Once a season Dad took that long journey into the city for supplies, artistic and otherwise. He didn’t like the trips—not that he said much in actual complaint, but his attitude was obvious. For weeks preceding the trip he was like a wounded old bear, cranky and snappish, forgetful, unable to find things, casting things about looking for what he’d lost and ignoring the damage he caused. To make it tolerable he’d usually stay with a local gallery owner/art critic and his wife, who appeared to be his only actual friends in the world. They would always throw some small dinner for him, inviting a few smart people who admired him and were unlikely to offend him. He was one of those artists who thrived on a certain minimum amount of attention, but who hated the magnifying glass of praise.
If that couple was not available for some reason Dad would just sleep somewhere in his truck. “I like my truck,” was all he would say in response to my very real safety concerns.
Despite his dislike for the journey, however, once begun he was committed to it, and always stayed away at least a week, much longer than necessary for gathering supplies. “Might as well make it a research trip,” he always replied to my questions about this seeming contradiction. What kind of research was involved I had no real idea—he’d take a camera along but I never saw the finished pictures.
On the day of his departure the weather seemed to be turning cooler, with occasional streaks of rain like mist sprayed on a hot iron. Unexpected clouds would roll in over the desert, and although most of the time nothing came out of them, they did serve to cool things down a bit. During the dry afternoons I still heard the rattlers, the occasional complaint of some Javelina, scattered insect sound, and now something new, that buzz and whistle of toads over in the mesquite grass which gradually became something harsher, louder, a call that sounded a little like bleating sheep.
My father had been gone several days when I found myself wide awake one night, hearing a sound like a screech, like something electrical, like something coming apart at the seams. I sat up. Moonlight brought the shadows of distant saguaro close, walking my way, nowhere else to go. What did they want from me? What did they expect? I just do the best I can, I remember thinking, half asleep. I slipped out of bed, padded across the floor and gazed out the window. Wind whipped through the tall grass, brushing through the scrub, charging the night. About ten yards away, where the long ranch house bent to form my father’s studio, jagged shadows danced in the window. Something gleamed, fell, rose again. I don’t remember now if I suspected anything specific. I do remember the overwhelming panic I felt, the sense of impending doom. I ran out of my room, down the hall, full of charge, electrified, for some reason suddenly thinking that birds must have gotten into my father’s studio and were now flying around in there, doing damage.
But, bursting through the door, looking around the ceiling, I found no sign of the unwelcome birds, just the arm flailing, making that rip, with exhausted, crying, out of breath sounds, like running, like rape. Then Tommy’s face appeared around the edge of the canvas, that latest painting, still on my father’s easel, unfinished. He grabbed it, brought the edge of the frame down on the floor, raised the knife again, and I just ran, arms waving, charged right into him, screaming, “No!” and “Don’t!” and felt the knife go into my face like something hot and impossible, following the jaw line, peeling me away from myself.
When I went down on the floor I got a better look at the painting, the saguaro, shadowed, dark and lost, against the night, half-done, blood on the unpainted portions of the canvas, and yet, still, beautiful. So beautiful, such was my father’s talent.
During those several weeks in the hospital my father never left my side. Investigators from the Arizona State Police came by several times, asked me a few questions, but for the most part consulted with Dad quietly in the hall. They might not know his art, but they knew he was famous, which to them, I suppose, meant he merited special attention. Or maybe it was because I was a girl disfigured by a crazy ex-boyfriend. I don’t know, but everyone was solicitous, which I didn’t mind.
I wouldn’t have minded if Dad had gone home for awhile, though. Having him around twenty-four-seven, worrying about what he was thinking, was a bit much to bear. And the way he talked about the “incident,” I could hardly stand it.
“They say he waited in the hills until he saw the truck leave. I don’t understand it—I searched the area thoroughly after I kicked him off the property.”
“You did? You never told me.”
“I didn’t want to worry you. But given his character, I thought he might stick around, plot revenge. Cowards, they always seek revenge.”
“I wish you had told me.”
“Maybe, maybe I should have. But I searched those hills, and beyond, thoroughly. I can’t figure out how I missed him.”
It was his way of taking responsibility, of expressing his sorrow, I knew. But it aggravated me how he’d turned this terrible thing that had happened to me into a puzzle that not only he hadn’t solved, but that he might have prevented. My dad had god forbid made a mistake. “It’s over,” I said. “It’s past. Do they know where he his now? Did you call Mom?”
He blanched. “The police called her, warned her. She should have come to visit you. I don’t want to see her, of course, but she’s your mother.”
“I don’t want to see her, either, Dad. I just thought she should be warned, in case he shows up at her house.”
“They alerted the local police out there, and the state police in between. They’re pretty sure, they think, he’s left the state.”
“That’s good.” We sat there in silence, neither one of us comfortable talking about it, but wanting to behave normally, and not knowing what normal behavior really meant. “Your paintings,” I began, because I’d been thinking about them. To be honest, it was the first thing I thought of when I regained consciousness. “You said you could fix them?”
“They’re going to be fine. They’re going to be…” He looked at me, obviously excited, apologetic about being excited, “better, actually. Better than before. I’ve worked it out in my head. Applying additional canvas to the back for the repair, but beyond that—I was having a compositional problem with ‘Saguaro Night.’ The damage actually suggested a solution. It’s going to be better, much more interesting.”
Perhaps it was unkind of me, but for a moment I thought he was trying to suggest I was going to be much more interesting as well.
I don’t know what more I can say with any certainty about those days. It was such a long time ago. Tommy was never seen again. Dad and I returned to the ranch. Dad continued to paint, in fact creating much of the work he is most famous for, beginning with the re-worked and completed “Saguaro Night.” I discovered my own vision, if you can call it that. With all the saguaro, the low-lying mesas, damaged landscapes, the dark skies, the feral pigs and other creatures, people have pointed out quite correctly that my vision owes much to my dad’s. And after years of living here in the desert, so do my attitudes.
I was no beauty, before. When I look back I think the major thing attracting men to me had been my lack of standards. The scar along my jaw isn’t so terrible—in fact from most angles it’s barely noticeable. But what my father had so awkwardly implied, that it might make my face more interesting, turned out to be mostly true, I think. So I keep my chin raised higher than normal just to show it off. I’ve even been known to use makeup to highlight its shape, the aesthetic beauty of its line.
Dad died in 1984, his heart disease catching up to him one afternoon in front of his easel. I didn’t find him until the next day—when he didn’t show up for dinner I just assumed he was too involved in a painting to stop. I wasn’t supposed to disturb him, even if he went missing. That was the rule, the artist’s special rule. Unlike a normal person, he didn’t have to show up for dinner. It’s possible I could have helped him if I’d found him in time. I don’t know; who’s to say?