Monday, Monday: A Novel (19 page)

Someday he might try to create that face in a painting. But he wasn’t up to the task now, as a struggling artist whose work didn’t sell. He owed the memory more than that, and in some way he couldn’t define he owed the face in the window more than that.

Leaving the rejected painting, he turned his attention to the reason he had come to his studio, taking from the closet the box in which Jack had shipped the portrait of Shelly. He pried it open and removed the portrait wrapped in butcher paper, and then peeled off the paper and set the painting upright on an easel.

For a long time he looked at it, battling with his memories and studying the paint to see if he could possibly apply clothing the way Shelly had wanted when she first saw the painting.

After a while, he started mixing pigments. The original paint had set and hardened over the years, so he placed the painting on the table and rubbed it gently with a damp cheesecloth to soften the surface. Then over her naked breasts he began to paint from memory the smocked blouse Shelly had worn that day at the beach.

The portrait resisted being painted over. The paint was almost too thick as it was—he had failed to make the layers as delicate as he should have. The new paint slipped and beaded. It had a different sheen. He had to layer it thickly, coat over coat of ultramarine.

He worked like this, at intervals, for several days, covering over the body he loved, clothing Shelly in blue.

When he was finished, he called Jack from his college office to ask for Shelly’s address. “I have something I want to send her.”

“Why would you be sending her something?”

“It’s the portrait. I can’t keep it any longer.”

“You can’t send her the portrait!”

“Well unless you want to store it—”

“I don’t want to store it. She’s happy, Wyatt. Leave her alone.”

“You’re so goddamn self-righteous, Jack. Can I please just have the address?”

Finally Jack gave it to him. “I hope you’re not trying to start anything.”

“Give me some credit, will you?”

“I told you I’m not going to be the bearer of information.”

“You’re not going to be the bearer of anything. But just tell me—how is she?”

“She’s fine.”

“Fine? Goddamn it, how is she?”

“She’s dating someone.”

He should have known this news would be coming sooner or later. But it settled hard.

“Just dating? Or…”

“She’s involved with him.”

“Who is he?”

“A geologist. He went to UT, but I doubt you know him. I haven’t met him. She’s told us about him. Apparently he’s a nice guy.”

Wyatt left the office and walked. It was a warm day; he walked the roads of Sandy Neck Barrier Beach along the Great Marsh where the seabirds soared over the water, and he walked past the old Congregational meetinghouse in the village, past the train station in Shark City, and through Finn Town. For hours, he walked.

21

AN UNLIKELY GIFT

The box was waiting on Shelly’s doorstep when she got home from work. She took it inside, and when she unwrapped the painting and saw that Wyatt had painted over her naked breasts, she felt flustered and overwhelmed, recalling those moments in the studio and how desperately she had wanted him while he was painting her.

He had tucked a letter into the frame.

Shelly,

I’m sure this is the last thing you were expecting to see again, and I hope you don’t mind my sending it. If there were any way for me to keep it, I would. The changes don’t improve it, but I thought they might make it more likely that you could find a home for it somewhere. If you can’t, please don’t let it become a burden. Do what you need to.

I’m sure you know from Jack and Delia that it’s been a while since I’ve seen Carlotta. She is beautiful and it makes me happy to think of you two together. She’ll grow into an even better person because of having time with you, and having your influence in her life. I wish I could be in Austin and with her more myself, but it’s better this way for everyone.

I heard from Jack that you’re dating someone and that he’s a nice guy. Honestly, Shelly, you deserve that more than anyone. I won’t say anything else about this or I might say too much, but I hope you know my feelings haven’t changed, and that I want you to be happy, and that I understand your happiness has to involve someone besides me.

As for things here, Elaine and Nate and I are all right. It was probably a good move for us to come here.

You take good care of yourself.

Love, Wyatt

Holding the letter against her, she cried at how final it sounded—less like a letter saying goodbye and more like a note from someone who had left a long time ago. She knew he only meant to let her know that it was all right for her to get on with her life, but she wasn’t sure she wanted Wyatt’s blessings about that.

The painting, through her tears, was not as pretty as she’d remembered. Covering up the scars had diminished it somehow. And she didn’t like the girl there in a studio looking into the eyes of someone else’s husband. She regretted many things about the portrait perched on the chair in front of her in her little duplex apartment—how it came to be, who she was at the time—regretted everything except having Carlotta. She wished Wyatt hadn’t sent it. But here it was, and what could she do?

She wrapped it back up and carried it out to her car, then drove to Beeville, pulling into Aileen’s driveway after midnight.

“Oh dear, what’s wrong!” Aileen exclaimed when she answered her knock. “Come in. What have you got there?”

Shelly carried the painting inside and propped it on the kitchen table. Aileen marveled at it. “If I didn’t know any better, I would think that was the real you up on that table.”

“It used to be a lot prettier,” Shelly said regretfully, pointing out the brushstrokes where the new paint intruded over the old. “Anyway, I brought it because I was wondering if maybe you could keep it for me.”

They put the painting away in the closet of Raymond’s bedroom, pushing it back behind the clothes he had left when he went to Vietnam.

Aileen gave Shelly a Tab, and they sat in the kitchen and talked about Carlotta and how Shelly adored her, and about Raymond. “I think he’s still alive,” Aileen said. “I have a hope that he might be. I get that sense, every day.” But she sounded as if she was saying this more from habit than hope.

Shelly told Aileen she wished she could talk to her mother like she could talk to her. She couldn’t forget how her mother had sent her away when she was expecting. “She was so concerned about Daddy’s job and what everybody would think. I haven’t told her I’m seeing Carlotta, because she would disapprove. But I miss talking to her like I used to. I feel like having Carlotta made her love me less. And maybe the way she acted made me love her less, too.”

“Your mom’s all right,” Aileen said. “Just not the strongest. Ever since she was little, everybody could push her around. She was cute, though, I’ll give you that. Little redheaded thing.”

They talked about Dan, too. “I want to tell him about Carlotta, but I don’t know if I should. Not unless I’m sure we’re going to get married. And I keep thinking how it could change things if I marry him. What if he got a different job, somewhere besides Austin, and we ended up moving? I wouldn’t be able to see Carlotta.”

Aileen shook her head. “That’s too much thinking. You tell him about that little girl, and you marry him if you love him. What else are you going to do? Live your whole life with nobody? Carlotta is going to grow up and have her own life and her own babies. You can’t follow her everywhere she goes her whole life. Let’s pray about it.”

She took Shelly’s hand on the table. “Lord, give Shelly some wisdom. Let her do what’s right.” They prayed for Aileen’s son. “Let him come back,” Aileen said. “Let him walk through that door.”

Shelly slept for a few hours in her old bedroom. Red had since died, and the room was lonely. Even Raymond and Wyatt, who used to haunt Shelly in this room, didn’t seem to be here anymore.

She left before daylight to get back to Austin in time for her morning class, driving through the moonless predawn on the flat south Texas roads, through miles of cornfields and small towns.

22

DUE WEST

Delia came to the pharmacy a few days later to talk to Shelly. “There’s something I’ve been dreading to tell you,” she said as they sat at a corner table. “Jack has been offered a job, so we might be moving.”

“Where?” Shelly asked when she found her voice.

“Alpine, out near Big Bend. There’s a college there—Sul Ross—that’s been looking for someone to teach American history. We drove out last Friday for the interview, and it went pretty well. They liked Jack. We looked around and saw an old farmhouse we could buy with the money Jack’s grandmother left him. It could be a great place for Carlotta to grow up. But if we moved, we would want you to come visit—the same as you do here, only you could stay longer. Oh, Shelly, I can see how you’re taking this.”

“How sure is it, that you’re going?”

“Pretty sure, honestly.”

“When would it be?”

“Soon. This summer. Before the fall semester.”

“How far is it? How many hours?”

“We drove it in seven.”

“Seven? That’s so far!”

“You could come for whole weekends. If we bought the farmhouse, it’s a big house and you would have your own room.”

She could follow Carlotta to Alpine if she wanted to, and graduate from Sul Ross instead of UT, and get a job in the area. But even as the idea occurred to her, she knew it was pathetic and absurd. The only option that made any sense was to stay in Austin and go to Alpine to visit sometimes. But how often could she really do that?

“And Jack wouldn’t mind if I come visit?”

Delia hesitated. “Honestly, he thinks it would be complicated because Wyatt and Elaine would be coming sometimes, too. Not at the same time, of course. But he thinks we could work it out. He knows how much Carlotta loves you.”

They tried to talk over the options and logistical problems, but Shelly was too stunned and sick at heart to think clearly.

She finished her shift after Delia left, and skipped her afternoon class, unhinged by the vision of what it would be like to stay behind in Austin if Carlotta was no longer here.

She had promised to meet Dan at El Matamoros for tacos that night and to stay at his apartment as she often did, but now she regretted the plan. She didn’t want to carry the deceit any further, and yet this wasn’t the time to tell him about Carlotta. It would be a hard truth for him to hear at any time—that she had a child she had kept secret from him, and that the father was a married man whom she had loved so much that she would have married him if she could. She wanted to tell him thoughtfully, keeping only his feelings in mind, not as an outpouring of her own grief and confusion over Carlotta’s leaving Austin. She called to cancel their date, but couldn’t reach him.

When she met him at the restaurant, she tried to act as if nothing unusual was on her mind. From dinner, they went to a beer joint called Threadgill’s to listen to Dan’s friend play guitar. The music was soulful, and when Dan remarked on how quiet Shelly was, she said, “The songs are awfully sad.”

They stayed at his apartment for the night, and after they had made love on the sofa, Dan became quiet, his arm looped over her naked body, and asked again if there was something on her mind. She almost told him, but the couple next door had started to argue, their voices penetrating the wall, and she let the chance go by.

“There’s something,” he said the next morning, holding her gaze. “There is. There’s something.” From the TV in the living room the Monkees were singing their theme song. He turned his back on Shelly and pulled his jogging pants and a T-shirt out of a drawer and put them on. He shoved his feet into running shoes, yanking the laces. “Is it someone else?” he asked bluntly, angrily, glancing up at her as he tied the laces.

“No.” She shook her head. “It’s nothing like that.”

“When you’re ready to talk about it, let me know.”

He walked out of the room, and she heard him go outside. She knocked her head back slowly against the bedroom wall. It was ridiculous behavior, but she continued to do it, her eyes shut tightly.

Then she left the apartment and started walking through the neighborhood in search of Dan. It was nearly summertime, and hot. She was twenty-five years old and afraid of losing him and afraid of losing Carlotta. Her life was about to change, and she was afraid to think about it. She listened to the mourning doves making their throaty sounds in the trees, and then saw Dan running toward her around a shady corner. He slowed when he saw her. A thought of Carlotta, as transitory as the sun’s glare on the parked cars or the small, perceptible shift of leaves in the heavy stagnant air, came to her, and she feared she would later wish she had set this moment into reverse.

He was breathing hard when he reached her.

She would remember the questioning look, the squint, the way he jogged in place before he stopped. “I love you,” she said, and almost left it at that. “And I have a daughter. I had an affair with a married man named Wyatt Calvert, and got pregnant, and his cousin adopted the baby. His cousin’s name is Jack Stone; he and his wife Delia are raising the baby. Her name is Carlotta. She’s two and a half years old. I see her once or twice a week. Wyatt doesn’t live in Austin anymore. He moved away.”

Sweat dripped from Dan’s face. He stared at her.

“I wasn’t planning to tell anyone—ever. That was before I met you.”

When Dan spoke, his voice was softer than the bloated sounds of the doves, and his expression kept the same perplexed scrutiny.

“Are you still in love with him?”

“No.”

“He’s still married?”

“Yes.”

“Have you seen him since the baby was born?”

“No.”

“Was he a student at UT? How do you know him?”