The Artist

A short story about obsession, love and loss.

     Nothing would stand in her way. Nothing. And no one. Unraveled, shriveled plans take root in older adults as "woulda ;coulda; shoulda"; the Great Lamentations of Culleenamore, County Sligo. Locals shared their regrets, which come overflowing with a plethora of rationalizations covering over truth. When young, the paths and plans toward prideful triumph bud like spring roses. Then comes the inevitable, wholly unforeseen derailment, infecting their buds with terminal necrosis. They become the grist of the ordinary. Bitching with burned out mellifluous tales. The tales Irish poets and songwriters watch flitter by like fall leaves in a chilling breeze, with which they spin tapestries of melancholy.

A precocious child, Ailbe, was too bright for her own good. Too bright for her teachers, and all locals, save maybe the knottingly irascible old Dr. Brigh O'Nuallain. An acknowledged cosmologist, who is now a flipping oddball who fancied himself as an oversight, slighted by the Royal Academy of Astronomy, an expendable victim of a conspiracy, barring him from joining with his peers, like Lord Kelvin. Ailbe knew since childhood how she would slowly dissolve her life here in Culleenamore, should she wantonly let her dreams desiccate into bitterness. Ailbe beckoned reality, not a child's vapid tangent. Ireland's pastimes, as far as she could tell, were drinking, fighting and then singing about it. Futbol fueled most flash conflagrations, mediated by Guinness pints.

In her mind, the games were secondary for the real causes of fights. Never in her life had she heard of an undisputed futbol game. She speculated with this thoroughly ruminated idea that fights and beers were the point of futbol. What would a group of fans talk and fight about if everyone agreed with the process of the futbol and its outcome? Such an outcome would immolate a deeply rooted cultural nuance.

Ailbe devoured books with pictures, particularly pictures of fine art. Staring at Monet's Water Lilies, or Van Gogh's self-portrait, she pondered every detail. She could see pallet oil colors smeared onto the canvas. In her mind, she stood close enough to touch them, to absorb each pallet knife stroke. Mere spine chilling, simply reaching her very soul, fell short of accurately describing how she incorporated the master works into her psyche. She mentally travelled the world, stalking celestial painting as quarry, always starting at the Louvre, then venturing elsewhere she might find exquisite art, including architecture, sculpture, paste, and charcoal.

At home, she could read a scene, then paint it in her mind. Anything would possibly provide fodder for her art. An old rock wall, the rolling green hills of home, an ancient partially destroyed castle, a cliff side near the sea, or a street; anything she saw she could paint in her atmospheric mind. About 5 years old, maybe 6 at most, she felt different than everyone else. Daydreaming, casting her eye's net like a fisherman fishing for art, her teachers badgered her spacing out often enough to just finally accede to Ailbe's nature. Friends, teachers and her parents assumed she was just adrift, floundering and slow, even with perfect grades. Her grades were the antithesis of her mind's flight for years.

She reminded herself of the Daniel Day Lewis film, "My Left Foot", a genius undetected. Art became her single minded obsession. She had never been to anyplace holding her dream's treasure, other than a horrid mind numbing road trip to County Limerick to visit relatives.
"No wonder people from Limerick thought up pithy limericks" she thought.
The place sucked. It all seemed an endless rain drenched morass of mud and grass cooked with terse grumpiness, interspersed with sheer joy, from which clever limericks were born. She promptly hated the place.

About that time she knew to ever enjoy her life, a full intellectually enlightened life, she would have to leave Ireland. No worthy art was in the entire country as far as she was concerned. Her only chance out was school and art. She learned, unfortunately quickly, she was fantastically lousy at drawing, painting, sketching or sculpting. Undeterred, she may not enjoy her lack of a gift of creating art, but she knew it when she saw it. Combined with her ambush valedictorian graduation, she tested into the top 1% of those taking university placement exams. For those attending university, the highest dream university was Trinity, right in the heart of the big city, Dublin. Trinity enticed her attendance by publically surreptitiously offering her a full ride, tuition, room and books.

Ailbe recognized her passion to get away from Culleenamore ran rampantly as a wild fire . Trinity offered all big city possibilities, even some art, particularly oil and pastels. About 2 years into university, she became ponderous. The continent, and its endless treasures, were parked right over there. Just across the Irish Sea, loathsome England and the English channel, lay all her art dreams. So close. So she had no money to even vacation there. The Louvre's taunting cackle annoyed her. To her, it sounded a siren call.

As part of her university studies, she chose to take French and Italian languages, for they were the native tongues of the countries with art's grandest collections. Since Trinity University professors, like all professors, know they are the intellectual gurus of the world, they held incessant conferences, meetings, presentations, debates, exchanges and any other translucent excuse to gather, bask, brag and chat about their "in progress" books, or ground breaking research papers. One of Ailbe's French professors, much to her chagrin, had taken on an exchange with a professor from France.Great. Just what I need to jettison fuel on my continental fantasy, she complained to herself.

Fully prepared to dislike the Frenchie, she came unprepared to find him absolutely brilliant, charming and armed with a full quiver of irresistible pithy witticisms. About halfway through the semester, she found herself drawn to him in more than a student/professor relationship. This was new. She was a relationship virgin.

They chatted over exotic coffee quite often. Discourses flourished over the minds and talents of revered artists. That he had loved all things artful since a child ruined any chance Ailbe had to not grow more fond of Etienne, or Dr. Reynard. Over the exotic coffee, on a beautiful warm sunny day, Etienne, as Dr. Reynard of course, made her an offer she could not refuse. "How would you like to transfer from Trinity to the Sorbonne?" Just like that. He jolted her like a high test taser on a rain soaked butt. Words from Ailbe right then would be helpful. Any would be good. Long silences become uncomfortable when eyes are locked and loaded.

She had to face reality here. Her rationalization, well founded really, for side stepping the "I have a crush on you, which I can readily resist", shattered, leaving her with no option but surrender. Of course, any part of her crush was not part of the offer he made. It was worse. Way worse. So enticing, she lost her way in an emotional mosh pit inside a trance dance club, even thinking of his offer.

She looked away pausing to watch Dubliners carrying on their Dublin lives. She was living at Trinity, on a full ride she remembered. This was still home, but... . She continued to look about, combined with skittish eyes, as if pondering her possilities. "We don't want to be hasty now do we?" she heard her mother say. Deflecting with administrative questions, she again brushed by her growing infatuation. She may skim this off the top of his proposal, but she saw something in Etienne she really liked. To enhance her quandary, he would leave at semester's end. She'd unlikely see him again. Ever.
Great. Did I just think that? I did. The Frenchie and his feckin' temptations, her feigned anger was losing purchase.

No middle ground showed here. It was all or nothing .Questions of tuition, living quarters, and simpler questions like food and life's necessities flowed out freely once the mature Ailbe returned eclipsing the " is this possibility of love Ailbe?" Etienne had answers, damn plausible and well thought answers for her interrogation. He heaved a flaming siege onager right into every reason she might have or even thought, demolishing her protective fortress. "Why was this offer so well thought out?", she did not know.

Her parents might have personal objections, but those were matters of the heart. No surprise would jolt them when she presented her possibilities of Paris with a weighty phone call. Etienne could make all arrangements needed. Why was he so keen on Ailbe? She was not the only bright student utterly powerless against the brazen lure of the Continent's art. Was she convincing herself that he may have more than a pedagogical reason for asking her to Paris?

From their tableshe heard slivers of passing Dublin conversations. Cars and trucks, church bells, cell phone chatting, and all Dublin's living buzz made her dizzy. A cacophony of Dublin's life noises infiltrated her head as nonsensicle white noise. Everyone here just living their lives. The table seemed a great place to stare for a bit while she pretended to be thinking about her answer. Glancing up, she slipped into his bottomless eyes. Staring, yet blinking quickly.

She rationalized Let's face it Ailbe, dearie, you would chew off one of your own toes for this opportunity. She knew she had no realistic resistance this chance.Aha, she thought. I know what I see.Just like art which she could read, she read his eyes, his expressions, his body language. She was masterful assessing not only other people, but their mindsets too. Infatuation was the least of his magnets. Besides, not only may that pass, but it risks being one sided. This was clearly was mutual. As if some protective shell had been shattered, she accepted. Now his professorial distance evaporated.

They could go to Paris together. Her mind swirled like an unfocused kaleidoscope. She would have to put another codicil on her life map. But, flexibility and adaptation to changing circumstances is an ancient human condition. She went with that, remapping. She would make the required written revision of her plan. Later. They kept up the appearances of having only a professor and student relationship, with the occassional late night out of the way sort of nearly secret meetings. They had avoided the "L" word. Perhaps it was too soon. Perhaps they were afraid. They lost control of themselves one night. He came right out with it. Nearly.

"You know Ailbe, I, I, I like the s**t out of you." Etienne stammered.

Still safe. There it was, but still unsaid. In Paris, she attended the Sorbonne, scouring a city awash in art with a man she almost reluctantly, cautiously, now loved. Recalling her plan, she decided she improved on the original plan, by living in Paris. This was a career coup d'©tat. Falling in love clearly never entered her mind, thus enjoyed a status of no recognition. Return to the plan. Immersed in the stunning deluge of ethereal well known art works helped keep her focused. Etienne went back to the Sorbonne since the professorial exchange completed.

During one of her strolls, walking through the Le Fois de Boulogne park, nearby their apartment, she looked at children at play. Their mothers were annoying as hell. Such self-satisfaction from something rabbits do hourly, or until the female became pregnant. Children constituted an inescapable ball and chain. She was certain of one thing. She would rather breast stroke her way through a vat of puke than have an odious malodorous annoyance. A lifetime commitment? She thought not.

Children shackle you to them until you, or they, die off. They permanently mar you. Whatever you were before children, evaporate, was entrenched in her mind. On her life plan, "having no kids. ever" was annotated as if it were etched in stone. As evening fell, light fell from a park lamp, illuminating her bench. Such a beautiful spot. Her spot. Her bench. With the night park lamp. As she rested on her favorite bench, softly lit from above, she decided to hit Versailles with Etienne, which, although not an art gallery, held countless architecture, sculpture and painting excesses and nuances, stunning interior design and ceilings painted such that the art surrounded onlookers as if in 3 dimensions.

This art one does not look up to see, it glows down to the floor, surrounding, saturating the room itself. Off the favorite bench, out of its light, with her plan in her head's hand, surrounded by little chaos devil cherubs, she headed home. Etienne and Ailbe suffered contentment beyond her belief. As she wandered home through the park, her IPod ensured no kid sounds trifled with her tranquility. It also insured no one would talk to her once they saw wires dripping down her neck. She wanted music, calm and some warm. Life, was perfect.

She and Etienne played some Frisbee golf on warm evenings, resting on her bench slamming down warm Gatorade. These could be pages from "Les Miserables". They rested. Filtered sun made her squint, looking at him. Here it was again. That unmentionable emotion. Her heart wiggled, nestling in like a cat in a big, fluffy pillow, with a spot just next to hers. Room enough for two. His eyes eased. He looked relieved. They both knew. He touched the back of her neck gently with his soft fingertips, looking closer into her eyes seeking some sort of acknowledgement or escape.

They kissed. Etienne , light as downy feathers, lilted "I love you Ailbe" into her heart. Right there on her, their, park bench, under its soft golden light. Entirely discombobulated, back at the apartment they chatted their plans to tour, but not just Paris. No, Paris was just the home base. Their love of each other and art awaited discovery all over the continent. It would take delightful years to absorb a fraction together. Dreams as plans now forming, off he went to school.

The little plastic strip turned pink, not blue. You are supposed to feckin' be feckin' blue. You b*****d. S**t! she shouted. She saw it all implode. She was pregnant. Despondent over the" joyous" occasion, she could not sort out her circus carnival mind. Too much... . The plan... . The uninterrupted loving life with Etienne. Just like that, gone. How to tell him? Should she play coy, tossing out test balloons with hints of her changing mind. Or, should she just put Etienne on the land mine, then jump on it to judge his reaction. Either way, this was not when good things happened. They had agreed. No kids. She forcibly incinerated her imperishable plan. Rather, the pregnancy turned her orchestrated plan into twisted symphony, cacophony's ashes. Etienne would have a choice.

She would have to find out how much he loved her. She feared he would react like a Polident tablet in warm water, and fizzle away, leaving her on her own. That idea left her with one decision. She went to the park, seeking the wisdom emanating from her favorite bench. It had become like the conch shell in "Lord of the Flies". She decided to detonate. One ought not test love in this way, but she needed to know how he felt. How would he react? After all, the little plastic strip with the pink stripe exploded in her face with no hints or warnings.

She went home. She waited. And waited some more, changing her mind every 2 to 3 seconds. The door closed. He was home from teaching the bright young brigades for today. He gave her a hug, then asked how her day went, if she had much studying tonight.

She insisted "Let's go to our conch bench. You can tell me everything. I can see your surprise gleaming in your eyes."

"I'll grab some champagne and flutes. I have some news" he showered upon her.

He thought later they should go out with some intellectual friends, the only kind they had, and celebrate Etienne's promotion to department head by getting hammered. He spewed his news all over her. Great. Now, she much more seriously questioned her approach with him. Champagne corks bouncing off the ceiling were not possible . Now. This was a night to go out, celebrate. His animated tale of professorial glory she loved, and feared. She looked Etienne in his bottomless glittering eyes, just as they did on the conch bench when letting "I love you" exchange hearts.

"I can't have any champagne tonight my love. I'm pregnant". There it was, hanging in the air like an oily cloud, hovering, oppressively heavy.

"What? Are you sure?" he asked.

"100 % certain" she answered.

He put down their champagne flutes. Kneeling down, she knew. She, with a modicum of help from Etienne, erased their premature plans. She was not even done with undergrad, and her fine art major. Silence. Unbroken eye contact under the conch bench light. The light reduced her world to a 20ft circle midst darkness. She waited.

"No s**t? Fecking cool".

He shocked her sensibilities. He smiled, and hugged her like their first hug and kiss. This was a good man. He was on, and at her side. She dropped school necessarily, to care for their daughter Ceili. The emotional charge she got just looking at this odious, formerly odious, child drew emotion from her she could never understand before. The early daily routine involved taking walks in the park, motoring her about, chatting with moms. So surreal. So recently an abhorrent thought, she indulged helplessly in her love of Ceili.

Every day, they walked the park. She had festooned her stroller with pinwheels, cool Ferrari stickers and a Spongebob umbrella, just in case. She took Ceili to the conch bench planning section. Never too soon to expose the little bugger to art either. Ailbe oozed happy from every pore. She and Ceili wheeled into anyplace which had art. Ailbe shared her art knowledge with Ceili. As she grew, they ventured further out. As if an 18 month old bald, puffy pant pooping kid would get the point. She did it anyway. Contentment on a celestial level infused her. This kind of love no one can know until they have it in their hands. Sometimes she kept Ceili out until the conch bench light dawned.

She and Ceili knew the routine now. Walk. Chat art. Bench. Walk home for morning nap. She too, would nap, fried from the daily stroll. They had not missed a day since Ceili was born. After her nap, the afternoon serious business of raising an intellectual child with crayon drawings, letter pronunciation in French, English and Gaelic. This kid would take Ailbe's plan, going off to the ends of the art world. Plans were hatched upon the conch bench. Adventures lay on a long path, and they would travel it together, the 3 of them. Upon the routine return, Etienne's things in the apartment were gone.
He left but a single page of paper. Their love and child's abandonment could reduce to an excuse list. A single page. He was not even strong enough to speak to her face.

F*****g gutless b*****d! played in her head. How he left was not relevant. That he just packed up and left, with some rent money on the table exposed the dark selfishness within Etienne no one could have known . But he did. Ailbe allowed no tears. Not now. "Let's go back to the park. Get some fresh air shall we my sweet baby girl?" she cooed to her. The conch bench felt like a splintered guillotine now. No thought coagulated. Just a swirling blur inside her head. Gone. The charming Etienne. The spineless jellyfish Etienne. Mental name calling offered no solace. She needed another plan.

Tears, sounds of emotional destruction she had never heard before from anyone, overcame her, as she sat on the conch bench, hanging her head low, so no one would ask her if she was OK, because clearly, she was not. The park felt empty. The children made no sounds. No tree leaves rustled. No heels clicked on the sidewalk. In her head, all she heard was ringing. Tinnitus, she thought the condition was called. She would call it an after effect of suffering emotional devastation. She could hear Ceili, and stroked her perfect face. Her tears fell onto Ceili's cheek, lit by the conch bench's light. Ailbe, fumbling, apologized to no one in particular. She brushed off the tears with a tissue.

"Let's go home Ceil. Let's go chat about ourselves." They enjoyed watered down noodle soup, which made them both sleepy. "How about that nighty night now Ceil?" Ailbe asked.

Etienne's absence was everywhere, in mind, body, spirit and physical personal belongings. So empty. Except a single piece of paper. Ailbe's bright mind had formed a new plan. She and Ceili could go to Culleenamore, raise Ceili there at home. When she was a bit older, she could take them both back to Paris. The new plan formed on the conch bench, as part of the evolving routine. She might still find a way to finish her education. She had to face the facts. She was still brilliant. That combined with determination assured her, the new plan would work. Besides, her parents were grandparents now.

All her local friends would swoon over Ceili. After morning nap on a Wednesday, she went in to scoop up Ceili for the rest of the day's outings. Sadly, she knew these were the last days of strolls in the park. Strolls now would be home in Ireland. She gently picked Ceili up. She was cold. She was blue. She was limp. She was dead.

SIDS and God took away her baby, her love. Ailbe too. She no life within her heart. Months after the burial service, with its tiny white casket to which Ceili attached the stroller pinwheel, the Ferrari stickers and SpongeBob, she cried untoward, unknown tears, while recalling their strolls, and the conch bench. She had not been to the bench since Ceili....died.

Almost a year after Ceili's death, Ailbe's psyche needed to go to the park. To the conch bench under the trees, along a walking path. She couldn't bear seeing other moms with their babies. She decided to grab a flashlight, going for a walk in the dark, moonless chilly night. In the darkness, she silently wept as she walked the route. No longer able to silence herself she implored God for an answer, for which she got none. There it was. The conch bench. She wept uncontrollably. Sounds of grief she had never heard, even the last time she cried before, poured from her now. This was her farewell. This night she said "Goodbye, sweet love." She got closer to the conch bench. She turned off her flashlight, then just sat there emotionally absent.

As she sat in the moonless night, the bench was dark. The park light must have burned out. No park lights were anywhere near their bench. Which was perfect. Blackness. Devoid of life. Blinded by sorrow. She looked up into the blackness. She hung her head, resting her head on her chest, her hands on her knees. From above her, just over the conch bench, a circular light shone down upon her. Nowhere else. No moon. No lights. Yet light shone, like a hula-hoop of light. She looked up for the cold hearted joker God torturing her.

She was alone. Maybe. The angel eye light stayed. An odd sense of serenity over took her. This light was ethereal, not of this earth. It was of heaven. She looked up, and asked knowingly "Ceili?"

Author's Note

This is a word limited fiction about what happened on this park bench. A bit choppy.