Art Critic
8
Judgment Day
MAVIS LIVED in a house that was twice as big as ours in a gated community on the west side of the city. We were ten minutes later getting there than we planned and awestruck when we pulled into her big circular drive. Even in black and black, the structure seemed to have a southwestern charm that spoke of old wealth. I guess I’d never asked Mavis about her home and family. Too lost in her eyes.
We were met at the door by Mavis, who threw her arms around each of us and gave us a kiss. It was a good sound kiss that I started responding to immediately. I was relieved to see that Mavis’s face was still bright and visible to me. A voice spoke from the doorway behind her.
“When you finish your greeting, we’d like to meet your guests, Mavis,” a man said.
“Sorry, Daddy,” she said. “It’s just been so long since I last saw them.” She took my hand and Annette’s, leaving Annette to grasp Morgan and drag her along into a beautiful living room. This room was huge with big windows overlooking the landscaped front where we’d parked. “Mommy and Daddy, these are my girlfriends, Annette and Morgan, and our boyfriend, Arthur.” The man, sitting in a chair on one side of the fireplace opened his mouth but didn’t say anything. The woman, sitting in a rocking chair on the other side, slid her glasses down her nose to look at us over them. It was a classic American Gothic scene. Norman Rockwell could have painted it. I was thinking I might. “Lovers, this is my father, Richard Wells, and my Mother, Lily Wells.” I nodded my head toward them, but Annette headed straight over to greet them.
“Mr. and Mrs. Wells! It’s so nice to meet you,” she said. She approached Mrs. Wells first and extended a hand that was gracefully accepted. Then she turned to Mr. Wells. “You must be incredibly proud of Mavis,” she said, extending her hand to the man. “Her photography is just stunning. Morgan tells me that she is confident of placing several images in fine art galleries in the next month and has had inquiries about commercial work when she’s ready. Isn’t it exciting?”
Morgan followed in Annette’s wake to shake hands with the seated couple. I couldn’t remember how to do this. Mavis introduced us as boyfriend and girlfriends. I couldn’t remember meeting Annette’s parents like this, but our families had known each other for years. Mavis took my hand and after a quick peck on the cheek, led me to her mother. I shook hands and said ‘Hi.’ Then to her father while Annette continued pleasantries with both.
“M… Mr. Wells,” I managed as I shook his hand.
“No need to be nervous, young man. I’ve heard your name spoken in this house many times and Mavis has shown me photos of your artwork. Any thoughts I had about slowly dismembering you for violating my daughter were dismissed at least a year ago,” he said. As he spoke, a soft glow started to illuminate his face. His smile was not threatening.
“Dad-dy,” Mavis moaned. “Arthur, how many fathers do you think would take photos of paintings of their naked daughter to work to show all his colleagues? He was very proud of both of us.”
“I have to admit that a very small part of me was embarrassed. And one or two of my colleagues asked if I needed help hiding the body,” laughed Mr. Wells. “But it would just be wrong not to share that beautiful work with others. Welcome to our home.”
“Th-thank you.”
“I do hope you will let us return your courtesy and invite you to dinner in our home. I just know our parents would love to meet you,” Morgan said.
“Why don’t you sit and chat with us for a few minutes while Mavis attends to the surprise she is cooking up in the kitchen?” Mrs. Wells said.
“Um… Mom, I need a little help in the kitchen. Annette and Morgan, would you mind terribly being left to the tender mercy of my parents while I drag Arthur off to lift the heavy tray out of the oven?” Mavis asked sweetly.
“Now that’s a switch,” Mr. Wells laughed.
“We’d be delighted,” Annette said, mimicking Mavis’s sweet voice. There was no rancor in the exchange, though, and Mavis quickly took me to the kitchen, having not let go of my hand since we first walked through the door. I heard the voices from the living room as Annette and Morgan got settled, but couldn’t tell what was being said.
I was lost in Mavis’s eyes.
“I wanted a chance to let you know that nothing has changed, Artie. Our connection is still strong and I still love you. And Annette and Morgan. I can see that you still love me.” We closed the small distance and our lips met in an agonizingly sweet reunion. I wrapped her in my arms and held her as our tongues were reintroduced and our breathing sped up.
“I do love you, Mavis. Not… exactly the same… as Annette and Morgan. But love,” I said.
“It has never been clearer to me that the three of you are a special unit,” she said. “Nothing I ever do and nothing that we ever become will change that. I can’t read auras like Morgan can, but I can see into people’s hearts. Your heart is pure.”
“Um… I have… uh… impure thoughts,” I said.
“I do hope so. And I hope I’m featured prominently,” she giggled. “I really do need help getting the chicken out of the oven. Do you mind?”
We worked comfortably side-by-side as Mavis directed me in moving the stuffed chicken breasts from the tray to plates. She placed a generous helping of rice pilaf and a corn chutney on each plate and I delivered them to the dining table where she’d already set out salads. Each salad bowl was set inside a slightly larger bowl filled with crushed ice to keep the salad crisp.
“Dinner is served,” Mavis said from the doorway of the living room as the four there were laughing.
Mavis had Morgan and me sit together on one side of the table and took her seat next to Annette opposite us. Her parents were at the ends.
The meal was unbelievably good. The chicken breasts were stuffed with jalapenos and cheddar with strips of bacon crossed over the top. The pilaf was perfectly cooked and the chutney was spicier than I expected. I couldn’t identify the name of the peppery spice.
“Arthur, I understand you’ve had some vision problems the past few months,” Mr. Wells said. “I won’t pretend to understand everything Morgan has explained, but how do you feel you are progressing? Getting better?” I looked at him and then at Mrs. Wells. I could see them clearly as if they were in soft light. Their faces and their hands. Mr. Wells wore a yellow oxford shirt with a button-down collar. I could see the color under his chin.
“Yes, sir,” I said softly. “Um… Each time… er… When I’m with Mavis, Annette, and Morgan, my eyes seem to get stronger.”
“And Kendra,” Annette added. I nodded.
“Is Kendra the young woman you said was making a sculpture of you and Arthur, Mavis?” her mother asked.
“Yes, Mother,” Mavis answered. “She and Arthur have a unique connection. She’s his best friend as well as being part of our studio.”
“Kendra and I are working to capture the essence of an aura in bronze and glass,” Morgan said. “Our dad says she is like a police artist. She takes what I describe and interprets it in three dimensions until I say, ‘That’s it.’ I think her artwork is going to break new ground.”
“Not every artist or sculptor has a clairvoyant to guide their work,” Mrs. Wells said. There wasn’t a trace of skepticism in her voice. Even in the studio, Kendra got a lot of rolled eyes when she talked about having an aurist guide her.
“I never thought of it as clairvoyance,” Morgan answered. “I’ve always seen that way.”
“Is that what drives your art, Arthur?” Mr. Wells asked.
“Um… Sort of. I don’t see auras. But… um… I need Kendra.” Annette, Morgan, and Mavis all broke out laughing as Mr. and Mrs. Wells looked puzzled.
“May I try to fill in?” Morgan asked me. I nodded. “Art has difficulty speaking. He’s not dumb. It’s just hard to talk, especially when he’s in a new and unfamiliar environment. It’s not because he doesn’t want to answer your question, Mr. Wells.”
“But why would you ask for Kendra?” Mrs. Wells said. They were both still puzzled.
“Kendra is his certified interpreter,” Annette said. “It’s part of the unusual connection that Mavis described. They really are best friends and that includes being able to talk to each other. Kendra often talks in his stead. I think he was saying he needed her to explain what’s happening. Morgan should be able to, though.”
“We’ve always had a unique connection, too,” Morgan said. “With me, I can see what Art needs—I guess it is through his aura—and often interpret his paintings. Lately, some of his paintings have gotten beyond where I can go. That’s been a part of what we call the darkness that has affected his vision. He can paint an entire scene on a canvas using nothing but black paint. I can’t see the details that others can.”
“You mean like a line drawing with paint?” Mr. Wells asked.
“No. The entire canvas is covered in black paint,” Annette explained. “Something about the way Morgan sees auras leaves her unable to see the detail in the black on black painting. Most people who don’t see auras can see the brilliance of the image. That doesn’t mean they like it. People have different responses to any art. But they can see it.”
“I’d like to see it,” Mr. Wells said. “Sometime. Of course, I’m not expecting you to magically produce it.”
“Did you see my necklace?” Morgan asked, turning to him and holding out the pendant.
“It’s lovely. An unusual design to see a heart engraved on a black surface. Is that symbolic of what Arthur has been seeing?”
“Yes, and it also illustrates the problem I have. You saw the heart right away. I can’t see it. I can feel it beneath my fingers and I know it is there, but I can’t see it.”
“Fascinating,” Mr. Wells said. “Arthur, it was not my intention to interrogate you or to make you uncomfortable. I hope you understand. I apologize for stressing you.”
“’S okay,” I said.
“It’s actually good practice for us,” Morgan said. “After school starts next week, we have to present his new paintings to Dr. Lowenstein for approval as part of his BFA exhibition.”
Mr. and Mrs. Wells shooed us out of the kitchen when we started to clean up the dishes. They said Mavis had cooked and we were guests, so they would handle the cleanup. Mavis took us to the back of the hacienda, circling around an interior courtyard, to a very cozy family room.
“The room used to be twice this size, but when I started seriously getting into photography, we partitioned it. Now, I’m considering removing the partition so I have more room for the lab, but there’s the problem of the windows on this end,” Mavis said. “See in here? This is my photo lab.” The room wasn’t a studio where she’d take photos, but was filled with equipment, cameras, tripods, and backdrops. “I do a lot of digital photography—in fact most of my color photos are digital right now. That’s why I have that big printer. It’s an investment in my art. I’m trying to refine my ability to process and print color negatives. It’s tricky. On the other hand, my black and white photography that I consider my fine art rather than my commercial art is all done on film with real cameras and lenses, processed over here, and printed and enlarged in the darkroom there. If I need it, this whole room can be blacked out so I can enlarge prints to as much as three feet by four feet. I don’t have enough focal length in the room for my enlarger to cast anything bigger. And that is right at the end of the range for my lamp to cast enough light to expose the paper.”
“Wow! Cool!” I said as I wandered around the room looking at the equipment. Annette took my hand and gave me a little tug and I turned to see Morgan in an intense kiss with Mavis. They flared so hot that I could see the colors in their clothing all the way from head to toe. I kissed Annette and the temperature in the room started to rise.
“Um… we could go sit on the sofa… and make out,” Mavis gasped out. “All of us. Together. I love you.”
It took about three seconds for all four of us to be piled together on the sofa holding and kissing all the others. We were completely absorbed in kissing and touching each other. Even though none of us made a grab for anyone’s genitals, we knew we’d find hardness and wetness if we went that far. We were caught up in the joy of just making out and didn’t feel like we needed to come. The kissfest lasted about half an hour before we all slowed down and just lazily kissed and petted each other. It was almost the same as post-orgasmic bliss, though I was pretty sure none of us had come.
“Christmas present,” I finally managed to gasp around Mavis’s active tongue.
“Oh, the usual stuff, I guess,” Mavis laughed. “It’s been years since my family gave me anything other than camera gear.”
“No,” I said as I kissed her silent again. “From us. We have a gift. For you.”
“Really? I didn’t… didn’t even consider getting you gifts… because I wasn’t sure…”
“Mavis, hush,” Annette said. “Arthur thought this up and Morgan and I participated. This is just a little gift from all of us to you.” I fished the flat box out of my back pocket, relieved to have it out from under my butt. It was just a box with her name written on it. We hadn’t wrapped it.
Mavis insisted on giving us each a deep kiss before she opened the box. When she finally lifted the lid, she gasped and the light got so bright on her face that I could see the entire room in full color. And then the tears began to flow. She wept so hard and held us so tightly, I was sure her parents would come to investigate.
“On me,” she pled, handing the box back to me. I removed the necklace and Morgan moved behind Mavis to lift her hair from the back of her neck. Mavis’s hair was so short that the gesture was really just so Morgan could touch her. As I reached around Mavis to fasten the chain, Annette moved in to kiss her. Once it was fastened, my hands slipped down from her shoulders to hold both her breasts. I was sure she could feel how hard I was because she ground herself down on my cock as Annette kissed her lips and Morgan kissed the nape of her neck.
When we’d finished molesting our girlfriend—for the moment—I could see the heart engraved on the carnelian stone. It seemed to pulse with her heartbeat.
Classes started on Wednesday—for what that was worth. I was sympathetic to Annette because she had a class called Literature Tradition that, of course, involved reading about fifty books while she was still struggling to get her novel drafted. She hadn’t let anyone but Les read what she had so far. She spent five hours with Les and Susan on Monday. Susan was working on the same degree as Annette, but with an emphasis on poetry instead of fiction. Les freely admitted that he had no story ideas of his own to write, but he’d turned into a real grammar nazi and was a great sounding board for Annette’s ideas. By the end of the week, he’d already started circulating her synopsis to publishers.
For my part, all ‘classes’ were focused on my senior exhibition. The same was true of Kendra and Mavis. I had four hours of advanced painting, most of which would take place in my home studio and the rest would be weekly reviews with Dr. Robinson, my advisor. The other eight hours of credit I would receive were all related to completing and installing my BFA exhibition.
After our visit with Mavis, we invited Mr. and Mrs. Wells to join us for dinner on Saturday. Then we rushed home to arrange things with Mom and Dad. We decided to invite all the families. That would mean our five, three of the Wellses, Kendra, Les and his father, Annette’s parents, and Susan. Fourteen of us in our extended circle. I really felt bad for Susan since her mother had cut off all contact when Susan took up with Zen. Breaking up with Zen hadn’t healed the rift.
“I will help you,” Mom said. “What do you plan to cook?” In those few words, she made it clear that ‘help’ didn’t include planning the event or doing the cooking. We weren’t the world’s top chefs—especially when compared to the fabulous meal Mavis had prepared—but we weren’t incompetent. Since our little party would sort of celebrate the start of the new school semester and the year, we decided to prepare a dependable southern favorite: black eyed peas with salt pork and greens. Of course, we’d have a bunch of side dishes that Mom ‘suggested’, but that would be the focus of our meal.
“Um… lovers?” I ventured when we’d settled down for the night. Annette and Morgan were on either side, lying half on top of me. I’d really missed this feeling during my darkest time. Even being unable to see everything in color, their presence on my shoulders was a comfort and the way they clasped each other’s hands made everything feel right.
“Mmm. Lovers. That makes me so happy,” Annette said. “I love you.”
“I missed you so much,” Morgan whispered. “You were both a step away from me and I still missed you.”
“What is it you were going to say before we so rudely interrupted,” Annette giggled.
“Well, I was thinking about our time with Mavis and her parents.”
“Yum. I forgot about her parents,” Morgan said. “I was kind of dreaming about Mavis, though.” We were all giggling about that. Wow! Mavis had always had the ability to turn me on by just entering a room, but it was nice to know she affected Morgan and Annette the same way.
“Did you notice they never asked about our relationship? Even my Lady’s parents asked about our incestuous love,” I chuckled. “And Mom and Dad have always been careful and concerned about our threesome. But Mr. and Mrs. Wells never mentioned that, or even how Mavis fit in with us. Weird.”
“I wonder if they were just being polite or if it really doesn’t matter to them,” Annette mused.
Friday was our big day at school. As part of my BFA Exhibition and Installation, I had to review my plans with my advisor, Dr. Robinson, and the department chair, Dr. Lowenstein. My last review with them hadn’t gone well. I was still suffering some of the effects.
“Do you want to ask Kendra to join us? To interpret?” Morgan asked.
“No.” I pulled my sister into my embrace and kissed her deeply. I poured all my love into that kiss and she melted against me. “You are my agent, le Fay. I trust you.”
“I love you so much, my Pendragon.”
I couldn’t show photographs and printouts, or even a slide presentation for my review. None of my pieces photographed. They just came out black, like what Morgan saw. So, we had to transport twenty paintings to a review gallery at the university. We would hang them one at a time on the viewing wall where the lighting was set up. The rest of the room would be dark. We organized the paintings with their faces against the wall in the order we’d present them. But first, we had to meet and discuss the concept.
“It’s good to see you again, Arthur,” Dr. Lowenstein said. “If what I observed in the studio last semester is any indication of what you present today, I’m looking forward to seeing how it developed.”
“Is your vision healing?” Dr. Robinson asked. She was genuinely concerned as she had been my advisor since freshman year when she encouraged me to do my nipple drawings. I was still wearing dark glasses. “Have you seen an eye doctor?”
“There is nothing physiologically wrong with Arthur’s eyes,” Morgan said. “Nor can we say it is psychological, as the eye doctor claimed. His eyes respond the same to light and color but from the eye to the brain something changes. To answer your initial question, it’s better. It might not ever be the same again, but we think the resulting art that he is producing will show that his artistry is increasing at a faster rate than ever in his life.” She looked Dr. Lowenstein in the eye as she said, “It just happens to be more painful.” He nodded.
“Show… the first one. I want to talk,” I said. Both doctors looked shocked when I said that, but Morgan looked proud and pleased. She hung my first black and black painting of Susan.
“It’s a black canvas,” Dr. Robinson said.
“Wait. Look,” Dr. Lowenstein said. “I saw Arthur drawing with charcoal on black paper and then with black oil pastel. This is translated to oil paint. Look at the depth of the texture. You can still see his favorite subject, the draped nude, but in a completely different light. Or lack of light.” The two professors moved around, looking at the painting from different angles.
“This is what I see,” I said. “I live in a black world. The people are black. The sky is black. The colorful fabrics in which we dress are black.” I nodded to Morgan.
“But in that black, there are mysteries revealed,” she continued. We’d rehearsed this opening of the presentation all week. “It is a world without light and without warmth. But in the cold blackness, the soul is bared. The soul of the artist, the model, and you, the viewer. You enter this world through the eyes of the artist.” Morgan smoothly transitioned from piece to piece, describing the scenes as I progressed into the first hints of color.
“My vision began to thaw when I was modeling for another artist. For three hours, my vision was held by the eyes of the other model. I saw light and color for the first time.” I read my little portion from an index card without looking up at either my professors or the artwork. Morgan took over again.
“It took a while to figure out how Art was seeing this color when everything else around him was still black. It was a new kind of vision that was claiming his eyesight. I believe that he painted the essence of his subject. She was illuminated by her own soul, her passion, and her aura.”
“Oh my!” Dr. Robinson exclaimed as Morgan displayed my painting of Susan, bound by the fabric on the bed in her post-orgasmic bliss. “This is… If it was any less beautiful, I would have to call it pornographic. But the beauty.”
“Look how the intensity is illuminating inanimate objects near the model,” Dr. Lowenstein said. “I made a nasty comment the last time we were together about Thomas Kinkade. Yet his work showed artistry that was simply commercialized. When you look at his paintings, the glow comes from within. That’s what he made his reputation on. But here, even though the color and detail surround the model, the light seems to be external, not internal. She is lit as the focus, but doesn’t seem to be emitting the light. This has moved to a whole different level.”
“As Art continued to heal, he began to see things that he’d never noticed before. Some of those things included how a person’s individual light can be so intense that it overwhelms another. In this final series of three paintings, Arthur has captured two models, but are they both real? Or is one a spirit lover?”
Morgan displayed the final three paintings of Annette and Susan on three hooks and my professors looked at them in silence for at least five minutes. Then we returned to the small conference table where Morgan wrapped up the presentation.
“We don’t believe that Arthur’s vision has plateaued at this level. Each time he paints, something new emerges. There are sure to be additional paintings by the time of his exhibition. We don’t know if he will ever see the world again the way we see it, or the way he once saw it. We do believe that he has moved to what he imagined years ago—post-digital art. Thank you for listening and for viewing his work.”
“Post-digital. Yes, indeed,” Dr. Lowenstein said. “Arthur, I was first impressed with the concepts you presented in your admission portfolio, and then with the remarkable progress you made during your freshman year. I expressed my disappointment that the pace of your progress had fallen off for the past two years and that you were improving technically but not artistically. What you have shown me today eclipses anything I might have imagined would come from you.”
“I fully concur,” Dr. Robinson said. “But now I turn to your agent. How are you ever going to sell this? Being post-digital, it is also… non-reproducible. It certainly can’t be displayed on a computer. I don’t think it could be printed. I mean the segments of the later color images might be printable, but they would be surrounded in flat black and I think that would lose most of the impact of the painting.”
“Like painting in the dark,” I said.
“How so?”
“Light is still important, even though I see black. In the dark, I could see and paint my model and what she illuminated, but beyond her sphere, everything would be flat black.”
“How did you find that out, Art?” Morgan asked. I hadn’t mentioned it to anyone.
“Um… Lying in bed with you and Annette,” I said, dropping my eyes so I wouldn’t have to look at my professors. “You lit up everything you touched, but the rest of the room was just dark. Flat.”
“Let’s talk about your marketing plan,” Dr. Robinson continued, rolling over my embarrassment. “Do you think you will ever be able to sell something other than original oils? I must say that, from a gallery perspective, these will be difficult to sell, even though the artistry is brilliant. There are not that many people who would put a predominantly black painting in their living room.”
“That’s what nearly everyone has said,” Morgan sighed. “I’m looking for new outlets and ways of displaying the art in a room that make black an acceptable accent. I’m definitely open to suggestions.”
Dr. Robinson and Dr. Lowenstein agreed to think about the problem as well and helped us transport all the paintings back to the car. I was pretty damned happy when Dr. Lowenstein shook my hand.
“It is possible that ‘art for art’s sake’ is the direction you will go,” he said. “It’s a noble profession, but not very profitable. We’ll all try to find ways to support it. I’ll start by researching some grants that might be available. Morgan, you might start thinking of museum acquisitions rather than galleries.”
When we’d returned the cart to the studio, Morgan held my hand and we crossed the campus to go home. About halfway, I pulled up short and dragged Morgan to a stop beside me.
“What is it, Pen?” she asked.
I looked all around me and took off my sunglasses. The black sun in the black sky glared off the black snow and cast the black buildings into sharp relief. But all around me, the pine trees were…
“Green,” I said softly.
The revelation that I’d seen color from something non-human was a cause for celebration. The color had been muted, but dark green against black would certainly appear that way. I wanted to rush out the next day to do a plein air landscape painting, but, of course, I had to help get the house and dinner ready for company.
Prior to this, I had only seen color and light that was illuminated by a person’s aura. Or, as Gramma had told me, by my own aura, as in the case of my easel and paintings. I still wasn’t sure that was a good explanation, but it was the best I had right now.
“Oh, you will have such a colorful world!” Mom exclaimed that evening. “I know that I have complained about too much brightness from the auras of all living things. I wear dark glasses because it can be overwhelming. But there are times when I take them off and simply bathe in the vibrancy of the universe.”
My mother had never spoken with such joy and passion about her vision. I got up from the table and went to hug her. Her body lit up like a Christmas tree.
“Oh my!” Morgan said.
“What?”
“Their auras. Such pure sweet love. That’s what it means to be a parent? I want that!” We were all a little speechless, caught off-guard by Morgan’s open declaration. I’d never thought about having children, but I know the wash of love I felt from my mother simply filled me with joy. Different than my lovers, but just as intense.
“Okay,” I said as I kissed Morgan and hugged her shoulders.
We didn’t discuss it any further but the seed, figuratively, had been planted.
Curiosity had gotten the better of me and I did some research about Mavis and her family. I already knew that Mavis had begun her passion for photography by the time she was ten. She’d had some of her work in a photography magazine when she was fifteen and Morgan had placed several more just since we had known her. Les was directing her in creating a series of photos for Susan’s final project, a thin volume of poetry.
But the Wells family was obviously rich to live in that exclusive community and in a sprawling hacienda.
Richard Wells… I should say Dr. Richard Wells, was a nuclear physicist working for a national research facility. In a quick internet search that I had to have Annette help with because I couldn’t read computer screens, we discovered that he had published numerous papers, held over a hundred patents, and was a ‘fellow’ among the scientists he worked with. Since the research facility was a public company, salary levels were published—not by individual, but by ‘grade level’. Dr. Wells’ fellowship was the top grade level and the salary range was $600,000 ‘and up’. He’d been with the company for twenty-five years.
There was nothing available about Mrs. Wells other than her status as his wife and Mavis’s mother. I guess Annette and I were both a little awed.
Our dinner guests started arriving at two in the afternoon. Well, none of the parents would get there until about six, but Kendra, Mavis, Les, and Susan all came to help us get ready. There was a frisson of excitement among us as it was the first time that we’d ever had all our parents together with us. I wished Kendra’s had been able to visit from Connecticut, but that was a little far for a dinner party. And Susan was estranged from her mother. Maybe that contributed to her behavior and her need to be submissive.
I’d noticed something else over the past week as all our friends had been frequent visitors. Susan and Les often worked with Annette, just as Morgan, Mavis, and I often worked together. But Susan always wanted to be close to Annette and my sweet girlfriend could frequently be seen writing on her spiral notebook with one hand while petting Susan’s hair with the other. We hadn’t been working with any nude models that week, so all seven of us were often in the studio together. I’d once seen Les and Susan share an intimate kiss—Kendra watching them with amusement written all over her face.
Our friends took over the tasks of vacuuming, cleaning bathrooms, and baking pies. We suggested that Mom and Dad go for a drive and let us handle the preparations. I was worried that the beans wouldn’t be ready in time to serve, but by four-thirty they had begun to soften enough to eat. The big kettle continued to simmer while Annette, Morgan, and I focused on creating a spread of hors d’oeuvres. Les happily peeled boiled eggs for deviled eggs as I removed dried French bread from the oven and spread a tapenade on it.
Mom and Dad got back at five and went to get ready for guests. The seven of us ran upstairs in pairs and groups to get cleaned up and dressed. It wasn’t a formal party, but we all felt a need to impress our parents by dressing better than the jeans and T-shirts we’d been cooking and cleaning in. Mom and Dad started greeting our other guests promptly at six o’clock. We took trays of hors d’oeuvres into the living room as Dad fixed drinks. At least with seven older people and the seven of us, the odds were about even.
We didn’t really try to entertain the parents while we got the table set and opened the wine. Seemed funny to be serving red wine with black eyed peas and salt pork, but what did we know? We never thought about a seating arrangement, but I think the parents established an order while they were having cocktails. When they were seated, we brought in the food. Dad sat in his usual place, but instead of sitting at the other end, Mom sat beside him. Richard and Lily Wells, Mavis’s parents, sat next to Mom. On the other side of the table, Laura and Lee Sample sat next to Dad with Adam Dorn, Les’s father, next to Lee. That left the other end of the table open for the seven of us younger adults.
Morgan made it clear to me that I was to sit at the end of the table opposite my father and seated Mavis and Susan on either side of me. Morgan sat next to Lily Wells with Annette between her and Mavis. Kendra went immediately to the seat next to Les’s father and Les sat between her and Susan. It all seemed a little strained at first. We expected to have to fight for seats next to each other with a parent at every other chair. Their strategy of all sitting at one end left us to sort ourselves out without their help.
“Well, this art stuff is all well and good,” Mr. Dorn said. “But I sent Les there to get a business education. I’ve already told him that starting on graduation day I wasn’t going to support him any longer. Kids have got to grow up eventually.” Dad started to respond, but Kendra cut him off.
“Adam,” she said, calling him by his first name, “tuition and fees are all paid for the last term. We have modest expenses for our little apartment and food, so we can support ourselves if you want to withdraw your contribution now.”
“How can you earn a living?”
“My first two limited editions sold out last fall. Two pieces went through galleries, so I received only 40% of the sale price. That’s actually 50%, but Les and Morgan split 20% of net proceeds. Les and Morgan are doing well at placing our work in galleries and negotiating direct sales through our Internet site. They represent the other five of us artists at the table.”
“We’re working on the structure of a kind of cooperative for the seven of us,” Morgan added. “The Grail Associates. You should be proud of how good a salesman Les has turned out to be. I know he got a lot of his skills from you.”
“You’re making money at this?”
“We’re not getting rich, but there’s income.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Adam, our kids are all learning to be independent. Even the three who live here are contributing to the household, both financially and in maintenance and upkeep,” Dad said. “I have no objection to continuing to support them while they are making progress.”
“Same here,” Lee answered. “If they were party kids who were out getting drunk and doing drugs, I wouldn’t be sending my contribution into Annette’s bank account. But they’re good kids. I’m proud of all seven of them.”
“Hmm.” Adam furrowed his brow and leaned across Kendra to speak to his son. “You could have mentioned that,” he whispered.
“I didn’t think you’d be interested,” Les said.
“Am I that big an asshole?”
“No, Adam,” Kendra soothed as she kissed him on the cheek. “We’ve always known that you had our best interests at heart. Even when you were having me investigated to see if I was worthy of dating your son.”
“You knew about that?”
“It’s hard to miss a detective asking all my friends questions about my character.”
“Well, I just had to be sure. I tell you what. Now, Kendra, I’m not your father, so I won’t commit this to you, but to my son. I’ll keep subsidizing your apartment for the rest of the school year. I’d like an income statement from you each month.”
“Dad, that’s not going to happen,” Les said.
“Let me finish before you reject the offer. You are twenty-one years old. I will commit to match your net income after graduation—that’s what you make less business expenses and taxes—until you are twenty-five. In order to do that, I need a professional income statement. You know how to do that. I showed you when you were fifteen.”
Les looked at Kendra and she smiled at him before leaning in to whisper in his ear. I couldn’t tell what she was saying, but he started to grin as well.
“Okay, Dad. We’ve got twelve witnesses to the agreement. Shake.” They reached across Kendra and grasped hands.
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