Michelangelo's Shoulder Part 1

Michelangelo's Shoulder.

by John Moncure Wetterau.

It dawned hot in Georgia. Don rubbed his head and blinked. He got out of bed and paused before a makeshift easel where a drawing, taped to a board, showed a woman sitting on a park bench. She was large, dressed in layers of multi-colored cotton. She reminded him of the Renoir woman in her plush living room, the dog sprawled at her feet, but she was smarter. The line across her eyebrows and tapering along her jaw was right. He'd left out a lot, but that didn't matter. If what was there was true enough, you knew the rest--like a Michelangelo shoulder emerging from stone.

He went into the bathroom and splashed water on his face.

After coffee and a piece of toast, he rolled the drawing and took it to the park where the woman fed pigeons every day. She wasn't there. She wasn't there the next day, either. The following day Don brought a loaf of bread, sat on her bench, and tossed white pellets into the air.

Birds fought for each piece. He prepared the remaining bread and scattered it in one throw. "There you go--something for everybody.

She'll be back soon."

A week later, she showed up. Don moved aside and asked, "Where you been?"

"Took sick."

"I've been feeding the pigeons."

"I was worrying. Thank you."

"I did a drawing of you. I wanted to name it, but--I didn't know your name."

"Ruby."

"Ruby, ah. I'm Don. You want to see it? I'll bring it tomorrow."

"Sure."

"O.K. How you feeling?"

"Better, now."

"Good." He walked to his usual bench and sat down. The sun beat on the live oak trees and sage-green strings of Spanish moss while the birds made happy sounds in front of Ruby. She had lost weight, he thought, but it was hard to tell, the way she dressed. She was a beauty once. He remembered his bloodshot eyes in the bathroom mirror. None of us getting any younger. He would give her the drawing in the morning and take off. It was time to leave Savannah, past time. Head for Portland again. Look up Lorna.

Lorna. The Art Students League. It seemed like last week that she was looking carefully into his eyes and shaking his hand, curious and unafraid, different from him in many ways, but similar in that.

Painter's eyes, he thought, clear and unblinking. Couldn't tell how good she was, though--eyes are one thing; talent is another. And hard work is another.

She lived in a studio behind her parents' house on a mountain road--what was it called?--the Glasco Turnpike. Her father, Lad Charles, was a painter, a friendly guy who wore bow ties and was well liked in town. Lorna was protected, highly educated, out of reach for Don Delahanty.

He was blocky. She was slim. His neck was thick and turned with his body; her neck was graceful and turned by itself. His eyes were a slatey blue--the color of the sea on a cloudy day. Hers were almond with flecks of green. He was fair skinned. Lorna was tanned. His hair was sand colored, prematurely grizzled. Hers was light brown, sun streaked, thick, and cut short--perfect for small gold earrings. She brought with her the smell of spring. He smelled like upstate New York--dirt, dairy farms, and industrial towns. She was kind. They both were, although he had a bitter streak that dragged at him.

The pigeons took off in a sudden rush, flapping and swerving around the trees. Don stood and walked slowly across the square. "So long, Ruby."

"Be good, now," she said.

You can survive unloved, but you can't make it without loving somebody--or something. Ruby loved her birds. And who knows who else?

He loved Lorna. Lorna loved Pike, or used to, and Molly, their daughter. Molly herself would be falling in love any time now, if she weren't already. Round and round we go, getting the job done. Except he hadn't gotten the job done, not unless you counted the paintings as kids. Not a happy train of thought. p.i.s.s on it, he'd have a waffle at Cleary's. Tide him over until the big feed.

On Thursdays they had the big feed, he and Riles and Kai. Thursdays, because weekends were unpredictable. He walked the six blocks to Cleary's, just around the corner from the house--Riles's house, Kai's house--he couldn't call it home exactly, although he'd spent more winters than he cared to remember in the bas.e.m.e.nt studio reserved for caretakers or indigent relatives. He was a little of each--an old friend of Riles and useful around the place, watching the gallery several times a week and doing the framing jobs that came along.

The Cleary's waitresses were wearing _Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil_ T-shirts. Not a bad image, from the cover of the best seller, but it annoyed him to see his friends wearing advertis.e.m.e.nts.

"Pecan waffle, Don?"

"Yes, Ma'm--for my strength. It's that time again. I'm going north."

"Take me with you."

"Can't afford you."

"Next year," she suggested.

"Do my best," Don said. "Something to live for. There's not much up there, Jilly, just Yankees, shivering and eating beans."

"I could stand the shivering. Want some grits?"

"Read my mind," Don said.

He ate slowly, drank an extra cup of coffee, left a big tip, and got on with packing. By c.o.c.ktail hour he had cleaned his room and stashed his belongings in a footlocker and a duffel bag. The easel and the painting gear stayed, part of the decor. He packed his best brushes, his watercolors, and a block of good paper. There was no limit to the number of lighthouse and/or lobster boat paintings he could sell, if they were cheap enough. The portraits and the figures were different.

Drawn or done fully in oils, they were given away, or nearly. It was hard to put a price on them.

"How well you look, Don," Kai said.

"Thank you. I'm having my annual burst of optimism. Did Riles tell you that I'm off to Maine tomorrow?"

"Riles never tells me anything."

"Mother, really!" Riles appeared and put an arm around her shoulders.

They were handsome together, short and dark with identical flashing smiles. Riles's hairline had receded considerably, and Kai's hair had long ago turned a tarnished silver, but they both were slim and upright and moved with a lack of effort that made Don feel as though he were dragging a wagon behind him. "I only just found out. Don is secretive, you know."

"Don is not good at planning," Don said.

"We must count on the turning of the seasons, Mother, the great migrations, to bring him back to Sherman's Retreat."

"He is not a goose, Dear." She turned to Don. "The sooner you come back, the better."

"Honk," Don said, embarra.s.sed, and added, "if you love Jesus."

"I think this calls for a Riles Blaster. Don? Mother?"

Riles Blasters were made from light rum, Grand Marnier, lime juice, and other secret ingredients combined with ice and served, after great roaring from the blender, in sweating silver tumblers. Riles claimed that they prolonged life by rendering stress inoperable and irrelevant.

A Riles Blaster, he p.r.o.nounced, allowed one to focus on what mattered.

"What mattered" was left undefined, allowing to each a certain lat.i.tude. They toasted what mattered and then "Absent loved ones."

Blasters were reliable--one brought a sigh; two put a helpless smile on your face. It was best to switch to wine at that point. Another virtue: "A modest red becomes--acceptable." Riles p.r.o.nounced each syllable of "acceptable" so lightly and with such pleasure that you had to agree.

The dark side of Riles was private. Don understood and left it alone.

"Will you be seeing that attractive friend of yours?" Kai made her innocent face.