The Gallery (3 page)

There, there, there. Here, here, here
.

She felt foolish asking. No one was here with her.

She laughed. Pulled another painting from the carton.

She had worked in the art building feeling comfortable with whoever or whatever was there with her—no longer questioning it—for three weeks when the first painting appeared, hanging on the wall.

In that three weeks, twenty-one days, five hundred and four hours, thirty-thousand two hundred and forty minutes—she'd worked out this triviality one day in algebra class—she felt she was running through molasses. Every day moved in slow motion. She swam underwater, treading minutes and hours uselessly.

Her art work got worse. During the class hour, she stared at an empty canvas, or one muddied with paint-overs.

“I've seen slumps, LaDonna. I've been blocked,” Roddy said, looking over her shoulder. “This is classic.”

“What can I do?” LaDonna asked. She begged Roddy to help her, pleaded silently for someone, something to happen.

“I don't know,” Roddy admitted. “Is anything wrong at home?”

“No.” Her home life was out of the ordinary, but it had been that way for so long she was used to it. She ignored her father. She lived for art class and the time she spent painting in her room.

The student teacher, Eric Hunter, tried to put the moves on her again. She hardly noticed. He gave up and looked for easier prey, but often she caught him looking at her.

“What's wrong with you, LaDonna?” Johnny asked on the way up to the campus. “You're not here. Correct me if I'm wrong, but you left three weeks ago. When you got that job. Are you all right? Is the job all right?”

Should she try to explain to Johnny? What—explain what? That she now lived for that job. That she felt alive only when she was in that basement room, closed in with—with—with whatever, whoever was there. He'd think she was nuts.

She thought she was nuts.

As she approached the art building she began to feel as if she was surrounded by some field of energy. Her mind seemed to vibrate. Prickles of excitement ran up and down her spine. The hair on the back of her neck rose and sent shivers through her body.

“I'll try to explain it soon, Johnny. Something is going on and I don't know what. I don't know
how
to tell you about it. But I've got to tell someone. And soon.”

Johnny didn't press her to explain. But he did pick up on her apprehension, her confusion. When they reached the art building, he turned and pulled her into his arms. Held her close for a minute or more. She snuggled into his shoulder, smelling his familiar scent, perspiration mixed with some spicy aftershave he'd probably stolen from his father. She couldn't imagine his buying it for himself. She wished he would stay with her. Even wished she'd never heard of this job.

Did she really?

“I'll come by your house tonight, LaDonna.”

“No, don't. Please don't. I'll come to your place. Is that all right? After dinner. About seven?”

“Please, LaDonna. I don't want to worry about you. But I am worried. You might as well know it.”

“Thanks, Johnny.” LaDonna stared into his blue eyes. “You're a good friend, Johnny Blair. The only one I have.”

She pulled away and opened the art building's heavy door. The metal bar was cold on her hand. The lie was cold on her tongue. She had three friends. Johnny. Roddy.

And
him
.

The walk to the basement had become routine. Her feelings were anything but normal. There was a pull, like a room full of warm magnets, to the soft yellow light. She no longer needed to turn on each light on the way. She left the stair light on, followed the river of vibrating air to her space, tugged on the overhead chain. The warm air bathed her in well being, comforted her, transformed her beyond the warmth of Johnny's arms.

One night, at home alone, the word ghost floated into her mind. But ghosts were scary. And they drifted on cold currents, drafty swirls of energy. Besides, if her friend was a ghost, he meant no harm. He was not there to frighten her.

The bare concrete walls of the basement room depressed her. It didn't take long for her to do something about that. Around the top of each wall, about two feet down, ran a wooden railing from which to hang pictures. She didn't question why it was there. She didn't remember seeing it the first time she came here. Perhaps the room had not always been bare.

Carefully, she had weeded out the worst paintings, sketches, and placed them in a pile to be discarded. When she came across a good picture, or one that she wasn't sure about, she hung it. Soon she had created her own personal art gallery.

The paintings had done wonders for the bare room. Now it vibrated with color—well, not too much color. Most of the paintings were landscapes, all green and brown with some flowers and flowering trees. A few had water, so splashes of blue drew her eye and relieved the lush vegetation. A few of the paintings were impressionistic, but most were realistic, imitating photographs.

On one wall she had hung all the pictures of Bellponte, New York, or the Atlantic Ocean. A few were of the buildings on the college campus with their white tile roofs. Snowy landscapes and sailing scenes. Fall colors, New York's woods in golden red and orange flames, shimmering on sunny autumn days. Those colors were her favorites. She had hated the pink painting she'd tried to do.

Tonight as she turned, reviewing what she had selected so far as possible “keepers,” she stopped.

On the south wall, at eye level, so she couldn't possibly miss it, hung another painting. One she hadn't placed there. One that was so different in style she would have noticed it immediately even had she tugged it from a cardboard carton.

She gasped at its haunting beauty. A shiver ran the full length of her body, leaving her limp. Stepping back, she leaned on the wooden table, grasping the edge with both hands.

For a fleeting moment she felt as if she had been sucked into the center of the landscape. Into the empty space that seemed to be waiting, waiting for her presence. Yet when she was there, in the picture, she felt a chill, an icy draft that left her frozen and breathless.

It took all her strength to return to the room. She blinked her eyes. Blinked again. She gained the distance she needed to be herself. To look at the picture, to study it without emotion.

The sky had the stormy brooding nature of an El Greco—that combination of light and dark the Italians called
chiaroscuro
. Blues, grays, black and white. At any moment lightning would splinter the clouds.

On either side, as if lining a street, waiting, stood many hooded figures, their gowns drawn with loose, sweeping brush strokes. Their eyes had the dark brooding stare favored by the Mexican painter José Orozco.

The center of the painting obsessed LaDonna, forced her to clutch the table as if it waited for her to come in. On the horizon floated the warm yellow light, the light she was drawn to every day when she came to work. Except in the painting, centered there, alone, the effect was one of loneliness, a haunting emptiness. A need. As if the artist was able to paint, by not painting, his yearning for something, someone. His hollow longing.

Suddenly LaDonna felt she couldn't breathe. She was suffocating. All the oxygen in the room was used up. Choking, she turned, twisted the slick door knob to escape, dashed down the hall, up the stairs, outside. Leaning on the cold bricks, she sucked in the cool, spring air. She breathed deeply until she felt normal, until her lungs could rise and fall in a normal rhythm.

Glen Walker stepped out of the art building while she fought for control. “LaDonna, how's it going? Sorry I haven't been down to check on you, but this se mester has been a scramble to keep up.” He didn't notice her distressed state. La Donna was grateful for that.

“You haven't been downstairs, Mr. Walker? I've hung up some of the art. You didn't come in and hang another painting alongside those I've picked out?”

She knew he hadn't.

“No. I just don't have much free time. I trust your judgement, LaDonna. Roddy told me I could. And to tell the truth, I don't expect you to find any masterpieces in all that mess.”

“Well—well—let's hope we're both surprised.” She gave him permission to leave. To hurry on his way. He was obviously pressed for time. She had regained her composure.

“Sure. Goodnight. Don't work too late, you hear?” He turned and walked briskly toward the parking lot.

She could go back inside now. She had been silly. She had let her imagination run away, double time. A smile crept across her face. What would
he
think of her?

She entered the building slowly. On seeing that Walker's secretary, Mrs. Coombs, was in her office, LaDonna had an idea. She didn't know why she hadn't thought of it before.

“Mrs. Coombs,” she said, after waiting for the secretary to get off the phone. “Do you have the phone number of that girl who tried to do this job that I'm doing? You know, the one who worked for an hour and quit.”

Mrs. Coombs looked at LaDonna for a moment as if she had to remember what LaDonna meant. She didn't have to remember. “Mr. Walker told you that story after all? He said maybe he'd better keep it to himself and I agreed.” She finally smiled.

“No, he didn't tell me. My art teacher at school mentioned it before I even came up here. I'm glad she didn't like working here, though. Her turning the job down was my good luck.”

Mrs. Coombs had been looking back in her day timer while they talked. She took a sheet of scrap paper and scribbled on it. “Minette Waterson. Here's her number. Why do you want it? Anything wrong?” She asked the question as if she expected there to be a problem.

“No, nothing wrong. Curiosity, I guess. Thanks, Mrs. Coombs.” LaDonna escaped before the secretary could question her further.

Well, almost. “LaDonna.” Mrs. Coombs called her back. “You aren't working late at night any more, are you?”

“Not much. And I'm really careful. Don't worry about me.”

“I do.” Darlene Coombs looked like the perfect grandmother. She probably worried about everyone.

LaDonna ran back downstairs, clutching the scrap of paper in her fist.

He wasn't there. The painting still hung on the wall. She hadn't imagined it. But he was gone. Usually he didn't leave until she left, or just before she felt exhausted, as if he knew she was going home. She was surprised to feel disappointed.

She reached for her notebook, tore out a sheet of paper, dug in her purse for a pen. What could she say? Anything she thought of sounded dumb. But, she had to say something.

This is hauntingly beautiful. I can't express my feelings about it. But you know, don't you? It touched me. It frightened me. I think its one of the best works of art I've ever seen. Would you share some others?

She taped the note on the gray, weathered frame. The wood looked as if it had been taken from an old building. The frame suited the picture perfectly.

LaDonna gathered her books, leaned on the table for another minute and studied the painting. She left early. It would be some kind of sacrilege to unpack any more of the mediocre paintings in the boxes stored around the room today.

She'd go find Johnny. He'd still be in the practice room. She wouldn't wait until after dinner. To her surprise, she'd only been in the basement an hour. Time didn't matter. She'd worked a lot of hours. Maybe too many. The grant money would run out too fast. If Mr. Walker didn't find more, the job would be over. She couldn't stand for this job to be over. She'd start working as many hours as she liked, but report only a few.

The idea of not returning to him was one she couldn't bear.

“I'll be back tomorrow,” she whispered. “I can't stay any longer tonight. You understand, don't you?” She paused, but got no answer. “I know you do.”

Snapping off the light, she walked slowly away from the painting with its haunting eyes and its lonely yearning.

four

T
HE NIGHT AIR
caressed her cheeks, cooled them, cooled her body. She hadn't realized how warm she was. Her body was damp with perspiration. Soon she felt chilled. She walked faster.

A silver crescent of moon sailed across the eastern sky. The campus seemed empty and darker than usual. But the darkness felt like a velvet cloak, wrapping her in anonymity. She was no one, going nowhere. No one expected anything from her. The role suited her for a few minutes.

Varsity Pond glistened from the reflection of lights on wrought iron posts. She stopped at the bridge, leaned over, took a deep breath of the fresh wind, the shift from winter sleep to spring's awakening.

A noise in the shadows startled her. Probably a couple making out, she thought, yet the rustle had spoiled her feeling of being alone. She walked slowly on, down the narrow alley behind two of the campus buildings.

Another shuffling sound caused her to look back, to feel someone was behind her, even following her. That was nonsense. She was spooked because of what had happened in the basement room. Now her imagination was going to dash away with her.

Nonetheless, she quickened her pace towards Old Main. The woods to her left were thick and dark. Lights lined the alley. More lights illuminated the street a couple of hundred yards below. But there was a band of shadowy pines and grassy lawn in between.

She was not a runner, but she picked up her pace so that her feet thudded in an almost-jog. She hated the apprehension that flooded over her, started a prickly feeling in her stomach. She had never been afraid anyplace at night. Why was she scaring herself now?

Old Main loomed ahead, looking as if it belonged in a gothic novel. She hurried onto the concrete porch, glanced back. No one was behind her, of course. No one had been in the woods, near the pond. Deer roamed all over west and central Bellponte. There were rabbits on campus as well as raccoons, squirrels—all sorts of little creatures that skitter or meander through the night woods.