Duma Key(104)

In this latest version, the girl in the rowboat was wearing a green dress with straps that crossed over her bare back, and all around her, floating on the sullen water, were roses. It was a disturbing picture.

Walking on the beach, eating my lunch and drinking a beer, with Wireman or on my own, I was happy. When I was painting pictures I was happy. More than happy. When I was painting I felt filled up and fully realized in some basic way I had never understood before coming to Duma Key. But when I thought about the show at the Scoto and all the stuff that went into making an exhibition of new work successful, my mind went into lockdown. It was more than stage fright; this felt like outright panic.

I forgot things like opening any e-mails from Dario, Jimmy, or Alice Aucoin at the Scoto. If Jack asked me if I was excited about "doing my thing" at the Selby Library's Geldbart Auditorium, I'd tell him ohyeah, then ask him to gas up the Chevy in Osprey, and forget what he'd asked me. When Wireman asked if I'd talked to Alice Aucoin yet about how the various groupings were to be hung, I'd suggest we volley some tennis balls, because Elizabeth seemed to enjoy watching.

Then, about a week before the scheduled lecture, Wireman said he wanted to show me something he'd made. A little craftwork. "Maybe you could give me your opinion as an artist," he said.

There was a black folder lying on the table in the shade of the striped umbrella (Jack had mended the rip with a piece of electrician's tape). I opened it and took out what looked like a glossy brochure. On the front was one of my early efforts, Sunset with Sophora, and I was surprised at how professional it looked. Below the repro was this:

Dear Linnie: This is what I've been doing in Florida, and although I know you're awfully busy...

Below awfully busy was an arrow. I looked up at Wireman, who was watching me expressionlessly. Behind him, Elizabeth was staring at the Gulf. I didn't know if I was angry at his presumption or relieved by it. In truth, I felt both things. And I couldn't remember telling him I sometimes called my older daughter Linnie.

"You can use any type-font you want," he said. "This one's a little girly-girl for my taste, but my collaborator likes it. And the name in each salutation is interchangeable, of course. You can customize. That's the beauty of doing things like this on a computer."

I didn't reply, just turned to the next page. Here was Sunset with Witchgrass on one side and Girl and Ship No. 1 on the other. Running below the pictures was this:

... I hope you'll join me for an exhibition of my work, on the night of April 15th, at the Scoto Gallery, in Sarasota, Florida, 7 PM-10 PM. A First Class reservation in your name has been made on Air France Flight 22, departing Paris on the 15th at 8:25 AM and arriving in New York at 10:15 AM; you are also reserved on Delta Flight 496, leaving New York's JFK on the 15th at 1:20 PM and arriving in Sarasota at 4:30 PM. A limousine will meet your flight and take you to the Ritz-Carlton, where your stay has been booked, with my compliments, for the nights of April 15th-April 17th.

There was another arrow below this. I looked up at Wireman, bewildered. He was still with the poker face, but I could see a pulse beating on the right side of his forehead. Later on he said, "I knew I was putting our friendship on the line, but somebody had to do something, and by then it had become clear to me that it wasn't going to be you."

I turned to the next page in the brochure. Two more of those amazing reproductions: Sunset with Conch on the left and an untitled sketch of my mailbox on the right. That was a very early one, done with Venus colored pencils, but I liked the flower growing up beside the wooden post it was a brilliant yellow and black oxeye and even the sketch looked good in reproduction, as if the man who'd done it knew his business. Or was getting to know it.

The copy here was brief.

If you can't come, I'll more than understand Paris isn't just around the corner! but I'm hoping that you will.

I was angry, but I wasn't stupid. Somebody had to take hold. Apparently Wireman had decided that was his job.

Ilse, I thought. It's got to be Ilse who helped him with this.

I expected to find another painting over the printed matter on the last page, but I didn't. What I saw there hurt my heart with surprise and love. Melinda was ever my hard girl, my project, but I had never loved her the less for that, and what I felt showed clearly in the black-and-white photo, which looked creased across the middle and dog-eared at two of its four corners. It had a right to look beat-up, because the Melinda standing next to me could have been no older than four. That made this snapshot at least eighteen years old. She was wearing jeans, cowboy boots, a Western-style shirt, and a straw hat. Had we just come back from Pleasant Hill Farms, where she sometimes rode a Shetland pony named Sugar? I thought so. In any case, we were standing on the sidewalk in front of the little starter home we'd had in Brooklyn Park, me in faded jeans and a white tee-shirt with the short sleeves rolled up a turn and my hair combed back like a greaser. I had a can of Grain Belt beer in one hand and a smile on my face. Linnie had one hand hooked into the pocket of my jeans and a look of love such love on her upturned face that it made my throat ache. I smiled the way you do when you're about an inch away from bursting into tears. Below the picture it said:

If you want to keep current on who else is coming, you can call me at 941-555-6166, or Jerome Wireman at 941-555-8191, or your Mom. She'll be coming down with the Minnesota contingent, by the way, and will meet you at the hotel.