Ariadne's Thread

When I look at her, she at me, I know that she isn't looking at me, rather past me, somewhere else, maybe a tropical island where her life is different. I suppose, we all do that. Sheila and I have been married for about three years now, and its been okay. We fight, try to make up, but I end up sleeping on the couch. It's not that bad. It's one of those pull-outs, it was tricky at first to get the hang of, but I think I got a pattern down, now. We bought it at the Salvation Army, and it kind of smells like dog. I don't mind. I grew up with a dog, so the smell doesn't bother me. I keep the sheets and spare pillow in the hallway closet, it's hard to get back into our room when she is upset. I just throw them on, and I am sound asleep. Sometimes, I wish, it was that easy.

At night in front of the T.V., I'll usually end up thinking about what my life would have been like if I hadn't met her, if we had chosen to keep the baby, maybe it would have been different. I can remember her, the night we met-I thought she was beautiful, perfect for my next painting. Her skin had a certain luminescence, her eyes were frosty white and her legs whispered when she walked. She reminded me of a painting by Monet. She agreed to let me do a painting of her, reluctantly at first, then she liked it. I think she liked the idea of her image being all around me, in my studio, on my mind. I never could forget her if she was always there.

I was about to graduate from college, she had a just started a job at a small accounting firm. We met by accident, one of those cliched movie meetings, where the starlet bumps into the stud, knocking her parcels onto the ground. The stud helps her pick them up, then they go out for a drink, and live happily ever after kind of thing. Only I think we forgot about that last part.

Usually by the next evening, after we fight, she is better, so she allows me to sleep next to her. I can't touch her, only sleep with her. It's better than the couch.

I guess her job is okay. It's letting us stay here; without it we'd be on the streets or worse, at my parents. I couldn't handle that. It's hard enough with Sheila, but my parents? Mom was always telling me that I should have majored in something else besides art. She would always say, "Accounting is a good major, Dentistry, but Art? What can you do with that but learn how to starve?"

Sheila would laugh, then my mom; it would go back and forth. At first, I would try to explain why I picked art, but, it just became pointless. Between the two of them, I could never get a word in. So, I would just sit there, try to remain still, until they finished. I just couldn't argue in front of my parents. I felt funny. It never seemed to bother Sheila. I always wanted to be alone, one on one.

When we moved into our new apartment I thought the change would change us, somehow, I guess. The only thing that changed is that the neighbors started complaining. One time they called the police. I try to keep it down now. Sheila just stops talking.

I sold some of my pieces to an art collector in London, that my agent knew. He said that he liked my work. I took Sheila out for a celebration that night. That was about six months ago-it was the last time we touched, intimately that is.

My work has been keeping me at the warehouse most of the day. Sheila is at her job most of the night. We don't see much of each other, anymore. We used to go out all the time; we didn't have any money to do anything, but, then, it didn't matter.

Sometimes she comes home early. It's a surprise. I usually ask her "how was work?" It's the only thing that I can say.

"Fine," she replies looking into her purse.

"Did you remember the milk?" I ask.

"No, I'll pick it up tomorrow."

"That will be too late, I need it in the morning, I don't drink milk at night."

"What did you do all day that prevented you from going there?"

"I was down at the warehouse, working."

"Oh yeah, work."

"Let's not start."

"Start what?"

"You know what. I work hard down there. Just cause I don't bring in the big bucks like you, doesn't mean that I don't work."

"Fine."

"Shut up, all I asked for was milk. Can't you even remember that?"

"I have a lot of other things going on in my life. I can't always remember to get you milk."

"Yeah, I'll bet you do."

"What's that supposed to mean?'

"Nothing."

"Nothing? Jesus Sam."

"Dammit, I'll get the milk. Give me the keys."

"No, I'll get it. I said I would, so I'll get it."

"Fine," I say.

The conversation always goes something like that; she is usually out the door before I can say anything else. I don't see her the rest of the night, maybe even a couple of days. I want to tell her that I miss her, but I can't. Every time I say "I love you," it never sounds like I mean it, even though, I do.

If my agent is any indication of the future, then I might be able to do a show by the end of the year. The guy from London is going to back me. He thinks I can make some money, maybe land a contract or something. That's a good sign. I just hope Sheila will come. Most of my earlier work was of her; frescos or mosaics-that's the work I am most proud of. Now the paint just doesn't flow, it just hasn't been the same. I'll go to the warehouse, just sit and stare at her in the painting, and wonder where she is. I try to paint, but the bristles just seem to scrape the canvas, they don't glide like they used to; the paint just doesn't flow at all.

I never could figure out what she saw in me; maybe I never thought I was handsome; she never thought she was beautiful. We always would reassure each other now and then. I would talk about my art, Sheila, about her job. Everything was so new, so foreign, so strange, but it still made sense, somehow, together, it just made sense. At times, we wouldn't say anything at all. We would lay in bed, stare into each other's eyes, and try to guess what the other one was thinking. It was a fun game, while it lasted. I remember bringing her down to the warehouse, painting her, molding her, touching her. It used to feel so good.

We spent most of our nights in bed, sometimes, most of the day, or at least when she didn't have to work. It was that way for a while, but the baby, it changed so much.

I asked her to marry me just after the abortion. It was a rough time for both of us. The decision to have one, her crying so hard after it happened. I tried to tell her that it was cheaper than raising it, in the long run. We had no money, not enough to raise a child. We didn't want to ask our parents. We couldn't. We just wanted everything to be normal again. Sometimes, I think she said 'yes' because I was the only one that stayed with her. Her parents "disowned" her after they learned what she had done; they never came by at all. Most of her friends just sent Hallmarks that said, "I hope you get better;" nothing that meant anything, to her anyway. No one came by to see her, except me. The wedding was small, my parents, us, the priest. I don't think it was what she had hoped for.

At night I'll try to stay up late, wait for her, so maybe we can talk things over, but I end up falling asleep during Letterman. I have gotten so used to the couch, that every time I plop down to watch T.V., I just drift off. Sometimes, when I wake up the T.V. is turned off, and there is a crick in my neck. I never hear her come in. Sheila usually leaves a note saying she'll be late, again. I crumple it up and throw it in the trash. Its not the kind of note a woman gives to a man, rather the kind a vice-president of marketing gives to her boss.

My agent tells me that my show is on. I leave Sheila a note telling her when it is. She leaves me one that says she will come. I think she is avoiding me. I know I am avoiding her. Once I looked at our bed, it was still made up. I wonder if she even slept there. Sometimes, at the warehouse, when I look at her in the paintings, I wonder where she could be spending her nights.

Once I accused her of sleeping around. What else was I to think? She told me that I was foolish. I told her it was because she is beautiful. I guess she took that the wrong way. Sheila must have thought that I was saying that she was sleeping her way to the top, or something. She had it all wrong. We ended up waking up the landlord. The police came by later; "domestic disturbance." Sheila took off. I didn't see her for a while. She must have come home, changed, when I was at the warehouse. We didn't even write notes.

I guess we are back together. She said she stayed with a friend. I couldn't argue. I still sleep on the couch, though.

I am under extreme deadlines to get my projects done in time for the show; with all that is happening, it's hard. It is supposed to be a pretty big event. The guy from London has rented some big studio on Third Avenue. It's supposed to be a nice place. I have never been there. If I can get noticed, then maybe, we can move into a better place, or a even a house. Sheila's job pays well, but when you figure all my supplies and warehouse rent, food, loans, "business expenditures," her car-the money isn't there for anything else. I tell her, "when I get discovered, we can live anywhere!" That usually makes her feel good. Sometimes, I even get a smile.

I am almost more nervous about seeing Sheila tonight, than I am presenting my work. This thing is scheduled to go all night, I just hope she shows up.

At the studio, I watch the buyers perusing over my work. They are examining it like a teenage girl does her face. I am almost nervous that they will find something wrong with it, a flaw. I never think about whether my work is good or not. I just want my pieces to be real, real as they can be, like they were in the beginning.

One of the buyers asks "Who is your model for your work?"

"It's my wife," I say.

He says "I can see why you married her."

I just nod my head, and smile at him. He chuckles and goes on to tell me that my work has a lot of passion and raw emotion- it's stuff told to every young artist, but tonight, it somehow, just makes a difference. He says he wants to buy some. He gives me his card, and tells me to have my agent call him tomorrow-"We'll set something up, you definitely have got talent."

I look down at the card with its puffy brown letters, and manilla paper, smile, and nod, wondering where my wife is.

At about ten o'clock, I see Sheila come in. Most of the buyers are gone, now. She looks surprised to see her image plastered over half the room even though she posed for most of it, most. Her hair is falling out of the baret that she used to clip it back. Some of her makeup has been smudged, and her skirt is slightly wrinkled. She comes over to me, sort of teetering back and forth like a beginner on skates. I don't know what to say, really. I don't think she does either. I smile, she smiles back. We stand there locked. I say "What do you think?"