[41]

All about the paint, 1995

Mary picked up the telephone. “Hello.” Silence. “Hello.” She thought, Fucking telemarketers.

“Mrs. Burke.”

“Can I help you?”

“It’s Carrie. Um, Carrie Drinkwater.”

“How are you, Carrie?”

“I’m all right. I was actually calling to see how Becca’s doing.”

On March 25, 1995, Carrie Drinkwater Kingsley drafted and redrafted a letter to her old friend Becca Burke. The letter she finally sent read:

In New York, Becca read and reread Carrie’s letter before picking up the phone and calling her.

“Hello.”

Becca heard the TV in the background.

“It’s Becca.”

Carrie tried not to cry, not right away at least, but succumbed just the same. Then Becca started. They talked about their lives, the highs and lows. Becca talked about her art. They laughed about stupid Kevin Richfield. Carrie said, “I hate that guy.”

Becca said, “Yeah. Me too.”

“I can’t wait for you to meet Alice.”

“Me either.”

It was like they’d never been apart, except there was a new person, a next generation, in their midst.

Becca handed her mother a paint roller. Her father leaned against the plate-glass front of the Seaside Gallery. “Can I help?”

“We’ve got it,” Becca said.

Between rolling zigzag strips of white paint on the gallery wall, Becca gawked at eight-year-old Alice, the spitting image of Carrie at Alice’s age. Becca still remembered that first day she met Carrie, her insta-friend, the little girl with the grape Kool-Aid smile, the little girl Becca had loved more than anyone.

Alice bounced a rubber ball on the concrete floor and blew a pink bubble, which popped on her bottom lip.

Rowan said to Carrie, “I could take Alice to get an ice cream next door.” The Seaside Gallery was in a strip mall on Beach Road. It was not what Becca expected, but Peggy, the owner, was only taking thirty percent and she promised a good turnout, a good crowd. She was nothing like Sue in Soho. She said, “This is your show. It goes how you want. You’re in charge.” Becca swept an annoying curl from her face.

“Can I, Mom?” Alice asked. “Can I get some ice cream?”

“Sure.” Carrie dug into her shorts’ pocket.

“It’s on me.” Becca’s dad pulled the door open. “I like butter pecan.”

“I like mint chocolate chip.”

“Becca liked mint chocolate chip.”

Becca thought, You liked mint chocolate chip. I liked vanilla.

After the door closed behind Alice and Rowan, Becca cleared her throat and said, “I can’t believe he’s fucking here.”

“That’s your dad,” Mary said.

“This is why I didn’t want to do this. It’s got to be his thing.”

Carrie said, “He’s not so bad. I think he wants another chance.”

“A little too late.”

Mary didn’t say it, but she thought, It’s never too late, Becca. Never. She wasn’t thinking about herself and Rowan. It was much too late for them, but for Becca and her father, there was still time. Mary wished her own father had made some effort. Anything. Even if she hadn’t forgiven him, to know that he had tried would mean something. But he hadn’t.

Rowan, like Becca, thought it was a little too late. He was old. There were no more chances. His daughter didn’t approve of or like him, and he knew it. When he looked at his own life now, he felt regret. He wondered What if? every day. What if he had stayed at UNC? What if he’d tried to work things out with Mary? What if he’d spent more time with Becca? What if he hadn’t slept with Victoria the attorney? He’d still have his Patty-Cake. He pined for that woman.

Every day, he felt like crying.

His therapist said, “What if gets you nowhere, Rowan,” but Rowan couldn’t help it.

His therapist said, “You have your photographs,” but Rowan countered, “My claim to fame is Atkins and Thames. I caused the deaths of hundreds, if not thousands, of smokers. After all, it was my additive. No mistaking that.”

His therapist said, “You can’t beat yourself up,” but Rowan didn’t know how to stop. He got up every morning, took his prescribed antianxiety medication, and tried to feel better. The pills only made things bearable. Besides, his need for the drugs was the ultimate weakness. Rowan would agree with Becca: It’s too late. I ought to start smoking.

The caterers were late the Friday night of the opening.

In a yellow daisy sundress, Becca paced the concrete floor. It never got easier. The jitters were always there.

In South Nags Head, Buckley fumbled with his tie. Paddy John looked at Buckley in the mirror. He untied and retied Buckley’s tie, his wrinkled hands working the yellow silk. He said, “I’m eager to meet your friend.”

“She’s not really my friend.”

“She sounds like a friend.”

Buckley said, “She read my book. She’s a lightning strike survivor. I told you that.”

When Buckley read that Rebecca Burke, “a successful painter from New York,” was showing her work at the Seaside Gallery in Kill Devil Hills, he could not believe it. Joan and Sissy were visiting from Galveston. Buckley told them about meeting Rebecca in New York, about her wonderful paintings of the fish and lightning. “She wrote to me,” he told them over and over.

Paddy John turned Buckley to see himself in the mirror. “You are a handsome young man.”

Thirty-six-year-old Buckley touched the silk tie. “I look a lot better than the last time I met her.”

“You look good.”

Paddy John wore a long-sleeved shirt and jeans. He was too old to dress up for anybody. Buckley didn’t mind.

He and Paddy John could hear Sissy and Joan Holt in the living room, quarreling over who should drive. Sissy was saying, “I’ll drive,” and Joan Holt was saying, “I’m tired of riding around with you. You’re like to kill me. Let Paddy John drive.”

“I’m a good driver,” Sissy said.

“Says who?”

Buckley and Paddy John laughed. Buckley said, “You should drive.”

At the Seaside Gallery, Becca’s paintings were hung with wire from picture molding. Her father said to her, “This is my favorite collection.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“It’s like your soul’s in the paint.”

“What did you say?”

“Your soul: It’s in the paint.” He pointed to one of her paintings, a graphite drawing of a man washed with turpentine, faint splashes of yellow ochre, and sap green.

Becca said, “I’m going to get some air.”

“Let me know if I can do anything to help.”

Outside the gallery, Carrie was smoking a cigarette. “You doing okay?”

Becca took a smoke from Carrie’s pack. “I don’t get the big sudden interest in my life. I can’t deal with my father.”

“Do you have to get it? He’s taking an interest.”

Becca’s father knocked on the glass to let Becca and Carrie know that the caterers had arrived. At the same time, Becca’s mother and Peggy entered the gallery through the back door.

Ten miles away, Joan Holt, Sissy, Paddy John, and Buckley rode in Sissy’s station wagon toward the Seaside Gallery to see a collection of paintings by Rebecca Burke entitled Visions. Sissy drove.

By seven-thirty, the gallery was crowded with people, and Becca was amazed at how relaxed she now felt even though her father, her mother, and her best friend were in Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina, for her latest unveiling. It was almost surreal. The crowd twirled round and round, but unlike the dancing art lovers at Sue’s, who’d sucked her in and spit her out, these people were family. Becca was used to being alone even in a crowd.

Over and beyond the mishmash voices of the crowd, Becca heard the low-pitched boom of fireworks. She pictured the red and blue plastic launchers littered on the sand, and then she saw Buckley R. Pitank. Even with his hair long, she couldn’t mistake him. What luck! She knew he had to be the buyer from North Carolina. I’ll thank him, she thought. I ought to marry him. I wonder what he sees in the paint. She smoothed the wild curls at her temples, but because of the humidity they spiraled again. Handing her plastic cup to Carrie, she said, “Be right back.”

“Want some more?”

“I’m good.”

Becca twirled with the crowd crossing the concrete floor. She tapped Buckley on the shoulder, much as she’d done in New York, except this time Buckley was looking at a painting of a barn loft scattered with fireflies, the moon full through an open window—not a beach lit up and strewn with dead fish.

Seeing her, Buckley said, “You remember me?”

“Of course.”

“This is Paddy John. This is Sissy. This is Joan Holt.” Buckley introduced his friends like he and Becca were old friends themselves. Brushing his shaggy hair from his face, he smiled. Becca thought, We are old friends. Buckley and I are old friends of sorts. She remembered the day The Handbook came, the day she realized she wasn’t alone.

Sissy extended her hand. She had long, brittle white hair and wore a T-shirt embossed GIRL POWER. Forever the feminist. No bra. Joan Holt had circles of pink rouge on her brown cheeks. No bra. She said, “Look who it is! I never forget a face.”

Paddy John said, “I remember you. We’ve met before. You were just a kid, but I remember.”

Joan Holt said, “It’s Flamehead.”

Becca said, “Who’s Flamehead?”

“A girl I knew in Galveston,” Buckley said. “No, Joan,” he said. “It’s not Flamehead.”

“I’m Becca Burke,” she told Joan. “Nice to meet you. I like that name: Flamehead.” Becca remembered Paddy John—even without his beard. “Captain,” she said.

Buckley said, “This is the artist, Becca Burke.”

“We got that, Buckley,” Paddy John said.

Becca hugged Buckley. He patted her back. He didn’t want to get too close. He was sweating and worked his hair again, tucking the golden-brown strands behind his ears. “How do you know Paddy John?”

“My dad had this boat and Paddy John was his captain. Long story. I’m so glad you’re here. It’s a small world. I got your message when you left New York. I’m glad you called.”

“I didn’t know if I should.”

Mary, who would never forget the fateful day her husband’s lover and future wife showed up at Barnacle Bob’s, rushed over and said, “Paddy John.”

Like Buckley, Paddy John fumbled when Mary tried to hug him. He too was sweaty. He said, “I ain’t seen you since …”

“A long time.”

“Not by the look of you. And don’t waste your time going to Galveston. The best part of the town’s here now.” He introduced Mary to Sissy and Joan.

Becca took Buckley’s hand. “Thank you for taking an interest in my career.”

“When I saw your name in the paper, I knew I couldn’t miss your show.”

“You must have four or five of my paintings.”

“What do you mean?”

“The paintings you bought.”

“I wish I did. I don’t have that kind of money.” His hand was moist in hers. He took it back, sliding it in his pocket. “You and your mom should come over after the show.” Buckley turned to Paddy John, “Don’t you think they should come back to the house?”

“A fine idea.”

Becca took Buckley’s other hand, but he pulled it away. “Sorry,” he said. He wiped his palm down the front of his khaki pants. “I’m sort of sweaty.”

“I don’t care.” She took Buckley from one numbered painting to the next. She said, “You bought some of my paintings. I want to know about it. I want to know why.” They were looking at painting number one, Edna, and he said, “I love your paintings, but I didn’t buy any.” Becca took him to the second painting, a shiny bag of pork rinds with red roses painted into the bag’s crinkles. She folded her arms at her waist and shook her head. “I don’t believe you.”

The third painting, titled Falling Down, depicted a boy on a wrecked bike, but the bike’s handlebars and the boy’s arms were elongated like the road itself, leading to a skyscraper. The fourth painting, titled The Edge of the World, showed an old woman and a black dog walking through a field of wildflowers in front of a barbed-wire fence. In all, Becca had fourteen paintings in her Visions collection.

In the gallery program she described the collection as “A glimpse into childhood.”

Buckley said, “When I saw your paintings in New York, I wanted to buy the one with the lightning on the water and the fish on the beach, but it cost three thousand dollars.”

“Yeah. I overpriced everything on purpose. I don’t know why. I was—”

Buckley interrupted, “It doesn’t matter.”

Around eight o’clock, Becca got a glass of wine. Her mother jotted down directions to Paddy John’s house. Carrie, who had a babysitter for the night, was talking with Buckley, fascinated that he’d self-published a book to help lightning strike survivors. She’d never met a real writer before.

Peggy touched Becca’s elbow. “There’s someone dying to talk to you,” she said. “He’s a huge fan of your work.”

The man was at least six feet tall. Just below his chin, he cupped his wine in both hands. Smiling close-lipped at Becca, he was balding with blue-gray eyes. She did not recognize him.

He said, “I think your work’s amazing.”

“Thanks.”

“We knew each other.”

“At SVA, right? I think I remember.” There was no telling, really. There were so many years when there were so many men: SVA? A club? A bar? A bathroom? A boy from Whitby’s Academy?

“No. Not at SVA.” Reaching into his pants pocket, he said, “I have something that belongs to you.” He pulled out the long-lost butterfly brooch. The twenty-eight amethysts were still in place. The setting gleamed. He said, “I’m Colin Atwell from middle school. Remember me?”

Of course she did. She remembered him standing in her kitchen, the rain outside, her mother sticky and drunk on the linoleum. The sirens. Her neighbors gawking. Her dad not there. She remembered Colin Atwell bobbing her knee, making her fall. Chasing her through the woods. He had her brooch. She felt uncomfortable. She was not, until recently, one to search the past for anything.

Taking the brooch, she said, “I remember you.” She pressed it between her palms. “It was my grandmother’s brooch. Where’d you get it?”

“I found it in the woods. I tried to give it back to you at school, but you wouldn’t talk to me.”

“You could have given it to Carrie or just handed it to me.”

“I know, and I don’t know why I didn’t.” He sipped his wine. “I put the brooch in my sock drawer and forgot about it. I found it again when we left Chapel Hill. I figured if I ever saw you …” He pressed two fingers to his pink lips, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, adding, “I’m not a stalker or anything weird like that. I just always thought about you. Not always, just sometimes. You know how you do when you think about somebody and you wonder what ever happened to so-and-so, and then five years ago I saw one of your paintings in a gallery brochure. What a small world! That sounds cliché. Sorry. I swear I’m no stalker weirdo.” He took a breath. “Are you married? Is that an appropriate question? I swear that I’m not always like this. I’m bumbling, aren’t I?”

Colin Atwell bumbled sometimes—like when he married Brittany—but he was a good boy. He grew up with a single father telling him, “Girls are crazy,” and as he grew older and taller, his father reminded him, “Women are just as crazy,” and for Colin Atwell, that proved to be the case. He latched on to one crazy woman after another—none of them comparing with crazy Becca Burke running through Morgan’s Woods during a thunderstorm.

Five years ago, he looked at the Lightning Fish program, and, retrieving Becca’s butterfly brooch, pressed the stones to his lips. He liked the feel of the cold smooth amethysts. In his mind, the brooch, platinum and amethyst, metal and rock, still smelled like rain. He telephoned Mortimer Blake, one of his financial advisors, explaining to Mortimer that he wanted to buy one of Becca Burke’s paintings. The cost was three thousand dollars. Mortimer advised, “It’s a bad investment.”

Colin countered. “It’s not because of money.” Didn’t Mortimer know him? It’s because I remember freckled Becca dripping in the rain: Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm; her corduroy dress that felt like velvet to me; her legs in tights sliding across the linoleum; Becca Burke, struggling to lift her mother’s head; Becca’s pride; Becca’s grace. He remembered wanting desperately to kiss her, teasing her instead, the two of them sitting on the Coker Arboretum lawn.

He was twenty-six now, like Becca. Married and divorced. Tonight, he was nervous. “I just wanted to say hi and return your brooch.”

“Thanks. So what have you been up to?” she asked.

He told her about Brittany, about his money, about the paintings he collected. Hers included. He said, “My dad lives with me,” adding, “It’s good. We sail together. He helps me stay clear of crazy women.”

“It’s a good thing he’s not here tonight.”

He laughed. “You’re not crazy. You’re talented. I speak from experience. There’s a difference. Imagine walking into a studio and finding stick-figure drawings of yourself labeled dumb-ass. It’s quite the eye-opener.”

“I bet. Sometimes I pretend I’m Wonder Woman.”

“I love your art. I love Wonder Woman.”

“Did you ever find your mom?”

“As a matter of fact, I didn’t.” He didn’t know what else to say. How much should he reveal about himself? His passions? “I bought the picture of you and the watermelon truck.”

“You’re kidding!”

“It’s in the den. I like to collect things. Art mostly. Old stamps. Coins. And this is sort of strange, but wedding bands, really old ones. I go to estate sales and antique shops. I have a glass case of platinum and gold bands. They’re magnificent. It’s the history they hold.”

“Wow.”

“You should probably mingle.”

“No, I don’t have to do that. Keep talking.”

“I’ve been to Terezín, to Theresienstadt, to the site of the concentration camp where the Nazis sent artists and children, where they successfully tricked the Red Cross into believing the inmates were living normal lives. The children there were taught art. I am working to preserve the art that remains from the camp. The children’s teacher, before he was taken to the gas chamber, hid the artwork in suitcases that were found a decade later. The drawings are safe now, but I want them not just safe but reproduced. I want the world to remember.”

Becca was speechless. As a girl, art had been her salvation.

Like Becca’s father, Colin was a collector. Unlike Becca’s father, he was a sentimental collector.

Staring at the brooch in her palm, Becca repeated, “It was my grandmother’s and then my mother’s.”

“I’m glad you have it back.”

“I’ll show you my new paintings.” Becca pointed to The Edge of the World. “That’s my grandma and her dog, Bo. Grandma Edna had these long freckled arms.” Colin studied the painting. Becca said, “Sue in New York … Obviously you know Sue, having bought my paintings, but anyway …”

He interrupted. “I don’t actually know her. I have a liaison.”

“Anyway,” Becca said, “she thinks my new stuff is too sentimental and pastoral. There’s not enough blood. I should be painting prostitutes and fairies. Some bullshit like that.”

“She’s an idiot.”

She showed him each of her paintings, telling him about the first lightning strike and the second. She told him about the second hand moving backward and about the fish on the beach. She told him about Buckley R. Pitank. She told him about her time spent as a drugstore clerk, about her dad and Patty-Cake. Then she said, “I’m all grown up now. I had to paint these pictures in order to realize something that simple: I grew up.”

Later that night, as Peggy swept the concrete floor and Becca boxed the leftover wine to take to Paddy John’s, her father said, “I’m going to buy the painting of the barn.” From across the room, Mary watched him talking to their daughter, pointing at one of Becca’s paintings, hopeful that Becca might forgive him or at least give him a chance to make amends.

Becca told him, “Dad, don’t buy my painting. I’ll give it to you.”

“No, I want to buy it.” He put his arm around his daughter’s shoulder, and rather than pulling away, Becca put her hand at his belt. It was a small gesture, but it was the most she could do. He kissed her forehead. “You’re a great artist.”

She showed him the brooch. “I’d lost it.”

Mary approached, taking the brooch from Becca. “I thought you lost it.”

“I had.”

She handed it back. “Keep it for a while.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

Mary looked at Rowan. “Are you coming to the after-party at Paddy John’s?”

“I can’t.”

Becca said, “How come?”

“I’m driving back tonight. I have a busy day tomorrow. I have to let Shug out.” Shug, short for Sugar, was his new dog, his best friend. A Chesapeake Bay retriever, she was loyal to Rowan, which Rowan admired, having had difficulty his whole life with loyalties.

“I love you.” He kissed Becca’s cheek.

“I love you too, Dad.” It was strange for Becca to witness her dad’s insecurity. Maybe he had changed. Maybe he was trying to change. Trying, all by itself, was a change.