CHAPTER 15

The Two-Legged Easel, Excerpts from Daedalus Monet’s autobiography:

(1.3) My father was born near an electric blender: a rather expensive one with many arbitrary high-speed settings. It startled him on more than one occasion as he lay sleeping in his crib. Later he was told (and he had no reason to doubt the validity of it) that electrical blenders had not yet been invented at the time of his birth, and it was impossible one should have startled him in such a manner. Upon later reflection, he believed what he experienced in childhood was a premonition foreshadowing his death by electricity. Though a cautious man all his life, he was killed by ball lightning on a Tuesday following Memorial Day. His curse has become mine, and I dare say his fate. Naturally, I too take precautions, and have maintained a lifelong distance between all forms of electricity and myself. (All except static electricity, which I keep in my closet among my sweaters and have rare cause to entertain.)

(1.15) The circumstance of my nursery shaped my early childhood development. Its floor ran at a slight angle away from my play area. My toys were forever rolling away from me, and as a consequence I grew up believing I was not intended to keep much in the way of material possessions. This gave me a predisposition to Marxist politics as a young man. I have since dispensed with these views in favor of pouch tobacco and gymnastics that can be restricted to a small but portable mat.

(3.5) My interest in painting can best be described as an accidental education. A narcoleptic farmer (sans arms) gave me a box of paints following his misadventure with farm equipment. Having cultivated few social skills as an idler with no ambitions, I had no one to give them to, so kept them and employed them accordingly.

(3.7) I would describe my painting style as unexpected, like finding a billfold on the sidewalk. If you were to open it in hopes of pocketing money, you would be disappointed. Still, there would be several names and addresses if you should be in need of a hot meal or a place to freshen up in the bathroom.

THE BLIND MAN, Part One

Emma again blossomed in Michael’s mind following the shower. He was determined to take up her invitation to visit her studio at Arbor Hall, although he never entered into such understandings lightly.

Michael’s problem with social parameters was an inability to distinguish between closed boundaries and boundaries that were either open or porous. For him, all boundaries were implicitly closed, despite all evidence to the contrary. With the exception of scripted roles, where behavior and communication were well defined in impersonal terms, he experienced stress when he perceived himself as “trespassing” on others, even if the interruption was expected or understandable. This keen sense of transgression dated from childhood, where he would mope quietly around his mother’s kitchen until she read his mind. The more he wanted something, the less likely he was to communicate it. This was especially true with authority figures and women from whom he hoped to gain favor; and where nonverbal cues were forthcoming in these critical exchanges, Michael would never presume to interpret them positively, or even recognize them in some instances. The more personal and nonverbal the interaction became, the more self-conscious and hyper-logical he became. He routinely rushed into these deathly voids with diversionary measures to dilute their significance, if not invalidate them outright. Even though he often comprehended what was expected of him in key moments, he rarely summoned the gut-instinct to act spontaneously; and when he did act, it might be more in form than kind, or done with great awkwardness, or a show of tears. Afterwards he would berate himself for either being disingenuous in his words or disgraceful in his actions, and the embarrassment was sometimes so great he would not follow up on the conversation, even if it meant forfeiting an earned advantage. Generally he assumed everyone was as guarded and as private as he was, or had better things to do than suffer his intrusion. Telephone calls were also challenging in this regard.

Indeed, Michael had difficulty processing moods, silences, and sarcasm of new acquaintances. To lower his discomfort level in unfamiliar situations, he was accommodating to a fault. However, he occasionally lashed out defensively if he perceived himself as being socially exposed. These things explained his fierce adherence to regiments and routines, for they were the only way he could safeguard against social variables he could not anticipate. Lacking social intuition, every encounter was a cerebral exercise of weighing guesses and calculating his replies; and this required an exorbitant amount of mental energy. His disinclination to form new friendships was as much about escaping fatigue as anxiety.

Even though Emma had clearly invited him to her studio, it was possible she would have forgotten or changed her mind about it. His character was, regrettably, immutable, so if any salvation from his social agonies was in the cards, it would come about through an acquired familiarity with the young woman.

It was a sunny morning filled with shifting autumnal hues, though in his nervousness to see the photographer, the suitor opted to drive rather than take the scenic walk. After parking his car, he happened upon the improbable sight of a stargazer lily lying at the entrance of the graduate studios. The out-of-season flower puzzled him until he glanced up at an open second story window. More lilies were spotted in an azure vase, evidently cut from a hothouse and intended for a painter’s still life. With a half-formed notion, he picked up the fallen bloom and proceeded inside.

Arbor Hall was a former dorm reconfigured to accommodate art studios. The visitor paused in the entryway to ponder a staircase to a darker second floor. Emma did not give me a room number, though a second story studio seemed unlikely. Michael stepped over one or two unfinished (possibly abandoned) 3-D projects in the primary corridor with increasingly hesitant steps. Each door in passing was decorated with personal effects and name placards. Some were open to curious eyes while others were not. Heavily cadenced voices were heard around the corner ahead. One he recognized as Emma’s. The artist slowed to consider his options. Shoes were walking his way, but there was no possibility of making it back to the entrance in time to avoid being seen. He dropped the lily before the graduate student and Seth Bowles appeared in the corridor. The preoccupied professor continued past his rival and stepped on the flower. The photographer’s expression seemed less unfriendly.

The visitor grabbed for words. “I came by. Like you said.”

She turned to lead the way, only then spotting the castoff stargazer.

Michael did not acknowledge her glance.

Emma’s darkroom studio was slightly larger than a walk-in closet. A sawed-off table, wedged against a piece of foam board suitable for pinning up pictures, took up half the space. The grad student yanked down several photographs drying on a strung clothesline and laid them in front of her guest. The feeling was one of wanting to get her made-in-haste meeting out of the way quickly. The painter looked over the pictures, yet could hardly concentrate on them.

Scattered, Emma picked up a toothbrush and started brushing her teeth at a basin. “I must look a fright.”

He was bound to say, “We can do this another time.”

“Nonsense,” she said.

Despite her reply, her demeanor was noticeably different than the day before. Perhaps she was troubled by his abandoned attempt to profess undying love to her with a flower. As they stood shoulder-to-cold shoulder in the dim studio, the distracted teacher took in peripheral details of his pupil. Emma was not wearing makeup, and under a ratty old brown sweater and prop eyeglasses, her look strayed into mousiness. Women, to his thinking, were too malleable in appearance; and he was always late to discover what they labored to conceal. Peculiar to him, up-close-and-personal moments introduced an element of unreality to his perception, where the other party was reduced to an odd collection of affects and surfaces. He feared, in such self-conscious moments, his eyes would betray knowledge of a shared charade.

Seeking conversation, he observed, “You don’t use a digital camera.”

“No,” she answered. “Analog is more like an extension of my body. Digital is more...”

“Superimposed,” he interjected.

“Yes. No matter how seamless it may appear, a computer is interpretive of my action. Not truly representative of what I intend.”

He understood her connection to her body, albeit intellectually.

The photographer stroked her cardigan, apologizing for it, and then, with a divided mind, took it off and re-hung it on a nail. “Can I show you something?” she asked. Turning to the filing cabinet at her elbow, a coppery iridescent dress with a fine goldthread pattern was pulled out of a drawer. The gown was held over her long, sinuous body in a preview of coming attractions. “The seam is out in a sleeve, so I got a good price,” she bragged. “I’m going to re-sew it, although I may not be able to get my fat bottom in it.”

Michael, who was mortified by the prospect of complimenting a woman for fear of being labeled a stalker, was clearly provoked by her putdown of herself. “You must be talking about somebody else,” he declared with unwavering conviction.

No precise reference to her shapely derrière was made, but just the breathless thought of it squeezed the spontaneous remark from his lungs. The young woman smiled before returning the dress to the cabinet. She closed her studio door; the room shrank to an even more intimate scale. Her guest, far from encouraged by this, wriggled in the sudden ghastly silence, as if being asphyxiated. He could not say if she was looking at him at that moment, because he was not looking at her.

The painter, for all his shyness, was serious in his stares of attraction, and only averted his gaze when the stare was returned. Generally he was so self-conscious about making eye contact he sometimes timed his visual exchanges, as to scientifically gauge an acceptable duration before looking away. It was like speaking English phonetically: He did not need to understand what he meant by it, only that the gesture convinced others that he understood. There were two types of objects in his world: those that stared back and those that did not. Of the things that stared back, it was mainly objects wishing to communicate with him that warranted a level of discomfort. This excluded most animals, some children, and every photograph of a beautiful woman that ever captivated him. Most of the time he could not distinguish between looks that denoted reciprocation of interest and those intended to rebuff him, so always played dumb in deflecting. Here, too, he blinked.

A piece of paper was pulled out from under the stack of pictures. Michael followed Emma’s weightier expression down to see the poem he wrote for her lying on the table. The photographer nonchalantly explained, “I found this in my car yesterday. It must have fallen out of your book. Unless you intended to leave it for me.”

He was aghast. How had it fallen out of his pocket? What, in fact, did he give Amber in Chicago? Between this and the flower in the hall, he was playing an unintentionally broad hand. He was caught on it, either way. If he claimed he left the poem for her, she would know from his surprised look he was lying. On the other hand, if he said it was an accident, his words would portray him as a coward in not giving it to her outright. He hedged. “It’s not finished.”

Seeing easily through him, the photographer tacked the poem up on her foam board. “Then you won’t mind me keeping the rough draft?”

He would not embellish on what he wrote, so made a diversion of another picture in the pile. “Is this where we went after the party?”

“Yes.” Emma pulled out the photograph. “This is Nadir Meadows Mound, where they have the annual Homecoming Bonfire.” There was an unassuming pause to add, “Would you like to see it again in daylight? This afternoon?”

Michael need not express an opinion in the matter. The agreeable pecking order between the two was established during their first outing to the mound.

Emma threw open the door to the hall, letting radiant sunlight pour back into the small room. Basking in it, she reached down in a space between the wall and filing cabinet to pull out a paper sack containing another dress. “Would it be too horrible if I asked you to wait here while I freshen up in the bathroom?”

Time in her company was the most elastic of things.

The young woman was gone a good twenty minutes, and when she returned she was wearing a bright electric blue taffeta dress, complete with sensible sneakers. Her vintage dresses never failed to lend an air of elegant formality to her every endeavor, though their shabby patina succeeded in providing the halo with enough tarnish to keep her approachable. The graduate student blew by him on squeaky soles, done up in makeup and glowing. After returning the switched-out clothes to her studio, she snapped shut the padlock on the door and bounded ahead like the youthful creature she could scarcely escape being. She stopped only to pick up the trampled stargazer lying in the floor. “Thank you, Michael,” she sighed, clutching the crushed petals to her chest, “for the critique.” With the little joke, she floated out the double doors at the end of the corridor.

No arrows where needed to draw attention to what was transpiring between them. Such conspiracies require a measure of inattentiveness, although ambiguity for shy Michael translated into a kind of denial.

Reemerging on the sidewalk, the visitor detected movement above him. The blue vase was still visible in the open window, although it was likely a breeze that drew his attention to the stirred curtains.

Approaching his car, he queried, “Do you know what time it is?”

Emma squinted. “Late morning, I should imagine.”

Michael opened the door for his passenger, meekly pondering the handle. “Would you be interested in eating a late breakfast with me? Or an early lunch?”

She was effervescent. “Both.”

The photographer was overdress for the small Saturn, but it was a condition she was accustomed to given her own means of transportation. After a few minutes of driving, she placed the lily on the dashboard and picked up a slip of paper lying there. She neither smiled nor frowned while examining it. “This looks like a woman’s handwriting.”

Michael had forgotten about Amber’s scribbled-down phone number, but was disarmingly quick. “I’m collecting samples of penmanship to edify myself.” He paused in all seriousness. “You saw my penmanship in the poem, didn’t you?”

Emma tucked the paper scrap under the flower and dryly concluded, “Then you will be a winning success at writing numerals in cursive.”

They were a mile past the electrical substation on the old country road when a pumpkin stand was spotted across from their intended destination. Seeing how the orange produce perfectly complimented her blue dress, an inspired Emma insisted they pull over to buy one.

A farmer with a clouded eye was tending the stand, and anxious to make the most of his opportunity for conversation. “Where you off to?”

“Out to the mound,” the young woman informed him.

The man gestured out over the blowing cornfield. “That’s were I saw the flying saucer.”

The two adventurers pulled up in their search for a good jack-o-lantern candidate to share a look.

The sputtering farmer continued, “They abducted me, suspenders and all, big as day, right out of my truck. Took me inside the mothership and stripped me down to my best pair of Fruit-of-the-Loom. They showed me a map of the Universe. Looked like Jesus nailed to a telephone pole, all done up in Christmas lights and a tool belt. That’s when they turned the spigot on. White smoke turned to black smoke easing down my throat. Next thing I know’d, I was back in the truck driving down the highway, big as day—only it was night. When I got home, my wife was in bed. I got in and slept like a baby.”

Michael handed the man money for a pumpkin, under the impression the story was over.

The farmer, rummaging through an oatmeal tin for coins, savored finishing up. “But my wife had been dead for ten years by then, mister. Ten years.”

Emma was already toddling back to the car with their purchase in her arms; Michael joined her, whereupon they exchanged another look.

The farmer exclaimed, “Someone should call the phone company and get to the bottom of it!”

Once the pumpkin was safely wrapped up in an old blanket in his trunk, Michael detected a material change to Emma’s expression.

“Do you remember passing someone walking along the highway?” she asked.

He lifted his sunglasses to follow her stare. A scarecrow-of-a-figure was stumbling down the shoulder about a half-mile back. “Not really,” he replied. Switching his attention to the restaurant across the road, the driver returned to the front of the car in more pressing business. “Let’s eat.”