Happy That It's Not True (17 page)

              “By the way, you’ve never told me—which are you?”

              “What do you mean?”

              “A Calvinist or an Arminian?”

              “Oh—I usually begin the week as an Arminian and by Wednesday, I’m a three-point Calvinist.  What about you?”

              “It doesn’t matter what I believe.  In the end, someone always proves me wrong.  Look—I’ve gotta do what's right for me, Jerry—I can’t be here anymore.”

              “Diego.”

              “Don’t worry Jerry, I’m not losing my faith.  Although, if I keep hearing what I heard tonight—I just might.”

              “Is there anything I can say to make you change your mind?”

              “If you could find that Catholic woman—and if you could find that girl that was suffering from anxiety—the girl that this group almost destroyed by making her feel inadequate—faithless—if you could find them, and fix everything, then I might stay.”

              “Well, I don’t think I’m going to be able to do that.”

              Diego stood and looked at Jerry, trying to decipher the key to their friendship.  “Hey—get me a seat next to you at the game and I’ll pay you back—all right?”

...

              The dogs grunted, and then barked as they ran to the sound of keys.  Diego slowly opened the door, careful not to hit them.  “Hey Ebay—Yahoo.  Hey guys.”

              “How was church?” Cara said as she sat against the couch, sketching in her drawing book.

              Diego kicked off his shoes.  “Terrible.”

              “What happened?” Alex said.

              “Not enough badass people,” Diego smiled.  “Only me and Jerry.”

              Cara chuckled and lifted her knees to press her drawing book against her chest.  “Speaking of—what you said to Alex is really motivating him—he thinks he can do anything.  He wants to write a book now.”

              “Really?” Diego said.

              Alex lifted his head from the computer screen and adjusted his glasses.  “Yeah—I was thinking of writing science fiction.  I’m getting all these great ideas.  It’s like end of the world kinda stuff—maybe you can give me some ideas from the Bible.”

              Diego sat on the love seat. “Tell me more.”

              “Okay—so the story begins when some rogue state launches long range missiles over the industrialized nations.  They detonate nuclear warheads in space, which fry all the computers on Earth.  Now the advanced countries have no technological advantage.  A crazy dictator puts together massive armies to invade the once superior nations.  Without computers and electronics, all the fighting is done mano a mano—the toughest S-O-B wins.

              “Now here’s the cool part.  Someone finds the Ark of the Covenant.  I was researching it and found an interesting theory.  Some people believe that the Ark was a small nuclear reactor.  That’s why the Ark was made of wood and gold plated—and that’s why the priests wore special vests which protected them from the plutonium inside.  That’s why Moses’ face glowed—nuclear radiation, my friends.  Anyways, the good guys find the Ark and use it as a radio transmitter to call the aliens to come get their Ark back—they come, see all the chaos, flick a switch and all the computers on Earth start working again.  What do you think?”

              Diego was grinning and scratching his head, “E.T. meets Raiders of the Lost Ark—brilliant.”

              “Really?” Alex said in astonishment.

              “The theory about the Ark has a lot of holes in it, but it’s fantasy—Yep—get to work—start writing it.  I was gonna suggest that you get a summer job, but I’m gonna let you write all summer.  This is a once in a lifetime deal—all right?”

              “Cool! Thanks!” Alex said typing on his laptop.

              “As for you Cara, we need to talk.”

              Cara made a mock expression of fear.  “Uh o-oh.”

              “Why are you drawing?  I’ve got a blank canvas sitting there that I want you to paint on.”

              “You want me to paint?  You’re going to have to teach me.”

              Diego moved his hands across the canvas.  “There’s nothing quite like when you first start painting.”

              “How do you start?”             

              “Try to fill large areas, working very loosely—in layers—energizing the plane with movement.  Just have fun.”

              “What should I paint?”

              “Well, you could start first by copying the work of a master.  Go through one of my art books—try not to get too much paint on them—and reproduce what you see.  Or you can dive into the chasm of creativity.  Whatever you decide, I’m sure you’ll do great.  If you can draw, you can paint.  It’s only a matter of time until you’re comfortable with the medium and the process.  I’ve got some acrylic paints to get you started.” 

              At last, Cara was releasing the old and entering a new world.  She was almost unable to listen because of her excitement.  She realized that Diego was asking her to touch and examine the art supplies, the cold tubes of paint, notice the peculiar smell.  Diego showed her the different brushes, rubbing her fingers against the bristles, explaining the difference between natural and nylon—instruments that would form her new language and life. 

              Diego lowered his voice as they stood before the canvas, his finger picking at imperfections in the gesso priming.  “Cara, you went through something terrible, yet you’re not acting at all like someone who’s been a victim of violence.  I don’t see any bitterness in you.  Sometimes I wonder if you’re real.  I have to admit—I wish I could be more like you.  I’ve heard it said that when people yield to pain, they experience the kingdom of heaven—every day is filled with strange and magical coincidences.  Or maybe the truth is a little more complicated.  Maybe you are a little unhappy.  Maybe that’s why you draw.  Maybe that’s how you get out all the stuff inside that hurts.  I hope you fall in love with painting.  It’ll help you to know who you are.”

              “And maybe I’ll become famous,” Cara chuckled.

              “Whether you become famous or not doesn’t matter in the least.  What matters is that you know who you are.  Don’t expect for a moment to make any money from painting.  Do it all for the love.  Ask anyone if they know the name of a single living artist.  You’ll be surprised how little people know about art.”

              “Can I ask you something?” Cara said.

              “Sure.”

              “Did you ever have anything bad happen to you?”

              Diego looked at Cara in a surprisingly innocent manner.  “Cara, I had a happy childhood—like anyone else in life, I’ve had some things happen—but nothing like what you’ve had to experience.  Some people can never let go of their anger.  They become cynical.  They never allow themselves to fall in love with anything.  They become addicted to their unhappiness.  They think everything in the world is stupid, or a waste of time, but there’s something special about you.  Paint, Cara—paint everything out—turn it all into beauty.”

              Cara at that moment knew that she could never go back—back to not believing in her pain.  She would pour it out, not in denial, but fully recognizing what it was—food for the soul.  She would silence the voice—the quiet voice of suggestions—hate thy self, hate thy self. 

              Diego looked at Cara as if he was going to make a dark confession.  “The good, the bad, the times of joy, tragedy, our need to love, the scary, the beautiful, the anxieties and peace—everything is clumped together like a big ball of clay.  Nothing really makes sense.  And out of all this—comes art.”

              “Nothing makes sense until it becomes art?” 

              Diego turned the canvas around and wrote something on the back of it.  “You can be as logical and rational as you want, but you’ll only make yourself miserable by criticizing, analyzing and judging everything—or you could be an artist.”

              “I’d rather be an artist.”  Cara read the back of the canvas: 

THIS IS YOUR MIRROR

Chapter Nineteen

              A large American flag was virtuously pinned to the only white wall in a dark, dank room.  Several coats of paint separated the stars and stripes from the indignity of bare concrete.  The other walls were gray and streaked with water stains, M4 rifles resting against them.  Several folding tables, laptops and network cables made up the computer room at the remote American combat base.  Two marines in their desert fatigues sat in folding chairs, typing, clicking—watching the world through bluish LCD screens.  On a golden brown sofa with quilted fabric and extravagant wood trim carvings sat Octavio, reading from an anthology of poetry.

              Master Gunnery Sergeant Brian Underwood entered the room with a package about the size of a large shoebox.  “Missed mail call.”

              “Looks like a care package.”  Octavio closed his book and smiled as he took the box.  “Thanks—hey this is from my kids.”  He hastily tore off packing tape and opened the box to see the many items crammed tightly inside.

              One of the men using a computer shouted, “Mail from the kids!—From which mother?”

              Octavio shouted back in laughter.  “There’s only one, I’m old school.”

              Underwood looked down at Octavio, vicariously enjoying his rummaging of the package.  “So what’cha get, Mr. Old School?”

              “Man, they sent me lots of stuff.  Sunscreen, powdered Gatorade—a-ah cookies—ramen noodles—what’s this?”  Octavio ran his fingers over a soft silky black fabric rolled into the corner of the box like a small towel.  He unfurled the material and held it up to see that it was a baseball jersey, and then held it to his face.

              “I didn’t know you were such a baseball fan,” Underwood said.             

...

              A tired group arrived at the Thursday night drawing class, some having rushed there from work.  In the center of the room, under a cluster of light panels, was a wooden platform about eighteen inches high with a black velvet sheet draped over it.  The students had propped up their drawing boards against metal easels; some placing chairs close by, using them as small tables to hold their art supplies.  Cara waited behind her easel, looking to the door to see if Priscilla would come.  Diego walked into the room wearing a black Carlos Santana t-shirt under an open blue denim shirt.  He smiled at Cara and looked around the room at the other students. 

              Diego turned on a radio to the classical music station and addressed the class.  “Buenas tardes—the model should be here soon.  While we’re waiting, let me ask you a question—how do you know if you’re a real artist? —Anyone?”

              The students remained quiet for a moment and then a woman in her early fifties spoke.  “If your work hangs in museums or galleries.”

              “Not quite the answer I’m looking for—anyone else?” Diego smiled.  “¿Alguién?”

              Cara noticed that some of the students in the class were nervous, which heightened her confidence.  She looked at Diego with great anticipation, waiting for the answer to the question she had asked herself many times before.

              “If you can sell a painting for ten bucks, then you’re an artist,” Diego said.  “As for being good—you do anything long enough and your brain develops new neuro-pathways.  Practice makes perfect.  Oh—hi—welcome, glad you could make it.  You’re not the model—are you?  Just kidding—thanks for coming.”

              “Too bad,” said a disappointed young man next to Cara.

              Cara looked out from behind her drawing board to see Priscilla searching for an empty easel.  Diego winked across the room to Cara.  Priscilla briefly made eye contact with Cara.

              A tall brown haired woman entered the room.  She was wearing a long robe and was talking quietly to Diego.

              “You’ve done this before?” Diego whispered.

              “Uh-huh,” she nodded.

              “Okay, want to try a reclining pose—since it’s late in the day and you’re probably tired?”

              “Okay.”

              The woman walked across the room, stepped up onto the platform, took her robe off, and used it to partially cover herself as she laid down for the pose.  Cara noticed that the woman wasn’t particularly attractive, and found it hard not to stare at her imperfections.  The robe, however, was quite stunning—the color of pearl, patterned with stylized orchids.  It was spread out underneath the model, causing her skin to glow.

              As the students sketched, Diego noticed that Priscilla was frozen with fear and came and stood beside her.

              Diego pointed to Cara and it practically startled Priscilla, who for a moment thought that the two had conspired to mock her.

              “You see that student over there? —she’s the only person that knew to turn the drawing pad horizontally, since the model is lying down like a landscape.  So—first time?”  Diego turned her drawing pad on its side.