Each week of Lent, I will post a section of my book, eScapegoat. Like the season of Lent, the writing and the story are lean, troubling, ascetical. eScapegoat is a story for those whose life experiences require a tenacious, and sometimes solitary, faith. It’s a hard read but a hopeful one. Look for a new posting each Tuesday during Lent and one daily during Holy Week.
May eScapegoat nourish your soul this Lenten season. Return to beginning.
Shadow Lands, cont.
I took it into my head one day, bouncing in the back-facing seat of the wagon, to paint what I saw rolling behind me in the magic way I imagined it. I saw the painting, finished and just as it was to be, before my closed eyes. Before it disappeared, I had to get it onto paper. My toe tapped an impatient beat on the floorboard; I grew frantic for us to arrive home. What if I lost the Magic before I started?
The moment Father pulled into the drive and I felt the car shift into park, I was out of my seat twisting the back door handle and pushing open the door. I didn’t want to take the time to shut it, but I knew Mother would call me back if I didn’t, so I gave it a good shove and ran inside the house. In the hallway stood our trunk of art supplies: rock-hard play dough in lidless yellow tubs; manilla paper, mainly soiled or creased; crayons in the big box with the sharpener—we’d stripped down the crayons and sharpened many of them to nubs, because sharpening was at least as much fun as crayoning; a 16-color pan of watercolors (with the colors all muddied together)—brush included, and a sheaf of typing paper. These last items I snatched up and fled with into the bathroom. I shut and locked the door, rolled off a length of toilet paper, carefully moistened it, and began painstakingly to wipe each paint pad free of encroaching colors. How I resented the time this process took, but my project was hopeless without clear, clean colors. At last sixteen glistening colors—some nearly gone—blinked up at me from the tray.
I picked up the brush and instinctively felt the bristles: rock hard. If I’d known a curse word, I’ve had used it. Back to the sink: water had no effect on the stiff bristles, so I tried soap. Deep-pink suds slid off the brush, puddling in the sink base. More soap and water and more pink suds. I repeated and repeated the process. Rose pink suds faded to pale pink and, at last, to white.
“Let me in!” Wilda bellowed, pounding on the door. We had another bathroom, but Wilda knew instinctively when to torment me.
“Just a minute!” I wrapped the brush in a wad of toilet paper, grabbed the tray and paper, and opened the door. Wilda stared at the assortment in my hands; I could tell she wanted to take them from me, but the call of nature was too strong. She dashed past me and slammed the door.
I feared that, once she finished, she’d find me out and take my precious, clean materials away, so instead of working at the kitchen table, I grabbed a photo album from the living room and dashed outside. I chose a hiding place behind a tree and settled down to work.
Rats! No water. I skulked into the kitchen, looking and listening for Wilda. Mother, up to her wrists in dough, gave me a raised eyebrow.
“Thirsty,” I lied, pouring water into a large plastic glass.
She gave a half-nod and went back to kneading.
Back in my sanctuary, I finally got started. Using the photo album as a desk, I settled a clean sheet of paper on its top and dipped the brush first into the water and then into the pad of purple paint. At the top of the page, I created a purple night edging into blue at the horizon, then a landscape of sky yellows, greens, and pinks. I wanted to paint in an animal I’d imagined, but I didn’t know how. Toward the bottom of the page, the colors muddied, and I cursed myself for not bringing extra cups of water. Hadn’t my kindergarten teacher taught us to change out the water when it got muddy so the watercolors would stay pretty? How could I be so stupid?
I emptied the muddy-colored water onto the grass, which hopefully didn’t care about the murkiness of its refreshment, and headed toward our outdoor hose. I’d have to be careful; inside they might hear me turning it on. I scrunched up my face and inched the faucet knob open. Water trickled into the cup. When the cup was as full as I could carry without spilling, I turned off the water, set down the cup, and darted into the garage. I grabbed some margarine tubs Mother had stashed there. These I filled, too, terrified at being found out and my project interrupted. When I returned, my painting had dried, leaving one small section of typing paper, just in the bottom left corner, free of paint. I decided not to paint it in, but, rather, to edge the brush all around it until a circle of white, untouched by paint, winked up at me. Then I went back to the landscape. By adding just a hint of water to some colors, I made flowers pop out from their surroundings and each of my magic land’s three moons take on her own personality. I didn’t attempt any animals, though.
I set that painting aside and started a daylight scene at a shoreline, filling the air with weightless birds and washing the water with the colors of Magic Land. Again I left a circle in the bottom left corner clean of paint while I painted a shoreline dotted with fantastic plants and—almost hidden from view—strange, small animals. Since I could mostly hide the animals with the plant stems, I felt I could risk putting them in. I created several, each with wide, honest eyes that looked right out of the painting at me.
With the next painting, I moved the unpainted circle into the sky in place of a sun. I filled the sky with blue-green paint and, below the sky, created a forest of silver and golden trees, their branch-like arms reaching upward. I painted trees right down to the bottom edge of the paper, so that only the top branches of the closest trees appeared in the painting. The blue pad of paint was now empty and the green nearly gone. The sky of my parents’ world was darkening as I carried the treasures into the garage. Father was out there, sorting out the twisty-looking nail things and metal octagons in his toolbox.
“See what I did?”
He looked over the lid of the toolbox and nodded. “Nice,” he said. “I never saw a green sky, though.”
“Yeah, I know. I just . . .”
“Sure. It’s nice. You should put one on the fridge.”
I surveyed the three paintings. Which one most deserved the honor? I chose the final painting of gold and silver trees. Holding it before me and taking careful steps so the wet paint wouldn’t run or the painting blow up against me and smear, I threaded my way into the kitchen. On the fridge, I had to move the family photos and one of Wilda’s coloring book pictures aside to make room, but Father said I could. I chose tiny magnets that could hold my painting’s corners without taking away from the look of the scene. I stepped back and looked. The sun circle could be rounder on one side and some of the trees weren’t quite the right shape, but I liked it. I felt proud of my work and I could do even better next time.
At dinner, Father said, “Did you see Wanda’s painting on the fridge?”
Mother looked over and nodded. “Very nice, Wanda. Very nice.”
The next morning I surveyed the fridge. My painting was gone. The photos and Wilda’s coloring book page had been moved back to their original positions. Wilda had taken my painting. If I had any doubt, it was removed by the toss of her hair when she saw my eyes on the fridge. But if my parents ever noticed that the painting had gone missing, they never spoke of it. I never did, either.
I asked Mother to buy me more paints and paper and she did: a nice set this time and a whole tablet of paper to myself. I kept my paintings to myself after the fridge day, tucking them into a packing box and then secreting them under a mound of old clothes in that back of my closet. I created a screen of hanging clothes over the mound and felt myself secure. Wilda hated cleaning and picking up, and she never went into the closet except to toss something inside or to grab an article of clothing off the hanging rack.
Mother bought more supplies when I asked, but she never asked to see anything I painted, and neither did anyone else. I never volunteered to show them, so the stack grew and grew, paintings varying widely in subject—even some animals once I checked out books from the library that described how to draw and paint them—but always, always I found a way to leave a tiny circle unpainted. This had to be.
“Father, why don’t you like strawberries?”
“They’re sour. And the seeds get stuck in your teeth.”
I digested this information and decided there’d be no strawberries in Magic Land.
I sat in prayer meetings, my skinny bones aching against the hard pew seats, my body feeling small and lost, my mind posing razor-edged questions no one wanted asked aloud.
A man stood, spoke: “I’d like prayer for our down-the-street neighbors. They’re Catholics, and . . .”
Across the sanctuary, I heard sighs and saw heads shake in communal sympathy.
The man nodded in assent. “I’d like prayer that they’ll get saved.”
I searched the sanctuary, studying each face. Wiser, older heads than mine nodded in solemn agreement. I sat amazed at these people who could know the need of another soul, when I couldn’t even figure out my own. We, in this small space, understood the needs of everyone. We had the Answer.
I knew at once to be amazed at their certainty and conviction. And, at the same time, I knew I could not share it.