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Come here, I said, and lifted my dress off. My chest had sprayed freckles, like when you dip a toothbrush in paint and run your thumb down the bristles.
I stretched out on his Hefty Bag- wrapped mattress, arched my back under the muted moonlight of his studio and looked high above me at the perimeter of tiny square windows that illuminated floating dust. A shoe box of mangled Acrylics rested against the mattress. Marc walked around the bed looking at me; it felt good to be naked, hips square and open, arms cast out, hot- wispy hair stuck to my forehead.
Don't move, he said, You're beautiful, beautiful. He carefully removed his jeans and clothes- pinned them to an easel.
I was already sweaty on the shiny plastic and Marc straddled me. He reached down and grabbed a tube of Ultramarine and wiped a small tail onto his fingertip and then circled my nipples with the thick paint, one at a time, quickly. I felt around and came up with Raw Sienna, rubbed some into my hands and into his chest. We covered ourselves in paint, sliding across and sticking to the plastic, finger-painting. He laughed, sticking to me, said, Damn, you're a work.
I woke up with Hefty bag stuck to my face. I noticed that off getting more supplies was scrawled in red paint on the refrigerator. The shit. Acrylic mud covered me in itchy crackles while morning exposed last night's passion into silly perspective; I felt stupid. Marc used creativity like liquid paper. Once he forgot my birthday, excused himself from the table and returned with a bouquet of toilet paper flowers.
I had forty minutes until work, blue paint in my hair, and Marc had left me to wake up alone with cleaning I wouldn't do. I pulled the garbage bags away from me and started a bath. The tub was tucked in the corner, hot and pink with Mr. Bubble. Thick clouds of muddy color lifted away from me, popping the fragrant foam.
On a far wall was Marc's latest, the biggest canvas I'd ever seen. He called it Pyrotechnics Without Fuel and I told him that I didn't like the title, he should change it to Confusing and Huge. From the tub, the painting looked like a movie screen packed with images. Lines of nude, eyeless women with shopping bags. Dollar bills rained on them. There was too much red. Marc said it was almost done, though it looked as awkward as the time he came into Alfonz's for Cafe Mocha and told me he wanted to dip his horse- hair brush in my eyes to capture their color. Then he asked if I would pose nude.
Alfonz's was down from Marc's studio, an old Pepsi warehouse. I did the Espresso
Machine and baked pies. I wanted to enter culinary school and cook decadent French dishes, raw sin. But I became distracted by Marc, his creations and vision, and found myself drip- panning for his creative juices, that they might nourish whatever was grounded in my cellar.
The first time he came in I was sliding a strawberry- rhubarb pie into the display window. He was pushed into the glass, Indigo Girls on the radio. I could see his color- streaked crotch.
Gold.
When I backed out to greet him, I followed the broken trail of white paint that lead to his eyes. They were inviting but hesitant, apt to use the wrong fork. Still he was honey- bronze. He had a mouth you could sit down and appreciate. He asked for a Double Mint Mocha Decaf and a slice of strawberry- rhubarb. I asked, What's up with your pants? He said, Shit, sorry, I smudged the glass.
A Mr. Bubble blob coasted down my thigh, a neighborhood of light hairs. I remembered one of my old boyfriends a photographer. When he told me he was seeing another man, all I could think of was the time I'd spent picking out wallpaper and matching napkin rings. I looked at Marc's studio, at the black brick walls we painted the entire summer, and hoped this relationship wasn't another substantial investment of disappointments strung together and worn around my neck.
I heard Grieg welding next door, the sound of small explosions. His studio was the other side of the warehouse, which was split shortways. He was older, forty- one (Marc was thirty) and had a long, peppery mustache that covered his entire mouth, and alabaster hair that started midhead and twisted back in a luminous ponytail. He made sculptures out of things he'd pull from the ground, mostly old car parts and screws. Recycling. Marc said he had two sons in college and an ex- wife. I don't ask about it. Family is touchy.
I ran my toe across the lip of the faucet and thought of Marc's promise: to sell a few paintings and take me to Canada so we could see moose. Said Pyrotechnics would bring a pretty penny, and as I towel- dried I remembered a party Marc took me to in the city, a place filled with expensive clothes and cheese trays. I wore something to show off my bellybutton. People kissed and made faces, showed pieces, drank purple wine and passed business cards. Networking was not for the weak. I found it hard to keep up, and Marc slipped into a circle of laughing people, eyes gleaming, and I was left smiling. It brought new meaning to envy: the place, the clothes, the jewelry. Impossibly tasty. Marc squinted, his face a satellite dish, and as I looked at him, his blond hair greased back, he looked successful. Meanwhile I ate a canape and thought about Ontario, how a moose might look, a frozen blue lake at sunrise.
All my boyfriends have been artists. Alfonz's is one block from the Santa Cruz Artist's Guild. The last boyfriend made ceramic casts of my breasts and had his name in the yellow pages.
I made flan, three chocolate cheesecakes, and helped with the lunch rush, then returned to Marc's studio and sat in the furthest corner, plate on skirted knee. I dug through my food looking for something spicy to wake my tongue and watched Marc paint. He was perched on a tall ladder, working burnt red into the greasy, patchy crust of Pyrotechnics while a small raspy radio struggled with classical music.
Marissa what do you think? It's almost done, he said voice damped and absorbed in the blackness.
It's almost done? I said, looking at the painting, trying to see.
Marc found a spot on the ceiling to look at and loosened from reality. You have to know when to stop touching, when to leave it and call it finished, he said into a patch of Ochre, otherwise it turns to shit.
How do you know, I mean, when to stop touching, I said.
Marc turned to see me, that's a question worth thinking about. His face closed, retreated inward and then returned to normal. I guess artists have to know or struggle to.
I stood and looked at the refrigerator. Marc put his brush down. I think everyone needs to know when to stop touching and when to start, I said, and since it seems you know: what happened this morning?
What? he said. He seemed to collect dark colors and bend. What did you say?
This morning, Marc.
What?
You left without saying good bye. Did you think painting a note on the refrigerator was funny?
You were sleeping Marissa. Don't start, Jesus, he said, and wiped his hands down mottled jeans, Don't start. He tried to say this lightly, animated, in a it's- no- big- deal way. But it came out like skim milk, blue, clear, and thin.
My arms were elbow- deep in cracked wheat when Marc came into Alfonz's. I dumped the ingredients for the crust and cracked eggs. Sandaled students milled through homework, bunched in little groups under the odor of ground coffee.
Sorry, Marc said. Look, I know you're pissed because I ran out this morning, but I had to get more paint. We used a lot last night and I promised myself I would finish today.
It would have been nice to take a bath together, I said and wondered if I needed to grow up and understand.
You're right Marissa, you are, he said, and ordered a peanut butter cookie. A boyish smile liked his face while he wiped the nape of his neck with a bandanna.
Grieg walked in polishing his glasses and stepped up to the counter. He put his glasses on and stared at my pile of ingredients watching my hands fold cracked wheat with warm butter.
Hello Marissa, he said, crinkling his eyes and nose. That smell, that smell is wonderful.
What's the secret? he asked.
Marc was reading the bulletin board and eating his cookie.
No secret, I said, just throw everything together and bake.
Come on, you don't think about the preparation or the rules? he said. I don't believe you.
I looked at his clean shirt. He looked slim. I just do it Grieg, like the Nike ad. Baking isn't a fine art.
Grieg smiled. He had the straightest teeth. I think you're an artist all the same, he said and tapped the counter.
I bake pastries. You two are artists, remember? If I could get the same money for pastry as you get for art, well, then look out. Besides, I've tried art, I sold a pinch pot in a high school art fair.
Grieg made a face. You know Van Gogh never sold a painting. It has nothing to do with money.
Marc threw his plate away, wiped his mouth and came over. Van Gogh was crazy, he said.
Grieg kept looking at my batter- clumpy hands. Would you like the recipe? It's an Olaliberry pie. The recipe is in that rolodex, I said, feel free.
Grieg asked if Olaliberries were in season. He looked like a puppet with his hands on the countertop. I could smell propane from him, it was weirdly nice, the smell of fuel and dough.
Then I imagined Marc sucking my caked fingers like they were eclairs, gratefully, eagerly, doggedly. A man with a mission. A man in the kitchen.
Marc had his palm open counting change, looking hopefully at the menu.
The berries grow wild, I said. Actually I was thinking about going to Lake Berryessa this weekend to pick them fresh. The bushes are beautiful and the forest, well. Have you ever seen Olaliberry bushes?
I have an idea, Marc blurted. He was high on my description. How about all three of us make a trip out of it? I need a change of scenery. In for it, Grieg? You could bring your dog.
It would be interesting but I hate being a third wheel, he said.
What are you talking about? Marissa and I love being around you, right, honey?
Right.
Two days later Marc sold Pyrotechnics to Bank America for the lobby. A man in a suit told him it would take up space and he liked the colors. Marc cashed the check.
Folding the paint splattered ladder he promised one more, then Canada. He said, just think Bed and Breakfast Ontario style, galleries, thick- lipped moose and mounties. Mounties, honey. I'll do another one, then off to Canada. His studio looked void without the huge canvas. I rubbed my shoulders. When big things are removed, like dinosaurs, all that's left are skeletons.
Come on Marissa, who died? Marc put his hand on my back. Look, Christmas is two months away, I do the ornament thing, quick money, remember?
I'm fine, I said.
I hope so, he said, touching me in the middle of his studio. Let's get going, I want to stop at Bank America on the way. Pack, we'll leave right after I run a few errands.
When he got back I didn't recognize him. I had never seen him in new jeans, or with his hair cut. He looked funny, coated with something. I sat in the back of Grieg's orange van next to a cow skull and bolts of brightly colored fabric, very O'Keffey. Grieg's dog Heineken, a Collie, kept sniffing the skulk
Grieg said, I appreciate you two inviting me, you won't even know I'm there.
Autumn leaves whooshed up and settled behind us.
Nonsense, Marc said, crazy things happen in threes, plus you're the only one we know with a van. He offered a low- gummed smile and his mirrored sunglasses bent the passing road like funhouse mirrors. Banks, who would have guessed? he said and reached back carelessly for my hand.
You haven't considered hospital cafeterias, I said, Now there's a thought. I imagined Marc's paintings hanging above a young couple pulling apart baked chicken. Banging their trays down the throat of a Thank You garbage can.
We all stepped into the bank lobby, dizzy from the sudden change in brightness. Bank America- - an enormous open- atrium building crowned with shimmering glass and veiny marble.
Pyrotechnics high above. Marc and I walked across the lobby and took a glass elevator. Marc pushed a button and as we went up, up, his painting passed us. He said the colors looked good with pink marble, but I thought naked women looked stupid in a bank. I could see Grieg far below, tiny, walking back towards the doors, outside, to his orange van, the sun blazing on his cream- colored button- down and red suspenders. Heineken's head was out the window. Let's go, I said, press Lobby.
We took 128 to Lake Berryessa- - thickly wooded, close to Napa- unloaded and shut the back door. Grieg made a noise of contentment and squatted. He dug into twig mulch and let it fall between his fingers. You know dirt is fascinating if you think about what it used to be, he said, living.
Grieg and Marc hammered the tent into the ground while Heineken ran along the water's edge. We were to spend the night, campfire, all that. I hung my Styrofoam cooler on my forearm like a purse. Olaliberry hunting anyone, I said, Marc? Marc propped a blank canvas against a tree and was laying out his paints. Grieg walked over to me and pulled on his mustache.
Are you not coming Marc? I said.
Look at this light, look a this light, baby. Low, skipping along the water's edge. I'm going to get this down real quick, before it disappears. You two go ahead, okay?
Fine, I said, pulled my hair off my neck and thought: sit there on your ass you Sucking savant.
Marc waived his hand in the air and picked up the mixing knife.
Come on, let's get berries, Grieg said. He tugged at my elbow. Didn't your Mom tell you to watch out for artists? they're moody and unpredictable.
We went deep, found a clump of Olaliberry bushes covered with ripe purple berries. Smell, he said. I started yanking the berries and dropping them into the cooler. Look, he said. The flowers, the buds. He had a tiny pink flower between two fingers, twirling it. He twisted off a ripe berry and held it up to the sky. They're beautiful, he said. The low sun hit the fruit flesh which shimmered for a second. He popped three into his hair- trimmed mouth.
Grieg's suspenders were limp at his sides. His bottom lip pulled at his big mustache where maraschino- colored Olaliberry juice stained the gray tips like a matchbook. I imagined mixing the odor of propane and Java, undoing his peppery ponytail, his fingers on my neck, his mustache in my ear, my fingers through sparse hair. He would whisper, kiss my ankles, stroke my navel. The silver folds of time. I wondered if I could only fall in love with artists, or was it that I didn't meet anyone but artists just now.
Marc told me not to ask about your wife and kids, I said, and put the cooler on the ground.
Hmm, he said, and accidentally brushed me with his leg on the way to a redwood. He leaned and slid down the trunk, picked up wood chips and brought them to his nose.
So what happened? I said, coaxing.
You'll think I'm a bastard, he said and snapped a big chip open and looked at it. He sensed me waiting and said, Have you ever ordered dessert, say a chocolate truffle, and it looked suspicious when it arrived, didn't taste like you thought it would, and later when you were alone, you realized it was making you sick? That's what happened to me with family, even love. I had good intentions but it wasn't right. It made me blunt.
I sat and raised me knees. So you left for. . . I mean, sculptures? How can it be satisfying alone?
Art, he said, mostly fills voids but it can drag. I don't know if I've made the right decision. He looked up and sunlight touched his forehead, ran down his cheek. The corners of his mouth curled and rose with indecipherable grace. You know, Marissa, he said, I remember a friend who made the same choices, we had this exact conversation. It's weird.
I wanted to kiss him, I realized. We sat for a moment, until whatever floated around us rested. Come on, I said, let's go back.
When camp was in sight I could see Marc working. Did you get a good stash? he said, long brush in his mouth. The canvas was wet with furious strokes.
Grieg said, I think I'll start the fire, I'm getting hungry.
Come here Marc, I said, Put it down.
Marc gave a hesitant, quizzical look. What? he said.
Let's go on the pier, I said. Are we here together?
He followed me down to the lake, out to the end of a creaky pier that jutted lice a tongue. We sat down, I put my damp head in his lap. He looked down at me, said, The funny thing about life is the way it goes.
I don't know what that means, I said. His eyes looked past my head and settled on the murky lake bottom. What are you thinking? I said.
Nothing.
What?
He paused, sent a puff of breath into my face. I wonder if the texture would look more genuine if I mixed dirt in.
I picked my head up. Can't you spend time with me? On vacation?
Marissa, If I can get a few more like Pyrotechnics it means travel, time together. Understand, I'm doing this for the both of us.
You nerd, you are such a nerd. Figure it out: drain your ego, or sleep with it, because I'm sure the hell not. I stood and put my thongs on.
He threw his head back. Don't, Marissa.
We exchanged electric- eye glances which turned private and blank. I'm hungry, I said.
I could see Grieg sitting on a picnic bench reading a paperback, nursing the pit. Hickory smoke. I followed the scent, sucking the smoke in, eyes closed, my toes wiggling. Cricket songs rose as I made my way. Marc brought up the rear.
Grieg cut up bell peppers and red onions, slid everything, pressed tofu and all, onto coat hangers. Everything okay? he asked.
Smells good, I said, turning a smile.
Marc came up and said, Sorry (with the resonance of linoleum). I turned and caught his apology square in my face. He bent, gave a salutary kiss wrapped his arms around my waist, said, Can we finger- paint? I broke our embrace for the shish kabob. The sun disappeared.
Grieg and Marc talked about whether Grieg should get an agent, I offered Heineken an onion. He spit it out. We all moved into the blue vinyl tent. The two of them with flannel blankets, while the smell of wood smoke and onion churned the flat air. Grieg said, Marc, try looking at your dregs, I swear the deeper you go the better you'll become. Go for broke.
Maybe, Marc said, and looked at me. But I figure if I can keep the warm and cool colors together, you know, stick with the rules, shit, my stuff will be hanging in top dollar places.
Then what? Grieg said, and reached back and pulled his hair down, soft on his shoulders.
Happiness, Marc said and winked at me. I felt a metallic pang in my stomach. I looked at him, bloated, chalky, unsettled. Each gesture seemed to stretch the distance between us until I felt like he was waving from a plateau.
I'll be right back, I said and pulled on another shirt.
I parted the flaps and stepped into the night. It was cold but I liked being alone. The quiet was strong. I listened to the rustling of branches and looked at the barbecue coals that glowed in the blackness. They were dying. A diminishing glow inside of me turned to white powder that would blow away.
And fertilize. What?
Down by the black water bugs played on the surface, the depths covered by prickly patterns. I thought of my life as patterns, my old boyfriends, now Marc, Grieg inside the tent. I bent down and pulled a rock from the ground, threw it into the dark water. The rock had a solitary journey. I looked down at the chocolate- colored dirt on my fingertips. It was moist as batter and I rolled it with my fingers, squatted and dug in, grabbed a big handful and felt it like flour, like paint, like plasma singing a dark, beautiful song.
