When Brothers Love … (another short story)

He had said, early on, that one can only perceive what one can see. She, naturally, did not agree with him. This had been their way. When they had last met, they had tried yet again for reconciliation. He had given her a small, hard-carved argillite pendant. As he had given it to her, she had accidentally dropped it and the top edge had chipped off. He gruffly remarked that she was certainly cavalier. She brusquely replied that she was sorry: it was an accident. She slipped the broken rock into her pocket. Soon, however, their escalating bitter words pushed them even further apart, until, finally, they abruptly broke off from each other. Later, alone, separate and thoughtful, they wondered just how they had become so estranged. What was really going on between them?

Meanwhile, she continued to sit for his brother. He had been working on her portrait now for several long months. And while she sat, framed, as she was, by the early morning light from the east-facing window, they would talk. His brother and she. About the ways of seeing.

He was painting her as an angel. She knew this was stupid. But she said nothing, not wishing to interrupt the flow of his fantasy. She just sat, hoping he would be finished soon. It was only a matter of time, in her mind, before he redesigned the glistening wings, darkened the golden aura to some mud sepia, removed the cherry glow from her cheeks. Just a matter of time. Perception, she knew, changes. The wind blows. It is as simple as that. And yet, she sat. Still, quiet. Mindful of his intent gaze. For that reason the portrait was taking an indeterminable amount of time.

She preferred it best just before they began. When they went into the studio barn together they would idle about making tea, or coffee, listening to the weather hiss through the wooden walls. He might lightly touch her elbow as he gently guided her to the stool. She would tease him about his ever scruffy shoes. She would flow with his motion like she used to flow with his brother’s motion. Within that motion intimacy was the knowing – you belong to my brother, I belong to your brother. Never spoken of course. But there – in the air. For this reason too, the portrait was taking an indeterminable amount of time.

The final reason that things were taking longer than usual was that he, the painter brother, was falling in love with her. And as any painter knows, this is not what a painter should do. It disrupts one’s Work. It interrupts one’s Ambitions. But there he was, sable brushing gold fleck around this pretty angel’s face. This problem was compounded by the simple fact that he was married to a good woman who he loved. He had had two children with her. He loved making love to her, and he loved her making love to him. Yet, here was this angel, sitting quietly, waiting patiently, perched on a stool, bathed in warm sunlight. He knew what a splendid gift his brother had indirectly given him. To fall in love with her seemed the most natural way of saying thank you. But it was a problem. He knew he could only ever really touch her through his painting. Her portrait was interrupting all his other work. He had spoken of it with his wife. She knew what was happening to him. And she, being the good wife that she was, would always make sure that there was enough tea or coffee in the studio barn before they began their painting sessions.

And so the portrait continued.

“What do you think, Jack, about painting me in the moonlight?”

He paused. His brush lifted from the painting.

“Nude?”

She turned her head slightly. Looking at him.

“Sure. Why not?”

They held eyes for an instant. Then he looked back to the canvas.

“It would be something.”

“I guess it all depends on when we finish this one,” she said.

He put his brush into the thalo blue. Pushing it around the oil, thinning it. She resumed her pose. Exactly.

From her vantage point, she could see out the window. She was able to watch the training arena with its broad white blank railings. The wind was starting to blow. She noticed a bent post. She quickly licked her lips.

“Did you see the moon last night Jack? It was so beautiful. Full.”

Jack paused. Lifting the brush again from the painting.

“Yes. We walked home.”

“I envy you that. I can see it now, strolling down some river path, past the lake, beneath the willow trees. I can see it.”

He touched his brush into the yellow, sliding the tip into the olive green.

“Any news from your brother?” she asked.

He lifted his brush. Pausing. They listened to the air.

“No. Not recently.”

She held her gaze out the window. Not flinching.

He placed the brush near her eye. The tip touched the wet canvas.

“I could give him a call tonight, and find out what’s up. Any message?”

“No. Thanks. We will speak when we will.”

She tried to keep the bitterness from her voice. He noticed her face fell.

“Any horses in the arena today?” he asked.

She focused. “No. But there is a post bent over by the gate.”

“What’s happened?”

“Looks like one of the mares has been rubbing it. Probably that dappled gray.”

“What makes you think it’s her?”

She laughed. “Haven’t you seen her Jack? The way she runs around? She’s just a frisky filly forever taunting that tired old stallion.”

He smiled, changing his brush. Wiping his hands on his smock.

She looked out the window again. She noticed the trees were budding. She had been watching them throughout the winter, wondering at just what point they would finally brave the cold. It always happened so suddenly. This new discovery was like a beacon. Her body hummed to it. Even through the window. The trees beckoned, inviting her to come closer. But she was stuck, immobile, enraptured at a distance. ‘Be still’, she said to herself, ‘be still.’

He was painting around her thigh.

“If there is one thing I would like to do, Jack, it would be to paint you in the nude.”

Startled, he lifted his brush. He saw she was smiling.

He smiled too. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll paint you nude painting me nude. Deal?”

They laughed.

“Spring has sprung. Me thinks,” he said.

She sighed, glancing down at her hands. “Yup. Guess so.” She looked out the window again.

Jack’s wife was coming down the path with a plate of cookies.

The barn door opened.

“Hi. Jack, your brother is on the phone. He wants to know if we would go up to his place for brunch. I told him you were painting.”

The stool squeaked.

“I need another hour. I’ll call him back when I’m done.”

“O.K. How’s the coffee? I’ve brought some cookies.”

“Fine. Thanks.”

“Well, I won’t disturb you. Nice to see you.”

The girls nodded at each other. And the door closed.

“Are you good for another hour?” he asked.

“Sure. Then I’ve got to get going.”

“All right.”

They resumed their positions. He continued painting for a time.

“I’ll have to fix that post I guess,” he mumbled.

She suddenly jumped up from the stool.

“Jack! Jack! Here she comes!”

He rushed to join her at the window to see and as he did his brush blazed a bright orange trail right across the centre of the canvas.

Meanwhile, Luke put down the receiver. He returned to the calf skin sofa, and lay down. The room was filled with books. Architectural drawings were stacked upon the marble floor. He placed his right arm over his eyes and tried to sleep.

…

Her taut thighs, calves, ankles and bare feet curled around the silky body of the steaming stallion as she thundered on towards the birch grove.

Asleep, Luke’s hand slid to the floor. His immaculately cleaned baby finger nail touched the glistening white marble.

Her mud-caked gripping fingers clung to the coarse wild mane. Her red auburn hair blew wild. Warm blood flushed through her cherry cheeks, and her lips glistened with saliva and early morning dew.

Luke turned his head.

As she slid from the broad backside, the large equine head turned and nuzzled her matted tussled hair. She left him with a gentle pat, and began the slow walk up the rocky promontory.

Luke opened his eyes.

She stood very still. Her aching body absorbed the vastness of the extending horizon. The wide lake far below shimmered bronze and gold as it stretched further east and west. Skeletal feathered trees rose from the water’s edge. Mauve mist hugged the shoreline. Birds soared slowly to and fro high above her head.

She took hold of the rough stone in her pocket. Pulling it out, she rubbed her thumb along the broken edge. Holding it up to the rising sun, she cried,

“So, just what is it EXACTLY that you want me to do?”

Luke rubbed his eyes with his left hand. He sat up. As he turned his feet to the floor, he noticed, through the window, that the mist off the lake was filling the rising air with a soft golden hue. The skeletal trees fanned the shoreline in gradations of rose and mauve. He could see a brisk breeze blow across the lake. The wind was coming up. In the distance, storm clouds were rapidly forming. Strange, he thought. He looked down at his watch. Damn, they’ll be coming soon. Will she come too?

She accidentally dropped the stone to the ground. It landed with a thud. Rain began to fall upon her tangled hair. As she bent to pick up the argillite pendant, she exclaimed over her shoulder -”You want me to do WHAT?”

…

As Jack closed his paint box he could hear the rain hit hard on the roof and the wooden walls. He thought, I’ll ask him to help me with that post tomorrow, before she comes. She’ll like that. He slowly turned back to look at the spoiled canvas and then lowered his eyes.

His wife burst through the door, her hand pushing back her rain hood.

“Ready Jack?”