Howell Earwine scratched his ear with the handle of a sable brush. He was hard at work on his magnum opus: a painting, six feet tall, of the Savior's slaughter on the cross, a feral Pollockian image simultaneously repelling and exhilarating; the colors clamored in crimsons and yellows, blacks and speckled, blue blots. This abstraction had haunted him for nearly two years before he had finally begun to paint it, and once started, ruled his life; that was his method: a frenzied race to the finish with days, sometimes weeks, dissipating in the small studio he kept high above the harbor lights that pulsed at the mouth of the Thames River. In the early morning light he'd step outside for a breath of air, paying no more attention to his needs than a dust mite, the colors of his canvas smeared across wizened, alabaster cheeks. And when the picture in his head flowed from his fingers, he'd revert to that implacable place that followed neither time nor space, immersing himself in the intricacies of hue and shade that filled his ears to pounding.
- Like a fallen angel, he loved his work with a single-mindedness of purpose; not for him a taste of warm-blooded pleasure to lift his spirits when winter winds bayed through barren oaks. Just rivulets of red, blue and green, a vision to seek because life itself had come calling, and like others of his mind-set: he would not be found. He had discarded his machine shop tools fifteen years previous, cursing the dye factory that had taken forty years. On the morning of the funeral of his wife, he sat in his home milling with people he cared nothing for: to send them home he would have poured money into their hands. At first he turned to whiskey to soften the hard edge of indifference, until waking one morning with an urge to regurgitate the staleness from his life. Over the months he'd progressed from living for the whiskey to living for the canvas. At the factory he'd forced himself to make the necessary connections; retirement, however, was no longer a motive for pretense, so he'd severed ties with the beer bellies and eventually they left him alone. It depressed him to think of his old cronies roosting on the beach playing poker while the sun baked their backs to a medium-rare, or meeting at Captain Jack's to jabber-jaw about their golf game, or the latest casualty of cancer--consummate time-biders until their bodies gave out one by one and their band was reduced to a few shufflers. He had no patience for the rituals of aging and when the time came he hoped it was as subtle as the executioner's axe.
- The grocery mart, liquor store, and post office stood a half-hour's walk from his front yard, so he had little need of his 1972 Buick Riviera Classic rusting in the driveway. The tiny cape perched on the edge of a hill was neglected and dark so much of the time, few people ever knew it was occupied. He'd yanked the television cord back in 1985, used an unlisted phone number, and newspapers bored him. When devices broke down they remained as they were. All that had withstood their age were an ancient wood stove, various greasy lamps, and the oil burner--his one exception to the rule of neglect, the long New England winters dictating prudence on this matter. The front screened door banged constantly with the winter winds, causing him to attack it with a hammer one particularly sodden night, and the rotting window screens had finally succumbed to the latest storm and lay scattered about in the snow, like so many other artifacts of his little graveyard home. He filled a rusted claw foot tub with water to soak his body and clothes when he remembered to use it. When the household chaos became overwhelming, he would toss everything portable into the large trash barrel outside. As a consequence of this mind-set, he was reduced to dining on wax paper and drinking water out of empty whiskey bottles.
- "At last," Howell addressed the air, a habit he'd acquired for some time now. He stood up in his studio to critique his latest work, his eyes moving from corner to corner, never satisfied, merely spent with the knowledge that he had nothing left to give. He lifted the oversized canvas from its perch against the wall and set it against a stack of others, the oils still pungent and wet. Then he walked to the far side of the room and stared at it for a moment, "It radiates a powerful presence. Still, the perspective is unusual, looking down on His face as if painted from heaven itself." His words hung in the air for lack of a recipient. He looked around as if waking from a trance, suddenly aware of his body's plea for sleep. Already the next picture loomed in his mind's eye: a three dimensional fountainhead of rough textures and serous light, of burlap and persimmon. It tugged at him, and if not for the hunger pains that racked his gut, he would have continued on for hours.
He rummaged through cupboards, finding a tin of tuna and a jar of cracked olives among lines of tomato soup cans and chick peas. He lit the stove for tea and spotted a box of stale saltines on the counter. Gathering up his find in his shirt-front, he dumped it onto a rose-patterned tin folding tray, and then fell into a sagging recliner to eat his breakfast (or lunch as he was not sure of the time of day). He'd found a grocer that delivered, but kept forgetting to place orders. After the meal, he reluctantly washed and changed into a semi-clean shirt. (Shaving was a thing of the past and he only trimmed his mustache when it invaded his lips.) The beard he let run wild, and was surprised to find it dusted with pigments. Yellow-gray eyes rimmed red from sleepless nights stared back at him in the mirror. He ran stained, cracked fingers through sparse white hair and thought: I am old. What does it matter? His head ached from eye strain; the light was not good today, a dank, dark infusion of hovering clouds.
- Better do what needs to be done. He dialed for groceries, then walked to the mailbox pulling out several days worth of bills and junk mail. He retrieved his checkbook from under a pile of dirty laundry and paid his bills two months in advance. Donning a dirty oilcloth jacket, he followed his usual routine, stopping off at the post office for stamps and the liquor store for a well-deserved bottle of Canadian Club. He returned home in less than an hour and would not venture past his front porch for another two months. Bottle in hand, he waited on the screened porch for the teen-aged boy who delivered his groceries. On hot summer nights he liked to lie here in the hammock where it was cooler than the poorly ventilated studio. He put the groceries away, drank a mouthful of whiskey, and fell into a dead sleep that would last nearly fifteen hours.
- Claire watched Howell at work in his studio every day. When he sat in front of the massive picture window that framed his easel, the glass mirrored his likeness under a mammoth magnolia tree. She rarely witnessed his entry or exit, just that he was always there, as conscientious as a clock puncher on the midnight shift. Claire climbed the stairs and peered out the second floor window of her house where she lived alone. She watched his arm rise, sweep back and forth, then return to the palette in a repetitive rhythm that mimed a maestro. They'd spoken briefly over the years, and she'd issued him several dinner invitations, but he invariably refused her offers.
- He fascinated her. She was the only witness to the weight of his devotion. In the middle of the night when she couldn't sleep, she'd warm a mug of tea and find a comfortable position by the window to watch him at work. His presence reassured her. Her romantic sensibilities imagined these nightly meetings as their special time together. She grew more and more dependent on his lit figure behind the glass, while the rest of the world slept. Claire had never been inside his home, though she could reach out her side window and touch his shingled wall with the tips of her fingers.
- When Howell bolted upright, it was still dark outside. His mind dusted off the fringes of nonsensical creatures that pursued him in his dreams. Sleep had become a necessary evil in his old age, the monsters of his mind chasing away all that was good, as if to warn him of their impending exile. The subconscious is culpable for all delusions, he thought, as he turned on a lamp and nothing happened.
- "Damn," he yelled, stubbing his toe on the notched metal frame of the bed. He hobbled over to the doorway and flicked on the switch, flooding the room with harsh florescent light. When he reached the kitchen he discovered it was three in the morning, not an unusual time for him to begin his day. He gulped down a bottle of water--the whiskey had made him thirsty--and stumbled out the back door in boxer shorts, rubber boots, and a torn sweater, stopping to pee in the bushes. A padlock secured the garage door; he fumbled in the dark searching for the right key. When he found it he threw the door open and locked it from the inside. Climbing the narrow stairs to his studio he nearly fell over a pile of supplies that lay in his path. When his eyes had adjusted to the gloom he found the chain that flooded his studio with light and searched for the Movlin`a Papier d'Arches watercolor block that had arrived with his last order. He owned thousands of dollars of art supplies, choosing only the best of everything. The proof of yesterday's pains lay stacked up against the walls all but forgotten. This new piece would be small, 18 by 24 inches, a landscape of blossom and earth, liquid light and granular pathways. As he visualized the composition in his mind, he tore at the heavy plastic wrapping, ripping a nail in his haste. Placing block on easel, he filled a new palette, grabbed a fresh brush, and taking a deep breath began to work, muttering, "...finally." He painted as the sun rose and filled the room. Claire balanced a strawberry pie in one hand and knocked on Howell's front door with the other. When there was no answer she walked around the side of the studio and saw him at his easel. She knocked on the door and waited. When there was no response she knocked again, yelling up to the window, "Mr. Earwine, it's me--Claire Richards--" She jumped at the sound of a crash and was relieved a second later to hear, "Damn," proving that he was still alive.
- "What do you want?" a voice snapped in her ear. He stood six inches away from her at a tiny ground floor window.
- "I baked you a pie." Her voice was shaky. Why didn't he open the door like normal people?
- "You called me down here for a damn pie?"
- "Excuse me for bothering you--"
- Her sarcasm was lost on him. "I am working. When I am in my studio never, never interrupt me." He slammed the window, turned his back on her, and climbed the stairs. She stood there completely unnerved, wanting to take the pie and fling it in his face, but decided instead to set it down on the cement stoop. She felt his eyes on her as she walked away. When she reached her back door she glanced up. He was standing by the window watching her. Howell waited until he was sure she was gone before resuming his work. To his irritation, his fingers were stiff and his stomach ached. This is what happens when people interrupt me, he thought, grabbing the pie on his way out. He took it inside the house and finished it off in one sitting. Now that his head had cleared somewhat he felt ashamed of his behavior.
- "Damn the good-doers," he said out loud, "damn the well-intentioned trumpeters of good news damn the altruists basking in their own piety. Why can't they leave me alone?" He returned to his studio, found what he was looking for, and carried it over to Claire's back door. It was mid afternoon now, and he had forgotten that he still wore his boxer shorts.
- Claire was on her way out when she spotted the picture. She carried it inside, propping it against the back of the couch to take a good look at it. Her ears filled with the sound of the ocean, her breathing became rapid and shallow. Staring back at her were her own two eyes, captured by the window where she had so often watched him work. Shafts of blue pierced the light, a mirror reflecting snow on glass, her shadow, the tilt of her head, the set of her chin. He had captured more than her face, he had captured the desperate longing that was her life.
- Howell paced the room. When he heard a knock at the door, he nearly dropped the whiskey bottle in his haste to answer it. He ushered her into the living room and they stood face to face. She was the first to speak.
- "Would you show me more of your work?" "Come on," he said, and she followed him out to the studio. She stood in the center of the room with the light illuminating her face. "You," the word caught in her throat as she spotted the crucifix, "...have other portraits? "No," he said, entranced by the way her skin shimmered in the light. "Would you..." he began and did not finish.
- "You want me to sit for you?"
- "Yes," he hummed the word rather than spoke it, the pleasure of it almost within reach.
- "When?"
- "Tomorrow morning."
- That night he did not rest.
- The next morning she stood barefoot by the window, a willow in a flaxen dress. His hands shook as he held the paintbrush--he needed to steady them as outline took form and form took shape, losing himself in her, an experience as intimate as making love. He sketched breasts that revealed themselves in a silhouette of sunlight, becoming all at once lover, friend, father--an artist. As he struggled to blend the shades of her skin, she slipped off her dress with one fluid movement. He looked away until she was settled to spare her feelings, awash with a new pleasure. She found a chair and gracefully draped herself around it, covering herself with a skillfully arced leg. He threw the old canvas to the floor, seized another, and began the nude.
