The Painting

                                            THE PAINTING

   
          The sound of the easel hitting the marbled floor echoed thunderously in Mary's ears as it reverberated throughout the art gallery halls. Juggling her box of paints, stool and canvas, she hurriedly bent over to retrieve the fallen easel. Her face turning a burning shade of scarlet as she felt everyone turn and stare at her.

            Mary was the shy, introverted type. Her mousy brown hair, pulled back tightly into a bun and her thick glasses only accentuated her plain looks. She noticed a security guard walking towards her. Fearing he was going to ask her to leave, Mary dropped her stool in her rush to pick up the easel and leave unnoticed. The guard bent over, smiled at her and helped her gather her belongings. Mary kept apologizing to the guard, hoping he wouldn’t ask her to leave.

            “Don’t you worry about it, Miss. Confidentially, a little noise now and then helps remind me I’m not in a mortuary. Let me help you get settled. Who’s it going to be today?”

            Puzzled, Mary asks, “What do you mean, who’s it going to be?”

            “Your one of those art students from the college aren’t you? I’ve seen you in here just about everyday for the last month. I think you’ve copied just about everything on this floor by now.”

            Flustered at the thought of the guard noticing her before, Mary stuttered, “I… I... I was going to do Monet’s Water Lilies today. If it’s all right?”

            He smiled at her again, “You paint anything you want little lady. And if you make a little noise from time to time, don’t worry about it. Just as long as it’s not too much, okay?”

            Mary grinned sheepishly back at the guard, “I promise, you won’t hear a peep out of me.”

            The guard helped Mary set up her easel and, tipping his hat to her, went back to his station by a closed door. Seeing him standing there, Mary did remember seeing a guard there before, but had never really looked at him. That wasn’t unusual for her. She never really looked at anyone and hoped they would never notice her. People made her feel uncomfortable. It was only in her painting that she felt alive.

            As she copied the Monet, she would occasionally glance over at the guard. Once, he caught her looking at him and he smiled. Rattled at his having seen her looking, Mary tried to busy herself in the painting. It was some time before she realized she was using the wrong colors. Monet may have disliked traditional colors, but orange lilies were too much, even for him.

            Placing a new canvas on the easel, she saw a man approach the guard. The guard checked a list on a clipboard, unlocked the door and allowed the man to enter. This was the first time she had seen anyone go into that room. She assumed the room was for storage of paintings not yet on display, which would explain the guard, but the man who went in didn’t look like an employee.

            An hour later, the man came out of the room. Even from across the floor she could see he was trembling and weeping openly. The guard locked the door behind him and, resuming his post, watched as the man left. Her curiosity gave her the courage to speak to the guard.

            Walking over to him, she asked, “What happened to that poor man?”

            “To tell you the truth, I don’t know. It’s different for everybody who goes in there.”

            “What do you mean? Isn’t that just a storeroom?”
             
            “No! This room holds only one painting, Anyone can see it, but you have to make an appointment first. Then you have one hour to view it. Some don’t stay that long.”

            Even more curious, Mary asks, “What is so special about the painting? Is it that beautiful that people can’t bear to look at it for too long? Who painted it?”

            “I’ve never seen it myself, but judging from the people’s reactions, I don’t think it has anything to do with beauty. Some folks come out laughing, crying, like that gent did, or in a state of awe. Some had such a look of fear in their eyes that it scared me enough not to want to have a look myself.”

            “What’s the name of the paining?”

            “It’s just called The Painting. Nobody knows who painted it. It gives me the willies.”

            Mary knew she had to see this painting. What kind of painting could it be that it would evoke so much emotion from everyone who viewed it? “Would it be possible for me to see it?”

            The guard looked at Mary in disbelief. “You actually want to see that? After what I told you?”

            Without hesitation she answered. “Yes, I do.”

            Shaking his head, “It’s your life. You’ll have to sign a waver first and I’ll need your name and next of kin.”

            “My name is Mary Carter. I don’t have any kin, I’m an orphan. Is that all right?”

            “No next of kin? Yeah, I guess it will be all right. Sign here.”

            Mary signed where the guard showed her. “When can I see it?”

            “Well, there aren’t any more appointments today, so, right now if you want.”

            “Okay. Just let me pack up my equipment first. Is there anyplace I can put it?”

            “You can leave it right here. I’ll make sure nobody touches it.”

            Mary quickly packed up her easel and paints and set them down next to the guard. “I’m ready.”

            “Are you sure I can’t talk you out of this?”

            With more confidence than she really felt, Mary replied “I’m sure, but thank you for your concern. I’ll be all right.”

            Unlocking the door for her, he said, “If you need me, I’ll be right here by the door.”

            Taking a deep breath, she walked into the pitch dark room. When the door closed behind her, a single spotlight came on. It shined directly on the middle of the room. She could see the back of an easel holding the painting. As she walked around the easel, she saw a stool. Sitting down, she looked at the painting.

              Is this some sort of joke? she wondered. The canvas was completely blank. Then suddenly it exploded with vibrant colors swirling in a mad cinemascope of images. Slowly one image formed. It was of a little girl playing on a swing. She had long brown hair, freckles and was missing a front tooth. The girls mother was behind her pushing her higher and higher on the swing.

              "That’s me! I was only three years old. It was the last time I saw my mother alive. She and Dad were killed in an auto accident later that very day!"

              The image changed to the funeral parlor where her were parents laid out. Then to the grave site as they were being buried. She remembered how cold it was that day and felt a shiver go up her spine. The image changed again to the orphanage she was sent to later. Images of how the other boys and girls would tease her unmercifully. That was when she started to wear her hair in it’s now accustomed bun.

              More images came, showing her life right up to her walking into the room. Then it suddenly went blank again. Gradually, a new image started to take shape. She was walking down a long corridor, headed for a classroom, not watching where she was going and ran into another student.

              "Oh my God! That’s Greg Wilson!  I don’t remember this ever happening?  I would have died from embarrassment. He’s the best looking boy in school! I don’t believe it! He’s talking to me!"

              The next image showed her sitting in a movie theater with Greg. He had his arm around her shoulders.  She couldn’t believe her eyes.  More images of the two of them followed. Walking in a park… eating dinner… laughing… kissing. And then the two of them standing at the Alter.
               
              "This isn’t possible. He could have any girl he wanted. Why would he marry me?"

              Her future flashed across the canvas. The birth of her first daughter. The sale of her first painting. Her own art gallery. She and Greg celebrating their fiftieth anniversary, surrounded by their three children and ten grandchildren. Greg, now a very old man, dying in bed with her sitting at his side. And finally her death. She lay on a huge bed. her face a mass of wrinkles from severe old age. She was smiling at what must have been her great- great grand daughter. The little girl had long brown hair, freckles and was missing a front tooth.

              The canvas went blank for the last time. Wiping a tear from her cheek, Mary stood up and went to the door. The guard was still there. His look of concern vanished when he saw she was alright.

              She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you did for me today. God bless you.”

              Mary Carter picked up her paints and easel and with a bounce in her step she hadn’t had since she was a little girl of three, walked out of the gallery, ready to start her new life.

                                                            The End