Page 11 of For Flag's Sake
My fingers tingle, aware of how close they are to the task they so desperately wish to do.
The easel goes up first and fastest.
I set one of the large blank canvases on its little shelf before leaning the rest against the wall behind it. Next, I lay my new paints in a line on the floor at the base of the windows, watercolor followed by gouache and then acrylic. I set two cups of paintbrushes next to them, then an empty cup for water. A roll of paper towels drops from my fingers in the general direction of my other supplies, and I hang an apron over the top of the easel where the wooden tripod base meets at a point.
When my main tools are settled to my liking, I lift a large segmented picnic basket full of charcoal, colored pencils, regular pencils, erasers, sharpeners, and the like from the luggage cart. I set the basket at the base of the easel beside my paper towels. A different basket filled with sketchbooks goes behind them, then I squeeze a box of small canvases amidst the baskets.
Back at the cart I unearth a tarp, and realize I probably should have packed it at the top so I could have put it down first. I’m all for hiring a specialty crew, but it was never my intentionto cause any damage or undo mess to the space. Thus, the tarp. Which I packed underneath the rest of my art paraphernalia.
Alas, hindsight is 20/20.
I sigh. Then, with no other option, I carefully spread the tarp out over the floor and crawl my way around the edges, lifting supplies to smooth the thick plastic underneath them before returning them to their spots. It’s tedious and frustrating, made even more maddening by the knowledge that I could have had a much simpler time of it if I had packed with intelligence. By the time I’m finished, I’ve tugged my skirt out from under my crawling knees no less than four hundred times, and I’ve cursed the entire premise of art as an industry—as is the custom of artists everywhere.
The last thing I have to set up are my tables—three small TV tray style tables that I unfold quickly and place strategically around my easel. One for my ready paints, one for my other implements, and one for my drinks and snacks.
The bottom of the cart holds more supplies, stuff I probably didn’t need but since Iverson was paying… Well, I won’t need to stock up for a while no matter where I end up, so they won’t go to waste. I leave them on the cart.
My fingers flex. Despite the dull beginnings of soreness from putting this makeshift studio together, my body still aches to dive headfirst into my creative process. I want to pick up a paintbrush, or a pencil, or a charcoal, or a flagging crayon, and I want to put it to the blank canvas resting on my easel, and I want to let out all of the pent-up emotions I’ve been wallowing in since leaving Ivy’s house. I want to forget about the real world for a while and lose myself until there is nothing left of my being but canvas and color. I want to make something beautiful out of the ugly burn of betrayal sitting like a stinging lash on my chest.
I stretch my arms above my head, roll my neck on my shoulders, and approach the window to pick out my colors. ThenI heed the call of my body, and I do it readily, allowing myself the release I so badly need.
I paint.
Chapter Six
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Maple
Soft blue streaks the canvas as my paintbrush glides across it, creating an underpainting with imprecise stripes of color. My breaths come easy, and my heart beats a melody of hues. I am Artist, lost in her process. Specks of twilight dust my cheeks. Peace consumes me while the rest of the world falls away, a haze just out of reach. I am only paint, and brush, and the sweep of an arm.
My phone cuts through the silence, blaring a jarring tune.
I jump, splattering globs of blue across the canvas in big, ugly dots, and I drop the paintbrush on the tarp beneath my feet before I can further ruin the painting. Wiping my hands on my smock in the vain hope that I won’t get paint on my phone, I turn and stomp across the tarp. I snatch the screaming device from beside the basket of charcoal where I tucked it before starting my journey to a moment of calm.
Ivy’s name and a picture of the two of us, cheeks smooshed together, shine up at me from the screen.
“I’m painting,” I say in lieu of a hello. “You have theworsttiming.”
“You answered,” Ivy replies, bewildered. “I wasn’t expecting you to pick up on the first call.”
“Me either,” I grump. “I’mpainting.” I hit the speaker button and return to my easel, where I prop the phone on my drinks and snacks table between a room service bowl of cut fruit and a sweating can of Dr. Pepper.
He apologizes. “You know I wouldn’t interrupt your reverie on purpose.”
“I’m sure I don’t know anything about how you might behave.” I sniff. Not entirely fair of me, I’ll admit. Ivy has never once interrupted me when I’m painting, being far more likely to find a seat to watch in silence when he comes upon me in the zone. Still, I can’t find it in me to feel bad. He’s the man who married me without even deigning to get down on one knee, and I’m the woman who didn’t see it coming.
“You know me, Maple,” he protests softly with a rueful tinge. “You know mecompletely.”
Uh huh. Except for the part where I don’t, because if I knew him “completely”, then I would have seen what he was doing, and I would have been able to address it before we were standing on a beloved tablecloth sayingI do.
I pick up my paintbrush and press my lips together.
Iverson sighs, a harsh, regretful puff. “I was hoping we could arrange a time to talk.”
Uhhuh. Becausenowhe wants to communicate, in the aftermath. How very convenient. “Talk about what?” I ask bitterly. My brush dips into blue, then slashes across canvas, my ire becoming a tangible thing in the physical realm.
“Talk about how I can fix this,” he asserts with no small amount of determination in his tone. “And about how to get you home.”
