The Painter

On a Wednesday, my one day off from the boutique each week, I walked over to the small blue house where the painter was waiting for me. I’d met her in the boutique on that previous Sunday. She was one of those patrons who wasn’t content to let you rest behind the counter, to handle the business of shopping herself, but rather one to whom browsing should be a social activity, a chance to monopolize the attention of the sales attendant, to ask about that such item or this one, to ask about how you liked working there, and tell you about her own troubles while she rolled sample perfume onto her wrist. 

Her name was Madeline. Madeline was tall, quite tall for a woman, unaided by heels. Slender as a will-o-wisp, with a broad-brimmed hat atop her head, pushed off and held around her neck by a leather cord when she entered the boutique. I found that adjustment classy. While she shopped, as I fetched shoe sizes and held up linen dresses for her approval, Madeline told me that it was a foolish mistake — I cannot believe I’m wasting precious daylight hours like this! — for her to be in the store in the first place, as she had absolutely no time to spend on herself. She was overwhelmed with work — It’s a terrible thing to be your own boss, it really is — as the summer-time residents of our seasonal town were preparing to return in just a month’s time. 

Our arms brushed as we passed garments back and forth. I dressed her, undressed her, zipped things up and down, helped her into a summer house coat — maybe the plaid, instead? — held her hand as she tried on a heeled sandal. 

She was a painter, she explained, an interior house painter, and everyone wanted their walls as white as a virgin’s nightgown (her turn of phrase, not mine), before they deigned to return to their second or third or fourth home. Though she did not usually find herself in such a predicament, of having more clients than she did hours and laborers. She told me that she had made the mistake of trusting two brothers named Kenny and Henry — or was it Keith and Harry? — to show up for the jobs she had scheduled for them. She told me the tale of how Kenny and Henry had abandoned her for a commission-based job selling high-end sunglasses as she slipped in and out of silk scarves, wrapping each one around her long, spindly neck before tossing it off into my waiting arms. 

“And so,” she said, pressing a delicate palm to her temple, “Barring a divine intervention, there’s just no way I’ll be able to get all these houses done. And once you have a single one-star rating online for your services, you are absolutely done-zo! That’s that.”

She was waiting for me to offer, but I wanted her to ask. 

Finally: “I don’t suppose you have any time this week to help a girl out, do you?”

“I could help you,” I said, vindicated, relieved, delirious. 

“You’re heaven-sent.” Madeline said, scribbling down her phone number. She left the store without buying a single thing, her broad-brimmed hat back atop her head. 

So, I walked up to the blue house on Wednesday to help Madeline paint. The door was unlocked. Misshapen ghosts underneath white sheets throughout the rooms. The scent of paint hung like mist. I followed the sound of music — a country twang crooning about blue jeans and a girl who looked just right — to find Madeline in the living room. Madeline stood, hands on her boney hips, surveying the walls, noticing me. “Well don’t dawdle,” she said. “Pick up a roller.”

Painting suited me. I found the experience — roll, stretch, up, down, up, down, repeat — to be very soothing. Watching the walls bloom from an aged eggshell to a crisp white enlivened me. Even as my shoulders began to ache, the process was far more enjoyable than my occupation behind the counter at the boutique. Perhaps I would quit. Perhaps Madeline needed a more permanent assistant. 

As we painted, Madeline talked.

“You know that bakery on Broadway? The one with that little cupcake mural, acting all innocent? Let’s just say I’ve heard tale of a midnight visitor to the honorable baker Miss Brigit, a married visitor. Can you guess who?” 

And: “You must’ve heard about the McCue boy, the oldest. No? Do you hear anything at all? I guess you wouldn’t, vagabond that you are. Well, I’ll tell you, and you won’t even have to ask twice. EX-PELLED. Yes… from Penn State! Can you imagine what it takes to be expelled from Penn State? Well, I’ll tell you what it takes…”

And: “Dating for two years, and just as she’s expecting an engagement, you know what he says instead? That he’s leaving her. Cutting it off cold turkey! Wait for it… Leaving her… For her assistant!”

I offered little in the way of commentary to these salacious happenings. It seemed the occasional Really? or a small gasp of disbelief went a long way towards satisfying Madeline. At the first sign of my curious brows, she would launch into the next tidbit, the next tall tale. Was she trying to entertain me? I thought so, at first, but by the fourth anecdote, came to the conclusion that anyone at all with proper hearing would have served my role. Madeline liked to talk. 

She looked at me with wide eyes. Her eyes were the size of her whole face. “My mother didn’t raise a liar. Did she raise a gossip? Well…” Madeline laughed uproariously at her own jokes. Head tilted back, mouth falling open; at one point a tear leaked down her cheek. I reached over and wiped it away. 

We took a break for lunch. Madeline had brought enough pasta salad for two and doled out my portion into one of the owner of the blue house’s ceramic bowls. Though the pasta was too oily and included roasted red peppers, which I hated, I was so touched that she had thought of me while preparing lunch that I ate it all. I nearly licked the bowl. 

“No one makes me food anymore,” I said. 

“What’s that?” She was distracted, testing switches to see which one turned on the overhead fan. 

“I was just thinking that no one makes you food much, you know, once you’re an adult. It’s like, you take that for granted growing up. Dinner, packed lunches… Now, it’s so lovely when someone does it for you. Like this pasta, I mean. Thank you.”

Madeline found the switch at last. “Can you clean those bowls?” 

We painted until four o’clock. The house looked happier, refreshed. My shoulders and arms felt like a toy soldier’s, stiff and weighed down by my sides. I helped Madeline put the cans back into her car, pull off the sheets, reveal the ghosts to be couches, tables, lamps. I began to feel itchy, nervous  that this was goodbye. But Madeline, ever intuitive, opened the trunk of her green hatchback and waved a gleaming bottle, half-full, of tequila. “A little happy hour for a job well done? You can’t say no to that, can you?”

I didn’t say no. 

We sat on the steps of the blue house’s back porch, which overlooked an overgrown but charming flower garden. Wildflowers and dopey bumble bees. The tequila was good, expensive, and lit me up. I wasn’t an avid drinker. Madeline and I traded off from a slender blue shooter. My lips pressed to the same spot as hers: a detached kiss, I thought. We sat together in silence, neither comfortable nor uneasy. I accepted another pour of tequila when Madeline offered. I wondered how much she could drink and still be able to drive home. 

The air was warm between us. She shrugged off her thin sweater. I noticed her pale shoulders. A dormant part of me wanted to feel her collarbone between my teeth. Madeline looked at me; I imagined she was noticing my mouth, which would fit so well around her collarbone. 

“Do you often find yourself in situations like this?” She asked. 

“Situations like what?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

I liked that. I smiled. “Yes. I suppose I do.”

“You say yes to things, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Cheeky girl.”

Oh! I shivered. 

I moved my hand so my smallest finger touched her own. I knew what I wanted. I suspected what Madeline wanted. But I wouldn’t offer; I wanted her to ask. 

She turned away from me. “But what would people say?” 

It wouldn’t happen. Devastated, my face became hot with grief.

“You understand, don’t you? You understand me.”

“Yes,” I said. “I do.”