State of Grace (26 page)

“No! Please, wait. Just hear me out. Your work, your art, is a hit. People want it. They want to pay for it. The guy—the one I told you about that hired us? He wants to buy some of your work. He's a private collector and, well, I sort of told him that I represent you.”

“No.”

“Rebecca, I needed to make an impression—to get in good with him. I told him you had a collection—that you had other pieces for sale. I know you've been painting.”

“No.”

“Rebecca, please.”

“Do you have any idea what you've done—I mean, aside from violating my trust, stomping all over our friendship, and taking my most vulnerable and raw self and putting it on display for the world to see? Actually, no. You didn't just put it on display, you auctioned it off to the highest bidder. I really am hanging up now.”

And I did.

Over the next several weeks, Roger was relentless in his attempts to convince me that he was sorry. Messages on my answering machine, messages left for me at work, and even a registered letter didn't make a difference. I was resolved to never speak to him again. And then I had my first acid flashback.

I was sitting on the couch salvaged from our college apartment, petting Spencer, the fat, long-haired black cat that belonged to my upstairs neighbor. When he wasn't busy patrolling the apartment complex, Spencer made it his job to visit each of the cat-friendly residents of our building. This evening, he lay purring in my lap, his tummy full of canned tuna.
ER
was on the television and George Clooney was acting alternately indignant and sheepish. At least, he was until his words became slow and distorted and his face went from handsome to maggot-infested and then skeletal. Panicked, I began to breathe heavily. My blood pulsed in my ears. My eyes darted
around the room. The few pieces of furniture and my CD collection seemed to be as they should be. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a dark shape about the size of my fist scuttle along the baseboard and down the hallway toward my bedroom.

“It's your past coming back to haunt you,”
said a voice. I looked down to see Spencer staring at me.

“Spencer?” I spoke his name aloud.

“I can read your thoughts,”
he said, though his lips weren't moving.
“I know what you're thinking.”

I stared at him for several seconds, unsure. “You're a cat,” I said. “You can't know what I'm thinking.”

“Oh, but I can,”
he said.
“Right now, you're wondering what's going on and you're wondering how we're talking when my lips aren't moving.”

I stared. That had been exactly what I had been thinking.

“I'm communicating telepathically.”

“Really?” I asked. “You can do that?”

“I can. And I can also see into the future. You're going to get a phone call.”

At that moment, my phone began to ring.

I blinked in amazement, looked over at the small table where the cordless phone was charging and then back at Spencer. “How did you know?”

“It's all interconnected. The past, the present, the future.”
I felt him mentally shrug.
“You need to deal with your past so you can move on with your future.”
He blinked slowly and looked over at the ringing phone.
“And you need to answer that.”

I hurried over to the table, snatched the handset off the charger, and pushed the Talk button. “Hello?”

“Rebecca.” It was Roger. “Please don't hang up. We need to talk.”

I turned away from the table and looked back at Spencer, who was curled up, his eyes closed, sound asleep. The characters on the television were once again normal. Nothing in the apartment moved. It was as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

I suddenly became aware of Roger's voice in my ear. “—huge mistake and I'm sorry. Your friendship means more to me than
advancing my career. You were right. What I did was wrong.”

“Roger,” I said distractedly, “I can't talk about this now. Something is wrong with me.”

“Are you okay?” His concern sounded genuine. “What's wrong?”

“It's just . . .” It was as if the previous ten minutes hadn't happened even though my heart continued to thump rapidly. “I think I'm going crazy.”

“What do you mean?” he asked cautiously. “What happened?”

I took a deep, calming breath. “I just was sitting here petting the neighbor's cat and watching TV and . . . the cat started talking to me telepathically. And the people on the television, their faces began to melt off. It was like that night all over again, but I haven't taken anything.”

Roger laughed.

“It's not funny, Roger. I think I've finally—”

“You're having an acid flashback.”

“A what?”

“A flashback. When you have a brief flash
back
to the acid experience.”

“Back to that night,” I said slowly.

“Yeah, unless you did acid some other time I don't know about. You didn't, did you?”

“So I'm not going crazy?” On the couch, Spencer, his eyes still closed, rolled onto his side and stretched his legs, toes spread, and yawned.

“It's not typical, but it happens sometimes. It happened to me, if that makes you feel better.”

“Is it awful of me to say it does?”

Roger laughed softly. “No.”

Neither of us spoke for several seconds until Roger cleared his throat. “So, Rebecca, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that without asking you.”

I walked over to the counter that separated the kitchen area from the living room and took the lid off of the cut glass candy dish that no one else had wanted from my grandmother's house. I picked out several blue M&M's. On the couch, Spencer lazily
began to lick his paw and rub it across his face.

“It's still not okay,” I said with a sigh. I hated being angry with Roger. “And I'm still not over being upset with you, but I accept your apology.”

“Thank you,” I could hear the relief in his voice. “And I want you to know that I'm going to tell Daddy Warbucks that there is no collection and what he's seen isn't for sale. I don't care how much he's willing to pay for it.”

“What do you mean?” I put the candies in my mouth and tried not to crunch too loudly.

“He just really wanted the pieces. I think he thought I was playing hard to get, so he just kept raising his offer.”

More out of curiosity than actual interest, I asked, “How much?”

“Not a lot up front,” Roger said. “But when you throw in the fact that he wants to sponsor a show so he can get first crack at the new work and then encourage his friends to buy so the value of his investment goes up—it's a lot of money. But I'm going to tell him ‘no.'” He was quiet for several seconds and then began a fresh assault. “It just seemed like a win-win, you know? You could make a lot of money without doing sales.”

“It's not sales,” I said. “I'm an accounts manager. There's a difference.”

“I know, I know. Sorry. But it's a moot point anyway.” I heard the clink of ice and the sound of him swallowing. “So, are we good? Because, you know I love you and would hate to lose you. I'd do anything for you.”

“We're good. It's awful when we fight.”

“Thanks,
Becca
. I'll take that as an ‘I missed you, too.'”

“Uh huh.” I reached into the candy dish and picked out three more blue M&M's. “So, will you lose the job or project or whatever it's called?”

“It's not important,” he said quickly. “We're thinking about going in a new direction, anyway. Duane is trying to incorporate a Zen dimension to our industrial aesthetic. He's calling it Yin-Yang Industrial Fusion. Calm and edgy. Balance and all that crap.”

I laughed. “‘Balance and all that crap' doesn't sound very Zen. What brought this on?”

“Oh, he's hanging around with this Tibetan monk or something, and so now everything is feng shui this and energy that.” He sighed. “I've been thinking about trying to scrounge up the money to go out on my own. Duane is too temperamental.”

“Gay men.”

“Gay men,” he agreed. “So, listen, I've got to run. We're going out.”

“Of course you are.” I laughed. “I appreciate the apology.”

“I had it coming, baby cakes. I was an insensitive, selfish asshole. But I really have to go. Duane is giving me ‘the look.' We'll talk this weekend, okay?”

He hung up before I could answer.

“Asshole,” I muttered as I hit the End button with my thumb and turned to look at Spencer. He stopped licking himself long enough to regard me with wide, open eyes. “So, tell me the truth, can you really hear my thoughts?” He blinked and returned to his bath. I set the phone on the counter, walked over to the couch and settled back into my spot.

ER
had been replaced by the news, so I picked up the remote and turned off the television. In the apartment above me, I could hear the squeak and thump of footsteps. I patted Spencer's back and thought about the conversation with Roger. His explanation, although by no means a justification, made sense. He was hungry for success and I didn't doubt that he was planning on using his half of the money to break away from Duane. And clearly he was trying to entice me with the mention of money.

Despite myself, I wondered how much. Enough that I could find a job that didn't require as much interaction with people? Something that wasn't sales? I shook my head at what I was considering.

“This is crazy,” I said to Spencer.

He blinked, and I wondered if he really could communicate telepathically. I tentatively searched my mind for Grace. Nothing. She had been strangely absent the past few weeks, but something
told me that if what I was considering was dangerous, she would warn me, right?

“So, what do you think?” I asked Spencer as I stroked his back. “Do you think Roger's right? I mean, it's not like I don't have a closet full of the stuff, right? And it's not like I have to ever see it again. Once I sell it, it's gone.” I searched again for Grace. Nothing.

Spencer purred under my hand and the warm rumble calmed me. I hated my job. It was exhausting to go out every day and
be
with people. The idea of being able to make money doing something that didn't require the social interaction was tempting—perhaps too tempting because before I could stop myself, I stood, walked to the counter, and picked up the phone. Deep breaths, I told myself as I dialed Roger's number.

“Roger,” I said when his machine picked up. “Listen, I've been thinking about what you said and I'm not saying yes, but tell me more about what you have in mind.”

Part III:

2001–2004

Chapter 22

John Lennon had it right when he said “life happens while you're busy making other plans.” It's true. I had never intended to become an artist. I'm still not sure I even consider myself one. But, under Roger's management, and thanks to Gus's desire to make money, that's exactly what I became.

“Never doubt the power of the gay network,” Roger said, and he was right.

Augustin Dupré, known by many simply as Gus, was the owner of several gay-exclusive nightclubs and restaurants. The product of “Old Southern money,” Gus was excused from family activities and holdings in Louisiana because of his sexual orientation and his penchant for barely legal boys. In exchange for his promise to “get gone and stay quiet,” he was provided with a sizeable allowance, which he spent freely.

He managed “gone” with great success but struggled with the “quiet” element of the agreement. Gus moved first to New Orleans and then to Los Angeles, where he quickly became a fixture in the party scene. Young, handsome, and full of Southern charm, he also possessed the family skill of recognizing opportunities and making money. What began as investments in clubs and restaurants later became outright purchases and, with complete renovations and the knack for appealing to the exclusive, chic Hollywood set, enormously successful business ventures. He had just begun his expansion into Chicago when he met Roger and Duane at a party.

“He wants to bring West Coast fabulous to the Midwest,” Roger enthused late one night. “It's going to be amazing. And, he believes that we, well, I have just the right combination of skills and connections.”

“So, explain how I fit into this?” I asked. “I'm not even really an artist. My work is crap.”

“One man's trash and all that,” Roger said. “Just trust me when I tell you that he saw your work, recognized it as unique, and saw an opportunity. And here's the great part: he thought they would be the perfect addition not only to his personal collection, but also in the private suites in his new establishment.”

“What is this new establishment?” I asked.

“It's a club,” Roger said. “An exclusive club and that's really all you need to know. I'm going to handle all the details. All you have to do is continue to produce those amazing canvases.”

And, surprisingly, Roger
did
handle all the details. He negotiated the deals, handled all the shipping, and in the process, made himself a force to be reckoned with. Granted, it didn't hurt that he also was sleeping with Gus. But still, that didn't detract from the fact that Roger's designs were interesting and certainly different than anything anyone else was doing.

After our initial reconciliation, Roger flew to Kansas City and spent a long weekend. We talked, laughed, and made up properly. And when he left, he also took most of the paintings from my closet. The agreement was simple. He would use what he wanted in his designs and in return, give me all the profits from their sales. Also, he would act as my manager without charge.

“You're doing me a favor,” he said. “Gus really wants the paintings and I really want Gus. He's willing to pay and quite honestly . . . if Gus wants it, Gus gets it. And, he makes sure other people want it.”

And he was right.

With Gus as a patron and Roger as a manager, my job was nothing more than what I had been doing previously without financial compensation. There were a few nonnegotiable rules. First and foremost, my identity could never be revealed. Roger agreed, and together we crafted an elaborate story in which I was portrayed as a reclusive, tortured genius who simply went by BEC. It seemed like the perfect cover and, aside from the genius part, not too far removed from the truth. If anything, my reclusiveness only added to my mystique. Secondly, under no circumstances would I attend a show or event. I worked alone, out of my home, and once I had relinquished a canvas, I never wanted to see it again.

My mother was thrilled when I told her I was planning a career change.

“Oh, Birdie, that's great. I never thought sales was the best fit for you.”

“It's not sales,” I responded automatically. “But it doesn't matter because with this new job, I don't have to be out working with the public. I can work from home.”

“Oh.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” She was quiet and then said, “It's just, are you sure that's what you should be doing? I mean, you don't really get out much as it is and—”

“Mom, please, can we not go into this right now? I know what you're going to say, but can't you please just be happy for me?”

“Oh, sweetie,” she said. “I
am
happy for you. I just worry, that's all. I want you to be happy.” She hesitated and then said, “So, what's this new job? Phone sales or . . .” I could imagine her sitting in the kitchen on the tall, wooden stool under the wall-mounted phone, coiling the cord around her fingers.

“It's—” I stopped. How could I explain what I would be doing? I imagined just blurting out the truth:
Well, you see, Mom, when I was in college, my friend was raped and it messed me up. So my friend Roger, the gay man, forced me to see a shrink, who suggested I paint away my fears. But I was blocked creatively, so I took a hit of LSD from this guy I met in a gay bar and when I tripped, Grace manifested herself and I started doing freaky-ass paintings of all the messed up shit in my head. Roger saw them, took them and managed to convince people they were artistic and so now I'm going to be paid to take all the crap in my head and put it on a canvas to be hung in gay bars.

I laughed.

“What?”

“Nothing. I've been painting some since college and Roger—”

“Painting,” my mother interrupted. “You've been painting? Like watercolors? Or landscapes? Or—since when have you been painting?”

“I took a class in college,” I lied. “The professor said I had talent.
It's just a hobby, really. Or, it was. But Roger's friend, or boss, liked it and bought some pieces. And he has friends who he thinks would want to buy some, too. So, I thought I'd give it a try.”

“Birdie, I had no idea. I'd love to see them. Can you send pictures?”

“Oh.” I thought of the subject matter. “Actually, I already sent the canvases. And I haven't started the new work, yet.”

“Are you sure you want to quit your job for this?” she asked. “It seems awfully risky. I mean, do you know this man very well?”

“I think it's something I need to try. And if it doesn't work out, I can get a new job.”

“Well, you know you're always welcome here. We can fix up your room and it would be like you never left.”

My stomach knotted at the thought. Short visits to Edenbridge had almost been too much for me to bear. The thought of living there for any extended period of time made me want to throw up. I swallowed and spoke in a calm voice. “Thanks, Mom. But I don't think I'll need to do that.”

My next call was to Natalie.

“Seriously?” she asked. “How amazing is that? You're going to be a famous artist. Just think, your work is going to be displayed—”

“In nightclubs,” I interrupted. “Don't make this more than it is. It's not as glamorous as it sounds.”

“But still, Birdie, you're following your dream. Remember when we were kids? All you did was draw.” Her tone was wistful and I knew what she was thinking. She never said as much, but I knew that she wasn't entirely committed to the idea of marrying Pete. Still, she had gone through with the wedding and a few months later, she had given birth to their daughter, Margaret Grace, whom everyone called Meg. Although she had assumed the role of stay at home mom without complaint, I knew it wasn't the life Natalie had envisioned for herself.

“Yeah,” I said. “Sounds perfect, eh?”

“But won't you get lonely?” she asked and then quickly amended, “I mean, I know you don't go out much, but at least with your job now, you interact with people.”

I felt Grace smile. Although she had been relatively silent regarding this new endeavor, I had felt her there, watching, listening, always vaguely present. And she was always interested in my phone calls home—especially to Natalie.

“You know, I think it will be fine,” I said. “Let's face it. I'm better when I'm on my own, doing my own thing.”

“What I wouldn't give for some time alone,” Natalie said. I could hear the sadness in her voice. “I don't know the last time I had any time that was just mine.”

“Are you sorry you did it?” I had always wanted to ask before now, but never got up the nerve. “That you got married and . . . you know.”

Rather than answer, Natalie sighed. I waited, but she didn't continue. Instead, she changed the subject. “So, now that you're going to have more time, you should come visit. You could stay with us, spend time with me and Meg. Pete's never really here with his work schedule, so it would be just us. Like it used to be—well, like it used to be plus a toddler.”

“Maybe,” I said, intentionally keeping my tone neutral. “Could we play it by ear? It's just that I think these first few months are going to be pretty busy and, well . . . you know. But if I can, I will.”

Natalie made a noise that could mean anything, although I recognized it as disappointment.

“I will,” I insisted, knowing even as I said it that it was a lie.

“I just miss you,” Natalie said softly. “I miss us. I—” She stopped abruptly and I heard the muffled sound of conversation. She had apparently covered the mouthpiece of the receiver. I listened harder, trying to make out what I assumed were Pete's words. Suddenly, Natalie was back on the line. “Listen, Birdie, I need to let you go. Pete just got home and wants something to eat. We'll talk later?”

“Yeah,” I said. “And, hey, Nat, before you go . . . I . . . I miss you, too.”

I waited for a reply but the line was silent. And then I realized why. She had already hung up.

At first, the money from my artwork wasn't significant. But after the initial purchases by Gus, his promotion to his friends of my work, and a decent inheritance following my grandmother's death, I was not only able to quit my job but also to make the leap into home ownership. I considered Kansas City, but ultimately, I made the decision to go someplace that was completely different—someplace where anonymity wasn't considered strange. I purchased a small cabin in the mountains outside of La Veta, Colorado.

A town of about 1,000 people at the foot of one of the Spanish Peaks, La Veta was the perfect blend of small town familiarity and pioneering independence. It was originally established as a stopover for a branch of the Santa Fe Trail that led into the San Luis Valley via the Sangre de Cristo Pass. But as people settled in the area, what started out as a utilitarian adobe fort became a shelter against the Indians and, eventually, a center of commerce. As the railroad came and went, the town grew, shrank, and eventually became an enclave of ranchers, artists, and people with summer homes—which was what my cabin was prior to purchase.

Most of the cabins outside of La Veta were small and utilitarian, and mine was no exception. It wasn't big and it certainly wasn't fancy, but its location on an isolated gravel road gave me complete privacy. For extra security and companionship, I adopted a dog from the humane society in Trinidad. Part greyhound, part yellow Lab, and part mutt, Toby was the perfect roommate. He was smart, gentle, and big enough that people were wary when they approached him.

Life at the cabin was slow and unchanging. My days were spent doing chores and odd jobs around the house and my nights watching documentaries on satellite television, e-mailing friends and family, and, of course, painting. Visitors were rare. During the first three years, my mother and sister came to visit twice. The first time was when I was in the process of moving. I had gone to the rental agency for the moving van and when I returned to the apartment complex parking lot, I found Tara and my mother sitting in the car with a box of cake donuts and paper cups of convenience store coffee.

“Surprise!” cried Tara as I climbed out of the cab of the truck. She rushed over and hugged me. “Say hello to your moving crew!”

“Hi,” I said and looked at Mom, who handed me a cup of coffee.

“We're here to help,” she said. “Tara called last night and we decided to throw a couple of bags in the car and come help you move.”

I blinked, touched at their kindness, but also nervous about having them see and hande all my things. “Wow. Thanks. I don't know what to say.”

Tara grinned. “It's silly that you didn't hire movers or ask anyone to help.” She held up her hands. “I know, I know, you don't want people touching your stuff. But the more I thought about it, the more I thought, ‘Hey, what about us?' And this way, we'll get to see your new place and spend some time together. What do you think?”

“It's great,” I said with forced enthusiasm, glad that I had shipped most of the canvases off to Roger and carefully wrapped the others in plain brown paper.

“This way, we can take turns driving and riding with you,” my mother said and gestured to the rental truck. “Is that going to be big enough? And what are you going to do with your car?”

I turned to look at the truck. “It'll be big enough. I don't really have all that much stuff. I left my car at the rental place and once I get everything loaded, I'm going to go back and they're going to hook up a trailer and load the car on for me.”

My mother looked at Tara and then back at me. “And how were you going to get it off by yourself? It could crush you or you could slip and fall under the hitch-thing.” She shook her head. “And honestly, to think about you driving alone, hauling a car through those mountains . . . well, it's just dangerous.”

“Mom,” I said. “La Veta is barely in the mountains. It's the southern edge of the Rockies.”