My Favourite Muse

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I heard unfamiliar footsteps ascending the stairs of our home that morning, shortly before we left for Pam's funeral. I was working on my tie.

  "Hi Brad." Mr Glasgow was standing by my door.

  "Welcome sir;" I walked towards him. "I didn't expect to see you here but at the funeral."

  "I know. I know." He shook my hand. "I just dropped by to see how you're holding up." He looked around, at the paintings on the wall. "I understand how you feel, son. Please accept my condolences, in person." He sighed nervously. His speech had quickened a bit and that was quiet unusual; it gave me the notion that he's not used to giving condolences.

  "Thank you sir." He nodded, still holding my hand. My eyes left his face to the handshake and then back to his face again. He got the message and released my hand.

  "A beautiful little gallery you're having in here; and a very interesting muse." Pause. I didn't say a word. "Good muse, with an excellent inspirational story." He stepped closer and touched one of them "perfect finishing." Pause "these works surpassed my expectations by far." He looked closer "optimally professional."

  Then we heard someone clearing her throat; it was mother. She was standing by the door and we didn't take notice of her. "It's time." She said. "Are you ready?"

  "Yes" I said.

  "I just wanted to say here, that whatever effort you put in all this, is worth it." Mr Glasgow concluded, finally.

  "Thank you sir." I said. "But I'm afraid that effort is now useless." I walked out.

  Church was full; it was a Saturday morning. The congregation comprised parents, teachers and students of Cathay’s High; officers and men of the police, neighbours and friends. We were sitting on the front row. Mother sat by my left, Phil by my right next to the Grahams. Pam's coffin was opened for viewing and I had my eyes pinned on it.

  I still had problem believing it was my Pam lying in it.

  I was just thinking about her; about everything. I thought about the time we spent alone together; her words, that she's dying; that she wanted to die and doesn't want to be remembered.

  I remembered the nightmares I had about her death; the one she was drowning and that of crusaders placing coins on the eyes of the dead before burying them. I knew they could be signs but I never took them seriously. I guess I was too bent on the feelings I had for her, the futile analysis of her latent pain and the unsuccessful task of giving her some hope that could make her live a little longer. How stupid of me; how dumb.

  Mr Graham held his wife who was rocking herself forth and back. She couldn't look inside the coffin at her daughter; and surprisingly, she didn't cry. They reminded me of the Gibson's funeral when Mr Gibson sat in his wheelchair looking at his deceased wife's body, crying like a child. But unlike Mr Gibson, Mr Graham didn't cry. He just held his wife.

  Shortly after the intros, sermons and the short speeches, I was on the podium to say a few words about Pam, being her closest friend. A sea of sad eyes starred at me followed by the reign of dead silence. I took a few seconds to compose myself. I had it at the back of my mind that everyone would want to hear what I was going to say.

  The news of Pam's death could've gone unheard of by many in Cardiff, but the part that said she died holding my hand; and my words of 'Go in peace, be free' seemed to be legendary- thanks to the little gossip by the nurse that led me out of the room. That ordeal made me became some sort of a love hero. To say our brief love affair was worthy of Comparison with that of Romeo and Juliet is brutally insane, but to many, our story is enough for a Romeo and Juliet. I began, my testimony:

  "I met Pam on a bright Saturday morning; it wasn't actually a romantic experience but it was fascinating nonetheless. It started in Roath Park, by the Lake. I saw her sitting in a canoe feeding swans."

  I poured out my heart about my experience with Pam. I told them about the paintings she inspired me to make; what she told me on her sick bed and how she died. Though I left out the message she wants me to tell her parents.

  "So if I must define Pamela Graham in words," I said in the end, "I'd say these three simple words: courageous, inspiring and loving. She was the first and best love I ever had." I stepped down and walked to my seat; mother was all tears. Mrs Graham nodded at me, I return the gesture.

  Shortly afterwards, we were at the cemetery for interment; and so we all stood watching together as Pam's coffin was lowered into the grave. The undertakers shoved sand on it after the Grahams pelted it with handfuls.

  The tombstone was cute. It had a statue of a baby angel and a little picture of Pam when she was fourteen.

  "She loved that picture." Said Mrs Graham "she used to say would like to look like that until she gets old."

  I think I like the pic too; Pam had had a big grin; it was the type she had the night she danced ballet for me.

  "Children; let's pray." The priest commanded. We all bowed our heads and closed our eyes.

  The only prayer I heard was the one I said in my heart. I don't know if I could call that a prayer though, but I know I spoke to Pam and asked the Lord to listen.

  It was cold and sorrowful that morning; people seemed eager to leave the cemetery for the warmth of their homes. I didn't want to leave. I thought Pam's grave seemed too early to be left alone. No it shouldn't. I concluded about coming to the site every day for the next few years.

  "She's in a better place now. So I guess we should go home."

  That was mother. I remained silent, looking at the picture on the tombstone.

  "I don't like the font style of the engravings." I said. "I would've preferred more of gothic for this sort of thing."

  "The writing is fine Bradley." I didn't answer. "Gothic is fine for tombstones. But remember, your father's grave has the same font style on the stone."

  "How was it like, when father died?" I asked. "How did you feel shortly after the burial?"

  I heard her sighed. Then she sat with me and also stared at the grave.

  "It was like a story," pause. "Something that isn't believable. For many years I denied that fact that your father is really dead. I used to think someday he'd walk into the house and tell me 'Honey, I'm home' like he used to. But it never happened. That day didn't come" Another pause. "But I have you, and you've always been my solace since he's no more."

  "It's easier when you have someone then." I said.

  "Yes, it is."

  "Who's for me?" I looked at the picture on the stone. "Who'd I have as a solace for this loss?"

  "God will heal you; he'll heal us both." She rubbed my shoulder. "And I'll always be your solace, like I always have." She sighed. "Look, I understand you are in the middle of grief now, we all are, but you are too young to be thinking it's the end of the road for you. And believe me, you have a lot ahead of you so you must prepare for them. You must not let Pam's death weaken you. You must be strong for her and yourself."

  "Mother, Pam is dead."

  "And I bet she'd tell you to be strong if she could speak to you right now. And like I said, she's in a better place now; if you stay like this, unmotivated by her death, sadness and worry, your life would remain in an earthly hell. I won't let that happen!"

  That evening, I laid alone in my room, looking from one painting to another, thinking about Pam and the mystery of death; what's the philosophy, why must it befall men? Why can't there be a cure for cancer and why must young people, like Pam, suffer from it? Mother used to say life is unfair, now I know the in-depth meaning of that. For Pam, life wasn't only unfair for her, but brutal as well. She was just sixteen for Gods' sake!

  Now, she's no more; and the cruel life continues without looking back. Someday, she'd be forgotten, forever; we'll all be, except for some handful of men.

  Great men like Picasso and Vermeer were fortunate to leave legacies through art. Vermeer was even the luckiest; he was never known after his death, even with his exquisite masterpieces until about a hundred years later. Thanks to his re-discoverer, Thoré-Bürger and his paintings. As
for Picasso, he had made fame even before his death and has remained so till today.

  For me, well, I didn't even think that far; I will go to the university, study and glorify art and maybe teach someday. A family of my own is something I don't even think about for now; but to die, I shall think of it often. I guess nothing comes after that. And...

  "Hey, may I come in?" Mother's head peeked into the room. "There's someone here to see you."

  "Someone?"

  Mother opened the door and ushered the person standing next to her. It was Mrs Graham.

  "May I come in?" She asked.

  "Yes please." I sat up, pulled a chair for her while I sat on the bed. "Have a seat."

  She thanked me and sat. Mother excused herself out and closed the door.

  For the records, I know Mrs Graham doesn't like me; and that's from the beginning. I tried as much as possible to stay off her way even at the hospital in order not to cause a scene. Now we are alone, she was looking at me with a straight face that portrayed both sorrow and anger which made me felt like she had come to take on the pain of her daughter's death on me. I braced myself.

  "I don't have much time so I'll go straight to the point." She brought out a small brown package from her bag. It looked like a Galaxy chocolate packet by size, though a little bulkier, like a book case. "We... Pam's dad and I want you to have this." She held it up to me. I hesitated, my pupils danced between her eyes and the package. "Go ahead, it's alright." I took it.

  "What's in it?" I asked. She nodded I should open it. I did, and inside, was a little orange book with a wire spiral binding on it's side. I looked at her, demanding answers.

  "It's Pam's note book. She wrote almost everything in it, every time. The last entry she was the morning before she..." A curt pause followed to control the emotion the last word could possibly instigate. "So we decided to give it to you."

  "I don't understand, why give it to me? It's her book."

  "Because you were her best friend." She said. "Well, I know you would expect something more, but we figured this would be the best."

  "Expect more?" I looked at her with curious eyes, "Please, explain that."

  "Bradley, I'm not in the mood to explain anything, nor am I in the mood to beg you to take this." She stated in a surprising harsh tone. "I lost a daughter who never listened or trusted me but you. You took her out of the hospital without our consent, brought her into this..." she rolled her eyes around my room "...place. And for what? You thought you loved her more than her parents?"

  I stood up and walked four steps away from her, alighting before the big painting of Pam dancing ballet. "You should leave." I said. "Take the book with you. I don't need it."

  "Oh yes you do. From the way you held it and the curiosity in your eyes, I know you do."

  "I've got all I needed from Pam."

  "And what's that?"

  That was the moment I turned and faced Mrs Graham. I had already gotten enraged so I took a few steps closer and looked down at her. "Look around you." I said. "I've gotten a better note; a better diary than the one you brought."

  "Oh com'on, paintings? You should get something better. Besides, you did all these not Pam. She wrote what's in the book and what I'm offering you."

  "You don't understand, do you?" I shook my head. "Well, yes I did all those. But these works represent her happiness, her pain, her trials; they are her story." My voice was rising. She wasn't moved a bit. I pointed at Pam's painting where she fed the swans "This was what she does when she's at the Park home; away from home" I pointed at the birds painting "Here, she thought of peace and beauty whenever she closed her eyes. And this; this is what she dreamt to be. She danced ballet before me just four days before her death; four days." I raised four fingers up.

  “I can't believe you came all the way here just to tell me this nonsense. But thank you all the same. Now take your little orange book and leave. I don't need anything from you and I've heard enough."

  She still didn't seem moved by what I told her. She stood up, her eyes on mine. "I'm leaving alright. But I must tell you this before I leave." She stepped closer. "All these things you said has no meaning to me, you know why, those happiness, pain and stories will never bring back my daughter to me. They'll never bring her back to you as well. So there's no use, all this."

  "Well, Mr Graham worships John Constable; at least we have something in common. Do you ever ask him why he loves that artist and his art? Do you."

  "My husband's obsessions are no concern of yours."

  "Yes; I agree." I said, walked to the door and opened it. "You have over stayed you welcome."

  She starred at me for a moment, took her bag and walked towards me. "Pam is my daughter; I showed her the love every mother would to her own child. There's nothing you can do or say that'd make anyone believe you loved her more than I do." She was a step through the door now. "Take care of the book. You'll thank me later." She walked out. I banged my door shut. I hate that woman.

  "What was that all about? Mrs Graham just got out of the house without saying goodbye."

  Mother and Phil came into my door a minute after Mrs Graham had left. I guessed she showed them a little bit of attitude too.

  "Good. At least she'll be out of our lives now." I can see the puzzled look on mother's face.

  "What's this?" Phil picked up the orange notebook from the table.

  "Pam's little book of secrets. Mrs Graham brought it for me."

  "It's cute." He said. "So what's the problem? The lady almost slams the door on my face."

  "She thinks I'll be expecting something from them. She's just a wretched hearted fool."

  "Mind your tongue, Bradley." Mother warned.

  "I don't understand, what would you be expecting?" Phil asked; I told them what transpired between us. "Damn it! She’s really a wretched hearted full."

  "Phil!" Mother warned him. "Now look; I want you boys downstairs for super, now! We'll talk about Mrs Graham later. We still have our heads to clear at the moment." We nodded. "No more foul, nasty words; am I clear." We nodded again "Good. Super." and she walked out

  "Wretched hearted fool; that was a nice one."

  "Phil!" Mother yelled from the stairs.

  "I'm sorry." He yelled back.

  "Walk with me, after supper." I asked Phil. "Let's pay someone a visit."

  "Mrs Graham?"

  "No, Mr Glasgow. I need to warm up this face-off."

  "Arri! That's my boy." He grinned.

  I love Mr Glasgow’s house; though not Victorian, but it has a taste of one. The living room was spacious enough with large windows adorned with thick, long curtains and with royal kind of treatments. There were vintage brass chandeliers, about three of them in the living room for subtle lighting. The flower vases bear some subtle landscape paintings typical of ancient Chinese art, exquisite. I bent to take a closer look at the painting on one of them.

  "That's 'Strolling About in Spring'; Zan Ziqian, an artist of the Sui Dynasty, 581-618 After Death of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ." I turned; Mr Glasgow was ascending the stairs as he spoke. "gifts from Taiwan."

  "Evening sir. I was just checking it; I love Chinese art." I said. "It's beautiful."

  "Of course it's beautiful." He looked at Phil who was sitting on the couch reading a magazine. "Hello Phil. I can see you made yourself comfortable."

  "Good evening sir, yes I am. Thanks for seeing us."

  "You are welcome. So shall we get down to business? I like going to bed early. Bradley, please take a seat." I sat down. "What's so important that couldn't wait till tomorrow?"

  "My paintings sir;" I said. "I thought about what you said about the efforts. I guess I was... shattered, emotionally not to see meaning in what you said." I paused, looked at Phil and back at Mr Glasgow. "I want to exhibit them. I need to share that story with the world; the story of the young girl with dreams and aspirations who never realize them because of a rare disease. I intend to use part of the proceeds to be
realised and help people like her."

  "And what do you want from me?" He asked.

  "Incentives." Phil said. "This is going to be the first time he's exhibiting his art to the public. The collection has a very interesting story and muse. We think it's going to be big; as such, we need a proper master plan to do that."

  "Sir, you have enormous experience on this. Well, I know a lot of it in theory but not in practice. You are my art teacher, you know best and I need you on this."

  Then we kept quiet and watched him, I didn't know of Phil, but my heart was beating a little faster while awaiting his response.

  For a minute, he joined us to maintain the silence, obviously calculating our idea while allowing the tension to kill us.

  "Ok, I'll do it." He said finally. "But only on one condition."

  "Ok?" I shifted in my seat.

  "You leave everything to me, read your books because I don't want to be part of the reasons why your grades are dropping. You do something only when I ask you to and at the time I asked you to. Are we clear on that?"

  "Yes sir, we are."

  "Good. Anything else?"

  "No." I said.

  "Yes," said Phil.

  "I'm listening Mr Phil"

  "Is there anything you would like us to do before your first instruction?"

  "Yes." He looked at me. "Finish the dancing girl, make another or two about the funeral. It's a story with a beginning, and so it must have an ending."

  "Yes sir."

  "Ok, gentlemen. You have a nice night. I'll send for you when I'm ready."

  We left Mr Glasgow still sitting on the sofa. He asked us to close the door on our way out.

  "So?" Phil asked.

  "So what?"

  "So what are you going to do now? Are you going to just sit and wait for him to finish making arrangements for the exhibition?"

  "No. Of course not. I have work to do; I must finish the paintings first."

  "I meant before you finish the paintings."

  "What do you have in mind Phil?"

  "I'm going to start the buzz. We should do that; it's important. We attack all the social networks with the info about the forth coming exhibition. People should be expecting it."

  "Phil, he warned us not to do anything..."

  "We are just telling people about it, not doing the exhibition."

  "Alright; ok. You go ahead and do it. Let me read what you're going to put there before you put it."

  "Ok. And I'd need pictures."

  "I will send you some; just get yourself home now. It's getting late."

  And that night before I slept, I took pictures of the paintings and sent them to Phil. He called thirty minutes later and told me to log on to Facebook. He had created a page for me with my picture on the profile. He had uploaded a few pictures of the paintings and wrote about my exhibition. In the post, he promised to create an invitation when the date of the exhibition is fixed.

  "It's excellent. Thank you." I told him. And before the end of the next day, my page had over two hundred likes and comments. That was the beginning of a sudden fame that's a lot bigger than what I expected; it started just a few hours after that single post; it's what had compelled me to write this memoir.