The Turning Season (12 page)

“Is that one a pet or a stray?” he asks.

“Stray. He kind of comes and goes. I put out food for him, let him sleep here, but I don't know that he really considers this place his
home
.”

Joe nods and says nothing as we cross a wide strip of lawn toward the art studio that's on the back edge of the property. The silence unnerves me a little. I wonder if he's regretting agreeing to adopt Jinx or if he's thinking about some upcoming trip he's going to take for his trucker friend or if he's just tired of making conversation with me and trying to figure out a polite way to say good-bye. But we're stuck with the art tour now. The studio is the one building I always keep locked, and we pause for a moment in front of the weathered wood door as I fish my keys out of my pocket and sort through them for the right one.

Abruptly, Joe voices the thought that must have been on his mind. “So is that your boyfriend?”

I'm so astonished that I drop the keys.
Does he mean Daniel? Oh my God, he realized Daniel was actually a man, not a dog?
I feel a sudden bloom of terror, and it's all I can do to keep from exclaiming,
How did you know?
“Is
who
my boyfriend?” I manage to ask in a cautious voice.

“That guy who was here when I pulled up.” Even I can tell that he's making some effort to keep his tone casual. “You were with him at the club, too, last week.”

Relief rushes through me like storm water through a drain. “Oh. Ryan.” I bend to pick up the keys. “No. But it's complicated.”

“He used to be your boyfriend,” he guesses.

I shrug, unlock the door, and step inside, gesturing for Joe to follow into the still and lightless space. The temperature in here is perfectly controlled; the lights are always off unless I'm showing the art to someone. From my father I learned a thing or two about the best conditions for preserving artwork. When Cooper was using this space to paint, he let light pour in from windows on all sides, but I keep the heavy curtains drawn against the sun. Cooper wasn't Picasso, maybe, but I consider his artworks true treasures. Not least because they're really all I have left of either Cooper or Janet.

“Ryan and I have known each other a long time,” I say. “And we've never gotten the relationship quite right. Shield your eyes. I'm about to turn on the lights.”

Joe doesn't cover his eyes, of course, so when the whole space flares with illumination, he stands there squinting, trying to take in everything at once. There's a lot to see. There are five or six paintings on each of the four walls, plus covered crates that hold maybe two dozen more canvases, as well as a metal cabinet with close to a hundred original prints. Whenever I start worrying about money, I calm myself by slowly going over the math.
Forty-five paintings times fifty thousand is more than two million dollars . . . If I live another thirty years, that's more than sixty thousand dollars a year.
Who couldn't live on that?

And the chances are slim that I will live another thirty years.

Joe is studying each bank of images, then making a quarter turn to gaze at the next wall of paintings. I see his eyes flick between a few of the major pieces as he identifies a recurring model. Eventually he points to the largest canvas, the one that hangs in the center of the back wall, the pride of place. It features a small, dark-haired woman sitting on the porch of the main house. It's autumn, so the background is filled with flaming trees and bushes in every gradation of orange; the hues are almost as violent as a van Gogh. But Janet sits in a calm oasis of shadow, protected, or so it seems, by the bulk of the two-story house and the overhang of the roof. She appears to be the still, calm center of a frenzied kaleidoscope, a point of serenity in a world of frightening wildness. It's hardly even a metaphor; I'm convinced that's exactly how Cooper viewed Janet.

“That must be the painter's girlfriend,” Joe says. “She's everywhere.”

I nod. “Janet used to say, ‘I can't imagine why people would want to buy pictures of
me
,' but of course what they were buying was the emotion that came through whenever Cooper would paint her. My father tried to explain the value of what he called the recurrent muse. You know, Andrew Wyeth's Helga pictures, Dante Rossetti's canvases with Jane Morris. I'm not sure she ever really got it. But she never minded posing for him.” I shrugged. “She buried her life in Cooper. To the point where it wasn't really healthy, maybe.”

He turns his head to glance over his shoulder at me. “So how's she handled his death?”

She died right alongside him.
“By running away. So I guess you'd say she hasn't handled it at all.”

“Still? Five years later?”

“Still,” I confirm. “Probably forever.”

He puts his hands in his back pockets and rotates to study another painting. Janet again, outside again, this time kneeling in one of the flower beds that she was able to maintain and that I have let go to weed and bramble. The hollyhocks and clematis make vivid reds and purples against her black hair. “I like the
idea
of a love that's all-consuming,” he says. “But it seems like it'd be awfully hard to maintain day-to-day. I mean, sometimes you have to be shopping for groceries or fixing the flat tire or balancing the checkbook.”

“Or arguing about money or arguing about values or accusing each other of being selfish,” I add.

Now he grins at me briefly before returning his attention to the canvas. “It's
your
turn to do the laundry. No, we went to your mother's
last
week. Why do
I
always have to do the dishes?” he says.

“I see we're both romantics.”

He waggles his head from side to side. “Or we hide behind old hurts to keep from stumbling over new ones,” he replies.

That surprises me, and I respond with a faint laugh. “Art and philosophy,” I say lightly. “Not quite what I expected from you.”

Another quarter-turn and he's facing me. His hands are still in his pockets, his pose is utterly relaxed, and yet I feel my pulse thrum up a level as if I were gathering my strength to flee from danger. “What did you expect of me?” he asks casually.

It takes an act of will not to step back from him. Belatedly, I recognize the sensation of champagne in my veins. Not fear, but excitement. “Good ol' boy, salt-of-the-earth dependability,” I answer honestly. “Kind but not particularly articulate.”

Now he laughs. “Well, that doesn't sound so bad,” he says. “Can I be all that but
better
?”

“Maybe,” I say, smiling. “I mean, it's too early to tell.”

“I'd be happy to give you a chance to find out more,” he offers. “Take you to dinner next time you're in town.”

I assume a demure expression. “It sounds good, but I don't come to town that often. I mean, it might be
weeks
.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, amused. “Well, maybe you could make a special trip. To see me. If we make actual plans.”

“Maybe I could do that,” I allow. “What did you have in mind?”

“There's a restaurant right off the Square. Pub food and good beer. Not too noisy, so you can hear yourself talk. Not too fancy, so you don't have to get all dressed up.” He nods in my direction. “Don't even have to pick the dog hair off of your sweater.”

I glance down and make a feeble effort to brush some of the fur and mud from my clothes, before giving it up as hopeless. “I might make a special effort, though,” I say. “You know, since I'm driving into town and all.”

“So how about this Saturday night? I could meet you there at, say, six o'clock?”

“Sounds good,” I answer. “Should I bring Jinx with me?”

He laughs. “Uh—not quite yet. I need to get the house ready first.”

“You're not going to renege on me, are you? Pretend you want the puppy just so I'll like you a little better?”

“Does that seem like the kind of behavior you'd expect from a salt-of-the-earth, dependable guy?”

“Not really.”

“Then, no. Not going to change my mind. I just need a little time. Anyway, if I have to pick up Jinx myself, I have an excuse to come back here again. It all works out.”

I feel like the grin on my face makes me look silly, so I head for the door as I try to summon a different expression. “So what's the name of this place where I'm meeting you? I don't think you actually said.”

“Paddy-Mac's. I can draw you a map.”

I wait at the door till he's stepped outside, then I turn off the lights and lock up the studio. “Not necessary. I've driven by it a dozen times, I've just never been inside.”

“I hope you like it.”

“I'm sure it'll be great.”

Silence falls between us as we head back toward the center of the property, trailed by Scottie and Jezebel. It feels like the conversation is winding down, and I can't tell if he wants to leave or hopes I'll ask him in for another Snapple and maybe an early dinner. You'd think there would be an easy way to transition to a new conversational topic, but my mind goes utterly blank. I find myself proactively despairing over the Saturday night date, which will clearly be a disaster if neither of us comes up with anything to talk about. I can only pray that a place called Paddy-Mac's features Celtic music, maybe bagpipes, something loud and wailing and difficult to speak over. No, he said it was a quiet place. We're doomed.

I sneak a glance at him, thinking I might see embarrassment or regret on his face, but he's not paying attention to me. His eyes are fixed on Alonzo, who's practicing three-point shots from the dirt apron around the patio, and missing every other one.

“Okay if I talk to him?” Joe asks, and I wonder how he knows that it might not be all right.

“You can try,” I say. “He doesn't like strangers.”

“Introduce me, then.”

Alonzo sees us approaching and waits before taking his next shot, dribbling the ball with a fast steady rhythm that is no doubt intended to communicate impatience. There is absolutely no expression on his face.

“Hey, Alonzo,” I say. “This is Joe, he works in town. He brought his dog out for me to look over.”

Alonzo nods without speaking. The ball continues to make its hollow racket against the pavement, against his hand.

“You named after Alonzo Mourning?” Joe asks.

Surprise flickers across the boy's face and he actually answers. “Yeah.”

I'm astonished. The only Alonzo I'd ever come across before was in the
Little House on the Prairie
books, but it had always seemed unlikely that my Alonzo had been named after that one. “Who's that?” I ask.

Joe doesn't answer, so Alonzo does, as briefly as possible. “Played for the Heat.”

“The who?”

“The Miami Heat,” Alonzo says, enunciating each syllable with exaggerated care.

“Is that a sports team?” I demand.

Joe is grinning. “Yes, ma'am. Basketball. He played at Georgetown before he went pro, won all kinds of awards.”

He glances at Alonzo, and I'm suddenly terrified that he'll ask the next natural question.
Was your dad a fan?
My brain freezes as I try to think of a way to head him off.

But he surprises me again. “You ever see him play?” he asks instead.

Alonzo shakes his head. He's actually stopped dribbling the ball for the moment. “I don't watch the pros much.”

“You watch college hoops?”

“Some,” Alonzo admits. This is a lie; he
loves
college basketball. He and Celeste will stay glued to the TV set during all of March Madness. Sometimes I sit and watch with them, just to be sociable, but I don't have the patience to endure the whole tournament. “Final Four, anyway.”

“I know we're all supposed to like Duke, but, Jesus, can somebody else be ranked number one? Just for a little variety?” Joe exclaims.

Alonzo actually cracks a smile. “Who do you follow?” he asks.

“Should be U of I, because they're so close, but it's usually the Jayhawks.”

“Kansas is good,” Alonzo agrees. “I like Mizzou.”

“Sometimes yes, sometimes no. They can be pretty uneven.”

“Depends on the coach,” Alonzo says. “I like the new one.”

Joe jerks his head toward the ball in Alonzo's hands. “So do you play?”

Alonzo shrugs. “A little.”

“Up for some one-on-one?”

Alonzo eyes him, so obviously cataloging Joe's strengths and weaknesses that I can't help grinning. I don't know enough about the game to weigh the relative advantages of size and age. Joe's an inch or two taller and obviously stronger, which would seem to give him the edge, but Alonzo's slimmer and probably faster. “Sure,” he says, and flings the ball straight at Joe's midsection.

Joe catches it and immediately feints to one side, dribbling with his left hand. Alonzo moves with him, close as a tango partner, his eyes never leaving Joe's face. Joe pauses, pivots, and changes course, bouncing the ball to his right hand and charging toward the basket. But in a blur of motion that's too fast for me to follow, Alonzo suddenly takes possession of the ball. He whirls, jumps, and sinks a perfect shot.

I think Alonzo's trying not to smile as he retrieves the ball and passes it back to Joe. “So that's how it's going to be, is it?” Joe says, dribbling left-handed again. Alonzo creeps closer, watching for an opportunity, and this time I see his hand snake in as Joe continues to bounce the ball. But Joe whips it behind his back and suddenly he's got it in his right hand. He points his shoulder toward the basket and edges closer, while Alonzo gives ground inch by contested inch. When he's near enough, Joe simply pauses and tosses the ball over Alonzo's head. It hits the backboard and drops through the hoop.

“Two-two,” Alonzo says.