Everyone in town knew I’d come home married. I paraded my husband
around the county fair like a blue ribbon. Annette LeRoy spotted us.
She was working the fried dough booth, swathed in a greasy apron.
“Hey, Melissa!” she yelped. “Maryjo’s dying
to see you.”
I introduced her to Dan. “I’ll call Maryjo tonight, Mrs.
LeRoy.”
“You do that,” she said. “And don’t miss the
art tent. Maryjo took first prize.”
Dan inspected the painting. “It’s good.” He seemed
surprised.
“Yeah, but they’re always the same.”
He looked at me puzzled, then again at the painting. The colors were
somber except for one brilliant splash of crimson like a wound on
the central figure.
“Maybe that’s why it’s good,” he suggested.
“She sticks to one subject.”
“Right. Herself.”
“Artists do that. How come you never mentioned her?”
I shrugged. “We were childhood friends. We drifted apart.”
We were invited to lunch the next day. Maryjo and her mother still
lived in the ramshackle apartment building I’d visited as a
child. Her father had died in a car crash meanwhile, leaving them
poorer than before. He used to drink up half his paycheck, I recalled.
Mrs. LeRoy apologized as she opened the door. “Maryjo’s
not ready yet.”
Dan presented her with flowers and she rushed off to the kitchen.
“Make yourselves at home,” she called.
The front room was shabby but neat. On the fading rose-patterned wall
paper hung several framed oils. We walked around looking at them.
Mrs. LeRoy returned with the flowers in a vase and a bowl of chips.
“Aren’t them pictures something? I tell you, It’s
a gift from God.”
I followed her back into the kitchen to help. “Maryjo’s
not used to company anymore,” she confided. “She don’t
get out much.”
We brought out iced tea and sat around the table. A scrapbook of Maryjo’s
art career was hauled out and we examined photos of paintings and
read news clippings. Teen Prodigy, one headline said. Vermont Primitive.
An hour went by and Maryjo was still in her room.
“Imagine how long it took her to pack to go to Montreal,”
Mrs. LeRoy sighed.
“For an exhibit?” I asked.
“Not exactly.”
The bedroom door opened and Maryjo crept out. I went over and we hugged
awkwardly. Her face had gotten heavier and was thick with powder and
rouge, her eyes ringed with mascara shakily applied.
When I introduced Dan, she lowered her head and stared at the floor.
“Your paintings are so powerful,” he told her. “They
remind me of Edvard Munck’s.”
“You might show them the studio, dear.”
“But it’s a mess,” she whispered.
Dan said gently. “My studio’s a mess, too.”
Maryjo looked up. “You’re an artist?”
“A filmmaker.”
“Kindred spirits,” I offered.
“Of course,” she said, nodding gravely. “Like you
and me?”
Dan looked at us, curious. He didn’t know what an odd little
duck I’d been.
We crowded into the porch. An easel was set up where Maryjo and I
had played. Dan asked how she managed in the winter, did she use turpentine
or turpenoid, and gradually he drew her out. “I’d start
collecting now, if I had any money,” he announced.
“Melissa already has a collection,” she said. Everyone
looked at me.
“It’s in my folk’s attic, till we settle down,”
I improvised hastily. “Anyway, it’s your juvenilia.”
“It’ll be worth a fortune one day,” Mrs. LeRoy advised.
We sat down to lunch and I asked about the trip to Montreal.
“I saw my boyfriend,” she murmured.
“What boyfriend?”
“Jacques.”
She brought out another smaller scrapbook from her room.
“He’s Quebecois, like my husband,” Mrs. LeRoy informed
us.
“That’s not the point.” Maryjo glared. “He
knows the galleries.”
“So it was a business trip too,” Dan prompted.
“Yes, but.” She fingered sheets of paper inserted between
photos of a plump balding man with hornrimmed glasses. “He writes
beautiful letters,” she sighed
“He looks nice,” I said.
They’d corresponded for over a year. He’d promised to
introduce her at galleries. He was looking forward to meeting her.
They’d exchanged photos. But he hadn’t written since her
trip to Montreal.
She’d made copies of her own letters. Obviously, the entire
correspondence had been re-read many times.
“I think I made a mistake in my last letter. See, I signed it
XOXO Maryjo. Maybe I was too forward?” She looked at Dan. He
cleared his throat, at a loss.
“He doesn’t deserve you,” Mrs. LeRoy huffed.
When we left we promised we would write. Maryjo promised us a painting.
Once we settled down.
“It’s a wedding gift,” she said eagerly. “For
kindred spirits.”
Jo-Anne Rosen is a book and website designer. Her stories
have been published in A Room of One's Own, Other Voices, The
Florida Review, The Dickens and Roman Candles.
