Burning September (8 page)

***

Valerie Rasmussen peered over the rims of her reading glasses after I tapped on her cracked open office door.

“Come on in, Kat.”

“I have the graded quizzes.”  I slid into the visitor’s seat and handed them over. 

“Great.”  She paged through the sheaf of papers with plum nails.  The manicure looked expensive.  Expensive enough to conclude she had an extra one hundred and one thousand dollars and fifty-nine cents to hand to my sister? Wouldn’t that have been something she’d mention during our first meeting? 

“Something wrong?” She flicked a glance at her nails too, then back at me.

I blinked.  “How do you keep the polish so perfect?  No chips or paint smears or anything.”

She shot me a droll smile.  “It’s been a while since I’ve actually worked on a piece myself.  Students keep me busy.”

“Professor Rasmussen, have you been helping my sister financially?”

Her eyebrows knitted, and she put the quizzes aside.  “What do you mean?”

The way her lips crunched and how she cocked her head had me thinking I’d been sorely off base.  I chewed on my lips, wringing my hands in my lap.  “Giving her money, or something.  I’ve been worried about paying the rent, but when I checked her accounts last night, I realized I didn’t need to worry at all. She…she has money.  In her accounts.  More than I thought she should.  She told me everything would be fine before, but I didn’t believe her.  And then I saw the balance.  And I can’t call her right now because I have classes and homework and she has to go to bed really early in that place, and I’m just…really confused.”

“Kat.”  She took her glasses off, wedged them into a case with D&G engraved in gilt lettering, and tented her hands on the desk. “Caroline’s a talented artist.  Those with a lot of promise often get sponsors, well-off people who like the arts to help them out financially.  Funds for art supplies, studio rent; it’s really at the sponsor’s discretion.  It’s possible that’s where this money has come from.  I do know that she got quite a bit from awards she’s won in the past.  But I haven’t given her any money personally.”  Her blue eyes shone bleach-white behind the lenses as a beam of sunshine found its way into her office behind a swaying tree branch. 

Sponsors.  I should have known. I’d heard the term flung around before but never bothered to ask the details. 

Envisioning Caroline in clay smeared cutoffs, paint brushes impaled through a side-swept yet elegant blonde knot, the tips of her fingers stained scarlet, it was easy to imagine some middle aged men with more money than they knew what to do with spending it on her.  Probably being saddled with nagging wives for fifteen years had started to take a toll, and stumbling into the aphrodisiac haze of Caroline’s airy studio, seeing her surrounded by fraying canvas and marble blocks, dust swirling around her ankles, deep honey eyes flashing in the intangible way only Caroline’s could, might be more than any of them could bear.  Caroline was a bottle of bourbon during prohibition.    

Yeah, any male ‘sponsor’ would have forked over that sum of money.  In an instant. 

“I hope I’ve helped clear this up.”  Lines of concern etched around her mouth.  “Is there anything you need to talk about?”

“Um.”  I pressed a hand against my forehead, elbow on the desk.  “Yeah.  How do you feel about being a possible character witness?”

***

Hi Jeff,

It’s Kat, Caroline’s sister.  I asked Professor Rasmussen for your email address.  I hope you don’t mind. I know I’m not technically in the advanced classes, but I was wondering if you’d be able to sit down with me, help me understand some of the material.  I have some of Caroline’s old notes, but it’s hard to decipher some of her shorthand, and sometimes she does this weird thing where she sketches what she means.  I’ll be on the west side of campus for another hour, if you’re going to be around, or you can just email me back.  If you’re too busy, I understand.

Thanks.

Kat.

I stabbed the send button and tipped my head back against the brick wall of the music hall breezeway. Contacting Jeff would make Caroline happy, and I wanted to visit her bearing news she’d appreciate.  I didn’t care if he ignored it or not.  I tried, didn’t I?  We didn’t need to be friends.  I just needed to get through freshman year relatively unscathed.

Faint music rode the light breeze, wafting through the hallway.  I’d have rather heard that than my own thoughts, but it didn’t last as long as I’d hoped.

Doors flung open further down the hallway, and students trickled past.  I stared at their shoes as they walked by.  Converse, Vans, the odd ballet flats, flip flops.  California’s flip flop season went year-round.  Caroline even wore them when it rained.

“The girl who likes Bob Marley.”  A pair of boots clunked into view, and I squinted up to find Professor Lawlis staring down at me, holding a steaming Styrofoam cup.

“The professor who shot me down.” I closed my laptop and stuffed it into my backpack.  “Have you reconsidered?”  I tried to smile, but couldn’t be sure if I succeeded, since my face hadn’t done it in so long.

“Sorry, kid.  Nothing’s changed.  No spots.”  He reached out and offered his free hand.  I accepted, and he hauled me to my feet. 

“Oh my God, I’m sorry,” I said when my backpack swung into his kneecap.  “Did I hurt you?”

He gave a hollow laugh.  Pulled the thigh of his jeans up and motioned to his feet, where the bloated midday sun shining through the breezeway illuminated a metal rod protruding from his boot. 

“No harm done.”

I felt my cheeks flush.  “I’m—I’m still sorry.”  Not least because I had a feeling I’d be too embarrassed now to ever take his music class.  If I were Caroline, I’d make a pirate joke that would be wildly inappropriate yet somehow still charming, but I’d been born without that particular skill.

He grunted, shaking his jeans down to cover the rod.  “What are you doing over here?  I thought you didn’t get into any music courses.”

“I didn’t.”  I swung my backpack over my shoulder so there wouldn’t be any more causalities.  “But I like listening to it while I’m waiting around for my other classes. Much more soothing than people screaming into their cell phones.”

“What did you say your name was, again?”

“Kat.”

“You play any instruments?”

“Not well.  I barely learned how to play guitar.  My sister’s ex was teaching me.”

He gave me a smile his face didn’t seem capable of executing, but I could see the humor in his gray eyes.  “Breakup ruined the lessons?”

“Well, that, and he died.” 

“That’ll do it.”  He held eye contact for a while, and not for any reason I could fathom.  Not the same way men looked at Caroline.  More like the way people looked at her paintings. 

“Kat?”  Rapid footsteps pounded from behind, and I turned to find Jeff standing there, looking very scholarly in his shiny glasses and I-just-woke-up hair.  “I got your email.  Hi, Professor Lawlis.”

The professor gave a gruff hello, which I suspected was rather kind, coming from him, and clapped me on the shoulder.  “I’ll see you around, kid.”

I couldn’t understand how I didn’t immediately notice the way he walked, the loud
clunk
every other step.  How had he lost it?  I wanted to follow him, talk to him a little longer, but he disappeared behind a classroom door and closed it behind him.

He was the only person I’d been around lately who didn’t fake good cheer and friendliness.  We were both missing parts.  I had two legs, but half my heart was gone.

“I’m surprised he’s out and about,” Jeff said.  “Normally he keeps himself pretty sequestered.”

I brushed my ponytail off my shoulder.  How rude would it be if I walked into that classroom?  No class in session.  “Everybody eventually needs some coffee.”

“Too true.”

“I didn’t think I’d hear from you so quickly.”  I turned back to Jeff.  “Thanks.”

“No problem.  I don’t have time now, but I will later on tonight.  If you want to get together then, you can text me.  We can meet anywhere that’s good for you.”

“Oh.  Well.  I’m going to visit Caroline later this afternoon, so maybe after that.”

He shifted his messenger bag higher on his shoulder.  “How is she?”

“About as good as you’d expect, given where she is.”

He nodded at the floor.  I was willing to bet he had some dark back room wherever he lived, plastered with candid photos of Caroline and never-sent love letters. Well, he wouldn’t be the first.

“Tell her I said hi.”

“Sure.”

“All right. So, let me know.  I’ll be around.”

***

“Katya Smirnov, your lunatic is ready.”

I finished signing my name on the visitor’s log, giving Caroline the side-eye.  “You looked a little crazier the last time I saw you.  This place is going downhill fast.”

“Maybe I can come down with a case of Tourette’s for your entertainment.”  She grabbed my hand and towed me to the sofa.  “Did you come from school?”

“Yeah.”  We sank into the cushions.  “Jeff might come by later.  Thought that’d make you happy.  Why didn’t you tell me a sponsor gave you a shitload of money?”

Her eyebrow arched.  “Because it’s my business.  I told you everything was handled.”

“You couldn’t have been vaguer.  Are they going to make you give this money back?  It’s not like you’re doing many art projects these days.”

“I won’t have to return it.  Can we move this party back to Jeff, please?” 

“Not yet.  I asked Professor Rasmussen if she’d be okay with being called as a character witness.  She was all for it.  Gave me a stack of old letters of recommendation and other stuff to give to your attorney.”  I’d tried calling the number I had for Kyle, but the mechanical phone woman had informed me his mailbox was full, forcing me to resort to a text message.  No response had come through.  Typical.

She poked the space between her eyebrows and groaned.  “That’s humiliating.”

“That’s what happens when you burn down your ex-boyfriend’s house, Caroline.  Add it to the list of reasons why you shouldn’t have done it.”

She flicked a stray strand of hair out of her eyes.  “Thanks, Mom.  So, Jeff?”

“I don’t know why you’re so gung-ho about me being friends with him, anyway.  He’s okay, I guess, but it’s not like we have a whole hell of a lot in common.”

I was sick of men.  Men dragging you to the U.S. to ‘start a new life’ then spending time cheating on you.  Men getting drunk on Christmas, burning holes in the couch with a cigarette.  Men dousing you in hot oil.  Lusting after a fifteen-year-old, sending innumerable letters filled with whatever the fuck for years and years.  Telling you they love you and then changing their minds.  Making you sit on a roof all goddamned day, turning over tarot cards, making you lose your mind, your self-respect. Forcing you to Chili’s for another interrogation. You’re all they see until the next best thing flits past.

Caroline and I saw a horrible argument between a husband and wife one night when I was eleven.  He’d packed his bags and made his way to the car, his wife trailing behind in a terry cloth bathrobe and nothing else.  Bare feet smushing through damp grass.  The sprinklers kicked on, but she paid no mind.  She cried, begged.  Snot all over her face, her hair dark with water.  Didn’t change anything.  He still left.

Before Caroline hustled me back inside, I marveled at how I could feel so sorry and so repulsed at the same time.

“He’s a good guy.  At the very least, you should make nice because you’re going to wind up seeing a lot of each other.  He’s Valerie’s undergraduate professor.  He knows everything you’re going to need to know to excel in the advanced classes, once you’re able to get into them.  He might even be able to get you in earlier than usual.  Not all freshman are lucky enough to know the undergrad professor.”

I’m not your Mini Me
, I wanted to shout,
so stop planning my life.
  I was tired of being her blank canvas, waiting for her to fill me in.  Painting my vacancy until I shone like the insides of sea shells, as luminous as she was.  I could never own radiance like hers.  What was I, some compact purse mirror she liked to look into?

“As much as I appreciate all the help and leg-ups, I’m not as good at all this stuff as you.  That’s just fact.  You do realize you’re the exception to the artist rule, right? Because most of them are waiters.  You did fine in the industry because you’re you, and you’re beautiful and talented, and also because you have a ton of other side jobs to help make ends meet.  I don’t have the faintest idea what I want to do with myself, but I can say with certainty I won’t get anywhere being an artist when I’m mediocre at best.”      

“I don’t know what to tell you, babe.  It’s too late to back out of the TA gig.  Give it the semester.  The year, maybe.  If you still feel the same way, you can bow out.”  She blew out a sigh.  “On a side note, looks have nothing to do with it, and even if they did, you look like me, so your argument is moot.”