Charles

1

He sits in his room and paints the walls, the ceiling, the windows. He paints in blues and blacks that wash over those who enter. The room dark, even with the sun high and bright. He is Charles, and he is an artist.

I bring him three meals a day. I receive the gratitude of a disgruntled man whose razor dulled years ago and was never replaced. A man whose dry and calloused hands haven't touched mine since they were soft and plump. A man who lusts over his art with the same sexual tension he once lusted over me with. His art is both his creation and his temptress. He is Charles and I am his wife.

Today, he sits and busies himself with a piece I previously deemed childish but feared criticising. Its trails of gold and maroon contrast the blues and blacks peering down at him from the walls like the eyes of God. I come in at nine with his breakfast. I carry his tray in one hand and his water the other. I set the tray down on his side table, carefully pushing aside some of the paints strewn about. A grunt of acknowledgement, and a hand juts out and snatches a slab of bacon off the plate.

"Leave me," he mutters, and shoves the meat in his mouth.

"I just might," I manage softly. I receive no reply.

***

I tend to the kitchen in silence. The gloves go up my hands and I scrub the same counters, the same tabletop, the same stove. His muddy shoes lay by the door; they house enough dust to blanket this entire kitchen. I leave them untouched, as I have these past few months. The only sounds in the house are the scraping of my broom and the whistling of the wind against the manor's wooden sides. Once the kitchen is tidy, I move on to the dining room, the powder room, the living room, the parlor.

His door opens at ten thirty, and a pair of feet drag along the ceiling above me. I wait, and listen. My breath hides deep in my throat, and I stare up at the slow creak making its way by. Another door opens just overhead, and there is an uneasy quiet. The wind outside dies down. He's going in there again, I think to myself.

Several minutes go by before I hear the feet retreat into the upper hall. The door slams shut. A bit of plaster sprinkles onto a patch I'd just swept. I shudder and finish up. Mrs. Govett is to be expected, so I put on a pot of tea.

Her mail truck pulls into our drive promptly at eleven, and I find myself already waiting outside as it creeps up the path, jostling about in the wind. The January cold hits my ankles and I wrap myself in my shawl. It's hard to make out the woman as she approaches, the wind throwing snow every which way. I gesture Mrs. Govett inside and moments later, I'm sitting across from her on our sofa. We sport cups of tea.

She's dressed in a thick coat of fur, hiding the plain cotton blue of her uniform blouse. Her face sags as if she's been set out in the sun too long, and she can barely grip her lips around the mug. The woman has her feet out on my freshly wiped table-- a little pool seeps out her socks.

"So, how is Charles?" she asks. She reaches for the tea, sips it. Another frailed hand slips a bundle of mail onto the table.

"Fine," I dutifully reply. We smile at each other, although her face is a bit more reluctant to move. She takes another drink.

"Why," she says, "that's what you said yesterday, dear." I laugh with a bit of a nervous edge to it. I reach for my mug. Avoiding her gaze, I nod as my left hand twitches and pulls at a curl of hair.

"He's painting," I state. "He is a painter, Mrs. Govett."

Mrs. Govett objects."Well, of course he is dear, but I haven't seen that man leave this house in ages!" She tries to hide the annoyance in her voice. "I just can't imagine anyone closing themselves off for months on end--"

"He's passionate about his work," I argue. "And you know, he's onto something, he says."

"Oh, so he's actually spoken to you?" I shift in my seat, as she digs her acrylics into my sofa.

"We just had the loveliest conversation this morning, Mrs. Govett. He's getting better." The lie hangs in the air for a moment, before settling in with the dust on Charles' filthy shoes.

"Is it healthy, Merriam, for him to board himself up there and leave you by yourself, especially after what happened?" she warns. Her voice drops to a whisper, and her eyes float up to gaze at the ceiling. "You know, I'm worried about the two of you. Have been since you stopped coming to Mass." I find it hard to continue on, so I spend the rest of our leisure staring down at my half empty cup.

***

"You know, Mrs. Govett stopped by?" I ask. I stand in the doorway of his studio, darkened in a haze of blue light. Charles grunts from his chair.

"She comes over every day, Merriam," he scoffs, "and you two sit down there, and you chat like a couple of giddy schoolgirls." He glides a slow hand across the canvas and circles it around the reds and golds, a harsh black line to break them.

"She wants us to come back to Mass--"

"Mass?" he jeers. "God has done nothing for us, Merriam." He turns and looks at me. "Just ask Mary."

I feel a queasiness in my stomach. Tears rush to my eyes but I grit my teeth and hold them in. He turns back and continues to paint.

"Lunch?" I bring him his plate, set it down, and gaze into the canvas. It's the same image he's replicated twenty fold over the course of these three months. He stares blankly at the painting, grabs an apple, and lets black ink drip into the potatoes and gravy. His eyes waver for a bit before he blinks, shakes his head.

"Leave me," he whispers. I stay.

He doesn't dismiss me again. I approach him and hesitate, but my hand grips his shoulder and I look at the painting, at all of the paintings scattering the walls, floor to ceiling.

"We need to talk about it," I say.

"Her," he says. "Mary."

"Or Tessa."

"I felt Mary would've been better; it was your mother's name."

I gaze into the fetuses--the Marys and Tessas littering the walls of blues and blacks, painted with aggressive lines and stoic faces.

"My mother would've liked that," I say.

Charles sets down his brush. His hands go to his face, and an empty sob racks his body. He shiver as his tears wet the dried paint and stain his skin. The canvas in front of him, drenched in tones of marigold and tangerine, holds another of the fetuses, curled up and bound to be lost among the others curled in the exact same manner. This one, however,was unlike the others. This one's eyes were open. It's cage a pair of arms instead of a fleshy sac drawn in blackened haste. I move the canvas into the living room, and hang it atop the fireplace.

***