pain(t)

“You know, darlin’, I swear I ain’t seen you wash as many dishes as you’ve washed tonight”

“Mama, they teach you wonders in the New”

“Now if you’ll go around callin’ it that and these all other names, well you may as well just shine on up and kiss dad’s grant goodbye”

“Mama, it isn’t a grant if it’s from Daddy. It’s pocket money”
“Well you just go on with that mouth and you’ll see”

Mama thinks I’m still 12.

I stare at the awful Toulouse reproduction on the pantry door. I want to tear it, rip it to shreds.

“Wednesday is Auntie Linda’s cookout. You’re coming with Ryan then? I’m tired of introducing you alone Joce. What with all your dreaminess and sadness gone, I reckon it’ll be good to have you a lady in your own town”

Husky blue eyes. Ryan. Ryan.

“I don’t suppose I even told you about him”
“Well, he’s been boasting around town in that truck of his and how the pretty girl from out of town kissed him on the porch steps. In the snow he always say. Always in the snow”

“Mama..”
That idiot.

“Well he’s a handsome dreamboat Joce. Makes good money. What are you waiting for?”

This conversation always ends the same. Me, crying.

“I suppose I’m waiting to be old and gone mama. I don’t want Ryan that way”

“What the hell were you doing around town kissing him? That father of his made district attorney and his mama owns fine jewelry”

Mama imagines Mrs. O’Leary’s pearls and sapphires at night I bet. I bet she stays up and conjures a night sky. Empty as an ocean. Dark blue. With O’Leary’s diamonds lighting up the overwhelming panoramic swish of black.

Overwhelming panoramic swish of black.

“Hey Ryan, Joce huh?”

“Lay off it. She’ll be gone before we know it. What with Bobby’s baby and everythin’”

“Awwwe jeez. Always the optimist”

Ryan is painting. His hands stained. His understanding of Jocelyn – a blur. He paints landscapes. Like a sensible artist. Cleans his brushes. Empties the jar of paint-water. Retires his flannel shirt. Stands before the bathroom mirror. He is the epitome of man. Strong. Clean. Man. Joce is dizzy with lust thinking of him this way.  Dizzy. Absolutely a blur. Shakes. Shaking.

Max is burying Ava. Her opened coffin – a grotesque mural. A beautiful woman asleep. The unfortunate reader might envision Pre-Raphaelite delicacy. Ophelia, Lady of Shalot. The muses. The seasons. Tall, slim, blithe women with light eyes and no force.

Braided hair. Soft-hued cheekbones. Not shining. Luminous quiet. Nothing. Nothing there anymore. Nothing there at all.

Someone coughs. Leaves rustle. A misty white wine will be served before the haddock.

Men shake Max’s hand. He stands and shakes hands with what seems like masses.

Ava is now in the ground. He stares at the incision they made in the ground so that her body might be placed there. The fresh ground heaped on top of the wound. With a lovely woman inside it. He imagines an earthy infection. A fever. That Hades might reject her lovely bones. That he’ll cough her up, naked. That she’ll be mute and lost in London but find her way back home. Max is going mad.

Max is staring at insanity. It is smiling at him. Max wants to taste Ava’s mouth. Max wants to stare down at Ava and claim what’s his. Max wants Ava. Max wants to die of sadness. He is incredibly sensible of course. He removes the occasional lint off his trench-coat. He clears his throat most demonstrative of public benevolence. He takes one more look at the earth, his dead wife, the autumnal sky, the manicured hands that shake his own. He closes his eyes. He breathes in all his hurt. Breathes on top of the hurt. Allows for no performance. Clenches his jaw and turns around.

Forgets.

“Max! No, Max. It’s a play on words mate,” Grandfather laughs and laughs.

“Surely, not from good old Billie”

Reading Hamlet. Max and his brother. Handsome, tall blokes of sixteen or so. With annotated translations all around the breakfast table in the conservatory.

“See here. Re-member me. To put back lovingly, Max. To put back together again”
“To reconstruct”
“Yes Max, to rebuild. To remake. Member is a memory”
“Every piece of flesh, a memory”

“Every piece of flash, a memory” (flash flash)

“Flash?”

“Like a spark, mate”

“A spark”
“A fire”

“That fire wasn’t built to be put out”
“What are you doing here?”
“Well, there are some places that are like people. Dark, mangled, but it don’t mean you don’t know them inside and out”

“Suppose you feelin’ like you’ve found a crux huh?”
“The tiniest core of the tiny core where it’s fleshy and delicious”

Ryan holds me. 

“When you leavin’ this sad old place?”
“Tomorrow”

“Tomorrow huh”
“Tomorrow baby”

“Baby”

Ryan’s weight on mine. I think of the last paper I have to hand in. I think of Maria. What she’s doing. Her beautiful smile. Her beautiful ass.

“Baby”

Sighed, binding, mutually obligatory bite lips. Satellites. Frostbitten windows. Pretty shapes like they’re cut out by kindergarteners makin’ them white paper beauties.

Pewter. Sharks. The moon. The gentle moon. Sharks. Sharks. Teeth. Flash flash.

“Baby”

“Ryan, what do you want?”
“I want my paintings to moan like women. With half the work”
I laugh. I light one and stare at his landscapes. Tormented forests. An ocean in purgatory. An agonizing vision of a severed tree trunk. Awful.  Landscapes.

“Did you try paintin’ hands?” Deep inhale. Foggy. Head blur.

“Give me yours”
I give him my hands.

He licks them. They’re wet and shiny. They’re like honey in the light.

“I thought you said with half the work”

“Who said it’s work?”
“When the breathing is labored…”
“Are you being clever Miss Jocelyn?”
I’m not being anything. I want him to lick my hands and erase my fingerprints. My heart, broken, might explode. It might just fall into my stomach. To be eaten by acid. To be expelled. To be gone. So I’ll walk around proper empty.

Empty.

I’m thankful for Bobby’s absence. He knows. I can’t fathom seeing his face, his eyes. I’m torn to and from him. I’m torn. I want to stand before him, to see him. I want to be away from him, to forget. I want to forget.  I want to remember.

Ryan drops me off at the train station. He kisses my cheek. He presses my hand to his heart. He lingers. He stares at my face.

“You got everythin’?”

“Yah, you handsome man”
“You got your books?”
“All 2”
“You got your lungs?”
“All 2”
“You got your heart?”
He smiles. Unshaven, clean. Man.

“All 2”

He laughs. I laugh.

I get out of the car and wave happiness and bliss towards him. He grins his Nordic love. I bear it. I light one. I stare at the sky. Someone coughs. Leaves rustle. Someone died. It’s me isn’t it? It’s me.