Big Picture: Stories (2 page)

“I will.”

“That was easy. I’ll help.”

Later that night, after dinner, Gail was watching television and nursing another diet soda. She sat in the overstuffed chair with her legs folded under her. Michael passed through on his way to the bookshelf against the far wall.

“They’re talking about the suicides at the Golden Gate Bridge,” she said, referring to the program on the television. “This guy is supposedly an expert on suicide.” She laughed. “How can you be an expert on suicide and still be alive?”

Michael chuckled, too. “I suppose that’s a good point.”

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I thought I’d sit in the other room and read for a while.”

“Come on, sit in here with me and watch something stupid.”

“Nah, I’m just going to read.”

“Come on, veg with me.”

Michael looked at the book in his hand.

“You can sit on the floor in front of me and I’ll rub your neck.”

Michael tossed the book onto the coffee table and sat in front of her. “You’re a terrible influence.”

“That’s why you married me. Because I like to give.”

“Does your mother know how you talk?”

“Nope.”

Michael felt his wife’s fingers on his neck and watched the images of the bridge in San Francisco. “Do you mind if we watch something else?”

Gail picked up the remote control and switched channels, moving past an old movie, a soccer game, a couple of ads, and settled on an exercise show. The woman leading the group counted out loud between whoops and encouraging words.

“You’re not serious?” Michael said.

“Do you think she has a good body?” Gail asked.

“She ought to; she exercises for a living.” He watched the woman in spandex. “Actually, I don’t like her body. I don’t like her legs.”

“They’re thin.”

“So? What’s thin got to do with anything? Her legs are shapeless.” He turned and looked at Gail. “Now your legs … your legs are not shapeless.” He pretended to bite her knee.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He puckered his lips. “Kiss me.”

Gail leaned forward and kissed him. A noise in the backyard caused her to sit up straight. “What was that?”

“Don’t know,” Michael said.

“Do you love me?”

Michael reached and took his wife’s hand. “Yes, I love you. You know I love you.”

“There’s that sound again,” Gail said.

“I’ll go see what it is,” Michael said and found his feet. Gail followed him into the kitchen. They didn’t turn on the lights. Michael looked out the door window and Gail looked out through the window over the sink. “I don’t see anything.” Michael opened the door and stepped out onto the small deck. He looked over at the garbage cans and saw that one of the metal lids was on the ground. He walked down and put the top back on the container, thought he heard something behind him, but turned and found nothing.

Gail called to Michael from the door.

“It must have a been a cat or a dog,” he said. He pressed the lid firmly down and stepped back up to the door. “Yeah, cat or dog, maybe a bear or hyena.”

“Or a duck-billed platypus.”

Upstairs in bed, Michael felt the little movements that told him his wife was close. He tried to think of his love for her, but it seemed to get lost in his head. He felt her come, then shut his eyes and rested his face on her thigh.

The next morning Michael returned from his run and jumped into the shower. He kept the water cool. He was tired of the hot summer weather. He made the water a little colder and let it strike his face. His knees ached a bit and he remembered a time when they didn’t, when his runs were longer and seemed less boring. He turned off the water, grabbed a towel from the rod, and dried. It was Sunday and he’d promised Gail that he would try to get the dryer to stop making a new, high-pitched whine. He slid open the closet door and there, sitting on top of a stack of sweaters and pullovers was the light blue UNC T-shirt. He stared at it. Gail must have washed it and run it through the whining dryer while he was out running. He touched it, thinking about how it had been on the body of that man. He was ashamed that he was afraid to put it on. He picked it up and sniffed it, found that it smelled like the soap they used. He tossed the shirt on the bed and looked at it while he found and put on underwear, socks, and a pair of jeans. He looked at himself in the mirror and noticed how old he was getting. He walked downstairs to the kitchen with the shirt in his hand. He took a yogurt from the refrigerator.

“I was wondering if you’d actually wear that shirt,” Gail said. She had file folders open on the table and was making notes.

“What’s the big deal? It’s washed, right?”

Gail nodded. “I’m just surprised.”

“Didn’t mean to surprise you.”

“Are you all right?” Gail asked.

“Sure. Why?”

“You didn’t sleep well.”

“No, I guess not.” Michael rubbed his forehead.

“Are you happy?” she asked.

“It’s just work, honey.” He looked at her eyes. “I thought I’d look at the dryer,” Michael said. “But I have no clue where that sound is coming from.”

“Well, it drives me crazy. You know how those little high squeals can squirm all through the house and find you and get under your skin and make you want to kill the nearest person.”

“I’ll fix it.” He slipped the shirt over his head and took a bite of yogurt.

“Good.”

It was hot in the back room. The air conditioner failed to pump relief there and the morning sun pounded at the slatted windows. Michael had the dryer turned on its side and was checking the belt. The problem was, of course, that as long as the machine was disassembled it had to be unplugged, and therefore couldn’t be turned on to allow him to hear the noise. The belt seemed tight enough without being too tight and all the screws and bolts were fast. He lay there on his back, reached inside, and sprayed the motor and belt with
WD
-40. He let his head fall back and stared at the ceiling. He scratched at his shoulder, then at his chest. Gail called to him from the kitchen.

“How’s it coming?” she asked, now standing in the doorway.

Michael didn’t say anything, just looked at her and shrugged. He started to put the dryer back together.

“You’re soaked,” Gail said.

Michael looked at himself and wiped the perspiration from his face.

“I’m going to make some lemonade.”

He gave her the okay sign with his fingers and watched her turn away into the kitchen. Michael got the dryer back together and turned it on. It didn’t whine. He didn’t know why, but it sounded the way it was supposed to sound.

Gail leaned into the room. “All right, you fixed it,” she said and was gone again.

Michael put away the tools. He felt good. He felt easy. He went back upstairs, stripped down, and got into the shower again. He put on another shirt and some shorts.

“Where’s the lemonade?” he asked, walking into the kitchen.

“I’ll pour you some,” she said, opening the refrigerator.

Michael sat at the table and watched his wife. He loved the way she enjoyed her body, the way she moved. “Are you still working on the same chapter?” he asked her.

“I’m always working on the same chapter.”

“That’s not quite true.”

“True enough,” she said. She pushed a glass of lemonade in front of her husband.

“Thanks.” Michael took a long swallow. It was cool and tasted good, but he felt a little out of sorts.

“It’s really hot in the laundry room, eh?” Gail sat in front of her work at the table.

“Pretty warm.”

“You looked sick out there. I’m glad you showered. You look a lot better now.”

Michael nodded. “Wouldn’t want to look sick.”

There was a knock at the door and Michael got up and looked through the door window. It was the man from yesterday, with his lawn mower. “You’re not going to believe this,” he said to Gail.

“What?” Gail got up, came to the door, and looked out. “Didn’t he finish the job?”

“I thought he had.” Michael opened the door and stepped out into the heat.

The man pointed at the yard and held up five fingers again. Michael looked at the grass. Gail came out, too.

“You just mowed it all yesterday,” Michael said.

The man flashed five fingers again.

“Thank you,” Gail said, “but we don’t need you today.”

“I tried to give you ten dollars yesterday,” Michael said. “Listen, I’ll give you another five because you earned it, but we don’t need our grass cut again.” He turned to Gail. “Would you grab a five for me?”

Gail went back into the house.

“Can you talk?” Michael could smell the man, recognized the smell from when he had carried the wool shirt before. “Can you hear me or are you reading my lips?”

The man nodded and smiled.

Gail returned with the money. Michael took it from her and handed it to the man.

The man turned away and, somewhat relieved, Michael and Gail turned back into the house. Michael had just closed the door when the sound of the lawn mower split the air. He looked at Gail.

“That guy scares me,” Gail said.

“He’s harmless,” Michael said.

“He’s a nut.”

Michael looked out the window at him, wearing the wool shirt, struggling to push his mower with the wobbly wheel. “He’s pretty weird, all right. We’ll let him do this today.”

The man mowed the already mowed lawn and was gone without a knock at the door. Michael suddenly noticed the silence. He got up from his desk and walked from window to window, looking out.

“He’s gone,” he said to Gail.

“Good.”

“Boy, that machine of his makes a lot of noise,” Michael said. “Listen to how quiet it is now.”

“Yep.” Gail yawned and rubbed her eyes. “I hate work. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.”

“How old do you think that guy is?” Michael asked.

“If he comes back he won’t get any older; that’s all I know.” Gail sharpened a pencil. “I don’t know. Sixty?”

“I’d bet he’s our age.”

“Looks sixty.”

“He does; you’re right.” Michael rubbed the back of his neck. “Of course, I feel sixty.”

The following morning was overcast and Michael had trouble pulling himself out of bed for his run. Lately he’d had to force himself. He’d had to force work as well; the paintings were staring back at him, mocking him, scaring him. He tied the laces of his shoes and grabbed the nearest shirt, which happened to be the light blue UNC T-shirt. Gail stirred when he opened the door of the bedroom.

“Michael?”

“I’m going running,” he said.

“Is it still dark?” she asked sleepily.

“No, just cloudy.”

Her head fell back onto the pillow.

Michael walked down the stairs, pulling on the shirt. The morning was a bit cooler than it had been and Michael felt it helped him start at a better pace. He ran toward the avenue, crossed it, and turned up a street parallel to it. His strides felt good and long. Then he saw it. At the mouth of an alley, between a house and an old hardware store, was the wobbly wheeled lawn mower. It was parked next to the wall of the store. The store was dark and there was no one around. Michael slowed and then ran in place, staring at the mower. He looked at the house and wondered if the man lived there. He looked down the alley and saw that it opened onto the avenue. He ran that way and glanced around, not really knowing what he expected to see.

He arrived at home to find Gail collecting her papers at the table. “How was your run?”

Michael nodded and went to the cabinet for a glass and filled it with water from the bubbler.

“I’m going to make some breakfast,” Gail said. “Would you like some?”

Michael shook his head.

“Are you okay?”

Michael blew out a breath and raised his water glass to her. Gail studied him for a second, then went back to her papers.

Michael set his glass on the counter and walked upstairs, pulling off his shirt on the way. He called back down to Gail, “Hey, I changed my mind.”

“What do you want?”

“Pancakes?”

“Okay,” she called.

Michael got cleaned up and collected clothes from the hamper to throw into the washing machine. He made a point of finding and including the UNC T-shirt with the load. He held the shirt for a second over the filling drum of the washer, then dropped it in.

“What’s wrong?” Gail asked at the table, pancake on her fork.

Michael unscrewed the cap on the tin of syrup. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Something’s wrong. Is it the painting you’re working on?”

“Nah.” Michael took a bite. “These aren’t bad.” He paused. “Actually, work is going along pretty well.”

“Good.”

“I saw that guy’s lawn mower this morning.”

“Excuse me?”

“That beat-up mower he used on our yard. I saw it when I was running. I didn’t see him, just the mower.”

“Oh,” Gail said. “And?”

“I saw it. That’s it.”

“Was it everything you expected?”

“Very funny,” Michael said.

They were silent for a bit, then Michael said, “People used to believe that forces and spirits could enter into sculptures.”

“I believe that. I believe that about your paintings,” Gail said.

“They thought that the spirit the thing represented would enter it.” Michael rubbed his temples. “I think I try to find spirits when I work. I think I’m looking for them.”

“There’s a lot of power in your work.”

“I’m not talking about power.” He didn’t exactly snap, but he regretted the way he’d said his last words.

“I’m going to be late for class.” She stood and grabbed her satchel from the counter, kissed Michael on the forehead.

“See you later,” Michael said.

“I love you,” Gail said.

“I love you, too.”

Michael cleaned the kitchen and then went out to his studio. He turned on the standing fan and stood in front of it for a few seconds. He didn’t work on the painting he had going, but took it from his easel and replaced it with a blank six-by-eight-foot canvas. He began to cry as he put blues on his palette: cerulean, cobalt—hue and color, pthalo, and indigo. He stared at the blank canvas, but was able to apply only one shade, cerulean. He started at the lower lefthand corner and moved slowly, with short strokes from a small brush, diagonally toward the upper righthand corner.