“SO WHAT DO you do all day?” my mother asked.
“Mom, I found a job, but it doesn’t start for three weeks,” I replied, the telephone receiver cupped between my ear and left shoulder. I was standing in front of my eleventh pear painting. This one was of a corner of the ceiling in the living room, and I had the pears suspended in a hanging planter.
“Nell, what kind of teaching job starts at the beginning of November?”
“This one,” I said impatiently. It had been hard to land a job in Minneapolis. Finally, federal funds had come through for a remedial reading teacher in a junior high school.
“Do you see Alice and Rip—what kind of name is Rip, anyway? Do you see them often? Oh, how I wish you lived in Brooklyn. Am chance of you moving here?”
“Mom, you ask me that every time I talk to you.” I reached for lemon yellow with my paintbrush.
“Well, is there a chance?” she tried again.
“No,” I said emphatically.
“You should have Gauguin’s parents over every Friday night for dinner,” she insisted.
“Mom, they’re divorced, get it? They aren’t a couple anymore. Besides, they don’t want to come over so much. And they’re not Jews. Friday is Shabbos.”
“Why don’t they want to come over?” she asked suspiciously. “Aren’t you keeping a clean house?”
“Ma, please, I have to go. Send my love to Dad, Grandma, and Riteey. Okay?”
We hung up.
I cleaned my brushes and ambled down to the bus stop. It would take two to get out to the Jewish Community Center, but I didn’t care. I liked taking city buses; they made me feel ecological.
I had joined the health club at the JCC a month ago and was on an intramural volleyball team. It was comforting to be around other Jews, even if they were Midwestern Jews. Of course, I didn’t tell my mother that I had joined the club. It would please her too much.
In late afternoon, when the bus let me off on the corner, I could see Marian, our upstairs neighbor, sitting on the stoop. I waved, and when I got to our place, I sat down next to her.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Matthew’s not coming home tonight till late. I don’t have to make dinner.” She smiled, pleased.
“Hey, want to walk over to the Riverside Café for an early dinner?” I ventured. “Gauguin won’t be home till seven.” I was proud that I knew some places now in the city.
“You know, this is where Gauguin asked me to marry him,” I explained after we sat down, our plates piled high with cheese enchiladas. I took a forkful. “This isn’t bad. Almost as good as New Mexico.”
“What’s it like there? I’ve never been. My family liked to stay close to home. They played it safe.” She took a swig of water.
“My family hardly left Brooklyn,” I told her. “I discovered New Mexico later on my own.”
“You seem different from other people here.”
“How so?” I asked her.
“You know, looser. We’re all kind of conservative. No one from my family ever left Minnesota.”
“You’re kidding.” I took a bite of salad. “Not me. Once I hit New Mexico, I knew I was home.”
“How come you’re not there now?” she asked.
“I dunno.” I looked down at my plate and stabbed at my food. I didn’t want to talk about this. “I left, that’s all.” What a dumb answer, I thought to myself.
I glanced up at Marian. She looked down. I didn’t want to be unfriendly. I just didn’t want to tell her about who I used to be. I wasn’t sure Marian would understand my past life.
“Hey, look at those dog paintings.” My mouth was full of cornbread. “There, on the brick wall.”
Marian turned her head around. “Oh, they have monthly shows here, I think.”
“They do, huh? For anybody?” I asked.
“I dunno. You could ask,” she said.
“Just a minute.” I got up and walked over to the cashier. “How do you get to show here?”
She didn’t know what I was talking about. “On the wall”—I pointed—“the pictures?”
“Oh, that. Ask Margaret, the manager. She’s behind, in the kitchen. I saw her a minute ago.” She turned her head and yelled, “Hey, Margaret, someone here wants to talk with you.”
A minute later, a blond woman about my age appeared. “Can I help you?
“I’m a painter”—as I spoke those words for the first time, my blood raced through me—“and I’d like to have a show here.”
“We have an opening in February. You frame it, you hang it, if you sell anything, you keep the money,” she told me.
“For the whole month?” I asked. She nodded.
“Can I just mat them?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said.
“Okay, sign me up.”
I floated back to the table. “I’m having a show here in February. It’s my first.” I was stunned how quickly it had happened.
“That’s great,” said Marian. “Let’s toast.” She held up her water glass. “To Nell’s one-woman show, the first of many.” We clicked glasses.
“I’ve got to get working.” I looked at the walls of the café, figuring out how many paintings it would take. “Twenty. I need to have twenty ready. I’ve got about eight that I like well enough so far.” My mind was buzzing. “And I probably should type up a personal statement.” I paused. “I should sell them cheap since it’s my first.” I looked around. There was a very scruffy clientele, mostly university students. “Otherwise, no one could afford them.”
Marian looked around. “Do you think these people buy art?”
“Probably not, but I’ll only charge fifty dollars a painting, just in case.” I popped a cherry tomato into my mouth.