and note taking. But when the well has run dry the way it has today…

My process runs contrary to rational reasoning; more of a meditation than a design, often I just stand here staring at some uncompleted work, waiting for the canvas to reveal its intention to me. I laugh to myself. So many of my efforts have failed illustriously! But, on those rare occasions, when touched unexpectedly by grace, and a canvas surpasses my expectations, faith in my calling is renewed.

My opponent pawnking3454 and I move quickly from opening to mid game. The middle of the board is crowded with pawns, bishops and knights. Maneuvering around the crammed stage in search of a gambit proves challenging. My opponent is formidable: feinting, attacking, retreating, moving swift as a swallow… sweeping across the board with cunning determination.

A photograph of Willem de Kooning, pinned onto a cork board to the right of my drafting table, stares at me. Beneath the photograph is a quote attributed to the artist. Style is a fraud. I always felt the Greeks were hiding behind their columns.

De Kooning was the first artist whose work roused my imagination. I discovered his oeuvre when I was 12 years old. It was my birthday. Gramps had pissed Skip off by giving me a book on the artist that featured countless colour reproductions of his work. Dad was wound up even tighter after gramps began encouraging me to consider a career in the arts.

Over my dead body, dad hammered home his point a little too loudly.

Gramps brushed off my father’s objection. The boy has talent, Skip. Don’t let that go to waste.

How would you know?

My grandfather regarded my mother furtively before looking away.

Skip noticed the exchange and shook his head at Siobhan.

A beguiling fear congealed my Oedipal blood and at that moment I knew I wanted to become an artist.

The photo tacked beside my desk comes from that very same book. I have to laugh to myself. Even de Kooning’s late period, when the onslaught of Alzheimer’s ravished his mind, his artistic vision retained its vibrancy. Maybe he was suffering from dementia all along. Some role model: following in the footsteps of a man who was trapped in the throes of private madness is a crazy path to navigate. But his complexity of colour and the simplicity of form have never failed to astound me. The secret language of pigment… this is what de Kooning has taught me.

My king and rook are forked by pawkking3454’s knight. Moving out of check my king takes my opponent's knight after he removes my rook from the field of battle. Constrained, I am forced to defend in a style that prudence normally bids me to shun. To better his liege’s three pawns and a rook my remaining knight and four pawns will have to grapple imaginatively.

Both of us have less than two minutes of time remaining and I transform my knight into a dire Scylla, slowing down the game, forcing my opponent’s king and rook to dance around the board wasting valuable time defending. As the seconds unwind I draw him deeper into a Viet Nam scenario.

When I look at the clock an hour and half has passed. It’s already 11:15. I sigh. Work summons. Despite my lackluster attempt to be creative, I still feel refreshed. Just being here in my studio calms and reassures me.

I use my time advantage to undermine my opponent’s opportunities. Down to his final twenty seconds, the writing is on the wall. Pawnking3454’s clock runs down and I better him by a 45 second margin.

Maybe Molly is right. Perhaps the NYC show is going to be well received. I shake my head. It better be a winner. If it’s not a success… cares upon cares… these years of labour have been entirely meaningless. If the exhibition is panned, I’m going to have to reconsider my future. I hate to admit it, but if the painting doesn’t put food on the table, it’s time for me to stop. If it was just me, I would plod on a spectacular failure devoted to the cause. But when the choice is between being a responsible parent and living out my artist dreams, my child will always win out.

So much is going to change. I butt out the joint. What was that line from the Odyssey Skip loved to quote when he detected melancholy in his children? Better to rush at once to the shades below, than linger life away and nourish woe.

After everything Molly and I have been through I could never forgive myself if she gave up on me now. I really thought that the road was beginning to rise with us. I remember that first warm weekend in March, about six weeks after dad passed. It was a radiant morning. I woke with the first caress of sun falling through the window. Quietly I left the bedroom, leaving Molly to sleep undisturbed, illuminated in an aura of sunshine.

I savoured the unusual winter warmth. I opened a window welcoming the spirit of renewal into our home. Before firing up the stove-top espresso maker, I opened the faucet on the tub. By the time the bath was drawn, two plates with buttered toast, cheese and hard-boiled eggs were ready. When I returned to the bedroom Molly was in the exact same position as when I left her; cocooned inside the comforter. Her right leg, below the knee exposed, her head floating in a cloud of pillows. After placing the breakfast tray on the foot of the bed, Molly began to stir. I caressed her back and she purred softly. She blinked her arctic blues open.

Modo the cat jumped up onto the bed.

I gestured towards the tray.

She squeezed my hand. I thought I smelled coffee.

I kissed her fingers. We’d come so far. At last we were taking our relationship to the next level. After everything that we’d been through, our intimacy was finally climbing the ladder. We both knew where the journey towards reparations led. I found myself smiling, thanking the gods for second and third chances.

She rested her head on my shoulder. Her warm breath was in my ear… her kisses lingering on my neck.

Hey, breakfast is getting cold.

Molly reluctantly sat up. Aren’t you in the mood? She smiled at me dreamily.

Of course I am. I squeezed her hand. But the morning has just begun.

She cracked open an egg, scooped up some toast. We ate lazily. Between bites Molly leaned towards the window. The beams of light filtering through the Venetian blinds tattooed her skin with shadowy lines that ran vertically across her frame.

When the last of our breakfast disappeared, Molly suggested that we smoke a joint. Wake and bake?

Perfect, I’ve already drawn a bath.

She gave me her ‘you didn’t’ look and kissed me on the mouth. Remnants of blueberry jam on her lips.

After Molly rolled a fatty, we ventured towards the bath. Met by a fog of steam and scented candles, Molly pinched me on the ass and I twitched: Breakfast in bed, bubble bath: do you need a loan or something.

I smiled.

Into the tub we descended, facing one another... my back to the faucet. Molly sank into the water up to the top of her neck.

Try to keep your hands dry. I sparked up the joint.

Molly smiled at me seductively. I passed her the fatty. She drew in the smoky herb. Back and forth we passed the joint until an accidental splash of water extinguished it. Molly smiled: I don’t need any more anyway. She dropped the roach into the ashtray on the floor.

There’s some white chocolate in the soap dish.

Molly examined the unopened morsel of chocolate. What's up with you?

What da ya mean? I smiled, all coy and bashful.

Her smile was irresistible; she passed me a wedge of chocolate.

Remember how we had talked about starting a family? Molly nodded her head and I continued. You had said that we should start thinking about taking our relationship to the next level. Then there was the whole Michelle thing and Skip’s cancer and we never talked about it again...

She looked at me suspiciously, but the sparkle in her watery eyes begged me to continue. So I was just thinking that maybe today could be the day that we begin in earnest.

A flash of disbelief appeared on Molly's face... Do you really mean it?

It ain’t some flunk Indian rope trick if that’s what you’re asking.

Molly laughed. A flunk Indian rope trick; that’s the best you can do?

We’d make wonderful parents. What do you say? Wanna be my groove catcher? We’ll splash in the sun after we summon the rain.

Love spirals danced her eyes. Be your groove catcher and splash in the sun after we summon the rain… Now that I like.

I smiled. Molly kissed me.

Promise.

I crossed my heart: I love you.

We remained still and silent. The warm water and grass wrapped us in a deep and dreamy relaxation. Molly had her eyes closed. I never told you what my father said about you.

What? She cooed.

Just a few days before he died; I did my best impression of Skip. A woman like Molly doesn’t step into a man’s life but once… Consider yourself lucky, Val.

She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around me.

You make sure you do right by Molly, Skip said. You can see it in her eyes. She’s true blue.

Before dad died the pettiness that undermined me and Molly reached its apex. The Michelle indiscretion had exploded in both our faces rendering our future bleak. But after Skip passed gradually the malaise and fatigue that had bogged us down began to get less muddy.

Molly’s mouth was all pout and quivers, I love you the best! She laughed.

I thanked the cosmos, the future was ours. She broke off another morsel of chocolate and raised it to her mouth.

Let’s go back to bed. Molly stepped from the tub and I followed after her.

She passed me a towel and surprised me with another delicious chocolate kiss.

Returning to present I wish I hadn’t been such an asshole this morning about Hudson. Could I have been any more stupid? Up in her cage about a house her family wants to buy for us: she’s right, I am a fool. Instead of arguing I should be cherishing the moment. It's not right… especially now.

Shaking my head, I wonder why I surrender so quickly to my inferior elements. Is it all about pride? I don’t want to be on the receiving end of her parents’ charity. If only I could be more gracious and open. But the idea of being in their debt, especially two doors down to them. They’re neutering me, turning me into another Tremblay family steer.

Too bad I’m such a late bloomer. At times I’m plagued with doubts… that I’m little more than a part-time artist. My finances are dismal: between painting and the library I’m closer to poor than middle class. Still, I'm only in my early forties, and the art world is riddled with late starters. I look at the photo of de Kooning... he didn’t have his first solo show until he was forty.

I’ve always known that I was meant to be an artist. I’ve known since I was a child, when my mother, against the advice of my father enrolled me in a summer arts program. That’s when I stepped through the door and recognized my calling. When, after the first week of the program I told my parents that I wanted to be an artist, Skip muttered something under his breath. But Siobhan winked. You can be anything you want then whispered. I believe in you.

I have to laugh at how little work I’ve accomplished since I arrived here. Except for the joint I polished off not much else has been wrapped up. After slipping into my coat, I give the Buddha’s belly a farewell-rub. I shut off the lights and lock the door behind me.