Chapter Four

 

What Marianne wanted moved on Friday was a series of cardboard boxes: all equally heavy and indiscriminately packed with all manner of art supplies. Tubes of oil paint, palettes caked heavily beyond practical usage, fine-tipped brushes, and canvases already covered in avant-garde and modern techniques of lines and spherical shapes, intermixed with traditional oils of subjects and scenes immediately recognizable to Eleanor’s eye.

In with these things were other, less recognizable objects. Glass jars of powdered paper and flour-like compounds, sculpted figures made from wire and fabric, papier-mâché and bits of refuse or rusty metal: tormented figures like skeletons or grotesque puppets in a Day of the Dead parade. A straw hat from Mexico, piles of pencils and crayons ground or sharpened to stubs, a glass sphere with a turreted building of foreign architecture embedded in miniature in its heart.

“How much stuff are you moving?” In Eleanor’s voice, suspicion: for she could see other things in the box in her arms which were not artistic, in addition to this hat. Such as a waving Lucky Cat from a cheap emporium somewhere and a series of colorful blouses and t-shirts stuffed below.

“All of my art supplies,” Marianne answered, over her shoulder. A movement of short, messy, wavy blond curls falling forwards, held at bay by a jeweled headband “Tannis wants them all out, anyway. And I hate painting in the apartment.” She was almost a flight of stairs above Eleanor, carrying a box which held still more canvases and part of a disassembled easel.

Tannis was Marianne’s roommate. Of whom Eleanor knew little other than the sullen voice which sometimes answered the phone and the frigid nature of their relationship to which Marianne alluded in bitter tales.

There were three more flights to go. Eleanor could feel the cords in her legs beginning to draw tight at the thought of them; a fine layer of perspiration adhered her skirt to the back of her thighs and her white pullover to her shoulders. She had left her wool business jacket in the car, but that was not much comfort to her at the moment.

At the end of the corridor, Marianne unlocked a door with an ancient-looking key permanently rusted to a ring bearing a four-leaf clover. It opened to a small room – a “loft” apartment which was more storage closet than actual room – overlooking a dilapidated part of the city resembling an ironworks converted into a garbage dump.

“Set it anywhere,” she said to Eleanor, who appeared a moment later. Several more boxes were already present, part of the room’s gradual transformation. Its shelves already piled with woodblocks and rubber stamps, some jars of metal squares that looked like typesetter’s keys.

Stacks of CDs and a miniature speaker for a music player, jumbled with its own cord. A series of posters dangling from its walls, French advertisements from the 1800’s, a Broadway music poster that looked as if it had been ripped from a theater frame, a scowling foreign pop band in black and white with Czech letters emblazoned across them. Above the cramped space and tables, a series of steel crossbars with lights which looked like a cross between stage lights and halogen bulbs, a complicated series which might be operated by a lever akin to the electric chair’s lever instead of the ivory-colored switch emerging in a tangle of wires from the wall plate.

Marianne did not turn it on. She merely flicked aside the battered, wide canvas shade which partly covered the window. Eleanor set her box on the table.

“There’s only five or six more boxes to go,” said Marianne. “I won’t move all the stuff I’m using for fabric sculpting right away. There’s a couple of pieces I need to take to Henri at his gallery first...” As she spoke, she knelt on an antiquated and overstuffed sofa shoved against the far wall, her hand pulling the chord to a nearby lamp fixture.

“This is a sofa bed, in case you ever need a place to crash,” said Marianne, with an impish smile directed at Eleanor. Who directed her eyes to the ceiling as if her patience was suspended there somewhere above.

“Perhaps if you hadn’t sent Miles packing, he could have moved all of your things for you more quickly than I,” suggested Eleanor. “He probably would have taken the day off for you –”

“Yes, and then he would have bored me for the rest of the evening with some tickets to a drab, conventional musical or some story about his work over dinner,” Marianne answered. “Besides, he was against the idea of an art loft, remember? Too dangerous, the wrong part of town, too expensive for me to afford –” She ticked off the reasons one by one as she slid downwards into a half-reclined, half-sprawled position across the sofa.

“All of which is correct,” answered Eleanor. Her advice would have been the same – had been, in a roundabout manner of suggestion – but that wasn’t entirely the reason why she defended the hapless Miles from the dripping sarcasm in her sister’s voice.

Miles was Marianne’s last boyfriend and latest ex – a flame to which Marianne had always been somewhat cool despite his attentiveness to her. Shambling, gentle, and apologetic, he had stood little chance of charming her in the first place, a happy accident in his estimation that Marianne ever accepted his invitation out. Brokerage firm associates were not high on Marianne’s list of romantic partners.

Eleanor’s approval of him, of course, was the death knell which tolled upon their future.

“He was dull and pedantic and you know it,” Marianne answered.

“He was chivalrous and polite and cared about you,” Eleanor countered. “Which is something more than you could say about the others you’ve dated.”

“And this advice comes from what? Your personal tastes?” said Marianne. Now she was digging through a box at her feet, filled with newspaper clippings and art postcards. “Of course you would like him. He’s your type: stodgy, unimaginative, thinking the end-all of poetry is Wordsworth –” She emerged with a handful of cards of some ancient European cathedral.

“Stodgy is harsh,” Eleanor said. She, too, removed a handful of items from the box on the table, although she had no idea what to do with them – a miniature Japanese doll on a stand, a strange little brass box punched full of diamond-shaped holes.

“Your opinions on men are entirely shaped by the fact that you never see any of them,” said Marianne.

Eleanor froze in shock. “I beg your pardon?”

“You know what I mean,” Marianne continued, brushing her hair out of her face. “I don’t mean you never see men; you just don’t see any variety. It’s all teenage boys in the mailroom and editors, or old, stiff types like the Colonel.”

The “Colonel” was how Marianne typically referred to Brandon, a nickname coined for his military background and gruff manners, much to Eleanor’s protest over the years. She felt it was unjust to him, this flippant tone her sister used whenever speaking of her friend – whom, she suspected, was equally hapless with regards to girls of Marianne’s nature as poor Miles.

“Brandon isn’t that old,” Eleanor answered. “And I don’t see an abundance of teenage interns, either. None of this has anything to do with your own taste in men, by the way. I’m just suggesting that maybe Freddy didn’t have your best interests in mind when he disappeared for three days–”

“I didn’t know he drank that heavily,” said Marianne, defensively. “Besides, I broke up with him afterwards.”

“And what of Seth? Was he a great potential relationship?”

“He was a guitarist. They’re all a bit sensitive and moody.”

Always, Marianne found an excuse for a boyfriend whom she particularly liked, regardless of whatever indifferent state of being or argument trailed their relationship into nonexistence. She looked back on these disasters amicably, with fondness for their brighter characteristics, something Eleanor found slightly maddening.

“Then by comparison, Miles is a better man, isn’t he?” Eleanor’s voice struggled mightily to refrain from sarcasm. “Compared to drunks and ill-tempered louts and the one who stole your credit cards, I mean.”

Marianne’s face was sullen. “Did Miles call you?” she asked. Suspicious of Eleanor’s motives in this conversation, apparently.

“No.” Eleanor was taken aback, a spark of indignation entering her voice. “No, he didn’t call me, Marianne.” She couldn’t imagine Miles, even in all his apologetic mild-mannerdness, stooping to the level of calling her for advice.

“Good.” Marianne rose from the sofa and made her way towards the stairs again.

There were five boxes still in the trunk of Marianne’s battered little Bug and in its backseat. Eleanor lifted two of them against her better judgment, but they were light enough, containing mostly strips of newspaper and large housepainter’s brushes.

How all of these things ever fit in Marianne’s small, shared, three-room apartment, she couldn’t fathom. Perhaps Marianne had a locker somewhere in the city where she had stored additional supplies. The decision to branch into her own studio was a new one, made in anticipation of a future art show and the successful sale of a few pieces in a friend’s gallery and not one inspired by an established career. Eleanor could see the point Marianne’s ex was making with regards to financial investment, even if the room’s rent was a paltry amount.

On the other hand, she could see why Tannis had banished everything artistic across town. No doubt Marianne’s roommate had grown tired of stepping over and around creations on Marianne’s side of the apartment, avoiding wet paper sculptures and pulpy paper and plaster messes in the bathroom, and finding Marianne consuming all the apartment’s walking space as a zone for her canvas work on a rainy day.

The remaining box when Eleanor returned to the car was one packed with heavy art molds and bricks of sculpting clay which threatened to break through the bottom. She hoisted it high with one hand protectively underneath, following Marianne inside again – whom, she couldn’t help but notice, was carrying a single stretched canvas, one depicting a bizarre robot-like figure painted in bold shades.

The canvas was large, and, apparently, heavier than it looked, for Marianne’s steps had begun to lag. Behind her, Eleanor boosted the box higher in vain, sending the bricks of unused clay sliding sharply towards the gaping bottom.

She paused to adjust the cardboard flaps and prevent disaster. “Did you tell him it was over?” she asked. There was no need to say to whom she referred, since Marianne would know.

“Not in so many words.” Marianne paused, resting the canvas on the steps. “He hasn’t called me, if that’s what you’re asking. Or come crawling around the apartment while I’m out.”

“No one said anything about crawling,” answered Eleanor. She set the box on the stairs and tried in vain to adjust the strip of unsticky tape inside to cover the hole.

“Then why do you care whether I see him again? Just forget it; I’m moving on and I feel fine about it,” said Marianne. She sat down several steps above, her arm supporting the canvas leaning against her. “I’m not feeling guilty. I don’t think ...I don’t think it was even serious enough for me to feel anything about it.”

The hemlines of her denim capris were embroidered with little red geometric designs which clashed with the orange of her tunic, Eleanor noticed. Below them, a pair of shoes which resembled a cross between leather sandals and clogs.

“He’ll find a perfectly nice girl who never goes to dangerous places and doesn’t have friends rough around the edges or leave plaster splattered all over the floors –” Marianne continued.

“Now you’re being cruel, Marianne,” said Eleanor. “He didn’t exactly treat you as a child; he wasn’t some –” she searched for the right word, which failed to come, “– some curmudgeon –”

“Oh, like the Colonel, you mean –” began Marianne, with a mocking little tone.

“Fine.” Eleanor answered. “Let’s just let the subject drop. You’ve made your point, I suppose.” She lifted the box and brushed past Marianne, climbing to the top of the stairs and onwards up the next flight. Behind her, she heard Marianne climb to her feet.

“Oh, Elly, don’t be that way,” she said. “You know how I feel about these things. I just don’t see a reason for continuing something that doesn’t have any point of passion for me.”

“Passion isn’t everything, Marianne,” Eleanor answered, her voice taking on a hollow echo from the enclosure of the stairs. This line sounded trite to her ears. No doubt it sounded so to Marianne as well.

“Yes, it is.” This was Marianne’s reply when she entered the studio a moment after Eleanor had placed the box on the table. “It is. To me, anyway.”

She dropped the canvas on the sofa, where it bounced gently against the cushions. “That’s the last of it,” she said. “You’ll be pleased to know that I can bring the fabric sculpting stuff on my own – without you or a man to help – in the next week or two. So no need of further begrudging help, I promise.”

“Very well,” sighed Eleanor. She didn’t appreciate having her help defined in these terms – Marianne took it rather for granted that she was available on a Friday after work, whereas most of her art and social crowd wouldn’t be.

“You’ll be all right here?” Eleanor ventured one last look at the surroundings. The view from the window like an abandoned parking lot, a car graveyard portent with crimes committed and yet to be perpetrated. A spray-painted street sign ravaged by rust on the distant corner.

“Yes,” Marianne answered, with another roll of her eyes for this subject. “I know what you’re thinking, but I know this place better than you do. And Harlequin next door’s promised to look in on me when I’m working and watch it while I’m not in.”

Harlequin? Who was that? Man, woman, mentally unbalanced neighbor or harmless resident? Eleanor was aware that her brow was furrowed with worry lines in response. “Well, if someone’s checking on you it’s a relief, of course –”

“And I’ll lock my car doors and bring my pepper spray.” Marianne lifted her oversized shoulder bag from the floor and crossed the threshold of the studio. With a final dubious glance at the steel-framed lights overhead, Eleanor followed.

The CD playing in Marianne’s car was something faintly island-y: a woman’s voice singing in a rich language like Spanish or Portuguese tinged with lively, mellow drum tones. Sunshine beat down on the passenger window against Eleanor’s face as she sat with her jacket draped over her lap.

From the rearview mirror dangled a blue plastic butterfly with jeweled hues like stained glass and a necklace of painted wooden beads. Perched on Marianne’s nose, a pair of oversized sunglasses obscuring the upper half of her face; her thumbs beat the rhythm of the song on the steering wheel’s grip.

Eleanor watched her. Studying her profile, as if searching for traces of herself in that small, pursed mouth or the slightly rounded nose. She could see her mother’s high cheekbones, the same short, loose strands of hair which curled over Ellen’s ear now soft above Marianne’s own. They shared the same forehead, the same chin. But Marianne’s face was in restless motion, not for the purpose of watching for danger, but the eagerness for the light to change.

It wasn’t that she cared about Miles in particular, another poor boy doomed to love Marianne in vain. It was Marianne she cared about; she simply wanted her to find someone who cared about her equally as much. Someone who could talk her out of art studios in Pittsburgh’s seamier districts or art shows which painted (literally) public nudity in flattering colors –

But there you were. That was the last thing Marianne wanted from a man.

“What are you thinking about, Elly?” Marianne asked.

Eleanor stirred. “Oh, nothing,” she answered. “I suppose I was just reflecting upon all the boys at the office. I really must go down to the mailroom sometime and make their acquaintance.”

“Don’t be sarcastic, Elly.” Marianne’s voice took on a pleading tone. “You know that I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I know you never mean anything the way you say it,” said Eleanor.

Marianne flipped on the turn signal. “I liked the last guy you dated,” she said. “Kenny.”

“Kenneth,” corrected Eleanor. “And we only went out once. I hardly think that qualifies as a relationship.”

“I had a relationship with Garth and we only went out once,” said Marianne. “Once is sometimes all it takes. A moment can last forever, Elly.”

“You and Garth spent a night together in a holding tank,” said Eleanor. “I don’t think Kenneth and I shared anything quite that memorable.” She referred to the anti-corporate development protest at which Marianne and the boy in question had been arrested along with a group of artists whom – Eleanor assumed – had been involved equally in the defacing of the abandoned building’s interior with spray-painted murals.

Eleanor and Kenneth had gone to dinner at a Vietnamese restaurant. She had been home by nine.