All About B.A.D. (7 page)

Dear Lilly,

I’ve never been one to wear fat well but I’m beginning to accept a plumper me. Good food, lots of vitamins and still being on my feet at the café have kept me healthy and busy. There was some morning sickness early on but I’m pretty much over that. I’ve been painting, too. Some walls and some canvasses. The woman I told you about, Wanda, is a saint. I’ve signed up for Lamaze classes with her as my partner. She has helped me get settled in and her friend, Josh, has encouraged me to start painting again. He’s made a small space in his studio for me and has loaned me some supplies. Did I tell you he teaches art classes in a community college not far from Galveston? If things work out he’ll have a friend of his exhibit one of my watercolors in an art show. I’ll let you know how that turns out. Keep your fingers crossed.

Lilly, I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m struggling with the thought of being a mother. Sometimes it’s easier than other times. I probably should have paid more attention to nurturing—but I’m learning. You were always better than me when it came to that.

I had a strained conversation with the folks. Guess I can’t blame them. Both you and Wanda say it’ll take time. Hopefully it won’t be more than nine months!

Say hello to Bertha for me.

Your dear friend,

BAD

Pigments crawled across the paper. Crimson oozed into ocher forming sunsets; greens bumped into blues and browns for warm waters. Tubes of thalo and emerald squeezed life into ivy and sagos. A rampage of stains—yawning, reaching, stretching to make statements. The brush was the conductor of music to which colors danced on a space of white.

She loved its ballet. It was the discipline she lacked. 

Bernadette watched the waves breaking in perfect rhythms, each repetitive motion issuing a kind of certainty and calmness. Her eyes followed them onshore to where they pushed against an abandoned pier leading to a large structure guarding the coast. It stood defiantly against winds carrying sand that assaulted its curlicues and gingerbread trim. The Victorian landmark had withstood the 1900 hurricane; she’d have it survive her brush.

She squinted to alter her perspective. The wear on paper and artist was beginning to show. She moved her thickening body slowly away from the easel and stood staring at it from different angles through narrowed eyes. What did she see? What was it saying to her; what did it need? Answers slowly unfolded, surging to the tips of her fingers and exiting out onto the paper. Repeated many times, the process continued until fading sunlight and fatigue forced her to retreat to the borrowed space in the makeshift studio to add the final strokes. 

She didn’t hear the door open and close, but she knew he was there. He stood behind her for several minutes before speaking. She could feel his eyes searching, evaluating.

Finally, he spoke. “It’s good, Bernadette. It’s really good. I like the way the shadows fall across the eaves and onto the porch chairs. It’s open, but with a sense of mystery. A little splatter in the palms would give more interest. Double load the brush and touch the bottom of the porch. This house is stately but inviting. You have made it alive.”

A slight welling of tears formed in her lower lids and dangled over red-tinged cheeks. “Thank you, Josh.” 

She loaded the bristles to add some tiny splotches of umber to the spiky fronds. She stared at its effect. He was right; he was almost always right. Bernadette saw him glance around at the two other watercolors resting against the Formica table. One was of a multi-colored kite. It was competing for space with a flock of seagulls returning to scavenge the water’s edge. The back of the kite flyer was dark against brilliant shades of sunset. A fiddler crab lunged for a hole near the flyer’s bare foot as he stood in sand encrusted with creatures coughed up by the Gulf. It was all movement in the winding-down time of day.

The second was of a pier stretching itself away from civilization while carrying much of it on its back. Arms and legs mingled with tangled fishing lines. Floppy hats and shirttails billowed up from sporadic gusts; scraps of bait and cut fish, the day’s leftovers, cluttered the wooden walk as it marched itself into brown depths in a diffused, hazy light. It was the ordinary made exciting.

“The duality is magnificent,” Josh said, marveling at the images. “There’s space for only one. It will be difficult to choose, Bernadette. Maybe I can make a deal with Brad. He owes me a favor. You may have noticed the new cream walls in his studio.” A soon-to-be-offered proposal seemed to form itself in his mind.

Bernadette appreciated the compliments, and the effort, but remained a realist. “One is more than I thought possible. Let’s not push any buttons by asking for two.” 

Josh stood tall and lifted his chin. “I’d be willing to give up my space for the privilege of being your agent.” 

The knot in her throat threatened to choke her while her emotions scrambled about, looking for stability. She had shed too many tears; she fought leaking more. What could she give back that would be equal to all he had given her? He had shared his studio, loaned her brushes, supplied her with paper. He had rekindled her courage. Glimpses of ambition resurfaced under his tutelage. He provoked and prodded and issued a challenge.

“Start with just one work in one show. Do it to prove to yourself that you have the discipline and drive. There will be a gallery opening in the fall and I can swing a place for you. Will you do it?”

She was still hesitant.

“What do you have to lose? And more important, Bernadette, what do you have to gain?”

She thought of his question for days. Giving life to carefully stored memories was the answer that presented itself a little at a time. Dusty roads down long lanes. Fields popping alive in spring and patchwork quilts hanging from ancient ceilings. Slinky march grass shoved one way and another and grey gulls screeching for attention in huge, blue skies. Unpainted barns patched and cobbled together, and Victorian mansions on wide boulevards. These were images eager for a new translation: hers.

She approached him with her answer. “Okay, Joshua. I’ll give it a go.”

“Perfect! It’ll be a great evening and grand introduction of the island’s newest talent.”

She was finished. After all the worrying and fretting, it had been relatively easy. Lilly believed the intensity of a feeling could telegraph itself from one person to another. Maybe, she thought, it was the same with words. All she had done was pick up the pen and they seemed to drip onto the paper, arranging themselves into coherent sentences. It was exhilarating and addictive, but short-lived. She wanted more.

“Here it is.” She handled the pages as if they were Ming vases.

“That was a pretty quick turnaround. I’m impressed.” Paul’s smile and words were genuine.

“Wait until you read it and then see if you feel the same way.” The reply was humble, sincere.

“That’s a deal. I appreciate you stepping in at the last minute. That’s the mark of a real newspaperman.”

“Woman, newspaper
woman
,” she corrected. “If I’m going to write about change I’d better get used to accepting it myself.”

“Right. Start a new wave. God knows Lone Grove could stand some updating.”

The words scrambled her insides. New outside, new inside, new feelings. All she had to do was look at his face and her insides churned, turning into pap. She memorized his face along with his scent, his laugh, his slightly lopsided grin. She knew his moods, his tastes, his wardrobe. The softness of his lips or how his hands would feel tracing her body could only be imagined. They were sensations she longed for while fearing their reality. Sometimes she wandered around, lost in their push and pull.

“Lilly, did you hear me? Hey, are you in there?” Paul smiled. “Knock, knock.”

“I’m sorry. No. Tell me again. I must have been thinking of ‘the new wave’.” She blushed, feeling caught red-handed in something unknown.

“I was talking about a scholarship. It only covers two years at the community college, but with your part-time job here and a flexible schedule, it would work. And you could be earning your way to the next two years—maybe at UT.” Paul offered the news in his usual, unhurried manner as if it was an everyday occurrence.

Lilly jumped in excitement. “Scholarship?! For me? How?” 

“The corporation that owns us is offering about a half a dozen of these around the state to young people interested in the business—aspiring writers such as yourself. There are the usual pile of forms, an essay and the signing away of your soul, but hey, it is almost one hundred percent coverage. I think you have an excellent chance at getting one. A few accolades from the staff won’t hurt, either. So what are your thoughts? Interested?”

“Am I interested? In a two-year scholarship? Are you kidding?! Of course I’m interested. Well, except for the selling of my soul part, although that may also be tempting for a full scholarship. Paul, this is just great!”

“The news reached us this week buried in a mile-long memo. The deadline for getting everything ready is pretty short, so we should get started on it right away.”

The ‘we’ part stuck. “We” should get started. The words pushed against her insides.

“Betts is all over it. I suspect she and Carrie will duke it out to see who comes up with the best recommendation. I’ll be glad to sign off on the forms, too.” He paused for a moment, taking in her expression. “Hey, why the look? The deadline isn’t so close that it won’t work. Trust me.”

Betts and Carrie—the ‘we’. What had she expected?

“Paul, it’s just that I’m dumbfounded, thrilled. Definitely, let’s get started filling out those forms.”

Lilly accepted financial aid for a two-year scholarship at the same community college a second time. It was matched with equal enthusiasm of the first time, but with a remarkably different attitude.

The silk dragon wound its way gracefully down the street, its body filled with brightly dressed men and women. It curved and essed its way to the gallery, beckoning spectators to follow. Once inside, revelers enjoyed wine, imported cheeses and tasty pâtés. Beethoven floated above air tinted with scents being wicked from scattered candles. Works of local artists adorned cream-colored walls, and sleek shelves exhibited an exquisite array of pottery and hand-blown glass. All the senses were studiously courted.

Josh had hoped she would change her mind. His eyes swept around the room, searching for someone who was nowhere in the crowd. He inched his way to the two pieces making certain the name cards with “B. Donahue” in bold purple script were still tucked in the plastic holder. Dozens in the room exchanged greetings while Josh merged in and out of bits of conversation.

“She should be here.” It was a mumble more to himself than to anyone in the crowd.

She had pled her pregnancy and lack of appropriate clothing as reasons for not attending.

“Please understand, Josh. I can’t afford a ‘one-time-only dress and shoes’ right now. I’m still a pregnant waitress with swollen feet who’s borrowing everything but time. You know I’m very grateful, but I just can’t go. You can tell Payne and me everything that happens. In detail.” 

In truth, he knew a part of her longed to be there, walking around unnoticed, watching, listening to everyone, everything. But reality had squelched any desire to go. Her work, worried and fretted over, as well as her unmarried status, would be available to strangers for judgment and criticism. Maybe she wasn’t ready for that, and it outweighed her curiosity. She couldn’t, wouldn’t go; she would stay away from the evaluations of others.

Josh eyed a well-dressed couple that had returned for the third time to view the watercolors, trying to decide if he should interrupt. Their whispers were aimed at each other while they worked over a decision. Josh started in their direction only to have them nod and walk away, their faces unreadable. An opportunity lost? Others stepped up to take their place, smiled, exchanged opinions, moved on. Josh decided he could benefit from food and headed toward the trays of boiled shrimp and crab cakes. 

Waves of people ebbed and flowed from one room to the next, creating uneven puddles of chatter. Everywhere were expectations, exaggerations, frothy compliments and wine-induced laughter. The evening went quickly. 

It proved to be successful, the crowd mostly a buying one instead of a browsers-only one. Several unadorned walls attested to sales and many pieces had “hold” or “sold” signs attached. Josh started toward his friend to offer congratulations.

“Great showing, Brad. Looks like everything went well. Lots of empty spaces.”

“Thanks. I guess you must be pretty pleased yourself. Tell Miss Donahue I’ll be talking with her soon.” Brad smiled before turning back into the swirl of engulfing praise.

Josh knew by the words that Brad could mean only one thing. He walked quickly to the smaller room in the back of the gallery where Bernadette’s watercolors remained in place. In the bottom corners of both frames were bright orange signs: “SOLD”. 

“Well, B. Donahue, this was a pretty amazing evening for you. Too bad you weren’t here to enjoy it.”