Art is Home

River Boulevard is really nothing like a river at all. It is a four-lane, concrete road environed by generic corporate food chains and supermarkets, and even more unimaginative local stores, all located in very conventional rectangular brick-walled or beige-plastered buildings—consisting of four sides and a roof. The boulevard doesn’t even have any bends or turns. No sinuosity at all, just a straight line. It’s not even a boulevard. That would suggest the existence of trees. But the small maples they planted to replace the large ones they cut down were removed two years later to make room for more gas stations and banks. A few sylphlike trees remain. Not that anyone can properly admire the natural entities. Even though they are in the foreground, the long rows of conforming modernity behind make the trees well nigh indistinguishable. The background has overrun the foreground. Similar to some jejune painting or picture: everything is out of focus. No texture. No depth. I float down River Boulevard, passing the same jovial slogans and feigned affability in the signs outside: “Come On In, Enjoy Home Cookin’!” “Everything Served Fresh!” “Walk-Ins Welcome!” “Get 4% Off Your Interest!” “Welcome!” “Buy One, Get One 20% Off!” “Have a Great Day!” “Enjoy the Sunshine!” even “Going Out of Business!”: until resting at the intersection of River and Ojibwa Road (named in honor of the language the previous owners spoke). At this intersection I notice three very interesting figures: a bison, an oilrig, and a squirrel. I’ve never seen these structures before. Statues. The bison is crudely formed from rusted sheet metal. The oilrig is made from used construction rods—also rusted. And the squirrel looks to have been pieced together by separate plastered shapes. The half that purports to be a head and body is colored an unsightly dark blue grey. The tail is maroon. Of course it really looks like two blobs placed together like some elementary school student’s failed Science Fair project. If only. If only these hunks of metal and plaster were on display by the township for the purpose of ridicule, with a banner hanging over them: “Shitty Art.” A girl can dream. No. As I drive away, viewing the manufactured art in my rear view window, I know all too well the town of Willow Valley Creek gladly purchased these pieces from a local artist somewhere. I do not know whom.

While attending The University of Art Academia every student must take at least six courses of Art History. Though this may seem daunting, the university was a trimester school. So a student, theoretically, could take all the classes by the end of his or her sophomore year. Most did not. Because I was a diligent do-gooder of a student, did. The classes were not all that difficult, and were more centered on History than Art. I imagined our professors being adrift scholars after graduate school. Clutching on their Ph.Ds in Anthropology, or Intellectual History, they waded in the sea of Jobless Opportunity, waiting for one of the state or private universities to pluck them from the waters. Until at last they washed up on the shore of our university, and with nowhere else to go decided they would make do with what they had. Maybe it was a little too dramatic, and cruel, but it was great imagery. The idea haunted me my whole academic life. I eventually created a piece based off it my senior year. It was featured in my senior showcase upon my graduation (titled: Déjà vu). Fun stuff. But the erudite professors of the Art History courses really did know quite a bit. And though I often imagined the professors fantasizing about suicide as they lectured us on Dadaism, or the chronology of Cubism, or famous artist of the Baroque period, because that’s what I did during those classes, their dedication to teaching us about these periods or artists was unequivocal. They really liked history. They really liked teaching. I was just never convinced they liked teaching about Art History. But it was that outside, objective, view of art that attracted me most to those professors. One in particular: Dr. Gene Jerwulski. Dr. Jerwulski had my attention and respect from the moment he walked into our classroom and starting speaking, and it had nothing to do with the fact I found him quite attractive. No. He had my attention because of his beauty, but he gained my respect and admiration when the first thing he said was: “Hello students. This is a History class. So expect a lot of reading and writing. And no apologies, I don’t give a shit how that makes you feel.” He mockingly gesticulated with his hands. I loved it. I didn’t know why, but to see his salutation slap some of my peers in the face enthralled me. Though I was just a freshman, many of the other students were juniors and seniors (Note: most students took five to six years to graduate from the university). I witnessed their smug visages turn to scowls within seconds. As Dr. Jerwulski chalked his name and the title of the course (A Study of Art: Historical Contexts of Art in the Late Nineteenth to Mid Twentieth Centuries), I overheard one student whisper to another “Can he, like, say that?” The other shook her head in disbelief. 

When I reach my parents’ home—a lifeless box shaped like a house—I ring the doorbell. The very familial noise, hollow and without timbre, stirs the dogs—Pie and Emma, a collie mix and a shih tzu. Through the mix of barking and yipping, I hear my mother shuffle to the door, the scamper of paws on the newly placed wood floors, and my mother’s shushing. As she opens the door, the two dogs scoot out behind her. “No!” she calls after them, but upon noticing her only child standing on the “porch” (in reality more of a concrete slab than anything else) in front of her she forgets about Pie and Emma. “Oh good!” she says. “Come on in. I was hoping that’d be you.” I step inside and am immediately welcomed by the warmth of the house and smell of pumpkin spice. Mother is cooking for Halloween. “I’m so glad you could come home,” she says taking my coat, practically ripping it from me. “I’m sorry to bother you about this, but Dad is down in Miami trying to finish up a deal, and I didn’t want to do this by myself and risk slipping the disk again.” My mother is on medical leave from her job after injuring her back on a hiking expedition with my father in Tennessee last month. They recently replaced the carpeted floors with wood in hopes that it would make the house more valuable, and more likely to be purchased when they try to sell it next year after they retire. “I’m more than happy to help, Mom,” I tell her. “Well, thank you. We took down the paintings before and did all the work, but he got called down and I didn’t want to wait a whole week to put the paintings back up. It’s hard enough for me to get around as it is. Now I have to dodge paintings in the hallways and they are cluttering up the rooms. And I am afraid the dogs will knock one of them over. Emma loves to get behind a few and hide.” My mother has a penchant for saying many things with one breath. As she takes in some air, I proceed. “It’s OK. Like I said. I’m glad to help.” I notice the floors have not been crowned. I point to the dovetail of wall and floor. “Are you going to fix that?” She looks. “Hmm? Oh. Yes. Dad promised he is going to take care of that when he gets back.” I look at her. “He said that?” “M’hm.” “And you believe him?” She smiles and exhales. “No. But a girl can dream, can’t she?” and then she gives me a loving hug. “It’s good to see you, honey.” “It’s good to be back, Mom.” She returns from hanging up my coat with a mug of hot coffee with a traditional, seasonal hint of pumpkin. “Thanks.” I say. “Welcome.” As I drink we have small talk about the weather and the drive from the city and if I’m seeing anyone (No). I ask about my father’s business ventures and how my mother is recovering (he's tired from all the travel, she's doing much better than last week). We hit a little bit of a lull, so I decide to bring up the three objects on River Boulevard. “Oh yes. Those are new. Some local artist did them for the town,” my mother smiles. “Oh really?” I say. “Yes,” she nods. “They’re a little strange for my tastes, but that’s OK. It’s art, right?” I choke a little on my pumpkin coffee. “You OK?” “Yes,” I cough, “just fine. Wrong tube.” My mother smiles. After I finish my coffee, we start hanging up the framed paintings. I do most of the lifting on account my mother’s poor spine. “And this goes here.” “And that goes there.” etc. etc. Almost every one of the paintings I hang up are pieces I created in college—mainly from my senior year. A lot of crude, unfinished works, my artistic acumen reached a plateau by the end of my sophomore year. All the paintings either lacked the attention to detail they needed, or simply were poorly thought out, or executed—often all of the above. It is torture for me to look at any of my work, as is custom for many artists. To have it hanging in my parents’ home for all their friends and neighbors to witness is akin to hell. While I am centering one piece in particular (very boring, very lazy, unimaginative piece I did: an oil pastel of a faucet pouring into a nose, or vice versa depending on which way you look: which, I now regret, I received an award nomination for my junior year) above the fireplace in the family room, my mother brings up the three statues: “I don’t understand why they didn’t contact you about it. No, no, honey, a little more to the left.” “Well,” I struggle to both maintain balance and explain, “they probably… didn’t… know… I do that… which I really don’t.” “What’s that? No. More left. Wait! No. More. What’s that you were saying?” “I’m not… really creating… commercial art, Mom. You know that. I’m a professor now. Any art I do create… is for educable purposes… or something I’m just doing for fun. I… don’t… think I could… do what they’d ask anyway…” “Well why not? No, I liked it the other way, a little to the right. There!” I step down from the chair and stand back next to my mother, staring at the picture. “Because I’m not a sculptor, Mom. You know that.” “Sculptor, painter, whatever, you’re an artist. You could do that. They had to have paid him good money for it, too.” “I’m sure they did. But I probably wouldn’t have agreed to do the project anyway.” I sit down. “Why not?” she’s shocked by what I just said. “You could do that.” Wiping the sweat from my face, “Even if I could, which I can’t, they didn’t come to me for a reason: They don’t know me.” “Well of course they do. Nancy Dreich is on the town board. You remember her?” “Vaguely, yes.” “Rubbish. I was surprised they didn’t ask you. Nancy should have thought to ask you.” “Mom. Nancy barely knows me. Or me her.” “What are you talking about? You were both good friends back in high school.” “We carpooled to school maybe twice. I don’t think we ever talked to one another while in the car.” Defensively, slightly off-put, my mother says, “Well it would have been nice to see your work on the corner there, that’s all. That’s all I’m saying. I think you’re very talented, and I think the world should see your art. And I don’ think, though I love it and I love having it here,” she points to the faucet-nose piece (Any Which Way? was the title), “I think this art should be in collectors’ homes and in museums and out in cities and towns to be admired, not in my home.” “Mom.” “Yes.” “That painting isn’t even hanging right. I just realized it. It’s supposed to be horizontal, not vertical.” “I thought the water was running into the nose?” “It is.” “Well…” “But it isn’t. That was,” I stop. “Never mind.” “So change it then.” “It’s not important to me.” Her head cocks to the left. Disappointed. “It’s not. No. But it is to me.” I sigh. “Sorry. Let me fix this and then we can put up the last one.” The last painting was one I bought for my parents. I claimed it was a thank-you present, purchased with the money from my first paycheck—as an assistant professor. I really got it in the hopes my parents would get rid of Déjà vu, on display in their living room. And they did. (Only to have it placed awkwardly in the staircase leading to the bedrooms.) The replacement “painting” was a copy of Mucha’s poster for Chocolat Idéal.

Walking through the narrow halls of the Macrowski History of Art Center, a small wing of the newly renovated Venetian Gothic church, I made my way to Dr. Jerwulski’s office. The President of the university—Marilynn-Joy Presley—purchased the 19^th century revivalist church a few years before. The building now housed most of the administrative offices, and the whole Art History department. Presley herself redesigned the top floor into a two thousand and seven hundred square feet conference room (titled: “The President’s Conference Room”), and her office—eleven hundred square feet, equipped with a small kitchen and personal bathroom, leaving barely enough space outside for her secretary. Down the slim corridor, in the penultimate door on the left, he waited for me. On most occasions, as in this one, I found him lounging in his beaten leather chair. The university only provided him with a cheap, uncomfortable white plastic chair. So he brought his leather one from grad school. It was another small example of his defiance—though he would claim its purpose was purely for “reasons of comfort.” As I walked in I saw him: head perched against those long boney fingers, extending like surreal tree limbs from the trunk of his forehead, which was planted firmly on the arm of his veteran chair, his body almost parallel with the seat and one of our blue mid-term essays propped in his other hand. I knocked, more so tapped, on his door. Waiting a beat, I made my way to the white plastic chair before he even lifted his eyes to see me. “How’s it going?” I said, eagerly waiting his recognition. He looked up and offered a curt smile. Then straightening himself in the chair, “Oh just reading one of your peer’s essays.” He waved the blue pamphlet. “I see. And how’s that going?” I asked, trying to sound upbeat about his cumbersome task ahead. “The whole process has been… enlightening—to say the least.” He tossed the essay onto his desk, and rubbed his face. “We haven’t met your expectations, have we?” I tried to sound a little disappointed. The truth was we both new the majority of the students did not care about his course and were perfectly content with doing the bare minimum and getting by with a passing grade. I was not: partly because I was a perfectionist and did not like the idea of mediocrity, mostly because I was on a scholarship that required me to give a shit, but also because I genuinely liked the course and Dr. Jerwulski. “No, no,” he said. “You’ve all pretty much met my exact expectations.” I laughed, even though it hurt to hear him say that. I always feared he lumped me in with the rest of those trust fund slackers. He smiled. “What can I say? I suppose Art and Nationalism are difficult concepts to piece together.” “Not really,” I offered. “No. Not really,” he agreed. “But that’s not why you came here.” “Nope. I actually wanted to talk to you about my paper.” The paper was not due until the end of the course, which was another month or so away, but I had chosen a rather heady subject. “Good. How can I help?” I reached for my notebook, “Well, you know how my subject is on Mucha.” “Ah yes,” he smiled. “And how is our Slav friend doing?” “Not so good. He’s dealing with the failure of Le Pater right now.” “Mmm.” “Yeah. And I’m not having that much success right now either,” I said. “How’s that?” “Well, so I’m at a bit of a crossroads here. My piece is supposed to be about artistic art versus commercial art.” “Right,” he nodded. “But… like… Mucha,” I was struggling. Dr. Jerwulski’s eyes were centered on me. I never liked appearing vulnerable in front of anyone, vis-à-vis my artistic or intellectual prowess, let alone professors—especially him. This paper, in many ways, was more his idea than mine. I wanted to do something on Klimt. “Klimt is overrated. Don’t do it on him. Do it on a real artist, Mucha,” he told me, quickly backtracking, “I mean I don’t want to promote my ideas, but I find Mucha to be a much more fascinating person than Klimt.” I now think it had more to do with the fact that he could not read about Klimt, Picasso, or Warhol one more time. I jumped on the idea. “Yeah. Mucha could be really cool.” I was eager to please him. I wanted him to recognize I was not like the others. I was smart. I cared about Art History. Whether any of that was actually true or not was not the point. I let him talk me into Mucha, and then I let him give me the subject of my paper. What was originally going to be about Klimt and how he was the essence of the Art Nouveau movement (a case I now realize is utter bullshit), Dr. Jerwulski convinced me to do it on Mucha and the “juxtaposition of commercial and artistic art.” I had no real idea what my paper was about. And so there I was: lost in his small, windowless, forty-five square foot office. “My piece is on commercialism…” I paused. “Right,” he nodded. “But… like… Mucha… was, uh, very, like… commercially successful, though. So… I guess I don’t know why he would be the right artist for a counter point.” Dr. Jerwulski stared blankly. I sat frozen and exposed. He would understand I was a fraud. I had no concept of what he was talking about. I had betrayed him. But then the reaction was wrong. No reproach. No damnation. No castration. He smiled and leaned back in his warn chair. “What do you mean?” he said. “Well, Mucha was very successful and was basically known for his commercial art. All the stamps and posters and what not were his real well known pieces of art. He wasn’t really appreciated as a quote-unquote ‘real’ artist. I mean even the Art Nouveau movement was kind of… I don’t know… like kitschy and commercialized, and a sell out.” He simply looked at me. His head slightly cocked to one side. He wanted me to explain myself further. “And so… my whole point is supposed to be about… uhm… you know… not that.” Dr. Jerwulski said nothing. “So… I guess… I’m… uh… grasping for straws here. I don’t know. I’ve hit a dead end I feel.” I was exhausted. Five minutes into the meeting and it felt like two hours. I had a list of things I thought we could talk about for days and in five minutes he reduced me to some mumbling juvenile—like all the others in my class. He didn’t even say anything. I bowed my head. We sat in silence for what could have been minutes, but was probably seconds. “Mucha was a commercial artist. Sure. You are right with that. But, I suppose my response to that is ‘So what? Who cares?’” I looked up. He was not angry. No real agitation in his tone or gesticulations. He was more amicable than I expected. Professorial. “With Mucha you have a paragon of the ‘tortured artist’—so to speak. And I don’t mean the conventional coeval definition. I mean with Mucha you have an artist who struggles with his own identity, success, and art. From his efforts to be recognized by his own people, which in many ways explain his borderline obsession with Slav nationalism, to his struggle with what he called ‘the spirit of art’—which was not the commercial art he is, was known for. He created truly beautiful pieces of art. Le Pater is one of them. The Slav Epic is unequivocally his magnum opus. But that was locked up for some thirty years in a basement somewhere. Nobody gave a shit about his artistic endeavors. They only cared about his Berhardt’s and other such posters and prints. I mean we are not talking about some con-artist who has stumbled upon some niche in the community and chooses to fully exploit it because a) he can, b) he has no actual talent for an artistic career, and c) the community is either too ignorant or too far up their own asses to see they are being duped!” I had never, and would never see him this animated again. I had struck a vein. That much I was certain of. But what was flowing out of the vein was not so clear. “So he was largely remembered for his commercial art. He was also—for a period of time—being bankrolled by millionaires in the United States. So what? Artists need to eat too. You do realize that without rich people Western Art would have practically died with the fall of Rome? It’s OK to sell out,” he paused. “As long as you don’t lose that spirit. Mucha is a perfect example of that. He did one type of art that fed and sheltered him and his family. And he also created great masterpieces that he could be proud of. Some can do both at the same time. Look at J.C. Leyendecker, or other American illustrators in the turn of the century to mid-century—like: Gil Elvgren, Maxfield Parrish, Howard Pyle. Shit, Gibson even. All great artists—yeah, I went there—and all of it mostly commercial. But they were artists. Real, genuine, in the flesh artists. Their craft might be questioned, but their devotion to art and capturing the true beauty and soul of life should never be. And that is the point of Mucha, the struggle for that spirit. His life shows it. It’s beautiful. Sad. But beautiful.” Another quick pause before he continued, “Money will always play a role in art. But the question every artist has to ask themselves, it’s the task of every artist, is: ‘Am I doing this—creating a work—for the spirit of art, or am I creating this for money, and if so, does it still capture the essence of my artistic spirit?’ Meaning does that Geist of Art still present itself in the art—commercial or not. I think the biggest issue a lot of ‘artists’ these days cannot distinguish between making art that can be sold for a profit, and profiting from art.” He gestured to the essay on his desk. “Look at your peers and most of the student body here at the university. Most of these artists are being subsidized by wealthy financiers—aka their parents. Most of them won’t have jobs in their industry a year from when they graduate. Most of them don’t care. They are more concerned about making sure they have a Mac, Starbucks, and a three-hundred-dollar pair of glasses. They have the aesthetics of art all ass-backwards. It doesn’t make any sense.” He then gestured to his office. “Hell, ole Mary-Joy bought this place partly because of her religious fanaticism—even though she’s Catholic and this is Eastern Orthodox, but whatever—she mostly bought it because it was the ‘artsy’ thing to do. Her words. ‘Artsy.’ She is the President of the university. Is anyone else slightly offended by this? No. Not one person. No one person raises any red flags.” He shrugged. “Well I suppose it is mostly out of fear. At least I pray it is cowardice, and not total negligence.” He chuckled, “But do you see what I’m getting at here?” I nodded. A thought was beginning to form. He had succeeded in planting a notion that would suppurate in my mind for the next two years. “Art isn’t even art anymore,” he said with a wry smile. “Art has become artificial.”

On return to the city, I stop in the local Starbucks, just kiddy-corner to the three monuments. And as I grasp my venti black eye I begin to let my thoughts wander. If I were to ever come across Nancy and the town’s board, and the man who created those three hunks of plaster and metal across the street I imagine what our conversation might resemble…

NANCY: Well thank you, Vera, for coming in today on our meeting of Cultural Broadening in Willow Valley Creek. Your mother said you were a highly talented artist in the Art World, and so we, of course, value your opinion. I’m sure you’ve noticed our town’s latest addition just this year. The three cultural, artistic superlatives that are on display on River Boulevard: the Oil Rods, the Bison-tennial [scattered giggles], and the Tree Squirrel Eating a Nut. All created by our wonderful local artist: Todd Pennington, who is here with us today [applause]. And I would just like to make one final note for the record that it is an honor to have graduated with someone who is such a well-known artist now, around the world, like Vera. I think it would be safe to say that Vera and I were good friends throughout high school. But please, Vera, I think you have something you would like to share with the community.

ME: Yes. Thank you. I’d like to make a resolution to remove those three pieces from the corner of River Boulevard and have them disposed of, never to be seen by man, woman, or child—ever again.

[Silence]

BOARD: But… why?

NANCY: Yes why?

ME: Because it’s not very good.

BOARD: Well that’s all open to interpretation though.

ME: Right… but I’m from the art community, and those three things out there make me want to gouge my eyes out. I’m ashamed to admit I create anything remotely close to the term “art” knowing that those three items exist in the world and are being associated with that same term.

NANCY: I’m not sure I, or we understand.

ME: Of course not.

NANCY: Would you mind explaining further?

ME: Sure. The things—

NANCY: Art.

ME: Well actually that’s my point. Those things, those objects out there really aren’t “art.” [gasps] I know that might sound ludicrous.

BOARD: It certainly does.

NANCY: We have the artist right here.

TODD: Hello.

ME: Hi. Right. Yeah. Where was I? Yeah, so my point is that those things aren’t really art. They are just things. You paid to have three things put out next to the intersection, and you’ve decided to call them art. But they’re not. You see?

BOARD: Why not?

NANCY: Yes why not?!

ME: Well… for one, I think the very purpose of their existence, the inception of the “art” in many ways deflates the legitimacy of calling them art. Get it?

NANCY: No!

BOARD: Not at all. Please explain.

ME: [sigh] So the whole reason you wanted those things out on display was because you wanted to appear artistic.

NANCY: Cultured.

ME: Same difference.

NANCY: Actually it’s not.

BOARD: We did a study, and people in Willow Valley Creek actually believe there is a difference. Being artistic is one way people believe they are becoming more cultured.

NANCY: Exactly.

ME: But you are trying to appear as if you have artistic savvy, aka “are cultured.”

BOARD: There are many aspects to being cultured.

ME: Sure. But the fact that you are attempting to come off as artistic is the same difference as attempting to come off cultured. You are still trying to create an imagine—

NANCY: You can have artistic taste and still not be cultured. Such as: you can enjoy the fine art of Picasso, but still not enjoy finer cuisines, or the fine theaters, or politics, and… uh… others…

ME: First of all, Picasso was not fine art. Secondly, when you make an attempt to give others the impression you are artistic that—why am I even arguing with you over semantics?! This is not my point!

BOARD: Please calm down.

NANCY: Yes, please do.

ME: Those three things out there are frauds. [gasps]

NANCY: Are you trying to say that… Mr. Pennington’s works of art are… counterfeits?

BOARD: Is that what this is about?

NANCY: Are those your pieces of art, Vera? Did you create them and he stole them? [more gasps]

ME: What? No.

NANCY: Is this true, Todd?

TODD: They certainly aren’t. I created those myself.

NANCY: Vera?

ME: That’s not what I meant.

BOARD: Well you should apologize to Mr. Pennington then.

ME: [deeper sigh] What I am trying to say is that those items out on River are deceptions. They are not art. It is just a collection of plaster and metal under the guise of “art.” But it is actually not art. This is all a sham.

BOARD: But we had an artist create it.

NANCY: Yes. Mr. Pennington is right here.

TODD: Hello.

ME: Hi.

TODD: Maybe I can clear this all up. I think there is some anger over my pieces. I understand. They are provocative in many ways. Some people will never truly understand where I get my inspiration from and how my methods pay off in the end for the artistic community. Some people, I know, were shocked by my art. I understand. But I will not apologize for it. Never. Art must be free to reach out and grasp for the truth. And the community board members here all believe in that and want to support those kinds of thoughts about Art. I think they see the wonder I created, and see the art for what it truly is and stands for: the cultural depths of Willow Valley Creek. [applause]

NANCY: Exactly.

BOARD: So perhaps you have a better appreciation for our art now.

NANCY: Yes, perhaps you do now, Vera.

ME: No! You don’t even care about art! You just want to come across as artistic, so you can combat claims about this generic, guileless, shithole of Midwestern white suburbia and suggest it has some fucking culture to it—which, incidentally, it doesn’t! And you [turning to Todd] you’re the worst kind of asshole out there. You don’t even give a shit about art. About craft or effort. You are a big fucking con artist. All you do is take dumb, uncultured jerk-off’s money, who want to appear as if they are sophisticated people, and create this awful soulless-crap-junk-fucking-piss work and pass it off as art! You don’t even have any sense of art! You’re just as inexperienced as the assholes you sell your hunks of dick to. Neither of you care about art. You assholes [pointing back to Nancy and the board] just want to look like you do. And you, you asshole piece of shit [Todd] you are just in it to earn some money. But you didn’t even earn it! Because you didn’t even take any legitimate time or effort to actually create something worthwhile! You didn’t stress over this. There was no authentic thought put behind this. You just whipped this out of your ass and sold it to these fuck-faces. You’re all awful, commercialized shitheads. Look at your product! Some cheap, lazily put together, pieces of artless shit that you’d like to call art because you’re in a rush to appear sophisticated, you, you ingenuous twats!

…and then I’d storm out.

Or something like that. It never happens, of course. Instead, I get in my car and drive back to my apartment downtown—because tomorrow is Monday and classes start at nine.

Trundling an Empty Barrow Up the Lane: Nabokov’s Pale Fire: Part 2

The focus now shifts to the moral of Nabokov’s Pale Fire: a profound attempt of capturing humanity’s perturbation with mortality and the relationship Art (specifically literature) plays.  Many literary critics have dissected and attempted precise explication of the novel.[1]  Among them, Bryan Boyd is often the most quoted, read critic of Nabokov’s work and life—and specifically his novel Pale Fire.[2]  In his 1997 essay, “Shade and Shape of Pale Fire”, Boyd re-evaluates his previous “Shadean” stance—the notion that the entire Pale Fire (i.e. Foreword, Poem, Commentary, Index) was all written by John Shade and not portions by Charles Kinbote—and adopts a more balanced view of who wrote what, as well as the potential moral.[3]  In providing analysis of Pale Fire some objections to Boyd’s conclusions will be raised.  For the most part, though, Boyd’s observations and conclusions are agreeable.[4]

            Mirrors.  One prevalent motif throughout the novel is the imagery of mirrors.  Subtle at first, one slowly begins to realize the mastery of Nabokov’s work at play.  Mirrors, of course, reflect an image in reverse.  Nabokov applied this to his novel in several ways.  Be it in the reversing of words or names (Hazel Shade’s “mirror words” and twisting T.S. Eliot as “toilest” and Jakob Gradus—Shade’s eventual assassin—becomes Sudarg of Bokay the “mirror genius”), or places (Kinbote’s wild kingdom of Zembla juxtaposed with Shade’s passive New Wye), or people (Shade and Kinbote are very much opposites).[5]  Staying within the idea of reflections, the reader must take one step further and allow for self-reflection.  Fictional literature is a reflection of one’s reality (as both the author intended and the reader sees it).  Upon examining fiction, the reader should reflect and consider the possible relationship literature has with the world in which he or she exists.  Through examining the mirror world, one gains a better understanding of one’s own.  This fact plays a crucial role in Pale Fire.[6]

            Death.   Throughout the novel the reader is presented with death.  Either in Kinbote’s Foreword (the recollection of Shade’s death, or hinting his own potential suicide), in Shade’s magnum opus (where the imagery of death permeates the poem—especially with Hazel Shade), or in Kinbote’s Commentary (mainly in the narrative of Gradus’s westward journey), the idea of death is never too far from the reader’s mind.  The very first sentence of Pale Fire introduces Shade’s death “…(born July 5, 1898, died July 21, 1959)…”.[7]  In the poem, the fist line reads: “I was the shadow of the waxwing slain” another introduction to death—also another example of Nabokov’s double: Shade is the shadow of the waxwing slain.[8]  The remembrance of Hazel Shade in the poem and Kinbote’s notes reflect thoughts of the afterlife.[9]  Nabokov consistently relays this message of death.  Here the moral begins to show itself.  The reader cannot escape death.  Even as Kinbote flees from the majestic Zembla to the bucolic New Wye, he cannot.  He brings death with him.[10]  Gradus is the personification of death.  And even in the suburban Arcadia, death is there too.  This is exactly what Shade tries to communicate to Kinbote in his poem, but not to fear death.  Boyd suggests that the first line of the poem should be read as the last, suggesting life after death.[11]  Though the first line may double as the last, it might not necessarily point towards afterlife.  What could just as easily be true about the cyclicality of life is that death plays a part, and that the two are not mutually exclusive, so one should embrace both in toto.  Embracing mortality is embracing one’s humanity.

            Whatever the interpretations might be, and Nabokov left enough room for many, what is unequivocal is Nabokov’s success at revealing humanity’s struggle with their least favorite attribute: impermanence: and where Art (in this case literature) goes along in the endless endeavor.  That is Pale Fire’s greatness.

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[1] For further reading consideration: Will Norman, Duncan White, Transitional Nabokov, (London, Peter Lang Publishing: 2009); Geoffrey W. Erwin, Pale Fire: A Novel of Mirrors: Reflections and Resemblances—A Study, (Washington DC, Georgetown University Press: 1990); L.S. Dembo, Nabokov: The Man and His Work, (Madison, Wisconsin University Press: 1967); Paul Duncan Morris, Vladimir Nabokov: Poetry and the Lyric Voice, (Toronto, University of Toronto Press: 2010); Bryan Boyd, Vladimir Nabokov: The American Years, (Princeton, Princeton University Press: 1993).

[2] In his 2001 publishing of Nabokov’s Pale Fire: The Magic of Artistic Discovery, Boyd recants his previous Shadean analysis in The American Years (1993) and provides a more accurate analysis of Nabokov’s novel.  The bulk of Nabokov’s Pale Fire centers around the ideas promoted in his essay “Shade and Shape in Pale Fire” (1997), which most of this criticism will be focused.

[3] For the entire essay: http://www.libraries.psu.edu/nabokov/boydpf1.htm

[4] Boyd makes very valid points.  By no means is his analysis to be disregarded.  However, neither are they to be taken without incredulity.  In this phase of critical analysis, the boundaries do not always have to be agreed upon.

[5] Vladimir Nabokov, Pale Fire, (New York, Vintage: 1989), 80, 193, 314

[6] Nabokov enjoyed playing with the idea of doubles, and often used the idea of “mirrors” in his novels—especially later on in his career.  For further reading: Despair, Lolita, Ada or Ador, Look at the Harlequins!

[7] Nabokov, 11.

[8] Ibid. 33.; Boyd makes this argument in his essay “Shade and Shape,” 6.

[9] Boyd makes an interesting point in his essay (17) that Nabokov hints at supernaturalism in relation to Hazel Shade’s encounter with the phantom or phantasm that predicts the death of her father (188).  Perhaps, but this critic is dubious.

[10] An interesting connection can be made between Kinbote’s escape from Europe to the New World in search of a better life—mainly void from death—and Pastoralism.  What is Pastoralism?  Without losing too much focus: in the 1950s and 60s, two literary scholars, and progenitors of the American Studies field, Henry Nash Smith (with his book Virgin Land) and Leo Marx (The Machine in the Garden) studied apparent themes within literature concerning the New World (and eventually the United States) as an untamed land with infinite possibilities.   These themes would form the notion of Pastoralism (and would eventually be studied and taught within the “Myth and Symbol” school of study for the nascent American Studies).  To be succinct: Pastoralism is linked to escapism, and eventually leads back to humanity’s struggle with mortality.  Pastoralism plays a significant role in Americanism. 

[11] Boyd, 26.

To The End: Monday: 10

I have a daily routine.  At 6:15 I will get out of my bed, slip on my scuffs and morning robe, and enter the adjacent bathroom.  I brush my teeth and floss.  Then I wash my face with hot water, lather, and shave.  Afterwards, I shower, dress back into my scuffs and morning robe, and go to the kitchen.  All of this should not take more than an hour because I want to prepare breakfast before 7:30 so that I may eat while watching the Gene Almann Morning Show.  Monday breakfasts usually consist of two eggs over medium and some whole wheat toast with butter and honey, a mug of hazelnut coffee with a teaspoon of Ovaltine poured in along with Half & Half.  Setting the proper amount of time between cooking the eggs and brewing the coffee is paramount in the breakfast leg of my morning routine.  Too long will leave the eggs harder than preferred, possibly burnt.  And too short leaves no room for properly mixing the Ovaltine while also spreading the butter over the toast.  I like real butter.  My daughter, Belle, once suggested yogurt butter, but I can tell the difference.  She said it was for my health, but I just read in the paper the other day about a study depicting the dangers of too much soy in the male diet—one of the main ingredients of the “healthier” yogurt butter.  The study showed a relationship between high soy intake and male impotence.  I laughed when I first read the article.  At my age, I really do not need to worry about such things.  Irrespective of the medical facts, I prefer natural butter, mostly because I can taste the difference.  You cannot replace authentic with synthetic.  I can taste it.

            Gene Almann has on teens and the recent “epidemic” permeating society: sexting.  As I pile some of the egg white onto my whole wheat, Gene asks one of the teens—an overweight fourteen-year-old girl—how often she sexts with her boyfriend—a seventeen-year-old with poor acne and a bad hair cut.  “I don’t know.  Uh—I think—um—like, everyday?”  Gasps.  The camera pans over the crowd.  Mothers in pastel sundresses cover their agape mouths.  Gene repositions the glasses on her nose.  “You’re not sure?”  The girl, Grace, looks around before answering in her timorous voice.  “Well… like, yeah.  I mean… I do it a lot.  Like, everyday.”  She looks to her boyfriend, Lance.  He has a reproachable smirk on his face.  “And how often in the day?”  “I don’t know.  We text.  And sometimes we sext.  I don’t know.  Uh… a lot.”  “So much so, you cannot even give us an estimate?”  “Um,” she rolls her eyes in contemplation.  “Yeah?”  Gasps again, the mothers are nonplussed.  Gene remains stoic.  Lance continues to snicker.  Some of the yoke drips onto my morning robe.  “Shoot.”  I get up from the table and wet a hand towel.  While rubbing the yoke out of my robe Gene asks Lance, “Now, Lance, how old are you again?”  Smiling, he states, “Seventeen.”  “Was this your idea?”  “What?”  “To sext?”  “What?”  “To send sexually explicit text messages to Grace.  Was it your idea?”  Lance looks over to Grace, who is on the precipice of crying.  He judges her body language incredulously.  “Look.  I think this is stupid.”  “What is?”  “This,” his arms widen as he looks around the studio.  “I mean, come on, sexting?  You gave it a name?”  He motions between Grace and himself.  “We talk exactly like we text.  No difference.  It happens.  Deal with it.”  “So it was your idea?”  “To do what?”  “To sext,” Gene says again, her tone more strict.  “I didn’t invent it, if that’s what you’re saying,” he laughs.  The girl next to him, Francesca, smiles.  “I will not let you make a mockery of my show, Lance.”  “I don’t think you need my help.”  “That’s enough of your condescension, thank you.”  “Whatever.”  Gene turns back to Grace.  “Grace,” she chooses her next words carefully.  “Have you ever sent pictures of yourself to Lance, through texts?  Explicit photos?  Like Francesca had?”  Grace looks up.  Her chin sinks into her neck.  “I—” she looks over at Lance, then Francesca, who is examining her nails.  “—no.”  She quickly silences herself.  “Is that the truth?  It seems like you are hiding something, Grace.  You certainly seem to be carrying a lot of guilt.”  “No thanks to you,” Lance chimes in.  “I’m not the one who got her into this,” Grace bites.  “This is lame,” Lance crosses his arms.  “Why is that?  Are you afraid you won’t look cool if you don’t act like this?  Do you need to keep this façade going for all your male friends watching at home?”  “Yes,” Lance says sarcastically.  “Because all my friends are home watching Gene Almann today.”  Francesca laughs.  Even Grace smiles.  “Lance, why did you even come on the show today?  Did you even want to seek help?”  “For what!?”  “The way you are treating your fourteen-year-old girlfriend, Grace, here—and the way millions of males like yourself are treating girls like Grace and Francesca—you should want to get help.  This is an issue spreading rampantly, affecting young girls throughout the nation—even cases of prepubescent girls sexting.”  Gasps.  I drop my toast.  “Cases?” Lance says.  “You’re degrading women.”  “Saying I want to _________________ is a bad thing?”  The crowd is shocked.  Some boo him.  One woman stands and Gene gives her the microphone.  “This kind of talk is exactly what is wrong with society today.”  Others around her nod in concurrence.  I nod, too.  More boo.  Gene has to quiet them down so Lance can speak.  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.  What’s wrong with this?  Isn’t this natural.  Like it’s been going on for centuries… and now like that it’s in a new form of technology it’s the worst thing ever?  Like how is giving _______ sexist?  And how is texting about it the end of civilization?”  More hissing and boos.  Gene shakes her head.

            On my second cup of coffee I watch Shopping Smart with Jim and Sue.  Most shows consist of four to five items based around a theme, and the couple review and encourage viewers to purchase said goods.  This episode’s theme is “Making Life Easier.”  The first item is an egg holder.  “Now, I know what you’re going to say,” Sue addresses Jim enthusiastically.  “You do?” Jim says with the same energy.  “Yes.  You’re going to tell me this is just three spoons attached to one another.”  “Well…” he smiles.  “It does look like that to me.”  “Well, you’d be right.”  They share a laugh.  “But its also about how efficient an instrument it is,” she continues.  “This utility is extremely effective at what it was designed for.”  “And it is so sleek-looking.”  “That’s exactly what I was going to say, Jim!”  Sue pats him on the stomach.  He doubles over.  They laugh.  “Stole the words right out of my mouth.  Again.”  The next item is a cup with a niche at the bottom for one to store cookies, crumpets, coasters, etc. etc. Looking down at my mug I contemplate picking up the phone and ordering one.  I decide against it.  Jim and Sue also show me a banana case, a one-size-fits-all plastic container for the owner to stick his or her banana in and protect it from “damage from outside forces;” a day clock that shows the day of the week “so that you never get confused.”  “Jim’s always confused about those things.”  “Sue.  I thought I told you I didn’t like to talk about that!”  They laugh.  I like watching the show mostly because Jim and Sue make me smile.  An enthusiastic optimism about them: that’s the good thing about the two.  Sometimes they have good deals.  Like the last item: a penguin tea timer.  I end up placing an order for one—paying for it in six easy installments of $6.95 plus tax and shipping and handling.  Belle will like this.  I know.  She likes tea.  She also likes penguins.  I remember when we went to the fair once, and I won her a stuffed penguin.  Pinky the Penguin was his name, even though he was a regular tuxedo rock-hopper penguin.  She loved him, went everywhere with him.  Not sure what happened to him, but I’m sure she’ll enjoy the tea timer.

            After my second cup of hazelnut brew I have my morning bowel movement.  These are important.  More than following the routine, having multiple movements in one day is the sign of a well-functioning digestive system.  I pride myself on mine.

            At noon I am to be in Dr. Hague’s office.  Exiting the bathroom, I enter my bedroom and remove my morning robe.  I have a routine when I dress myself.  First, I place my robe back in the closet next to my evening robe and smoking jacket—the latter I have not worn in quite some time.  Opening the top left drawer of my dresser I select my socks.  Since I plan on going for a walk down to the park, I choose a sportier sock.  Sitting on the edge of my bed I put my socks on—left, then right.  In the drawer just beneath my socks are neatly folded white T-shirts.  I put one on.  Then I select a pair of slacks from the bottom drawer of my dresser.  Again, sitting on the edge of my bed I put them on—again left, then right.  I do not inspect the fit of my slacks just yet.  I tuck my T-shirt into my slacks, zip and button.  In my walk-in closet is a selection of belts.  My socks are grey-tipped high-cut whites, and slacks an off-khaki.  Black seems the safest bet, so I grab one of my many black belts off the holder in the closet and apply it to my person.  Now at this point I do not buckle my belt.  Instead, I unbutton and unzip my slacks and select a shirt to wear.  I choose a white button-up with no breast pocket.  Halfway through buttoning up the white shirt I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, have second thoughts, and decide to go with a light blue button-up with a breast pocket.  I zip, button, and finally buckle my belt—fastening it tightly around my waistline.  In the faux-foyer of my ranch-themed house I finish the rest of my wardrobe.  Shoes from Sketchers the doctor suggested I try for my lower-back problems.  And finally I put on my light spring jacket—the one with two inside pockets and flaps to cover the outside ones.  Fully dressed, I grab my keys from the bowl on the kitchen counter—next to my wallet and my prescription Zaroxolyn—and head out for the park.

            The ground is finally beginning to soften as winter makes its swan song.  I can smell the melted ice and thawing earth as I walk.  A block ahead some children play in the front yard.  Witnessing children outside makes me smile.  I remember when Belle was that age, playing with the neighbors back on Romaine Street.  She drew pictures of her dream house with a purple sun and green clouds, and Willy—Bo and Cheryl’s son from 403—would come over and pretend to be the husband.  Meryl fed them apple slices with her own homemade caramel, and lemonade.  Belle and the sisters, Nancy and Emily, from down the street rolled down the hill behind our house.  A huge man-made hill, left over from a failed building project.  The money dried up and this gigantic mound of dirt remained.  Slowly the grass began to grow there and after a year and a half no one could tell it was not a natural formation.  She loved that hill.  All the kids did.  Run up and down that hill all day and night.  Spring, summer, fall, winter, always playing on that hill.  Getting dirt all over their clothes.  Making the wives upset.  All on Romaine Street.  I used to take long walks back then, too, though for different reasons than now.  A lot is.  The children lower their voices as I pass by, careful not to make eye contact with me.  This troubles me.  All I want is for one of them to look up at me and notice me—just one glance.  The three girls talk about what type of drink they would like poured from the lone magical teapot.  One wants tea, the other coffee, the other milk.  The little boy and girl making drawings on the sidewalk talk about what colors they like best.  The girl: yellow.  The boy: orange.  He is making a spaceship, she a flowerbed.  Our paths will cross and one will have to look up at me.  Just one look is all I need.  To be noticed.  But the moment comes and goes.  They keep talking, and pouring, and drawing, and ignoring.  And I pass them by.  Only two blocks until I arrive at the park.  The light jacket I wore may have been not enough.  When the wind blows it passes right through me.  My arms fix closely to my body for warmth.  Clouds pass over the sun and the neighborhood turns a hue of grey-blue.  I zip my jacket the rest of the way and put my hands in the exterior pockets.

            I like to sit at the bench by the swings, overlooking the pond.  From there, I watch the water and the surroundings.  A willow hangs over the edge of the pond.  The way the branch bends gives the illusion the tree is reaching out to touch its reflection in the water.  Reaching out toward another world.  Occasionally, I will find young couples lounging underneath the tree.  My first kiss was underneath a willow.  Yves Moore.  Her mother was an immigrant from France, her father from the city.  Both strict Catholics, and with my brother and I sharing the same room there was no place for privacy.  Behind the school we both attended was a large field and a creek that ran through it.  At a particular break in the creek was a willow where many of the students went to show their affection.  “I don’t want you to think I’m bad at this.  I’ve never kissed anyone before.”  “Neither have I.”  A moment so innocent and brief by most accounts should be forgotten in the course of one’s life, but for whatever reason I never have.  Mallards like to rear their offspring in this pond.  Watching the younglings imitate the mother as she dips under the water for food, the way the water forms and falls off her back, is worth the walk itself.  But today there are no lovers, or mallards.  I simply sit and watch the placid water of the pond.  Then I feel a presence coming.  When I look down, a small dog stands before me.  I look around to see if its owner approaches.  No one.  “Well hey there little fella, where’s your owner?”  The dog, a mutt by the look of it—some mix of terrier and pinscher—sits in front of me, cocking its head to the side.  I look around again for someone, but I am alone.  “Well… looks like you and I are in the same boat, huh?  You come to look at the pond, too, huh?”  The dog looks to where I point.  “It’s good to do things like this.  Stare out at a pond and take it all in.  A simplicity to it, a purity.  It’s refreshing, really.”  I look down at the dog.  It continues to stare at me, shifting its head side to side.  I check the time.  “Oh boy, look at that.  I got to get back to the house.  I have a meeting with the doctor.  You wouldn’t know about that, though, would you?”  It just stares.  “Thought so.”  I get up from the bench.  The dog stands.  “You’re lucky, you know.  I envy you.”  As I start to leave the dog follows.  It trails far enough behind I cannot hear it, but I know its there.  When I turn around it stops.  “You go on home, buddy.  OK?  You go home now.  Someone’s probably looking for you.  Go home.”  I turn and continue.  I now hear the dog’s paws on the pavement in the distance until I reach the edge of the park.  The patter of nails on the concrete stops—I look back to see where it has gone.  Next to the sign welcoming visitors to the park, the mutt sits and watches me.  “OK.  Good-bye then.”

            Sitting on the cold wax paper in the examination room while the doctor looks at my results, I focus on a picture of a house: colonial design with two chimneys and six pillars holding up the small portico.  This is a commercial painting.  I see many of these hanging in a gallery in the town square.  Similar paintings are put up in dentist offices, banks, real estate offices, in the homes around where I live.  The purpose is to promote a sense of calm and passivity.  Tranquility.  Serenity.  Sanctuary.  Safety.  Make me feel like I want to be there, walking on the hardwood floors, and looking at the china in the cabinet, or inspecting the marble kitchen top and industrial refrigerator.  Get away and go live in there.  And on most visits, I do.  I picture myself sitting a lacquered red oak table reading the morning paper.  Meryl is there.  She makes those cinnamon waffles.  Belle is there, too.  She’s young again, explaining to me the plot of a story she has created.  Mr. Frog and Carrot are friends because Mr. Frog doesn’t want to eat her.  And Meryl smiles like I remember it always—all within that colonial house.  A place and time I can escape to whenever I need.  But today, for this visit, I cannot seem to focus like usual.  I stare at the painting, but no thoughts come to mind.  I just stare and see my reflection in the glass the colonial is encased in.  “All signs look good, Mr. Dale,” Dr. Hague tells me.  A man in his early forties, male pattern baldness beginning to show, the doctor often smells of department store cologne and medical supplies.  A smell I appreciate.  “Well, that’s a relief,” I smile.  “Yes.  You have nothing to worry about.  It looks like those walks have been doing you much good.”  “Yes.  Yes that’s true.  I feel a lot better.”  “That’s good.  OK.  So I will see you in a few weeks, right, Mr. Dale?”  As I start to put my clothes back on.  “Oh yes, Doctor, you bet.  I’ll be back again.”  “All right.  Sounds good.  Keep doing what you’re doing.  We’re making great progress.”

            Around 2:45 the bus comes to drop my granddaughter, Jamie, off.  “Hehlo, Pappa!” she says as she watches her feet proceed in front.  “Hello, pumpkin,” I pat her on the head.  “How was your day?” I ask, grabbing her tiny hand.  “Good.  We made colors books and I made a green unacawn and pink kitty and Missus Bround said I did good.”  “She did, did she?”  “Yep.”  “Well that’s just wonderful, darling.  I’m so pleased to hear that.  Mrs. Brown seems to always laud you, doesn’t she?”  “What’s loud?”  “Laud, honey.  Praise.  Mrs. Brown really likes to say good things about you, doesn’t she?”  “Uhm-hmm…” she watches her feet go from grass to sidewalk.  “What would you like to eat before Mommy gets here?”  I already know the answer.  Cookies and ice cream. 

“I dunno.” 

“Oh, you don’t?” 

“Mmm-mmm.”

“Usually you tell me cookies and ice cream.”

“…”

“Well I’m glad you don’t want that today.  I’m going to make you a ham sandwich.  And if you eat all of it, I may have some ice cream for you.  Does that sound good?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she nods.

“Good.”

            While we wait for Belle to come, I put in my favorite movie—To The End.  It is a romantic film from the fifties.  Black and white.  No matter how many times I watch it never ceases to move me—especially the final moment shared between the lovers.  In the scene, Cary Grant’s character, Robert James, sits a broken and dejected man.  He has single-handedly brought about his own ruin and his wife, Helen, played by the beautiful Katherine Hepburn has come back to him one last time.  In the apical moment, Helen pleads with Robert: “If you care.  If you have any feelings left for me whatsoever you’ll tell me right now.  Tell me anything, Robert.  I beg you.  Tell me you hate me, tell me you love me, tell me you don’t want me to go.  Just tell me.  Tell me, Robert.  I don’t care about anything anymore.  I just want you to tell me something.  I can’t take this silence anymore.  I don’t want to have this between us anymore, Robert.  I beg you.  Please.  Tell me something.”  Robert sits in his chair, looking out at the world or his own reflection I have never been able to tell which.  His physiognomy is undecipherable, his equanimity unbreakable.  In a final act of desperation, Helen falls to her knees before Robert.  “Just look at me, Robert.  Please.  Just let me know you care.  Just one sign that you want me to stay, please, Robert, I want to be with you.  I don’t care about anything else.  Just give me something.  Show me.”  Robert remains still.

“Pappa?” Jamie asks.  Her crayons and white paper scattered all around her on the floor.  She presses the violet hard into the coloring book’s page.

“Yes, lovely?”

“Why do you watch this all da time?”

“Because it’s a great movie.  Don’t you like it?”

“It’s so sad.”

I laugh.  “Yes, sweetie.  I suppose you are right.  I keep watching with the hope that one time, he will turn and she’ll know and everything will be better.  I keep waiting for it.  Maybe this time it will happen.”

“No.  Is a movie.  It always does this.”

“Maybe this time he will look.”

            But she is right.  No matter how often I watch, and wish, Robert never turns to look—not even to see her leave.  “I love you, Robert.  Don’t you ever forget.  You come find me, Robert.  When you’re ready.  I’ll be waiting.”  As she closes the door behind her, the music crescendos, the orchestra hits those minor notes and the camera focuses on Robert’s face.  A close-up.  His visage still stoical, attention elsewhere, but slowly a single tear forms and begins to fall down his face as the music dies.  And then the credits come.  The End.  My heart beats flushed with ardor, I tear up.  “It’s so beautiful,” I say, wiping my eyes with a tissue. 

“Kissy-kissy movies are gross.”

I laugh.  “They are?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t like any boys at your school?”

Jamie does not answer at first.  That smile little girls are vouchsafed with forms.  “No…”

“Is that a yes?”

“No.”

A thought enters my head.  I recall the morning with Gene Almann.  “Honey… you don’t know how to text message, do you?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“You do?”

“Mmm-hmm.  Mommy lets me.”

“She let’s you?”

“All da time,” she says enthusiastically.

“Oh my…”

The doorbell rings.  Jamie leaps to her feet. 

“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!”

I stand from the couch, following my granddaughter.  The doorbell rings again.

“Okay, okay.  I’m coming, hold on.”  I look in the peephole.  Belle waits on the other side.

Opening the door.  “Hello, Belle.”

“Mommy!” Jamie embraces her mother.

“Hi, Jamie!  How was your day at school?”

“Good.  I did drawrings and glued, and played with Maggie and Olivia.”

“That sounds great.  Go get your things and you can tell me about the rest on the way home.”

“Okay!”

My daughter stands before me.  She rests against the doorframe, exhaling.

“What a day.”

“An hour later than usual, Belle,” I say.

“Yeah, I know, Dad.  I’m sorry about that.  It’s just I had a chance to make some overtime money and so I took it.  She wasn’t too much trouble, was she?”

“You know she wasn’t any trouble.  But I’m just a little worried about you.  You know if things are tough… I want to help.”

“You’re doing enough.”

“You’ve been coming later and later, Belle.  This is the seventh consecutive school day now.  I’ve been counting.  And you never call to let me know.  You should at least call me and let me know.  I worry.”

“I know, Dad.  I’m sorry.  It’s just… I’ve just got a lot to deal with right now…”

“I understand.  But Belle…” I hesitate.

She watches me.

“I can’t help but suspect… that… you are not being entirely honest with me.”  It hurts to say it.  I feel gutted as the words come almost involuntarily.

“Dad,” she moans.  “What are you talking about?”

“I just worry that you may not be working as late as you say.  Normally I would not judge, but… if this is some sort of retrograding… Belle… I cannot support that.  You have a responsibility to Jamie now and—”

“Are you kidding me?” she interrupts, chuckling at my last remark.  “Unbelieveable.”

“You have a responsibility now.”

“Responsibility?  You want to talk to me about responsibility, being a responsible parent?  You want to give me parenting advice?  Dad.  No offence, but you were never ‘Father of the Year’ material.”

“As wrong as I may have been back then, I am still your father, and the grandfather of Jamie, and I care deeply for both of you.  I want to take care of you.”

“That’s great, Dad.  Great.  Better late than never, I guess.”

Belle calls out for Jamie.  I know I should let the thought pass.  I know it is a silly thing to ask, and I have already tested my daughter enough for one day.  But I have to know.

“Belle, is Jamie… sexting?”

“What?” she looks bemused.

“I saw it on Gene Almann today.  Apparently all the youth is getting involved in this.”

“Dad.”  Belle crosses her arms.  She juts her chin out slightly as she looks up at me in disapproving shock.  “She’s five.”

“I don’t know.”

“That she’s five?  Come on.”

“I’m just worried.”

“She can’t even spell.”

“Well that’s good to know.”

“Jesus.”

“She told me you let her text.  On your phone.”

“She plays little games on my phone.”

“You can do that?”

“Dad,” she looks at me, hiding her face in her hands momentarily.  Belle is tired.  I may have done it again.  “I’d love to stick around and tell you all about the advancements in modern technology, but I got to go.”  She calls out for Jaime, who skips her way in.  Her backpack half zipped, the coloring book hanging out and a clustered trail of crayons behind her.  Belle sighs.

“I’ll get them.”

“Honey, how many times have I told you to zip up,”—her mother shows her again—“your backpack before you put it on?”

“Saury, Mommy.”

“Here you go, kiddo,” I go to hand Jamie the crayons.

“I’ll take those,” Belle opens her purse.  “Jamie, get in the car.”

“Yes, Mommy.”  My granddaughter hops away.

“Say bye to your Pappa,” my daughter instructs.

“Bye-bye, Pappa!” Jaime waves.

“Good-bye, sweetheart.  I’ll pick you up same time tomorrow.”  I missed the hug.  The thought to request one comes and goes.  I open my arms for my daughter.  “Good-bye, honey.”

“See you tomorrow, Dad.” 

She provides a curt embrace.

I say my final good nights and good-byes and head back to watch my movie again, where I hope to see Robert turn and tell Helen he loves her.