Authors: Sharon Cullars
He wished he had a more cogent argument against the idea other than his hesitance to reveal so much of himself. But she'd said that he didn't have to show his work, even to her. How would she afford him his privacy?
Even as he ruminated this, he knew that he would do it. Maybe he had known it all along.
He nodded and Dr. Madison responded with his own nod.
Like Delia, Zach didn't get his full fifteen minutes. Jerry seemed to be straining at an invisible bit. Dr. Madison noticed the man's fidgeting, turned to him.
"You have something to say,
Jerry?"
"Yeah, about that art therapy you keep trying to foist on Zach…"
"Yes, Jerry?" Dr. Madison encouraged him to complete his thought.
"It's all bullshit!"
In Jerry's lexicon,
bullshit
was both a noun and adjective. And it described his worldview.
But in this case, Zach tended to agree with him. Not that he would admit that to Dr. Madison…or to Ms. Temple. Actually he found himself anticipating Saturday's class and not just for the art.
Back in his apartment, his nude drawing was still folded in his nightstand drawer. He knew that fact would probably piss her off. He couldn't help smiling at the thought as Jerry railed on.
Maya strolled
up and down the aisles between easels, looking on at the progress of each student. All of them were present today, including Mr. Yarborough. She'd half expected him to drop the class considering how he'd balked at her suggestion.
Yet, there he was up front, his back presently to her as she stood several rows behind him. Unlike the other students
' easels, the paper on his was still blank. The class en masse was attempting to draw figurines she'd purchased for each of them at a craft store specifically for today's assignment. It was the only "nude" they would be drawing in this class. Pity she couldn't say the same thing for Mr. Yarborough. She blushed remembering his finished product and she wondered exactly what he'd done with it.
Right now, she peered over the shoulder of the student who had taken a previous class some years ago. Her name was Anne Griffey, and
in this third session, the student was proving that she probably was already beyond the class' curve. Maya was contemplating deviating from the syllabus for the woman who was nicely fleshing out the curves of the small figurine sitting on a small stool set up next to the easel. All of the easels – except Mr. Yarborough's – had similar stools adjacent to them, giving the students closer perspectives of their individual figurine.
She'd put off the confrontation as long as possible, but giving the ticking clock, she couldn't avoid it any longer.
She walked up the aisle until she was standing behind Mr. Yarborough. Or Zach, as he'd told her to call him when he'd first shown up this afternoon. When he'd surprised her by rolling through the door exactly five minutes late. Those were five minutes during which she'd thought she'd lost him.
But here he was nearly fifteen minutes later with nothing to show for his presence. He might as well not have come. And she
was becoming exasperated at his obstinacy.
"Well, that shows me a lot," she said softly to keep other ears from hearing. But she knew he couldn't miss the sarcasm in her voice.
He turned an angry look on her.
"You think this is easy?" Like her, he kept his voice
low and measured.
"I told you I can't do this, not here with everybody
around."
Yes, she'd promised him some measure of privacy, if he wanted.
"I'm sorry, there's no other place here in the building. I rent this studio for the class. And only for an hour. I wish there was someplace else…"
An idea occurred to her.
"What if…" she broke off the sentence, already regretting the idea.
"What if what?" he pressed.
"Well, you paid for an hour on Saturdays. But it doesn't have to be this particular hour."
"What do you mean?"
"What are you doing later?" she asked.
"Later
?"
"Yes, later today. I have another place where you can have solitude. I'll be there, but I'll leave you in a separate room," she offered.
"Where is this place?"
"My home."
There, she'd said it and couldn't take it back now.
He looked confused for a moment and she thought that maybe she'd overstepped some boundary with him.
"You know I wasn't thinking. It would probably be difficult for you to travel across the city to get to my home…"
"I can get anyplace in this city. Don't worry about it. Just give me the address and the time."
His tone was clipped and she realized she had insulted him by pointing out his disability. Of course, he could go anywhere he wanted. He wasn't an invalid, not in the real sense of the word.
"OK, I'll write down the address. I'm home by three-thirty, so I'll expect you
at four. Are you available then?"
He nodded.
Then she remembered her date later. No, not actually a date. Just a glass of wine at a bistro featuring a jazz band. With Julius Mackinaw. Not an easy name to remember.
But her "date" wasn't until seven.
"In the meantime, since you don't have a figurine to draw, just draw something you've seen recently…from memory. And the subject
cannot
be me."
He smiled fully
at the directive. White teeth, a dimple in his left cheek to match the slight indentation in his square chin.
She
found herself smiling in return. Well, finally a ceasefire in the little war that had been raging between them.
He picked up the charcoal
piece, began forming lines on the stark white paper. Curiosity held her to the spot just behind his chair, and if it bothered him, he didn't say anything. As she stood there, lines began to connect, shadows began to appear. An impression of buildings…water…boats…and soon a Ferris wheel rose above the pier. A few more strokes indicating people milling around. The Seattle shoreline. He brushed the charcoal along the top edge, created a gathering of clouds over the horizon, rounding out the scene. It'd taken him less than ten minutes.
"Very impressive
, Mr. Yarborough…I mean, Zach. You say you're rusty at this but I just don't see it. I would love to see what you can do with oils."
"I've never worked with oils,"
he said, ruminating over his drawing. His countenance indicated he wasn't satisfied with the rendering.
"I think you would do wonderful things with oils, once you got the hang of it."
He peered up at her finally. "You'd be willing to teach me?"
An honest question she hadn't expected and an idea she hadn't considered, but suddenly it seemed that finally she could help him, teach him.
"Yes, I can teach you if you like. I'll have to set up a time and place, but first let's continue with the simpler media and allow you to work your way up."
She spotted the clock, saw that time was almost up so she dismissed the class, eager to get home. She barely admitted to herself that she was a little more energized
about seeing the depths that he would bring to his work once he fully allowed himself to let go, examine his emotions.
He and the other students filed out and she began to gather her wrap and bag.
On the way out the door, she wondered if she should cook something for them to nosh on. After all, he would be a guest in her home. Yes, maybe she should whip up something quick…something really good. Show a bit of her own artistry.
On her walk to her car, she finally remembered
something. The stairs at the house.
"Oh shit," she whispered to herself.
###
The trip to her
house hadn't been as easy as he'd put on. But he hadn't wanted her to think he was unable to travel due to the chair. He often found a way to get around the city, not that it was always easy. It had taken him three buses to get here and he'd had to wait almost forty-five minutes for the last one because the bus in front of that one hadn't had a fully operating accessible door. And finally when he arrived at the designated cross streets in the Queen Anne neighborhood, he'd had to travel four very long blocks before he spotted the address. He was at least fifteen minutes late.
The
craftsman bungalow stood out among a block of similarly styled homes. The white trim and pillars accentuated a blue coat. The low-slung and overhanging roof was common with these types of bungalows. The wide porch was reminiscent of a southern porch with a swing and colorful flowers. On either side of the porch were manicured shrubs overlooking verdant squares of neatly mown lawn.
T
he stairs and railing were also painted white.
He looked at the four wide concrete steps
leading up to the porch. Then he studied the sturdy looking railing, which he was going to need.
As he s
at there contemplating his strategy, the front door opened and Ms. Temple stood on the porch. She wore the long sleeved white button down shirt from earlier, but had changed from beige slacks to more fitted jeans over which the shirt hung. They showed the curve of her thighs and he imagined the toned limbs, momentarily wondered... He mentally shook the thought from his mind as he saw the distress on her face.
"Don't worry, I got this," he reassured her.
He rolled to the bottom step and she moved to meet him. He raised his hand, indicating that she should stay where she was.
He'd learned this trick during the first year of his rehab
ilitation. It had taken him time, but now he had it down pat. He turned his chair until his back was to the steps. Then he grabbed the end of the railing with his right hand, tested its sturdiness. The railing would help him keep control as he maneuvered the left wheel with his left hand, moved it up until it settled on the first step. It took all of his upper body strength, which he maintained with weights and exercise. Taking it slowly, he scaled the edge of each step and finally rolled backward up to the porch. And she was there waiting for him. Smiling. He liked her smile.
"You never cease to impress me
Mr. Yar…Zach."
"
Well, by my estimation, impressing the teacher should be an automatic A."
She placed a hand on a hip. "Not that easy, bud
dy. You have to do much more to earn that A. Get in there."
She opened the screen to her door; thankfully the
door was wide enough for his chair and he rolled up a small door curb right into a hallway. Immediately he caught an aroma of something cooking, something that made his mouth water.
He liked what he saw. Paintings hung on the walls of either side of the foyer. Some colorful abstracts and some startling
evocative nature paintings whose stylings were along the line of Gauguin. He peered at the signatures on a couple of them – Maya Temple.
Now it was his turn to be impressed. The lady knew her stuff.
Certain lines and colors were soft, juxtaposed with harsh shadows that didn't overwhelm the painting, but added texture and drama.
"Just through here. My
workroom is past the living room," she said.
She led the way from the
foyer into a large area that served as a great room, as the term was for the space. The windows had their original dark wood trims and hardwood floor. Off in a corner a built-in open bookcase overflowed with hardbound editions and paperbacks. An overstuffed paisley sofa and chair sat before a brick fireplace. The mantle held framed pictures of people he couldn't really see from where he sat. Off to the right, an open kitchen overlooked the living room. He spotted a stainless steel refrigerator but much of the view was obscured by an eat-in counter.
The smell coming from the kitchen
was too appetizing to ignore and made him regret that he'd only grabbed a Hot Pocket burrito before journeying out.
Her next words
were like ambrosia to the ears.
"I hope you're hungry. I thought I
'd make a little something before you got started."
He
thought that he really should say no, but she was probably hungry and she didn't want to be rude eating without offering him anything. And who was he to break her routine?
"Sure, why not. Whaddya got
for me?"
"
Grilled Portobello burgers topped with eggplant, zucchini and blue cheese. Nothing too fancy."
"Yeah, not fancy at all," he said, hoping it didn't sound too sarcastic. But his diet leaned toward more American fare. Burgers with the works. Mushrooms taking the place of good old beef…well, he
couldn't complain. After all, he was a guest here.
"Don't give me t
hat face until you've tasted it," she said with a slight smile. "Let me set you up at the table."