Love's Rendition
Part 8
by Tragedy88
E-Mail: Tragedy88@goplay.com
Disclaimers: See Part 1.
"So,
this is a good place?" Allison
asked.
I nodded and looked back and forth
from the bench to the flowers. The
roses were on a trellis behind the bench, and the lighting was good, but only
for a short while each day. It would be
perfect for the portrait.
Ok, nothing was ever perfect, but
this place was as close to heaven as I was gonna get.
"Yup," I stated. "We'll start here tomorrow." I glanced up at Allison's expressionless
face, and wondered briefly what emotion I saw flashing in those gorgeous blue
eyes. It didn't matter. I was here to do a painting and nothing
else.
Allison
knew she looked good. I could see it in
the tiny smile that edged her lips. She
didn't flaunt it though. She walked to
the limo with her usual casual grace and waited till the door was opened, then
ushered me in first.
I, on the other hand, felt extremely
self-concious. The dress had been
altered to fit perfectly, and clung in all the right spots, but, well, I didn't
like those spots to begin with.
Ok, years of walking everywhere and
waitressing or bartending had given me toned legs and arms...but, I don't
know. Ever since...let's just say I
have little to no self-esteem.
But, if Allison's sparkling eyes
were any indication, I looked all right. Enough to pass at this dinner party thing anyway.
After a drive to The Hills I was
tempted not to get out of the limo. If
I'd thought Allison's mansion was impressive and intimidating it was a cottage
compared to this one. No wonder the guy
had his own private art collection.
"Come on," Allison
urged. She gently took my elbow and
pulled me out of the limo.
I nodded mutely, my eyes fixed on
the ornate gold moldings, white pillars and marble walks. "Allison," I whispered, as we
stood just outside of the limo.
"Tell me again why I'm doing this?"
"You promised to fend the old
men off for me, remember?" She
grinned.
My god, that smile totally
transformed her. One minute she's a
sleek, rich snob, and the next, well the next she's human. Very human, and very beautiful. My heart stuck in my throat as she started
up the steps slightly ahead of me. When
she realized I wasn't following she glanced back and stopped.
There was a curious expression on
her face as she retreated back to my side and laid her long, tapered fingers on
my arm.
"What's wrong?"
"N-nothing," I stammered.
"It's just like any other
party. And we won't stay for long. I just need to convince Mr. Tightwad to show
his collection."
Allison's hand was still on my
arm. It sent tingles running up and
down my spine.
Just
like any other party...she'd said.
"Grace
Elizabeth Jordan!" My mother
yelled. "Don't you dare run around
outside before your father's friends get here.'"
I
was five. What did I know? I liked to run, and play. Especially in the dirt with my little
brother. We were playing hide and seek
because we'd gotten bored waiting in the house. "Mummy," I said.
"We aren't running."
"Grace
Elizabeth."
I
remember seeing her, hands on hips at the back door. She was wearing a dark blue, shimmering dress. She'd looked so beautiful. It would be the last time I saw her
there....
Allison
looked down to Grace. She seemed so
lost. Was she afraid? Her heart sped up and jumped into her
throat, where it decided to come to a screeching halt. She is
scared.
We
could go.... But the thought didn't
last long. This showing was too
important to back out on now, just because Grace was afraid of something.
Get
a grip. She wanted to shake the
young woman. What good would it do? Come on,
Grace, I don't want to be here either.
No helpful words or cliches found their way to her lips. There was nothing to say.
"Buck up, girl. Life is hard." That was her father's favorite saying. Allison sighed and refused to say anything
even remotely similar to it.
I
heard Allison sigh and knew I was being a big baby. With a deep breath I squared my shoulders and brushed past a
startled Allison on my way to the front, double doors.
Just another party....
As I stepped inside the parlor my
heart almost stopped. The place was
gorgeous. It was also teeming with
people in tuxes and shimmering gowns.
Briefly I glanced down at my plain dress, feeling a blush beginning to
travel up my cheeks.
"Don't worry," Allison
said, startling the shit out of me, once again. "You look fine."
"Evening ladies," a deep,
rumbling voice said before I could argue.
I looked over to the owner of the
voice and saw a man that was almost the same height as I was, perhaps a few
inches taller. A short, but grizzly
beard, and white hair gave him the appearance of a wizened old
grandfather. Maybe his eyes used to
sparkle when he looked at his grandchildren, but as he looked at me now I got
the distinct impression that he didn't even see me.
"Evening, Mr. Thurbs. It looks like the party is going well."
Allison smiled and shook the old man's hand.
Ah, so this was the host. I smiled hesitantly as Allison introduced
us.
"Mr. Thurbs, this is my friend
Grace. Grace, this is the man I was
telling you about, who offered to show his art collection at my
gallery." She smiled and winked at
me and I wondered if I'd missed some kind of inside joke.
"Call me Thom. He smiled; a smile that touched his lips,
and nothing more.
I just smiled back the same
way. A bell jingled somewhere in the
distance and Thom held out his arms to us.
"That would be dinner. May I escort you lovely ladies to the
table?"
"Thank you," I said
politely and tucked my arm through his.
He walked us to the large table and I worked hard to keep my gaze cool
as I looked sideways at the chandeliers, large floor to ceiling windows and
marble tiles.
We sat down and the help began to
serve us. I felt remarkably
uncomfortable as I realized that any one of them could be me. The food settled like a rock in my
stomach. The pheasant, baby potatoes,
and green salad tasted like cardboard. Conversations rattled all around me and
I studiously watched my fork moving around the plate.
A thin, reedy voice garnered my
attention as it rose in both pitch and volume.
I turned to an elderly woman who was adamantly defending the virtues of
welfare for unwed mothers. As the
conversation's volume rose the guests stilled and listened. It appeared our host thought welfare was a
sham, that homelessness was because people were lazy...etc.
"Welfare isn't a sham, just the
people who use it. They're typically
uneducated, unmarried young women who got pregnant at too young an age."
My fork stilled completely as I
listened to Allison's casual, cutting words.
Someone else agreed and piped up that food stamps were simply a waste of
time.
Shit, I'd used food stamps. Would probably have to use them again. I looked around the table, and would have
bet my next paycheck that none of them had ever gone a day, let alone a week,
with nothing substantial to eat. And,
as my mouth and brain werent always connected I found words tumbling out of my
mouth.
"Most women, or men, that are
now on welfare worked minimum wage jobs.
One month they made ends meet, the next...they struggled...the
next...they found circumstances beyond their control." I got it all out in a rush, but felt I
hadn't said enough. "And, before
they knew it they were seeking government aid because when their children said,
'mommy I'm hungry', they couldn't bear to look in their innocent eyes and say,
'I'm sorry, baby, there isn't anything to eat.'"
I suddenly found all eyes on me, as
if I were from another planet, with antennae and purple spots.
"Nonsense," Thom
snorted. "They should have gotten
another job. Hell, they should have
gone to college in the first place."
"Well then, sir," I said, surprised my voice was calm, since I
was on display, and since this was not my favorite topic. "They tried. Now, with two minimum wage jobs, night school, daycare, it all
crashes down around them. Their child
becomes sick, or they're injured on the job.... What then? Suddenly they
find themselves further in the hole than ever.
Now they're paying hospital bills.
Suddenly the car is taken away, the other job goes, or they're fired
because of lost work days. Then the
house-"
"They never should have gotten
into a situation like that in the first place.
If it were me-"
Much to my horror I interrupted our
host. Something I knew was taboo, even
without being told. "If you, sir,
were there you wouldn't know what the hell to do. No servants to cook, clean, or care for the kids. No chauffeur, and no caviar." Several people gasped as my passionate
speech dwindled to nothing and I was left staring at the gray haired man that
could have been my grandfather. I
suddenly remembered he was Allison's wealthy client. Oh god, I'd just messed everything up.
Silence reigned in the room as he
stared. "What's your name, young
lady?"
"Grace," I gulped. I could feel Allison staring daggers into
her shrimp cocktail. Suddenly I
wondered if I was going to be painting tomorrow after all.
"You've got passion, Grace, I
like that. Who do you feel
about...."
And slowly, somehow, it all went
back to normal. I was part of the
conversations, I was asked questions, as if I was the rich man's contact with
the little people. And, deep down, for
some reason, it all made me feel...dirty.
But, for one night, for Allison, I
could pretend.
After dinner I escaped outside as
the party went on inside. It felt good
to shed my strange second skin and be myself again. For a moment I contemplated roaming through the vast garden but
the chill of the night air and the moonless night kept me seated on the bench a
stone's throw from the light trailing out the tall windows.
I heard the scuff of feet on marble
and sighed inwardly.
"Mind if I have a sit
down?"
It was Thom. I smiled politely and waved my hand at the
bench. "It's your house."
"That it is. With that thought in mind, young lady, I'm going
to light up my cigar, but I hope it doesn't send you scurrying away."
I shrugged. He sat beside me on the bench and removed a
cigar clip, took off a bit of the end, and lit up his stogie. Actually the smell of the cigar was sweet. It reminded me of something.
He puffed a moment then said,
"Interesting dinner, huh?"
I grunted non-committally.
"You're a friend of Miss
Parker's?"
I grinned wearily. "Probably not after my little speech at
the dinner table." He chuckled
lightly and I turned to get a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye.
"I certainly hope that's not
the case, my dear. She'd be far too
stupid, and might I add, not worthy of my art collection, if she slighted you
after speaking your mind."
"Then you're going to let her
gallery show it?"
"Straight to the point, I like
that." He took a moment to puff
some more and stared out over the darkened gardens. "Honestly?"
Thom looked at me carefully. I
nodded and he continued.
"Honestly, I don't know."
"Don't know? Why?"
I asked curiously. As he looked
away from me I turned to see what was so interesting.
"What do you see out there,
Grace?"
He motioned towards the yard and for
a moment I'd thought he'd lost his mind.
"What do you see?" he
asked again quietly.
"Money," I said instantly,
but decided not to look in his direction.
He hmmed, puffed some more and the
silence stretched so long that the crickets sounded like a miniature rock
concert. "Why is it the more money
you have, the more you want?" he asked.
"Why is it when you have no
money it's all you want?" I countered.
"Money is the root of all
evil," he quoted. "All my
life I've had money. All my life I
worked for more. But still, there's
something missing. I don't need it
anymore, collecting it has simply become a hobby for me. Do you know just how much money I have,
Grace?"
"No," I said.
"Aren't you going to ask just
how much I have?"
"No." I shivered briefly as a chill wind wrapped
around my shoulders and slithered through my thin dress.
"Why?"
"Why what, sir?"
"Don't call me sir. And why aren't you going to ask?"
"Cause I don't really
care."
For a long time he was quiet and I
wondered if I'd offended him, or done something else taboo.
"Fair enough," he finally
said. He reached into his coat pocket and
dug out a cigar. "Want one?"
It was waggled in my direction. I took the cigar and the clipper. Not sure how to go about it I took off a
small bit of the end, like he had, then lit it from the proffered gold plated
zippo. I puffed on it, but wondered if
I'd cut off too much as little bits of the cigar stuck to my lips and
tongue. "They aren't as sweet as
they smell. It's kind of
disappointing," I said absently.
He let out a soft chuckle that
turned to a belly laugh. I looked at
him with wide eyes, waggled my eyebrows and made him laugh harder.
"Am I interrupting
something?" Allison's smooth voice
floated from the doors to our bench.
"Oops, I do believe we've been
caught taking candy from the cookie jar."
I grinned. Thom grinned back.
"Not at all, Allison. Grace and I were simply out enjoying the
night air, waxing philosophical and smoking fine cigars." Slowly he stood and offered one to Allison. "Care to join us?"
"No thank you, Mr. Thurbs. Actually I came to find Grace, and bid you
goodnight." She glanced at
me. "If you're ready to go, of
course."
I blushed and stood. "I'm ready. Nice meeting you, Thom."
I held out my hand and he shook it gravely.
"I'll walk you ladies to the
door."
We walked around the side of the
mansion, because Thom didn't want to put out his cigar and apparently his wife
hadn't allowed him to smoke in the house.
And he said, even though she was gone, she'd still know, and come back
to haunt him. The limo was pulling up
in front as we arrived. Our door was
opened for us.
"Mr. Thurbs, before we go, I'd
like to enquire about your collection.
Your set price is acceptable-"
"Grace?" Thom turned to
me.
I felt my eyes widen for about the
hundredth time that evening.
"Yes?"
"Do you think I should?"
"Yes," I didn't hesitate.
"And how much would you charge
Miss Parker to let the world see an art collection that's never been seen
before and is considered priceless?"
His cigar was set aside and he watched me carefully, as he had before.
Was this some kind of test? "If it's priceless, how can you put a
price tag on it?" I asked.
Something sparkled in the deep
recesses of his brown eyes.
"Indeed." He scratched his chin while Allison and I waited
with bated breath. "Very well
then. Miss Parker, you may show my
collection without charge, on one condition."
"That would be?" she
asked.
"That you bring Miss Grace
Jordan back here tomorrow."
Instantly my mouth opened and out
tumbled words I had no time to recall.
"I'm painting tomorrow, I can't."
"Of course you can,"
Allison argued. "You can do the
painting another time."
My mouth opened, but Thom spoke
first. "Painting?" He looked
at me.
"Um, I'm doing a portrait for
Allison. I'm starting it
tomorrow." I could feel my
nervousness bounding back like a herd of playful puppies.
He nodded to himself. "Then, if I may I'd like to come and
observe tomorrow. Then you may have
your precious art collection, Ms. Parker."
"Certainly. It would be my pleasure to have you as a
guest," she said, humbly.
Well, that seemed to be that. Tomorrow I'd paint, Mr. Thurbs would watch,
and Allison would get her collection.
All in all it had been a hell of an interesting evening. We got into the limo, and, as I'd expected,
it wasn't long before Allison asked the inevitable.
"How did you get him to do
that?"
"Do what?" I played dumb.
"Mr. Tightwad gave it up for
nothing, because you said so."
Allison stretched back into the rich leather of the limo and propped her
feet up next to me. "What the hell
did you talk about earlier?"
I shrugged. "Nothing really. Must be my perfume."
Allison arched an eyebrow, then
grinned. "Well, remember to put
more on tomorrow."
I wrinkled my nose, but said nothing
as she smiled and closed her eyes. It
wasn't long before I asked the inevitable as well. "The evening went okay, then?" I asked softly.
Allison nodded without opening her
eyes. "Not one speech on walking
to school, uphill both ways."
"That's good." I paused and struggled with words that were
suddenly very difficult. "I'm
sorry...about dinner."
Slowly Allison's eyes opened and she
regarded me for a moment in silence.
Then she shrugged. "We have
different views on the world. I don't
hold that against you, Grace. I...I
hope you don't hold it against me as well?"
Allison
watched the young woman struggling for words, and realized her comments at the
dinner table had bit far deeper then she'd intended. They were a world apart on many things, the topics of
conversation being just one of them.
"I don't think you realize what
you say sometimes," Grace replied.
Allison's thoughts drifted from
dinner topics to the woman sitting across from her, in her limo, in a dress
that accented her hair and eyes, and suddenly wondered what the artist was
really thinking. "I don't?"
she asked.
"Uh no," Grace said, as
she turned to look out the tinted windows.
"If I told you I'd been on welfare, or had used food stamps, what
would you say?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?" Grace rose a delicate eyebrow. "I find that hard to believe. You said enough at dinner."
She watched Grace's jaw clamp firmly
shut after that. Just what did I say at dinner? she wondered.
"Welfare
isn't a sham, just the people who use it.
They're typically uneducated, unmarried young women who got pregnant at
too young an age."
Ahh,
I get it, Allison thought. I've offended her. What do I say now?
"I believe what I said, but there are always exceptions to the
rule. Like you."
"So, I'm not a sham? Just everyone else is?" Grace asked,
carefully.
Allison's eyebrows rose as she
considered that statement.
"No," she said finally, but the young artist was still staring
at her, in a very disconcerting way.
"Not everyone...I mean, I'm sure there are more exceptions.... I've just never seen them."
"And when have you ever
seen-" Grace stopped abruptly and
shifted her eyes away, to look back out the window. "Nevermind," she mumbled.
"When have I seen
what?" The gallery owner prompted.
"Nevermind," Grace
repeated. But after a moment she turned
back to Allison and her eyes were darker, angrier then ever before. "You live in your rich little mansion,
run your own business and have tons of money.
You don't associate with 'the little people' or know anything about
us. How dare you call our way of life a
sham?"
My
God, she's got a fire in her. It's
practically radiating off her.
Allison debated for a long, silent moment what to say. Then simply said, "You're right."
"Dammit-" Grace stopped abruptly. "What?"
"I said; you're
right." Allison paused, and looked
at her hands twisting the fabric of her dress.
"I don't know anything about you, or how you live. So...tell me?"
Grace folded her arms across her
chest, then slowly nodded.
"Tomorrow, before we paint...I'll show you."
"All right."
Morning
came, gray and cold. It suited me
well. I'd slept little.
Allison came by early in the
morning, just like she'd said, but had protested about sending Ed and the limo
away.
I simply responded to that, saying,
"You can't get a good view of my world behind tinted windows." She'd dismissed Ed, and now we walked down
Laurel St. to the Mission Kitchen. I'd
promised myself I'd start her out lightly.
This was the best way to do it.
We stood in the long line, saying
nothing. I watched Allison watching the
people who came and went out the door.
Her face was expressionless, but I could see her nervousness in the way
she shifted from foot to foot, rubbed her hands together and settled her dark
hair behind her ears.
The line moved again, and again, and
finally we were at the door. A young
man barred the way, indicating if there was enough food left, to let people
by. We were let through and I ushered
Allison across the stained floor to the long serving table. I picked up a plate and handed her one, and
we received our portion of food.
Deliberately I led her to one of the
fullest tables and sat between a large, muscular man, and a thin, strung out
junkie.
I ate silently, noticing Allison
just moved her fork, and food, around the plate. "Something wrong?" I asked.
She shrugged. "What is this stuff suppose to
be?" Allison glanced briefly to
her right, where the junkie sat, scarfing down her food, then back to her
plate.
"That," I pointed to a
pile of yellow stuff, "is scrambled eggs.
And that's hash browns."
"This?" Allison asked, stabbing her fork into a rock
hard, cylindrical object.
"Sausage, I think." I grinned as she flinched. "Hey, you agreed to come with me. Are you backing out now?"
"No, no," she said
quickly. She pushed the food around
some more, then said, "Do you come here a lot?"
I shook my head. "Not enough time when I work. I come here on the weekends
though." I noticed the junkie
greedily eyeing Allison's plate.
"You going to eat that?" I asked softly.
She pushed the plate away and shook
her head.
"Up for grabs," I slid the
plate down the table. The junkie
grabbed at it and readily at it all. I
finished my food, and stood.
"Ready
to go?" I asked. Allison nodded,
so we made our way to the plate bin, where I dropped off my plate, then we
headed out the doors.
Next stop, 'indigent row.' I led the way down a side alley, headed two
blocks west, and we ended up under the York bridge. As we walked I glanced at Allison's profile, wondering why in
hell she'd agreed to come with me. Was
this her way of telling me that even if I was a poor, starving artist I still
wasn't like the rest of the 'bums'?
Only time would tell.
York bridge is one of the oldest in
the city, and probably the most congested.
Underneath it, anyway. The cops
made a customary stop here, once a month, to chase off indigents, but otherwise
left them alone. They had to go
someplace.
There were many spoken and unspoken
rules here. For instance, everyone was
welcome, but if you caused trouble, you were kicked out, and not allowed to
return. This was a safe haven for many
homeless people. Mostly families. There was no stealing, and no violence
towards others. Respect, here, was a
very honored and treasured thing, as was your word. And, considering the circumstances, they were very generous
people.
Allison
walked through the litter strewn darkness of the bridge. Scattered here and there barrels blazed with
fire, and children ran and played. It
could have been a park, if it weren't for the boxes, barrels, and the people
warming their hands and faces by them.
She couldn't begin to imagine Grace
in a place like this. Didn't want to think of her here, cold,
starving, possibly dying.
"Here," Grace said.
The gallery owner glanced up, then
looked where Grace was pointing.
"See that burnt crate over
there?"
Along the wall ran a number of
cardboard boxes and broken crates. Many
had newspapers sealing cracks, and blankets as doorways. The burnt crate was on the end.
"I stayed there for two months,
before the cops picked me up," Grace admitted.
Allison's eyebrows rose clear up
under her bangs and she was shocked into silence. She had stayed here.
Grace chuckled nervously. "I know what you're thinking. What's a girl like me doing in a place like
this." She shrugged. "It happens. I ran into trouble. The
Mission and the Center were full, so this was the only place to go."
Allison turned to Grace after
studying the small box. "You left
here, got a job and an apartment. They
can do the same."
The artist stared incredulously into
pale blue eyes. "It's not that
easy. After I got out of- after I left
where I was I got lucky. Believe it or
not I found twenty bucks in a pair of pants someone threw out, bought one of
those dollar scratch off games and won.
I only won a hundred bucks, but it was enough to go into an apartment
with a couple other people. So, I
did."
I
lied. I'd been desperate. So, when I'd found a wallet- no, I didn't
steal it- I took out the cash and literally ran with it. The one good thing that ever happened to
me. I knew Allison wouldn't approve,
and I couldn't force myself to admit it.
It would just be one more thing to prove her theory.
She didn't say anything. I followed where she was looking.
The children.
If there was one thing I knew would
get to her it would be them. I settled
down onto the cold, broken concrete and after a minute she sat beside me. Gently I touched her arm.
"People fall through the
cracks, Alli. Some come here on
purpose, I'll admit that. But do you think
she would?" I pointed to a young
mother with a screaming child on her hip and one running around, sword
fighting, with a stick.
She shook her head.
"When you fall through the
cracks, there's little to no way to climb back up." I paused.
What would she understand? Then
it came to me. She understood
business. "Think of it as
acquiring a new painting."
Allison glanced at me, but still
said nothing. There was a strange look
in her eyes.
I continued softly. "It's a beautiful piece of art, being
shipped all the way from Paris. All the
proper documents have been attained, it's packaged and shipped, but it never
arrives." I paused, and thought
hard for a moment. "So, what do
you do?"
"Trace it," Allison
immediately replied.
I smiled. "You bet your ass you trace it. You look for it, even go out to the dock or the postmaster. But, still, something happened. Some little thing. Maybe an incorrect postage.
Who knows? How will you find it
if it's been labeled, or stored incorrectly?"
"You can't," she said.
"Exactly. People aren't rare paintings though. When they fall through the cracks they just
aren't valuable enough to society to track down and help out."
Allison studied the screaming child,
and slowly nodded. "Guess I never
looked at it like that before."
She paused. "Actually I've
never really taken the time before at all."
My hand was still on her arm, so I
reached it around her shoulders and gave her an impulsive hug. "So, now ya know where I come
from. Ready to get the hell outta
here?"
She stood and pulled me to my
feet. A small smile quirked her lips
and lit up the pale depths of her eyes.
"Yeah, someone has a painting to do."
(c) 2000, Tragedy88