The Remains by Vincent Zandri Read Free Book Online Page A

piece, just as he had done yesterday, and in turn we
offered him advice on how to improve upon it. This of course was
all a big joke since Franny’s talent far surpassed our own.
    While two gray-haired, ‘retired’ women worked
studiously at their easels on the far side of the brightly lit
studio, Franny occupied his favorite corner of honor, round body
partially hidden by what looked to be a brand new canvas.
    My beating heart would not let up. Like
yesterday’s ‘Listen’ canvas, I knew instinctively that this
painting had my name written all over it.
    Robyn caught sight of me just as I hung up my
knapsack inside a wood cubby that once-upon-a-time housed the
little jackets and mittens of long grown kindergartners.
    “Becca honey,” she said in her animated
sing-song voice. “You are not going to believe this.”
    I swallowed. Shooting a forced smile from
across the room at the two retired women, I reluctantly made my way
toward Franny and Robyn.
    “Okay kids,” I said, “keep your clothes
on.”
    “Okay kids,” Franny chanted while rocking on
his stool.
    “Wait,” Robyn barked, coming around fast from
behind the canvas. “Close your eyes, Bec.”
    “Come on, Rob, I’m not in the mood. I haven’t
slept—”
    “Just do what I say,” she demanded. “This is
magnificent.”
    My heart pounded; stomach twisted and
turned.
    No choice but to play along.
    I closed my eyes. But just to make sure I
wasn’t cheating, Robyn propped herself behind me, masked my eyes
with both her hands. From there she led me around to the business
side of the canvas where I stood directly beside Franny. Pressed up
against him actually. As usual, he smelled like he’d just taken a
bath in Old Spice.
    “What you’re about to see,” Robyn said, “took
the master only eight hours of non-stop painting.”
    Thus all the fuss?
    God, I felt like back-kicking her. If only my
heart weren’t pounding so hard.
    “Come on, Rob.” She pulled her hands
away.
    When I opened my eyes it felt like two
charcoal pencils were being shoved up into my eyeballs. This
painting, as opposed to yesterday’s, contained no abstract
squiggles and dashes. But very much like yesterday, it depicted a
rural landscape. Accordingly, Franny had chosen to paint the piece
using sublime colors—greens, browns, soft yellows and oranges,
blues and even ocher.
    But it was neither color choice nor style
that robbed me of my breath. What shook me up was the field of tall
grass. Beyond it I saw a stand of trees that marked the beginning
of a thick dark wood. No question about it, the field and the woods
were just like my dream—the recurring dream where I am following
Molly. Or, more precisely said, the dream which was not a dream at
all, but the re-creation of actual events that took place almost
thirty years ago to the day.
    There was something else too, something I
recognized in the tall grass. It contained the word ‘See’. Maybe
you had to really search for the previous day’s word, but not this
one. To me it was obvious that the letters that made up the word
S-e-e were transposed onto the canvas in the play of yellow
sunlight on brown grass. But even with the word that obvious, I
didn’t open my mouth up about it. Nor did I mention that the
scenery matched that of my dream.
    But then if the word was so obvious, why
didn’t Robyn say anything about it?
    “Earth to Becca,” she said, breaking me out
of my trance. “Earth, Becca. Earth.”
    “Earth,” Franny said. “Earth.”
    I pulled my eyes away from the new painting,
focused silently upon Robyn’s face, her blue eyes.
    “You’re right,” I said, half under my breath.
“Incredible… for only eight hours of work.”
    But I don’t think Robyn heard me at all. She
took a step back, squinted .
    “Whoa, girl,” she said. “You’re so white you
look like you’ve just seen your own ghost.”
    She couldn’t have been more right. That’s
when everything inside me fell—a total organ slide.