A Butterfly in Flame (7 page)

Chapter Fourteen

The young woman rose, gave a brief, inquiring look at the girl next to her, and pulled from the back pocket of her jeans the copy of Emily Dickinson that she had been sitting on. She looked to Fred the question whether she should also gather up her canvas bag. Fred shook his head and gestured, then led the way, to the corner farthest from the sounds of the neighboring classroom, and cleared a space amongst the easels, next to the sink.

The student following him was tall and pink, with curly red hair both short and unkempt. She was pretty in a distracted way. As she approached, her colleagues were either finding their books among their belongings, or easing closer to people who had them or—a few of them—drifting toward the door that would lead them to their lockers or toward escape.

“Let’s grab a couple of these things,” Fred suggested, laying hold of one of the unfamiliar objects of furniture. “What do you call them?”

“Horses. I don’t know why,” she said. “The neck, maybe.” She stroked the high side.

“Or it’s translated from French,” Fred suggested. “Easel is
chevalet
and a
cheval
is a horse. Come to think, easel means donkey in some language, maybe Dutch.

“I’m Fred.”

The horses were positioned with their high ends close to each other. “Susan,” she said, sitting astride her horse and crossing her arms on the high end. Her shirt was of a heavy green, almost military twill, and a black cotton vest with brass buttons bibbed the copious breasts.

Fred sat and crossed his arms. “When you draw, I guess the drawing board is supported on the neck of the horse?”

“One end. The other end goes here,” Susan said. She pointed toward the dark line across her thighs where a continual rain of particles of charcoal must fall while she was working, drawing.

“What’s the hardest thing you’re doing? The hardest class this year?”

“So far nothing’s been easy,” Susan said. “First you think, heck, it’s art, how hard can that be? Then it’s six hours drawing one thing and getting it wrong a hundred ways, after you get started. Then they grade you. Can you believe it? A grade on a drawing? Can you believe I flunked a drawing of a cube first term? I couldn’t believe it. A cube. Six sides but the most you can possibly see at one time is four of them and mostly it’s three unless it sits on one point. I couldn’t believe it. I flunked it.”

“So that’s the hardest thing?”

“No. Jesus, that was only the wakeup. No, the hardest thing is what she’s making us do now.”

“She, meaning Meg Harrison?”

“Right.” Susan nodded. She fiddled with her Laurel Poetry Series
Emily Dickinson.

“Yes?” Fred prompted.

“You mean, the assignment? We all have to do it. The second semester’s life drawing, see. You come in, you draw from the model, Harrison sneaks around and tells you what’s wrong. But the hard thing’s the homework. We have two months. Each person has to draw a nude self-portrait, life size.”

“It would be a problem just getting the paper,” Fred said.

“There’s nothing about it that isn’t a problem,” Susan said. “Where do you do it, how do you do it, can you find a mirror that big? Some of the people, especially the guys, are shy about, you know. And also, too…”

“Seems to me…is there any way you and Missy can help each other? Being roommates…”

“How do you know that?”

“Wild guess, but not really,” Fred said, “Since I happened to notice you when I…did you say two months? One drawing, two months?”

“We started two weeks ago. It’s like one of the guys keeps saying, you feel like such an idiot when you’re only wearing a pencil.”

“I can’t see Emily Dickinson doing it, that’s true,” Fred said. “So you got started already?”

“Taking turns. We just have the one mirror, on the closet door. No way could we work at the same time. There’s no room. Then the paper’s so big, and the plywood it’s on, just it’s no picnic trying to see around it, or move it.”

“So she’s serious,” Fred said.

“Sure. Who? Don’t you want to talk to the next person?”

“Meg Harrison,” Fred said. “I mean, she’s serious?”

“Her and all the rest of the teachers,” Susan said. “The studio teachers.”

“You mean Flower…”

“How can you tell? English lit is bullshit. I mean, no offense…”

“Thanks. I’ll remember, Susan. You’ll want to get started. Give me your last name so I can mark you present.”

The intensity of labor being exhibited in the room was a good deal more serious than anything Fred’s initial impression had hinted at. These characters could work if they were engaged. Fred checked Susan Muller’s name on the list he had copied from Morgan Flower’s class record book, and called a name he chose at random, “Arthur Geekas.” When that produced a candidate, he proceeded.

By nine-thirty, a reasonable picture of the place was forming. The students, though naïve, were serious and by no means cynical, as they might be if they found themselves in one of the elite schools. Generally speaking, they gave evidence of an eager optimism that made them seem unspoiled by the boundless trivia of urban semi-culture; as if they, too, despite whatever up-to-date gadgets they might carry, were stuck, like the town of Stillton, somewhere in the late nineteenth century. They had likes and dislikes among the faculty but none expressed doubt about the integrity of the program. Morgan Flower, though not admired, did not seem to be hated. If there was a thing going between him and his student, Missy Tutunjian, nobody would drop a hint of it—not surprising, anyway, on such brief acquaintance.

At nine-thirty a student Fred now knew as Randy raised his hand and said, “There’s usually a break by now.”

“Sure,” Fred agreed. Maybe coffee existed somewhere. “Fifteen minutes?”

Fred joined the students strolling into the hall. “I’m taking orders,” Randy said.

“I’ve got my bike. I’ll be back in five minutes.” He took Fred’s order, and his money.

Fred wandered down the hall, giving his students some room. The double doors of Stillton A opened as he reached them. Meg Harrison, pushing through, yelled at Randy’s retreating back, “Large. Cream and sugar.” The studio behind her smelled of fresh earth.

“Come on in,” she invited. “We don’t break for another ten minutes.”

Within the big studio students were standing, each at a private raised stand two feet square, on which a metal armature—the room held a forest of them—had been shaped to repeat the structural core of the woman who stood on the model stand at the room’s center. She was twisted, with her arms clasped behind her head. She was no longer wearing the apron that said
Stillton Café.

Chapter Fifteen

“That’s my student,” Fred said. “Marci belongs in my classroom.”

A pinkness suffused the model. Without moving her head, she protested, “We didn’t think you’d show.”

“We’ll talk when you break,” Fred said. He turned to Meg Harrison. “That setup you have in the middle of my classroom. It doesn’t bother Flower? I didn’t move it, but I can tell you it’s in the way.”

“Most of them really need the money,” Meg Harrison said.

“I don’t haul students out of your class to do something for me,” Fred continued.

The students, looking from the model to their work, applied small gobs of clay with their fingers, studied the result, then added or subtracted, or scraped at their figures with a variety of tools. Without exception, they listened for Meg’s reply.

“If you don’t give this girl some buttocks,” she told the nearest student, taking a brisk slap at the relevant portion of the form, “no way in the world can she twist her shoulders. It’s all connected. Feel it yourself. Twist the same way. Go up and look at Marci. Come back and feel it. Get some yeast in the dough.”

The student wiped his hands on the towel at his waist and went to examine the model.

“Let’s take it outside,” Meg Harrison suggested, turning and leading the way into the corridor and outside. She called back over her shoulder, “Five minutes, Marci.”

Outside, the students smoking in the damp chill of the morning drew aside to give them room—but not so much room as to miss anything that might develop. “The regular model called in sick yesterday,” Meg said. “Marci is about the right size and shape to take her place. Who knew you were coming and, if you did, who knew you cared?”

Randy appeared, on his bike, with an elaborate construction that allowed him to carry a couple dozen cups of coffee. He studied the labels on their lids and began to distribute them.

“Meaning you assumed or knew Morgan Flower wouldn’t show this morning,” Fred said.

“Meaning if Morgan Flower showed, he either wouldn’t know or wouldn’t give a shit. So Marci had a chance to earn some cash. She needs it. And she’s a good model. Thanks, Randy.” She and Fred accepted their coffee, and Meg paid for hers. “So when you told me last night that you were taking Flower’s classes, I gave her a call.”

“And I’m not happy about it,” Fred said. “As long as she’s my student.”

“I hear you. So mark her absent,” Meg said.

Marci came outside, wrapped in a beaten-up red corduroy bathrobe, and wearing plastic thong slippers. Randy appeared and gave her the final cup. “I’ll get the assignment from someone,” Marci told Fred.

“Fine. Except I’m talking with each of the students also,” Fred said. “While the rest work on the assignment.”

“Talk now,” Meg Harrison said. “I won’t get in your way.”

“We’ll use the classroom. If Marci’s late, you’ll understand,” Fred said.

Marci, following him, muttered, “Tug of war. My parents divorced. I know all about it.” She sat side-saddle on the horse Fred designated and started, “Last night, when we happened to talk, I hadn’t decided—thought I might call Harrison back again and say—but then—please don’t mark me absent.”

“I thought Flower didn’t care.”

“He doesn’t. But he still marks you absent. If he notices.”

Fred pulled the class list he had made out of his shirt pocket and placed a check mark by her name. “You are present,” he assured her. “Or we couldn’t be talking. You’re holding a broom in yours?”

“My what? Oh, you saw? How? No. Last night. You heard me. Talking. The big drawing. The nude. Obviously, and that’s so obvious. So I got a broom and I’m holding it like “present arms.” It’s harder than I thought. You have to try to remember what your arms and hands are doing. It was a mistake.”

“So, then, is Missy Tutunjian doing a modeling gig for some other class?” Fred asked. “I called her name. She didn’t answer.”

Students were trickling back into the room and settling into their places again. Marci checked the band of white skin on her left wrist. Fred pushed on, “Do you know? I’m trying to learn who’s who and who’s here.”

“There’s some in the class, it seemed like, when Harrison made the assignment, the big self-portrait nude, seemed like they’d never been naked before. The guys especially, like in case we were going to come out with rulers, you know. It isn’t hard, really, I mean, there’s the psychology, but after that, and then, but, then, as I say, with some people it’s like they’ve never been that way and they’re, not even by themselves, and so, but, basically. Missy is one of those. If you were a prude when you started, by this time in the first year it’s not easy to still be one, but Missy is. She even tried to make Harrison make an exception, couldn’t she pay her roommate to model for her instead, but Harrison wouldn’t. ‘If there’s something funny about you, fudge it,’ Harrison said. ‘That’s what art means,’ is all she’d say. And so she pretty much had to. Missy.”

“Why do you think Emily Dickinson writes about death so much?” Fred asked.

“Besides, there’s no other classes today that use models,” Marci said. “Otherwise there’s first year drawing. Figure modeling. Third year painting. Sometimes fourth-year. That’s the works. Printmaking, they could but they don’t, don’t ask me why. I guess they’re so taken up with the inks and the presses and the rest of that mess. It’s a whole other world over there, but it looks like fun. It’s what I might…”

“Gotcha,” Fred said. “Emily. Death. She goes on and on about it. In fact she won’t shut up. How come?”

“Maybe she thinks if she keeps telling herself, she’ll finally believe it. Like Christmas, only worse. I have to go back in there. Really.”

Fred nodded her release. A few students waved her good-bye in a friendly way. “Later, Marci,” Randy said.

The group was already tight, just after the few months that had passed since classes started in September. A small town in a small town in a small town.

“Let’s see how we’re doing,” Fred proposed to the class as the door opened and Abe Baum, in full business regalia, looked in and beckoned.

“I’m teaching,” Fred said.

“You are trespassing,” Baum countered.

Chapter Sixteen

“This is private property.”

“Interesting development,” Fred said, strolling toward the source of the interruption.

“Trespassing on private property. Get out or we throw you out,” Baum said.

Fred turned to the class and spread his arms wide. “What would Emily Dickinson do?” he asked. “Keep working. You know what you’re doing.” He more or less shoved Abe Baum into the hallway and closed the door. Behind them the classroom listened.

“You have ten minutes,” Baum said.

“Self-styled President Harmony finds her feathers ruffled?” Fred asked.

“Out!”

“What do you want?”

“You on your way to Boston.”

“You want things quiet, you said. It may already be too late. This place is ready to blow, never mind the little problem you brought me in for. One call to Fox News, it’s all over.”

“Add the threat of blackmail to trespassing,” Baum said. “You’re suggesting…”

“I’m suggesting come off the cowboy act, which you don’t have the balls for anyway, and let’s walk over to President pro-tem Harmony’s office and work out something. Because, my friend, you are not going to run me out of town.”

Abe stroked his necktie. “You’re making trouble,” he said.

“
Finding
trouble. There’s more. I smell it everywhere,” Fred said. “So far I’m reserving judgment. Come on. We sit down with Harmony, see where this goes next.”

When Fred led Abe Baum into the office Harmony said, “Later,” into the phone and hung up. “Well?” she demanded.

“I’ll use the desk,” Fred said, sitting on a corner of it and moving a vase of flowers aside to make room. “Take a chair, Abe. Here’s what I propose.”

“I make the proposals in this room, at this desk,” Harmony started.

“You’re making a move for accreditation,” Fred pushed on. “Even before this mess you suspect, between a missing teacher, male, and his missing student, female, even without this you’re in trouble. I’ve been here a few hours. If I can spot this, and I know blame all about whatever the accreditation honchos do, I know you’ve got problems.

“Item: You lost your old director or you fired him, or her, I don’t know which. Item: the chairman of the board is filling in, and are you looking for a replacement? Item: you have no admissions director. No admissions means no school. Q. E. D. And during class time you don’t even have a student at the receptionist’s desk. Item:…”

Abe Baum broke in, “I’ll call the officers to remove this man. Trespassing, public nuisance, hell, Liz, for all I know he’s already started molesting students.”

“And I can tell there’s not much agreement between the academy’s board and administration (such as it is) and the students and faculty,” Fred persisted.

“The faculty has been stirred up,” Liz Harmony announced. “That’s one reason…”

“That’s been dealt with. It’s being dealt with,” Abe Baum interposed.

President Harmony frowned and pursed her lips as if seeking an appropriate place to spit.

“What are they doing, threatening to stop shopping at the company store?” Fred asked. “It’s not enough you keep your faculty barefoot and pregnant; you want them to love you too?”

“The faculty is nothing to you,” Abe Baum growled.

“Wrong. I have the honor to have been appointed to the faculty of Stillton Academy of Art. To date it is the high point of my academic career, and I take the position seriously. Whatever is going on here, it’s more than a missing teacher and a missing student. I said I had a proposal. You might as well listen, since I’m not going away.”

“We are listening,” Harmony said. Fred’s looming presence on the corner of her desk had caused her to edge her chair back.

“The first thing is, look like you want me here,” Fred said. “I’ve gotten you upset. Fine. Forget it. You gave me a job, I’m doing it. But my hands are tied. I can’t move. As a mere member of the faculty, there’s too much I can’t get next to. If I’m going to find out where that student is, and Morgan Flower, supposing they are together—and I don’t buy the double suicide by the way; it’s too easy—here’s what we do.

“There’s a faculty meeting this afternoon. You introduce me as—I’m teaching, yes—but my real function is, I’m a trouble shooter, an independent eye, here in disguise. My real mission is to study this place inside and out and tell you if it makes sense to go ahead with accreditation or, if not, what you should do instead.”

“You said yourself you don’t know a thing about…” Harmony objected.

“I’ll handle that. You whistled and I came to you. I’m here. I don’t like it. You don’t like it. Still, I’m not going. Not for a week.

“What you’ll say is, I have your go-ahead to look anywhere, ask any questions, look at whatever I can find, and all with the blessing of the powers that be.”

“It’s unheard of,” President Harmony said, not for the first time. “Abe, it was a crazy idea to bring in a stranger. I want him gone.”

“It might not be as bad an idea as Fox News,” Abe Baum reminded her. “It’s quiet so far.”

“What time does the faculty meet?” Fred said.

“Step outside. I’ll confer with my client,” Abe Baum said. “I’ll call you. Don’t leave the reception area.”

“Hell, I can answer the phone,” Fred said. “Good Morning. Stillton Academy of Art. Where is everyone?”

The previous receptionist had evidently been of ample girth, and inclined toward comfort. Fred sat in her padded swivel desk chair and considered the typewriter that should, by this day and age, have been a computer. The bottom desk drawer had files labeled
Admissions, Maintenance, Alumni, NEASC, Bills Pending, Personnel, Student Records, Class Syllabi…
”

“Who could care?” Fred asked. “Who in the name of God could want to know all this?” The file marked
Personnel
was empty. The phone rang. Fred picked up the receiver and told it, “Stillton Academy,” and nothing happened. Lighted buttons on the console blinked in a meaningless way. He punched one and, though it ceased blinking, it produced no voice in his ear.

Abe Baum put his head through the door. “We’ll talk,” he said.