Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [53]
Rosalia’s portrait hung in Abbie’s parents’ house in the foyer. When asked about it, they would credit a “local artist” which infuriated Abbie, but the fact that it was one of the first things you saw when you walked in suggested that even they couldn’t deny the power of the image. Whenever Abbie was home, she’d eavesdrop on the dinnertable conversation, waiting for just the right moment to circumvent her parents. She’d pop her head around the doorjamb, say hello to their guests then point nonchalantly. “I know the artist if you’d like him to consider you. He’s very busy, only takes a select few clients a year, but”—she’d smile and raise her eyebrows—“I can get his attention.”
Over her parents’ objections, Abbie arranged meetings with prospective clients. We’d arrive at their house, I’d agree to paint his or her portrait, then talk about specifics and schedule the first of a couple sittings. In my first consultation, the husband, an oil executive, asked, “What do you charge?”
I was about to say a thousand dollars when Abbie said, “Normally, he charges ten, but because of me, he’s agreed to lower his fee to seventy-five hundred.” The man nodded as if she’d just taken his order at a fast food restaurant and given him his total at the register.
My jaw nearly hit the floor.
In nine months, I had paid off my school debts and bought my first car. But, in truth, I’d have done it for free, because for the first time in my professional life, I felt valued. Valued because that person in front of me, that “subject,” was trusting me with one of the most valuable things they owned—their reflection.
I could not have been happier.
Conversely, her parents could not have been more unimpressed. Her stepmother was the more vocal of the two. Thanksgiving morning, I walked up onto the back porch and was two inches away from knocking on the door when I heard, “You two are running a racket and when people find out, Doss will never paint in this city again.” I pulled my hand away and sat on the bench next to Rosalia, who was shelling peas.
“Mother…”
“Don’t ‘Mother’ me.”
“Have you seen any of his work other than Rosalia?”
A reluctant pause. “Yes.”
“And?”
Katherine picked up the paper and turned to the obits. “I suppose, it’s…fair.”
“Fair?”
She set down the paper. “I don’t like you seeing that boy.”
“You don’t say.”
“Abbie, he grew up in a trailer.”
“And your point is?”
“He’s not your type.”
“You mean, ‘my kind.’”
“He’ll never be one of us.”
“Mother, he’s not trying to be one of us.”
“My point exactly.”
“Sort of refreshing, don’t you think?”
Abbie climbed upstairs, and I heard the shower cut on. Rosalia leaned against me, pressing her fleshy shoulder to mine. She looked at me out of the tops of her eyes, patted me on the thigh and nodded me onward. I kissed her on the forehead, knocked lightly on the screen door and pushed it open. “Good morning, Mrs. Coleman.”
“Oh, hi, Doss. Do come in. You look hungry. Can I get you some breakfast?”
Painting portraits has taught me something about people. All my clients have two faces. The one they live with and the one they want me to paint. Mrs. Coleman was no different.
Thanksgiving night, after the house emptied, Senator Coleman was holed up in his office. I knocked on the door. He looked up, expressionless. “Hello, Doss. You lose Abbie?”
“No, sir, I wanted to speak with you.”
He leaned back in his chair. “About?”
“Well, sir, about Abbie.” He rocked slightly, leaning on a pencil that was pressed into his chin. “Well, then, I’ll just get to it.” I couldn’t figure out what to do with my hands so I finally just shoved them in my pants pockets. “Senator Coleman, I’d like to ask your permission to marry your daughter.” He quit rocking and put the pencil down. There was an empty chair across from him but he made no mention of it. In the span of a few seconds, a lifetime passed. Finally, he shook his head and simply said, “No.”
I didn’t know what to say. Just