Contessa (3 page)

I glare at her out of the corners of my eyes, slipping out of my jacket and loosening my tie. I unfasten the top button of my dress shirt and
lie
flat across the hard floor.
“
Just focus on one slat of wood,
”
I instruct her,
“
and notice how it gets increasingly thinner the farther away it is from your eyes.
”

“
I see it,
”
she says.

“
But you know, logically, the wood is the same width from one end to the next, right?
”

“
Of course.
”

“
That
’
s perspective,
”
I tell her, feeling happy with my brief lesson.

“
What
’
s the difference between one-point and two-point perspective?
”
she asks me.

“
Ummm,
”
I stammer, searching the recesses of my mind for the meanings of the two terms she
’
s asked about. I take a stab at it, hoping I
’
m right.
“
One-point would be when everything converges to one, ummm, point on the horizon. I think this is one-point,
”
I tell her, motioning to the slab of wood and praying that what I
’
m saying is making sense.
“
And two-point would be when objects disappear into two points on a horizon.
”
I avoid her stare and look around the room, finally finding a drawing that seems to depict what I
’
ve just described. I breathe a sigh of relief as I stand up and walk toward it, now confident in my definitions.
“
Like this.
”

“
I don
’
t get it,
”
she says.

“
Do you see how this rooftop is at an angle, and how it gets thinner on either side here? These lines all meet at two different points. One over here,
”
I say, taking a few steps to the right of the painting and estimating the point they would converge on,
“
and the other here,
”
I explain, walking back to the other side and creating an imaginary point with my finger.

Livvy
’
s eyes dance back and forth from the painting to my finger, and I can see that I
’
ve sparked something in her mind. She smiles and nods.
“
That
’
s so cool!
”

“
Yeah?
”
I ask her, a little bit surprised.

“
How
’
d you know that?
”
she asks.

“
I
’
m not as
stupid
as you think I am.
”

“
I don
’
t think you
’
re stupid,
”
she corrects me, sounding sorry.
“
I just think you should let me walk to and from the studio, Daddy, that
’
s all. You could watch me from the corner, if you wanted.
”

“
A lot can happen in two blocks,
”
I tell her.
“
And I don
’
t think your mom would go for it.
”

“
Daddy, please?
”

“
Why don
’
t we walk together for four months?
”

“
Why four months?
”

“
Until you
’
re eleven. That will give me time to get used to the idea and to see what challenges you might face.
”

“
In two blocks, Daddy?
”

“
Work with me, Contessa, okay?
”

“
Will you walk a few steps behind me?
”
she asks.

I let out a loud, frustrated breath as I walk back across the room to pick up my jacket. Although I
’
m trying to be playful with her, I
’
m masking my true feelings. It hurts a little.
“
If you want me to, yes.
”

“
Okay,
”
she finally agrees.

“
How about some ice cream?
”
I ask her.

“
Okay. Can we go to Shake Shack?
”

“
Really?
”
I ask her, surprised she didn
’
t choose her favorite shop.

“
It
’
s near the Flatiron Building, isn
’
t it?
”

“
I guess it is,
”
I respond, realizing why she
’
s really agreeing to go.
“
Get your bag. Let
’
s go.
”

Five years later

LIVVY

CHAPTER 2

There are times when the paint bleeds through my makeshift smock. The darkest colors are the most noticeable, of course, but it
’
s the red pigment that takes the most time to scrub off of my skin. I no longer try to wash it off, choosing to leave it as a reminder of a man I never met, a scar that never truly heals.

I stare intensely at my current work, pulling the photo out of the back pocket of my jeans and comparing the two. The black and white picture gives no real hint of his exact hair color or skin tone. I know it was dark blonde, or light brown, and I
’
ve done my best to match the paint color to what I remember him looking like in other photos I
’
ve seen. He was more tanned than my mother, but who isn
’
t? I imagined that my skin coloring very much matched his, and I had depicted it perfectly in the portrait. I made his eyes brown like mine, too. His smile is easy, relaxed; his expression happy, carefree and alive.

Alive
. I trace my pinky finger over his smile on the small wallet-sized photo I had stolen–
borrowed
really–only after making sure there was no paint on that finger. Something is off, but I can
’
t really figure out what it is. I try to block off the picture in small sections to compare it to the painting. His eyes look perfect. His lashes might be a little too dark. Maybe his cheekbones? I stare at his messy hair, impressed with my work. The highlights look natural, and I imagine how soft his hair must have been, the way it flopped in so many directions. You could tell from his expression that he didn
’
t care. He just looked like someone who enjoyed life.

“
Who
’
s that?
”

“
Trey! I
’
ve told you not to sneak up on me!
”
I snap at my brother. At five, he doesn
’
t understand the concept of privacy. He has no respect for closed doors, much less for the half of the basement I use as my studio and bedroom.

“
You were just standing there,
”
he says, his voice shaky. I turn around to see his little forehead scrunched, his eyes beginning to water.
“
I
’
m sorry.
”
He juts his bottom lip out, and I can
’
t help but feel bad for reprimanding him. He
’
s
five
.

“
It
’
s okay,
”
I tell him as I sit in the chair next to him.
“
I
’
m sorry I yelled at you.
”

“
Okay,
”
he mumbles, making a production out of wiping his eyes. I
’
m sure he learned that from me.
“
So who is it?
”
he repeats his original question.

“
I don
’
t know,
”
I tell him.
“
Just some man. He
’
s handsome, though, right?
”
I waggle my eyebrows at him. He vehemently shakes his head.
“
Do you like the painting at least?
”

He nods this time, walking toward the artwork with his hand outstretched. He touches the wet paint before I can stop him, smudging some of the pigment on the brown jacket my subject wears.

“
Careful, kiddo. It
’
s wet.
”
He pulls his hand back and looks at the paint globs on his fingers.
“
Here.
”
I pick up the bottom of the smock and rub the ink off of his fingers. When I
’
m done, he continues to wipe his hand on the black fabric as if I didn
’
t clean his fingers well enough. His attention span short, he smiles at me before running out of my room and upstairs to the main level of our house.

“
Hey, don
’
t tell Mom and Dad about the painting,
‘
kay?
”

“‘
Kay!
”
he yells back at me.

I walk over to the mirror to look at my reflection, checking out how the latest paint smudges have changed the black garment I wear when I paint. The smock is worn and threadbare, but it
’
s been a part of my life since the first time I held a paintbrush when I was four years old.

“
Daddy?
”

“
Yes, Contessa?
”
It was the nickname he
’
d given me the first night we met. He said that I looked like a little Italian princess. When I later found out that Contessa meant countess, and not princess, he explained that all little girls were princesses, but I was different. I was special to him, so he wanted me to have a special name.

“
At school, the big kids don
’
t have to use their fingers to paint.
”
I can remember sitting at the kitchen table, talking to my father as he cooked dinner, my fingers stained as they smeared watery colors on a piece of poster board. My focus never left the art project as I tried to create a new color by combining red and purple, then yellow, too, to lighten it up. I frowned at the brown mess in front of me, then shifted my attention to a blank spot on the page a few inches over, trying again. I was too young to know how to mix colors, but I never felt constrained by any limits. My parents always made me feel like I could do anything–encouraged me to do so, in fact–even before they officially became my parents.

“
No?
”
he had asked. He put down a spoon and walked over to me, crouching down, speaking to me, eye-to-eye.
“
What do they paint with then? Their noses?
”
I had giggled as the tip of his nose touched mine.

“
No!
”
I exclaimed.
“
They have brushes, Daddy. And they don
’
t have paper, either. They have this
scratchy
paper with wood.
”

My dad stood up, returning to the stove.
“
Brushes and scratchy paper, huh?
”

“
Yeah. Can I have a brush, too, Daddy?
”

“
I don
’
t see why not,
”
he
’
d answered. He rarely said no to me back then.
“
Why don
’
t you start cleaning up the table so we can have our dinner, and then we
’
ll see about getting you a brush after we eat. Sound good?
”

I couldn
’
t clean up fast enough. I hung my artwork on the refrigerator before it was even dry. Dad helped me reach the magnets that were just out of my grasp.