The tempest had passed, and Georgette had finally gone outside to air her grievances to her sunflowers. She always says they listen better than I do.
The rain had not yet stopped, but it had slackened to a drizzle.
I hesitated before entering her studio, but someone had to face it sooner or later, so I went in.
Canvases were torn and strewn about the room. Paint brushes were broken into two and sometimes three pieces. Paint oozed from crushed tubes.
One painting remained intact. On the easel was my favorite so far, the one with the dog under the tree by the lake.
A palette with fresh globs of paint remained untouched on the table by the easel.
The rest of the room was in shambles.
***
You need to make her clean it herself. You need to hold her accountable for her actions.
But she is not a child. She is who she always has been, and you’ve always accepted every part of who she is. You believe in grace and mercy and compassion.
***
I began cleaning the room.
I started by scooping what paint I could into small plastic containers. I lined them up neatly and evenly on the table next to the palette, which I then cleaned so it would be ready for her next session.
I stacked up the broken frames and stretchers, and I rolled up the torn canvases. Georgette could decide what to do with them tomorrow.
***
When the studio was functional once more, I went to the kitchen to start dinner, but I stopped when I looked out the window and saw Georgette tending her flowers in her glistening rain jacket.
By now even the drizzle had stopped.
I went outside.
***
“I cleaned it all up,” I said.
Georgette froze. She turned and looked at my wet tennis shoes. I was sure she would tell me I should not be wearing my house shoes outside in the wet. She always does.
“You frightened me,” she said.
“I thought you would have heard the door slam.”
“No, I mean before.”
“I don’t handle those situations very well,” I said.
“You never have.”
“I’m sorry.”
Georgette looked at her sunflowers for reassurance. They had grown to her shoulders.
She said, “What about the one with the dog under the tree by the lake?”
“It survived.”
She said, “It’s my favorite.”
I nodded. I said, “I’m hungry. I’ll go make dinner.”
Georgette said, “You won’t forget?”
“Why would I forget? I’ll go in right now and get started.”
Georgette looked at me funny.
“I promise,” I said.
“I’ll be in shortly,” she said.
***
Just before I reached the back steps, a break in the clouds let the sunshine fall on my face. The joy of small comforts.
I closed my eyes and looked up and smiled back at the sun.
I could have stood there for hours, but I had work to do.
***
I took off my damp shoes and put on my slippers.
From the hallway, my eyes fell on the painting of the dog under the tree by the lake, and the leaves of the tree needed a little more green.
I entered my studio and found she had already cleaned it for me. She must have done it while I was outside blowing off steam. I decided to accept it as a gesture of her remorse.
Small plastic containers of spilled paint sat neatly and evenly next to the clean palette on the table beside the easel.
She always had a good heart. Just requires a little patience now and then.
I found a broken but functional paint brush and set about fixing the green in the foliage of the tree.
***
The back door slammed and I could hear Georgette in the mud room noisily shuffling off her rain jacket and garden shoes.
I hoped she would like the changes to the painting, but I didn’t want her to see it until I was finished.
When I could feel her standing in the doorway looking at my back–trying to look at the painting–I didn’t turn around. It’s a little game we always play.
Finally, she gave in and said, “I’ll make dinner.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m hungry.”
Then I quickly turned around and said, “Georgette.”
She looked at my feet and I was suddenly aware that I was wearing my garden shoes and not my slippers. I was sure she would tell me I should not be wearing my garden shoes in the house. She always does.
Georgette said, “What?”
I said, “I forgive you.”
***
At moments like these, I just can’t describe to you the kinds of looks Georgette can give me. A photo would never do justice to the array of emotions that flit and surge and rage across her face one after the other and all at once. If only I could paint quickly enough and with enough skill, you could see for yourself what a magical being has captured my heart.
<< Story #4 | Index of Stories| Story #6 >>
Originally published March 27, 2020
Discover more from Faded Houses Green
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
“Just before I reached the back steps, a break in the clouds let the sunshine fall on my face. The joy of small comforts.” I enjoyed the ‘joy’ of the narratives relationship.
Thank you
Thank you, I enjoyed it too in the moment of writing it. 🙂
Rick, I’ve got questions. Who cleaned up the shambles? Are the two really one? I’m confused after 3 reads. I love it!
My first idea was that they each have a studio and they each cleaned up each other’s studio. But in the end I thought the unreliable narrator approach was better in that everything ends up being ambiguous. As Faulkner once said to someone who asked what he would say to someone who can’t understand his novel after reading it three times: “read it a 4th!” Although I think the confusion here increases with each reading. Which I’m just fine with. 😀 I’m pretty clear on what really happened, but I only read it once.
I wish I’d read this before my second reading. Nevermind.
Lovely story telling, regardless.
It’s intriguing and I’m loving it. Beautiful writing.
Thank you, Willa. 🙂
My plan was to read the entire series before I said anything. Plans be damned.
A chapter or two previous I was going to comment how refreshing it was to love someone for who you knew they were when you got them, instead of who they became (or did not) as a result of having known you.
That said, I am hearing ‘two sides of the same coin” when I read this chapter.
Right or wrong, I’m hooked- but damn if that is where you’re going, and you can pull it off I’ll start a religion and name it after you!
😀
Confusing but interesting. I had the idea the narrator was unreliable and it was really his studio he had trashed and she had to put up with him. Since their rolls had reversed and who was making dinner and who was painting. Same painting so I assume not different studios…. nice.
This is very intriguing.
I love this line: Georgette had finally gone outside to air her grievances to her sunflowers.
“She always had a good heart. Just requires a little patience now and then.”
“At moments like these, I just can’t describe to you the kinds of looks Georgette can give me. A photo would never do justice to the array of emotions that flit and surge and rage across her face one after the other and all at once. If only I could paint quickly enough and with enough skill, you could see for yourself what a magical being has captured my heart.”
Your words never fail to paint a picture worth a thousand words but delivered in significantly less. Impact, illustrations and illusions worthy of the escape. Thank you for sharing!
Thank you for the comment! 😀
Will you be continuing the series? 🫣 I see that there used to be 20, I know I’m late to the party so I thought I’d politely ask! No rush, of course..
Maybe. One never knows when Georgette shows up. I’m reposting the first 20. We’ll see if it continues. 😀
Focusing the narrative on the main character’s movements and what he senses in his environment allows the reader to infer the emotional tale that extends beyond this brief sliver of time. It was a captivating and immersive read.
Sounds like an account of True love and acceptance & forgiveness
nice
This is breathtaking
I enjoyed it even though it was a bit confusing. They are both painters? Two trashed studios? Ain’t love strange but grand though?