closed her eyes and put her arms around me.
I sat there beside the bed until she was asleep again. She looked tiny, curled up under the quilts. I smoked a cigarette, thought a lot about her and me, about falling for her, and then I went back to painting.
ABOUT two o'clock she came up into the attic. She looked relaxed and absolutely cheerful.
I was still in the middle of some detail work on the punk nude figure of her on the carousel horse and she stood watching me quietly. The main part of the painting was done and I thought it was spectacular. She didn't say anything.
I put my arm around her and kissed her.
"Look, there's a gallery opening this afternoon for a friend of mine," I said. "A good sculptor name of Andy Blatky. It's his first one-man show, Union Street, fancy, sort of a big break. You want to go with me?"
"Sure, I'd love to," she said. She tasted like vanilla wafers.
I started to wipe the brushes.
She moved away and spent a long time checking out the roach and rat pictures. Barefoot in her flannel gown, she looked like an angel. Seems the little girls of long ago in my church parish had dressed like that for a procession at Christmas midnight mass. Only thing she needed was paper wings.
No comment on the roach and rat paintings either. just her warm sweet presence and the knowledge, the splendid knowledge that she was here to stay.
I told her I'd put her things in the guest room. That could be her private place. Yes, she said, she found all that. Beautiful brass bed in there. Like a big crib with the side rails. Everything in the house was beautiful, like the sets for an old-fashioned play.
I smiled, but her comment made me feel uncomfortable. Settings for a play, Alex talking about Mother's room in New Orleans-I wanted to put all that out of my mind.
AFTER a quick shower she came down looking splendid. She had on a beautiful old tweed suit, a little worn in spots but exquisitely tailored. She looked very jaunty in the little tapered jacket. Snow white turtleneck sweater underneath. Pair of vintage alligator pumps probably made before she was born.
I had never seen her like this before, without a costume. And she was the shining expensive girl I'd only glimpsed that first afternoon, her hair brushed free, her makeup only a little blush on her cheeks and the perfectly applied candy lipstick.
She gobbled a bowl of cereal, smoking all the time, belted down a Scotch with precious little water, in spite of my protests, and then we took off in the late afternoon sunshine for Union Street.
I was pretty high from the lack of sleep. I felt wonderful, maybe even as wonderful as she looked.
"I want you to know something," I said, as we were coasting along Divisadero Street. "No matter what I said about never showing those paintings, it's pretty damned exciting for me doing them." Silence.
I glanced over to see her smiling at me in a rather knowing way, her hair blowing softly around her face in the breeze, her eyes glistening. She took a drag off her cigarette and the smoke disappeared.
"Look, you're the artist," she said finally. "I can't tell you what to do with your pictures. I shouldn't have tried."
But it had a defeated sound to it. She had moved in with me, she wasn't going to fight with me anymore, she felt she couldn't. "Say what you really feel," I said.
"OK. What's the big excuse for never showing all those others? The stuff with the bugs and the rats?"
Here we go again, I thought. Everybody asks. They have to. And so would she, of course.
"I know all your work," she said. "I've seen it in Berlin and Paris and I had the big coffee-table book before I-"
"Ran away from home."
"-Right. And I used to have every book you ever did, even the early stuff, The Night before Christmas and The Nutcracker. I never saw anything like those grotesque things back there, the ones with the houses falling apart. And you've dated them all. They go all the way back to the sixties.
So why are they locked up like
I sat there beside the bed until she was asleep again. She looked tiny, curled up under the quilts. I smoked a cigarette, thought a lot about her and me, about falling for her, and then I went back to painting.
ABOUT two o'clock she came up into the attic. She looked relaxed and absolutely cheerful.
I was still in the middle of some detail work on the punk nude figure of her on the carousel horse and she stood watching me quietly. The main part of the painting was done and I thought it was spectacular. She didn't say anything.
I put my arm around her and kissed her.
"Look, there's a gallery opening this afternoon for a friend of mine," I said. "A good sculptor name of Andy Blatky. It's his first one-man show, Union Street, fancy, sort of a big break. You want to go with me?"
"Sure, I'd love to," she said. She tasted like vanilla wafers.
I started to wipe the brushes.
She moved away and spent a long time checking out the roach and rat pictures. Barefoot in her flannel gown, she looked like an angel. Seems the little girls of long ago in my church parish had dressed like that for a procession at Christmas midnight mass. Only thing she needed was paper wings.
No comment on the roach and rat paintings either. just her warm sweet presence and the knowledge, the splendid knowledge that she was here to stay.
I told her I'd put her things in the guest room. That could be her private place. Yes, she said, she found all that. Beautiful brass bed in there. Like a big crib with the side rails. Everything in the house was beautiful, like the sets for an old-fashioned play.
I smiled, but her comment made me feel uncomfortable. Settings for a play, Alex talking about Mother's room in New Orleans-I wanted to put all that out of my mind.
AFTER a quick shower she came down looking splendid. She had on a beautiful old tweed suit, a little worn in spots but exquisitely tailored. She looked very jaunty in the little tapered jacket. Snow white turtleneck sweater underneath. Pair of vintage alligator pumps probably made before she was born.
I had never seen her like this before, without a costume. And she was the shining expensive girl I'd only glimpsed that first afternoon, her hair brushed free, her makeup only a little blush on her cheeks and the perfectly applied candy lipstick.
She gobbled a bowl of cereal, smoking all the time, belted down a Scotch with precious little water, in spite of my protests, and then we took off in the late afternoon sunshine for Union Street.
I was pretty high from the lack of sleep. I felt wonderful, maybe even as wonderful as she looked.
"I want you to know something," I said, as we were coasting along Divisadero Street. "No matter what I said about never showing those paintings, it's pretty damned exciting for me doing them." Silence.
I glanced over to see her smiling at me in a rather knowing way, her hair blowing softly around her face in the breeze, her eyes glistening. She took a drag off her cigarette and the smoke disappeared.
"Look, you're the artist," she said finally. "I can't tell you what to do with your pictures. I shouldn't have tried."
But it had a defeated sound to it. She had moved in with me, she wasn't going to fight with me anymore, she felt she couldn't. "Say what you really feel," I said.
"OK. What's the big excuse for never showing all those others? The stuff with the bugs and the rats?"
Here we go again, I thought. Everybody asks. They have to. And so would she, of course.
"I know all your work," she said. "I've seen it in Berlin and Paris and I had the big coffee-table book before I-"
"Ran away from home."
"-Right. And I used to have every book you ever did, even the early stuff, The Night before Christmas and The Nutcracker. I never saw anything like those grotesque things back there, the ones with the houses falling apart. And you've dated them all. They go all the way back to the sixties.
So why are they locked up like
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