Part II: Journeys (Chapter 30)
The car radio is tuned to a jazz station. “Taking
the Plunge (for Jennifer)” from Spyro Gyra’s Alternating Currents album
wails through the four speakers.
I hum along.
I help Shel load up the trunk
of the Jetta: one cooler filled with beer, soda, and ice; another filled with
potato salad, hot dogs, lunch meats, and hamburger; grocery bags filled with
buns, potato chips, and condiments; and two Orioles’ bags stuffed with swimming
suits, towels, and long pants for Shel who freezes to death when the
temperature drops below 75 degrees.
Rolled up and stuffed in the
back, along with dozens of failed attempts, is my latest painting, a geometric
self-portrait in various tints of Prussian Blue, my trademark color. This 48” x
72” masterpiece is the culmination of my life’s work, the result of at least a
hundred false starts – an attic filled with flawed selves, some of them
stretched and framed, but most of them only half-finished and rolled up,
stuffed into the eaves. I can’t seem to destroy those mistakes, yet I can’t
show them to anyone; it’s important I keep them safely hidden, away from those
who would judge and deem them as “unacceptable.”
Although I’m nearly certain
that I was awarded the grant to France on the merits of this latest work, I
haven’t yet decided if I’ll show the painting to my relatives – would they even
understand its significance? Mostly, I’m afraid they’ll laugh at my work and
marginalize it.
Next to the painting: a
portfolio filled with some old letters, photos, and other memorabilia, stuff I
haven’t looked at in years, including copies of letters I wrote a few years
back to George, my prisoner pen pal. I wonder whatever happened to him?
Not sure why I packed the
portfolio. I doubt if I’ll be sharing it with my family.
“Samantha!” Shel shouts from
the top step leading into Sal’s house, “I can’t find my jeans.”
“I’ve already packed them.”
“Oh.” Shel bounds down the
steps and pokes his head into the back seat. “God, look at this mess!”
Debris from the trip litters
the floor: McDonald cups and wrappers, candy papers, old newspapers, and
crumpled paper towels.
“We’re picking up Nana in five
minutes,” I say. “Sal says they don’t have room in the van.”
Shel slaps his forehead. “I’ve
got to clean up this mess. Can’t put her in this pigsty.” He swoops up garbage
and tosses it into a trash can outside the garage, working until the car is
cleaned out. He slaps his hands together. “Still a filthy car.” He looks into
the trunk. “We even have room for her wheelchair?”
“Sal’s taking it in the van. So,
we’ve got to make sure we all arrive at the nursing home and then at Winnehaha
at the same time.” I jump into the passenger side and turn down the volume on
the radio, which is now playing Heavy Weather by Weather Report.
“Complicated arrangements...”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, it’s nothing.”