Painting Lessons by Ed Ahern, coffee.

 

The evening art class at the high school was crowded with middle agers. The much younger instructor kept brushing the palm of his hand against what was left of his hair, as if depilating his nervousness. Our porta-easels were raggedly arranged around the meeting room, with those supposing they had talent setting up in the front.

I had little talent, but needed to get out of an empty house that would pirouette me back into bad habits. I set up and hoped that Mindy Warwick would make her usual slightly late arrival. She did.

She wore a wedding band but no engagement ring. Her clothes were clean and unwrinkled, but well used, and the car she drove off in after the sessions made expensive repair noises. We were able to laugh with each other about our artistic efforts, and I liked her without knowing much of anything about her.

We helloed during the clatter of set ups, listened to vague instructions, and started daubing. The top of her head barely cleared the top of the easel, but her small hands made bold strokes.

“Slow down,” I said, “or you’ll be done before he has a chance to pick on your technique.”

Mindy didn’t laugh, her expression one of pained anger. But not at me. Whatever was upsetting her she’d walked in with. I’m borderline obtuse to social cues, but recognized she was churning within herself.  

During the break I had to ask. “You seem upset. Anything I can help with? Do you want to just talk?”

“Joey, I wish you could help me. God, do I. But there’s nothing you can do. Just leave me be.”

“Sure, but if you change your mind, just complain into my good ear. I’m an okay listener.”

Her half-smile was almost a wince. She turned back to her easel and solitary suffering. Over her shoulder I glanced at her painting. It was a grouping of four people, but the figures were rendered like Edvard Munch’s “The Scream,” distorted and in pain. I said nothing.

When the session was over, we repacked our gear and headed out to our cars. I tossed a couple of inane comments at Mindy, but she was too deeply buried within herself to pay attention.

She was parked facing my car and a few spaces down. As I started up, I heard her clunker making rasping noises. I waited, but her car didn’t move and she didn’t get out. After a few minutes I walked over.

Mindy was sitting behind the wheel crying. I motioned for her to lower the window and she did. “Won’t start?”

“No, God damn it.” She resumed crying.

“Do you want me to call someone?”

“There’s no one.”

“Your husband maybe, or one of your sons? A car service?”

Her laugh was bitter. “As I said, there’s no one available.”

I surprised myself. “Look, it’s getting cold and you can’t stay out here. I can take you home if you want, and you can make arrangements for the car tomorrow.”

“It’s a long half an hour from here.”

‘That’s okay, I’ve got no life.”

Her smile was crooked but visible. “All right, but I can’t pay you for your gas.”

“There’s no need.”

We bundled her art stuff into the back of my SUV and left. I didn’t interrupt Mindy’s silence for the first few miles, then “I meant what I said about being ready to listen.”

She started crying again, then burst out in an angry tone. “What’s the use! Do you want to hear about my older son in prison, or my younger son being evicted and sued because his pit bull bit the landlady? Or my almost ex-husband who’s off on a bender with our overcharged credit cards? Or my crappy car and almost as crappy job? I don’t think so.”

There were a few seconds of silence because I had no idea what to say. Then, “I go to the painting class to get away from myself. I’m only a few months away from my last serious mistake. My ex-wife dumped me two years ago. I only recently got another job. Yeah, I think I’m able to listen to you.”

And I did. For the rest of the ride, Mindy, in pained words, told me how bad it was, crying one more time. I dropped her at a little slab house that she said had been built for the military. The house looked to need as many repairs as her car.

Once I got her and her gear to the front door I said,” Give me the key to your car.”

“No, why?”

“Your car noise sounded like an alternator. I’ll get it fixed. You can pay me back when you have a chance.”

Her look was dubious. “I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can. Call in sick for a couple days while it’s getting repaired.” I realized why she hesitated. “No strings. I’ve been there. I’m just paying it forward.”

“I can’t…” But she had no options. “How much do you think it would cost?”

“A few hundred dollars.” That was a lie. I figured it would be nudging toward a thousand.

“I’d have to repay you monthly.”

“No problem, no interest.” I smiled at her. “You could also lie and tell me how good my painting was.”

Her return smile was feeble. We exchanged phone numbers and she took the car key off the ring and handed it to me before gathering up her artistic tackle and going inside.

I interrogated myself on the ride back. Helping her hadn’t been entirely altruistic. Mindy was attractive in a pleasantly weathered way, and I’d already wondered about getting more involved. She had a rotting garbage bag of a life, but so, at one point, had I. I tried to tell myself to go to church and date someone in the choir, or find a wealthy widow, but kept circling back to a petite woman who probably had more personality problems than personal ones.

The car repair ran to seven hundred dollars. I called Mindy and asked if she’d mind dropping me back home after I brought her car. Her words were a thankful yes, but her tone was hesitant.

I gave Mindy a doctored bill from the garage for $300. The younger of her two sons was at the house. Jake of pit bull ownership said little more than hello, and immediately volunteered to take me home. Mindy didn’t object, so Jake and I rode back in close to hermetic silence. As I was getting out he said curtly, “My mom is going through a lot. She doesn’t need any complications from you.”

I nodded. “Don’t plan on giving her any.” That was about a quarter lie, because I didn’t really know how I felt. “Thaks for the ride, Jake,” I said, trying to flate a little warmth into the comment.

The start of the next painting class was awkward, Mindy a little standoffish, maybe because she felt vulnerable about her obligation to me. But by the time we packed up we’d gotten back into our usual groove of gently ribbing each other.  Just before we left, she held onto my arm. “Having someone to lean on and listen to me really, really helped. You can’t know how much.”

I was vaguely embarrassed. “It was nothing.” Which wasn’t quite true. I’d called in a favor at the chop shop that fixed her car. They usually tore apart rather than repaired, but owed me.

As the class was winding up, I turned to her. “Coffee? A drink?”

She had a firm, sad expression. “I can’t, but thanks for asking. It makes me feel interesting.”

“Sure. Is the car behaving itself?”

That eked out a smile. “It’s amazing. It’s like there are a bunch of new parts. Thanks again.”

“Any time. See you next week.”

The next week she was a no show at the painting class, and I called her during the break. “Mindy, it’s Joey. I noticed you were truant. Is everything okay?”

Her voice was raspy and nasal. “Oh yes, everything…” and then she started crying. “Just ignore me Joey. Things aren’t good here.”

My antennae quivered. “Anybody bothering you?”

“No, no, oh hell, it’s my husband. I got a call from some guy Ralph owes money to. He threatened Ralph, then said we’d have to sell things to make good. Including my car.”

“Hah. Did this guy give you a  name?”

“Sal. Ralph is in the wind, I don’t know where he is.” More crying.

I paused. There was a lot I shouldn’t say. “Look, maybe it’ll work out. Give it a day or two. Call me please if you need to talk.”

We spent another few minutes talking about nothing and after we hung up I put in another call. Connected guys use aliases, but are stupid enough to use the same one.

“Frankie? It’s Joey… Nah, I’m completely out of things for now… You know how parole works. I can’t fuck around yet. Listen, a favor. Does your mope Philly, aka Sal,  still collect for you?... Ah. Could you tell him to pick on a guy named Ralph Warwick rather than his wife?... you got a dirty mind. Listen, I’ll guarantee the vig while Philly finds this asshole. Then he can do whatever he wants with him. But leave her alone…. Thanks Frankie. Yeah, fuck you too. Best to the family.”

Mindy was at class the next week, but not happy. After we were done smearing paints, I touched her shoulder. “Things better now?”

“God, no. Ralph was in an Indian casino four days ago and got beaten very badly. Three of the fingers on his right hand are broken, and that’s what he does everything with.”

I pushed myself into a sympathetic expression. “Wow, that’s terrible. Is he paying the loan shark back?”

“So he says. He tells me he’s quit gambling and using the money to pay back what he owes, a little at a time.”

“You don’t seem sure.”

“I’ve heard that story before. And we’re still broke.”

The class finished up in May, and Mindy and I agreed to sign up for the fall session. A few days later I changed my mind. Being a platonic support group of one for Mindy was antithetic to what I usually was. And she didn’t deserve to be manipulated.

That fall, Mindy called. “Joey, you weren’t at class and the instructor with the neurotic hair said you hadn’t signed up.”

“Hi Mindy. Yeah, I decided I should accept my lack of talent. But I’m glad you’re still at it.”

“Coward.” Her tone was jovial.

“You sound good. I’m glad.”

“Ralph moved out and I’ve filed for divorce. I’ve still got close to nothing, but it’s my nothing now.”

I smiled. She was going to be maybe okay. “That’s great.” I wanted to say more, but residual affection for her prevented me.

“I did some checking on you, Joey. You’re not a nice boy, are you?”

I laughed. “Haven’t been accused of that since maybe fourth grade.”

“There’s two things I want to tell you. You need to sign up for the course. My painting isn’t the same without your ribbing. And I’m ready for that cup of coffee.”

 

Bio:

Ed Ahern resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. He’s had over 600 stories and poems published, and twelve books. He's on the review board at Scribes Micro, and is the idle figurehead at Scribes Micro

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)
x