The Gallery (7 page)

“It's good, isn't it?” The voice was low, silken, and it held a note of admiration.

“You painted it, didn't you? The style is like yours.”

He laughed. “You think I painted that? I watched you paint it. Maybe I leaned over your shoulder, but you held the brush.”

Inadvertently, she glanced behind her. “Who are you? Where are you? Why can't I see you?”

“Angry are we? Why are you angry, La Donna Martindale?”

She rubbed the frown line between her eyebrows. Bit her lip. “I—I'm not mad at you.”

“I know that. I know everything.”

“You know who killed her?”

“Let that go, LaDonna. It doesn't concern you.”

“It does, too. They think Johnny did it.”

“What do you think?”

“Johnny couldn't do such a thing.”

“Go with your heart, your passion.” He was silent for a few moments while LaDonna studied her painting. “Your passion went into this painting. You see that, don't you?”

“Yes. But I've imitated your style. You see that, don't you?” She still felt a grain of anger rubbing her, irritating her emotions into a bitter pearl of gray ice.

“There's nothing wrong with that. A student often imitates her teacher. Look at all the old masters. Their students imitated them. That's why there were schools of painting. All the Impressionists have similarities. Look at what followed Picasso's lead.”

“Are you my teacher now?” She smiled, rather liking the idea.

“Would that please you?”

“I—I guess so. Who are you?”

“The night. You like the night.

‘Night, sable goddess from her ebony throne

In rayless majesty, now stretches forth

Her leaden septre o'er a slum'ring world.'”

“You're a poet, too?” She smiled, running her fingers across the rough-textured painting. She'd used a palette knife for some parts, piling on paint for depth.

“Edward Young. One of my favorite poets. I only paint.”

“If you won't tell me your name, I'm going to call you Mr. Sable. Night artist in this dark gallery.”

“Now
you're
waxing poetic. And you're in pain. Paint from that pain.”

“Right now?”

“Do you want to return to school?”

“No. I can't.”

She slid another canvas board from her bag, prepared earlier with a wash of white gesso. She stared at the whiteness, the absence of color, emotion, passion. She let it hypnotize her until she reached deep inside herself. Without thought she dipped her brush into the black paint.

When she came out of her deep trance, that intense concentration she'd found the night before, she stared at the painting. A body slumped on a street curb just off center, curled into itself, blond head tucked into knees, arms circling legs, as if holding the body together. She imagined the body flying off in all directions, broken pieces strewing the street if it weren't wrapped tightly. Long fingers bit into the leg flesh, holding tightly like the straps on a trunk, long sealed up, hiding a secret. The sky was leaden, threatening, as if it could easily swallow up the figure.

She'd alternated color on a corner of the brick building so that it imitated piano keys. But probably she was the only one who would see that in the painting.

“That's your friend, isn't it?” The low voice spoke for the first time. There had been no verbal communication while she painted, but now that she was aware, she thought she had probably felt his presence while she worked.

“He's in pain.”

“You've captured it well.”

“Did—did you help me?”

“Do you think I did?”

“I don't know.”

Had he guided her hand? Was this his work or hers? Did it matter? A sudden fit of laughter bubbled up.

“What am I going to tell Roddy, Mr.Sable? That a ghost helped me paint these new pictures. That I was heavily influenced by two paintings that have appeared on the wall in my dark gallery?”

She laughed out loud.

“Tell him they came from inside you. That side that is sensitive to others. You can't escape the world around you.”

“How do you know?”

“I tried.”

“Tell me about it.” She cleaned her brushes, easing the creamy acrylic paint from the soft bristles.

“It doesn't matter now.”

“What if it matters to me?”

“Then you'll know sometime.” He left. She felt him go.

“Mr. Sable!” She stood and whirled around. “Why did you leave? I'm sorry I pried. I won't ask questions. I don't really care who are you. I don't care about anything but your art. My painting.” She stared into the dim corners. Even walked over and opened the other door. It was the first time she'd opened that door. Something had kept her from doing so.

A dark musty smell floated over her, around her. Cold, dry darkness, empty. Goose bumps raised on her arms. Icy air stabbed her stomach. Pain—his pain. Loneliness—his loneliness.

She slammed the door, wanted to lock it, but there was no key in the small narrow slot under the cold brass knob.

Please don't be really gone, she thought. Promise me you'll be back.

She got no answer. She gathered her paints and last night's painting. She left a final thought message.
I'll be back tonight. Please be here
.

She couldn't imagine losing him.

eight

L
A
D
ONNA DASHED DOWN
the hill, took the short cut to the high school, and was able to get back to school in time for art class. She took last night's painting—had she only finished this last night? So much had happened it seemed weeks ago. She took the canvas board and placed it on her easel while people wandered into class and got settled. She stared at it, making sure she wanted Roddy to see it.

Yes, she was still pleased. In this light, the lack of color was even more effective. Dark stood out from light in a perfect balance.

She felt Roddy standing behind her before he spoke. “Did you paint this, LaDonna?” Roddy didn't believe the painting was hers either. What should she tell him?

“I—I—yes, late last night.” She had placed the paint on the canvas. Where the inspiration came from was still an unknown, and there was no way she could explain it to Mr. Rodriguez.

“It's—it's wonderful. It has such emotion, something your paintings have lacked. What inspired you?” Roddy reached out carefully and touched some of the lines, ran his finger across the horizon.

“I've been looking at a lot of art work. I found a couple of paintings that I really liked, that touched me. I—I—imitated their style a little. Do you think that's all right? To imitate someone's style that you admire?”

“Of course, LaDonna. Sometimes we call that echoing. Music composers do it all the time, echo a phrase from an early symphony or concerto. Painters have been doing the same thing for all of time. Experts have looked at paintings and wondered if an old master painted it—Rembrandt for instance, but they suspect it was the work of one of his students. Whose paintings were you studying?”

“I'd rather not say.”

Roddy didn't press her. “Well, whoever it was, it was a fortunate happening. Something in his work touched you, enabled you to take that leap of painting with emotion yourself. Emotion was really what was lacking in your work, LaDonna. I've just now realized it. I think you've taught me something. I tell students to paint from their hearts, but I can't show them how to do that.”

“I have a confession to make, Roddy.”

“I'll never tell.” He turned and smiled at her and there was pride in that smile. LaDonna took it in. She realized she badly needed Roddy's praise.

“I cut classes this morning. People were pestering me about Johnny. Asking me questions since he wasn't here to talk for himself. I couldn't take it. I went—I went home and painted another picture. I'll bring it in tomorrow.”

“Did you paint it with the anger that made you leave school?” He guessed her emotion.

“No, I painted from Johnny's pain. I talked to him this morning. Then I put myself inside of him when I worked.”

“You've made that leap, LaDonna. I think you've found that magic place, deep inside yourself. That place where art comes from. Wadsworth calls it ‘the inner vision.' That place where all your senses are involved.”

All LaDonna's senses and emotions had been so involved this morning that she couldn't take it, she realized. That was why she had left school. The murder of Katherine Taylor sickened her. Johnny's pain was her pain. Mary Lou's fear had echoed her fear of the night before.

“I wish I could have discovered that place without Katherine being murdered,” LaDonna said in a low voice. She didn't want any of the class to hear her, to join in this conversation.

“You knew her?”

“Not really. But I had met her. That room was near where Johnny practices. He introduced me to her.”

“I understand your feelings, LaDonna.” Roddy touched her shoulder, something he'd rarely done before, observing the unwritten rule of teachers not touching students, even those who so badly needed the touch of a friendly hand. “I could be called a Pollyanna, but I like to think life has balance. That good can come from evil. If your finding that inner eye within yourself from which you can create paintings like this came from Katherine's death, that can be some comfort to you.”

“I would never have thought of that, Roddy. I'd like to feel that way. Thanks for sharing your feelings, your thoughts about this.”

“That's what teachers are for.” He changed his tone of voice to teasing. She had seldom heard him serious for long.

“Roddy.” She could tease, too. “You said something in
his
work touched me. My other teacher. How do you know it was a he?”

“My sincere apology, LaDonna. I try to be politically correct. Something in
his or her
work touched you. Was the artist you have taken as mentor female?”

She grinned. “No, but I just wanted you to admit it could have been.”

“Done. When will you bring your second work in?”

“Tomorrow. It was still wet.”

“I'll look forward to seeing it. Now get started on another right now.” Roddy moved to stand behind Merilee Morris, who was staring at them, her eyes red, as if she had been crying. LaDonna wondered if Merilee had bought into Eric Hunter's flirting ways only to get hurt when she realized he came on to all women that way.

Not my problem, she thought. She set the painting of the yearning child on the floor in front of her easel. She prepared another canvas board, a bigger one this time. Then she stood and stared at it. The blank canvas stared back. She had read about writers facing a white page every morning, or maybe now a blank computer screen. This must be the same feeling.

She had no feeling left, she realized. She had completely emptied her emotions into the picture she'd painted in the basement room. Or—or—she didn't want to complete her thought.

Eric Hunter kept her from having to, and at the same time restored her strong feelings. He stood staring at the picture on the floor. Then he leaned over and picked it up. She didn't want him to touch it, but it was too late.

He leaned it on her easel, ignoring the wet white gesso. Stepping back, he caught his chin between his thumb and first finger. She held her breath, not meaning to, not wanting to care what he thought of her work.

“
You
painted this?”

His tone of voice said she didn't. Said he didn't believe that she had. The statement restored her own doubts, but she would never admit them to Eric.

“Are you saying I didn't?” Her voice was sharp, but controlled. She
didn't
care what he thought.

“The style looks really familiar. I've seen pictures a lot like it before.”

“The Mexican painter Orozco painted in a similar style. Maybe that's what you're seeing.”

“I don't know his work,” Eric admitted.

“In order to paint or teach you should have a wide knowledge of other painters.” Slam dunk. She loved criticizing him.

He never even noticed the sharp twist of her knife. Some really sensitive guy we have here, wanting to paint and teach art, she thought.

“Who did you copy?” He swung around and stared at her. “Where did you find a picture like this?” His eyes were steel gray daggers, nailing her to the table behind her. She was surprised at the emotion in his voice.

“I resent what you're saying, Mr.—” She caught herself. They had given him so many nicknames behind his back, she nearly called him another name without meaning to. “Mr. Hunter. I painted this picture. And tomorrow I'll have another. You're out of line.”

She took the picture and, wrapping it in a soft dry paint rag, placed it in her tote bag.

“I hope you didn't learn your teaching skills, your method of criticizing a student's work at Bellponte College. I plan to study there next year, and I'd hate to think the teachers are anything like you.” She minced no words in cutting him down. She had a great deal of respect for Mr. Rodriguez. She had none, she owed none, to Eric Hunter.

For the second time that day, she left school. Only a few minutes before the class was over, but she realized she couldn't paint any more today anyway, especially in the art room. With Eric Hunter looking over her shoulder. Doubting. That would be the way to shut up his accusations. To let her watch her compose a similar picture. But it was useless.

She was going to Johnny's house. She was suddenly worried about Johnny Blair. A strong, deep concern sent her towards his house, almost at a run.

nine

H
ER INSTINCTS WERE
right. Johnny was upset. His mother was glad to let LaDonna in. “I hope you can talk him into practicing. He's not very good company right now.” Mrs. Blair smiled and pointed towards the next room. LaDonna thought she was probably used to Johnny's moods, but she seemed concerned about him as well.