Memories
By Gene Denham
Copyright 2013 Gene Denham
Cover Image : “graves4902”
https://www.freeimages.co.uk/
License Notes
Jared sat down beside the tombstone and closed his eyes. He swept mental clutter out of the way and focused on his breathing. His respiration slowed to a gentle rhythm. The calm spread to his pulse before cascading over the rest of his being. There was nothing for a minute or two.
Suddenly, he could smell salty ocean air. Seagulls squawked overhead. Jared saw shifting blurs. Warm joy enshrouded him. He concentrated on the shapes, trying to bring them into focus. The images too enough form for him to determine they were a man and a child. Then they were gone and Jared was once again sitting in a cemetery miles from the coast. He opened his eyes. Looking down at the grave he said, “Thank you.”
When he got home he poured himself a dram of Scotch. He set a canvas on an easel in his studio. Jared then readied his brushes and paints before drifting to sleep on the couch.
He entered the world of dreams and found himself standing on a pier. He looked up at the seagulls and smiled. The drumming of feet on the wood boards drew his attention. He watched a young boy run past him. Dripping with excitement, the boy clutched a fishing pole in one hand and an orange, plastic tackle box in the other. Jared knew the boy wanted him to follow, but as he stepped forward his knee screamed in pain. Arthritis! I'm not the kid's father. I'm his grandfather. A hand patted his shoulder. He turned and saw a reassuring face.
The man smiled. “You okay, Dad?”
“Never better,” answered Jared.
He and his son moved forward to join the boy. They helped the child weight and hook his rod. Within minutes there were three generations of fishermen with baited hooks, hoping to catch flounder. Jared knew that even if the caught nothing, the day would be an overwhelming success. This memory was the favorite of the man whose eyes he was now looking through.
When he awoke, Jared went to the canvas. He picked up a brush and starting recreating the experience as best he could. Several hours later he stepped back and beheld his creation. He was overcome with joy. He wiped a tear from his eye with satisfaction.
*****
The last customer of the day shuffled out of Payne's Art Gallery. Vincent Payne was about to lock the door, when he saw a familiar face approaching. He opened the door with a smile and let Jared inside. He turned the dead bolt and faced his guess.
Gesturing at the package the younger man was carrying Vincent spoke. “You have a new piece I see.”
“Yes. I think you'll like it.”
Vincent led the way to the office. He waited as Jared set the artwork on a tripod and removed the cover. The scene was of three males of various ages fishing. Vincent immediately felt at peace.
“What do you think?” asked Jared.
“It's fantastic. How do you do it?”
Jared blushed. “I don't know. I just do.”
“I don't mean the physical craft.” Vincent turned to the artist. “Don't get me wrong. You've got a real talent, but what I want to know is how you put so much emotion on the canvas. I can look at a Rembrandt and know I'm looking at a masterpiece, but it doesn't pull at my heart the way your work does.”
“No clue. Lucky I guess.”
“My sister was right. You are rare.” Vincent paused. “I'm sorry.”
“No. It's alright. I miss her too.” Jared offered a friendly smile.
“She loved art. This gallery was her dream.”
Jared nodded. “You've kept her dream alive. She would be pleased.”
“I've enjoyed it,” admitted Vincent. “The clients are a better class than what I was used to in the bail bonds business.”
“I can only imagine.”
“Oh, I have a check for you.”
“Which piece sold?” asked Jared.
“The landscape out the window,” answered Vincent. “I have to ask; where did you get the idea for that?”
“I don't remember. Why?”
“The customer was curious. She said it looked like it was her grandparent's place.”
Jared shrugged his shoulders. “I look at a lot of old pictures. Online, in books, at the museum, and elsewhere. Maybe I saw a photo.”
“Maybe”, agreed Vincent. “Let me get you your money.”
*****
Jared wandered through the cemetery, roaming from grave to grave in search of a new muse. He stopped at a grave. Nothing. He moved on to the next one. Sadness grabbed his heart with trembling fingers. Sorry. I can't. He tried to walk away but the unseen hand tightened its grip. It tugged, begging him to listen.
He sighed and glanced at the tombstone. Melissa Truman, 1965-1993. Jared sat down and braced himself.
“You win. Talk to me.”
When he closed his eyes he expected the despair to escalate. Happy butterflies danced in his stomach instead. He heard Louie, Louie being played. His arms and legs felt like they were moving. I'm dancing. Anxiety was shoved aside by joy as the music changed into the Wedding March. Then the music stopped. Jared's stomach imploded with pain. More pain battered his face. He found himself hyperventilating. He had to open his eyes. This needed to end.
Why couldn't he open his eyes and stop the pain? He willed his body to move, but there was no response. Jared could feel tears streaming down his face. He tried to scream but couldn't find his voice.
Someone touched his shoulder and gave it a gentle shake. “Are you okay?” a feminine voice asked.
He felt the spirit leave. Relieved to be free, Jared opened his eyes. He forced a weak smile. “Yes. Thank you.”
“I'm Susan. What's your name?”
“Jared.”
“Well, Jared,” she asked. “What happened?”
“Nightmare. I just fell asleep and well...” He shrugged his shoulders.
“Not many people choose to nap in a cemetery.”
“It's peaceful, quiet. I come here to clear my mind. It's an artist thing. Wouldn't expect you to understand.”
Susan smiled. “Artist, huh?”
Jared nodded. “I paint.”
“Where's your stuff?”
“I don't paint here. I just come to find focus.”
“Me too,” Susan replied. “I write poetry. So, I do understand to a point.” She held up her notebook. “But unlike you, I come here to work.”
Jared stood up and thanked the girl again. Then he headed home.
*****
It took half a dozen drinks of Scotch and several hours before Jared was finally able to drift off to sleep. In the dreamworld he found himself at a keg party dancing with a handsome young man. Another man was there, but Jared couldn't see his face. Later he experienced the wedding. The groom was his dance partner. The best man was a blur.
The marriage ceremony exploded. The husband punched in the gut. Jared collapsed to the floor. He stood up only to be knocked down by a fist to the side of the head. Jared screamed. He tried to wake up, but the assault continued.
*****
“What have you got for me today?” asked Vincent.
Jared didn't answer.
“Well?”
“I'm sorry. Rough night.” Jared pulled the cover off the portrait.
Vincent snapped away. He was afraid to look. Don't be stupid. It's a painting. It can't hurt you. He turned and looked at the picture of a bride. “A wedding portrait?” He hoped that the artist wouldn't detect the tremble in his voice.
“Yeah, I know. It should evoke happiness.”
“She's crying,” observed Vincent. “Not uncommon for a bride. But it's not out of
joy is it?”
Jared sighed. “No.”
“Is that blood at the corner of her mouth?”
“Yes.”
Vincent shook his head. “Why would you paint that?”
“You're not an artist. You wouldn't understand. I don't choose to paint anything. It chooses me. Look, sell it if you can. If you can't, put it in the back or something. I gotta go.”
Vincent watched the man leave. Then he returned his attention to the painting. He studied the woman's face. Suddenly he felt feverish. “Mel?” He shook his head. No. It isn't possible.
*****
Jared tossed and turned. He tried to escape Melissa's memory, but her spirit was too strong. She pulled him down until he was drowning in the nightmare.
He was sitting on a bed talking to the blurry man. Suddenly her husband was there. Jared was lying on the floor clutching his chest. The husband was lying next to him, crimson fluid pouring from his head. The blurry man stood above them. There was a gun in the blurry man's hand.
Jared thought if could see the man's face the dream would end. He concentrated. The blur started to melt away. The ears were the first to appear. Then the jaw and nose took form. The nightmare ended before the transformation was complete.
*****
Vincent handed the painter an envelope and a check. “Some lady bought your fishermen painting today. She asked me to give you that.”
Jared opened the envelope. He pulled out two pieces of paper and read them.
“What does it say?” asked Vincent.
The color left Jared's face. “Just that she's a fan. Ready to see what I brought today?”
What is he hiding? Vincent gestured at the easel. “Sure.”
Jared pulled off the cover to reveal a painting of an engagement ring. Above the jewelry were two faces that looked like swirled blobs.
Vincent assumed them to be male and female because of the hairstyles. His stomach felt like it was being crushed in a vice. He felt a tremor birthing in his throat. He forced it down as he spoke. “What is this? What does it mean?”
“I just paint,” answered Jared. “I let others decide what they see.”
“Really?”
Jared shrugged his shoulders. “It's am artist thing. I have to go.”
Vincent waited for the man to leave before pulling out his cell phone. “It's Vincent Payne. I need a favor. Yes. You know what I need. Tonight if possible. I don't care how much. Yes. Thank you.”
He walked into main gallery main room. He found Jared's painting of the bride and stared at her left hand. He cursed himself for not noticing before. The ring was wrong. It was not the one she had accepted. It was the one that displayed on an easel in his office.
*****
Jared put down the brush and wiped the sweat off his brow. The piece was almost done. There was only one last detail to complete. The face. It had finally manifested itself in his dream. He just wasn't sure if he wanted to finish it.
The doorbell rang. Jared went to the door and opened it. His spine iced over when he saw the gallery owner standing there.
Vincent didn't wait for an invitation. He rushed in and turned to face the artist. “Where's your studio?”
“Sorry. No on goes in there but me.”
“I think you can make an exception.” Vincent held up a pistol.
Jared closed the door and led the way to the studio. He folded his arms. “What's this about?”
“Don't play stupid. You know exactly what this is about.” Vincent saw the unfinished painting of a man holding a revolver. “How did you find out?”
“That you're a murderer? Why did you kill her?”
Vincent shook his head. “I didn't.”
“You're holding the gun.”
“How did you know that?”
“Why did you kill Melissa?” asked Jared.
“How do you know about her?”
“It doesn't matter.”
Vincent raised his gun and aimed it. “Then it doesn't matter if you live.”
Jared held out his hands. “She told me.”
“She told you? She died in '93. You were what? Seven?”
“Eight,” corrected Jared.
“And you were in California. So there's no way you ever met her. Now tell me how you know anything,” demanded Vincent.
“She did tell me. Her spirit talked to me.”
“Oh, so now you're a psychic who talks to ghosts?”
Jared shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know what to call it, but yes. That's why that woman told you that painting looked like her grandparent's house. I probably spoke with them.”
“You summon ghosts?” asked Vincent. “Crystal ball or Ouija board?”
“Neither. I go to the cemetery and they just talk to me.” Jared thought of Susan and the envelope. It had contained a poem entitled Three on a Pier that matched his fishermen painting. The other piece of paper was a note that read: “I know your secret for I too share your gift.” He hoped that she would never experience anything like this.
Vincent tugged his ear. “Maybe what you say is true. The ring you painted wasn't the one John gave her. It was the one I bought. She was the only one whoever saw it. Not the police. No one.”
“You loved her?” asked Jared.
“Yes.”
“Then why did you kill her?” pressed Jared.
“I didn't,” insisted Vincent. “It was John.”
“John?”
Vincent nodded. “Vincent Truman. The three of us met in college. John and I both fell in love with her. Mel fell in love with John. They got married after graduation. John and I went into business together. I tried to get her to leave him, but she wouldn't.”
“Why?”
Vincent shrugged. “The same cliched excuses too many women use. He didn't mean it. He was drunk. I should've known better. It was my fault... But I saw the bruises, the terror in her eyes. I pleaded with her, but she refused. I thought maybe it was because she felt she had no where else to go.”
Jared nodded. “So you proposed?”
“Yes. I thought that would give her somewhere. I parked the car around the corner, our of sight. I waited until John left for the bar. I showed her the ring. I begged her. We just lost track of time.”
“John came back home?” asked Jared.
“Drunk,” answered Vincent. “Mel panicked. She told me to hide. I ducked into the closet. But John knew someone was in the house. He got his gun from the night stand. Mel tried to stop him. The gun went off. I jumped out of the closet and started hitting him. I did to John what he had done to her so many times. I did more. He was lying there unconscious. I picked up the gun and I shot him. Then I ransacked the house. Took money, jewelry.”
“You made it look like a robbery,” said Jared.
“Yes,” replied Vincent. “I went home and with one phone call I got rid of the gun, the loot, and got myself an alibi. You meet some interesting people in the bail bonds business. 'Course the police had no reason to suspect me. They never asked any questions. No one ever had a clue. Until now. Until you.”
“John deserved it,” said Jared. “I have no problem with that. I can burn the paintings. We can put this behind us.”
Vincent shook his head.
*****
Sitting down beside the fresh grave, Susan opened her notebook. “I heard about the home invasion on the news. They say the police don't have any leads. I was thinking that if you show me what happened, we could write about it. Then maybe I could give the cops the information and they could catch the people who did this. What do say, Jared? Will you talk to me?”
Susan touched her pen to the notebook. She closed her eyes and cleared her mind. An invisible force took her hand. Words splashed across the page.
###
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