Twenty-four

JUST A YEAR AGO, I swore things would be different and I wouldn’t get so wrapped up in myself and my own problems that I couldn’t see what was happening around me. Wasn’t that what led me to take a shift as a camp liaison and rescue Wendy? Wasn’t that what brought me Kate? Hadn’t I made a bunch of friends at SCU and renewed my friendships with good people at PCAD? Didn’t I have four wonderful women and a life guys would kill for?

I should have been more fucking aware.

I came back from Intercollegiates a champion again. But this time, I’d been challenged, and the pressure was mounting. It was fifty-five days until the start of the National Singles Championships and I wasn’t going to miss my match with Brian Summers this time.

I sat in Cary Randolph’s office with Doc Henredon, Coach Jacobson, and Professor Strait—my college advisors. It was an intense meeting that I’d put off until after the competition.

“First off, you are a model student for the dual degree program, Tony,” Cary said. “You’re getting ready to finish your junior year and your faculty advisors have agreed that you could complete both degrees by the end of next academic year—in time to graduate with your class. We designed it as a five-year program, but that assumed a student who entered with no college credits. You had a lot of credits that SCU allowed to transfer from your high school’s AP program. Those were classes that didn’t transfer to PCAD. For the most part you had all the core curriculum completed before you enrolled. Congratulations.”

Man! I hadn’t been paying attention. I’d been working hard and knew I had most of my major classes taken, but I just didn’t think about finishing early.

“With the full semester of credit you got last summer while working on the mural and the load you’ve taken this year at PCAD, the end of the semester will have you ready for your final project,” Doc said. “You could pick up another four hours this summer.”

“The same goes for SCU,” Professor Strait said. “It was a great idea to take the online creative writing course this quarter, though I wish I’d had you for more classroom time. If you take the advanced course during spring quarter and two more courses this summer, you will have fulfilled all the requirements except the final project.”

“And your grades and performance are well over what was needed to keep your scholarships intact,” Coach said. “Congratulations on your big win last week.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

“Which brings us to whether you want to drag out the program for another year, or if you want to get ready to begin your combined final project next fall,” Cary continued.

Shit! It couldn’t be any worse than the last half of my freshman year. What could happen?

“Sure! I’d love to be able to graduate. What do I have to do?”

I wandered across campus after the meeting, my head filled with possibilities. I tripped over a park bench because I wasn’t paying any attention to where I was going, just cutting across the soggy campus lawns. The grass was lush and leaves were coming out on the trees—those few that lost them out here. I plopped down on the bench, instantly getting my ass soaked, but I didn’t care. Across the lawn was a construction zone for the new campus chapel. SCU was a Jesuit school, after all. I supposed it was logical that they would have a chapel. Something about the fact that they were maintaining the traditional look in the architecture pleased me. Most new buildings were identical towers of steel and glass.

My head was filled with visions of graduation. I ticked off in my mind all the things I had to do. There were so many of them that my head became a jumble of floating dates and projects. I was sure Clarice would have another exhibition scheduled for this summer or early fall, so I had to keep painting. Yeah, had to. It was all I could do anymore to focus on anything besides painting and my upcoming racquetball challenge. The more I painted, the more ideas I had for what I wanted to paint. I loved doing suites that told a story. I needed to paint.

But my opportunity to win the national championship from the elusive Brian Summers was coming. I’d paint later. I headed for the gym.

After two hours of beating a little blue ball into submission, I had my head back on straight. I showered, called the family and told them not to save supper for me, and headed for the studio.

As I set up my easel, I thought about the missing self-portrait. Having not told anyone that I had painted it, I still hadn’t told anyone it was missing. I trust my lovers implicitly, don’t I? I imagined that it would show up one day in our living room, framed and presented in some kind of glorious ceremony. The real reason I couldn’t tell anyone, though, was my fear. As long as no one knew, I could pretend they were all innocent. If she admitted it, how could I ever trust Kate again?

I could feel the return of the anger I’d felt that night—the betrayal of having Kate assume she should be a slave to me—like Wendy. Only she was nothing like Wendy. Kate was the most headstrong and unbendable woman I’d ever met. She completely ruined it that night. I hadn’t called her ‘Kitten’ since. In fact, I had avoided little pet names, not even calling Melody ‘Meddy’ lest she think she should act like a slave, too. The only pet name I still used was to call Wendy ‘Tiger’.

Betrayal. That was a new one for me. I’d been angry, yes, but I hadn’t let the desolation of being betrayed settle in on me. Thinking of that night, I felt my lip tremble and gritted my teeth against it. Instead I put a blank canvas on the easel and started squirting gobs of paint on my palette. I didn’t bother with a brush, but started applying the paint directly to the canvas with the palette knife. It went on thick with heavily saturated color. I didn’t sketch, I just let it flow. I blended the colors on the canvas rather than on the palette.

Green. Envy? Jealousy? Grass. A garden. Streaks of black blended into the surrounding green defined branches. Flicks of the knife defined leaves. Lushness. Happiness. White and yellow. It’s night. A streetlamp breaks the surrounding darkness, revealing shadows in the background. People? Pets? A man on the path ... pauses near a park bench. Glistening, wet. Not a place of respite. His eyes show surprise. But of course, there isn’t enough detail created by the knife to see his eyes. Surprise? His hand partially lifted. Placed on a shoulder ... a woman’s shoulder. She’s kissing him. Standing on tiptoe. High heels. Long dress catching and reflecting the light, accenting her shape beneath. Stark contrast against the shiny blackness of his suit. Mix in cobalt. The pavement is wet, reflecting back their distorted forms. Light on darkness. Behind him a shadow arises. Sinister. Threatening. Indistinct. His own fears? Betrayal.

It was past midnight when I cleaned my supplies. I’d done it again—let my emotions take me into the canvas. This time with no music score. The last one, Desperate Love, I’d sent to the vault while it was still wet. So different from my usual painting that it could be by a different artist. I’d captured something different. In addition to shape and color and shadow, I’d captured the emotion missing in my other paintings. I flopped down in my chair to look at it, wondering what time I had to be in class in the morning. I looked at my Day-Timer and groaned as I realized I had a paper due for Bychkova at eleven o’clock. I opened my laptop and stared at my new painting, and began to write.

I ran home in the morning to shower and change clothes after having slept in the studio chair the remainder of the night. Kate had an early class and was already gone. Melody and Lissa were on their way out the door with the boys, all of whom I hugged, kissed and wished a good day to. I headed for the shower. A minute later, hands caressed my back and soaped my shoulders. I turned to see Wendy, intent on washing me. I started to say thank you, but she silenced me with a gentle kiss. When I was clean and shampooed, she toweled me off and pointed to the sink where my toothbrush and shaving gear were.

I stepped out of the bathroom to find Wendy with my clothes all laid out and a cup of coffee. She kissed me again and left the room. I watched her naked back as she left and momentarily considered being late for class. The light tracery of scars on her back was still visible.

When I was dressed and headed for the car, I saw her with her backpack headed for the door.

“Wendy. Wouldn’t you like a ride?” I asked.

“Thank you!” she said and we hopped in the car. “Just take me to the tunnel entrance so I can catch a bus. You’ll be late for class if you take me all the way to the U.”

“You’re welcome, Tiger. I’ll take you anywhere you want.”

In her quiet way, Wendy sometimes seemed to understand me better than anyone. She pays attention. I should do that.

But I didn’t. I didn’t tell anyone that I was six months ahead of schedule. I just buried my head and did the things that were necessary. Life fell into a pattern of classes, racquetball, and late nights in the studio. Another online class completed my required courses for my degree at SCU, but I still had to pick two electives and my final project. My schedule was punctuated with wonderful loving moments with my family. We kept date night on Fridays and always tried to do something special on weekends, but even then, it was hard for me to keep thoughts of painting and racquetball out of my head.

There were three weekend tournaments in April and I signed up for all of them. Tonya and Whitney registered for one and Brent and Franklin competed in another. I was playing harder and working out more than ever before. I’d begun to lose weight. Bree went to the one competition that none of the other players competed in, but she didn’t play. She just went for company ... and to drive while I slept.