See What I See (4 page)

Ian Morgan. Everyone who has anything to do with the art world knows the Morgan Gallery. It's the most famous contemporary-art gallery in New York. Excited, I say, “Soon, and they're wonderful. The best things he's done.” The least I can do is talk Dad's work up. “Do you want to speak with my father?”

“No, indeed. Not if he's working. I trust you understand the importance of the show and that you won't be bothering him.”

“No. I'm just here to sort of look after the house.”

“How nice. You'll stay out of the way of the studio? No dusting or scrubbing his canvases?” There was a mirthless laugh at his little joke. “Tell him I'm impatient to see what he's doing.” He hangs up.

Dad emerges. “Who was that?” he demands.

“It was Ian Morgan. He wants to know when he'll have more paintings. I told him soon.”

“Did you? I'm afraid you're something of an optimist.”

“You must be excited about having an exhibition at the Morgan Gallery. Any artist would die for the privilege of showing there.” I catch myself.
Die
. It just slipped out.

“Yes, well, it may come to that.”

Hastily I change the subject. “A woman named Julia called.”

“Ah, the woman in red. A veritable virago. You can take all my calls after this. I don't want to talk with anyone. Just explain I'm working.”

“Dad, why did you come back to Detroit? Was it because you don't want anyone in New York to know you're sick?”

He stares at me for a minute, and I wonder if he's asking himself whether talking with me is a total waste of time. One more thing to keep him from his painting. He sighs. “That was part of it. And a little superstition. The paintings that gave me my start were done in this city, and rental houses here are a lot cheaper than a studio apartment in New York.” He shoots me an alligator grin. “That's enough. You're as bad as a reporter.” He glances at the newly cleaned kitchen but doesn't say anything.

“What can I do for you?” I ask.

“I suppose you can put a dinner together?”

“Now that I've cleaned out the mold, there's nothing in the fridge.”

He reaches into his wallet, extracts a couple of bills, and tosses them at me. “There's a convenience store at the end of the street run by a Chaldean family.”

“What's Chaldean?”

“Middle Eastern and connected to the Catholic church, one of those peoples who are chased from country to country.”

I close the door of the house behind me, scaring off a feral cat. Its fur is mangy, and one ear has been bitten off. It stops and snarls at me. Even the cat wants me gone. Now that I'm free, maybe I should just keep walking and not return. I worry that the house is a huge vacuum sucking me into Dad's world and away from my own. The woman in red said, “Living with Dalton is hell.” Maybe I ought to take that as a warning. I wonder if I will be able to care for Dad if he becomes really ill and how much time that will take. But then I tell myself to stop whining. None of this matters. The important thing is that school starts next week.

I'm relieved to be outdoors, but it's not the out-of-doors I'm used to. The sun looks tired, as if it's worked its way through layers and layers of city to get here, and when I take a deep breath, it seems like I'm inhaling what a thousand automobiles have just exhaled. As I walk along the city streets, I look at the houses, shut up tight. Where are all the people?

There's nothing around to cheer me up. Even the leaves on the trees seem dusty. A few English sparrows fly up from the sidewalk. I'm homesick for woods and uncommon birds, and I worry that all I'll be able to paint here in the city are my memories of up north.

When I come to it, the store is a surprise. The outside is painted burnt sienna with a cheerful slash of French ultramarine blue. Inside you can barely move without running into displays of cereal boxes and water bottles. There are flyers tacked to the walls advertising Polish festivals, Albanian meetings, and a Chaldean church service.

“What can I do for you?” The man behind the counter has white hair, dark brown eyes, and a fan of wrinkles around his eyes. Though it's warm out, he's wearing an old wool cardigan. “Have I seen you before?” he asks.

“No. I just got here. I'm staying with my dad, who lives down the block. Mr. Quinn?”

“I'm Emmanuel, and I know your father. Sometimes when I don't see him for a few days, I send my boy with a little food for him. It's good you came to watch over him. There's too much of families falling apart. That's not right.”

“Well, the falling apart in our family was his idea.”

“I don't say right or wrong. I only say when you're old it's hard to get on by yourself. I've got four kids and they've all worked right here in the store.” He points to a boy about ten, who is piling up cookie boxes. “Joseph here gives me a hand after school.” Joseph grins and goes on piling one box on top of another as if it's a game you keep playing until you reach the point when all the boxes tumble down. I imagine what it would be like to grow up in a grocery store with food always there like wrapped gifts just for the taking, only of course you wouldn't take them.

“Your father never gets anything fresh. Just stuff out of cans. That's why he's not looking so good. What he needs are fresh fruits and vegetables. Look at these tomatoes I just got in. They're right from the Eastern Market. The farmer was unloading them from his truck just this morning. And how about a little fresh poultry? This chicken is only a day from the henhouse. You wait a minute and I'll cut it up for you.”

A guy a little older than me wanders in, holding a book. He has a pencil stuck behind his ear. He's tall, with Emmanuel's dark brown eyes. “Put your book down for a minute, Thomas, and give me a hand with this chicken. You're the expert on cutting up.”

Thomas lays his hand on the chicken almost tenderly and reaches for a cruel knife. He studies the chicken like it's a final exam, then gives me a killer grin.

“My son is showing off for a pretty girl. He's in medical school and one day he's going to be a surgeon.” To Thomas he says, “This is Mr. Quinn's girl.” And to me, “What's your name?”

“Kate.”

Thomas neatly dismembers the chicken. “This boy studies all the time,” Emmanuel says. He gives his son an approving look. “He already knows from his books what's going on inside of us. What do you think of that? For myself, I don't want to know. Just so long as it's happening.” Without turning around, Emmanuel seems to guess that the pile of cookie boxes his younger son is stacking is about to fall. “Joseph, that's enough. Come and help me carry out the empty bottle returns.” Over his shoulder he calls to Thomas, “You help the girl to what she wants.”

As Thomas takes my money, I ask, “Where do you go to school?”

“Wayne State. I'm a sophomore in medical school and clerking at Receiving Hospital. I worked there this summer. Then, after another two years of medical school, I've got an internship and residency to get through. How about you?”

“I'm living with my father so I can go to art school.”

“I'm sorry he's so sick. Advanced cirrhosis, he said.” He gives me a hard look. “You knew what he has, didn't you? I hope I didn't speak out of turn.”

“Actually I just found out.” It's a relief to talk with someone about Dad, and Thomas seems really sympathetic. “It was kind of a shock,” I admit. “I don't even really know what it means, and Dad won't say anything. I saw a letter that said he's stopped drinking though.”

“For him, drinking would be fatal.”

Fatal.
That's such an ugly word. “What's going to happen to him?” Thomas looks away. I can tell he doesn't want to upset me. I say, “I'm the one who's going to take care of him, so I need to know.” I
need
to know, but I don't want to know.

He sighs, but he tells me. “Unfortunately his liver is failing, Kate, and you can't get along without one. If he's stopped drinking, he could put in for a transplant.”

“He already has, and he's been refused because of a heart problem.” I told Thomas what the letter said.

“I'm afraid your dad will just get weaker then. You've probably noticed his yellow skin? That's jaundice. The main problem you have to look out for is fluid retention in his abdomen, which can be painful, and in his lungs, which can make it difficult to breathe.” He sees how upset I'm getting and stops. “Sorry, I must sound like a textbook. I don't mean to overwhelm you. You were good to come to take care of him.”

“I'll be at art school most of the time.”

“Oh.”

“What?”

“It's just that taking care of your dad might become a full-time job. But I'm sure you'll manage, and we'll be glad to help in any way we can. We like your dad.” Thomas expertly fits the chicken and the other groceries into a bag. He's probably had years of practice. He asks, “Do you know your way around Detroit?”

“Just how to get to school and back.”

“Well, that's a start, at least. I'd like to be a help, but between school and the hospital and work here I don't have much time. Let me know, though, if you need help finding your way around, and I'll point you in the right direction.”

“Thanks, I'll be fine.”

He drops a chocolate bar into the bag. “We always give candy to the kids. It keeps them coming back.”

As soon as I get home, I put the chicken in the oven with just a sprinkling of thyme and marjoram, a squirt or two of lemon, and a basting of butter. Mom's restaurant schedule means she's never home for meals, and when she is, she doesn't want to fool around with food. So she taught me how to cook at a young age, refusing to let me exist on pizza and SpaghettiOs. As I finish washing the lettuce for a salad, Dad wanders in and scrolls rapidly through his emails.

“You can answer these for me.”

“How will I know what to say?”

“Just delete Julia's emails and tell all the art students wanting to know the secret of success to find their own way. You can inform any museums asking for loans of my paintings that currently all my work is at the Morgan Gallery in preparation for a show. Anything else, you can figure out yourself.”

While the chicken bakes, I slog through the emails, including a lot of gushy ones, which require only a thanks, and one furious one accusing Dad of corrupting art. Finally there's a long email from Ian Morgan with questions about placement of paintings in the show, lighting, publicity, etc.

When I tell Dad, he says, “That can wait until next week.”

“I can't do it next week. School starts. I'll be gone all day.”

“School can wait. As long as you're down here, you may as well make yourself useful.”

“I'm down here to go to art school.”

“What makes you think you can paint?”

This is the chance I've been waiting for. I take the stairs two at a time, grab the small canvases I've brought with me, and do what I have longed to do ever since I walked into my father's house. I show him my work. These four small paintings are studies of the same maple tree at different seasons of the year. In the early spring the tree's buds are a purplish pink against a pale, late-afternoon lavender sky, the branches like interlocking arms. In summer the tree is crowded with leaves of a thick, rich green. In autumn the tree falls into a kaleidoscope of bits of color. The final painting is of a bare tree against white snow with two ominous-looking crows sitting in its branches. I painted it just after reading the lines in Shakespeare's sonnet, “boughs which shake against the cold, / Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.” These paintings got me my scholarship, and I wait for Dad's approval, maybe even enthusiasm. I want him to say, “I'll take care of Morgan's email myself. School is more important.”

Instead I get “Amateur work. Anyone with a decent eye could do it. Are you telling me that
this
attempt at painting is more important than a major retrospective of my work?”

“I don't believe you!” I shout at him. I'm crushed, but I'm furious too. I fight back tears, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. I've been warned, haven't I?
Lethal selfishness
is what Mom always said he had.

Our silence screams at us all through dinner. We push our knives and forks around like weapons. There are no words of praise for the chicken or the salad made with my own special balsamic dressing. Dad eats almost nothing, in spite of the fact that it must be the first decent meal he's had since he left New York. When dinner is over, he disappears into his studio. I slam the dishes around in the sink. I have to get to art school, I tell myself. Just keep the goal in mind. Suck it up. I tell myself my father is just a selfish old man. He is wrong about my paintings. All he cares about is keeping me around to be his servant.

The next day I get out my map of the city and go online to find the schedules for the buses I'll need to take to school. Dad's car keys are on the kitchen counter, but I'm sure he won't let me use his car for something he doesn't want me to do, and I'm too proud to ask. I am a good driver, though. If you live in the country like I did, you drive a lot. Everything you need is a hundred miles away, over roads that stretch through miles of empty fields and woods. An old farmhouse or a sandy trail tells you where you are, not signposts and stoplights.