johndear

The Opening

Doors open. Light washed onto the sidewalk, in pools that beckoned those like Dennis with a printed invitation. First inside. So he could see her briefly, hold her hand. Calm her with a compliment before the others sauntered in to see her paintings, monopolize her time.

"The Auk presents with pride." Then, in three inch Signet Roundhand, "Rota Bremmer." Then, smaller, "North of Nippissing." A photo of the artist: middle-aged, round faced, almond-eyed, mouse brown hair, a flip that hung above a cabled sweater. Strong, high cheekbones. A quiet, luxury of smile that Dennis found attractive. The poster, matted, rested on a massive wooden easel by the door.

Her opening. And his, he thought. The first time that she'd shyly let him see a sketch, an ember. Breathed on it. Suggested new directions, tinder. Laid twigs with care. A full-sized painting. Blew to make the flame. A frame. Like this? No, hang the cost. I'll pay. Just don't you sell it yet. Put it back, okay? A thicker branch; a few. She'd thought: the little gallery, the place beside the mall? Not on your life. Toronto, Rota. Let me take some down. Just see. He'd lit the fire. Stood back and watched it blaze.

Three, four dozen now in groups of four or two or six. Each wineglass held with just three fingers. P�t� on a cracker. Craned toward some word or sentence to explain a shelf of rock or twisted tamarack. A smile. A yawn. Dennis circulated. Hoped. Finally one red dot appeared. A sticker on a label: "No. 43 Sunset willows Oil on canvas $400.00" Sold!

Two women. Cocktail dresses. Pearls. Discussed the shades of green. Her wallpaper, it seemed. The light. The empty space beside a cupboard. Balance. Waited patiently their turn to meet the artist, rustic in her chambray and her jeans. Not knowing all their questions might be answered by the man who stood behind them, listening. How her paint had been applied. How her colours had evolved. The meanness of a life in far off Renison. The temper of her dog. Her recipe for moose. Then spotted friends across the room; moved off for second guesses.

Dennis watched her. Laugh. A finger touched her shoulder. Grazed her stately hair. A hand to shake. Congratulations. Hug. A whisper from the dealer. No longer nervous. Confident, he thought. They loved her. She'd been too scared to eat for days. Shook like aspen while he'd helped the dealer unpack crates and hang her paintings all that afternoon.

His opening as well.

* * * * *

"What time is it, Dennis?"

He checked his watch. And lied. Subtracted half an hour. "Three. That's going good."

"Tell me when it's four. I have to start their supper."

"Sure, Rota. Four. Just finish all the cobalt. If you stop, you'll lose the touch."

"I can't go faster." Dipped the stiff flat bristles into bright blue ooze. Pressed it once onto the canvas sky. Sweat glistened on her brow.

Dennis listened to the laughter, shouts outside her window. Will Bremmer. Husband. Thad and Sammy, twins, now ten. Playing in the backyard pool. Faintly, "Mom! Mo-om! He took my fins!"

"She's painting, guys. Just share." From Will.

"Mom. They're mine."

"Not!"

"Come on, guys. Trade off or something."

"Why? He left his at the Thompson's. These are mine! Mo-om!"

She laid the brush down on the pallet. Looked at Dennis ready to apologize.

"Don't you dare."

"They need me, Dennis."

"Will can sort it out. You have a right to finish this. It's the best you've ever done."

"My son."

"They're being kids is all. You're there if it's important. Paint."

She sighed. He watched her soul tear slowly down the middle. "If I'd only done this first. When I was twenty. Dennis, I'll never get enough to show."

"You will. You're miles ahead of kids just out of school. You see things. Feel."

"If I worked smaller. There'd be time for family."

"You can't. These are big. You're big. People want big. You can't do second best. You'd hate yourself."

She daubed more blue. "You'll tell me when it's four?"

"Promise." The noise of family, muffled now by scrape of dry fall leaves against the basement window. Supper would be late that day. Will would pout. Might press her once again to give it up. She'd mollify them. Somehow. Once the sky was underway, Dennis knew how it would hook her. How the cool, blue paint required, demanded that she finish. Would haunt her after supper. Call her down the steep cold steps at two a.m. while family slept. Hypnotic. Standing hours in fuzzy slippers, freezing in her nightgown. Hints of turquoise at the edges. Tiny dots of yellow that an eye and brain would someday blend into a perfect summer sky. Guilty only when a son might tiptoe down with toast and morning coffee, remind her she was Mom.

Perfect. Not just talented. That's what he told her hubby: it would be a crime to never let her try, never let the paintings out she saw behind her eye. Couldn't tell him, Will, or her, how much he longed to kiss her perfect lips, hear her perfect moan against her neck. Couldn't pet the border collie, not without the thought her fingers touched there too. Couldn't greet her children, not without a pang of jealousy.

"It must be four."

"Not quite. You're almost done."

* * * * *

Toronto. Eight months later. Rota's opening. Her first. Red dots now scattering. A chance to say, "Hi. I bought the... I really love the way you... Tell me how you... We have a cottage by the..."

Dennis stood nearby and sometimes listened. Was cornered by a woman ten years younger, elegant in flimsy top so sheer it made him blush. "You've been here all night. You're not a buyer, are you?" Said in confidence.

Dennis, "Not exactly."

"The husband, right?"

"A friend. Her husband couldn't make it. It's very far away."

"Her lover."

"Friend. I used to do some art. She's very talented."

"Who didn't... 'used to do some art'? Lynn."

"Dennis."

"This wine is horrid. She should've shown at Roberts. Tell me why she paints."

"You ought to ask her. One of those amazing 'opening night' questions. I'd love to hear her answer."

"I'd rather have the truth."

Dennis smiled as wryly as he could. "I'm flattered that you'd think I'd know."

"I'm serious." She pushed a half-step closer as a gawker squeezed behind her. Her nipples now erect against the fabric. Caught him as he peeked. "Tell."

"Maybe... 'Cause it'd be too painful not to, to keep them all inside? She'd go wacko if she didn't."

"Sold," she said. Then drifted with the crowd, a red dot on her finger. Turned. Winked. "Good luck with her," she said

Luck. Wished he had a chance. The courage. Or the right. Had bottled up his feelings long ago. Sat with her a year and comforted, cajoled, instructed her on art. Never once a comment out of line. Her friend. And now, tonight the hurt was crushing. A tremble in his fingers. A hunger in his gut. "Hey, thanks."

But she was gone. Another took her place. A man his age. Wondered if the streets up there were safe from polar bears. He'd seen it on the news.

* * * * *

The hotel bar. Near empty. Music, classic rock, so soft that one could talk. An opening was all he wanted now.

"You didn't have to stick around all night, you know. You've done so much already."

"You knew I would. Nothing ever, that I didn't want to do."

"Fifteen sold! I'm rich."

"You're not." He smiled at her exuberance. "You got forty per cent. That won't pay the framing."

"Don't bring me down. Please. I'm flying."

"You damn well should be. You're amazing. You'll sell some more next week to walk-ins. He'll keep the others on consignment. Show you now and then to keep you current. Hey. My first two shows I barely sold at all."

"You should've kept it up."

"I had my ride. No regrets. Not one."

"I'm tired. Like a hundred loads of laundry. It's hard to smile that long." Laughed. "I ran out of stupid things to say before halfway."

"You prob'ly want to call the family."

"Too late for that. Not sure I want to anyway. They'll be annoyed it went so well. Afraid I'll put them through it all again."

"Don't, then. Don't call, I mean. You have to paint. No choice. You belong to art as much as it belongs to you. The dealer wants another show. And soon."

"I want it, too."

"Let's go." He led her. Down gold corridors to separate rooms. Looked for gaps to slither in her feelings. Stopped beside her door. Watched her patiently retrieve the card that was a key.

"Thanks, Dennis, for everything."

"Rota?"

Turned, door open. "Dennis?"

"You're just amazing."

"Thanks." A smile. A pause. The hesitation that he'd dreamed.

"Could I come in a minute?" Prayed she'd let them kiss. Now, place his hand beneath her shirt. Would not resist his mouth against her sweet pear breasts, his whisper in her ear. The snap of jeans would not alarm her. Would not deny the things pent up all year. Hoped he'd roll against her on the king-sized bed. Would, with artist's finger, draw the outline of her opening, spread her lips and finally help her cum.

"You shouldn't. I'm so tired I can't think straight." Shocked him with, "Goodnight."

* * * * *

Her door, ajar, at seven in the morning. Dennis knocked. Knocked again before he entered. Saw her luggage by the doorway, packed and waiting, name tags neatly lettered like the poster for her show. Found her dressed for travel, sitting, staring out the window. Summer haze and city skyline. Morning coffee in her hand. Saw the bedspread draped beside her. Where she'd sat all night and shivered. Lost in thought and seeing nothing. Saw the telltale tear that streaked her face. His opening.

With thanks to Jack Vettriano for the illustration and to Mat Twassel for the incentive.

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