Learning to See Page 7

  I nodded in relief, dropping to our mohair sofa as she began a running commentary on the party. My earlier sense of anticipation and excitement faded. A shaky sense of disquiet settled over me. When we had danced, he had tapped his fingers up and down my lower back to the rhythm of the piano, making me giggle and push into him to stop. He’d acted so happy to have me near, to claim me as his own. So why had he just left so abruptly again? Why did our evenings always end so oddly?

  I was still pondering that same question two days later as I stood within spitting distance of his studio. Exactly what game was this man playing?

  “Aww, for Pete’s sake. Enough is enough,” I said aloud, eliciting a startled glance from a woman carrying a handful of shopping bags.

  I pushed my pocketbook onto my shoulder and snaked through the traffic to reach his building. According to a list next to the front door, Maynard’s studio was on the second floor. I stepped around several empty wine bottles flanking the entrance, opened the heavy black door, climbed a flight of stairs, and searched the numbers along the long, musty hallway. I found Maynard’s studio. A horseshoe nailed into place above the door marked the spot. I knocked. He called out to enter, so I went inside to find him sitting at a table with Roi playing cards.

  “Dorothea!” Roi scrambled to his feet.

  “Welcome to the Monkey Block,” said Maynard, pulling out a chair for me. I raised my eyebrows and he added, “That’s what we call this delightful place.”

  “Delightful, huh? If you say so.” I waved at them both to sit. “You boys working hard?”

  Maynard spun his chair around. Straddling it, he ashed his cigarette into a small earthenware pot. Paintbrushes littered their game of poker. Striped Mexican saddle blankets in crimson, gold, green, and turquoise covered a couch under the windows along a wall. Piles of finished paintings filled the studio. They leaned against chairs, a table, the walls, anything stationary. A shadowbox of arrowheads and a bleached cow skull hung on the wall over his desk. I pointed to an arrangement of circular frames on the opposite wall. Feathers of different sizes and colors hung from them. “What are those?”

  “You don’t know what a dream catcher is? Kid, I need to get you out of the city.” His eyes brightened.

  I moved toward a shelf, pretending to admire a cluster of several baskets and three ceramic coiled pots while I hid a smile. He wanted to take me places.

  “You like those? They’re Hopi, a tribe of Indians in Arizona,” Maynard explained, pointing at the row of pots.

  I nodded and looked at the two men sitting at the table. “So, what kinda trouble are you both cooking up?”

  “We’re about to get started on a project together. A mural for the agency Roi works for. And hey, he and Imogen are having a party this Thursday. You free?”

  “Well, it’s not exactly a party,” Roi said, scratching his scalp, looking back and forth at us.

  “You always say that but then half of Oakland shows up.” Maynard lifted his cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled a smoke ring before nodding his chin at me. “So, what do you think? Should we go?”

  “It’s really nothing. You may not want . . .” Roi’s voice trailed off. He shifted his weight from side to side.

  Maynard gave him an amused shake of his head and looked back to me. “Well?”

  My throat tightened over his earlier use of we. It was so confident, said with such ease. I’d been wearing anxiety around my shoulders like a stole for the last couple of days, but it dropped as his familiar scent of leaves and bark wafted toward me on the smoke from his cigarette. I reached for one he’d left perched on the rim on his ashtray, picked it up, and took a drag, only to find the dry mixture tasted like kindling and left me choking.

  Maynard laughed and patted my back as I spluttered. “Easy there, that’s not a Lucky, it’s kinnikinnick, a special blend that the Indians smoke.”

  “A blend of what? Woodpile?” I asked, picking pieces of tobacco off my tongue.

  “Something like that. Now how about that party?”

  I coughed a final time. “I suppose so.”

  Maynard wrapped an arm around my shoulder and shook his head in mock sorrow. “She supposes so. I tell you, this gal plays hard to get.” He leaned close and reached out to trace a finger tenderly along my cheek, before straightening and saying, “Okay, kid, now I’ve gotta get some work done. I’m going to be swamped all week to hit the agency’s deadline, but I’ll swing by your studio on Thursday afternoon so we can head to the ferry together.”

  Before turning toward the door, I paused, wanting to talk to Maynard alone for a moment, but the men were already sketching on a large sheet of paper hanging on the wall. I let myself out and stood in the building’s hallway, annoyed I hadn’t managed to speak my mind. Then I raised my hand to where he had just touched my cheek. Maynard had been eager to see me, keen to invite me to a party. He wanted to take me on a trip. He was charming, funny, a little bit reckless. Could he be the one for me? What was I so worried about?

  That night I dreamed I was running across a field. Nimble and limber, exhilaration filled me as I ran faster and faster, the long grass beneath me growing blurrier and blurrier. I ran for no other reason than the joy of freedom. I awoke with a start, my feet still wheeling under the blankets. I grew still and then rubbed at the tears stinging my eyes. That damn dream again. I’d been having it on and off for years. I hated it. I hated remembering I once had two perfect feet and legs, only to awaken and realize my imperfections.

  FOUR NIGHTS LATER, we arrived at Roi and Imogen’s to find the small bungalow stuffed with people, many of whom I’d met before at other parties. As Maynard guided me into the front room, I saw Imogen carrying a tray of drinks in from the kitchen. At the sight of the two of us, her mouth pressed into a thin line. Ansel Adams, a photographer friend of Imogen’s, clapped Maynard on the back, and I lost sight of her as Anne Brigman, another photographer I’d gotten to know through Camera Club meetings, closed in on me for a merry embrace. I stood in a small circle talking to Anne and some others, when I felt a tug on my elbow. I turned to find Imogen glaring at me. “Dorothea, I need to speak with you outside.”

  Warily, I excused myself and followed her to the dark backyard. The white flicker of moth wings danced around us like snowflakes. I shivered in the damp evening air. Inside the house someone—probably Ansel Adams—started banging away on the piano. Loud voices and laughter spilled from the doorway behind us. “How do the boys sleep through all this?” I asked.

  She waved off my question and turned to me. Her pale face glowed light blue in the darkness, as if underwater. “Roi says you and Maynard are thick as thieves all of a sudden.”

  I shrugged, annoyed to be dragged outside for a scolding. Inside, people started singing. “Ansel’s such a show-off on the piano,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “Well, what’s going on with you two?”

  “Ansel and me?”

  “No, you and Maynard.”

  “Search me. Nothing, really.”

  She let out an exasperated chuff of air. “He’s trouble. First of all, he’s old enough to be your father.”

  I winced at the mention of my father.

  She noticed my reaction and continued, louder and faster, “He’s forty-five! What are you now: twenty-three, twenty-four? Why, he’s got about twenty years on you.”

  Twenty years? I hadn’t realized he was that much older but feigned nonchalance. “It’s nothing.”

  “Is that really what you think? What do you know about him? Has he told you about Lillian?”

  “Lillian?” I repeated, my heart hammering in my chest.

  “Yes, his first wife, Lillian. Did he tell you about her? How they fought? How they drank like fish? Had affairs? How she’s been institutionalized?” A faint thread of spittle landed on Imogen’s chin. With every question, her voice became more strident and agitated. “How about Constance? Has he mentioned abandoning his ten-year-old daughter in a boarding school all the
way across the country?”

  Imogen may as well have punched me in the gut. I raised my hands to cover my eyes. Her voice softened. “He hasn’t told you any of this?”

  I took a deep breath, trying to steady the shaking that had started in my knees but was now working its way upward to my voice. “No.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said in a low tone, looking at the ground.

  “Are you?”

  Her face snapped up in confusion. “Of course I am. I’m angry he’s led you on.”

  “It doesn’t seem like you’re angry. In fact, it feels like this is awfully satisfying for you.”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  Blood roared in my ears as I glared at her, and I could feel my entire body trembling. “You’re always giving me a rough time about running a business instead of . . .” I paused. What exactly did Imogen think I should be doing? “You have no respect for my work.”

  She stepped forward, raising her hand. “Stop right there. I respect what you do. It’s just that I worry about you. You’re so driven to make money that you’re not taking enough chances to cultivate your talent. And now you’ve taken up with Maynard? It’s all a distraction from the art you could be producing. Come to Camera Club more. Be a part of the community of artists that we’re building.”

  “Ugh, I’m sick of talking about Camera Club. I’m working like a madwoman to build something of my own. And now you’re giving me grief about the one bit of fun I’ve allowed myself?”

  She spread her hands in surrender. “Fine. You’re right, I’ve overstepped. But be careful. He will bring heartbreak.”

  I spun back toward the house, trying to stave off the tears stinging my eyes, and flung open the back door, keeping my gaze trained to the ground as I pushed my way back into the party. Maynard’s laugh rose over the din, so I followed it to the front porch, where he stood outside, smoking with a circle of men. The group fell silent as I clattered into their midst. “Maynard, I’m leaving.”

  I expected him to try to convince me to stay, but he said nothing. His smile faded. A seriousness settled into his eyes. Keeping his gaze on me, he said, “Hey, Ansel, can you give us a lift to the ferry?”

  Ansel agreed and led us down to his black motorcar parked along the street, gleaming in the reflected lights from the house’s windows. The three of us climbed inside. As we sped along the quiet streets, Ansel rattled on about a recent trip down to Yosemite, but Maynard, sitting next to him in the front seat, only grunted occasional replies. When we arrived at the ferry terminal, I threw open the door and hopped out before anyone could say anything. I headed straight for the ticket window gleaming brightly in the darkness. The car roared away behind me but I didn’t look back. Instead I purchased my entry and hustled aboard, pushing my right foot forward with each step despite its aching. I needed to get as far away from Maynard as possible. I reached the bow of the boat and stopped. Fog obscured San Francisco’s bright lights, but I knew they were out there ahead of us. While breathing in the brackish salt air, I leaned against the railing over the inky dark water and felt the rumble of the boat’s engine deep below me. I wished I’d never laid eyes on Maynard Dixon.

  Meeting him had changed everything. Ever since he’d first strolled into my studio I’d felt undone. I’d hungered for him and suspended the guardedness I’d been holding close to my chest for years. But now with Imogen’s revelations, it felt as though all of my hopes had sunk deep underwater, fathoms away. All of Maynard’s charisma, his attention, it was an illusion. How had I allowed myself to believe that a man like him felt anything genuine for someone like me?

  A voice from behind me interrupted my thoughts. “What did Imogen tell you?”

  I refused to look back. I folded my shoulders inward as if I could protect my heart from him. “Enough.”

  A heavy sigh. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? You’re sorry?” I turned to face him. “I’ve been so confused trying to make sense of you and now I learn about—” My voice broke, and I swung back toward the water. There was no chance I’d let him see how badly he’d hurt me. I’d wanted—no—I had needed to believe in him. Swaying back and forth with the boat’s lumbering movement, I refused to look at him again. The city drew near, its lights glimmering. I sighed, hollowed out and empty with disappointment. I’d been so desperate to think he was the one for me.

  When the boat bumped into its slip, I turned. Maynard lingered a few feet away watching me. I looked away quickly, but he said, “Let me walk you home.”

  I gave a brief nod. We plodded through downtown and up Nob Hill, side by side, saying nothing. When we reached the final block and my apartment loomed in the distance, he stopped. I kept walking, but he grabbed my arm and said, “Listen, I’m sorry. I should have said something earlier, but I just couldn’t bring myself to disrupt what was happening between us.”

  I laughed bitterly. “It’s obvious now that nothing was happening.”

  “Nothing? How can you say that?”

  I pulled my sleeve out of his grip. “Yes. You have a wife, a daughter. What have I been? A diversion?”

  “For Chrissake, Dorrie. It’s been nothing like that. First of all, that marriage is over. And from the moment I first saw you sitting on the floor of your studio, you’re all I’ve been able to think about.” He stepped closer, scrutinizing my face. “Your green eyes. Your mysterious smile. Your discipline. Jesus, you work more than anyone I’ve ever met. And you don’t give a rat’s ass about what anyone thinks of you. You have your own way of doing things and everyone else can be damned.”

  He looked at me for a response, but I felt frozen, trying to make heads or tails out of what he was saying. I mumbled, “That’s got to be the first time a man’s ever used the words rat’s ass in an apology.”

  “See? Just like that.” He pointed at me, grinning, and looked around as if we were surrounded by an audience. “You never give an inch.” He kept talking, continuing his apology, but then stopped and pushed his cowboy hat back momentarily to rub his forehead. He looked both dazed and sad. Gone was the showmanship from Fronsie’s engagement party. Gone was the cowboy who had grabbed me to his chest to dance in my studio. Without quite knowing what I was doing, I reached out and took his hands in mine. I raised them to my cheeks, still cool from the damp of the ferry ride. Without a word, I pressed my head into his firm chest. He cupped my chin in his fingers and tilted my face to kiss me. With his mouth upon mine, desire filled me. A cold wind raced along the block, its teeth nipping at us, but it did nothing to chill my craving for him. Yet he pulled himself off me. We both tottered the final few steps to my building. Once we reached the door, I knotted my fingers into his and didn’t let go. Tugging him inside the stairwell, we crept up each step breathlessly. Exhilaration flashed through every nerve of my body. Face flushed, hair tangled, I knew if I passed a mirror, I wouldn’t recognize the reckless woman possessing me.

  In my dark tiny sitting room, our footsteps echoed. It was still early and Fronsie was out somewhere with Jack and wouldn’t be home for a couple more hours. I led Maynard straight through to the small bedroom I shared with Fron. My heady sense of daring wavered a little at the sight of the two twin beds, each lining opposite sides of the room primly, chenille bedspreads smoothed over hard mattresses. Before I lost my nerve, I faced away from him, slid my jacket off, and offered my back so he could unbutton my dress. Instead he placed his hands on my shoulders and gently turned me. With his hands on both sides of my face, he looked, really looked, into my eyes—I swear, he looked right into me. My brain couldn’t string words together, my lungs couldn’t fill, my stomach felt full of fireworks. All movement stopped and we stared at each other. He lowered me onto the edge of the bed. Kneeling, he removed my shoes. A flash of panic came over me—my practical black Mary Janes. Surely they’d knock some sense into him; he’d stop this and leave me forever. My wretched foot ruined everything!

  But he didn’t pull away.

  His face hove
red mere inches from my mangled right foot. I tried to wriggle out of his grip, but before I could protest, he had it tenderly in his grasp and bent to kiss it. And then, my foot was on fire. He continued to kiss along my ankle and up the inside of my withered calf. My whole body quivered. He rubbed gently up my leg to the inside of my thigh. The floor seemed to be collapsing and it felt like I was falling, falling, falling. But I wasn’t, not really. With his hand still between my legs, I was exactly where I wanted to be. A lump rose in my throat, my eyes stung with tears of joy, of relief . . . of everything. What had I been worried about? He slid up to the bed beside me and kissed my neck. It tickled and I laughed. While we lowered our heads to my pillow, every fear I’d ever had slid away.

  Chapter 10

  Two months later, Maynard and I spent a few days in a rustic cabin, once part of a miner’s camp, nestled on a ridge near Sonoma. Those February nights were chilly. Mornings started crisp, but then the sun would emerge. Clearings warmed, the woods remained cool. A short hike downhill took us to a feeder river where Maynard caught trout for our dinners. If we headed uphill, a panoramic view rumpled with hills and valleys opened below us. It was there, on that hillside, that Maynard spent most of his time sketching landscape studies as I wandered, looking for interesting shapes and textures to photograph. Towering redwoods, abandoned mining shacks, the reticulated veins in wild cabbages—I photographed it all. More than anything, I loved coming upon Maynard perched on a fallen tree trunk, one of his smokes in hand, intent on his sketchpad, his head occasionally bobbing up to take in the vista. Somehow he’d reduce everything he saw to its most elemental shapes, to angular, simple expressions of space. Eventually he’d drop his sketchbook to tackle me in the long grass, eager to nibble on the tops of my ears where the sun had burned them as pink as raspberries, my fair skin the curse of my German blood.