What I Remember Most

  There were three tiny bedrooms downstairs, in addition to the family room and kitchen, but I had walls knocked out to open it all up, leaving one small bedroom in the back for me. I painted all the walls white. I painted the kitchen cabinets azure blue; added beige laminate counters; and put in two blue, red, and yellow pedestal lights that resembled stained glass.

  My studio was the whole upstairs under a peaked roof. I called it my attic studio. I filled it with two long work tables and two easels. I painted two tall bookcases turquoise and filled them with books on art, artists, and artists’ studios, which I rarely read, but I loved the photos.

  I painted two shorter bookcases red and pushed them up against the two large windows on either side of the room. They were perfect for my flowering plants and bonsai trees. I had two wood dressers—one pink, one green—for supplies; two small wood tables that could be moved as needed; and three wood chairs in purple, green, and yellow. I had a few of my own collages on the walls, the ones that didn’t disturb me.

  I also had boxes, jars, and plastic containers full of paints, brushes, pencils, pastels, buttons, coins, chalk, sparkly jewelry from Goodwill, sequins, beads, yarn, string, shells, dice, game pieces, wood letters, dollhouse furniture, rocks, broken glass, lace, and a bunch of other things. (No rope. No bits of rope. I don’t use rope in my art, ever.)

  I had fabric stacked up and wicker baskets filled with sewing supplies next to my sewing machine. I had a comfy red chair and a flowered footstool by one of the windows so I could sit and think and sketch. I had a stack of newspapers, magazines, sheet music, old books, and colorful wallpaper.

  I lit candles with names like Blueberry Dazzle, Cinnamon Crunch, and Tangerine Apple on cool days.

  I had two skylights put in when I had to replace the roof after the rain came through like a waterfall late one night. I had recessed lights in the ceiling, but I also bought three lights and decorated the lampshades in red and yellow fabrics and ribbons.

  My canvases were stacked up against a wall. I don’t work small. My smallest canvas is four by four, a perfect square; most are much larger. It is not unusual for me to create collages and paintings on eight-by-ten-foot canvasses.

  I would work on my art for hours each day. I’d wake up in the morning, not bother to change out of my T-shirt and flannel pants, and work until the sun went down. I would be lost. All else—my past, my problems, my anxiety—gone.

  I had clients come to my home, and we talked in my studio about the painting or collage they wanted. I had tea and coffee and cream (whipping cream, regular cream), sugar, and cookies out. They loved coming. One woman said, “You are living the life I always wanted to live.” They would write me a check and return when their collage was done. I never had a client who wasn’t delighted.

  I painted the exterior of my home green, like the inside of an avocado, with white trim and bought a white picket fence for the front. I had always wanted a white picket fence because it said Home. For two days after the fence was in, I sat on my front porch and cried. My own home!

  I had a huge oak tree in the front yard and three maples in the back. So many of my collages had those trees in them.

  I planted roses for him, daisies and lilies for them, and I filled clay pots with petunias, marigolds, and geraniums in the spring and summer and mums in the fall. My neighbors gave me clippings, and I planted those, too. I loved gardening and watching plants, trees, and flowers grow.

  My green home had a porch out front, which is how I met the neighborhood kids. They would come and watch me paint and draw. Pretty soon I was setting out paints, colored pencils, and pastels for them each Wednesday. They’d run to my house after school, I’d serve milk and cookies, we’d head up to my attic studio, and I’d give them an art lesson.

  They loved it. Their parents loved it. A few started coming by each week to help me.

  I missed my little green home. I missed my roses, lilies, and daisies; my picket fence; my studio. I missed the funny, happy kids and how much they loved the art lessons.

  Leaving my green home was a Herculean mistake. I had created my own world in that house, something I was often not able to do as a child, and I went into someone else’s world.

  I think it’s important to be able to look back on your life and figure out where you blew it all to hell so you don’t do it again.

  I blew it there.

  I heard thunder roll overhead and saw a flash of lightning. The mountains and the forest weren’t far away. I tried not to think of the forest, those tall, shadowy trees, the maze within them. My back tingled in remembrance and I pulled the sleeping bag over my head.

  8

  He pulled on his hair. He liked pulling his hair out, one or two strands at a time. It released the pain.

  He decided to write another nursery rhyme in his rhyme book.

  Hickory, dickory, dock,

  The lady ran up the clock.

  The clock struck three,

  The woman screamed,

  Hickory, dickory, dock.

  Hickory dickory dock.

  She’s dead.

  No head.

  He’s dead.

  No heart.

  Hickory dickory dock.

  That’s all there is to start.

  He drew a picture of a mouse with a woman’s head and red hair. He put one of his own hairs on the woman’s head. He giggled. He was so funny.

  9

  I picked up an old newspaper left on a table at McDonald’s. I’d had my morning mini-wash-up in their sink, and in their stall, and was holding my morning caffeine blast, my body slouched like an old sloth in a booth.

  I scanned the headlines but did not try to read them closely: a storm on the East Coast; the same serial killer and his appeal of his death sentence, which made me oddly nervous; and Washington, DC’s continual problems because the politicians don’t do what’s right for America but what’s right for them and their campaign contributors. The usual.

  I found what I didn’t want to find, however. There was a police report about my incident with the masked attackers the other night.

  In summary, shots were heard at night in a deserted parking lot, where Sylvester Family Furniture used to have their store. By the time police arrived, there was no one there. Police recovered a stolen vehicle with shots through the windows, the side of the car, and a tire. There were other bullets. There were no cameras on the property, as the furniture business was long gone. If anyone knew anything, please contact the police, etc.

  I used my phone to look up other articles. I Googled two men, shot, hospital.

  And there they were.

  Those masked terrors had gone to a hospital in Marvelle River, an hour away. Who knows how they arrived, as their stolen car was disabled. Maybe they hitchhiked. That made me laugh. The suffering would have been intense. They probably thought they were going to die. They might have, too. They could have bled out. But they had time to concoct their story.

  The article said that the two men, Jason Halloren and Turley Alquar, addresses unknown, got into a fight and shot each other after a struggle over a gun. The article said that they had been arguing over the gun and it had gone off first at Jason, then Turley. Turley admitted to throwing the gun in the river so “Jason couldn’t shoot off his other shoulder.” I could tell by the way the article was written that the reporter didn’t believe it, and neither did the police, who were also quoted and said there were “many, many unanswered questions.”

  I looked at their mug shots. They were in their midtwenties. They were white with messy brown hair. They were pale, probably from those darn bullets and a drug-filled life. Jason had narrow pig eyes and heavy lids, and Turley’s were plain dead, mean.

  They were arrested for aggravated assault—on each other. I laughed.

  They would be going to jail. There were warrants out for both of them because of long arrest records including, but not limited to: Assault. Menacing. Harassment. Robbery. Drug possession and dealing. They
both had restraining orders against them by a total of four different women. Jason had a son and daughter, and Turley had a daughter. Those children would be better off without their fathers, as would the mothers of the children.

  This was delightful news. I hoped they would be assaulted, menaced, harassed, and robbed of whatever money they had to buy their cigarettes in jail.

  I wondered if the Pineridge and Marvelle River police would put the two together. A shelled car and two men who’d shot each other. They probably would. They might have already. The dead-eyed scum would stick to their story, except they might include that they shot up the stolen car, too. They would not involve me. Attempted rape and kidnapping would be added if they did and they knew it. They were career criminals. They were probably scared out of their pants that I would report what happened.

  I felt mucho better. They would not be stalking me. They would be locked up. The Sisterhood was safer.

  Tildy had a shower in the back of the restaurant. I was getting semidesperate. I asked her if I could use it. She eyed me carefully, something flashed in her eyes, and I figured she knew I was homeless. She said, “You go right ahead, sugar.”

  The bathroom was pristinely clean and decorated in blues with a cowgirl theme. The shower was large, the sink sitting in an antique side table. Tildy had obviously remodeled it. She lived above the bar. I had not been up there, but based on the bathroom, and based on the homey, lodgey feel to the restaurant, and because she’s a classy, tough lady, I figured it was a haven from the craziness of work.

  I washed my hair using the Passion’s Delight mango shampoo and strawberry-scented cream rinse she had in there. I felt guilty about using her stuff, but I had worked hard, the night wasn’t easy, and I had dried sweat, fried food, beer, and a whiskey sour on me.

  I dried off with my own towel and brushed my hair out. I put lotion on my face, brushed my teeth, and left after I said good night to Tildy and the chefs. It was a friendly group, and I was glad.

  “You have a minute?” Tildy said.

  I braced myself. I knew what she was going to ask. That’s why I hadn’t asked to use her shower before this.

  “Where you stayin’, Grenady? I’ve asked you before, but you skate away like oil on a hot frying pan.”

  “Why do you want to know? Do you want to sit down and have tea and crumpets?”

  She crossed her arms.

  “I have a place to stay.”

  Silence.

  “You can stay with me until you get yourself settled,” she said, her voice quiet. “I have an extra bedroom.”

  “Thank you, no.” I heard an edge to my voice. I always prickled at “help.” I did not need help. I can do things on my own. I can fix my own problems. Besides, help always comes with unwanted, sticky strings. You feel beholden to someone else, like you owe them, or as if you should be eternally grateful and thankful and kiss their butt. They’re above you then, too. They have the power and you’re weaker.

  Been there, done that. No way. It was partly why I didn’t see if there was a homeless shelter in town. I don’t want to be in a shelter. I don’t need charity. I don’t need help. I don’t want to stay in someone else’s home again.

  We locked eyes. Two stubborn women. Tildy is a woman who has seen a lot of life, and she would not intrude on my life. When I filled out the application, I had a valid social security number and a bartending license. I don’t know if she later ran a criminal background check or a credit check. I don’t know what she did or didn’t do. My guess is nothing. She knew people.

  “Thank you, anyhow.” I made myself sound softer, not so ungrateful.

  “Anytime. See you tomorrow.”

  I could tell she understood.

  The first painting I sold, for fifty dollars, when I was seventeen, was of lilies. I painted them upside down, the stems hanging from the top. The lilies were golden yellow, lush pink, soft orange, drawn to the tiniest detail. On the bottom of the canvas I painted a knife with a snake wrapped around it stuck straight into the edge of the canvas. Beauty and terror, mixed. I was told a man bought it who owned a knife and gun shop.

  When I’m stressed, I draw and paint lilies. I have sold hundreds of paintings and collages with lilies somewhere in them.

  In one lily collage, I painted a huge glass bottle. Inside the bottle was a storm at sea. The black and blue paint was super-thick, waving like the waves. I added a pirate’s ship, listing to the side. I found a miniature captain’s wheel and used sticks to form part of the mast, black fabric for the sails, and mirrors for the windows below deck.

  I also painted rocks and a lighthouse. The lighthouse was tilting as if it was being blown over, but somehow I drew it to appear threatening, ominous. Where is that lighthouse, I asked myself. Where? Then I asked, What did it matter anyhow? It didn’t. But it did. Lighthouses are supposed to guide and illuminate. My lighthouse offered nothing but darkness. Was it from that night?

  Around the bottle I painted lilies. The buyer, who said he had an ancestor who was a pirate, said it looked like the lilies were alive and going to eat the bottle.

  Once I painted an eight-foot-tall white calla lily on a nine-foot canvas. I outlined the whole flower with gold, shimmery paint. I put tiny gold flecks of glitter in the center. That was it. One huge lily that looked like it wanted to talk. A hotel bought it when one of their employees saw it at a show I had at the local college and commissioned twenty more.

  I lost myself in lilies. Sometimes it was sweet, sometimes it made me emotional, but the world was gone and it was me and the lilies only.

  I often make collages in which I put something that is troubling me. Like the knife or the lighthouse or fog or a forest. I feel compelled. I must do it. Sometimes I hate it, but I must add those dark, painful questions to the canvas.

  I have many questions.

  Bajal called me the next day from Hendricks’ Furniture when I was sitting on a park bench like so many homeless people do. I was, however, trying hard not to look homeless. I was wearing my red coat, a scarf with a swirly pattern, and earrings with three silver hoops each. One of the hardest parts about being homeless is finding somewhere to be all day. It’s exhausting having to wander. You can go to the library, a mall, or a park. Unless it’s snowing. Then the park’s a problem.

  I had my sketch pad on my lap, drafting the next collage I would make when I had my own table. I drew four glass, rectangular terrariums next to each other. On the inside of each terrarium I drew glass balls that I would later watercolor with vivid colors. The weather in each terrarium would be different—fall, winter, spring, summer. I would use the pages of books I’d bought at garage sales to make cutouts of snowflakes for winter, fall leaves, spring raindrops, and a garden for summer.

  “Hi, Grenady!”

  “Hello, Bajal.” I crossed my fingers. “How are you?”

  She was still pregnant. Kade was too busy to see me until next Wednesday at one-thirty.

  “You’ll be applying for my position. He’ll tell you it’s temporary, but it won’t be. I’m outta here. You’d be great for the job. I already told him I liked you. Oh, hang on, Grenady. Braxton Hicks . . . hold on . . . hold on . . . whoo, whoo . . . popping melon, Watermelon-Head Kid. I hope I don’t need another episiotomy. There’s something worrisome about a knife so close to my ya ya. You know what I mean?”

  “No, but yes.” Listening to Bajal holding her breath, her voice tight, made me feel woozy. I put my colored pencils down.

  “Anyhow, Kade’s a straight talker. Be up-front, honest, tell him what you can do to help the company. You know what you can do, right?”

  “Yes.” Not really. “I hope.”

  “Tell him about your office skills, people skills, organizational talents. You have those, right-o?”

  “Yes.” No. That was a partial lie. I have no office skills. I have never worked in an office. I like some people, others not. I’m instinctually a loner and have major trust issues with other humans. I am rigidly organiz
ed, though.

  “Computer skills?”

  “Yes.” Basic. I am quite talented at e-mail.

  “Don’t be scared of him. I mean, at least try not to be scared. You will, but hide it.”

  “I’ll give it my best shot.”

  “It’s a girl.”

  “Pardon?”

  “It’s a girl. She’s kicking me all over. It’s a rebel. A bloomin’ rebel . . . okay, see you after I have my feet clamped in stirrups, a knife an inch from my ya ya.”

  Whew. That image made me close my eyes in fright for her.

  We chatted more about the baby and her pregnancy, then she regaled me with how she gave birth to the first kid without an epidural because he came too quick—“the stinker ripped me wide open”—and the second kid was “butt down.” “I was screaming, I thought I was dying, they had to cut me open like a fish.”

  I doubled over on the park bench. Now I felt nauseated. “Thank you, Bajal, for recommending me. I mean it. I appreciate this so much.” My forehead was sweating.

  “You seem like a nice lady and I hope Kade hires you. Hang on . . . here it comes again . . . whoo whoo whoo. Good-bye nice, neat vagina, you’re about to be shredded and bloody again.”

  On that, we rung off. I put my hand over my mouth, breathed. Breathed again.

  Poor Bajal. Poor, poor Bajal.

  10

  Children’s Services Division

  Child’s Name: Grenadine Scotch Wild

  Age: 6

  Parents’ Names: Freedom and Bear Wild (Location unknown)

  Date: July 5, 1982

  Goal: Adoption

  Employee: Wanda Turgood

  After three weeks in Raymond and Lennie Chang’s medical foster home, Grenadine seems to have made a full physical recovery from her concussion except she is still too thin and is having trouble eating because of stress.