Effect & Affect

“Do you want to make a bet?” A lazy voice asked from the left most puke gray colored lawn chair sitting on the immaculate green lawn. The two occupied eyesores were five or six strides from the forgotten porch and swing behind them and yards from the road that sat somewhere in front of them. The tree to the left gave off a distracting blue glow as they stared towards the horizon, the sun creating a gradient across the soon to be night sky.

“A bet on what? There’s nothing around here to bet on? Well except maybe which fly is gonna get zapped in that bug zapper next, and if that’s the case I choose the black one.” Charles replied from the second lawn chair. His legs bouncing out an impatient rhythm that blended with his chuckle perfectly. Seeing that his companion was not sharing in the humor of his joke, he suppressed his own., “Oh, come on Jennifer. You have to live a little. You would think that after all these years you would at least try to laugh at one of my jokes.” Scoffing at the many memories that mirrored his present predicament, he continued. “You’re a painter. Aren’t you guys supposed to be,” his hands fluttering about like butterflies lost in the wind, “all airy and free spirited?”

“And here I was under the impression that I’d seen you act like an ass before. I guess not.” Standing up, Jennifer stared down her future ex. “Oh, but wait, you’re a stock broker. You play with the market and get exuberant when Dow Jones goes up and fly into the pits of depression when she leaves you high and dry. What’s the stereotype for your job?” She pretended to think. Her long graceful hands rapidly tapping out her agitation on her forehead causing small puffs of air to move the blonde locks resting there. “Oh yea, that’s right. You’re supposed to be a conceited asshole. Guess that’s not far off.”

Leaning back, Charles eyed Jennifer’s long body. The curves of which he had known intimately on many occasions, they seemed to have been expanded by his memory and imagination. The reality standing before him being smaller and more compact than he thought they were. She was on the verge of a blowout and he never could resist pushing her over the edge of oblivion. “Wow, lets chalk this up to PMS and leave it at that shall we.”

“You really want to die don’t you?”

“Jennifer, I am shocked, utterly and completely shocked!” Charles’ voice over accented in places as he tried to hold back the laugh dancing in his throat. His right arm dramatically draped across his body to lay softly over his heart, “I never knew you were capable of such violence.”

“Damn you! You never take anything seriously. Never once have you ever dealt with something with a straight face. Throw a joke out and poof it magically goes away. Grow up! The world isn’t all fun and games someone at your age should know that already. You’re thirty-six and a damn chicken. Hiding behind a laugh or a damn drink!”

“Now wait a minute!” Pulling himself out of the chair, Charles stood just out of her reach but close enough to intimidate her with his 6 ft frame. One of the things the he knew always made her back down. “That’s getting a bit personal don’t you think? What does that have to do with what I said about you?”

“That’s the point. You don’t even pay attention do you? You just run your mouth trying to push away the repercussions,” Jennifer ended softly. Her voice cracking.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he replied as he moved towards her. He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him, “All I was doing was poking fun. I didn’t know you were being serious. I’m sorry.”

“I know. But you always do that. It doesn’t matter how serious something is, you just laugh about it.” She breathed in, pulling in his scent and some composure.

“You did start this conversation with the phrase, ‘Want to make a bet?’ That’s not usually the precursor to a serious discussion.”

“There you go again! Damn it Charles! Why can’t you be serious?” Screaming she pulled his hands from her face.

“What’s going on Jennifer?”

Sighing loudly she looked up into his face. I can’t do this. How do I do this? Why me? She looked to the ground. Taking a deep breath she tried to buy time. Somehow the seconds the action bought her seemed very important. “I’m dying, Charlie.”

“What?” The end of the word almost screeched. “Not funny Jenny!” When she just stood before him, hands wrapped around her self; Charles felt that tickle at the back of his throat—the one that usually led to a joke…or a drink. Clearing his throat, he tried to pry the feeling out of his neck. “Jenny, what’s going on?”

Sadly, she glanced up at him through her lowered lashes. She didn’t want him to see the tears that were threatening, but the fear and concern on his face pushed her over the edge. As she cried, he held her. His arms becoming her only support as they encircled her waist and held her to his own body.

“Jenny, you’ve got to tell me what’s going on. I don’t-” Uchk-uchk. “ Why are you-” his voiced stopped. I can’t say it. He thought and hugged her tighter to him, “Jenny,” was all he found he could say. Even that was a just a whisper caught in a wind.

For a while that’s how they were. Both wrapped around the other trying to find the punch-line in fate’s joke, but knowing that the inevitable always happens. Charles was clenching his eyes, praying for divine intervention and hoping he could hold off the breakdown until later. But there was no doubt that it was going to come, and come at him hard when it did. Taking a deep, ragged breath he tried to gather some discipline over his emotions, “Jenny, I think we need to sit down and talk.”

Jennifer answered by pulling away and silently walking up the steps of her country styled house. The one they had shared for two years. The one he was going to leave to her alone even though he had a legal stake in it too.

Moving through the house with him, back towards the kitchen, brought around Jennifer’s memories. The living room to the left of the foyer was the first time Charles had come to her house. They’d been sophomores in high school when he’d finally asked her out. She could feel the smooth wood of the stairway’s banister in her hand as she had stared at the bottom of the stairs. Terrified of coming down, refusing to hide in her room. She had sneaked a peek of him through the braces connecting the banister to the stairs. His legs had been moving like a jackhammer. It had made her feel more secure, more confident. So she had taken the steps down. Neither could remember which movie they had seen. After making sure they had taken the center seats in the center of the theater, they had talked entire time they were in the theatre. Eventually the attendant came in and asked them to leave.

Across from the living room and to the right of the staircase was the den; where all of their friends and themselves had held their ‘study sessions’ into the wee hours of the morning. Jennifer’s parents had known that very little studying and had never once objected to them continuing. Often times they would ignore the loud bursts of giggles or groans that sporadically wafted up the stairs and into the master bedroom.

Down the hall between the stairs and the wall to the living room, was the kitchen. The room they had hidden in just two years ago when Jennifer’s parents died in the car crash, neither one of them wanted to be in the rest of the house with the guests preferring the solitude and sanitary environment of the white surroundings. It was also the place where Jennifer had screamed the two fatal words of any relationship and had sat listening to Charles’s footsteps above her, Charles’ footsteps beside her and the ghost of his footsteps after he had gone. The living room was where their relationship began, but unfortunately, the kitchen was where all the tears were shed and the insults thrown when it ended. Was it really that long ago since it all ended? I’ve missed him.

It was the kitchen table that they stopped at now. Silently and with a somber weight surrounding them both, they sat in their seats. The same seats they’d sat in during the last death they’d both been through in that room. The same ones they had used during their marriage.

Jennifer looked over at Charles, her bloodshot eyes still wavering, and thought about what he meant to her. “You’re the only person who knows. I didn’t want to tell anyone. Not like I really have anyone to tell.” Snorting, she pulled her hand to her face and turned away. Whether to stave off a self-depricating laugh or hysterical cries was a mystery. Either was possible at that point. “I wanted it all to just disappear, but my doctors keep telling me that that is impossible. I thought if I didn’t tell you it would go away, but it only got worse.” Her voice echoed off the tiled floor and painted walls. It seamed to mock her anguish as it got grew more faint but clearer with each bounce against the fluorescent room.

“What are you…? Um… What’s …causing this?”

“My heart defect. The patch that they put over the hole is thin enough to actually allow the oxygenated air and deoxygenated air to mix. They didn’t catch it in time and now there’s been so much strain on my heart that the muscles have been significantly weakened. It can’t keep up with my body’s demands on it. It’s dying from the strain.”

“But they have machines for that. I mean…isn’t that a solution?”

“No, my heart has deteriorated so much that if I were to go into surgery it’s almost certain I wouldn’t come out,” she whispered into the table. Looking back up, she waited for the inevitable question.

“How long have you known about this?”

Jennifer’s head bowed again, her index finger playing out the life of one of the table’s many grooves— scars from many years and many lives forcing its path into the surface— as her left hand balled into an unmoving mass on her knew. She knew what was going to happen when she told him. He’s going to yell. Then I’ll start crying. Why can’t this just go away? “Does it really matter? It’s going to happen, knowing the date of realization of my death is not going to change that.”
Charles’ eyes, mouth, forehead, his entire face pursed as he again asked, “How long have you known, Jennifer?” As she opened her mouth he interjected. “Don’t you dare try to avoid it.”

Sighing, she looked up. “A month.”

Charles shot out of his chair and glared at Jennifer— the one person who’d been a constant in his life, even after they’d ruined their marriage they had still managed to maintain a friendship. “A month! You’ve known for four weeks and you’re just now telling me! Why? Something could have happened and you could…you could have…DIED!”
“I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t want you to worry. I didn’t want it to be true. I just didn’t want it!” Cringing away from the echo she took a deep breath and tried to be reasonable, understanding. Placing her elbows on the table, she laid her eyes against the palms of her hand. She breathed in their faint sent of paints, chemicals and wood and without looking up, tried to explain. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I really am, but-” She couldn’t breathe for a moment. She felt her heart kick against her chest— another precious beat had been lost –knocking her tears up and over the barriers of her eyelids. “Do you know what it’s like to wonder if there’s life after death? To speculate if there’s a heaven and a hell? To know that you know you’re going to find out sooner rather than later?”

Sitting down heavily, Charles looked at Jennifer, “No, No I don’t.” Reaching over, he pulled her left hand from under her face, holding it between his two cold ones. He looked at the ceiling. He sighed. He just sat there staring, searching for some elusive answer. Then his shoulders slumped even farther into himself as he looked back to Jennifer.

“You’re right you know. I’ve never taken anything seriously. I joked at your parents’ funeral and afterwards got drunk so I didn’t have to think about it. After we ended, I can’t even list all the things I did to escape. Mostly because I don’t remember them. I’ve never once dealt with something without some sort of buffer. I’m so sorry, Jenny.” His eyes begged for forgiveness, their dark chocolate depths pleading for her to forgive him. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to be forgiven for, but knew he wanted their relationship, what was left of it, to be okay.

Lifting her head from her hand, she looked at the man who had stolen her heart, broken it with jokes and a bottle and had forgotten to return the remaining shards. “It’s fine Charlie. I never could be angry at you for being yourself for long anyways.” Trying for a lighter note, she gave him a soggy smile. And he leaned back across the table, removed his hands from around hers and wiped away her tears. His hands held her face for a moment, then dropped to the table and slid across the marred table.

For the next two hours they talked about life in general and their individual futures specifically. Neither cracked a joke. Both were blunt about what they wanted in their lives. At Jennifer’s whispered desire for more time, they even discussed what could happen after death.

Later, as Charlie left, he felt heavier. His head was drowning under the weight of all the things that had been said, of the weight of the unwanted itch in the back of his throat. The panic and horror brought on by Jennifer’s announcement pulling him towards the black world of a break down.

Sliding into his car, he pushed the key into the ignition with his right hand. His left moved around the hilled curve of the steering wheel as his head came down upon it. There he sat. Pushing, pulling, re-arranging things internally until he was sure he had enough will power to make it to his own house before the abyss was actually able to consume him. With a deep intake, he turned raised his head, turned the key towards the house and his face away and backed away slowly.

For days after Jennifer’s revelation, Charles thought about what she had said, about his inability to be serious, about her, about what she meant to him. At time he even opened the topic of her death within his own head- even though he hated the idea, he needed to deal with it. It was the moments when it came to the forefront unwarranted that were a problem. Whenever it happened he would be unable to finish what he’d been doing, just staring into space with an expression of surprise and pain— as if someone had sucker punched him, right to the stomach. Then he’d find himself thinking about the fun times they’d had together. He would remember things like the birthday he took her to a bed and breakfast on the coast of Maine. A small quaint building with six bedrooms a dinning room, a living room and a small desk that read “Check-in/Check-out” in hand painted letters across the front, squished against the wall in the tiny entryway. All the way up, he had joked about how he was going to throw her into the water. Which was why she was blindfolded, it wouldn’t work if she knew where she was and approximately where the nearest town was. The look she had given him when blindfold had come off, it had made his year. She still said that that year was her favorite birthday ever— an entire week of sun, sex and room service. Coming to his senses was always jarring after these moments of remembrance because wondering if things could have worked out always followed them. Which was the idea that ultimately led him to the papers he had hidden in his house, the ones he’d forgotten were still in existence.

What he thought about most was what Jennifer had said about him, about his inability to take personal risks or deal with anything. It was late one night about three weeks after her confession that he finally completely conceded her point. She was right. He made inappropriate jokes when he got flustered. He found that a glass of liquor was easier to deal with than any actual problems. Hell, he’d managed to drink his marriage into the ground without actually participating in anything beyond bringing the glass to his hand and then to his mouth. At this realization, he poured out a bottle of booze a day. Each drop that slid down the drain felt like a release—as if the support he had been leaning against was starting to erode. He wasn’t sure if it could hold him up and it scared him. He didn’t know how to cope without it. But, sitting at his desk in his home office, he pulled out a pen and paper from the right hand drawer and started writing things down that he needed to say, and do so soon. After the list was exhaustive, he pushed it aside, crumpling the corner against his phone, and pulled out another sheet. He needed something concrete that said what he wanted that he could hand to her if he couldn’t give her the contents himself.

Task done, he reached around his neck and rubbed the itch away through the tense muscles, the pen clasped between his fingers leaving black streaks in his dusty hair. Holding the paper up in front of him, he blinked a few times before inspecting it. Do I have it all here? Did I leave anything out? As he rubbed his neck, he quickly read through the most important thing he’d ever written. Placing the document on the desk, he ran his hands up and down the edges. His ink-smudged hands, from the pen that he’d broken by holding too tightly, left sporadic Morris code marks along the sides. I think that’s it. He sighed, Now how do I tell her all of this? “She’s going to be really pissed at me,” he acknowledged to the dark and lonely mahogany room. Glancing at the wall clock, he picked up the phone and dialed. Each ring caused his heart to beat faster and his hand to clench harder, but finally there was an angelic voice on the other end.
“Jenny, it’s Charles, are you busy tomorrow?”


“Ma’am, I’m sorry to inform you of this, but Mr. Beales’ car was hit head on. He died on impact. We’re really sorry about your loss,” an officer said. His brow was furrowed into deep lines of regret and impatience and his lips were turned down into what could almost pass as a concerned frown, but his arms were held stiffly. He was ready to catch the woman if she fainted. He was the bigger of the two men who had come knocking on her door. Their bodies outlined in the sun’s dying light as it fell behind the horizon as if it was them giving off the colors instead of the almost immortal mass behind them.
Blinking, Jennifer just looked at them, her face the perfect expression of incomprehension. “Um…thanks gentlemen,” her hand slid down the doorframe and up her left arm so as to settle against her upper arm, “Am I supposed to invite you in for coffee or tea? I’ve never done this before.” Her hand started moving, slowly, up and down the bare flesh of her arm. Rubbing away the goose bumps.

The second officer’s face became shadowed with concern. He’d been watching the woman since his partner had started talking. She seemed to be taking the news well, but her eyes were blank. Stepping up next to his partner, he took a closer look at her. “Ma’am, coffee would be fine if you have some made. If not, we’ll just be going along now.” Turning, he pointed towards the squad car behind them, trying to make comprehension as easy as possible.

“Oh. Well…um…okay.” Turning she pulled herself inside. As she started to drift back towards the kitchen, she pulled the screen door shut behind her. As her eyes landed upon the table peeking out from the kitchen’s doorway, she twirled around. “Wait!” She screamed to the retreating officers, flinging open the door and stepping over the threshold. “Why are you here?”

The two men stopped and turned around. Walking slowly back up the walkway, the policemen gave each other a knowing look, We’re not getting out of here anytime soon.

“Ma’am, we came to inform you that Charles Beales was killed in a car crash this afternoon. Do you understand what we’re talking about?” One of them said as he laid his hand on her arm, hoping to coax her into the living room.

Waiving off his hand she said, “Yes, but why are you telling me?”
The policemen looked at one another with concern in their eyes, Is she really this upset? They thought.

“Well it is common practice to contact the next of kin when there’s a death.”

“But I’m not his closest family, and my name is Jennifer. His aunt lives just two counties away.”

“No disrespect meant Ma- Jennifer, but we usually tell widows before we tell aunts. I’m sure my partner and I could go to her and tell her if you don’t think you can. However, we usually just tell the closest relative.” Thinking that comment might need more specificity, the officer pointed to the woman standing in front of her and said, “That’s you.”

His voice seemed almost like an accusation to Jennifer with his hat in his hand and finger pointed towards her. She just stood there saturated with shock…and anger. The only movement she made was her hand as it creped up her body to lie in an angle across her chest to her heart, where her hand stopped to lightly rested.
The two officers sighed in unison and led her to the kitchen. After making sure she was going to be okay, they left her and walked outside for the final time, “We should go to tell the aunt because she sure isn’t able to do so,” one said to the other. He was answered with a reluctant nod. As they got in their car and drove off they were both thinking, I hate this.

After what seemed like weeks of people, her booking manager and friend Stephanie Baker being the most apparent, stopping by her house to bring food and comfort, Jennifer was finally alone. She had a shaky grasp on her countenance and a tentative understanding with herself. She was not allowed to actually breakdown until she’d cleaned out his house. Well, have it cleaned out in any case. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to actually carry boxes for too long, if at all. It was getting harder and harder to be physically exerting. So, after giving herself a particularly robust motivational speech, she drove to his house— just a few small boxes sitting in her backseat.

This is a test of my strength. I got through the funeral; I should be able to do this without any problems, she thought as she walked up the steps. The house seemed monstrous to her. The huge columns that flanked the doorway seemed as sentinels poised and ready to battle any intruder. The shining door handle and deadbolt glowing with warning to those who dared enter the inner sanctum within, the massive inner sanctum that fit more to the idea of a family than a single man who was supposed to be divorced.

Oh God! Why’s it so big? Couldn’t he live in an apartment? With a deep sigh she said, “I’m going to get through this.” When she opened the door and stepped across the threshold, she sighed again but this time in relief. This isn’t so bad. There’s not much here at all. … This is the first time I’ve been here.

Her eyes swept across the foyer, all she saw were boxes stacked upon boxes. It really was a sea of boxes that flowed into all the rooms she could see from inside the foyer. The differing heights causing waves among the masses. He’s been living here for almost a year and he’s not even close to being unpacked. Mulling that over in her mind, she realized she was still thinking as if Charles was still alive. Suddenly, she couldn’t remember what she’d been doing, she couldn’t breathe and her heart. Her heart was pounding out a staccato beat that bordered on frantic. Shaking, she walked aimlessly, flinging open closed doors to find completely empty rooms and rooms with two or three boxes sitting in them; looking for somewhere to sit that was not cube shaped and made of cardboard. Chair, chair. I need to find a chair. “Where are all your damn chairs Charley?!” She screamed into emptiness as she flung open one last door. Relief made her even unsteadier as she hobbled to the leather chair sitting behind the desk.

After a bit, she pulled herself together. Nice chair, she thought as she wiggled her behind in the chair. Looking around she noticed that this was his office. He must work here a lot. It’s the only room almost completely unpacked. Might as well start here. Taking a deep breath, she walked back out to her car and grabbed the boxes she had brought and trekked back up to the office. Methodically pulling out drawers, she separated the writing utensils by kind and then color as she placed them in the box with care. She went on in this way, until something in the right hand drawer caught her eye. Her name was staring at her in Charles’ tight angular writing. Tentatively, she reached in to pick it up.


My Dear Jennifer,

If you’re reading this then it proves that you were right and I am a coward and incapable of taking chances that effect me personally. Although we both know that if I’m playing with someone else’s money then I have no problem.

But seriously, I wanted to tell you how I really feel about you. I love you. It’s really that simple. I know all the reasons that you gave me for our divorce and since you told me of your heart condition and I’ve thought about those reasons. I even have counterexamples for some of them.

We’re not too different when you really think about it. We’ve both got ambition and want lots of kids. Neither one of us can stand split pea soup (and that’s a very important bit of information in any relationship). We both are stubborn and determined. We laugh and we cry, usually at the same things. We’re not going in different directions in life anymore. I’ve realized that I’d follow you anywhere you want to go. There are so many more reasons why we should be together instead of apart. And that brings me to the reason you’re probably reading this instead of me telling you. The divorce papers are sitting in my desk. I’ve never signed them. Now, before you get angry let me explain why. At first, I was too busy trying to forget everything. Then I forgot about them. As impossible as that sounds, it is true. Finally, when I remembered them, I didn’t sign them in the hopes that I could convince you that we could work it out. I still have hope, but if you’re sure, I’ll sign the papers with you standing right there to make sure I do and they’ll be sent to the lawyers on Monday. It’s all up to you.

With all my heart,
Charles



By the time Jennifer had read the entire letter, she had fallen to the floor in agony. Crying without shame, she hugged the letter to herself as if she could touch Charles through the paper her hand rubbing the back of paper. Grieving for everything that they’d lost and everything that had been denied them.
It took a while, but she calmed down. Picking herself up off the floor, she came to the conclusion —the kind you make when you’re trying to bolster your spirits— that she wasn’t going to waste her life anymore. Whatever she had left wasn’t going to be ruled by fear and doubt. Oddly enough, after she decided that she was able to clean out the office with a manageable amount of pain. After closing last box in his office, she turned to leave with the divorce papers and Charlie’s letter clutched close to her heart.

Jennifer finished packing up what little there was unpacked in Charles’ house in just a few days. Most of the time while she worked, she was squeezed with grief but every now and then she found something that released a memory. Those were the moments that made being in the house bearable. Stephanie was the one who did the same for her time outside his house. She offered Jennifer an ear and a shoulder when it was needed but didn’t shove all the it-will-get-better-in-time lines down her throat. She was just there. But it also worried Stephanie. Working on Charles’ house had taken too much out of Jennifer and Stephanie knew it. Her friend’s health was getting worse by the day. Even if she hadn’t actually moved the boxes herself, Stephanie had actually called a moving company for that, it had been an exercise in determination.


“I got another request to do Starry Night in another bedroom.” Throwing down the application, she stalked past her booking manager and fell onto a couch. “I’m so tired of all of this. Charles called me an artist. I’m just a cheap Reproductionist. UGH!” Jumping up, she paced back and forth across the carpeting with one hand aggressively tapping her forehead.

“I told you to stop working months ago. With your health, it’s not good for you to be so agitated about deadlines. Besides, Charles hasn’t been…” Glancing at Jennifer’s face, Stephanie decided to end the sentence there. “Anyway, I know you have money to live on. Could you sit down? All that pacing is making me dizzy.”

With a disgruntled look, she returned to the couch and sat facing Stephanie. “It’s not that. I feel fine and if I didn’t have something to work on I’d go nuts, you know this. The problem is that I feel like I should be doing something else. Like I should actually paint something for myself, if only to prove that I didn’t waste what little talent I have by copying someone else’s genius.”

“Then do it. No one’s standing in your way.” Raising her hand, she stopped Jennifer’s refusal. “Don’t even say it. You have not accepted any of the jobs, so there is no need to feel obligated to do anything other than what you want. I’m serious.”

“I know.” Picking up her discarded bag, Jennifer walked towards the door. “You didn’t have to be so mean about it you know. A simple ‘go away’ would have worked just as well.”

Chuckling, Stephanie smiled at her friend, “Of course it would have worked. But then you’d still be sitting on that couch instead of in the doorway because it would have taken me about another half hour to get you to leave.”

Genuinely smiling, Jennifer mocked a sigh and said, “Yea, but then what do I pay you for?” as she walked out of the room.

Walking through the hallway she placed her purse and keys on the kitchen table as she walked back through the hallway and into the den. Sitting down in the old leather chair her father had picked out; she picked up the sketchpad sitting on the coffee table. Pulling the graphite pencil from the spiral binding, she began to draw anything that came to mind. For days, that was her routine. Get up, shower, dress, eat, run errands, come back, eat, sometimes call Stephanie, and sketch.

After hundreds of fruitless attempts at a striking picture she threw down the pad and stood up. Pacing back and forth between the den and the living room, she began to think about what would bring her talent out the best. If I paint something that I care about, then I’m obviously going to do better. So I need to find something I care about to paint. She was so deep in thought; she ran into her the living room’s coffee table. Bending down, she groaned as she saw that her favorite picture of Charles was now broken.

With a shaky breath she tried to stop the burning behind her eyes, It was only a picture. I’m sure I can find another picture that’s just as good. Even though she knew it wasn’t true. It was the picture of their first wedding anniversary. Smiling for the camera, she had shoved some of the brownie from her desert in his face. The waiter had decided that was the perfect time to press the shutter. Shock and amusement were obvious in Charles’ face. So much so that she’d cropped the picture until all you could see was her hand and his face. There wasn’t another moment like this one. It was destroyed. “Even better, I’ll paint him.”

She sketched nothing but the face she knew so well filled her days. Always, she found fault in them. Throwing her pad and pencil across the room , she curled up into her couch and stared at the projectiles accusingly as if she could guilt them into showing what she saw in Charles. With all of her frustration she screamed, “What am I doing? I can’t draw him the way he deserves to be drawn.”

“Well most people just change subjects when they can’t get the one they’re working on to work. I think it’s an artistic defense mechanism,” a voice said from the doorway.

Startled, Jennifer jumped up off the couch and grabbed her heart, “Stephanie! Jesus you scared me almost to death! Jeez, you can’t do that to me, it puts too much strain on my heart.”

Sadness crept into Stephanie’s green eyes. “I’m sorry Jennifer. I didn’t even think about it. I heard something thud in the foyer when I went to knock… in all seriousness I thought you’d fallen or collapsed or something. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Walking to her friend, Jennifer placed her hand on Stephanie’s arm, “Don’t worry about it. I don’t expect you to know everything that I can and can’t do. No worries.” Then she walked past her into the darkened foyer. The light from the living room didn’t seem to reach into the expanse that only Jennifer was in. Bending over she picked up the sketchpad saturate in the darkness. Standing up, the whole world twisted and turned on an odd axis and when she looked into the lighted room, she had a strange sense of not belonging. Stephanie’s somber form was silhouetted with her head in her hand, turned away into the empty room of light. Jennifer felt odd, like she was trespassing on something that was her fault but not really all at the same time. Coming up to Stephanie, she placed her hand back in the spot it was before. “Are you okay?”

Caught off guard, Stephanie jumped, “What? Oh, yea I’m fine. I was just thinking. You scared me you know.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know how else to bring you back from where ever you were.”

“Not just now. Well, yea you shocked me then but I’m talking about before,” at Jennifer’s look of incomprehension, she sighed. “I heard you throw your pad and I thought it was you. I came barreling into the house thinking I was going to find you in a heap. Then when I walked in here and you were yelling at your book. I was so relieved that, I had to stop myself from crying.” Stephanie’s voice broke with that last word. The tears that had been shining in her eyes began to slowly trek down her cheeks.

Jennifer led her friend over to the couch and just hugged her. I seem to be having a lot of these reactions, she thought sardonically

“I’m fine Jen, really I am.” Her hand left dark black tracks under her eyes as she shoved away the tears. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that to you. I’m sure you’re tired of getting that reaction.”

Leaning over, Jennifer grabbed a tissue from the box on the coffee table in front of them and handed it to her friend, “Don’t worry about it. It’s understandable. I’m not being rude but, why did you come over?”

“It’s been a while since I talked to you and I wanted to see how the painting was going.” Looking from Jennifer’s cringe to the pad on the coffee table, Stephanie chuckled. “But I guess I know already huh?”

“I’ve been working on a sketch for days and I can’t get it to come out right. It’s driving me nuts.” Jumping up, Jennifer began pacing the floor with quick but not completely steady steps. “I keep working and working but it never comes out right. No matter how much I try it never comes out like him.” Still pacing, her fingers began to tap the rhythm of her steps on her forehead.

“Jennifer, can you stop pacing. You always make me nervous when you do that.” Waiting until she sat down, Stephanie continued, “Have you been working on anything else or just the painting of Charles?”

“Just his painting. I’m obsessed with getting it done.” Looking at the floor, her body suddenly sagged against her chair. “My doctor is telling me that I’m ‘deteriorating at an increased and alarming rate.’ Which, we both know means that I don’t have much time left.”

“Wow, that’s … I don’t really know what to say to that.”

“Neither did I. I just sat there and stared at him like he was speaking Greek. He even had to ask me if I understood what he’d said. It was horrible. I think I’ve come to terms with not being here forever. I just have to get that painting done before I…well go.”

Clearing her throat of the blockage she found there, Stephanie asked, “Jen, how much are you working in this? I mean hours wise?”

“Well, pretty much all the time. I should have enough sketches to fill an entire gallery. I just can’t get one that shows him. Not just his face but his life, spark, personality, whatever you want to call it. I just can’t get it. It really is frustrating.”

“Are you eating and sleeping properly?”

“What kind of question is that?!”

“Answer it, Jennifer.”

Looking down, she began to pick at a small tear in the leather of her chair. “I eat when I’m hunger and I sleep when I get tired.”

“Jennifer! You’ve got to stop this. You’re killing yourself faster by not taking care of yourself.”

“Don’t Stephanie. I know it’s not the best thing I could be doing for myself. The way I see it is that I’m going to die one way or the other and I should get as much done in the time I have as possible. Don’t even contradict me, Stephanie. It won’t work .You yourself always comment on my stubborn nature, just don’t.”

“Fine I won’t say anything more about it.” Glancing down at her watch she groaned. “I have to go. I have to show Jonathan Deverall some of my work for the new show at his gallery. You know how exclusive he is. It’s easier to hack the FBI database than to get into his shows. But he’s interested enough to want to put a piece of mine in there. It’s a dream! So, I have to run. I’m sorry about everything. Call me soon so we can talk.”

“When did you start painting?”

Heading out the door she called back. “I’ve been painting since I was a teenager. I just stopped around college. I started painting again around Charles’ funeral.” Pausing she popped her head back in. “It didn’t seem like an important thing. Sorry. Call me.”

“Bye,” she hollered back. Turning around she looked at her house, what had been their home, and slightly hesitated before walking through the darkness and into her studio on the porch in the back of the house. The first time she’d actually walked in here with the intent to paint something for her, the first time with the intent to paint Charles. I’m done with sketches. When she got there, she picked up her brush and began creating the face of the man she’d loved and lost.


Days past and the only note that Jennifer made of it was the turning on or off lights when needed. Relentlessly, she worked. Each time her brush swept across her canvas, her heart seemed to get lighter and her breaths became shallower. Sleep became an intrusion and thus expendable to her. That painting became her life; the only reason she continued to breathe, however hard it was to do it at the time.

Finally, with a strangled but proud sigh, she looked at her only true piece of art, “It’s not perfect, but what replication ever is?” With that she turned to the phone and dialed.

“Hey, Stephanie it’s Jennifer. Can you come over tomorrow morning?”


Stephanie was banging on Jennifer’s door early the next morning. Each time she knocked Stephanie got a little more worried. Finally, she tried the handle and opened the door, What is it with this girl and not locking her doors? “Jennifer? Hey, Jennifer where are you?” With each step she took through the house, Stephanie began to walk faster and call out louder. “Hey Jen! Where are you gir- Oh no,” Running into the bedroom, Stephanie saw her lying on the bed and without even touching her, Stephanie knew that Jennifer was dead. Turning she picked up the phone and dialed 911.

When all the commotion was done and everyone had left, including Jennifer’s body, Stephanie was still standing in the middle of her friend’s bedroom. She was staring at the room, but not really seeing it. Gradually, she realized that there was a white sheet draped over something in the corner. Lightly touching the coarse fabric, Stephanie took hold of the bottom and carefully lifted it up and draped it backwards. As soon as she looked at the painting tears began running down her face. Her throat constricted and made it impossible for her to form any words. The closest she got was a strangled, “Oh Jenny,” as her fingers whispered across the painting. You really did it. Charles would have been so proud of you, Jen. Picking it up off the easel, she turned and walked away. As she closed the door to her car and started to drive away from Jennifer’s house, she pulled out her phone and made a call.

“Jonathan Deverall? This is Stephanie Baker. I’ve got something better than any of my paintings for your show. Would you be interested in it?”