Artistic License Page 6

  She remembered that evening back in Sam’s office. She remembered taking a deep breath before she began, and in those couple of seconds, when she’d looked at him, felt as if she was seeing him for the first time. While they’d certainly had plenty of time for interaction while she worked and painted, he was, after all, Sam the employer. Sitting in the chair across from her, with his elbows on his knees and his whole body leaning forward, he was different. She noticed his eyes again. Their vivid azure blue, contrasted to his lightly sunburned face and sandy colored hair, and they seemed to be reaching out to her, urging her to talk.

  Taking a leap of faith, she had decided to trust him.

  When she told him she was pregnant, he’d blinked and said, “I didn’t think you were married.”

  She’d been about to explain, but he interrupted almost immediately, his eyes alarmed and apologetic, “That’s not what I meant. Of course, you don’t have to be married.” Looking like he didn’t know what to say next, he shifted in his chair as though it had just become excessively uncomfortable.

  He pressed his fingers into his eye sockets as he spoke again, “Well, you know what they say happens when you assume. I just made the proverbial ass out of myself, didn’t I?”

  His embarrassed grin made Annie feel more at ease. “Sam,” she said, as she leaned forward to touch his arm, “It’s okay. Actually, I am married. That’s the real problem.”

  While talking, she observed him, looking to see if she was shocking him in any way, knowing that the story sounded distasteful when put into words. But he kept a careful, bland expression on his face, and Annie wondered if that came from practice or great concentration. He’d managed to stay expressionless except for that moment where she said she was married. At that, she’d seen something flicker past his eyes. Something akin to regret. As though he’d been ready to hear almost anything, but her being married had surprised him. She wondered why he would have been disappointed. And for the briefest instant, considered what life would be like if she’d met Sam all those years ago, instead of Gary.

  Now, up on the ladder, Annie erased a couple of lines, squinted, then drew again. The picture on Sam’s credenza behind his desk came to mind. Sam, a petite blond woman, and a young boy of maybe twelve, standing together, smiling. Even though the picture was focused on the three people in the foreground, Annie could see, behind them, impressive antebellum pillars on the large white home and she’d been reminded of Tara from Gone With the Wind. His wife and son, she supposed.

  Wow, she was thirsty. She climbed down the ladder, and noticed a glass of iced tea that had appeared as if by magic, on a nearby table. Sam must have come and gone without her noticing. He knew she liked her iced tea really cold, so the fact that there were only a couple of very small ice cubes floating at the top told her that it had been waiting for her for some time. Sitting, she squeezed the lemon into the glass and lifted the straw to her lips. Part of the beauty of working on this mural was how it captured her imagination so fully. She found that she lost herself in it more often than not. Gazing, now, from her booth about ten feet away, she was amazed at how far she’d gotten tonight.

  “Ready to call it quits?” Sam asked, emerging from his office.

  “I didn’t realize you were still here.”

  He looked at his watch, “It’s going on two o’clock.”

  “Time flies.”

  Sam sat down across from her. His eyes were a little bloodshot—but he was smiling. “And you’re having fun?”

  She sighed. “Yeah, I am.” Her legs, strained from standing for so long, were starting to relax and the fatigue she’d begun to expect started creeping into them. She stretched them out into the aisle and slowly rolled her head. “But I should knock off soon, I suppose.”

  “What time’s your appointment tomorrow?”

  “Not till the afternoon. I’ve got time.”

  “Annie, go home. You’re pregnant. You need rest.”

  “Is that your professional opinion, Doctor?”

  Sam still smiled at her, but it was a sadder smile than she would have expected. “Have you told your . . . husband, yet?”

  Keeping her eyes on the straw as she swirled her amber colored tea, she shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “Can I give you a little friendly advice?”

  Annie looked up. His eyes were serious. She nodded.

  “The sooner the better. He needs to know.”

  “I was going to wait till the divorce was final.”

  “Divorces,” he said, as he looked up at the ceiling, then back down at her, “divorces are funny things. They take a long time and they can be nasty. If you keep the pregnancy from him, especially after you’ve seen the doctor, and you withhold it, well, it could be unpleasant.”

  “Like legally?”

  “No, but . . .” he seemed to search for the right words. “Sometimes you can’t undo things. And you look back and wish you’d handled it differently. Telling him is the right thing to do and you don’t ever want to regret not doing the right thing.” He shrugged. “You never know.”

  Annie looked at him. He sounded like the voice of experience.

  “Trust me,” he said.

  * * * * *

  Annie berated herself for not visiting Uncle Lou earlier in the week. She held her navy blue umbrella over her head and shut her eyes as the wind shifted, shooting a fine cold spray of water into her face. He was probably asleep, but this was the only chance she had now for a couple of days.

  She knew the doorbell didn’t work. It had been out of order now for about four years. He’d been meaning to get to it. The chance of his hearing her knock over the wind and the thunder was slim. She knocked a second time, harder, and with more of a beat, thinking that it would stand out from the outside noise.

  When he answered, clearly wide awake, she was surprised. It was only noon. Usually he slept till at least two in the afternoon, then stayed up all night watching old reruns and reading magazines.

  “It’s been stolen again,” he said, opening the door to let Annie in.

  Uncle Lou’s rather unruffled tone and the fact that he was always reporting recent newsworthy events rather than talking about his own life, kept her from reacting too strongly. She searched her brain for some memory of something he might have mentioned being stolen a first time.

  “Here,” he said, leading her to the dining room table. Except for the reddish wooden ball-and-claw legs under the table, a person coming into the room would never know that there was a shiny mahogany table under all his clutter. Covered from end to end with newspapers, magazines, and assorted detritus, it resembled the beginnings of a Girl Scout paper drive.

  Uncle Lou shoved an article into Annie’s hands, which she didn’t bother to read, knowing he’d recite the information to her in a minute anyway. The fact that he had his half-moon glasses on told her that he was serious about his subject matter; probably had been reading all about it up to the moment she’d walked in. She knew better than to try to change the subject, but really didn’t mind the diversion. Right now he was digging through an extra high pile at the far end of the table, the sweat beading over the top of his very round, very freckled, bald head. He was a short man, but what he lacked in stature, he made up for in verbosity.

  “Just when it was due to be exhibited at the Art Institute, it’s gone again.” He was still shuffling, “What does that say about the city of Chicago?”

  Uncle Lou looked up, his bright hazel eyes fixed on Annie, but she could tell he wasn’t really seeing her as he continued.

  “That we can’t protect some of the world’s treasures? These . . . that one in particular, read that.”

  “I thought you said it was illegal to reproduce copyrighted articles,” she said, holding up the paper.

  “Yeah, well, I make these for my own personal use, so I can cut them up and rearrange them so they read better. None of them leave the house. So, don’t take that with you.” He started shuffling through the papers
. “Let me find the original for you.” The tall pile he’d been digging through was now separated into three smaller piles, one of which he’d placed on top of yet another pile on the dining room chair next to him. Without looking, he grabbed at the uppermost papers as they slid sideways, catching them before they hit the floor. Annie knew that the seats of these ornately carved chairs were covered with maroon and cream striped fabric . . . the set had been her grandmother’s. But she couldn’t remember the last time the chairs were clear enough for the cushions to be seen.

  “It’s okay,” she said, starting to read.

  “Did I ever tell you about the time . . .”

  “Your buddy got suspended for making illegal copies?” she finished. “Yeah.”

  He nodded, but didn’t look up, muttering to himself, “I know it’s here somewhere.” He shuffled around toward the triple window on the long wall. Drapes that had been there when he moved in years ago were still there, the hem in shreds from the incessant scratchings of Mr. Brown, his orange tiger cat. The top of the linen fabric hung limp in places where the upper edge had missed its hooks. Over the years the color had gone from bright cream to a dull beige. A fervent smoker until he’d retired, Uncle Lou’s house still had a thin sheen of brown over everything. He’d had the whole interior of the house paneled with a fake woodgrain about fifteen years ago when he realized that his habit was discoloring the walls, saying that it saved him from having to repaint.

  The second and third bedrooms of the house were packed with filing cabinets, boxes labeled with obscure codes, books, and magazines dating back to the nineteen-forties. More piles sat beneath the windows, towering three-fold over the cardboard boxes on which they rested.

  Here in the dining room, which he used as his office, two paintings hung on the wall opposite the windows above the table’s matching, and equally concealed, mahogany buffet. Annie had painted both of them, one of the Tribune Tower and the other of the Wrigley building, where Uncle Lou had held his first job. Watercolors, they were framed under glass, and last year, when Annie had taken it upon herself to help Uncle Lou clean up a little, she’d wiped them down. Years of neglect had caused a build-up of stickiness and it had taken several passes with the cleanser for the pictures to be bright again.

  Clearing his throat with a wet, noisy snort, he stopped and turned to Annie, giving her his full attention for the first time. “I’ll find it later,” he said, then nodded toward the paper in her hands. “What do you think?”

  “It’s hard to read,” she said tilting the paper different directions, “I can’t make out the byline. Is this something you wrote?”

  “No, no.” He moved around the table and stood next to her. Wearing his brown leather house slippers instead of shoes made him seem even shorter to Annie. “You see this drawing?”

  Squinting, and thinking that it looked liked black and white squirming potatoes, she waited.

  “This one, by some German artist from the early fifteen hundreds? You’ve probably heard of him.” Uncle Lou leaned over Annie’s arm, his chubby fingers pointing to different paragraphs as he spoke, blocking most of the article as he did so. “I’m sure you learned about him during one of your art classes.” He took the article from Annie’s hands, “Yeah, here.”

  He began to paraphrase as he read, “Albrecht Durer, you know who I’m talking about.” Uncle Lou’s eyes flicked up and back down before Annie could respond. “Here’s a picture he drew, maybe you’d see some significance in it. Looks like a bunch of unattractive naked women.” He looked up, warming to his first tangent. “Now I know I’m not an art critic, but they say that this drawing here, what is it? About eight and a half by eleven? The size of this piece of paper? They say it’s worth over ten million dollars. Hmph.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” she said. “Isn’t this the drawing that had been stolen from some German castle during World War II?”

  “The same one. And all the hoopla not too long ago about it having been recovered. Remember that?”

  Annie nodded.

  “Well, it was supposed to come to the Art Institute next month for an exclusive showing, not that I would have gone.” He paused to clear his throat again, and wiped the sweat that had formed on his upper lip. As he got more excited about the subject, his perspiration level rose and he was starting to look uncomfortable. “But now it’s been stolen again.”

  Annie took the paper back from his hand. “You’re kidding. When?”

  “Yesterday or the day before. It was in the paper this morning.” He resumed foraging through the piles on the table. “I know that’s hard to read, and the original is here somewhere. But I want to know what’s so special about this drawing. I mean, in your opinion.”

  “It’s in today’s paper?” she asked, trying hard to mask the incredulity in her voice. More than the loss of the drawing, Annie was floored that the newspaper article could have gotten so lost so quickly. It was mind-boggling, even given the disorder of the house. She leaned forward and patted him on the arm. “I’ll pick up a copy later.”

  “Will you? Pick me up an extra one too, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Hey did Gary ever get ahold of you?”

  “Gary.” Annie said the name with distaste. “He called you?”

  “He stopped by a couple of nights ago. Meant to tell you when you phoned the other day.”

  Annie lifted Mr. Brown, the cat, from the oversized leather easy chair in the adjacent living room. She sat down, the stuffing giving a long, slow, whoosh, as she did so. This was her favorite place to sit. It was also the only place to sit, other than in the kitchen, and that was sometimes iffy. “What did he want?”

  “He didn’t say, just that he’d been looking for you and he was wondering how come you weren’t ever home at night any more. Had some papers with him. And a friend.”

  “Pete.”

  “You know him? Well, I’ll tell you, I didn’t think much of that guy. Kept pulling at Gary the whole time they were here, telling him they needed to hurry.”

  “Did you tell them where I was working?”

  “Nah, didn’t think it was any of their business.”

  Annie leaned her head back and stared at the ceiling where a spider had made a home in the corner. She blew out a breath of frustration before she stood up. “I gotta go,” she said.

  “It’s not the company, it’s the hour, eh?”

  She leaned down to kiss him, “Yeah, exactly. And, just to be safe, don’t ever let Gary or Pete in here, okay?”

  “Sure. And don’t forget that copy of today’s Tribune, okay?”

  “I won’t.”

  Chapter Five

  Baby.

  Parents.

  Working Mother.

  Annie looked at the choice of magazines in the waiting room and shook her head. Nothing felt right. If she was going to be having a baby, she ought to be at least a little happy about it. She put down the Sports Illustrated that she’d taken to read. Probably a nod to the poor husbands who sat here, patiently waiting for their wives to be called. She’d paged through the entire magazine, so distracted that she hadn’t realized it was the swimsuit issue until she put it down on the table next to her. A dark-haired woman, looking well past due, sat on the other side of the corner table. She glanced down at the magazine, then away. Annie could only wonder what the woman was thinking.

  With a sigh, she got up, just to feel like she was moving. She’d been scheduled for two o’clock, but the receptionist had told her that one of the doctors on duty had been called in to the hospital on an emergency, leaving only one other to take all the appointments. She wanted to go home and take a bath. Her hair had gone completely straight from the rain, and limp strands kept falling into her eyes.

  It was almost three now, but it seemed as though she and the other woman were the last two for the day. She hoped she’d get Dr. Appleton. She’d seen him for the past few years and found him to be quick and efficient. Not to mention that he was small-
boned for a man. Precisely what one wanted in a gynecologist.

  The other woman got called in. Annie watched, trying not to appear obvious, as the woman pushed herself up from her seat, leaning heavily on the chair’s arms. She waddled to the office door, holding her left hand behind her back for support smiling at the nurse with a weary cheerfulness and Annie wondered if the woman’s face was always that bloated or if it had been caused by the pregnancy. Wearing a white summery shirt with big red polka dots, and wide red cotton shorts, she looked immense. Am I going to look like that, too?

  Across the room, which was decorated in a soothing blend of sea colors, Annie noticed a collage of pictures. Making her way over to it, she saw that it wasn’t a collage after all, but a bulletin board full of haphazardly pinned up photographs of some of the babies that these doctors had delivered over the years. Some were posed Christmas portraits, some were candid shots of toddlers with food smeared over their faces. Children ranged in age from newborn to college-aged, wearing everything from just a diaper to fraternity sweatshirts.

  Would she ever put a picture up here?

  “Annie Callaghan?”

  She turned to see a smiling nurse, file folder in hand, dressed in blue pastel pants and coordinating shirt, holding the door to the examining rooms open with her butt. “Come on back, and we’ll get you started.”

  The examination room was tiny, but pristine. A peach-colored paper robe and a white sheet had been set out on the table. Handing it to Annie, the nurse said, “It opens to the front.” She went to the door. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Thanks,” Annie answered. But she couldn’t help shivering. It was chilly in here.

  After giving her plenty of time to change, the nurse returned. “My name’s Noreen,” she said, wrapping the blood pressure cuff over Annie’s arm. In her late thirties, she was slim and dark-haired, with large eyes and a sincere smile. “When was your last period?”

  “May tenth.”

  “Well then,” she said a few moments later as she removed the cuff. “One-ten over seventy-two, excellent. You conceived . . .” she picked up what looked like a green paperweight with a dial on top and began to turn the indicators.