A Battle Raging (3 page)

He took another sip of the water, welcomed the shiver. It wouldn't do him any good to think of sex tonight, or any other night for that matter. That part of him was dead…well, at least in a coma.

For some reason, the image of his sketch popped into his head - the nude picture he had drawn of the instructor yesterday afternoon. He hadn't known he was going to do that. Not until the moment he had put charcoal to paper. He had been set to draw the piece of fruit, no big deal. Yet he had to admit to himself that he partially did it to get a rise out of her. Their first encounter had been rancorous enough, thanks to his assholery. And he hadn't meant that either. He couldn't have explained his anger at that moment to himself, let alone to anyone else. He knew the incident was something he should talk to Dr. Madison about, to break it apart and try to put it back together again. And he knew for that reason alone, he would keep the info to himself. He didn't like self-reflection very much. He didn't like going to the core of his emotional and mental pain; it only exacerbated it.

He laid his head on the pillow again knowing that sleep wouldn't come easily. His mind resisted
going into a dream state. His dreams were memories, sometimes surreal but always with the hard edge of reality. He had been fighting his reality for over four years.

Maybe Dr. Madison was right. Maybe he needed to refocus his anger, delve into his innate abilities to offset his feelings of inadequacy.
He had taken art classes before, and in his teens had even thought of pursuing a career as a graphic artist. But that was a long time ago, a lifetime ago. Boy and man were forever rived apart.

It took
nearly forty minutes before his mind stopped racing, before his lids became heavy enough to shut out the world around him. And in the ensuing darkness of his mind, a blaze of light moved in and brought with it the renewed pain of a bullet ripping through him.

Maya
strolled through the fish market trying to decide whether she wanted ahi or tilapia for dinner. The briny smell of Pike's Place was always exhilarating as was the throng of people milling around. Especially fun was the inevitable "flying fish" a mainstay at the famous market. Every day, smiling fishmongers called out the customers' orders then tossed the fish to one another, sometimes including the customers in their antics. It was routine for a foam rubber fish to be tossed at and hopefully caught by a jovial shopper.

Maya often came on Fridays after her morning stint at
the university where she taught art appreciation to usually lackluster twenty-something's who considered the class an easy A. But this morning had been a very good class, and she could almost forget last Saturday's train wreck. Tomorrow was the second meeting of her independent art class, the one she bankrolled herself because she had naively thought it was a great idea to inspire budding artists and help them discover their inner muses. Well, if last week was any indication, she and twelve others would be unwilling captives to whatever tantrum Mr. Yarborough decided to throw. Not good.

She shook off her apprehension, decided on the ahi, gave her order to one of the fishmongers.

"Ahi, ahi for the pretty lady," the young blond worker called out to an older bald man. The refrain as well as a large cut of ahi made its rounds between four mongers, all of them cheerfully smiling as one after another tossed and caught the fish. And soon the foam fish was heaved her way as she stood below a sign warning about "low flying fish." She lifted her left hand, barely caught it but that was enough to garner her a healthy round of applause.

When she finally left with her fish, she couldn't help smiling and she found her good mood restored…for the moment.

"Good catch in there," someone said to her just outside the fish market. She looked up at a very tall man with smooth, dark skin and ebony eyes that twinkled. There were dimples on either side of a wide smile.

"Uh, I don't know about that. It was in danger of going splat at my feet."

"Well, no one could tell. If they were like me, all they could see was a very beautiful woman showing some major deft moves."

He was running a line on her and it was working. She felt her smile widen and she tried to check the young schoolgirl inside who was
just too susceptible to compliments, especially from an athletic looking brother who knew his game. And who looked like he was not unfamiliar with the corporate office judging by his suit.

"Well, thank you again but
I have to go," she said.

He gave her an exaggerated look of pain, as though she had hurt his feelings.

"And here I was hoping you might show me your moves."

"Well, brother
I have no moves to spare right now, except those that are going to take me home."

The
smile was back.

"I hear ya. No problem with that. How does the saying go,
I know this is presumptuous of me
, but here's my card with my number." He pulled a card from his blazer pocket.

"I would very much like to take a sista out for a cup of espresso or maybe even a glass of wine. If you're ever up for some company."

She took the card and glanced at it.
It read
Jules Mackinaw, Attorney at Law
along with a downtown address, phone and email. So, he was a lawyer…who at least knew how to look successful. Whether he was in reality remained to be seen. Was she curious enough to explore though?

"Well, I'll keep
the card in my purse and your invitation in mind. Just in case I'm ever up for some company."

She didn't give him a chance to respond, but simply started on her path
homeward, hoping he wasn't arrogant enough to pursue. Thankfully, after a few minutes, she deemed that he had at least passed this test anyway. She hated bulldoggers who refused to take no for an answer. A big turnoff.

She realized she still had his card in her hand. She stopped to put it in her purse then continued on, taking a few moments to stop at the flower market to purchase an orchid bouquet, something to cheer up her kitchen
while she made honey glazed lime cilantro ahi. It was a recipe her mother had finally passed on to her and Jada a few years ago. Before the cancer had taken hold and finally taken her away from them. Two years after Mark, her brother, was killed.

Sad
thoughts to shake away. The day was sunny with a warm breeze. Summer was around the corner. Something good to anticipate. At the house, she would throw open a few windows, put the flowers in a vase, get her ingredients out for the ahi and the rice tempura she had planned. Start off to a groove by Janelle Monae, then settle into something jazzy by Al Jarreau.

And not think about what might happen tomorrow.
She remembered a verse from her childhood: sufficient unto the day the evil thereof…or something like that.

###

Rain flung against the large windows with such brute force that the drumming of it reverberated throughout the studio. The storm had moved in just before noon with little warning. The meteorologist on the early weather channel had said there was a forty percent probability of showers. Dead wrong. One hundred percent chance as evidenced by her soaked blouse and slacks. The students who managed to get to class –seven so far – looked as drowned as she felt. Umbrellas tended to be insufficient on days like these. Seattle days. Bi-polar days. Yesterday so mild, and today a lead-in to Noah's last days. No ark available. Just a moderate sized studio with thankfully some heat.

Despite the bad weather, she had
a glimmer of hope that the class would go more smoothly today. That was because Mr. Yarborough was a no show and since it was nearly ten after the hour, he would probably remain so.

The stack of syllabi that she'd neglected to pass out their last session together
lay on her desk, ready to be distributed. A bit of formality for an informal class but it would lend some outline to what she wanted to accomplish with them.

After handing out the
syllabi, she walked to the rear ready to close the door. She happened to look out at the hallway.

And of course, he would
come rolling out of the only elevator on the floor, just opposite the classroom door. Their eyes met and she was sure he could see her disappointment at his appearance. He was dressed in some makeshift raincoat that seemed to be a large plastic bag with holes cut it in for his head and arms. Beneath it she saw the sleeves of a jacket. He wore the same fingerless gloves and hat he'd worn at the last class. For some reason, the hat was dry. As was the hair that peeked from beneath.

And she was sure that his answering smile was a nice "fuck you" to her.

"Glad you could join us, Mr. Yarborough," she said, forcing a smile.

His smile deepened.

"Yes, I can see how glad you are. Know that I'm equally as glad to be here."

She
said nothing as she backed up to allow him to wheel his chair into the studio. She closed the door as he proceeded to the front easel, his position from last week.

She sighed at the fates, or her particular fate. Luckily, he would only be in her life for a semester and
she could gladly bid him a hearty adieu once their time had come to an end.

"OK, class I just want to
thank you all for venturing out in this horrible weather to come here. I appreciate your dedication. And today, I'm going to try to make it worth your time and inconvenience to be here. As you can see by the syllabus I passed out to you, today we'll again be doing something with charcoal, but the subject this time will be a little more challenging. At least I hope it will."

She walked
to the front of the room toward the small table to the left of her desk. On it sat several items: a dark wine bottle filled with Burgundy, two fluted crystal glasses, and a rose lying in front of the glasses. A romantic tableau. She'd hoped for natural lighting, but given the cloudiness of the day, she had to settle for the artificial lighting in the room.

"
OK, we'll be sketching these today and just so you don't feel lonely, I'm going to join you. The lighting in here kind of sucks, but we'll just have to make do. What I want you to concentrate on is again, the shading and the shapes. Note the differences in the shading of the bottle glass versus that of the wine glasses. Bring that into focus. And also the rose here. Now, note the bruising. Try to capture that. Again, I'm not looking for perfection but at least an impression of what you see. I'll do the assignment with you so that we can compare styles and strokes. We have thirty minutes so let's begin now."

She had brought in an additional easel for herself, but it was unnecessary given the absences. She sat at one of the empty ones in the row just behind Mr. Yarborough. It provided her with the advantage of being able to see the objects and peek over Yarborough's shoulder to make sure he wasn't
going off on a tangent, sketching something he shouldn't be…like another nude. She didn't want another embarrassing episode.

So far, he was simply drawing a rough
outline of the objects. She noted the deftness of his motions which had none of the hesitancy one would expect with a novice or someone who's rusty as he claimed to be. As she watched the sketch take more definition, she felt more mesmerized than she would admit and just a little intrigued.

He hadn't bothered taking off any of his
sodden wrap but seemed comfortable enough despite that. He seemed to be someone who would never feel out of his element, who would make an environment his own without much effort.

She shook herself out of her distra
ction and began her own sketch, following much along the same strokes and shading as Yarborough. As she neared completion, she remembered something he had said during his "presentation" last week. And an idea occurred to her.

After the allotted thirty minutes, she stood.

"OK, class, let's see how you did. I'll come around and check your work and if you want, later you can come up and check mine."

She was glad there were only eight students today because it gave her more time to critique and make suggestions. Some of the students took her up on her offer and walked to her easel to get a look at what she'd done.

Eventually, and somewhat hesitatingly, she approached Yarborough's easel. As she'd known it would be, his rendering was nearly flawless. Except that it was so clinical. Technically it was what she'd asked for. But with the novice students, their flaws had introduced something personal in their drawings. Not here. She could only begin to imagine why and even then not scratch past the surface.

"This is very good, Mr. Yarborough, but…" she stopped, letting the sentence hang.

He looked up at her, his face expressionless. He really didn't seem to have any joy in what he was doing.

She looked up at t
he wall clock. Almost two. Outside the storm had calmed to a soft patter and a lazy sun was peeking through the clouds. A good turn of weather just in time for them to go home.

As she dismissed the class, t
he idea that had begun germinating in her head took shape spurring her to her next move.