Coming away from the air-dry, I threw the transmission into first and pulled up to the two men who would give the interior a swift cleaning. One teenage boy and a short, white-haired, white-bearded, slow moving man who looked like he might be pushing one-hundred. The old man smiled through all that white hair, asked me to step out of the car ever so briefly while they vacuumed the interior, washed the seats and windshield. In the bay beside me, a well-dressed middle-aged woman who drove a black Mercedes Benz was all worked up. She couldn’t locate her cell phone. She was sure she’d had it on her when she entered the car wash.
A big man in khakis and blue shirt that had the words ‘Hollywood Carwash’ stitched on the breast pocket assured her he’d do everything in his power to scour the car for it. Because after all it probably just slid behind the seats. He’d seen it happen “a thousand and one times before. Make that a thousand and two.” But she just made a face and with a dismissive wave of her hand, got back in the car and peeled out, no doubt on her way to purchase a brand new cell phone. When you’re rich, the cost of a new cell phone is pocket change.
As the two men completed cleaning the interior of the Cabriolet, I felt my jacket pocket for my own cell phone.
Yup, still there. I guess you could never be too careful about such things.
The old man smiled at me once more. He looked into my face for more than a few fleeting seconds, as if he sensed a familiarity. Getting back in the car I pulled down the window, reached out to hand him a five dollar tip.
Overgenerous?
Maybe.
But he seemed like such a nice old guy. It made me sad that he had to work at a car wash at his advanced age. He thanked me, asked me to have a nice day in a voice that was both soft and raspy.
I pulled out of the carwash feeling much better about myself. Hanging a quick left, I made my way for the downtown and the start of the rest of my life.
Chapter 10
But rush hour traffic was a bear.
By the time I stopped off at the Stagecoach Coffee Shop on State Street for a double latte-to-go, the clock had already reached the back side of nine o’clock. This meant that Robyn would be operating the art center all by her lonesome. Something neither one of us appreciated since the not-for-profit, art patron-funded organization employed only two people to do all the studio tutoring, gallery event planning, bill paying, public relations, and just about everything required of running an art center.
I got back in the Cabriolet with my coffee, headed for the Broadway parking garage and parked in my designated by-the-month rental space. On my way out of the garage, my cell vibrated. Approaching the congested city sidewalk, I dug out the phone and flipped it open.
The screen indicated another new text. I swallowed something and thumbed the OK button that opened the message.
Remember
That one word, like the last time I’d received it, made no sense to me.
Remember what?
What in God’s name was going on?
Per usual I thumbed the OK button that was supposed to reveal the caller’s name and number only to get Unknown Caller.
“Molly,” I whispered, purely out of instinct.
I was becoming more and more convinced Molly was trying to communicate with me from the dead. Maybe it helped me to imagine her living in heaven. But then, what if heaven did not exist?
Distracted by the sudden emptiness I felt, not to mention anxiety, I nearly ran into a tall suited man carrying a black briefcase.
“Watch where you’re going, young lady,” he snapped.
I evil-eyed him as he passed.
“If I knew were I was going,” I said, “I wouldn’t be here.”
Chapter 11
I finally arrived at the studio at a little past nine-thirty.
My stomach sank when I saw Franny.
Franny in attendance, the second day in a row. Even though he was the studio’s Painter-In-Residence, his visits usually averaged once or twice a month, depending upon his production as an artist. Usually he brought in a completed or near completed piece, just as he had done yesterday, and in turn we offered him advice on how to improve upon it. This of course was all a big joke since Franny’s talent far surpassed our own.
While two gray-haired, ‘retired’ women worked studiously at their easels on the far side of the brightly lit studio, Franny occupied his favorite corner of honor, round body partially hidden by what looked to be a brand new canvas.
My beating heart would not let up. Like yesterday’s ‘Listen’ canvas, I knew instinctively that this painting had my name written all over it.
Robyn caught sight of me just as I hung up my knapsack inside a wood cubby that once-upon-a-time housed the little jackets and mittens of long grown kindergartners.
“Becca honey,” she said in her animated sing-song voice. “You are not going to believe this.”
I swallowed. Shooting a forced smile from across the room at the two retired women, I reluctantly made my way toward Franny and Robyn.
“Okay kids,” I said, “keep your clothes on.”
“Okay kids,” Franny chanted while rocking on his stool.
“Wait,” Robyn barked, coming around fast from behind the canvas. “Close your eyes, Bec.”
“Come on, Rob, I’m not in the mood. I haven’t slept-”
“Just do what I say,” she demanded. “This is magnificent.”
My heart pounded; stomach twisted and turned.
No choice but to play along.
I closed my eyes. But just to make sure I wasn’t cheating, Robyn propped herself behind me, masked my eyes with both her hands. From there she led me around to the business side of the canvas where I stood directly beside Franny. Pressed up against him actually. As usual, he smelled like he’d just taken a bath in Old Spice.
“What you’re about to see,” Robyn said, “took the master only eight hours of non-stop painting.”
Thus all the fuss?
God, I felt like back-kicking her. If only my heart weren’t pounding so hard.
“Come on, Rob.” She pulled her hands away.
When I opened my eyes it felt like two charcoal pencils were being shoved up into my eyeballs. This painting, as opposed to yesterday’s, contained no abstract squiggles and dashes. But very much like yesterday, it depicted a rural landscape. Accordingly, Franny had chosen to paint the piece using sublime colors-greens, browns, soft yellows and oranges, blues and even ocher.
But it was neither color choice nor style that robbed me of my breath. What shook me up was the field of tall grass. Beyond it I saw a stand of trees that marked the beginning of a thick dark wood. No question about it, the field and the woods were just like my dream-the recurring dream where I am following Molly. Or, more precisely said, the dream which was not a dream at all, but the re-creation of actual events that took place almost thirty years ago to the day.
There was something else too, something I recognized in the tall grass. It contained the word ‘See’. Maybe you had to really search for the previous day’s word, but not this one. To me it was obvious that the letters that made up the word S-e-e were transposed onto the canvas in the play of yellow sunlight on brown grass. But even with the word that obvious, I didn’t open my mouth up about it. Nor did I mention that the scenery matched that of my dream.
But then if the word was so obvious, why didn’t Robyn say anything about it?
“Earth to Becca,” she said, breaking me out of my trance. “Earth, Becca. Earth.”
“Earth,” Franny said. “Earth.”
I pulled my eyes away from the new painting, focused silently upon Robyn’s face, her blue eyes.
“You’re right,” I said, half under my breath. “Incredible… for only eight hours of work.”
But I don’t think Robyn heard me at all. She took a step back, squinted.
“Whoa, girl,” she said. “You’re so white you look like you’ve just seen your own ghost.”