Whose Angel Keyring (8 page)

Miranda Jones watched the distant flash of the lighthouse for a moment, then looked away from her window to focus on a narrow band of thick paper scrolled across her studio floor. Inhaling deeply, she dipped the tapered fibers of her immense paintbrush and struggled to lift its wet mass from the inky bucket, then swept a black streak across the white paper.

She held the three-inch diameter brush handle upright—its top reaching to her waist—and resumed her bent-knee, widefooted stance. Hoisting the fully saturated brush, she began the dance that would drag it rhythmically along the paper, creating a vertical image.

Placing her bare feet on the sheet, she stepped backwards, the weight of the sodden brush causing her arms to shake. Yet each motion synchronized with both the soft
shakuhachi
flute music that played over her stereo, and with the call the paper itself seemed to be whispering in her ear.

When she reached the end of the sheet, she walked back to her starting point, replaced the brush in its bucket, and stood entranced, her soul soaking up the experience even as the image soaked into the paper.

By now her studio was permeated with the distinct aroma of the
sumi
ink. Concocted of palm ash and glue, it also contained traces of camphor and musk oil. She inhaled again, agreeing with the legend that promised the ink’s special odor helped to induce the perfect meditative state.

She’d placed four black stones—smoothed and rounded from tumbling for years through the nearby surf—as weights to hold the scroll in place. Now they almost blended into the image, as though she’d added four extra smudges of ink. But, in fact, the stones would be removed and weren’t part of what she’d painted. She scrutinized the piece.
When the stones are removed, will the piece look incomplete? Yes . . . it needs something more.

She
felt
the idea, more than she
thought
it. Focusing on an unfilled portion of the paper, she reached for a smaller brush that stood ready in its own bucket. She lifted it, then let her hand sweep through a series of motions. When she’d replaced the smaller brush, she closed her eyes and bowed over the paper, signaling the completion of the current scroll.
My teacher would add a touch of vermillion . . . but I’m not ready for that yet.

During art school a few years earlier, she’d completed a course on
sumi-e
, and since then she’d occasionally used the ancient Japanese ink-wash painting as both a meditation and a discipline. Traditionally, it was both, from the almost ritualistic grinding of the ink stone into water, to the careful handling of brushes whose hairs were trimmed to a delicate point.

But more recently she’d been accepted into a workshop by the eminent American calligrapher Barbara Bash, who’d shared her unique approach of pouring sumi ink from half-gallon bottles and using an oversized brush to create her huge scrolls.
I’ll never master this the way Barbara has, but I love how it centers my mind. It’s all about flow.

Is this a “
head
” or a “
heart
” process? If “head” was the answer, it wouldn’t be in an intellectual sense, because the ink almost seemed to be “thought-projected” onto the paper, the marks capturing a flow of movement uninterrupted by editorializing.

Though the actual painting of the ink-wash was necessarily quick, preparing for each piece was a lengthier process.
At least it is for a relatively inexperienced calligrapher like me.
The ink had to be poured, the paper laid, and the artist had to summon both energy and vision.

Miranda appreciated that this big-brush technique worked on three levels. As physical exercise, it felt similar to Tai Chi and to Yoga, both of which she enjoyed. As mental discipline, its immediacy permitted no distraction, no procrastination. A brush pressed a moment too long would cause ink to soak through and ruin both the paper and the image. She carried these lessons into her own watercolor work.

And though technically big-brush sumi-e was certainly a form of fine art, it was far enough away from her core practices of watercolor and acrylics, that it left her free from internal judgment. She could float above the brush, the paper and the image, allowing thoughts and feelings to surface freely.
I know why I love it so much. It lets my heart speak.

The CD she was listening to came to an end, and a gust of wind rattled the windows.
How many images have I done tonight? The new one makes four. And how long have I been at this? I’ve lost track of time again.
She glanced out at the moon, noting it was lower now, its color beginning to shift from silver to gold as it sank toward the ocean.
It’ll set soon, and we’ll have some black sky before dawn, so I’ll have a chance to sleep a little. I think I’m finished work for tonight.

Stepping to her worktable, she picked up her X-acto knife and carefully sliced below the end of the painted image, separating it from the heavy roll. She lifted the top edge enough to drag the long sheet parallel to the others, which were laid out on the studio floor to dry. Tomorrow she’d mount the stepladder and tack the vertical images to the wall. For now, she stared down at the new work and its three companion pieces, finished earlier that evening.

She stood back to examine the four scrolls. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “It’s the four seasons!” Amazed this hadn’t occurred to her before, she now saw clearly that the four six-foot-high water paintings described the subtle elements of California’s coastal seasons: a pine for winter; a blooming crape myrtle for spring; an olive tree for summer; and a persimmon tree for autumn.
Maybe I didn’t notice at first because the images are black-and-white.

The piece she’d just finished was of the persimmon, its signature drooping-leaves and multi-stemmed trunk so reminiscent of Asia. Yet she learned they’d been imported to California in the 1800s, and they were now as much a part of the Central Coast as any native tree. The bright orange color of the fruit came into her mind, highlighting the fall season when it ripened.

She glanced down at the bottom corner, where she’d added that final swirl of paint.
What is it? It looks like . . . a kitten!
Kneeling, she inspected the small image more carefully.
I know I had no particular definition in mind when I created it
. She remembered laying the wet brush sideways, then dotting it here and there as she lifted it off the page. But now, there they were, the distinct feline features—head and whiskers, tail and feet.

“Hello,” she said to the impish picture. “Thanks for the visit!”

Tired to the bone, Miranda stood, stretched and sighed.
Now for the cleanup.
It took her a good half hour to wash the brushes, empty the buckets, and secure anything else she might’ve left open in her workspace. By the time she flipped the light switch and headed downstairs to her bedroom, she was already half asleep.

I’ll shower in the morning, she thought. But it’s already morning! Too tired to make sense of the chronology, she washed her face, brushed her teeth and collapsed under her comforter. It’d be nice to cuddle up with that little kitty I drew.
She smiled at the fantasy and imagined the kitty tiptoeing across the covers.

Those four scrolls . . . they’re great, but I’d love to do them in full color. Maybe I can take the four seasons idea and incorporate it into my miniature watercolor postcards. . . .

As she reached to turn out the light on her nightstand, something caused her to choke. Gasping, she reached for the water bottle she kept handy by the bed, sputtering as she took a gulp.
What in the world?
It wasn’t as though she’d gagged on a morsel of food, or swallowed down the wrong pipe. She’d been choking
before
she took the swig of water.

She shuddered, trying to sense the source of whatever she might be feeling.
Is something bad about to happen?

No, not in Milford-Haven, she reassured herself. Bad things don’t happen here.

Jack Sawyer’s alarm clock stuttered into life, its plastic frame cracked from abuse. A heavy hand swept down and banged the “snooze” button, then retreated under the covers.

Jack hadn’t slept well. Keeping one step ahead of town, county, and state regulations didn’t usually keep him up at night. But now he had to contend with Samantha. No matter what he did, he could never seem to get away from that woman.

He swung his legs out from under the blanket and didn’t notice its long-forgotten coffee stains. He focused for a moment on the clock’s digital display. The last digit no longer illumnated, so it was always a guess. He hoped it was still within a minute or two of 7 a.m.

Jack headed down the hall, his bare feet leaving an occasional imprint in the dusty floor. An hour-and-a-half from now, he’d be in his office and the irritating phone calls would start: from contractors trying to pick his brains; from prospects who said other contractors could outbid him; from incompetent workers with idiotic questions; from inspectors with nasty notices. But at least his
home
phone wouldn’t ring, and he wouldn’t turn on his cell till later. Plus—today held the promise of a new client.

He reached the bathroom and scowled at himself in the mirror. The fierce blue eyes were still clear. The hair had gone salt-and-pepper, the face a little jowly. Chest and arms remained firm, thanks to the fact he spent about as much time on his job sites as behind his desk. Jack’s gaze trailed down the rest of his six-foot frame—solidly packed with muscle, but with a little too much gut.
Not bad for over fifty. Besides, only one thing really matters. Everything still functions.

Just then, his home phone did begin to ring.
Damn! Who the hell would be calling me now?
A sudden fit of coughing seized him, loud enough that he missed the next two rings of his phone, and on the fourth one his answering machine picked up.

“This is Jack Sawyer. I’m out. Leave a message if you expect me to call you back.”
He paid no attention to his own gravelly voice on the outgoing message. But after the beep, when an authoritative female voice began speaking, Jack started coughing again.

“Jack, this is Sam calling.” As if he didn’t know. “I’ll leave a message at your office, but in case you don’t go there this morning, you should know you’ll be facing an injunction. Have a nice day.”

Kevin Ransom loved the mornings better than any other time of day. In autumn, it was still dark and chilly when he got up. He never knew whether the sky would look pink or orange or lavender, so it was always a surprise. He liked that best of all.

The view from Kevin’s porch raced down a steep incline through a stand of tall California pines. The smallness of the house was made up for by the size of the trees, which stood on protected land, so they’d never be cut down. The first rays of light penetrated the upper branches like the strobe lights of a
National Geographic
photographer.
Guess the storm last night cleared out all the clouds.

The squirrel who occupied the back yard stepped onto the railing of the deck and walked gingerly toward Kevin, chattering for his morning nut. Today it would be a cashew, and Kevin couldn’t decide whether his squirrel was demanding an early Halloween treat, or stocking up for winter.

Kevin only had a few minutes before he had to leave for work. He liked to get there before Mr. Sawyer and make sure the coffee was made. It sometimes seemed to make Mr. Sawyer’s mood a little better.

“Hey, little fella.” He spoke quietly so as not to scare the squirrel off. “Want another one?” he asked. He wondered why it was always so much easier to talk to animals than it was to talk to people.