Warpaint (12 page)

“From life, my own bare feet.”

“Well,” said Nancy, turning back to her mirror to powder her face. “Liz does favor bare feet. I suppose you take off your shoes, when you're up at her studio?”

“Sometimes. Not all the time. Where are you and Daddy going tonight?”

“To the Finn's, for dinner. We won't be long. Aunt Liz will be here. You will mind what she says?”

“I will,” said C.C. sliding one foot forward and back against the hardwood floor. “But sometimes Ted doesn't.”

“Oh? And what about Tucker?”

“Aw, Mom, he's just a baby.”

“I see.” Choosing a large, beveled bottle of Joy perfume, Nancy slipped the stopper off and dabbed at the back of her ears, then her wrists. “I'll talk to Ted.”

“Don't tell him I tattled, will you, Mommy? Please?”

“Of course not. Now, come here –” Nancy opened her arms and took her daughter gently by the shoulders, making the girl walk close. “Let me see you. Sweetheart, you are pretty, but you are going to be a very pretty young lady. Let me show you something –” and as she said this, she began unraveling her daughter's pigtails, loosening the braids carefully until she could brush through the kinks. “Close your eyes,” she said, and began carefully making up her daughter's face, with a touch of rouge, a dust of powder, light eyeliner, mascara and Tangee. Smoothing the girl's hair away from her cheeks, she turned her daughter to the mirror and said, “Now open your eyes.”

C.C. stared at her transformed face, polished like an old-fashioned porcelain doll.

“What do you think, sweetheart?”

“Mommy, I look like that man.”

“A man? What man?”

“The one with the big, sad lips and the red nose we saw at the circus.”

“Oh my dear!” Nancy snagged a tissue from a box and carefully wiped away the make-up on her daughter's lips and face. “You mean Weary Willy? Oh, honey. You don't look like anything like a clown.”

“Yes I do,” said C.C. through the tissue. “Just like that man.”

 

♦

 

“You are such a clown,” said Liz as she put on a pair of canvas gloves.

Paul stopped dancing with the Siamese Tom, Schmoe. Schmoe's version of dancing was to rear up on his hind paws and slash out at Paul, who dangled a string. The only male Liz owned, Schmoe was spoiled and he had a thing for string. That afternoon they were out in the potting “shed”, a lean-to with a green, corrugated roof, attached to the back of Liz's dove-grey saltbox studio on Montauk. Because of that roof, everything inside the lean-to on a sunny day took on a sickly cast.

“When is C.C. coming over?” Paul put down Schmoe's toy, and leaned back against the warped wooden potting table.

Liz separated seedlings. “Soon. I decided on cherry tomatoes this year. And I want to try corn. Nothing tastes so fine as fresh corn. And strawberries, and sugar-snap peas, maybe lettuces.”

“Good thing you've got all these cats prowling about. Otherwise a bunny might devastate the pea patch.”

“Where is Schmoe?”

Paul thumbed over his shoulder. “I saw him heading for Nadine out by the oak.”

“Good. Anyway, just what do you think of
B Two
?”

He sniffed. “I haven't seen it yet.”

“Yes you have – I caught you sneaking a peek.”

“What about that other sketch – the bright burning child?”

Liz frowned and said slowly. “I don't know what it is, yet. The image just came to me – maybe it's for next year. And
B Two
?”

“It's sad. Dark and sad.”

“I worry.”

“That's obvious. Should we also worry about C.C.? Isn't she late?”

Liz glanced at her watch. “Not really but she'll get here when she gets here.”

“She seems fond of you.”

“She's a sweet kid.”

“And her mother, too, is fond of you.”

“As I am, of her.”

“How fond?”

“Paul! Do I detect jealousy? You know she helped me out when I was down.”

“And didn't I gain by it? Your friendship, I mean. Gaine's gains.”

“Well, sir I suppose you did, since she introduced you to me and me to you. Which I suppose means I ‘gaines' two friends.”

“Uh-huh. Two, for the price of one. Or three, if you count Tom.”

Liz chuckled, watering a flat of parsley. “Tom is a good man – cuckoo, but a good man.” She straightened up. “However did you two meet, anyway?”

Paul folded his boxer's muscled arms. “I didn't meet him. Like you, I met Nancy. She was a regular at my gallery in the Village, so I took care to meet her. Here was this well-heeled young lady all by her lonesome asking after my work. Of course when I found out she was married – what's wrong? Hey, are you all right?”

“No –” she breathed, her face white to the lips. She was staring over his shoulder through the window, so he turned around, but all he saw was little Charlotte Davis, dawdling with the two cats, who'd come away from their tryst to meet her.

“Good God, Liz, it's only C.C. Who'd you think it was, a ghost?”

“Why is she bald?”

“Bald?” He turned around again. “What the – she's not bald.”

“But –” Liz put down her spade and walked briskly around to the outdoors, where she could see in an instant that the child wasn't bald. Yet she'd been so sure – “What happened to your pigtails?”

C.C. looked up from the cats, and reached back to touch the French roll her mother had, by force and hair spray, shaped her kinky hair into, then turned her head to show Liz. “Do you like it?”

“Very smart.”

“Mom thinks I'm too old, now, for pig-tails.”

“I see.” Liz folded her arms. “Pearls, furs and high-heels are next?”

“No. I like me the way I am.”

Paul came out of the lean-to laughing. “Me, too, sweetie pie,” he said. “I like my girls just the way they are.”

 

♦

 

Armed with a curly blond wig and her brand-new breast, C.C. stepped out of the cab at the corner of 50th and 5th, Quiola behind her. The cab was instantly re-occupied. The two women made their way from the crowded, sunny street to the grand old plate-glass windows and revolving doors of Saks Fifth Avenue.

“I haven't been here in a donkey's age,” said C.C., glancing up at the phalanx of American flags waving over her wigged head.

Inside, the air was sweet with perfume. They stood for a moment next to winter hats and wool scarves, looking down the hard-wood floor corridor at the oak and glass cabinets, those graceful old display cabinets inside which, on one side of the aisle, jewelry sparkled in the department store lights and on the other side, cosmetics and perfume. People, lightly bundled up against the early winter chill, rushed in behind them, then slowed as they made their way into whichever section of the store they'd chosen as a destination, or simply wandered up the center aisle.

Quiola took off her hat, stuffed it in her handbag and took C.C. by the elbow, steering her to cosmetics. “Which do you prefer? Estée Lauder? Or Prescriptives?”

“No more prescriptions, please! Wow, this place hasn't changed in thirty years. The last time I was here, I think it was the seventies. That's right, the late seventies. Mother needed a new dress – I don't think a single item has shifted since that day.”

“Of course it has. I don't see any side-burns or 'fros.”

“In
here
?”

“Yes in here. Now, come and choose a brand. You said you wanted a make-over at Saks Fifth Avenue, so, let's get cracking.”

“I swear this is almost unbearable. Do you think if I wait long enough, Mother will emerge from the handbag section, carrying one that will just suit me?”

“Honestly!” said Quiola, huffing. “Look, all these nice make-up girls are waiting for your decision and if you don't decide soon, we're going to be doused with that perfume –” A young woman in extremely high heels was busy spraying wrists – or white cards, if one preferred – with a bright floral fragrance.

“I'll be old-fashioned and go with Lancôme,” said C.C.

“French. You would.”

“My choice.”

The Lancôme counter stood a little over halfway down the main aisle, nearer the elevators than the front doors. Dodging the fragrance lady, Quiola and C.C. headed for the Lancôme chair into which C.C. hopped.

“When was the first time you came here?” she asked Quiola.

“
This
is the first time.”

“Today's your first time? Are you kidding me?”

“May I help you ladies?” asked the not-so young woman behind the counter.

“Yes,” said Quiola. “My friend would like a make-over.”

The woman eyed them both through her heavy mascara. “What kind of a make-over? Wedding? Daily? Evening?”

“A chemo make-over,” said C.C. cheerfully. “I'm just
dying
to look my best. Something light to go with my fake hair.”

“Oh, brother,” said Quiola.

The Lancôme sales woman seemed unimpressed. “I'll show you our suggested day-color combinations, and you can choose one.” She walked through the interior of the counter to the other side calling out to Quiola, “Miss? Please, could you come around here for a moment?”

C.C. folded her arms. “Don't be long,” she admonished, as Quiola made her way around the curved glass to the far side of the counter. The saleswoman leaned forward and whispered, “She is very ill?”

“Yes.”

“I am so sorry.”

Quiola nodded, not really knowing what to say.

“All right then,” said the saleswoman and briskly removed a display case bringing it back to C.C. through the little work area where the sales people keep receipts, telephone, coffee and Danish, leaving Quiola to take the long way back around.

“I want,” said C.C., gazing over the color combination samples, “to look as normal as possible.”

“Of course.”

“But this stuff always makes me feel like Bozo the Clown.”

“Let me give you a face,” said the saleswoman “and you can judge.” She took the samples chart, turned around to open some drawers and began applying foundation to C.C.'s face with a make-up wedge. When she was done, the saleswoman stepped back rather dramatically nodding to herself as she fetched a large hand mirror which she handed to C.C. saying, “Much improved. I think you'll be pleased.”

Quiola was, but she held her tongue until C.C. could look herself over.

“Well?” asked Quiola at last.

“I can't believe it! I look almost well. Thank you!”

“You're welcome. Shall I put together a package? Yes? Good.”

And so C.C. left the make-up counter nearly a hundred dollars out, but feeling more like a million than she had for months. Back on the chill and busy Fifth Avenue, Quiola pointed to the soaring spires of St. Patrick's. “Do you mind if we walk in?”

“To the church? Why?”

“To light a candle, for my mother.”

“You don't practice.”

“No, but it meant something to Mom. Whenever I venture mid-town, I stop in and light a candle. At first it was just for all souls, something Mom did but after she died, I do it for her.”

“You go to a church you don't believe in but you never stepped over to Saks?”

“Nope. Not until today.”

“Sometimes you baffle me.”

“I don't like to shop.”

The plentiful steps up to the Cathedral's entrance gave C.C. a little trouble, but she got to the decorated bronze doors without pausing. “It's all so much,” she said. “This place – all the tracery, these doors, the height.”

“It's a cathedral.”

“It's just big,” said C.C., hushing her voice as they left the sunshine of the early winter day for the dim, cold interior of the church, where incense mingled with candle smoke and melting wax. Sound moved through the vastness of the nave as echo, every cough or rustle magnified by the soaring height of the ceiling. Most of the people in St. Patrick's were walking up and down the perimeter of the church, looking over the marble statues of saints, shuffle, shuffling, whispering. Here and there someone sat in a pew. One elderly woman in black was on her knees, her forehead against folded hands, from which dangled a white plastic rosary.

Quiola genuflected between the two last pews, made the sign of the cross and led the way around the back of the pews to a statue of the Virgin, in front of which was a wire rack of small white candles. About half of them were burning and smoking; Quiola dropped some change into the metal slotted box welded to the front of the rack, took a long match, lit it, and chose her candle.

“Come,” she whispered after she'd finished. “Let's sit for a minute.”

The two slipped into the nearest pew; C.C. placed her Saks bag on the floor beside the brown padded kneeler. For a few seconds, she gazed around at the distant altar with its snowy white clothing and high-polished gold fittings of the tabernacle. Then her cell phone started to vibrate. She leaned over and whispered to Quiola,

“Meet me outside when you're done?”

“Okay.”

Quiola sat on the hard wooden pew for a few more moments. When she came back outside she found C.C. near the massive doorway, her newly made-up face green beneath foundation, powder and paint. “It's Mom,” she said. “They're not sure she'll make it through the night. I have to go. Now.”

“Look – there's a cab. I'll dash, you follow –”

C.C. nodded as Quiola ran down the church steps, two at a time.

Ted Davis showed up at Hartford Hospital an hour after C.C. and Quiola arrived from the City. He walked into his mother's quiet, dim, and cluttered IC room, so angry it was as if he carried a blazing torch.

“What happened?” he demanded. A big man, he crowded the already jam-packed space. Easing past various machines, he walked to the opposite side of the room to where his sister sat beside the wheeled bed. He gently lifted his mother's hand.

“Get out of here,” said C.C.

“Right,” he said, then lowered his voice a bit. “How is she doing?”

“Badly. She's dying.”

“Nonsense.” He loosened his bright yellow tie, and then took the measure of his mother's weak, irregular pulse.

“You're not her doctor,” said C.C.

“No, dammit, I'm her son.
And
a doctor. Just shut up, would you, Charlie?”

“Stop,” whispered Quiola. Upon Ted's arrival she had receded, like smoke, into a corner of stillness. Now, she stepped to C.C.'s side.

Ted leveled his brown-gray eyes at her. “Who are you, to be here, now? I thought this one had ditched you, Charlie, way back in the eighties. Broke your heart, didn't she? I don't see why she's here.”

C.C. stood up. “Get out, Ted. You're a monster.”

“Me? I'm the monster? You'd better look in the mirror.”

“Homophobe.”

“You can call me any name you like,” he replied, running one hand over his gray curly hair. “But you can't make me leave. I have every right to be here.”

“Fine,” said C.C. as she sat back down. “And ditto. You can't make me leave, either. Or Quiola. Who has every right to be here if I say so.”

“Where's Cosgrove? I want to speak to him.”

“Be my guest. See if you can change his diagnosis.”

Ted turned on his heel and left the room. As the door swung slowly closed behind him, Quiola whispered, “Hell.”

Tight-lipped, C.C. said, “See? He's impossible.”

“He didn't even ask how
you're
doing.”

“Of course he didn't. I told you, he just doesn't care. He thinks of me as some aspect of the past, like a theory or an algorithm of family ties.”

“It's terrible.”

“But true.” And, having come to this, C.C. had long ago released the strings of her affection for him, and let it drift away. She reached over the silver metal safety bars and lifted her mother's cool, limp hand. “Mom,” she whispered, but there was no response except the light beep of the heart-monitor.

Quiola sat down and clasped her own hands together nervously. She had never been at a deathbed before. She saw C.C. shoulders tense; the heart monitor kept to a quiet blue pulse, but when she glanced over at Nancy's face, it looked drained, all the wrinkles and creases smoothed flat. Her gaze skipped away and she could not force herself to look again, her mind wandering off to the afternoon she'd first met Nancy Ryder, and to the first warm touch of her smile.

“C.C.,” she whispered, leaning forward, keeping the tears out of her voice. “I have to go for a minute,” and she stepped into the institution-bright hallway, jumbled with empty beds, equipment, equipment, a lost pen. She nodded to one of the night nurses, who nodded back, then leaned against a wall, took a deep, deep breath, and walked down to the windows. The night sky was just beginning to blue, and the well-lit parking lot below was empty; then she went to the ladies room beside the nurse's central reception well, where the night staff ate pizza. She washed her face, scrubbing with her palms to make her cheeks redden a bit to mask the reddening of her nose, which always happened when she cried. Squaring her shoulders, she left the bathroom, but as she turned the hallway corner, saw Ted and Dr. Cosgrove moving with swift purpose ahead of her. At the sight, in reflex, Quiola murmured, “Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come…” but the words began to die, and in their place rose a mournful song, soft and quiet, a song her mother made her memorize, syllable by meaningless syllable, a chant composed in a tongue lost to her.

 

♦

 

In Minnesota, just before the Christmas holidays, Liz found herself rolling around Treetops like a lost marble, jittery in a way she couldn't explain. When the doorbell rang that afternoon, she was grateful to have a destination and company – her niece, Beth.

“Aunt Liz! Here I am, as requested.”

“Oh, I'm so glad you could stop by,” she said, opening the door wider to let Beth in, bringing with her a gust of pure ice air. Unpeeling layers of wool, shedding cap, mittens, coat and snowy boots, Beth Moore, a strongly built woman, was yet a half foot shorter than her Aunt Liz, so she was always gazing up, as she did now. “How are you feeling?” she asked, hanging her things on a clothes tree.

“Odd. Never felt like this before.” Liz, who wore a large, hand-knit sweater, put her hands inside the sleeves. “On edge.”

“Maybe you're coming down with something?”

“No. Let's go to the kitchen. I'll make tea.”

“Well then,” said Beth, who followed Liz across the living room with its vaulted ceiling and massive crossbeams, past the fire in the fireplace, to lean against the lintel of the kitchen door. “What sort of odd?”

“I don't know, just odd. And I keep dreaming about Paul. I haven't dreamt about him in years. It's very disturbing.” She put a kettle on to boil. “You never met Paul, did you?”

“No. Are they bad dreams?”

“Not bad. Strange. Seeing him again. I wake up and I'm alone. It's disorienting.”

“Do you want me to come stay over a few nights?”

“No,” said Liz, her voice breaking a little. “Here, I'll take the pot if you can take the cups.” She lifted the delicate white pot from the counter, as Beth collected the matching cups and saucers, and then they both went back into the bright living area, to a generous picnic-style wooden table near windows. Outside, new snow was piled on the deck. Lizzie clasped her knotted hands together, sighed and said, “Maybe it's losing Nancy Davis.”

“Remind me again? Nancy Davis?” Beth blew on her tea and sat down with her back to the windows. Even through her flannel shirt she could feel the chill outside, trying to get in.

“Nancy was an old friend, terribly generous. She gave me –
gave
me, mind you – my studio on Montauk. C.C.'s mother.”

“Oh, yes. The girl in pigtails – you showed me old pictures. She's ill, isn't she? I thought you said she was ill.”

“Cancer. Nancy introduced me to Paul, you know.”

“Really? This was in, what, the forties?”

“No, earlier. I met Nancy before C.C. was born – something like '35.”

“The year I was born?”

“Oh, no – must have been '34, then, because Nancy was pregnant.”

“With C.C.?”

“No, with her brother, Ted. C.C. was born in '36.” Liz smiled. “So you and she are almost the same age. How funny. I never really thought about it before. You seem younger than that.”

“Maybe because you lived in NY, and we all lived here.”

“We all? I see. And I never visited, did I?”

“Not when father was alive.” The fire snapped. The two women regarded one another, until Liz said, “Well, I'm here now, aren't I? What's left of me, at any rate. I do wish I could shake off this odd feeling.”

“When did your friend pass away?”

“November. November 12. Less than a month ago, but it was a mercy, really. She had Alzheimer's. Everything she'd lived for, everyone she loved, just gone. Oh. Oh, my goodness! November 12. No wonder –” she stopped and shook her head.

“No wonder what?”

“A child's birthday. November 12. I'd forgotten.”

“What child?”

“It doesn't matter, Beth. Truly, it doesn't. Coincidence. So, how is Sara doing?”

Beth smiled. “Well. Her business is good, but I wish, for her sake, she'd find somebody to share it with. I can tell she's still not over Terry. Five years. I hope she can climb out of it.”

“Poor thing – tell her to drop by. We can sit and have at life, the two of us.”

Beth laughed. “Fix the world.”

“Yes. Want another cup?”

“No, thanks, I should be getting along. You need anything? I'll come back in a couple days, so if you need anything –”

Liz clasped her hands together again and muttered, “Nembutol. Valium.”

“What?” Beth collected the tea things, and took them into the kitchen.

“Nothing, my dear. Think I'll try a nap.” She stared down at her knotted, liver-spotted hands. “A nap. Without dreams, please. I've had enough to last forever.”

“What did you say?”

“A nap,” said Liz, raising her voice. “A nap!”

Beth returned from the kitchen, and began re-dressing for the cold. “Are you sure you want Sara and I over for Christmas day? It's not too much?”

“Of course I'm sure. What a question.”

“All right, then, we'll bring a turkey, and all the sides.”

“Turkey? Not turkey. Duck. Goose. Even chicken. Not turkey. I don't see why you make such a fuss, anyway. Christmas is just like any another day, number three hundred something.”

“Honest to Pete you're annoying. I'll call you tomorrow.”

With Beth gone, Liz went into her bare master bedroom – an old-fashioned iron bedstead with a blue and white herringbone quilt, two square bedside tables on either side, both with iron lamps and on one, a single round alarm clock, bakelite blue. She'd hung the startlingly silver-blue version of
Wirkorgan
over the bed, which made the room even colder, the ovoid blue to silvery shapes frigid as an interior ice storm. On the oak dresser, reflected in the mirror, was a small, flat green box, and a spool of plaid ribbon. Although her hands trembled, she cut the ribbon on a clean diagonal, and managed a careful bow.

“There,” she said, placing the green box inside a brown one stuffed with newspaper, packing it up for the post. Finished, she stepped under the staircase outside the bedroom and opened the door to a small elevator-seat, a device she'd put in some years ago, after she'd fallen and feared stairs. She sat down, shut the door, pressed the button and the seat rose to a corresponding door on the second floor. She got out and stepped into the one large loft room, her studio now. Switching on a light, she went over to her immaculate workbench – everything tidy, awaiting deployment. She sat down and eyed a blank canvas, envisioning a self-portrait of the artist as a young woman.

“There,” she muttered, choosing a brush. “Conjure the past.”

 

♦

 

On Christmas morning, C.C. stayed in bed long after she heard Quiola slip downstairs. Her hands clasped behind her neck, she stared at the white painted tongue and groove ceiling, feeling light, washed out, as if relieved of all flesh. When the aroma of coffee overtook the slight, persistent odor of linseed oil in her bedroom, she wriggled back into the flannel nightshirt she'd yanked off in the middle of the night, and sat up. She slipped off the head-sock she wore to keep her skull warm but her head felt…odd. She laid her palm against her scalp.

“Is it possible?” She swung her legs out of the sheets and tiptoed to a mirror hung by a beige ribbon on the wall near the stairs.

“Fuzz?” She gazed at her head. “I have fuzz! I'm fuzzie wuzzie.” Slipping her feet into clogs, she opened the top drawer of her dresser, took out a small wrapped box, then clomped downstairs. Although she'd been protesting for weeks that Christmas felt nightmarish this year, she was glad now that Quiola had decorated the “shed” with armloads of pine and ribbon and lights, mistletoe. Redolent with coffee and the sharp clean fragrance of evergreen, the “shed” seemed like a kid in a new overcoat. C.C. came down the stairs into the morning's thin light to slip the box she held under the tree. A pinecone snapped in the tiny hearth.

“Fire's lovely,” she called into the kitchen.

“It was an icebox in here when I got up. Coffee?”

“Love some.” A tiny thump-thump-thump told C.C. that Amelia was coming downstairs after her. The cat skittered past into the kitchen.

“Your familiar is hungry,” she said.

“I know.” Quiola came into the living room with two mugs of coffee.

“Guess what?” said C.C. bending her head. “Look – can you see it? Peach-fuzz.”

“It's finally growing back? Hooray!”

C.C. sat at the table. “I'll hardly know what to do with it. Hair. Just imagine.”

“Merry Christmas,” said Quiola, picking up the cat.

“Merry to you, too. Wonder how long it will take to look like something other than fuzz. Wonder when I should make an appointment at the salon! Oh and Quiola – thanks.”

“For what? You haven't opened a single gift yet.”

“For this – for Christmas. It would have been worse, I think, to skip it.”

“Your parents always made a big deal of it, and Mother did, too, so it just seemed wrong to let it go.”

C.C. went to the tree, looked over several boxes, shook one, put it down. “There are so many! I thought you hate to shop.”

“One's for Amelia. And that green box arrived from Minnesota.”

“From Liz? Hell!” C.C. leaned over the box with its jaunty plaid ribbon. “What do you think she's up to? Always said a gift shouldn't be an obligation. If obliged, she gives food. Or flowers. Anyway, things that don't last. That box doesn't look like either food or a flower.” She glanced out the window just as a pair
of chickadees landed on the large wooden spool on the back porch to hop about strewn sunflower seeds. “Monks,” she said. “Chickadees. With their brown caps and white cheeks. Do you believe in God?”

“Whoa – I haven't had enough coffee yet for a question like that!”