on the Pre-Raphaelite masters before Thanksgiving vacation was over, but the blank canvas called out to me, almost begging for color.
Malcolm came by in the morning, also back from college. He kissed me lightly and took my left hand. “You really want to wear your ring while you paint, El?” Then, looking at my work in progress: “What the hell is that?”
“First,” I said, “the ring’s washable. Second, this is art. Like it?”
A shake of his head told me he didn’t. Not one bit.
“Good thing I got you out of the postmodernist world and back into the real one, hon.” He bent his head, first to the right, then left, then back to middle. “What’s it supposed to be?”
“Sex.”
“Good sex or bad sex?” Now he was nearly upside down, trying to make sense of the swirls of red and orange.
“Good,” I said. And blushed.
He sat in the chair my grandmother often occupied. It didn’t fit him well, not with its size or floral-patterned chintz. But then, nothing ever seemed to fit Malcolm Fairchild, not naturally. He simply adapted the world to his own ways, forcing it to fit.
“I’ve got news,” he said.
“Good news or bad news?”
“Excellent news.”
I put down my brush and wiped my hands on a rag. I had news, too. Oma had exchanged emails with a former colleague down at the Savannah School of Art and Design. We were driving to Georgia on Saturday to talk about graduate school. I started to tell Malcolm, and we started to speak at the same time. We laughed.
“You first,” he said.
“No. You go first.”
It was always like this between us, more so in the year we’d been engaged.
Now he stood and took my paint-smeared hands in his own. “I’ve decided on a master’s program.”
“Okay—”
“Aren’t you going to ask me where?”
His pout was almost cute, so I took the bait. “Where?”
“Penn!” Before I could say anything, he went on. “They’ve got a rock-star ed school, El. Combine that with poli-sci, and I can write my own ticket. And—if you still want to think about my little idea—a great life science program for you. We could get an apartment downtown, save up, and get married like we talked about.”
We had talked about it. But between the summer and now, other things had happened. I’d been painting more, stretching myself into new forms. I’d gotten a piece into a juried show in New Haven. I’d been invited to Savannah. “I—”
Malcolm held his hands up. “Wait. Just wait until you hear me out, honey.”
I waited.
He took a magazine out of his coat pocket and flipped it open to an article in the middle. “Science, tech, engineering, and math. They’re pouring money into it, El. Guaranteed bucketloads. And by the time I’m where I want to be, there’ll be more money for the top-tier STEM schools. The only thing is you have to be good enough to teach at one. And you have to stay good enough. But you will. I know you will.” He hugged me then, a long hug. “My brilliant wife-to-be.”
I think it was fear that swayed me, fear I’d never paint anything worthy of a real gallery, that I’d be stuck teaching like Oma. Did I want to watch and wait for one of my own students to strike gold in the art circuit, see myself occasionally mentioned—if it was mentioned at all—on a line in someone else’s biography? I saw an older version of myself, living on the generosity of my own children, and I didn’t like this vision.
We had lunch with my parents and my grandmother. Oma seemed surprised when I waffled on the subject of Saturday’s trip down south. I manufactured a lie about a project I needed to catch up on, making it sound as if I’d have to stay glued to textbooks for the weekend, which meant I ended up staying away from my studio. The unfinished canvas was still there on Sunday when Dad drove me to the airport, and Oma’s smile as she kissed me goodbye couldn’t