It was a wet day when Norman and Rhonda Crease moved into the old country house on 13. Wet, cold, and gray. They’d moved to get away from the weather, but it seemed to be following them.
“It’s just the season,” Norman kept assuring Rhonda, “once we get further into Summer, the weather will clear up.”
Rhonda wasn’t entirely convinced, but they had better reasons for moving than a change in climate. The city was far too crowded. After being married and living there for five years, they both agreed on that. Neither were raised in the city, and each had found it hard to adjust when they grew up and left for college. But, they’d made it without too many break-downs.
“I want some privacy,” Rhonda had said one evening when they were first considering leaving. “I don’t want to look out my window to see dozens of people walking around. I don't want to go to sleep to ambulances and loud cars.”
Norman felt similar, although nature was a bigger draw for him than a smaller population. He’d grown up surrounded by woods and little creeks, and had always wanted to end up back where he’d started. And so, when they’d landed the small home at the end of a gravel lane surrounded by trees, they’d both been satisfied. Sure, it was pretty run down and would need serious work, but that was just as much a part of ownership as buying it was. Both Norman and Rhonda were excited to get a little dirty fixing things up and making the house their home.
Once they reached the end of the lane, something they weren’t used to having, they sat in the car a moment, observing their purchase while the rain continued to beat down on their car.
“It’s small,” Norman noted, “but bigger than the apartment we had.”
“It’s perfect,” Rhonda agreed, “just a bit—” she paused as she noticed worn down patches and several loose shingles. “A bit run down.”
“Nothing a we can’t handle,” Norman said with a smile.
“I don’t know about you, but I sure don’t know how to put shingles on a roof,” Rhonda scoffed, pointing to the loose shingles.
Norman followed her finger and pursed his lips.
“Can’t be that hard,” he said with a shrug, “just nail them on, right?”
Rhonda laughed, and Norman frowned.
“What?” he scoffed. “You don't think I can do it?”
“Remember when you tried to fix the shower?”
“Yeah, but that was different,” he quickly argued, “that was a whole different field of expertise.”
“Yeah, but not one you know any better,” Rhonda replied with a smirk.
“Thanks,” Norman said, leaning back in the car seat. “I feel real good about this now.”
Rhonda nudged him, and then laughed again.
“All I’m saying is that there’s nothing wrong with calling in professionals if we need to. It might be worth it in the long run.”
“Alright,” he said, smiling back at her, “just let me try before we call anyone, okay?”
And with that, they put on their raincoats and started to unload the car. The rain didn't let up for a second while they made trips from the car to the house. They had both agreed not to explore the house until all the boxes were moved in, that way they could do it together. This made them work faster, and got everything moved inside much more efficiently. At least, they were moved past the front door. Placing the last box on the pile, Rhonda sighed as they closed the door for good.
“Wow,” Norman commented as he took off his raincoat and stepped out of the puddles forming in the entryway. “It is really raining.”
“Just the season though, right?” Rhonda said with a wink.
Before starting any of the unboxing, they decided to look around their new home.
The entryway was a little bland, a pretty simple box-like shape with room for coat and shoe racks. Rhonda suggested that it could use a mirror and maybe a plant or two. Norman added that a new coat of paint would make it more inviting as well, gray didn’t exactly scream “welcome to our home.”
Moving forward, they entered the hallway, a short passage from the entry to the kitchen and dining room, with a door and staircase on the left and an opening to the living room on the right. To the left, before the first room, was a door, which they discovered led to a closet.
“A bit small,” Rhonda noted.
“Really? I thought it was a pretty decent size for a closet,” Norman answered.
“Once we fit all the gardening tools in here it’ll seem small.”
“There's a shed outside, we could put the garden tools there.”
“That’s less convenient,” Rhonda argued.
“But it won’t track dirt inside if the tools are outside,” Norman argued. “And besides, I thought we were going to start a small garden.”
“It’ll be small,” Rhonda assured him, “but any size of garden needs the right tools.”
They decided to talk about the garden later and moved on.
Past the closet was the master bedroom, branching off still on the left, right before the staircase leading to the second storey. They were both pleased by this room, it felt clean, roomy, and had enough windows for good natural light. They both agreed that natural light was much better than artificial, especially to wake up to.
“Country light just feels different,” Norman said as he looked out the window. Even through the rain and gray sky, he felt that the air was more open and pure.
“Definitely smells better,” Rhonda said as she cracked a window open and put her nose to it. She leapt back as a spider scurried out from under the window. Without hesitating, she grabbed her shoe, ripped it off, and splattered the insect against the sill. She stood studying the smear for a moment. “Windows definitely need a bit of cleaning,” she said, turning to Norman.
He nodded, and then gave her a thumbs up.
There was a bathroom adjoined to the master, a feature they were both excited about.
“Wow, look at the size of this shower!” Norman gasped, opening the glass door and sticking his head inside.
“And it doesn’t make the bathroom feel cramped,” Rhonda added.
“This is great,” Norman continued, still mystified by the shower.
They then had to backtrack to the hallway, where they decided to cross into the living room.
“It’s nice and open, lots of space to—” Norman froze as his eyes caught on the only decoration in the entire house.
It was a painting of two eyes, a rectangular frame cut from a face. It wasn’t lifelike, and had a far more powerful energy. The skin was red, much less like skin at all and more like lines forming the shape of a face. Several black lines were mixed into the face to balance it out and give more distinction to the facial features. The eyes were turned away, to the right of the painting, as if there was something in the room neither Norman or Rhonda could see. The eyes themselves were captivating, and heavily detailed. They were strained, yet weak. Veins could be seen reaching up toward the irises, and the white was hardly white at all, but a more pinkish offwite. The pupils themselves were red, much more vibrant than the skin. The lids weren't wide, but open enough to portray intensity. The brows could be seen coming down slightly. Norman couldn’t decide whether it was pain or anger, but there was a very violent emotion coming from the painting.
“We’ll have to get rid of that,” he said, pulling his eyes away from it and shuddering slightly.
“No,” Rhonda said, her tone quiet and mystified.
“No?” Norman scoffed. “Look at this thing, it’s terrifying!”
“I don’t think it’s terrifying,” Rhonda replied. “I think it’s—it’s—” she paused, unable to quite say what she thought of it, what she felt toward it.
“Ron?” Norman turned to look at her, and was surprised to see how blank her expression was. “Hey, you alright?”
“Yeah,” she answered quickly, lowering her brows as if she was surprised he’d asked.
“Really?”
“Totally.”
“You look like you’re about to pass out.”
Rhonda laughed, but kept her eyes on the painting. She didn’t feel like passing out, but she did feel different-yet not unfamiliarly different. She couldn’t explain it, but the painting made her feel something she’d felt before.
“We can talk about the painting later,” Norman said, observing how closely Rhonda was studying it. “For now, let's check out the rest of the house.”
Rhonda agreed and pulled herself away from the painting.
The rest of the tour went by in a flash, with details being pointed out but hardly taken in. The painting was vivid in both of their eyes, and neither of them could shake it off for different reasons. Norman, for the way Rhonda had reacted to it. She had struggled with a lot of things in life, and, after five years of marriage, he could tell when she wasn't alright. But he rarely saw her so easily shaken. But what caught his attention most was that she wasn’t entirely shaken. Usually she was honest about how she felt, but here she seemed to be more enticed than anything.
Rhonda felt the painting follow her through the house, those eyes, so close to tears from either sorrow or anger, following her and watching her through walls. But they never quite locked with hers, they were always just a bit off, looking for something else. She wanted to look right in them, to see what was wrong, why they were so upset.
Before they knew it, they’d arrived back at the entryway, exhausted.
“Should we start unboxing?” Norman said as the wall of boxes loomed before them.
“Maybe tomorrow,” Rhonda said with a sigh, a headache starting to set in.
Norman was surprised but didn’t say anything. It wasn’t like her to put things off, she was usually the one to push through and say “why put off till tomorrow what you can do today?” But, it had been a long trip, and neither of them had slept well the night before, so he didn’t think too much on it.
“Lets set up the bed, and then you can go to sleep. I might start unboxing some of this,” Norman concluded.
They moved the bed pieces into the master and assembled it. Norman was surprised by how little interest Rhonda took in where to put it.
“We’ll figure it out tomorrow,” she murmured as she spread the blankets over the mattress. The bed was in the middle of the room, definitely not where it would end up. He thought about insisting that they just move it to one side of the room, at least to fit things in better for the next day, but saw that she was too tired to care.
“Alright,” Norman nodded as Rhonda took her bag and started to sort through it. “Well, sleep good. I won’t be too much longer.”
Rhonda glanced up, smiled, and nodded. Norman smiled back, and then moved toward the door.
“Are you sure everything’s alright?” he asked, pausing after twisting the handle.
“Yeah,” she said, pulling out her pajamas. “I'm just a little beat.”
Norman nodded, and then entered the hallway. He stood in front of the boxes for a moment, trying to decide where to start.
“What will we want most in the morning?” he murmured to himself. “Coffee,” he concluded, “definitely coffee.”
He found a box marked “kitchen” and opened it. A brief look revealed that it was the plates, bowls, and silverware box, not the one with the coffee pot. He found another and sorted through it.
“There you are,” he said as he pulled it out. It was a simple enough coffee machine, but such a vital piece of their day-to-day life. Neither of them went without coffee, and each knew well enough to get it before doing anything important in the day.
As he carried it down the hall toward the kitchen, Norman glanced to the right—into the living room. The painting caught his gaze and held it. He stopped for a moment, lowering his brows as he studied the agonizing eyes. The painting seemed larger than before, more important. It was the sole detail in the room, the only place wandering eyes could latch onto. In the fading light, it was eerie and mysterious. Norman reached around the corner and flicked on the lights before continuing into the kitchen.
Despite how wasted she felt, Rhonda lay awake. The master was comfortably spacious, much more than their previous apartment bedroom had been. This was something they’d specifically wanted in a house—lots of space to read or rest or do whatever it was people did outside of the city. But now, without any furniture, it felt too empty and far too large. The bed, placed at the center of the room, felt like an altar, on which she was the sacrifice. Rhonda didn’t like that thought and rolled over to get rid of it. She remembered Norman offering to move it and wished she'd have let him.
Her eyes went to the window, to the last hints of daylight seeping through. It was refreshing not to see someone walk by or to be able to look directly into the windows of a building across the street. The man-made environment of the city was replaced with a green natural one, full of life but unable to speak or cause problems. People were always problems. The more you packed together the more problems you had, that had always been Rhonda’s experience. The only person she had to worry about was Norman, and they’d grown used to each other by now. Marriage has a way of forcing you to do that. And while Norman certainly had his quirks that bugged her, he had been pretty easy to get used to.
Another face came to mind—or at least, part of one. The two eyes, staring painfully at some invisible object, crept into her mind and stopped her from sleeping.
She found questions popping up and falling down like the pattering rain on the roof, all of them ignored by the eyes. Who was the artist? Who was the model? What had inspired the artist to make such a painting? What did it mean? Why did it seem so important? Why wasn’t she tired anymore?
The eyes offered no answer, only more questions. Some were difficult to process, and Rhonda felt like there were some she didn’t know to ask yet.
Before long, although she was certain it had been at least an hour, Norman came to bed. He didn’t change into his pajamas, but fell into bed and was asleep in moments. Rhonda stayed awake a while longer. At first she tried to force herself to sleep, pushing away the painting and her questions, but eventually she accepted that sooner or later she would fall asleep. And, after another hour of half-conscious thought, she finally slept.
With the golden rays of morning came a fresh start. Both Norman and Rhonda felt relaxed and ready to begin the long unboxing that every move entailed. They got up at the same time, Rhonda awake a little earlier than Norman, but laying in bed until he started stirring. When they decided it was time to get up, they both stumbled out of the master and into the hallway, the coffee machine the only thing on their minds.
“What happened to the painting?” Rhonda asked, stopping in front of the living room entrance. The painting hadn’t been removed but was covered by a gray sheet.
“It started creeping me out,” Norman muttered, rubbing his eyes as he entered the kitchen. He let out a yawn as he added, “besides, we’re not keeping it, are we?”
Rhonda didn’t answer, but turned from the sheet and followed him into the kitchen. She wasn’t sure if they were keeping it. The idea had crossed her mind, and she remembered being adamant about it the day before, but now she wasn’t so sure. However she felt, it wasn’t as important as morning coffee. She poured the grounds into the filter as Norman filled the pot with water.
Over coffee, once their minds were fully functioning, they discussed their plans for the day. They agreed on unboxing for the majority of the morning, although they wanted to take a break to explore the property that had come with the house. It was a considerable ten acres, with a small forest and pond—a detail they had delighted in. Norman was fixed on becoming a fisherman, which Rhonda agreed would be a healthy hobby. She was more focused on making a garden, which she considered more important given that it would be a source of produce. But, they each had to have their own respective activities, that was another thing they’d discovered about marriage: couples should not do everything together.
Unboxing went slow, even though they had planned out where everything would go before moving. Organization had been so simple on the map, but now that they were in the house and could see and walk around the cabinets and empty rooms, they weren’t so sure where to put it all.
“Are you sure you want the easy-chair there?” Norman asked after stepping back to observe its placement.
“I don’t know,” Rhonda groaned. “What do you think?”
“Well, it could go closer to the window.”
“Yeah,” she nodded, but then looked across the room, “but it could go to the other side of the room too. We could put a lamp behind it and a coffee table beside it.”
And that was what many of their plans came to, with the final decision being made under the conclusion, “if we don’t like it, we can always move it later.”
For lunch, they decided to take a drive and see what restaurants their quaint new town had. The town itself was about seven minutes away, according to Norman’s careful notice. Having to drive anywhere to see people or find a business of any kind was new and exciting. In the city they rarely drove, it was much slower than walking and three times the hassle to find a parking spot. The freedom of the road and the surety of a vacant space made every trip to town felt like an adventure. They both knew the novelty would wear off before long, but enjoyed it for however long it would last.
“What about that,” Rhonda pointed to a small diner. “Greg’s diner,” read the weathered sign in front of the small squarish building.
“Sure,” Norman said, although the building didn’t look all that enticing. Coming from the city, where everything was designed to catch attention and dazzle potential customers, they were both tempted to make a judgement based on its appearance. But they knew that in a small town where the only business was your neighbors, there was probably more focus on service, food quality, and customer relationships than fanciness.
Inside, the diner convinced them that it was better than they’d assumed from the outside. It was homely and clean, albeit somewhat primitive. There were booths around the walls, and several tables in the empty spaces between them. Everything looked old, but did not feel run down or unkempt. It had a very comfortable feel to it, and both Norman and Rhonda felt that it was a warm welcome to the town. The only thing that topped the ambience was the waiter that received them.
“HI!” she, a middle-age woman with tight curls said perkily. “Just the two of you?” she asked with a full-toothed smile.
“Yes,” Norman answered.
“Right this way,” the woman answered, turning toward a booth. “I’m Helen, by the way. I don’t think I know you two.”
“Rhonda and Norman Crease,” Rhonda said as they followed, “we just moved here.”
“OH!” Helen gasped and turned around to face them, her eyes practically popping out of their sockets. “So you’re the ones who’re moving in!”
The two nodded, smiling but surprised that she knew.
“I’ve just gotta tell Mindy, she’s the owner. She'll be thrilled! You take a seat here and I’ll be right back!” Without another word and without taking their orders, she whisked away to the back of the diner.
“Wow,” Norman said, raising his brows slightly.
“Definitely different than the city,” Rhonda nodded.
“Definitely different,” he agreed. “But not in a bad way.”
A moment later, Helen returned with Mindy in tow. Mindy was a rather stout woman, older than Helen by a considerable number of years. Her gray hair was tucked neatly behind her ears and throttled into a tight ponytail. A few silver strands had escaped and hung loosely from her temples. She had keen but kind eyes, and immediately stretched out her hand, first to Norman and then to Rhonda.
“Pleasure to meet you,” she said, “I’m Mindy Hundale, welcome to my diner.” Her voice seemed somewhat tired, as if she was out of breath. But she had no other signs of physical exertion, so the two simply chalked it up to a unique voice.
“Thank you,” Rhonda answered, “it’s a nice place you have here.”
“Well thank you,” Mindy nodded and put one hand on her hip, the other hung loose at her side. “Greg, my daddy, passed away a couple years ago,” she explained, “wouldn’t let go of it until he had to, and I’ve been struggling to keep it going without him.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Norman said, pursing his lips and nodding gravely.
“It’s alright. Mamma passed before he did, and that’s what they both wanted, so I think they were happy in their own ways at the end.”
“That’s what she’s always telling me,” Norman said, smiling at Rhonda, “she won’t let me die until after she does.”
Rhonda smiled back and nudged him.
“That’s the way it should be,” Mindy agreed, nodding to Rhonda. “I think my daddy took it better than my mamma could’ve.”
“Are you married?” Rhonda asked, curious as to how quickly she had joined in on the topic.
“I was,” Mindy said without emotion. She held up her hand, revealing a silver band wrapped around her ring finger. “He passed two years ago, pretty soon after my daddy.”
“Oh my gosh,” Rhonda gasped, “I am so sorry.” Norman nodded his heartfelt sympathies.
“Oh it’s alright,” Mindy said with a half smile and a full nod. “It is what it is, can’t do nothing about it. You get to my age and things just go that way.”
An awkward silence set in. Rhonda and Norman felt that they should say something, but each was waiting for the other to say it. Eventually, Mindy nodded, smiled, and concluded.
“Well, I hope you folks settle in nice,” she then nodded to the menus on the table, “first meal is on the house.”
“No, we—”
“I insist,” she said, and then turned to leave. She stopped and turned around before getting more than five feet. “I forgot to ask, where you setting up base at?”
“On 13,” Norman said, and stopped when she nodded immediately.
“Meier's old place?”
“Yeah,” Rhonda nodded, “did you know him?” She had been curious about the previous owner of the house, but hadn’t been able to uncover much.
“I knew of him, didn't really know him” she nodded. “He was the town’s only celebrity,” she chuckled.
“Celebrity?”
“Yep, he was a painter.”
“Really?” Rhonda said, her curiosity for the painting doubling.
“Course, he used a fake name with his art,” Mindy explained. “P. T. Zealot,” she said.
“Fascinating,” Rhonda murmured.
“Yep,” Mindy nodded. An alarm on her wristwatch began beeping, and she turned her eyes toward it. “Well, I’ve got to get back to some things, you folks have a good day.”
“Thank you, you too,” Norman said.
Helen took their order, and then the two were left alone until their meals came out.
“Wow,” Rhonda whispered, raising her brows and grinning, “a famous artist?”
“That explains the painting,” Norman nodded.
“How cool,” she continued. “We have a famous work of art!”
“And we got it for free,” Norman added. “Maybe we could sell it, could be worth some money.”
“Oh come on,” Rhonda scoffed. “We have to keep it now! I wonder why he left,” Rhonda mused, “this seems like a good place to be creative in.”
“Probably not as much business in the country.”
“No, artists don’t think like that.”
“They have to earn a paycheck,” Norman countered.
“But the art always comes first,” Rhonda protested. “That’s why so many artists start out poor, they make what they want to make, not what sells best.”
Norman wasn’t convinced on this statement, but let Rhonda continue.
“Maybe he needed a change of scenery, or a new place to get ideas.”
“Or maybe what he wanted to make wasn’t paying the electric bill,” Norman said with a grin.
“Norm…” Rhonda scoffed, but chuckled in spite of herself and punched his arm lightly.
Helen brought out their food and they quickly turned to other topics.
Moving into the house was just about like any other move: it took time to really feel like home, and new problems seemed to pop up everywhere.
“The sink is leaking!” Norman exclaimed angrily after opening the cabinet underneath it and noticing a dark wet circle underneath the drain pipes.
After a trip to the local hardware—a regular hole in the wall—and half a day spent grunting and muttering while musty water dripped on their foreheads, the sink was fixed. They soon found out that some of the windows didn’t close all the way, the bathroom light on the main floor had a fifty-fifty chance of going out while the switch was on, and a strange smell seeped out of the attic.
“It’s like getting a new horse,” Rhonda would say when they found a new frustration, “we’re still breaking it in.”
But all in all, despite whatever difficulties they had to overcome, the transition was going along nicely. Both Norman and Rhonda had fallen in love with the little town, its quiet quaint atmosphere and friendly inhabitants made it felt like they’d been expected, as if they’d simply been away on a long business trip.
The most lasting issue came from within the house and was something that couldn’t be fixed with a wrench or a new part. It was the painting, and the opposing views on what to do with it. Even after they’d learned it was from a famous artist, Norman couldn't shake his distaste for it. This just seemed to make Rhonda like it all the more. Their discussions about it never came to much, and always ended with “let’s talk about it after everything else is set up,” or a sudden change in topic—an attempted distraction from Rhonda. And that was the main reason Norman didn’t like the painting. It made Rhonda do things she’d never done. In the early stages of their marriage, she had been adamant about discussing their disagreements.
“Everybody has them,” she would say, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t talk about them.” They would then sit down and talk for as long as they needed to, until either a compromise was found or one side saw the logic of the other side. And that was how they had operated ever since. But now, Rhonda was avoiding discussion, even though the painting was obviously important to her. Norman could see it, he could almost feel it when he caught her sitting alone looking up at the painting.
When she wasn’t in the living room, however, Rhonda seemed her old self for the most part, which led Norman not to worry too much. She still talked excitedly about her garden, and her jokes were as clever as ever, with just enough edge to get across her point without being cruel. Norman loved this about her, it was a creative sort of thoughtfulness and helped ease tension.
What he couldn’t see was what Rhonda felt when she was alone. This wasn’t a fault of his, of course. No relationship, whether marital or any other kind, has that close of a connection. Rhonda certainly wasn’t making it easy to catch either.
What she felt was a sort of connection, the kind someone feels when they listen to a song that really “gets them,” that really sums up how they feel. Except it was stronger than that. She wasn’t sure if the things she felt were things she had felt before or if they were new—inspired by the painting. She couldn’t explain it to herself, that’s why she never brought it up to Norman.
At times she noticed it in the moment, and other times she only realized it later. The times she noticed it came with a sort of contemplative emotion, almost pleasure. She didn’t know why, but it felt good to feel that way. But the times she realized it later scared her. They made her feel like she’d slipped out of herself, like she wasn’t herself, like she should have caught it. It made moving in somewhat difficult for her, because she felt that she had to get used to both a new environment as well as these complicated emotions.
One day, Rhonda’s situation became a little clearer to Norman. It was late afternoon, and Rhonda had gotten busy doing some work with the landscaping. She had always believed that well-kept flowers were one of the most inviting things anyone could do to a house. “Who could resist so many colors bunched together like that?” she’d said when they’d drove by a house she admired. “And the smell too,” she’d shake her head and close her eyes for a moment, almost able to experience the scent she was imagining. Norman liked flowers, but he didn’t like the bees that came with them, so he was fine with her managing them.
The sky was a darkening pale gray, the sign of rain or a thunderstorm, neither of them knew the signs of weather very well. Rhonda was busily clearing out some space for a flower bed, her clothes and hands quickly smearing with dirt as she worked. Eventually, she started thinking about the painting and feeling its emotions, noticing it. She felt a sort of heaviness set in, not an altogether unpleasant feeling, but one that made her eyelids droop and her expression softer. She worked a little less vigorously, her hands slowly clawing at the dirt with loose fingers. And then—in an instant that she both noticed and realized later—she felt the painting’s eyes on her. She looked at the wall in front of her and it was like she could see through it. The painting was on the other side, and she was a little to its right, in the direct line of sight of those complex eyes.
“Ron?” Norman called from inside. The screen door was left open—a novelty they’d both enjoyed—and they'd been talking on and off while they worked in separate areas. “Ronnie?” he called again as he opened the screen door, “can I have your opinion on—”
Rhonda was on her knees facing the wall, her hands covered in dirt but shaking slightly.
“Rhonda!” Norman shouted as he leapt from the step and into the dirt behind her. He held onto her and shook her slightly. She fell backward into his arms. “Ronnie!” he gasped, searching her face for any clue on what was happening. Her face was frozen, a perfect mimicry of the painting’s expression. Her cheeks were stained with tears.
“I’m fine,” she insisted over and over again. “Just a little overwhelmed.”
“Oh come on Ronnie,” he would argue, “you know I don’t buy that.”
“You calling me a liar?”
A split-second hesitation.
“No, no I’m not.”
“But?”
“But I think maybe you’re not feeling well, maybe—”
“I’m fine, Norm.”
A longer hesitation.
“Well, okay then, let’s be done for the day.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“And yet you—” he paused, “you had some kind of episode, Ron. If you’re not going to be careful I’m going to be careful for you.”
Rhonda didn’t argue anymore, she didn’t see the point. There wasn’t really anything Norman could do anyway, nothing that would affect what had happened. As Norman continued talking about how she had been working herself too hard, Rhonda asked herself the question “what actually happened?”
She remembered working on the landscaping, digging out a flowerbed. If there had been any kind of landscaping at one point, it had been effectively smothered by weeds and grass, leaving Rhonda with no option but to tear out everything in sight. That wasn’t a bad way to start, a clean slate usually helped her see what she wanted to change. And she’d never shied away from a big job; in her experience, those were the most rewarding. So she’d been working relatively happily, despite getting a little tired and sore as the day dragged on.
But then she’d started thinking about the painting, about those conflicted eyes. She hadn’t noticed any immediate effect, not like other times, and thought she was just contemplating it like any other normal person. But, the more she thought, the less normal she felt. She remembered feeling heavy, exhausted, and somber. She wasn’t one to cry often, especially not in front of other people, but she remembered wanting to cry. It was curious, although she only realized it afterward. In the moment, she felt emotions as real as any other time, and couldn’t reflect on them or think rationally. She could only feel. She remembered feeling worse and worse, yet comfortable, and then everything peaking when she made eye contact. That was when she’d started to cry. She didn’t sob, she didn’t cry that way. Instead, she looked on at the painting, never breaking contact as tears rolled out and should have blurred her vision—only they didn’t. Nothing could blur the eyes in front of her, nothing could break their leery connection.
What Rhonda couldn’t remember was how much time had passed. How long had she been staring at the wall? How long had she been crying? The next thing she remembered was falling into Norman’s arms, not afraid but shaken.
“What do you want?” Norman asked, and Rhonda snapped out of her memory.
“What?”
“I’m ordering pizza,” Norman said, his brows lowered slightly and his expression betraying his frustration. “Cheese? pepperoni? Everything?”
“Cheese is fine,” Rhonda answered, feeling bad for ignoring him.
Norman called it in and then hung up. Rhonda could see that he was worried, and even worse: hurt. She knew it was because he was worried and she wasn’t that he felt hurt.
“They don’t deliver, so I’m going to drive to town to pick it up.” He gave her a tired smile, “why don’t you stay here, get some rest.”
Rhonda didn’t argue, although she felt she should have. As much as she knew Norman wanted to know what was going on, she wanted time alone, time to think about what was happening. She couldn’t explain what she didn’t understand, after all.
Norman drove with one hand on the steering wheel, the other propped against the door and supporting his head. He was tired, tired of trying to motivate Rhonda to take care of herself. He’d done it for the majority of their marriage when he started to realize the struggles she carried. And he’d done it eagerly at the beginning, happy to do whatever he could to support her and keep her happy. “Happy wife equals happy life,” he remembered his dad saying during their engagement. He’d lived by that saying, and been whatever she’d needed him to be as often as he could. But he felt that they were coming to a point where he couldn’t do much more. Something was changing, and he was being left out. Rhonda was usually forward about her struggles, he remembered her telling him how much it meant to her when he listened. He’d listened to the best of his abilities, but wondered now if maybe he hadn’t listened enough. Maybe she’d decided that he wasn’t helping enough. Maybe she didn't think telling him would help anymore.
“How could I have known if she didn’t tell me?” he argued with a sigh. “She knows I’m there for her, whatever it is.”
He held his guilt at arm’s length, where he could stop it from dragging him down. He couldn’t be any help to Rhonda if he was in the pits too. A new consideration crossed him as he entered town. He remembered the painting, how Rhonda had immediately taken to it, and the way she had. Rhonda had always admired the arts but never had she so quickly latched onto a piece of it. She usually took time to study something before really being able to enjoy it. Norman remembered visiting an art gallery with her, his comments and observations of the paintings being met with bland responses or silence. It was on the drive home that Rhonda had begun to enjoy the art, where she started to fill their car with how masterfully the brush strokes created an image or the texture and hues of Van Gogh; everything they had seen poured out with much more detail than he’d been able to pick up.
She’d been excited—happy—then. But with this painting she was quiet all the way through, never bursting into passionate speculations about the skill that went into the art or what it expressed. She was quiet and somber, two indicators Norman had learned to pick up on. He knew better than to immediately say anything, sometimes she just needed some time to herself. But he always kept a careful eye on how she proceeded afterward.
He soon pulled into the drive-through window at the pizzeria, another small and old-looking squarish building. “Jeff’s Pizza,” the faded sign read. It certainly didn’t attract the eye, but since it was the only pizzeria in town, Norman doubted it needed to worry much about advertisement.
“I have an order for Norman,” he said to the man at the window.
“Norman,” the man shouted back into the dim kitchen behind him. He then checked a computer with a small crack in its screen. “Sixteen thirty-two,” he said with a smile.
While Norman removed his credit card, the man gasped suddenly.
“You’re Norman Crease, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Norman answered, smiling to appear polite despite how uneasy he was that word had spread so quickly.
The man reached out his hand, not for the card but for Norman’s hand.
“I’m Jeff,” he said smiling wide. “Welcome to town.”
“Thank you, Jeff—” Norman paused and nodded toward the kitchen, “the Jeff?”
“The one and only Jeff of Jeff’s Pizza,” Jeff chuckled proudly.
“An honor to meet you,” Norman said, holding out his card.
“Honor’s mine,” Jeff said, taking it but not quite reaching the card reader yet. “You moved into that old house on 13, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, we did.”
“How’s it fixin’ up? I heard that P. T. feller left quite a mess.”
“Oh, not too bad,” Norman answered.
“He was a bit odd, you know, P. T.”
“My wife tells me that artists usually are,” Norman said, smiling as he remembered the sternness with which she’d said it.
“I guess your mind’s gotta work a bit different to be able to do all that,” Jeff nodded. “But still, I feel bad for the man.”
“How so?” Norman asked, wondering what more there was to know of P. T. Zealot.
“Well you know he killed himself, right?”
“No,” Norman froze. “No, I didn’t.” The thought was chilling, the action mortifying. It was a horrible thing for anyone to do, and Norman wondered whether he’d done it in the house.
“Yep,” Jeff pursed his lips and lowered his eyes. “Poor feller was too isolated, that’s what I’ve heard. Kept himself locked up for weeks at a time, painting.”
“You’ve seen him though, I assume?”
“Only a handful of times,” Jeff hesitated, “mostly in the hardware store to pick up supplies for his art.”
There was a break in the conversation when a young dark-haired woman with blue eyes handed Jeff the pizza boxes.
“Oh, thanks Lucy,” Jeff suddenly said, handing Norman the pizza and then taking the card to the reader, “I forgot I run a pizzeria for a moment!”
When Norman drove off, the smell of pizza filling the car, he had a new perspective on the situation. P. T. had given up, let go of everything in life. But he’d left a painting, his suicide note. Only, it contained far more emotion than any note and had a powerful impact. Norman accelerated, realizing that what Rhonda was feeling might not be so different than what the artist felt while painting those eyes. He’d never been affected that much by music or art, but then again, he didn’t feel things the way Rhonda did. He knew that for some people, art was therapeutic, it soothed and expressed what needed to be expressed. But he wondered now if it could have the opposite effect as well. Maybe those emotions were translated too effectively, maybe they were harmful to someone who had trouble processing their emotions. Maybe that was why he hadn’t sold it, maybe he’d left it in the house because he knew the power it had.
Norman drove as fast as he could, contemplating how he could share his discovery with Rhonda in an effective way.
Rhonda heard the door open. Norman was home. From where? She couldn’t remember. Everything seemed blurry, like she was underwater or walking through fog. Where was she? Why was she here? Rhonda lowered her brows, trying to understand what was happening, when it had started, and where it was going. Two red lights shone ahead of her—the eyes.
“Ron?” Norman called, his voice as blurry as the area surrounding the eyes. Was he searching for her? Why? She was in the living room. Why did he sound so concerned?
The eyes seemed as though they had shifted; they weren’t looking slightly to the right anymore, but directly at her—into her. They saw everything, they knew everything. They connected the pieces her mind was continually tearing apart, everything was clear. There was an understanding gradually coming over her. The eyes knew what to do, maybe they’d already done it. Could she do it?
“Rhonda!” Norman shouted again, his voice louder but still muffled.
Rhonda wondered if she should reply, maybe just tell him where she was.
No, the eyes seemed to say. No need to tell him, he wouldn’t understand. He’s never understood. He’s laughed at you whenever you tried to get him to understand. He thinks you’re weak. You are weak.
Rhonda wasn’t sure who was thinking anymore, she felt at one with the painting, like its thoughts were hers.
“Ronnie!” Norman shouted, taking her in his hands. He pulled something out of her left hand, a metallic object. He threw it into a corner of the room. What did he want? Why was he so upset? He stepped in front of the painting, and everything froze.
The blurriness began to crack as if it had been solid glass. Rhonda could hear the sickening splits, lines appearing as the shards scratched against one another. She grimaced, pain filling her ears. And then she felt something in her chest.
Thump.
It was violent, and so loud that it almost shut out the splitting glass.
Thump.
It rocked her body, a mini explosion from within.
Thump.
Her body tensed as her senses began to overload. But then she felt Norman’s hands on her face. They were cool, a calm touch that severed the fiery emotions spiraling in and out of her.
“Ronnie,” he said, and Rhonda noticed a peculiar tinge in his voice. Was he crying?
Rhonda reached up and touched his hands. They were shaking, almost as much as hers. She’d never seen him like this, never imagined she would. He’d always been the one who didn’t feel, who was rational and always able to think carefully without breaking down. But now—
Ronnie felt the tears on her cheeks. She had been crying too.
“Are you crying, Norm?” she asked, and his eyes were alert—grateful he’d gotten a response.
“Yeah, I’m crying!” he scoffed, taking her in his arms. “Of course I’m crying, you crazy woman!”
Rhonda smiled, and the tears began to flow as she remembered when he'd first called her that. He only used it in dire circumstances, when she was doubting herself or wondering if he cared for her. She felt his care, she felt it in his arms and the gentle shudders of his tears.
But the painting still gazed at her, watching patiently as if to say “this doesn’t change anything, you’ll be back.”
That evening, they had their first cookout in the new house. They decided to have an open fire, rather than using the grill that had come with the house. They did this for two reasons. The first was that the grill didn’t look safe enough to use; black stains littered the outside and the inside looked as though it had exploded several times over. The second reason was that it was a nice evening and hot dogs were easy to cook over a fire. They sat in fold-out chairs, hot dogs speared and roasting slowly over the fire.
The sun had set, but its presence wasn’t completely gone yet, leaving a relaxing light hanging in the air. The crickets had started chirping their young ones to sleep, hoping that the song would be enough to overlook the fact that it wasn’t quite dark yet. Occasionally an owl would hoot, carefully and quietly so as not to alert its prey. Several bats were making their way into the air, scanning for moths and hoping to get ahead of the night crowd.
“This is nice,” Norman said, leaning back.
“You can’t get this in the city,” Rhonda agreed.
At times they had felt the same about sitting atop a rooftop and looking out over the sea of lights, but now they felt that what they saw here was more lasting.
“We need to decide what to do with the painting,” Norman finally said, bringing up the conversation they both knew was coming. He would have destroyed it the moment he’d entered the house, but he knew Rhonda well enough to know that she would’ve disproved strongly. He could recall many heated rants about people who destroyed paintings, statues, and other forms of art, saying “they might as well destroy history while they’re at it!” So he’d taken the painting down, covered it in a sheet, and waited to talk about what to do with it.
“We should get rid of it,” Rhonda answered, almost automatically.
“How?” Norman asked, certain she didn't mean to destroy it.
They both thought for a moment.
“What about an art gallery?” she concluded.
Norman nodded, but thought of a follow-up question.
“We should be thinking about other people as well, Ron,” he said carefully. “Do you think this painting will be able to—” he paused, still unsure how to label their experience. “To do what it did to you?”
Rhonda was silent a moment.
“Not in a gallery,” she concluded, “not if everything’s explained.”
“Everything with P. T.?”
“Yeah. Art is powerful, it moves people,” Rhonda stared at the fire a moment, recalling the trance she’d been under. “But once they understand it, once they understand the person behind it, it doesn’t have so much power.” She paused again, but then looked at Norman. “Then it gives insight, sympathy.”
And so they sent the painting to a gallery, giving a detailed description of how they came by it and of P. T. Zealot’s tragic story. The artist hadn’t experienced fame in life, he’d lived the true starving artist’s lifestyle, but afterward, people began to recognize his work.
Both Rhonda and Norman agreed that it was a sad thing for someone to work hard in life and never see success because they gave up. They wondered what would have happened if he’d just pressed on a little further, if he’d sent the painting to a gallery or done different things in life. But they didn’t think too hard on P. T., they had a great many things to take care of.
The house on 13 soon took a more homely shape, its outside surrounded by flowerbeds and other greenery that gave it a sanctuary feel, and the inside a comfortable and welcoming atmosphere. Both Rhonda and Norman were happy in the country—not free of trouble or their previous struggles, of course—and lived life eagerly. They looked forward to the future, what they could achieve, and the life they could bring to the small town. And they soon brought life in the form of a young girl they named Priscilla. She filled the home with noise—both laughter and screaming—and art. Her art came in the forms of paint and pencils as well as mud on the carpets. The home was a home to all, and a happy place to be.
This one is a bit of a deep dive into some of the things my poems have circulated recently. I don't want to spoil too much of the story, but at its base level, it's about the power of "the arts." And while the story focuses on painting, for me, this is especially true with music. There is so much feeling in music, both positive and negative. Sometimes the negative (not too negative) is helpful, it helps us understand and process. But it can also be dangerous if we just take it in naively. I think that one of the most crucial parts about taking in any sort of media is whether or not we think about it or not. If we are consciously thinking about what we listen to, watch, read, whatever, I think we'll be able to see what's hurting us. Blindly taking in everything is what gets us.
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