“What part of Iraq do Chaldeans come from?”
“Originally from Nineveh, Old Testament country. Remember Babylonia in the Bible? But my own ancestors hailed from a village in Iraq called Telkaif. No one’s ever heard of it, but the Iraq War made nearby towns like Mosul and Kirkuk famous.”
A freighter moves silently along the river, all its lights on. It has a festive look, as if it’s been lit with candles for a celebration. The violence of a war seems far away. I ask, “So you aren’t Muslim.”
“No. We speak Aramaic, the same language Jesus spoke. Dad can speak Arabic because he went to the Iraqi national school. My family is great, but I can’t get away from them. I love that closeness, but it seems like they all have a piece of me. They have my life planned. Marry Mary. Be a doctor to Chaldean families. Help send for more relatives. I understand all that. But my life’s like a book someone else has written, with no suspense, no need to turn the pages.”
“What would you do if you could do whatever you want?”
“I don’t know. One of my friends is heading for Haiti after he graduates. He’s going to be working in a hospital for children with disabilities. Another guy is going to Alaska. He’ll be a doctor, but he’ll be spending a lot of time hunting and fishing too. I’m not saying I want to do stuff like that; I’m only saying I’d like to be able to make a choice.”
“This is America. They can’t make you do what you don’t want to do.”
“Maybe you noticed the car I’m driving. Over two hundred thousand miles. Bald tires, rust. When I take Mary out, Dad says, ‘Take the new car, Thomas.’ That’s because he approves of my going out with Mary but not with anyone else. But I won’t sneak around. When he asked where I was going tonight, I said I was showing you a little of Detroit.”
“What did he say?”
Thomas looked uncomfortable. “He said, ‘It’s a disgrace that at her age her father lets her go out in public with a man.’ I said, ‘She’s only a kid,’ and Dad said, ‘You must be blind.’ And I guess I was.”
Thomas puts his hand over mine and takes a nervous look around. He gives me an apologetic smile, “There are Chaldeans everywhere, and they’re all related to me.”
We head home. Both of us pull back a little self-consciously with our confidences. I guess neither of us is used to talking about ourselves to someone we hardly know. As he drops me off, there’s no “See you next week,” just “Thanks for being a good listener” and “Say hello to your dad.”
Everything is strangely quiet when I walk into the house. I’m drowned in streams of guilt. I shouldn’t have left Dad. How has the elf child managed? I see the light under the studio door and open the door an inch at a time. Ruth is still sitting in the chair, a patient smile on her face. Dad swings around and in an accusing voice says, “Back so soon?”
I give a quick, fearful glance at the painting and gulp. A distorted chair takes up almost all of the canvas. It’s huge. The slats on the chair back and arms look like the bars of a cell imprisoning Ruth, who sits poised and smiling. It’s Ruth’s innocence versus the overpowering world.
Dad waves Ruth off the chair. She hops down gracefully and goes over to look at the painting. I hold my breath. After she sees it, will she ever want to come back?
“You got me, all right,” she says, “but you can’t paint a chair. You should practice chairs.”
Dad doesn’t hear her. He’s heading upstairs. I try to pay Ruth, but she won’t accept money. Instead she hands me her notebook to mark the time she’s leaving. “If I take money,” she says, “the hours don’t count. The one who gets the most hours is going to our convention in Chicago this winter.” She turns over the pages so I can see all her good deeds carefully noted like in St. Peter’s notebook at the pearly gates. I wonder what Dad would think if he knew he was a good deed.
I pick up my cell and call Mom to tell her about tonight. “You say he’s in medical school? How did you meet him?”
I explain about the store.
“Oh, that’s right. I was afraid you had met him in a hospital or something.”
“No, everything’s fine here.” Under my breath I add, For the moment, so it’s not a complete lie. “They have a pathway along the river,” I say. “We just sat there and talked.”
“I’m glad you have a friend,” Mom says, “but don’t get too involved. You’re there to go to school.”
“Yes,” I say.
Chapter 9
Halloween comes and goes. We have our first November snow—city snow, gray and sloppy. We fall into a routine. Dad has a midget breakfast of toast and peanut butter, then disappears into his studio with a mug of coffee. Some days he paints for hours; other days it’s quiet in the studio and, when I bring in lunch, I find Dad stretched out on the sofa asleep. But Ian Morgan’s in ecstasy. He can’t say enough good things about the paintings. We’ve crated and shipped four more. I can build a crate by myself now.
Morgan calls, and he and Dad talk about lighting and space. I learn that in hanging pictures, the space between the paintings is almost like its own painting, and you have to think about that too. Dad gets emails from Morgan telling him how he has lined up this critic and that one to be at the opening. He’s assuming Dad will be there, but I know he won’t be strong enough. Even going up the stairs is too much for him now, so I’ve made up the couch in the studio as a bed. The old sofa with its worn upholstery and sagging springs has taken on a new importance, done up in white sheets and a pink blanket. Dad shrugs off not being at the opening. “My absence will create a stir, a nice bit of gossip. That’s good for business. The critics can make up stories about me. They love stories.”
Sometimes Dad still flies into a rage. “Go home!” he screams at me. “I can’t work with you here. You’re nothing but a leech. All you’re interested in is what you can get out of me, living in my house, eating my food, watching me paint so you can steal my technique.” He slams the door of the studio, and I hear him inside muttering. I know when he yells that he’s having trouble with one of his paintings and someone has to be blamed, but it’s so unfair. I want to storm into the studio and remind Dad about all I’m giving up to take care of him. But I have to admit that a lot of what he says is true. I am living in his house and eating his food, and when he’s in the mood, he does teach me. And that’s so amazing. One day I learn about glazes, how one thin translucent layer of paint laid over another and another can build a depth of color. I learn to avoid fussiness. Every detail is there because it’s building the story of the painting. If it’s not necessary, you have to get rid of it. You have to be ruthless. I learn composition and how to make people look at what you want them to look at in a painting. How powerful is that!
I take everything I learn and apply it to my own work. I’ve driven back to Belle Isle often for inspiration. The weather is cold now, and I seldom see anyone there. It’s like the whole island has been picked up and shaken until it’s empty of everything but the geese. The leafless trees, the bare willow tendrils blowing in the wind, the deserted beaches, and the picnic table with a cloth of snow. I take all the emptiness home and paint it, stealing everything I’ve learned from Dad.
I long to show him my work, but after the last time I’m terrified that he’ll tell me again how bad it is and that I’ll lose faith in what I’m doing.
The worst days are when Dad has an appointment with the doctor. He makes excuses. He’s not well enough to go, or he’s got to finish a painting while the idea is still clear in his head, or the doctor is a fool and doesn’t know anything. Dad slams doors, refuses to dress; and when we finally get to the doctor’s office, he won’t answer the doctor’s questions. Luckily Dr. Aziz is an older man and he’s seen it all, so Dad’s churlishness doesn’t faze him. Somehow he’s learned that Dad is a well-known artist. I’m sure it’s from Thomas. They must have talked when Dad was in the hospital. The doctor puts up with Dad, humors him, and treats him like he’s something between a mad genius and a spoiled child
.
The trip we made to the doctor today has exhausted Dad. When we get home, he lies down and I know he’ll sleep the rest of the afternoon. I need Lila’s cheeriness. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen her.
“Come on over, girl. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
When I pull up in front of her aunt’s house, I see that next to the alterations notice there’s a new sign: LILA’S ATELIER. Aunt Ernestine is busy at work, but she looks up when I walk in. “Kate, honey, how are you doing? How’s that grandpa of yours?”
Before I can answer, Lila grabs me and pulls me into the dining room, only it isn’t a dining room anymore. She’s got skirts and blouses displayed, some on racks, some hanging by hooks on the walls. They’re all a swirl of prints and bright colors. It’s an exotic bazaar. A couple of girls are behind a screen, giggling and trying on clothes.
“It’s fantastic,” I tell her.
“I’ve been designing like crazy, and my auntie’s been working nonstop making everything. Someone at school made a flyer for me for her class project, and I’ve got them everywhere. I even have a website, and someone from the local newspaper is coming to do a story. I wanted to quit school and do this full-time, but Auntie says she’ll kick me out if I quit. Anyhow, school’s not so bad. I made friends with this girl who does the coolest jewelry with African beads a friend of hers in the Peace Corps sends her, and I promised her she could sell it here.” She lowers her voice. “I met this supercool fellow, J.K., who is learning to design cars. He’s already won a prize. You should see his clay model. It’s not all clunky like most cars. He says he wants it to look like it was shaped by the wind.”
Lila’s aunt calls in to us, “Don’t think I don’t know why you’re whispering, Lila. Boys. You came down here to go to school, and that’s what you’re going to do, or I’ll send you right back to Flint, and there’s no plane that flies from Flint to Paris like there is in Detroit, girl.”
I unwrap a painting of Belle Isle I’ve brought for Lila and her aunt. I blush as I give it to her. “I promised you a painting, but you don’t have to hang it up or anything.”
Lila is quiet for a minute and I don’t breathe. Then she pokes me and says, “I knew you could paint, but you’re good. You are real good.”
I’m happy. I know Lila isn’t the kind to just tell you what you want to hear. Yet in spite of her praise something hurts. I complain, “Look at you. You’ve got everything: school and your own shop with people actually buying your creations. I’m not going to school, and no one sees my paintings. They’re just sitting there gathering dust.”
“So why don’t you try to sell some paintings?”
“Where would I sell them, and who would want to buy them?”
“Some of the kids at school have a co-op gallery with art students from Wayne State. It’s just a hole in the wall, but they sell stuff. Some of the regular galleries even go down there and take things. Give it a try.”
I’m afraid of being judged. Dad said my work was no good. If the gallery says the same thing, I’ll lose heart. I don’t know.
* * *
Somehow I get my nerve and the next afternoon I call Ruth, sign her book, and take two of the Belle Isle paintings that I’ve framed with cheap metal frames to the Tergiversate Gallery. Crazy name. I looked up the word in the dictionary and it said “to repeatedly change your opinion,” so I’m hoping the gallery is open to all kinds of art.
I have a hard time finding the gallery, which is hidden between a cleaner’s and an all-night drugstore. The gallery is in what looks like an abandoned store. The windows, with big bites missing from the glass, are boarded up so you can’t see inside, but the boards have been painted with squares of bright color and there is a sign: TERGIVERSATE GALLERY.
A guy and a girl about a year or two older than I am are hanging pictures. Landscapes, portraits, explosions of colors, abstracts, color field, superrealism, even some images that aren’t painted at all, just projected onto the wall. Everything is here. The boy gives me a quick over-the-shoulder glance. He’s thin and pale, with long black hair and one of those funny little beard things beneath his lower lip. “No more! No more!” he shouts. “Take them away!” I hurry toward the door.
“Shut up, Pearce,” the girl says. “Let’s see what you’ve brought. But I warn you, he’s right. We’re loaded.”
I fight the impulse to walk out of the gallery before someone tells me my work is no good. Pearce comes over and wrests my paintings from me. “Don’t be modest,” he says.
He looks at them a long time, and I’m shriveling. “Europe?” he asks. “You’ve been traveling?”
The girl, who has a long blond braid snaking down to her waist, is curious. She walks over and gives the paintings a long look and says, “It’s Belle Isle, stupid.”
Pearce looks angry at his mistake. “Of course. I should have known.”
“I like them,” the girl says. “They’re in.”
Before I can take a breath, Pearce says, “I’m not sure, Diane.” He’s still embarrassed about not recognizing the island, but Diane is already walking around the gallery holding the paintings, looking for a place to hang them. She tells me, “You’ve captured the island and something more. It doesn’t look like just Belle Isle. What you’ve done is make it look like all the lonely places in the world.”
Pearce doesn’t say anything, but he takes down a huge painting of a rat and helps Diane hang my two paintings in the newly emptied space. We all stand back and look at them as if we’re art critics from the New York Times. I’m thrilled, but at the same time I’m desperate to get the paintings back, terrified at having them out of my hands and exposed for all the world to see. There are things in the paintings that I have a sudden urge to make better.
Pearce offers me a pop, and Diane says, “If you’re not doing anything, you can help us hang the show. We’re running short on time.”
“There aren’t any bosses or committees here,” Pearce says. “Everybody works, and everybody has a say.”
“What he means is it’s chaos,” Diane says. “Scream-ing arguments, late nights, hurt feelings, but this is our second year.”
Five minutes later I’m up a ladder with a hammer. For a while I just do as I’m told, but when they tell me to hang two paintings side by side that fight with each other, I object. After a minute Diane says, “Right, split them up.”
We call for pizza and work until everything is on the walls. Then we stand there pleased with our work. In our eyes the shabby, chilly gallery is the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Louvre all rolled into one.
“Opening’s Thursday night,” Pearce says. “Bring a friend.”
I hurry home, worried about Dad and Ruth. I didn’t expect to be so late. When I get there, Dad is sitting at the kitchen table, lapping up a bowl of tomato soup that Ruth has heated. She has buttered a little stack of crackers for him, which sits next to the soup bowl. Dad gives me a smart-alecky wink that says, Who needs you?
Ruth whispers to me, “He wasn’t going to eat, but I told him we get extra points for preparing and serving a dinner to an elderly person, so he said he would.” Aloud she tells me, “I’d stay and do the dishes, but I’ve got homework.”
I sign Ruth’s book, give her a hug, and run her home. When I get back, I find Dad in his studio. The painting of Ruth in the enormous chair is amazing. She appears wonderfully poised and smiling while all around her is this outsize, frightening world of giant chairs and tables and the enormous overpowering room.
“Where were you this afternoon?” Dad asks. “You’re supposed to be here taking care of me, not wandering all over the city.”
“Ruth seems to do a better job than I do.” I’m pleased that Dad has even noticed my not being there.
“That’s because she minds her own business,” Dad says. “I need her back to finish the painting.”
“She’s coming Thursday night.”
“Where are you going?”
“I thought we were
minding our own business.” Then I tell Dad all about the gallery opening. “They took two of my paintings.”
The affable, mild man disappears and there is Frankenstein’s monster. “A gallery opening. Just an opportunity for people who want to be seen. You’ll cheapen your work by putting it in a fly-by-night gallery. You’re not ready to show yet anyway. You’re nothing but an amateur, a Sunday painter. You can’t paint until you know something about life. That little child who comes here playing at taking care of me knows more about life than you do. Did you know her father deserted the family, and her mother has to work and leave that child alone?”
Furious, I scream at him, “Sounds just like the story of my own life!”
He turns pale and starts to gulp for air like a goldfish thrown out of a bowl. He sinks down on the couch, gasping. Frightened I go to him, but he waves me away. I dial 911. I live a dozen lifetimes until the ambulance comes, the siren on, the red lights pulsing. In seconds the medical-emergency team is taking off Dad’s shirt. They bring in some kind of contraption, a defibrillator, one of them tells me. They get a stretcher and strap Dad onto it and wheel him out the door. What have I done?
I lock the house and drive to Receiving Hospital. I search the emergency room, but Dad’s already been taken to urgent care. Two hours pass. I keep hoping Thomas will come and tell me Dad’s okay, just more fluid in his lungs. They’ll get rid of it, and he’ll be fine.
A doctor, not Thomas, tells me Dad has had a coronary incident, and they have admitted him to intensive care. He says I should go home and come back tomorrow. There’s nothing I can do. With a terrible pang of guilt I tell myself he’s right—I have already done it. I sit in the waiting room another hour, wanting to be close to Dad, but when the nurse gives me a worried look, I leave. The Red Wings hockey game is just over, and the expressway is full of cheering fans on their way home. The cheering seems unfair. Don’t they know about Dad?
Tonight when I call Mom, I’m in a reminiscent mood, looking to escape from my worry about Dad to another time and another place. “Do you remember when I was little and you took me to Lake Michigan for a picnic and you went swimming far out in the lake and I started crying because I thought you would drown?”