12-29-05, 12:00 pm
Continued from Portrait, part 1
“You were too slow. I just didn’t need to be in there anymore,” he replied curtly.
The woman stopped wiping her camera’s lens and eyed the man with a mild look of concern on her face. “Are you alright, man? You look a bit pale.”
“Yes, well. It can’t be helped. I’m bloody English, Lydia.” Underlying his obvious sarcasm, there was an acute sense of discomfort. The man cleared his throat and added in a softer voice, “Did you get the shot then, Lydia?”
“Yeah,” said Lydia, resuming the wiping. “But I had to elbow a few people out of the way. Ours won’t be the only feature tomorrow, you know. People eat this shit up.”
“That shit, as you so eloquently put it, is revolting.”
“Aw come on, Nige, it’s done exactly to provoke this kind of violent reaction. You know you’re going to write about it.”
“Yes, Lydia. I will, but only because I have to. People should know that this is not...not right.” “What the hell are you talking about? It’s a free country, man. People can do what they they want.”
“Yes, but using death to beget fortune is simply reprehensible. It’s unforgivable. The shame of it all is that she really has a true talent. Something intangible. Something unseen but sensed. Those paintings are…”
“Beautiful?” the photographer completed his sentence for him.
“No. Well….yes. I don’t know,” replied Nigel with an exasperated tone. Pausing to fish a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbing his forehead with it. “They’re disturbing and magnificent at the same time. It’s as though they speak, but it’s what they may speak of that scares me.
“But isn’t that the effect that the painter probably was going for?”
“There’s only one person who can really answer that. We must interview her, this…what’s the girl’s name again?
The photographer named Lydia pulled a crumpled program from her pocket and poured over the pages with her eyes. She raised her eyebrows when she found what she was looking for.
“Her name’s Joan Payne.”
Lydia’s voice echoed in Joan’s ears. Who were these people? What were they talking about? How could a complete stranger find such offensive meaning in the abstract shapes and colors? The buzz around her seemed miles away. She didn’t hear the rest of the reporter’s conversation with his photographer. She didn’t see George. She couldn’t feel the heat of the bright lights. It was as though she were numb and deaf, trapped in a bubble of semiconsciousness that separated her from the rest of the world.
Instinctually, she made her way to the Dark Room. There was a line forming to get through the black velvet curtain. A whisper emanated through the crowd as fellow students recognized Joan approaching and parted like the Red Sea allowing her to pass. Some of them stared with curiosity, others with jealousy. Without a glance, Joan slipped through the curtain into the darkness.
Once her eyes adjusted, she could see that the room was packed. Everyone was staring in the same direction. In the anonymity of obscurity, Joan made her way to the front. The journalists were all straining to hear Professor Dutton who stood alone under a dim light. Ignoring her professor, Joan’s eyes were glued to the display behind him. She could not explain what she saw. Four paintings hung in a solemn row behind Dutton. Each one was slightly different from the next but similar enough to be part of a recognizable series. The same elements were apparent; a dark human form at the center of a swirling maelstrom of fiery color, arms and legs twisted at strange, unnatural angles. Although she did not recall putting them to canvas, Joan somehow knew that these were images wrenched from the deepest recesses of her mind, from her darkest dreams. She had seen them before. She had felt them before. She had been here before. Her skin grew clammy and a cold feeling of uneasiness spread through her bones. Her left temple began to pulse and suddenly her heartbeat felt like a bass drum in her chest.
“…and I think the person best-suited to answer your questions is finally here. Miss Payne?” At the sound of her name, the surreal bubble around her burst. Joan suddenly found herself standing in the middle of a dark room full of strangers. And they were all staring at her expectantly, whispering in speculation. All that she could discern in the shadows were the whites of their eyes.
“Miss Payne, why don’t you come up here and answer a few questions.”
Dutton had seen her in the crowd and was now leading her to the same spot he had just occupied under the murky spotlight. His forehead was beaded with sweat and his lofty tone was descending temporarily into agitation. Under his breath he spat, “You took your time getting here, didn’t you? I told you you’d have some questions to answer. Now go on.”
With a little shove from Dutton, she was standing all by herself in the pool of light. Although she could no longer see the people, she could feel their eyes boring right through her. She felt as though she were in a strange childhood nightmare standing on stage in front of a packed auditorium, completely naked and vulnerable. Dutton was pointing to someone in the darkness, apparently taking questions.
“What was your inspiration for these paintings?” a voice asked from the rear of the Dark Room. Before the first voice had even finished posing the question, another voice chimed in from the opposite side.
“Does your painting have any relation to the recent serial murders?”
The second voice had a vaguely accusatory tone to it. Dutton had disappeared. Joan was alone and the questions were now coming from all directions.
“Are you doing this to garner publicity or do you really see this as art?”
The room was crumpling around her and each question resonated through her head like voices down a deep, dark well. And she was at the bottom of it, drowning and sinking slowly. Now both her temples were pulsating, and she could feel the bass drum of her heart forcing cold, crystallized blood through her veins. Each crystal scraped along the inside of her vessels, shredding her from the inside out. The pain was sharpening.
She was catching the bus home in front of school. Just behind her, a fair girl with a cello was running towards the bus stop as fast as she could. “Hold the bus!” she cried. “I ain’t no chauffeur, gotta schedule to keep!” yelled the dour bus driver as he purposely started driving even before Joan was fully on the bus. The girl with the cello had no chance. He was sweaty and angry but strangely exhilarated as he floored the gas. His unsmiling mouth twitched slightly. He liked the surge of power he felt as the bus pulled away. The girl was alone at the bus stop, except for her cello. Like Joan and her easel.
Suddenly the girl with the cello and the surly bus driver disappeared and Joan was blinded by the bright lights of a supermarket. She could hear George somewhere in the background and she could smell something sweet. She had her hands on some….
“Nice melons, how are they today?” An elderly lady with glasses was beside her. Her hands were as wrinkled and gray as an elephant’s skin. “I’m trying to switch my grandkids from candy to fruit....” Joan wondered if all grandmothers cared about what their grandkids ate. She wondered if they all smelled of camphor and melons. But she didn’t know. She’d never had a grandmother. She’d never had a family. Joan blinked.
When she opened her eyes, she was no longer in a market but seated at a candlelit table. There was music playing, a romantic melody. But there was no one across from her and only one setting on the table. A long tanned arm was pouring her a glass of red wine. The waiter had a youthful, handsome face. He made small talk and even toasted with her so she wouldn’t feel alone in this room full of dining couples and clinking glassware. All the while he had a sad look in his eyes. Pity. He felt sorry for her. Her cheeks burned. Something inside her burned.
Joan was dizzy, confused, and sweating. Her migraine was peaking and the pain was unbearable. The images flooding through her mind were now seared into the back of her eyes. Trapped in the pool of light with no escape, she realized that these forgotten memories were shattering the very core of her reality.
“Ms. Payne, please explain your inspiration for your work.”
“Ms. Payne?”
“Joan!”
“Ms. Payne, say something!” Professor Dutton emerged from the shadows to spit venomously in her ear.
“Joanie!”
Suddenly a familiar voice cut through the crowd. “Joanie, what’s going on? Are you alright?” George emerged from the darkness and stepped into the pool of light with her. The questions were still being hurtled at her like daggers and she was still standing naked on that stage with no shield. The pain in her temples was getting worse. She had to get out of here.
Out of nowhere she heard a blood-curdling scream that silenced the crowd instantly. Gathering what strength she had left, Joan took advantage of the moment and bolted for the curtain. To her amazement, no one tried to stop her. Not even George. She hit the white light of the main gallery like a brick wall but kept on running. Running, running, away from the memories, away from the pain.
Once again the world was black. Tendrils of brilliant blue appeared in the void and wrapped themselves around her. There were no crimson storms. Just blue strands of color winding themselves around her feet and continuing upwards towards her face. She felt no chill, no fear, no apprehension, no pain. She felt nothing. She welcomed whatever was happening. Up they came, up and up. Now they were around her shoulders, caressing her like soothing hands. They wrapped around her neck and once again she was struck by the peaceful feeling. She felt no pain and no fear.
The scream had silenced the room, but only for a few seconds. As soon as Joan bolted, the crowd erupted in confusion. The fear in her voice still rang in George’s ears. He had never heard her raise her voice before, much less release the wail of a forsaken banshee. The hair on the back of his neck was still standing and he found his fists clenched so tightly that his nails were digging into his palms.
The crowd was pouring out of the gallery in search of their quarry. It was only as he stepped out of the light that George saw the paintings on the wall. The plaque under the first one said “Untitled 1 by Joan Payne.” They were all hers. Without studying the paintings in great detail, George suddenly understood the journalists’ line of questioning. The paintings bore a startling resemblance to the recent murders, even down to the order in which they were placed on the wall. The figures in the first two paintings were almost feminine, with recognizable curves despite the distortion of their limbs. The figures in the second two were more dense and masculine. Instinctually, George knew he had to find Joan before anyone else did. The only place she would have gone was home to her apartment and to her easel. As he ran out of the gallery and into the night, a light rain started falling. A man was stopped at the corner waiting to cross the street, pulling a newspaper out of his bag to shelter himself from the rain. Without thinking, George grabbed the newspaper as he dodged out in front of traffic. The man yelped in anger but George didn’t hear a thing as he jumped into the nearest cab and headed towards Joan’s apartment. In the cab, he poured over the newspaper.
The killings began four weeks ago with the murder of Jean Geld.
“Four weeks ago?!!” George desperately tried to remember what had happened four weeks ago. That was just about the time Joan started having her weird headaches. She had left class and gone home early on a Tuesday and he hadn’t seen her till the weekend.
A week later, Maria Martinez was found in her apartment in the Amesback neighborhood.
Pinching his forehead with his shaking hands, George tried to stimulate his memory. Joan had made him dinner last week. They had gone grocery shopping together at the corner market for dessert. He bought his favorite Cool Whip and Snickers. Joan had opted for melon. But she had gone home with another headache even before they finished the pasta. That damned melon was still rotting in his fridge.
The following week Martin Elias, a 54-year-old Honduran immigrant and bus driver from Hill Park was found in his residence.
The body of a young man was found in an apartment in Ashton Village.
Joanie had declined to go to the Dali documentary with him and the next day she almost missed the submission deadline. And she’d had another migraine.
It was warm and humid inside the cab but George felt a chill run down his spine.
“This is all just a crazy coincidence,” he told himself. “Maybe she’s somehow psychic? Or maybe a tumor or a blood clot in her brain. I’ve seen character-altering headaches on Young and the Restless before. It could happen.”
And the paintings? He had learned early on in their friendship that Joan was unusually passionate about her craft. To her it was less a craft than a necessity. She captured her life on canvas in order to understand the good and to exorcise the bad. That’s how she dealt with the world around her. That’s how she explained all the other paintings; Abandon, Betrayal, Lost in Red.
George always remembered the day he helped her clean her apartment. While Joan had swept and moved furniture, he had smoked cigarettes and enviously gone through her immense collection of sketches and paintings. Although he knew little about her past, George knew the disquieting titles rang with truth and meaning. They had an unspoken agreement that he would never ask and she would never tell.
His reasoning was not helping him figure anything out. Before the cab even came to a full stop, he was bounding up the steps to Joanie’s apartment. The driver yelled at him to pay his fare, but George paid no heed. Taking the stairs two at a time, he was out of breath by the time he reached Joanie’s door.
“Joanie?” he called. “You there?”
The door was ajar. He pushed the door open slowly, expecting to see her crumpled on the couch. But there was no one. And not a sound to be heard. The room was dark except for the anemic glow of a streetlight outside. Suddenly anxious for the honesty of 60 watt light, George felt along the wall for the main switch. Strangely, when the light flooded the room he heard himself breathe a sigh of relief as though some part of him were happy to be alone in the room.
He could tell that Joanie had been here recently. The room had been thrashed as though she had come home looking for something. The couch was pulled away from the wall of bookshelves and canvases were strewn all over the room. Everything was in a state of disarray except for one thing. Untouched by the disorder around it, the easel stood in the middle of the room as it always did. A single canvas rested on it. Holding his breath and clenching his fists, George inched towards it.
It was obviously the fifth in her series of paintings with the same composition of fiery colors. But instead of being bent in acute angles, the central figure was suspended in the middle of the colorful void by one single wisp of blue. The figure was hanging by its neck in a state of morbid repose. As he stared at the canvas, George noticed another difference. The figure in the middle was not abstract or faceless. He recognized the delicate shape of its shoulders and the deep raven shade of its hair. In the upper right corner, almost obscured in the swirling colors, he could discern a rectangle of light with a shadowy figure lurking beyond it.
“Oh God!” George turned around to make sure no one was in the doorway behind him. Relieved to see no one, the chill did not leave his body. He could not explain it, but he could almost feel the sinister painting reaching out to him. He had to see Joan, but was afraid of what he would find. Running to the only other room in the apartment, he kicked in the bathroom door. It was dark and empty. The shower curtain around was drawn back from the tub and the window was open, letting in the distant city noise. Everything appeared to be normal. George was about to sigh in relief when he looked down at his feet. His breath left him and his heart dropped into his stomach. The light from the outer room flooded the bathroom cutting a white rectangle of light through the obscurity. The shape of George’s body was silhouetted against it. He suddenly understood what he was seeing. Without turning on the bathroom light, he scanned the small room looking for it.
He knew where it would be, tied around one of the clawfoot tub’s legs leading up and out of the window. It was pulled taut and rolled slightly as though whatever was tied to the other end of it had only recently stopped moving. He could hear the blue nylon rope creaking in the slight breeze. He took a few steps into the room but could not bring himself to touch the rope. He didn’t have to. Looking out the window, he caught a glimpse of himself in the window of the apartment across the street; a shadowy figure lurking in the doorway. From this angle, he could not see what hung at the end of the rope, but he knew what he would see if he took just a few more steps forward. The painting had forever seared the image of Joan dangling like a macabre puppet into his mind. In the distance, he heard an ambulance approaching.
“Too late,” he whispered.
