Strange Fruit

What will happen if I let him see the paint in my eyes?

Will he still smile and shake my hand?

Will he still look at me like I'm the only one in the room?

The more I look at this painting, the more it glares at me.

Something’s missing.

I must finish it before--

It finishes me.

--

I'm trembling,

as I write this

Post mark: September 30, 2010.

It’s from my pa. He never sends me anything.

Your ma is dead. You'd be wise to come out here. Pay your respects. The funeral is in a week from this date.

-Your father

Something left unsaid, said by the one person I never wanted to hear it from.

Dead?

Dead as a doornail?

Dead.

Dead.

Like me.

I feel as broken and torn apart as that old family barn my dad never fixed. Why did he never fix it?

Why did he never fix me?

Fix us?

--

I work, I sleep, I eat, I paint.

I work, I write, I paint.

I work, I paint.

I paint.

And paint and paint and paint.

--

The night after I received the postcard:

Alex came to me in a dream.

He said you better stop.

He pointed to my brush.

He said the sun will melt it away.

Melt you away.

He leaned in toward my ear, soundless, communicating to me something I never thought I would hear.

Then snap! And whoosh! He's gone.

His final act. Now you see me Jacky-boy, now you don't.

--

I ripped the painting from its canvas.

My eyes blur and my heart stretches unnaturally, twisting. Choking me.

I tear it in a fury, till little bits of the plaster like obsession flutter like thick snowflakes, indistinguishable to its former self. In my hair, on my clothes.

Then all I see are his eyes.

--

The next time I see him, he's not performing.

He's outside of the coffee house, smoking a cigarette.

I walk over to him and he offers me one. I shake my head.

"No thanks."

He smiles a curiously concerned smile, and yet he seems happy… and I can’t help but wonder if it is because I’m here.

"Did you come by to see me again?"

Because of his question I don't answer, looking at the ground, blushing.

"I thought so. I'm done for the night." He takes a long drag and looks at me.

From the corner of my eye, I can see that his posture is straight and confident. And what am I doing? Slouching, my jaw clenched, my words clenched.

“How are you?” He asks, attempting to get me to look at him. I give him a sideway glance.

I shrugged. "My Mother passed away."

He looks stunned, and I know I didn’t mean to put it out there so soon, or even at all, I mean, we’ve only spoken once before.

He put out the cigarette after a few puffs. “I think that death brings a person closer to life than anything else.”

“What do you mean by that?” I crinkled my nose and looked at him eye to eye finally.

He laughs, and I can tell it’s a nervous laugh. “Oh. I mean… well. I never think that saying, ‘Oh, my condolences,’ helps anyone. All I meant is that, in my experience, when someone dies, very close to you, and I’m guessing you and your mom were close, it puts you in a completely new perspective. I found that I started clinging almost tenaciously to my life. When you’re young, things like this can make you or break you. It’s not your situation; but maybe a new viewpoint could help.”

“What happened?” I asked quietly.

“I had no one, same old story. My dad left when I was twelve. He divorced my mom. When I was fourteen, my mom died.” He lit another cigarette. “No sob story here. It’s just that I know that death is always here with me, in here,” he pointed at his heart and smiled at me, “And that’s just fine with me, because it’s the truth, and I embrace it. Death in relationships, death in rivals, friends, parents, and yourself. Inside or out.” He looked down, let the smoke drain down, out, in and out. He begins again, “Everyone has their out, something to keep their mind occupied from all the death, the repulsion, the stinging truths, and mine is music.”

“I think I feel the same.” And I feel odd not having more to say. And saying that “I think???”… I am such a fool.

“Yeah?” He says softly.

“Well, I lived in Huntsville before I came here, all my life. I had a similar interest in music, jazz, mostly. My ma…” I stop a minute, but I want to continue. “She loved jazz. I wanted more out of life than raising horses and mares in such a nosy town. In fact, I hate country living. Too much open space.” I wanted to stop talking to him. I had said way too much, and what’s worse, I enjoyed telling him these things. It’s not good to open up so quickly.

“Family owned business?” Tegan blows a little smoke my way as he talks, but I don’t mind, because his eyes are all that I need to notice.

“Yeah. I think, well, I know, I moved out here because of death.” I look at him anxiety-ridden, as if I am begging him to shut me up, and he does, and I am grateful.

He nods appreciatory, and I lean hard against the wall. “We all have our own stings.” And then he puts out the nasty butt of the smoke. “Well Jack,” He says my name so soothingly. “I think I might have the cure for your moody blues. You wanna come out to my place, hang out?”

“Well, I…” I look down, and I do this thing where I tap my nose and scratch my cheek. I look at him and nod.

"Maybe we can put a real smile on that face."

--

The whole car ride was so surreal that I thought I would nearly die.

There was something very intoxicating between us, spiraling around us, making my head dizzy. I had seemingly forgotten how to do anything correctly, much less speak.

"You like The Breeders?"

I shook my head way too hard, shocked that he had broken the quiet. "Never heard of 'em."

"Really?” He paused a second, fingering around his car, finding a broken florescent yellow lighter. “Well it’s not like everyone’s heard of them.” His voice seemed far away as he dropped the lighter.

"Yeah." I rubbed the back of my neck, not looking at him.

"Well, we're gonna have to fix that, aren't we?" He reached in his car, fingering around among various Cd's scattered in his car.

And that's when it happened. His hand, blindly looking, found my own.

My breath hitched, and my heart raced, blood crawling down to my hand. "Uh... sorry." I muttered stupidly.

"Why?" His fingers trailed along my calloused hand, softly holding on to it.

"They fit perfectly." He said simply, looking at the road.

And they did.

--

His hand left mine as we pulled in the driveway. He lives in a very nice house. "You live alone?"

"No, I live with a few dopey roommates though. They're out." He snorted slightly and he turned the keys out of the ignition.

"Oh."

We got out of the car.

I walked around to the front porch and he took my hand again, pulling me close. I was surprised but held in my breath. His eyes absolutely dazzled me, with a certain painful longing I had noticed since I had seen him perform. His long black bangs curled like wisps, framing his eyes like miniature mirrors.

"You intrigue me. I'm glad you came."

I leaned a little closer, not realizing it until he was inches away from me. His breath was warm and it tickled my nose.

"Let's go inside." He whispered, his fingers caressing my hair.

--

In his dark house, led by only his eyes, we walk, and I watch him as he looks completely glowing and surreal. I feel as though I am on air.

His breathing is shallow and soft.

"What did you want to show me?"

"I wanted to give you a private performance." He breathes, turning around, looking straight at me, his eyes light and free, and glowing even in the dark. He walks closer.

My whole body is on fire, dizzy and steaming.

"Really?"

"Of course. Hold on, let me turn on the lights."

My heart trembled, sending my body in strange shivers.

--

I can't write how he performed, at least, accurately.

“Who was the song by?”

"It's a cover of song. A favorite song of mine by, hmm," He said, leaning against a wall, lighting up another cigarette. They were menthol's. “By PJ Harvey. I like playing a wide range of instruments, and songs.”

"It was ..." No words came forth.

"You liked it?"

"Yes."

'"Cool." he said plainly. "Tell me about your mom." He added then softly, looking at me contemplatively.

I frowned slightly. I haven't thought about it in a while, though the funeral was in a few days. I had packed some things, but yeah. Don’t know if I am going.

"I, uh, you don’t have to say anything---”

“I mean, maybe. Just sit and listen.”

He looked at me agreeably, walking over to sit beside me. His half burning cigarette perched between two fingers, his knees bent back, feet against the cushions, his eyes all on me.

Sitting there beside me, engulfed in my words.

His cool blue eyes, luminous, flashing color and mystery.

I felt a backlash of guilt for destroying the painting. He might have liked it.

But then again, he might have thought me a little odd.

I leaned in closer, my eyes trying to capture that soft smile. I wanted to freeze the moment, the comfortable silence, and the waves of energy floating back and forth. But it ended due to my own, uh, awkwardness.

"You… you uh," I pointed my finger at him, trying to think of what I was going to say. He laughed a little.

"Don't laugh at me!" I laughed back.

"You're so shy." He teased. I look at him imploringly.

"Ok, what?" He took my hand again, and I near fainted.

"You.. I never like to.. I haven't said so much in years." I admitted; my face lighting up in all shades of red. "I mean, even with you, it doesn’t say much, hah, cause, I still feel closed in.”

Tegan smiled and said nothing, looking at me with a glint in his eye.

"Do you think I'm weird?" I said out of the blue. Do I really want to know?

"I do."

"I knew that." I looked away from his gaze.

"I like weird." He leaned forward and met my eyes. Everything slowed to a stop.

My blinding pulse was all I was aware of before I even knew his

lips

were

upon mine.

Soft and serenely, skin against skin, his hands running through my hair.

Strokes of brilliant color flash in my vision.

Melting in my hands.

Melting in my heart.

Pa would be so proud.

--

I had a sudden blast of inspiration.

Ma.

By the dim light of my room, I delicately used my favorite brush and all from memory, painted her. Her strong jaw line and high cheek bones, her soft curves, her small, slender hands. I painted her lying on her favorite, worn gray couch, wearing her stunning violet dress that always knocked pa out on special occasions.

Her emerald eyes wide and expressive, her lips carefully drawn into an almost smile. Her long, thick black hair cast along her shoulders.

When I was finished, it was 3 am, I could have sworn it was ma looking back at me. I smiled.

--

When a woman cries,

And no one is there to hear her,

Is it possible,

That the tears could melt her away?

Melt ma away?

I could have done better for her than this damned painting.

--

'I'm so happy.' I thought with a strange joy, no sooner my thoughts became words as I looked at Tegan, my love.

"I'm so happy you're here." I smiled intensely, the muscles in my mouth hurting, but, I didn't care. He was in my room.

"With me."

"I've never been so happy." I repeat, and in turn, I see his soft little smile that tears me down and lifts me up over and over again.

"Let me paint you!" I exclaim, jumping up. "Let me paint you, Tegan!"

"Oh, no. I've never been a good model. I'll muck it up." You say, blushing.

"Oh but you are! You are!"

"No. I don't want to." I see you reaching for your smokes, but stop midway at my words.

"I promise you'll love it!"

"Jack... I really don't feel like it." You light a cigarette, but your smile still stays, a playful undertone to it. "But I admit, it's interesting to see you like this. I've never seen you so excited." I don't smile. Why don't you want me to paint you?

"Do ya 'ave ta smoke?" I ask softly. I always revert to my country tongue when I'm upset.

"I'm sorry, I'll put it out."

"'Preciate it."

"I didn't know it bothered you."

"Well, it’s bad for ya."

"Yeah." You say simply. Why aren't you looking at me anymore?

"Lots of things are." I say just as simply, watching your mouth twitch as I sat back down.

--

The more I thought about it, the more I didn't want to go to that funeral. I didn't want to see my pa, with his eyes downcast and teary eyed. What the hell did he do to save her?

What the hell did he do to save Alex?!

Nothing.

Ma deserved better.

This painting will go to 13 Yale Lane, not to pa. So he knows I'd rather send my memorial to her than see his face. I can always visit her grave later.

Ma knows how I feel. I know how she feels.

He better appreciate it. He better me appreciate me.

--

Alex said one day he'd pull off the perfect act, his final act, literally.

Disappear out of thin air. Just like on the television.

I believed in him then, but I shook my head for my logical side and told him it was impossible, just in case he was trying to trick me. He just smiled and went onward with his spiel. I knew he would, and as he talked, I smiled back, for different reason. We knew each other pretty well, and though we were five years apart, we could almost read each other’s thoughts.

He said when he's old and grey, he'll throw the biggest party ever, with friends and family and celebrities, though the latter I didn’t believe, and perform his best tricks. Then for the finale: Snap! And whoosh! He's gone.

He said he’d tell me how to do it, once he figured it out. Alex was a dreamer with a grandiose, quirky sense of humor, but he was my brother, and I love him. He wanted to disappear.

I think that dream had a lot to do with this. But, I won't tell. It's a secret.

--

Among the cold fall morning, October 15th, I went out for a walk. I love the cold. It helps me wake up, helps me think. Then I look at the sky, the moon, and I think of him. His eyes. Those strange, soft eyes.

I still remember the painting of him I did. His body in motion, a swirl, his eyes the only thing in focus.

I remember dotting the background in a deep red. I know I had a reason when I did it, but I don't remember. It really just intensified his eyes.

It frightened me.

--

I went to call Tegan. I missed him like crazy.

I went on an almost rant about my mother's painting, but stopped as I heard silence. "Come over, will ya?" I asked softly.

"Sure." He said, but I heard apprehension in his answer.

Once he got there, I held him in my arms and to my surprise, I started talking. Really, really fast.

I told him about the painting I did of him. I told him how it glared and glared. I told him I tore it to pieces. Ma was dead.

She's dead. I just kept saying it over and over till Tegan lightly touched my arm. His eyes were full of sympathy, and I hated it.

I flinched away from his touch, but he grabbed me and looked straight at me. His stance wavered.

He looked... almost... scared? I glared at his mouth, and they whispered soundlessly what I knew he was thinking.

CRAZY.

"Ja..Jack.. please, calm down, please!" He said with such intensity, my mouth glued shut.

And the tears spilled with an avalanche of stinging regret and a terrible sadness.

I shook in his embrace, as he stroked my back.

He whispered, softly kissing my cheek, "Jack..."

"I love you." As he said it, our eyes locked.

Something ticked inside of me, then exploded.

"I don't." A voice sounding as foreign as it rolled off my lips.

Tegan drew back, and questioned me with his cool blue pools of ravishing beauty. Too beautiful to capture with my corrupting hand.

"I don't."

--

My brother was a joker.

Out of all of my diluted memories of him, there is one that sticks out in my mind. It’s a simple memory, but none-the-less, I cherish it.

He liked to make me laugh, because I usually never did. He'd pull tricks.

The gags that every older sibling has tried to pull.

He'd find a quarter in my ear,

He said with a gleaming smile, "How can you hear, with this huge metal object in your ear?"

I'd giggle and shrug.

"I just did you a huge favor! I deserve a reward!" He reached around to take another quarter from my other ear. "Ah! Perfect! Thank ya Jacky-boy!"

He bowed dramatically and walked off. I laughed so hard, my stomach hurt. I wish things were as funny as when I was seven.

I'd find out later they were my quarters.

My brother was a joker.

--

There's art in everythin'...

I am scattered.

Green and White.

Snakes. ssssssslither SNAP SNAP SNAP.

Shadowed life.

Billie.

I'm on Holiday.

I'm high tonight.

On the blank stare in my reflection.

Behind me.

Is my mother.

Say hi!

just gotta know where ta look

--

I saw him for the last time. He called, and wanted me to come over, he said he missed me and really needed to talk. I couldn’t bear to say no to him, even though my head was pounding and I couldn’t even think straight. I didn’t want to hurt him, but I knew if we stayed together. . . I’d be happy. Why don’t I want that? I destroyed him. Fluttering wisps of his soul, plaster… I don’t want to hurt him.

I entered his house. I saw him on the couch.

Tegan looked at me, and smiled, but there was no joy anymore.

It seemed we both felt something odd in the air. Like it was a horrible, cliché pretense for what was the inevitable.

I walked over to him, and touched his hand.

But they don't fit anymore.

I searched his cool blue eyes, but only saw pa glaring back.

I wanted to tell him how I felt, but I didn’t even know myself.

We stared at each other for a long time in what was a slowly dismantled quiet. He would look as though he was going to say something, but nothing but air exhaled, no sound. I just sat there, looking at his feet. Awkward, that’s how it was.

I wish I would have told him that everything was fine, and I just needed to clear my thoughts.

I really did. I still need too. Then he started to cry, in this horribly soundless kind of way, all of a sudden, and I felt my self-control shattering. I edged over and pulled him in my arms, and I felt almost as desperate as he did for a moment. I held him tightly until I let go. His breath came out in a shudder, and I tried to tell him just from my look that I really didn’t want to leave his arms, or his home, or his life. But I was.

“Jack?”

A moment of ugly, oozing silence.

“Are you leaving?” His voice quivered to a jittery echo. I started to get up. I needed to get out of there.

"I think I have to. I should go pay respects to her, my mother."

Tegan sighed. "I understand that. I... I could go with you. I am here for you." His voice, though affectionate, seemed sad and a bit quivering---unsure of how this will all proceed. I wish I could've comforted him. I was a mess.

"Tegan... I appreciate that. I think I need to do this on my own."

"Its something else too, Jack. It's about us. The last time we saw each other. There is this disconnect. Please..." Tegan put his hands on my shoulders, looking into my eyes carefully. "Let me in. Don't shut me out."

I looked away, but then our eyes locked again. I felt it. I felt his love.

But, my heart was pounding---I couldn't breathe. I knew this had---this had to end. I needed to find my center again. To be at peace.

"Tegan... I'm sorry. My pa isn't the most understandin'....and it's....I have to go."

"Will...will you come back? Come back to me?" Tegan started slowly moving further and further away from me, his tight grasp becoming a light ghost of a touch.

"I don't know."

I could hear his throat going dry and raspy, tears streaming down his cheeks like shocking bright red blood on a white wall. “Tell me! Lie to me!” His expression changed when he saw my own. I knew I looked tired, worn. “Pl-please… Jack, do-don’t go! You’re confused about what you want, you know that... That.” He seemed to be choking on his words.

“I need you here!” He began to sob, his eyes dark and red. He tumbled over, stumbling, his hands softly running through my hair. He gave me such a look that echoed everything between us. A moment passed. He grabbed me, pushing me against the wall, his anger now clearly evident. I wanted to die. "I love you so much... it is killing me."

Die, die, die.

This wasn’t my Tegan. His eyes had a crazy, desperate edge to it, the radiance gone. The happiness gone. The softness… gone.

I did this to him, I realize in horror and dread.

I mouthed out, “Tegan.” He laughed in a dizzy, choking sort of way, collapsing to the floor.

At that moment I wanted to throw myself in his arms and forget everything, cause, shit…

I … do love him.

I took a step toward to the door, and Tegan stood up, slowly, his hands clawing softly at my clothing.

“Please. Please, please, please…” He said so softly, it tore through every inch of my being as he caressed my face, and pulled me close for one last kiss. My heart flurried and flew away.

Our lips touched and cold fire obliterated my self-control and surged back all of my feelings for him. I felt light for a moment until I crashed and a lead weight seemed to have been placed on my heart. I pulled away slowly, reaching for the handle.

“Ja--” Was all I heard as the wood of the door met its frame.

I don’t have this luxury.

Not anymore.

--

I thought about it, and. . .

I think I might go out to see my pa.

I mean, I already sent out the painting, and I got no word back.

I missed the funeral, but I could still visit her grave and pay my respects.

Maybe everything I ever needed was at home after all.

I felt clouded, scattered still.

Maybe some fresh air could clear my head.

I went outside, took a little walk.

It was raining. People were scurrying to their cars and houses and apartments, huddled over their jackets and umbrellas. Living blindly in the dark, never seeing the beauty. Hidden in smoke and little thoughts, mundane, little thoughts.

My thoughts must be little then. All I can think of is Tegan, his hands dancing as he played the Theremin.

The way his body swerved and swayed. The way he looked at me when he sang for me alone--but---it seems as though he was nothing but living art in my mind, even as our relationship progressed. I can’t say it was his fault. He was a true loving soul--- he deserved better.

I wanted so much to capture his soul--- on the canvas. It seems that the reverse has happened. He has captured mine, and… woke me up to the real world, whatever and however it may be. I don’t know whether to thank him or bang my head against the wall.

I hid away from the beauty, just like these people. He showed me true beauty, and I tried to capture it, futilely, on a canvas. Not just that, it was so much more. I’m… I felt my fascination melting into my hand, poisoning me. Poisoning him as he held it.

But that’s not logical. Is it?

I know now what I’ve always felt.

I was just too blind to see it.

Too blind, too, too blind…

He’s not. He sees everything.

Even me.

And once I saw myself, I …

I cracked.

Now I’m--crying?

Or was that the raindrops?

Yeah,

Just the rain drops.

--

I have everything packed.

All of my clothes and belongings and paint brushes and everything I need.

The irony of it all.

It’s a Thursday afternoon, and I know what my heart is screaming at me to do.

But my logic swallows my heart as I swallow my regrets, my uncertainties, and my passions.

I sit here waiting for my cab. I gave up my car a long time ago, before I even reached New York. My home.

No, my home wasn't here. Not anymore.

I sent pa a letter telling him I would be visiting. He actually replied and said that I could stay for a week if I wanted. He didn't say anything about missing ma's funeral.

Maybe just saving it for when I get there.

That's when I see her.

Snake Lady.

She glances at me, and smiles.

I see her from the corner of my eye, but then engulf myself in my book, pretending to read non existent words.

Then, before I even get the chance to see her fully, her voice shakes me out of my thoughts.

"Hey, you alright?"

I nod. She's right beside me. Oh God.

She squints her eyes, looking at my bags. "You’re not leaving are ya? For good?" She seemed friendly.

"Maybe."

"You know Tegan is-"

"Uh-huh." I don't want to hear it. Mind your business lady.

"Oh, OK." She seemed rather nonplussed by my reaction, her voice stumbling. "Ah, um, but you do know tonight is his final show, right?"

I looked up from my book, my heart palpitating.

She gave me a weak smile and walked away.

The tears flow freely, as I walk away from the city.

--

I look at the infamous green and white house, stepping into the freshly cut grass of our front yard.

I take a deep breath, and feel my mother's presence.

Here is a strange...

The moment my thoughts seemed to be unclouded, my pa steps out.

And...

And, he smiles?

And bitter...

"Jack, come on in." He waves at me, toward the door.

A dream, I think.

I close my eyes, open them, he's still there.

Not crumbly at all, I conclude.

Crop. . .

I think we’re going to be alright.