NO MAN AN ISLE
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Chapter 15
With slightly less than three weeks left before his showing at the gallery, Don flung himself into his painting. Both of those he had begun during the hectic week before reached completion. Looking at them, he was satisfied that he had improved measurably over those he had shown the previous summer. If only Campbell were pleased and some of the work sold, not that he particularly needed the money, for after selling his earlier works he had argued over the allowance that Kurt had been placing in the bank for him each month, after he discovered how small the amount of Kurt's income. At last Kurt yielded, leaving him with a complete sense of freedom, yet feeling much closer to Kurt because of it. The only mention of money between them now was Kurt's question as to whether or not he had enough any time that he went out to some event.
Taking a break after several days of intense work, Don wandered along the beach thinking about Kevin. He turned back across the dunes, stopping by a fallen tree. He sat on the trunk and opened his sketchpad. The memory that burned in his mind seemed to ease with each stroke of the pencil as the image emerged on paper. When Don at last looked up from the sketch, the light had begun to fade.
For the next few evenings as he readied himself for bed, his hand reached for the pad and flipped to the sketch, the image still haunting. He took the easel and paints to his room and set them up, returning to take up the rug and clean his work space in the library. He stared at the blank canvas, then began to outline the work.
"Don?" Kurt's voice drifted up the stairs. He dropped the brush he was using in a jar of brush cleaner and went down.
"There you are. What were you doing?"
"Just putting away my paints. I thought you might like to have the library without all my junk scattered about for a change."
"You don't have to worry about that."
"I know, but I finished up everything I wanted for the show, and I want to rest a little. Looking at a blank canvas bothers me; I want to put something on it. Hey, I tried a new idea. See what you think." Don held up a small painting of the wrecked ship. Done in heavy impasto, the wreck stood out in bold relief against the background.
"It's different, but I don't like it. It doesn't look like your work."
"I did it just to get a rise out of Campbell."
"You'll certainly do that."
After dinner, Don returned to his room. Coastie lay on his bed regarding him with huge yellow eyes, purring when Don paused from time to time to scratch his throat and study the work. 'I've got to finish by tomorrow,' he thought, knowing Friday would be taken up with hanging the paintings and arguing with Campbell, who would happily wrangle endlessly. There would be no reception, but Campbell had told him that Mrs. Smythe had mentioned bringing a special guest to see Don's work.
"Good night, Don."
He jumped at the sound of Kurt's voice from the foot of the stairs. Could it be that late?
"Night," he called and continued to work until fatigue crept through his arms.
In the cold light of morning, he appraised the work. It portrayed what he had striven for. He dressed rapidly and went down, finding Kurt in the kitchen.
"I thought you were still asleep."
"I was until a minute ago. Sorry. I worked late last night."
"I was under the impression that you were going to rest a while."
"I had an idea that couldn't wait. I'll finish it today, then there'll be no more painting for a while. I promise."
"Whatever you want. I thought you might like to take a break for a swim or a sail."
Don finished the painting by mid-evening. Even under the harsh light, it lost nothing. Don felt a deeper sense of satisfaction and pride than that which had come with any of his previous work. Keeping to his promise, he put away his things and went down for a cup of tea and a piece of cake with Kurt.
Kurt awakened to find Erik standing in the door of his room, holding out a mug of tea. "What are you doing here? It is Friday, isn't it?"
Erik laughed. "Took a day's leave. With the number of paintings Don has to hang, I figured he could use a little help. The chief sort of suggested it and I wasn't about to turn him down, 'specially since I've got a lot to make up for."
"It will mean a lot to him, Erik."
Don made a decision as they ate breakfast. "I finished a painting last night. If you think it's good enough, I'll show it. Wait a minute." He sprinted up the stairs.
"It's magnificent, Don!"
"I can't believe it!" Erik could not tear his eyes away from the portrait. "How did you get that expression? It's so ... it looks just like he did that night."
Kevin's face looked out at them, touched by the sad expression of the eyes, the tentative upward turn at one corner of the mouth - a look of hope, without expectation.
"You can't sell this!" Erik cried.
"No way. I'd like to put it in our rogues' gallery if you don't mind, Kurt. But what do you think about showing it?"
"Absolutely. You didn't show any of your portraits last year. Perhaps this will convince Campbell that you are capable of something other than seascapes. It's a far better demonstration of your talent," Kurt answered thoughtfully.
"Do, Don, " Erik urged, "but why did you pick this particular expression?"
"I guess it's sort of penance, you know, to remind me not to yell at defenseless people. It's the way he looked that night after you left my room. It's haunted me ever since. He wanted me to like him, and right then I didn't like him any. Now I feel sorry for him and sorry for me, too, that I couldn't see how much he needed someone like I did when Kurt brought me home."
"Don't blame yourself for that, Don. You'll never know how close I came to not picking you up. It was something in your voice that did it."
"I just hope Kev's going to be as lucky."
Campbell greeted them happily when they arrived at the gallery. "You timed it just right. The other guy left a few minutes ago. With most of his crap unsold, I might add." He watched Don and Erik hang the works in the allotted space. The most prominent spot, large enough for one painting only, they left open.
"You're not putting one there, or do you have a hidden masterpiece?"
Campbell asked with his usual sarcasm.
"I have one a little different from the others to put there."
"I should hope so. Still," Campbell looked around, "you've improved over last summer. Not much, but some. Let's see this great work of art."
Erik was holding the impasto. He held it under the lights.
"My God! I hope that's not it!" Campbell screamed.
"What's wrong with it?" Don asked.
"It's gauche. That's the kind of shit some little old lady would paint on velvet and claim it was art."
"That's not it, anyway." Don replied over Erik's laughter. He attached a card to the space - Lost Boy.
"Ha!" Campbell snorted. Erik lifted the portrait, hanging it on the hook. "That's fantastic!" Campbell shouted in honest enthusiasm. "Why've you been wasting your time on trash? This is the finest work you've done and one of the best things I've had in here. That expression is marvelous. Here, let me do the lights." He climbed a ladder and fussed with the fixtures until he was pleased. "How much do you want for it?"
"It's not for sale."
"That figures. It's the only thing you've painted that isn't junk."
"Darn right. It's personal."
"Figures." Campbell shrugged. "You might be here Sunday about four. Smythe will be here. I don't know what she has up her sleeve this time."
Don was a bit discomfited when Mrs. Smythe gave him a brief greeting, without introducing the rotund van Dyke-bearded man beside her. Campbell tagged along after them, uncharacteristically quiet. Only when they reached the portrait of Kevin did they spend time studying any one work. The man put on his glasses and viewed the work from every angle, stroking his beard. At last he turned to Campbell and spoke too softly for Don to overhear. The discourse lasted for some minutes before Campbell beckoned for Don to join them.
"This is Warner, Doctor Pineau."
Without acknowledging the introduction, the man pointed to the portrait. "Did you use a model or take it off the top of your head?"
"A little of both." Don explained the circumstances.
"I see." he turned back to Mrs. Smythe. "It's been interesting. You'll hear from me after I've had time to consider. Good day."
"Doctor Pineau is head of the art department at Weymouth College. I wanted his opinion of your work, but it seems that he isn't going to give it so quickly,"
Mrs. Smythe said to Don after the man had left.
"Same damned stuffed shirt he's always been," Campbell grumbled.
"But Ian ..."
"Oh, he's a good man, no doubt about it, but stuffy as they come."
"You know him?" Kurt asked.
"Should. I studied under him for a couple of years."
"What do you think, Ian?" Mrs. Smythe pressed.
"At least the old goat didn't snort as much as usual. But when he spends as much time as he did with the portrait, I know for certain he's interested. Say," he turned to Don, "we've already sold five. It may be junk, but it sells." He moved off toward a young couple discussing one of Don's paintings.
Don's curiosity was piqued. Did this mean that Mrs. Smythe was no longer interested in his paintings or what?
When Don and Kurt went for the few paintings remaining from the show, Campbell begged Don to leave the portrait for another week. Now, he wanted to retrieve the work and hang it along the staircase with the others.
"You came at a good time. I've got a letter for you." Campbell scratched around in the stack of papers on his desk, finally waving an envelope triumphantly. "Well, open it. I'm dying to know what the old goat said."
Don ripped open the envelope bearing the Weymouth crest and scanned the letter attached to several forms. His eyes widened. "He's offered me a scholarship," he gasped, handing the letter to Kurt.
"This is wonderful, Don." Kurt said, passing the letter to Campbell.
Campbell looked at him, serious for once. "I've given you a hard time because I could see your talent and I hated to see you wasting it on junk like you've been doing. I'd advise you to take this and really get into art. You can do it, and I'll be happy to write a recommendation for you."
"Thanks, Campbell, but I've got to think a lot about this."
"I hope you do. We've managed to unload enough of your stuff so you won't have to worry about money with the scholarship. If you take it and do a few paintings on the side, I'll try to move them for you."
"Thanks a lot. You'll be the first to know."
For the rest of the weekend, Don remained subdued. Erik had returned to the station Sunday night and, over a late cup of tea, Kurt finally asked, "Is this really bothering you?"
Don gazed at him solemnly, then nodded.
"Want to tell me why?"
"I don't know. I guess it's all happened so fast I can't get my head together. Part of it's having to leave you. I knew it would happen sometime, but I've been hoping it wouldn't." He shook his head sadly. "I guess I found a home after it was too late."
"This is always your home, Don. It isn't as if you were leaving for good, just for the school term and there are holidays and summer vacation. Besides, Weymouth is only about eighty miles or so; you can come home any weekend. But look at the advantages you'd have in being there with others your age, making new friends, meeting some nice girls ..."
Don snorted bitterly. "Yeah, and having it end up like it has with most of the others I've met."
"These will be more sophisticated. When they find out what a terrific guy you are, you'll have no problems. Besides, I hope you'll be spending most of your time in study."
"I wish I was as sure about this as you all seem to be. Erik, Campbell, the chief, everybody keeps pushing me. I don't know what to do."
Kurt saw his tension. "Drop it. We'll ride over to Weymouth and take a look at the school. It's only about eighty miles. Perhaps that will help you make up your mind. I'm not going to say anything else, Don. It's your decision, but if you need me, I'm here. Do you want Erik and the chief to go with us?"
"No. Just you and me, like old times."
When Kurt returned from the village the next afternoon where he had called for an appointment with Pineau, they sat on the deck watching the long thin clouds in the west turn from gold to pink to brilliant crimson. In the contentment that infused him, Kurt's thoughts turned for a few moments to the love filled home he'd had until his parents had been killed, hoping he'd given Don a measure of the same to be remembered when he left for school. He looked at the boy.
"What's the one thing you've wanted most in your life?"
Don gazed directly into his eyes. "Parents who loved me," he said without hesitation.
Kurt nodded. "I can understand that. I was lucky enough to have a happy home until my parents were killed." He sighed. "You don't know how I wanted to come here and live with my uncle after that. I knew he loved me and he always had time for me. I never felt like I was in his way."
"Why didn't you?"
"The court ruled I should live with my aunt, because there wasn't a school in the village back then and my uncle was regarded as something of a hermit."
"It's always been like that like with me, older people thinking they know what's best and not caring what kids want, like we can't think for ourselves. So, maybe we aren't always right about things, but they aren't always right, either, especially the law."
"I know, Don." Kurt suddenly smiled. "Remember how it was when I wanted you to finish high school."
"I guess you were right about that one and I was stubborn, but it seemed like I'd just gotten away from people I didn't know making all these decisions about what I had to do and it seemed like you were doing the same thing. Didn't you feel that way when the court made you go live with your aunt when you wanted to be with your uncle?"
"Absolutely. But I had to go live with her, if you can call it living. She never liked kids, especially teen-agers. It wasn't that she was unkind, but she wanted me to stay out of her way and not disrupt her routine. The only time I saw her was when she occasionally ate at home alone and wanted company, or she wanted me to play the piano for her guests. The thing is she never made any time for me. The housekeeper and the college student who had the chauffeur's apartment over the garage and worked for her part-time were the only ones had any time for me. If it hadn't been for them, I'd have been more lonely than I was."
Don nodded. "I know. Most of the places I was put were just out for the money, they didn't give a damn about us kids. And the kids weren't much better. I mean, yeah, we always had to share a room and everything else, but how can you get to feel close to somebody when you know they can be gone after a few weeks and you'll never see them again. At least they had a chance of being adopted, but I learned quick nobody wanted a cripple kid."
Don set down the drink he'd been holding and hitched his deck chair closer to Kurt's, looking at him with a diffident expression. "I ... I've got a favor to ask. I mean I've never asked for much ... Aw, hell, forget it. You've given me too much already."
"What is it, Don?"
"Forget it. It's stupid."
He started to get up, but Kurt grasped his hand and pulled him back down. "Obviously it meant something to you, or you wouldn't have started to ask."
"Well... if I decide to go to college," he dropped his head and stared at the deck. "I mean ,,, well ... I've only got one name besides Don and I'm not even sure that's my real name. I know it's on my birth certificate and all, but it don't mean anything to me. I ... what I'm trying to say is ... can I use your name?"
"You wish to use Kurt for a middle name?"
Don shook his head. "You know, like adopt me so my last name is Lawrence. I'd keep Warner for a middle name."
Kurt hid his astonishment and spoke calmly. "Why should you want me to adopt you?"
"Like for the same reason I hated you the first couple of days I was here."
"What did I do to make you hate me? I wanted to help."
"I know. It wasn't nothing you did. It just seemed like you had everything I ever really wanted. You know, a nice home and a boat and the Jeep and all those books and music you know so much about. Most of all I figured it meant you had family somewhere that loved you, all the things I never had and wanted so I could be like other kids. Even if I'd been lucky enough to have foster parents who cared something about me, it wouldn't be like I was their kid, and I knew the welfare people wouldn't let me stay with them but so long. They acted like they were afraid us kids might get attached to our foster parents. I guess that's why I hated everybody back then. Like you said, it's awful being alone. I want to belong somewhere."
"But you do. You belong here with Erik and me."
"It's not the same. I know you love me, but It's like we're just good friends. I want to be part of you. You know, like you're my real dad."
The longing in his face twisted Kurt's emotions. Instinctively he wanted to hug the boy and say, 'yes,' his thoughts turning instantly to Don's offer to leave when Erik returned and how devastating the thought had been, but logic restrained him.
"It's not something done easily, nor can it be undone if you change your mind. You must be very sure. But this is an entirely different matter from school. Why should your going to college affect this?"
"I love you, Kurt. No way I'd change my mind. But If you did do it, wouldn't it be better before so my records would be straight?"
"There'll have to be a number of changes made anyway. You need to think very carefully about this."
Don looked at him hopefully. "You aren't saying no?"
"Of course not. In many ways you are my son, and I hope that if I ever have a son of my own he would be like you. But this will impose a good deal of responsibility on both of us and I need time to think about it seriously, as should you."
"I will. Thanks, Kurt."
After he had gone to bed, Kurt lay in deep thought considering the legal and moral responsibility an adoption would impose on him. The thought suddenly came to him: 'My God, I'm only twenty-six. If I adopt Don I'll have a son only eight years younger than I. It's insane.' But fighting that feeling was the love he felt for Don who had dropped into his dark world, bringing brightness.
Weymouth College was blend of old and new architecture, belying its size. The art building of contemporary design stood apart from the others. The foyer walls hung heavy with abstract paintings.
"Ah, Warner, Mr. Lawrence, come in." Pineau's affable voice broke their viewing of the works. He took the envelope containing Don's high school transcripts and handed them to his secretary who left the office. "Now, young man, have you decided to come to Weymouth?"
"No, sir, I haven't made a decision yet. I wanted to look at the school and see what kind of program you offered first."
"Very wise. We have a fine academic program and, if I may say so, an outstanding art department. Do you really wish to study further?"
Don squirmed in his chair. "I'm not really sure. This has all happened so fast I haven't gotten it together."
"Unfortunately, we have few scholarships in art. If you are serious about art as a profession, then one of them is yours, but you must be absolutely certain of what you want. The portrait indicates that you have skill, but you'll need the desire if you're to succeed. I can give you two more weeks in which to make up your mind. After that the scholarship will be offered to someone else. Is this clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Let me show you around." His pride in the gallery was evident. As the lights flashed on, the walls bloomed out in an abstract riot of color.
"Doesn't anyone do representative work any more?" Asked Don.
"That sort of thing is passé. Realism is nothing more than a photograph. The abstract communicates through what it causes one to feel."
"Then why did you like my portrait of Kev?" Don asked.
"Because it wasn't just a portrait. It had the quality of which you titled it. One could sense the feeling you sought to portray."
"But it's representative."
Pineau regarded him with poorly concealed irritation. "True, but how much of this intensity can you put into one of those seascapes?"
"I think I see what you mean. What about the Impressionists?"
"They were the pace setters of their period, just as artists today are setting a trend. Our students paint in the style of every period, but we specialize in the abstract."
Shaken by the man's terseness, Don limited the rest of his questions to requests for factual information to which Pineau replied in a good humor. Before they left, Don received assurances from both Pineau and the dean of instruction that he would be accepted if he decided to apply.
When they were back in the parking lot, he looked gloomily at Kurt. "I guess I blew it. I can't stand that monster-blob stuff he calls art. I'd rather do what I've been doing and be happy. I mean most of that stuff looked like those stupid lava lights."
"Perhaps Doctor Pineau likes students who think for themselves. If he does, you may have scored a point or two."
"Then why'd he get pissed? You heard what Campbell said about him." Don had nothing else to say on the trip home.
The chief and Erik continued to urge Don to take the scholarship. A note from Mrs. Smythe congratulated him on winning the scholarship. But the more they pressed, the more indecisive he became. By the middle of the week following the trip, Don only toyed with his meals, sustaining himself with coffee in quantities surpassing even Erik's seemingly unlimited capacity. Kurt wondered how he could help without making Don feel that he was forcing him into a decision. When he noticed tablets missing from his bottle of tranquilizers, he knew he could no longer remain quiet. He opened the door to Don's room, seeing him sitting at the window, face in his hand.
"Don, I told you that I wouldn't interfere in your decision, but you've forced me. Did you take my tranquilizers?"
Don nodded slowly.
"It's that bad?"
Another nod.
"Talk to me."
"What's there to talk about? Everybody thinks I should take it. You haven't said anything, but everybody else sure has," he said bitterly.
"Listen to me, Don. It's not what others say or want that's important; it's what you want. Do you know?"
"I knew when we went up there and I saw all that crap he called art. You know he'll have me doing the same thing. I don't want any part of it."
"Then why didn't you tell me instead of making yourself sick with worry?"
"I don't know. Everybody's so sure it's right for me. I guess I thought you did too."
"How could I ask you to do something I know would make you miserable? Turn it down. Weymouth isn't the only college if you want study. If you don't, then we'll have to see."
For the first time since the trip, Don smiled.
Fortunately, Don was lying on the beach when Erik came in that afternoon and questioned Kurt.
"He's decided not to take the scholarship."
"What the hell does he think he's doing throwing away an opportunity like this! This is a hell of a way to repay you for all you've done for him. Does he expect to freeload off you for the rest of his life?"
"It was his decision. I admit I forced it, but only because you and the others have pressured him so much he was afraid to tell us he didn't want it. Now he's sick as a result."
"He's a goddamn fool and I'm going to tell him so!" Erik started for the door, but Kurt, with a strength he was unaware he possessed, grabbed Erik's arm and spun him around.
"This is one time you're going to keep your mouth shut, damn it! You didn't go up there. I agree with Don that what they teach isn't what he wants or needs. It isn't the only school around and he's made enough money on his own so he can go elsewhere, if he wants. He's made the decision and I've called Pineau and told him. It's done, and I hope to God that Don is getting some rest out there. You accused me one time of not caring anything about him, but at least I didn't drive him to sneaking pills because I wouldn't listen to what he wants rather than what I want for him."
Erik turned purple. "What do you mean pills? If he's been tripping, I'll kill him!"
"Shut up!" Kurt yelled back. "For once in your life listen before you jump to conclusions. He took some of my tranquilizers. The boy is ill, and if he doesn't improve by the weekend, I'm taking him to a doctor. Now you can stay and keep your mouth shut or you can go back to the station. I don't give a damn which!"
Kurt's open anger staggered Erik. "Okay, okay. Since it's done, I guess there's no need to worry about it."
When Don came in for dinner, Erik was stricken by the change. The boy's clothes hung loosely, his eyes sunken, dark, his face chalky making the light sprinkle of freckles over his nose darker against the fading tan. "You've decided, I hear."
Don eyed him warily, expecting the tirade taken by Kurt. "I'm not going. I can't work the way they teach. Maybe there's another school around that can develop my technique without trying to make me into something I'm not."
"I'm sorry, Don. Maybe I should have gone up there with you and seen for myself. I know you can't work when you're not happy, so I guess you did the right thing."
Don gave Erik a wan smile. "Thanks for not giving me a lot of grief about it."
With no further mention made of the matter, Don began to regain his health. One afternoon as he and Kurt sat on the deck looking out to the sound where several boats pulled skiers, Don looked at him with admiration. "I wish I knew as much about things as you do."
"There are times when I wonder if I know anything at all."
"No way. You know music and play and all about those books and things."
"That's just education, Don. But when it comes to knowing about the real world out there, I suspect that you've learned a great deal more than I. In a way that's why I'm here."
"Maybe so," Don shuddered, "but most of what I learned I want to forget."
"That's why I want you to go to college. No one can ever take what you learn from you and the skills you gain can make life far more pleasant."
"You really think I should go?"
"Absolutely. You have no salable skills beyond your painting. It will be almost impossible for you to find a decent job without an education."
"I know, but I want to stay with art. Is there another school close by that might offer something?"
"There's a community college in Elizabeth City. We could take a look at what they offer."
"Let's go tomorrow. There's some things we need from town, anyway."
As he drove, Kurt had the revealing thought that because of Don’s small stature, he and Erik had been thinking of Don as a child instead of a young man. 'It doesn't behoove us to talk down to him. We must encourage him to express his opinions more often, rather than let him look to me to make all the decisions,' he told himself.
The small campus of the college delighted Don and the course offerings were what he had hoped to find, refinement of technique while allowing one to paint as he chose. When Don had filled out the application, the dean suggested that he might wish to enroll in an extension art course to held at the high school in the village, taught by the same instructor he would have when the regular session began in the fall.
"What do you think, Kurt?" Don asked.
"Why not? You already have your materials. Besides, It will give you a head start and maybe a lighter load your first quarter."
When Don entered the classroom at the village school a few days later, he was surprised to see that the instructor was one of those who had been at the gallery for both his exhibits.
The instructor looked at him curiously. "Warner, is that you? What are you doing here?"
"I'm signed up for your class."
The instructor picked up a sheet of paper from the desk and ran his finger down the list of names. "Damn! You are registered."
A small group of older people just entering the room stared in astonishment as he howled with laughter. "I'm sorry," he said, wiping tears of merriment from his face. "This is a class for beginners, mostly summer people. There's certainly nothing for you to gain from it."
"Dean James suggested it. I'm going to the college in Elizabeth City this fall. I'm already admitted."
"No wonder. I won't get the paperwork until this afternoon when I go back to the office. You're the only one I know of taking this for academic credit. You'll have to do a painting that I consider acceptable and have a developed sketchbook. You'll also have to attend each day for the full three hours."
"That's no problem. I've already got the sketchbook. I work from it."
"You've already got the painting, too. That portrait you showed was excellent, but you'll have to do something here in class."
"Fair enough."
"Advanced as you are, you can act as my assistant during the busy periods and spend the rest of the time on your painting, instead of doing the stuff I set up for the others. The class runs from nine to noon every day with another hour or two of open lab. You don't have to stay for that. Those not taking it for credit can come and go as they please, but since you're getting credit, I want to work with you alone. Let's set Thursday as your lab day. You'd better bring a sandwich."
"Fine, but I don't know enough to help someone else," Don protested.
The teacher laughed again. "You know a hell of a lot more than those who come in here. They can't even do a pencil sketch and they try to paint. It's a good thing they aren't looking for credit. Oh," he held out a hand, "I'm Mike Schoënbrun, by the way."
"Glad to meet you. I'm Don."
Mike chose a place by the broad windows, away from the others, and helped Don set up.
Several more people entered and engaged Mike's attention while Don placed his things as he wanted. Mike beckoned Don over to observe as he helped one of the students and had him follow along as he moved about the room discussing the students' work. Returning to his desk, he looked at Don. "Got the idea?"
"Won't they resent me? I mean all of them are a lot older than me."
"Not since I introduced you my assistant. That's why I did it. Now, what are you planning to work on?"
"I don't have anything in mind. If I bring one or two that I've done, will you go over them with me?"
"Sure. It might ..." One of the other students raised a hand. "Might as well get you started. Go see if you can help her."
The woman had brought in a partially completed seascape similar to one Don had done. He spent several minutes with her, pointing out ways to improve the work. When he returned to Mike's desk, Mike pushed a cup of coffee across to him. "How was it?"
"Pretty awful."
"Most of them are. I guess they come here when they get tired of playing cards or swimming. The mob shows up when it rains."
Don set a piece of artist's board on his easel and began to sketch lightly. In a few strokes of the pencil, Mike's face emerged from the lines. Each time he was summoned to help someone, he covered the sketch with a drop cloth.
When most of the other had left, Mike tipped back in his chair and unwrapped a sandwich. He called to Don, "I guess that's about it for today. You can go, if you want."
"How is it?" Kurt asked when Don entered the kitchen.
"I'm the only one taking it for credit, so Mike's going to work with me privately on Thursdays. I've got to do a painting in class, but it looks like fun. He's making me help some of the others, too."
The next few days were busy. Several of the class members tended to come in and stay for the allotted time.
"I was afraid I wouldn't get a chance to eat," Mike complained at noon on Friday as he poured coffee for himself and Don and opened a sandwich. "You going to loaf this weekend?"
"I’ll take what I'm doing home and work on it some. I didn't get much done this week."
"I'm taking my boat out tomorrow. I found this really weird old place I want to sketch, but I can't figure out how to get to it any other way."
"Where is it?"
"Up the sound a few miles beyond Duck. Nobody I've asked seems to know much about it. It was vacant a long time and then, a couple of years ago, somebody moved in and fixed the place up. Want to come with me?"
Don gave him an amused look. "Thanks a lot, but Kurt has several things for me to do. I'd like to go out with you sometime, though. Do you live down here?"
"Got a room in the village for the summer, but I go back to my apartment in town most weekends."
The entry of a student seeking Mike's help brought an end to his lunch. Don left as Mike bent over the woman's work and began to offer suggestions.
"I'm whipped," Don complained when he got home. "Teaching is hard work."
Kurt laughed. "If you major in art, you'd better get used to it, unless you're instantly successful or go into commercial illustration."
Saturday morning, Don worked on the portrait of Mike, stopping periodically to look out over the sound. A little before noon, he saw a boat close in. With Kurt's binoculars, he made out Mike seated in the stern, sketching. "Got enough fixed for another at lunch?" He called to Erik.
"Sure. Got company?"
"Mike's out there. I thought I'd wave him in."
Don walked down to the beach and shouted until he got Mike's attention, waving him ashore.
"Don! What are you doing here?" Mike asked as he pulled the skiff up on the beach.
"I live here. Come on in and have lunch with us."
"You live here! You mean you let me go on about this place and didn't say anything?"
"I almost cracked up when you said it was weird."
Mike's face flushed. "I meant it was a weird place to build."
"Aw, come on. You meant the house and you know it," Don teased.
Mike scrutinized each of Don's paintings in the library and named the order in which they had been painted.
"How'd you know?"
"It's easy. Look how you've progressed with each one. You'll be able to see this sort of thing before I'm done with you. It's much easier to see in the portraits, though." He pointed out the distinctive characteristics of each. "It's hard to believe you've only been at this for a couple of years. You seem to know instinctively what some of my advanced students have a hard time learning. Let's see the one you're working on now."
"No way. It's the one I'm doing in class. You can cut it to pieces when I've finished it."
"It's your funeral." He looked about the library with interest. "You've chosen a great place to work. The light is excellent."
"Lunch," Kurt called.
Mike proved to be an excellent conversationalist, engaging Erik's attention as well as Kurt's. Don relaxed, for Erik had not been particularly receptive to his participation in the class.
Over coffee, Mike insisted on going through Don's sketchbook, pointing out the strengths and weaknesses in each. Don did a quick sketch as Mike guided him to illustrate his explanation.
"You've taught me a lot," he said as he and Kurt walked with Mike down to the boat.
"This is what I meant about working with you. If it gets too hectic in class, we'll get together like this again. I want to see you at work on a painting, though."
"I'll try to finish up the one I'm working on this afternoon or tomorrow, then I can show it to you on Monday and we can start on one together."
"Good enough. Now I've really got to get going. Thanks for the fine lunch. It was sure better than those sandwiches I brought along."
"Come back any time, Mike. We enjoyed having you." Kurt replied.
Don returned to the portrait with renewed enthusiasm, determined to have it ready for class.
When it became apparent there would be few students coming in and Mike had those present working, Don set the portrait on the easel and pulled the covering away, beckoning Mike over.
"Be damned," Mike said, staring at himself. Don had captured the ever present humor in the pitch of the mouth, the lines about the eyes. "You couldn't find something better than that to paint?" Mike asked in mock sternness.
"Not for a critic like you. Figured I'd do something you know so well you'd have some reason to tear it apart."
"Not only do I have to look at it in the mirror every morning, but now you make me face it in class, too."
"So what's wrong with it?"
"Other than the subject, not much. Seriously, Don, it's good. You need more fine detail. Like this." Mike picked up a brush and stroked the paint deftly in a small area. "See? You've got the feeling of unity, but you haven't quite got little things like the definition in the hair which make it look natural. Work on it and see if you can make it come out."
Don worked steadily for the rest of the morning. He stopped when Mike came over with a cup of coffee for him.
"That's it, Don. Excellent."
"You really think it's okay?"
"Better than I can do. I hate portrait work. Have you decided what you want to do next?"
"Not really."
"Do an abstract. I know you probably hate them, but it will be good practice in form and composition."
"I've got an idea for one, but it's going to take some stuff I don't have yet."
Mike glanced at his watch. "It's almost time to quit anyway. Go on home and get what you need. We'll start on it tomorrow."
Don drove directly to the station and begged the chief's help. Several of the crew were soon helping Don shape small balls of graduated sizes from basswood, sanding them carefully, and sawing them precisely in half.
"And what are you going to do with these?" Asked the chief.
"They're for a painting."
"You gotta be kidding!"
"Mike wants me to do an abstract and I need these to form the shape on the canvas."
"If you say so, son, but this one I gotta see."
Erik stretched the three-foot square canvas Don needed. With everything at hand, he spent the evening trying to work out the design in his sketchpad. Discarded pages littered the floor before he held out the pad to Kurt. "What do you think?"
"The overall design is pleasing enough, but I'm afraid I don't see anything in it." The arrangement of the hemispheres began with the smallest in the center of the sketch and expanded in size and width in a gentle parallel spiral to the outer edge of the page.
"Wait 'til you see the real thing. You can't tell much from this sketch."
Don spent the morning transferring the sketch to the canvas. Mike stayed busy with the other students until the end of class. He looked at the work as Don was about to leave, but made no comment.
Once the hemispheres were glued securely in place, he began to paint, but the work moved more slowly than he'd expected. He tried color on one of the smaller hemispheres, but it detracted from the overall design he'd worked out so carefully. The stark flat white he used over the whole canvas cried out for contrast. Erik cut a simple frame from lath, which Don painted flat black and tacked around the canvas.
Since looking at the sketch, Mike had not approached him. Now that he was finished and the others had left, Don began to feel some apprehension as Mike crossed the room. He studied the work in silence, moving the easel several times, before finally nodding in strong approval.
"Excellent. I'm glad you didn't use color. Under the right lighting, the shadows cast by the shapes will provide all the shading you need." He shifted the easel so that the light from the window struck at a different angle. "See how the change in light shifts the mood? It will be in constant motion. That's why I like it."
"I tried some color, but it didn't work out. Now I know why."
"Once you get the right start, these things develop themselves if you have sense enough to recognize it., I want Campbell to see this, he's good on abstracts. Mind if I take it to the gallery?"
"Sure, but we'd better take my Peep if you don't mind my going with you. You won't be able to handle anything this big on a motorcycle."
Leaving Don outside the gallery, Mike strode into Campbell's office without knocking. "Come on, you old reprobate. Got something I want you to see."
"What?" Campbell asked suspiciously.
"Something one of my students did.
"Oh, hell! I know you won't rest 'til I do. Where is it?"
"On your display easel."
"You'll ruin me! What if one of my customers should see that shit your so-called students turn out?"
Campbell rushed out and stopped. "Not bad," he mused. "In fact, it's damn good. Now that you've found one with some talent, I hope you aren't going to fuck him up. Who did it?"
Mike opened the door and beckoned to Don.
"Hell, I might of known."
"You don't like it." Don snapped.
"Yes, I do, damn it. You claim you can't do abstracts and turn down a scholarship with Pineau to take up with a hack like Schoënbrun, then turn out something this good. You're nuts!"
"Yeah. And I got a teacher I can talk to in the bargain," Don retorted.
"Schoënbrun talks more than he paints, and you know it," Campbell cut back.
"What about you?"
To Don's surprise, Campbell laughed. "Now you know our secret." Indicating the abstract, he said, "At least you didn't screw it up. Just white, letting the shapes cast shadows from the lighting. It's imaginative and beautifully executed." Other than the portrait, this was the first of his work to bring honest praise from Campbell. "I don't suppose you want to sell it?"
"Not until he's finished my course and gotten his grade," Mike interjected.
"Figures. I'm not kidding, Don; I can get you a good price for this."
"If Kurt doesn't want it, I'll see."
When Mike joined them for dinner that evening, he began to discuss Don's program at the college, suggesting courses and teachers. Don protested the limited art instruction.
"Look, Don, you're already better than most of them will ever be. You have a natural feeling which I want you to develop. Work on academics in case you decide to transfer to a four-year school for an art major. Just for now, let me worry about the art courses you take."
"I appreciate your attitude, Mike. This is what I was afraid might be missing when Don didn't go to Weymouth." Kurt said.
"Don't worry about Don, he'll be my advisee. I'm not about to let him get away with anything less than his best."
After Mike had taken his leave, Don could not resist asking Erik, "What do you think of Mike now?"
"Looks like you made the right choice, Don. From his suggestions, I don't think Kurt or I will have to worry about you."
The next three weeks saw Don seriously at work under Mike's tutelage, enjoying the relationship, and pleased with what he was accomplishing. It came as a surprise on the next Friday morning when Mike asked him to help pack the supplies. "Well, this is it."
"It can't be!"
"Oh, but it is. These courses last only five weeks. Thanks for your help, my friend. I may as well tell you you've just ruined my reputation."
"How?"
"I've been at the college for four years now, and I've never given an A to a beginning student. You've just earned the first one, and you deserve it. In fact, you had that grade cinched when you signed in the class. I've been pushing you strictly for development."
"Thank, Mike."
"You earned it. Seriously, Don, it's going to be a lot different this fall when -you start in a regular class."
"Don't worry, Mike. I hope we can still be friends outside class."
"We will be. I'm looking forward to having you where I can really work you. That's part of what I'm thinking about. A few of your other classes may be rough. I don't care what it is, if you have any problems, I want you to come to me."
"I will. Take care."
To be continued...
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Posted: 08/22/08