The Masterpiece

Do not judge a book by its cover.

The Masterpiece

 

Every Tuesday night, promptly at six-thirty Catherine, Amy, and Wendi can be found at Bixby’s Art studio. Each of the high school girls would stand before their easels and paint pictures that brought smiles to their family and friends. Catherine had been painting the Boston skyline at dusk, using colors that brought the city alive with continuous activity. Wendi painted from memory; the previous summer’s vacation were she spent three weeks at her grandmother’s beach house on Cape Cod now she added the neighbor’s little Yorkshire Terrier puppy, Sampson, to the windswept landscape. Amy chose colors that blended beautifully to the farm meadow that she had been working on for the past two months.

 

As the three best friends talked, painted, giggled, and whispered about the Old Italian man, Mr. Latteo, stood at his easel splattering globs of paint onto the white canvas. Each week the old man would choose a color to exploit and use it in every possible way that he could think of. His large brush, gooped with that week’s choice color, purple, smeared long streaks along the course surface of the canvas.

 

“Take that! And take that!” he said to the paint spattered canvas, “And that and that!”

 

Catherine, whose easel was directly behind the old man, was able to see over the little man’s head and stare at the purple mess he was creating. She turned, caught Wendi’s attention, and the two began to giggle, breaking the silence of the studio. Hearing familiar voices, Amy looked up from her portrait and began to laugh along with her friends.

 

The old man spun around and glared at the three girls. “What are you laughing at?”

 

Amy, being the out spoken one of the group, stuck up for her two friends. “Look at the mess that you have created; look at your smock, the floor, and your canvas. You have paint everywhere. You’ve done nothing but sling paint all over everything.”

 

“That, you ignorant little hussy, is what they call abstract art,” he shot back.

 

“Abstract art? Why, that’s nothing more than paint thrown at a piece of canvas,” Catherine said.

 

The old man moved his gaze to the young blonde-haired girl with bright hazel eyes. ”They said the same things about Pablo Picasso’s art.”

 

“That may be so with Picasso,” Wendi said, feeling as though she needed to put her two cents into the conversation, “but you are no Picasso.”

 

”Really, Why don’t you enlighten us on your take, oh great drama queen of Bixby’s studio.” he retorted

 

Wendi glanced at her two friends and the look they gave her was all the strength she needed. “Pablo Picasso was a renowned painter. You are not. Picasso’s view on painting was, completely outside the box. You, who are so short that you have to use a stepladder to flush the toilet, are the type of painter who spills paint all over the box.”

 

Mr. Latteo was extremely mad at the sound of the young girl’s mean words. His baldhead turned beet red, and the three girls wondered if steam would escape from his large ears. As the colors changed, the girls continued to giggle. Then all of a sudden, the red color was gone, replaced by his normal olive color that they were used to seeing. Regaining his composure, he slowly made eye contact and when he was satisfied with each girl’s full attention, he spoke in a cool tone that would have scared people thirty years prior, “Someday I’ll paint a masterpiece, you’ll see.”

 

When the old man completed his sentence, the three girls laughed aloud. They were so loud that Mrs. Bixby had to say a few words to them. After the girls, were reprimanded, for disrupting the class; a small smile curled the old man’s lips.

 

“Someday I’ll paint a masterpiece that will show them.” He muttered to himself. “They’ll see.”

 

The rest of the time spent in class was in silence. Every artist enjoyed the solitude created by Mrs. Bixby and her magic words.

 

­                    ­                    ­

 

The summer months turned to fall so quickly that it was as if someone turned the page of a storybook. With cooler weather came school, homework, and the antics of the three girls and their male counterparts. The days passed without problems at school. Schoolwork was completed and passed in on time, football games, played and won, and the paintings at Bixby’s Art studio were completed and saved for the coming Christmas season. While the three girls debated about their next projects, every Tuesday Mr. Latteo would show the class how much paint he could sling that week.

 

This particular season brought on more than another school year, it came with an illness to Catherine that was so extreme that she had to spend time at Children’s Hospital in Boston. The doctors had no clue as to what was wrong with her. She would run a fever that was so hot that the sweat would roll off her brow as if someone had turned on a water spigot. The whites of her eyes changed color from clear white to blood red, and then they would begin to water as if she were weeping about sad news.

 

These symptoms would last exactly three hours, and then as if someone had tuned an internal switch in her body, and for the next three hours, the opposite occurred. Her internal thermostat turned well past zero. She would begin to shiver, creating goose skin from head to toe, and no matter the amount of heat they applied to her body, for that three-hour period her skin would turn deathly blue and chilled to the bone. The complete medical staff’s attention was on the poor sick child. Doctors, nurses, lab technicians, and even a few scientists from the local medical college stopped by to see if there was anything, they could do for her. Yet, not all the help in the world was enough to keep her from slipping into the unknown.

 

Daily, Catherine’s family would come to visit. Her mother, Mary, would read stories from her favorite author. Her father, Donald, would draw bright and cheerful landscapes with his daughter’s colored pencils. Her younger brother, Michael, would play his guitar and sing the popular song they both enjoyed when they were younger. She would spend the hours either sleeping or gazing out the window, facing the sparse alley.

 

Her private room was bare, a color television above the large wooden door, two soft leather chairs that were big enough to fit two , and three small pictures that had been painted with bright, cheery colors, hung on three of the four white walls. Next to her bed was a wooden nightstand; on the tabletop was a picture of her family. Her aunts, uncles, and cousins had sent her cards and flowers. The sent of the flowers was strong but it was not strong enough to over power the smell of antiseptic. All of her classmates had sent her cards, wishing her a healthy recovery. However, her most prized item that was on the surface was the picture of Wendi, Amy, and herself. The photograph, taken on the Fourth of July weekend, the previous year, when they decided to spend the day at the beach.

 

Wendi, her long raven hair pulled into a single ponytail, a huge smile stretched across her flawless complexion, wearing a star-spangled bikini, her mother said that she would receive unwanted attention from the boys if she wore the bikini. Standing next to her was Amy; her long dirty blonde hair pulled into a French braid and held in place with a flag bandanna. She was not anyone who liked to show off her body so loosely, but this was a special weekend. The best that Amy would do was to wear a pink mid-drift top and blue jean cut-offs. Next to her was Catherine, her blonde hair rained around her shoulders. A bright, healthy smile stretched across her face, and like her best friend, Wendi, she too was dressed in a star-spangled bikini and achieved the reaction from the boys that she and Wendi wanted.

 

Most of the time, Catherine’s gaze would be set upon the sparkling glass of the window in her room. Snaked across the surface of the glass was a gnarled vine, with a single brittle leaf that clung to the vine as if to say he was the best of the best. When she first arrived in the room, the vine was covered in green leaves. As the days passed, the leaves would change from green to red, to yellow, and then finally to brittle brown.

 

When the wind blew, sometimes strong, it would take the small leaves with it. The more the days passed and the wind blew, the more the leaves were swept away. Now there was only single brown leaf clinging for dear life to the gnarled vine. As the days continued to move forward, Catherine would grow weaker.

 

“When that last leaf is plucked away, my time will come to an end.” She whispered to the empty room.

 

The experimental drugs, they gave her, made her weaker and sleep most of the time. When her body would wake, her hazel eyes fluttered open, and move her gaze directly to the smell brittle leaf. When she realized that the little bugger was still there with her, it brought joy to her weak heart. Catherine knew that it was only a matter of time before she would stand before the one man that everyone is willing to wait for, God. The doctors would venture into her room with a new drug that they hoped would heal this poor sick child, they would stab her with a needle, inject the clear fluid, give her a reassuring word or two and by the time they left she fast asleep.

                                    

Days turned into weeks, then into months and every time she was able to focus on the window, she found the little leaf still clinging to the vine. Catherine thought that if the little leaf can hang on to life upon the gnarled vine, so could she. As the days moved along, her will power to survive grew stronger. Catherine began to eat more and she was even talking to the nurses more. Her family visits were now more active with card games with her brother, beauty tips from her mother, and a drawing marathon against her father. The whole time that she enjoyed her recovery, the little brown leaf stuck to the vine like glue.

 

Wendi and Amy visited everyday, after school, bringing the latest gossip from school and the art studio. They brought her schoolwork that she had missed and each helped to get Catherine caught up, so she would not fall too far behind when she returned to school.

 

“There’s a new boy at school and he’s real cute,” Wendi said, “He plays the drums in the school band.”

 

“Soccer practice hasn’t been the same without you, but now that you’re all better we’ll be back to normal.” Amy said, holding Catherine’s hand.

 

“I can’t wait,” Catherine replied.

 

As time passed, Catherine grew stronger, and the three girls were back to their antics, as if all those months had never occurred. It was not too much longer that Catherine was completely healthy and the doctors told her and her family that she could go home.

 

­                    ­                    ­

 

Two weeks after Catherine’s release from her long stay at the hospital, the three girls were walking to Bixby Art Studio and talking about the new projects that each one planned on starting.

 

“My father finished restoring his 1931 Ford Model A this past winter,” Amy said, holding her sketchpad against her chest. “I believe I’ll paint a portrait of his car.”

 

“That sounds cool,” Wendi replied. “My older brother bought my mom a toy poodle for Christmas. She named him Cocoa. He’s so cute; I think I’ll paint a portrait of for this Christmas.”

 

“What about you, Catherine?” Amy inquired, “What do you plan on painting?”

 

“I don’t know. I was thinking of a family portrait for my mom and dad for Christmas.” Catherine replied.

 

“Your mom and dad will love. You think you’ll have enough time to paint everyone?” Wendi said, turning just in time to see her brother drive by in a 1923 T-Bucket Hot Rod.

 

“Hey, how is Mr. Latteo doing in class, is he still throwing paint everywhere?” Catherine asked, looking at the Hot Rod.

 

Wendi and Amy stopped dead in their tracks and looked at each other, then turned to Catherine.

 

“What happened?” Catherine inquired worry escaping her throat.

 

“Oh Catherine,” Amy said, with sympathy in her voice. “I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you. You were sick in the hospital all that time. It just slipped my mind.”

 

“What happened, will you please tell me?” Catherine pleaded

 

Wendi starred at Amy, and Amy starred at Catherine and said, “The Mr. Latteo passed away. I’m so sorry for not telling you…”

 

Tears began to well up in Catherine’s eyes. She hugged her schoolbooks tight to her chest. She slowly tossed her head from side to side. She did not know how to take the news. She turned and trotted down the sidewalk, looking for a chance to let her emotions spill freely without embarrassment. Wendi and Amy jogged after Catherine, when they noticed that Catherine ducked down the alleyway of the Children’s Hospital where she spent all those months.

 

“Where are going?” Wendi yelled.

 

“I have to get something for class,” Catherine’s voice echoed from the alley.

 

By the time, Wendi and Amy rounded the corner of the alley, Catherine’s books, tossed to one side of the alley, and she was leaning an old wooden ladder against the red bricks of the hospital wall.

 

“What are you doing?” Any inquired

 

“I have to get something; you two hold the ladder,” Catherine said, beginning her climb, one wooden rung at a time.

 

“What are you getting?” Wendi asked, dropping her sketchpad onto the alley floor, and grabbed a hold of the ladder.

 

“Two floors above was my room. I want to get something.” as Catherine continued to climb.

 

Wendi and Amy stood at the bottom of the ladder, in the dingy alley. Trashcans lined one wall, along with paper, newspaper, and tin cans. Even an old Tomcat sat on an old wooden peach crate, at the very end of the alley, watching the new activity. Catherine slowly climbed the wooden rungs until she was almost eye level with her old room. However, something was wrong; someone had covered the window with an old piece of canvas. She could not understand why someone would cover the window from the outside. Maybe they were making repairs to the room; but why cover the window on the out side? Surely, the contractor would have covered the window on the inside instead.

 

Catherine steadied herself on the ladder, placed both hands on each side of the canvas, and began to peel it away from the window. There did not seem to be anything wrong with the window and when she peered into the room, it looked as it did when she had been there two weeks ago. She looked at the canvas; it did not seem to be anything special, just an old drop cloth. When she turned the canvas around, her eyes grew wide as fear creped into her mind. Upon her discovery, she let the canvas slip from her fingers and watched, in horror, as it floated to the alley floor. The old cloth lay at the feet of Amy and Wendi face up, as if mocking them from another world. Painted across the old cloth was a gnarled wooden vine with a single brown brittle leaf clinging to it for dear life. The words of Mr. Latteo echoed in the ears of the three girls as if he was standing in the alley with them.

 

“Someday I’ll paint a masterpiece, you’ll see!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

Please be honest with your reviews, that is the only way any writer will be able to learn from their mistakes. Thank you.

Reviews

[deleted]

I really enjoyed your story. It kept me guessing at what would happen next. I am still a bit perplexed about the nature of Mr. Latteo. Was he actually a good man who cared enough to paint a picture that would inspire Catherine? Or was there something sinister going on? He came off evil from the initial description of him. You might want to be slightly more explicit one way or the other about his character. Also, what about the news of Mr. Latteo's death made Catherine run to the hospital? There seemed like there was a gap there. Your descriptions are really great and your writing is very smooth with good transitions on the whole. I hope this helps.

[Fictioneer]

Thank you for the review. I didn't realize those gaps were there, and I will address them A.S.A.P.