Part II of a serialized fiction story, read part I here.
“I’ll give her a bottle and we can leave,” Fiona already had the formula heating on the stove. She watched quietly as the glass bottle sweated. Before the troubles with her pregnancy began, Fiona’s doctor told her that a baby should have at least six months of breast-milk: “It helps them develop patience,” he said. Fiona wanted to nurse Elsie, but her depression medicine made that impossible. She felt that she’d let her child down. Timothy watched his wife as the bottle heated; he knew that she was thinking about the formula. Don’t let it get to you, he thought.
Glug, glug- the bottle began to dance in its bath. Fiona tested the formula on her wrist, “It’s ready, has Elsie been ‘diaped” she asked. No sign of heavy thoughts.
“Yes,” Timothy was relieved, “yes, that’s all done.”
Fiona was a slight woman with blond hair; her family had farmed the region for almost as long as Timothy’s. In Llywellyn, where Tim was born, everybody knew everyone else, and Fiona’s people were respected. The ones who weren’t successful farmers had become lawyers, doctors or teachers, like Fiona had been. She’d worked at the Montessori school in Madison, but gave all that up when Elsie arrived.
Tim made an excellent match with Fiona, an appropriate match. No one was surprised to hear of Tim’s success in Chicago, the Davies never disappoint, and more than a few women in the area set their scopes on Timothy when he moved back to town. But none of these women had what Fiona had: Tim and Fiona were part of the gentry, a circle of families that became smaller and smaller each generation as children moved out of town to Chicago or the coasts. Timothy and Fiona understood each other; as well as they understood the parks, trails and forests where they played growing up.
The coupling was perfect, except for one thing. While Tim’s family and friends were pleased at the match, they had long enough memories to have some reservations also. “Be careful, Tim,” his Aunt Margo told him after the engagement, “I love Fiona, I have since she was a little girl. But the Rogers, well, they can go funny.”
Tim blew this advice off. Everybody knew about Fiona’s mother, who would stay in bed for months before her treatments. Fiona’s maternal grandfather and an uncle had also ‘needed help,’ as people called it. But the other half of her family is fine, Timothy told himself, Besides, I love her. She’s like me- she remembers what I remember and sees things the way I do. She’s a part of me whatever happens. Tim understood the value of Fiona; he hadn’t always, and it made him shutter to think that if he’d met her ten years earlier, even five years earlier, he’d have let her slip away. Back then, he was hunting for someone else, someone like a younger version of Lillian.
“Is there a way to strap Elsie into that carriage thing?” Fiona asked. Her question broke the train of Tim’s thoughts.
“Oh! Yeah. Yes there is, right here.” He scooped the squirming bundle out of his wife’s arms and buckled Elsie in, securing the straps one by one.
“I thought that we’d take the mill road,” Tim said.
“I love that road. You know they’re restoring the ice house next to the mine.”
“Hm. I hope that they do a good job. It would be a shame to change it too much.”
“It’s going to be a ‘biker’s waypost'; probably a tourist trap.” Hordes of would-be cyclists descended on Llywellyn in the summer; most came from Madison. They clogged the roads and paths, jarring end elbowing each other, poured into bright Lycra suits. That crowd was a nightmare; but a well-heeled nightmare.
“Ugh.” Tim thought this, but Fiona said it.
They didn’t have to worry about bikers that day. It was early Autumn, and the weather was changeable enough to discourage townies. Timothy and his wife peddled along the mill road, its cobbles whirring under the wheels of their bikes. The road was laid in the 1840s, when the local lead mill was at peak production, and it connected every building important to nineteenth century life: the town hall, the old school, the mill, the icehouse and the mine. Beautiful granite cobbles set in a sweeping, fan-pattern. Over a hundred freezing winters hadn’t shaken them out of order. Tim had traveled to London, Brussels, Paris and Prague- many places while studying. Each of these cities had roads like the mill road, but never with the open, clean feeling of this way through the forest.
“It’s like a painting, Fi!” Tim shouted above the rush of wind in his ears. She smiled back. Elsie was asleep in the trailer; the golden points of light on the trees, the white field astors, the chicory, all sped by without her notice.
The paving ended at the icehouse, which was not much more than a shack over a tapped-out mineshaft. A perfect spot to sell Gatorade, Tim thought, I wonder how they’ll discourage the Madisonites from splunking.
Llywellyn’s leadworks used a deep stream to wash and crush the ore; the stream twisted around the barred entrance to the shafts. Tim knew of a good picnicking spot along its bank: where the water-wheel was once anchored, but was now covered in grass. The pair dismounted and guided their bikes the short distance to the bank. Elsie woke up and began to cry.
“It’s okay honey, were at the picnic spot.” She didn’t stop crying until Fiona picked her up and showed her the different types of wildflower that were growing along the stream.
“Are these chicory or corn-flower, Tim?” his wife called out. Tim was busy setting out their blankets, “Chicory this time of year.” Elsie had squirmed out of her mother’s arms and toddled over to the purple flower. She stripped it of leaves and petals in one swift grab.
“Oh God, is it poisonous?!” Fiona scrambled to pull every bit of plant from her daughter’s fingers.
“No, honey. They used to use it for coffee. It’s fine. Keep her away from the nightshade- that one there, with the deep-red berries. That’s the only one we have to worry about.” Tim pulled his bike and the carriage along side the blankets, so that Elsie could nap safely after lunch. The chicory had spooked Fiona, and she brought Elsie back to the blanket, where the baby played between her reclining parents until lunch as eaten and she was dozy enough to nap.
“Would you zip her into the trailer, Tim?” Fiona’s eyelids were already heavy, her head rested on her outstretched arm.
“No problem,” Elsie was stowed inside her pumpkin; within moments Tim heard her breathing become soft and regular. He peaked in: Elsie slept on her tummy with her knees tucked under and rear poking up in the air. How can that be comfortable? Tim smiled, pulled her blanket over his daughter and zipped her back up.
Timothy sat between his sleeping wife and child. The forest had a slow, dream-like feel around him, but instead of lulling him to sleep, the languid vibe made Tim feel trapped, like he had to do something to break free.
“I’ll be right back. I want to check the stream for threeridges,” he whispered to his wife, who may or may not have heard him. Timothy remembered finding these crinkled clam-shells in the mine-stream as a boy; their mother-of-pearl was like black opal, or the aurora borealis in lavender and green. Will I be lucky like that again?
Tim removed his shoes and slipped his feet into the cold water. Swish… swish… every step was a fight against the current, the slimy rocks tickled the soles of his feet, the water gurgled around his ankles like the sound of the rain around the windows of the apartment on Lincoln Park West…
“I’m sure that there’s some way to come up with the money.” An ivory hand flourished from a velvet sleeve.
“I have the property that my parents left to me, but if the gallery goes under, I’ll loose it. I don’t want to risk everything.” Tim swirled the coffee grounds at the bottom of his brightly-colored demitasse. It was a strange cup, not quite garish but not quite tasteful, either. Gold rims and classical figures, he thought then looked over at his hostess, My cup has a blue background, but hers is burnt orange. Russian? Curious.
“Oh,darling,” she smiled, “I don’t think we’ll need to borrow much money. Have you been published?”
“Only in the graduate journal.”
“Well, that’s something. I’m sure we can get at least ten thousand for a rewrite of that- let my friend Arthur have a look at it,” she refilled his cup, “And your own painting?”
“Amateurish at best.”
“Even better! Grants for developing artists have very few hoops to jump through- if you know where and when to apply.” Lillian shot Tim a little smile. “You see,” she continued, “Fate brought you to me.”
What brought Timothy to Lillian’s apartment that afternoon was a mutual acquaintance in the Art History Department at the University of Chicago. Timothy’s thesis adviser had been roped into a dance recital by his significant other, who in turn, was one of Lillian’s proteges.
“Oh my God, Tim!”
“What is it Pete?”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do. I can’t go, today, I just can’t!” Pete had over-committed himself again, and was scheduled to hear a thesis defense that afternoon. The professor shuffled papers around his office nervously.
“I don’t want to offend her, nobody wants to offend her…”
Tim found it painful to see a grown man squirm like Pete was squirming; he felt compelled to end the professor’s misery: “How can I help?”
Naturally, Timothy could help by going in his adviser’s stead.
Tim found himself seated in the front row of a very modern, very confusing performance- clearly the artist was full of angst, full of longing, full of something as he writhed on the stage. Perhaps Tim’s confusion showed on his face, because before the twisting and stomping was done, an older lady in velvet, who smelled of myrrh and magnolia, was whispering into his left ear.
“Now, you see, he is breaking with his past self…”
“Pulled by conflicting desires…”
“That, that represents shame.”
The movements, as she explained them, started to make some sense. Instead of amused disbelief, Tim began to feel interested in what this thin, muscular man on stage was trying to say. Timothy was pulled outside of himself for a few moments; then the stage brightened and the dancer exited.
“Well, what did you think?” the velvet lady asked him.
“I think it must be exhausting to be him.” The woman rocked her head back and laughed deeply. Tim noticed that the people seated around them laughed with her; in fact, their full attention was focused on her and what she would do next.
“Honestly, that’s the best description of his work I’ve heard yet. He’s my pupil.” The onlookers fixed Tim in a jealous stare. “Come to tea with me, what’s you name?”
His name was Tim and hers was Lillian. He followed her home for tea, which was brought in on silver trays by a middle-aged woman in a uniform. Lillian asked Tim questions about himself.
“Well, that ‘s the thing. Alex and I would like to start our own gallery- showcasing local talent. Talent that is inspired by Bouguereau, the Pre-Raphaelites, the talent that doesn’t get its share of exhibitions, or reviews…” Tim was getting quite heated now and Lil liked it.
“So you need money to start a gallery to sell your school-friends’ work here in town, where it’s being painted?”
“Yes, exactly that. There’s a market- they have buyers already, but they get very limited exposure. And the overhead is so high. We could do a lot better by them.”
“Do you have any investors?” she asked.
Alex and Tim did have one investor, Alex’s father in Schaumburg.
“We have one, but he doesn’t share our vision.”
“I see. What is his vision?” Lillian had Tim fixed with her large, beautiful eyes and she hung on his words. Alex’s father’s vision: Timothy groaned inwardly.
Alex’s mother and father were art dealers; but they were the type who source work for hotels, chain restaurants and conference centers. If you’ve been to a McDonald’s with bright montages on the walls, the chances are the Greenes sold them, frames included. Alex would be the first to admit that his parents didn’t have the polish necessary to scale the heights of retail art; but they did have a lot of money.
“Local artists charge local prices, Alex,” his father was busy unpacking some crates in the family living room. There was plastic over the cushions on the couch. “That organic bullcrap- that’s the sort of thing you can do a couple of galleries down the line. What you want now is cheap and cheerful, believe me. Quick turnover.”
“So, how much are you willing to put up, if we follow you advice and sell Chinese art?”
His father considered, “Two grand a month.”
“That’s not going make a dent in anything!”
“Oh, ho. It’s something, it’s two grand you’re not going to have to borrow retail.”
“It doesn’t even cover half of advertizing.”
“What? You want to be a boy all your life? Have people say you only made it because you’re Greene’s son?” Alex doubted that anyone would ever say that, but he kept his mouth shut. A knock on the door cut the tension in the room.
“Not now May,” the elder Greene snapped. Alex turned around, a young Chinese woman stood in the doorway, she stared at him with her mouth slightly open and chin puckered, as though she was both interested and afraid.
“Hello, I’m Alex Greene.”
“Yes, hello,” she answered with a few shallow bobs of her head and that same wide-eyed stare.
“Do you work with my father?”
“Yes.”
“What is your area of professional expertise?” The girl didn’t answer, but grimaced and nodded more.
‘How long have you been here?” Alex asked.
“May’s been helping me since this spring. Thank you, May,” his father interjected and the girl left.
“Does mom know about her?”
“Of course she does. Besides, I got her an apartment near Argyle street. She’s not bothering anyone. I want 15% of your capital, non-dilutable, with first rights to sell.”
“You’ll give some stranger and apartment but you won’t give family a decent deal.” Having met May, Alex knew he had something to work with.
“I’m only going to charge you base.”
“I get the first year interest free, then I’m paying you base rate.” Alex’s father smiled, in truth, he had a great deal of confidence in his son.
“Fine. It’s a deal. Now either help me unpack or get out of here…”
Timothy turned his eyes back to his shockingly-blue demitasse and swirled his coffee grounds a few more times. “Alex’s father’s ideas are very commercial. He wants us to buy art cheaply in China- I’m sure you know what artists live on over there- then sell it downtown for American prices.” Tim waited for some disapproving utterance from Lillian.
“I believe that Papa Greene is absolutely right.” She bit into a small almond biscuit from a tray beside her.
“What?”
“He’s absolutely right. You’re so young, Tim, you don’t have any patience.”
“We want to start this gallery to promote work that has been…”
“Yes, yes. But you need money to do it. That’s why you’re here talking to me, isn’t it? Be reasonable. There will be time enough for conviction once you can pay your own bills. Maria! Maria we need more coffee…”
The whine of a siren broke Tim’s train of thought. He glanced up at the grassy bank: Fiona and Elsie were standing there, looking at him. Fiona’s face was grey and shiny; Elsie was crying. Somewhere behind them red lights were flashing.
“What’s wrong, honey?” Tim tried to take a step towards his family, but he went crashing down, face-first, into the stream. He couldn’t feel his feet- they were like lumps of dead meat on the end of his legs.
Tim pushed his head out of the water and gasped for air; now his Aunt Margo was running toward the bank, followed by two paramedics with silver blankets. What the hell….
“Pull him out of the water!” The two men grabbed Tim’s arms and lifted him to the grass; they wrapped him in the blankets and put something rubbery around his feet, which started to burn.
“My god! What is that- take it off! It burns, take it off!” Tim tried to squirm out from under the blankets but the paramedics held him down.
“Sir! Lie still, it’s not burning, you’re freezing.” Tim looked around frantically for his wife and child- one minute ago they were sleeping and now this? The pain in his legs seared him. Where are they? All Tim could see were large men in navy uniforms, space-age silver and the high, cold, blue sky.
“Get his core temperature; the pulse is irregular. We need him in the ambulance, quickly.”
“Has your husband ingested anything, like drugs or alcohol?”
“Hey Fiona, come here! What happened?”
Fiona could hardly get out the words: “I don’t know- you wouldn’t talk, you didn’t look yourself…”
“Ma’am we need to take him in, just follow the ambulance. You two can talk at the hospital. Sir, lie quietly and try to get warm. You’re in shock.”
