Better Than Running at Night (16 page)

Behind me, Ralph was stifling a laugh. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Sam shooting me a look. I couldn't turn to either one of them for fear of cracking up.

"I hope you don't mind having Dalia here today," Ed said. "If I'd taken the time to bring her home, I would have been even later! And I've already skipped out on you because of her!"

"No, Ed," Ralph said, letting out a laugh. "It'll be cool having a dog around."

"Yeah," I said. "You seem to be having so much fun with her."

"Right on," Sam said.

"Ellie!" Ed shouted. "You've pinned the tail right on the donkey! Dalia's been living with me for seven years, and I've shared my best times with her! Isn't that right, Dalia?"

Dalia panted and let out an enthusiastic bark.

"Show my students how you shake hands," he said. "Ellie, put out your hand for her. Go on!"

I walked up to Dalia and offered her my palm. Sure enough, she placed her paw on top of it.

Then Ralph and Sam had turns.

"Dalia, show my students how you roll over," Ed prompted.

But this time Dalia stayed in place, looking up expectantly.

"Roll over, girl!" Ed shouted.

Still nothing.

"Sometimes she needs some encouragement," he told us.

With that, he got on the floor and rolled on his back.

Then Dalia did the same.

"There you go! That's a good Dalia!" Ed yelled, midroll.

He got up.

"Well, enough playing!" he shouted.

Dalia sat up too.

"Let's get to work! Today we will begin drawing templates for your final projects. I want to discuss materials. Everybody get out your notebooks!"

We took our seats on the stools.

"Are we all ready? Ellie? Sam? Ralph?"

We nodded.

"Dalia, you are exempt from taking notes, but only for today. Is that understood?"

Dalia trotted over to Ed and nuzzled his leg with her head.

Of course not a wife. Of course not a girlfriend. Of course not a boyfriend.

A dog.

Nate was leafing through my photo album. He laughed when he came to a picture of me in pigtails, lying on a giant inflatable ladybug in a pool. The next few pages included various baby shots of me with ladybug garments: a ladybug hat, ladybug sunglasses, a ladybug bib. Lord knows where my mother dug this stuff up.

"Why ladybugs?" Nate asked.

"That's my real name," I said. "Ladybug."

"You have
got
to be kidding me."

"No, that's really it," I said. "Hippie parents."

"Ladybug," he said, grinning. "That's sexy."

"You think so?"

"Absolutely." He kissed me on the lips.

A black-and-white photograph fell out from the back of the
album. It was an autographed picture of Jim Morrison, addressed to my mom. It said:

Marsha,
You light MY fire, baby!!!
Yours always,
Jim

"Who's Marsha?" Nate asked.

"My mom."

"Did your mom know Jim Morrison?" He was so excited, I felt bad letting him down.

"No," I said. "It's just an autograph."

"Too bad."

"I found this picture in a shoebox under her side of my parents' bed when I was in sixth grade," I told him.

We stared at the picture of the Lizard King for about a minute. Nate began to turn the page, but I held it in place.

And then I added the part of the story I had never revealed to anyone.

"The shoebox was filled with old photos," I said, "mostly of Jim Morrison."

"Wow," he said, "I'd love to have a woman so obsessed with me, she keeps tons of pictures of me hidden under her bed."

"Dream on."

"Come on, you don't think it's possible?" he teased.

"You're no rock star."

"But a sex symbol anyway. I don't need a guitar."

I put him in a headlock and gave him a nuggie.

"Okay, okay," he said with a laugh. "Tell me what was up with the box of Jim Morrison pictures!"

"At the time, I didn't know who Jim Morrison was, so I thought my mother was hiding the box because she had a secret relationship with him."

"Didn't know who he
was?
"

"I was too busy painting and making myself look artsy to think about old-school rock stars."

"That would've been cool though," Nate said. "You know, for your mom to have had a secret relationship with him."

"Well, not really." I was so embarrassed I didn't look at him. "I thought Jim Morrison was my father."

"Just because you found the box?"

"There was more to it than that," I said. "For years I suspected that something wasn't right. Then, once I figured out my parents were only married seven months when I was born, I knew I was onto something. And there were other things—like my mom always telling me to skip over the Father's History section when I was filling out forms at the doctor's office. I used to think, If only I can find some evidence that there was another man, I'll have it all figured out. I thought Jim Morrison was my proof."

"So did you confront your parents?"

"Not yet. I stuck the picture in one of my sketchbooks and didn't take it out for a few years. I mean, I'd look at it every once in a while, but I didn't show it to anyone else. I thought I needed
more evidence before I told my parents I knew. My dad's a lawyer. One flimsy photograph wouldn't be enough."

"What
was
enough?"

"Genetics," I said. "Ninth-grade biology. That's what did it. When I learned two blue-eyed parents can't make a brown-eyed girl."

Nate studied Jim Morrison's eyes. "They look dark in this picture," he said.

"Yeah, well anyway, one day after school, I was doing my Punnett squares homework—those genetics charts that show you the odds of offspring inheriting dominant and recessive genes from their parents. I was working at the kitchen table and I had the Jim Morrison picture hidden under my textbook. My mom was in the kitchen, too, working on a project on the floor. I remember this so well. It was such a ridiculous project."

"What was it?"

"She was painting a metal cabinet to look like burned wood."

"Weird. Why?"

"Because the client wanted to be able to stick magnets to it."

"Wealthy people have the most creative ideas!"

"No kidding." I rolled my eyes. "But anyway, I was sitting there with my Punnett squares and I tried to think of a way to ask her why my eyes were brown, without making it too obvious what I was getting at. First I asked if she dyed her hair. She didn't. Then I asked if her contacts were tinted. She said something like, 'I'm
all
natural. Cosmetic technology won't be touching this body.' Whatever it was, she sounded like some commercial for post-hippiedom."

Nate laughed.

"I sat there, tracing my Punnett squares boxes over and over again. Finally I lost it. I started yelling all sorts of crazy things."

"Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know—like, 'Then genetics is a load of crap! If blue-eyed genes are recessive, like Mr. Skripsky says, they can't combine to create brown!"'

"What else?"

"Then I must've said something like, 'Just look at me! My eyes are brown! And they're not even light!"'

"What did she say?"

"Nothing yet," I said. "First I asked her what would happen to science, since I was about to disprove the foundations of genetic theory."

"They'll have to rewrite all biology books because of you!"

"Exactly. I probably said that, too. But she kept on painting. I wondered what Mr. Skripsky would think of her superficial change of a material's properties. I bet he never knew you could turn metal into wood."

"
Another
reason to rewrite science books!"

"It's true," I said. "What am I doing in art school, anyway?"

"Come on, back to the story. Did she ever answer you?"

"Yeah, she finally came over to talk to me. I shoved the picture of Jim Morrison in front of her and asked if this was
him.
She didn't know what I meant, and said 'Him
who?'
And that's when I yelled, 'My father!' She didn't even attempt to stifle her laugh. She said, 'Jim Morrison? Don't you know who that is?'"

"She must've thought you were totally lame."

"Probably," I said. "She explained that he was from the Doors and that her friend had been a roadie for him, and that this friend had given her all sorts of tour photos, including the signed one. I remember her holding the picture up to the light and saying she hadn't seen it in years."

"Yeah, right," Nate said. "She was probably sneaking peeks when your dad was away."

"I doubt it," I said. "But once we'd sorted out who the guy in the picture was, I was almost disappointed. I asked her if this meant Dad's my dad. That's when she stopped smiling. 'Well, he's your dad,' she said, 'but he didn't father you.'"

Nate looked at me expectantly. "And then?"

"And then I flat out asked her who did. 'That I don't know, El,' she said. 'That even I do not know.'"

The next night, Nate was grumpy.

We were sitting across from each other at my table.

Sloane was now getting more compliments than he was. Fritz had called her "fearless," "sensual," "an uninhibited modern woman." He never said anything about the quality of the painting itself.

"That should make you feel good," I said. "He doesn't suspect your stunt."

Nate was tapping his heel like an overanxious drummer. The vibrations traveled through the floorboards to my foot.

"But her work sucks! She can paint her awful kindergarten crapola and Fritz won't call her on it. The girl is going to get graded based on
my
skill. I'll bet you anything she gets a better grade than me!"

"Maybe Fritz knows what you're up to. Maybe he thinks you shouldn't use homework as an opportunity to hit on girls."

"But I'm not hitting on her!" he said, slamming his hand on the table. "I'm messing with her mind!"

"Okay, maybe he thinks it's wrong to be messing with her mind in class."

"Well, it's none of his business. Even if I
was
hitting on her, it would be none of his business. That's between me and Sloane."

"What's between you and Sloane?"

"Nothing!" He stood up. "Ellie, don't even try to take this conversation in that direction because there's nothing between me and Sloane, and it's not because there couldn't be, but there just isn't."

"What does
that
mean?"

"It means there's nothing and that's it."

He stared vacantly at the drawing of me and Billy.

"Next week is my last chance. I've got to do something good. Something that'll make her regret she ever went along with this game to begin with."

Then suddenly his face brightened and he jumped to his feet.

"There's only one thing left to do," he said. "And it's risky, but I only have one more shot anyway."

He decided to sleep at home; he had to plan out the next painting.

That night my muscles felt like stretched rubber bands about to snap.

The next night he stayed over.

We were lying under the covers in the dark with our legs entwined.

"I see art as a reflection of romance," he declared after we'd split a bottle of wine.

"How do you mean?" I asked, giggling. Ever since we'd opened the wine, everything he said seemed funny.

"No, I'm serious," he said. "This isn't a joke. I don't usually talk about this stuff with people, but I know you'll get it."

"Okay, so how is art a reflection of romance?" I asked, keeping the corners of my mouth from curling upwards.

"Every mark, every gesture an artist makes is an expression of the lover inside him. We make images we like, we become attached to them, it's hard to see the errors, we fall in love with our creations. We're trying to create the perfect lover."

"I don't think I do that." I imagined myself in bed with Ivan the Terrible.

"It's not something you can control. We all do it."

"What if you're painting morbid scenes? What if you're portraying murder?"

"Love isn't always pretty," he said mournfully. "Sometimes people prefer the rough, untamed side of humanity." He yanked the covers over our heads and wrestled with me in the tangled sheets.

"Well what kind of lover do you think I'm trying to create?" I asked when he finally let me pin him.

"You?" He ran his fingers along the side of my face. "Your work is very careful. Your marks are deliberate. The rhythms in your line quality seem to say something. The subtlety of your modeling somehow affects the viewer—it's hard to tell at this stage, since all I've seen are classroom exercises. But you'll figure it out someday."

"Am I looking to create you?" I asked, giggling again.

"You don't have to look," he said. "I'm right in front of you."

Our laughter melded as he rolled on top of me and kissed my nose.

"Oh," I said. "I guess I just couldn't see you because the lights are out."