Hammer and pencil in hand, nail between her lips as if she were pinning up a hem, Mom pounded the nail with a fierceness I’d never witnessed before. She lifted The Hay Cart, and dropped it on the new hook.
We stood back from the painting; eyes pinched, fingers poised on tightly pursed lips, scrutinizing the object. Fueled by disgust, I critiqued first. “Well, I don’t like it. The subject -: blotchy charcoal clouds, rusty hay spread over a decayed wooden cart? The technique – paint as thick as birthday cake icing. The feeling? It makes me want to vomit.”
To me, the painting screamed ‘La Quinta lobby.’ But what does a third-grade kid know? I’m not a real artist.
Julia is a real artist with a real studio showing paintings at a real gallery. Dad bought six of them. No, he commissioned six of them. I say ‘commissioned’ because I know from eavesdropping on heated conversations that my mother does not believe we are in the tax bracket of ‘those who commission.’
My mother and I stepped back from the disaster as if distance might offer hope. We looked at each other with rolling eyes and twisted lips.
“Complete crap,” Mom hissed.
I echoed her appraisal. “Everything about it, crap.”
The work failed our St. Francis Test—a game we invented explicitly for touring art museums—one minute to judge each art piece for Subject, Technique, and Feeling. We’ve employed the St. Francis Test in every art museum our family has ever visited. After each outing, we hit the museum gift shop and purchased postcards of our favorite art. I got a Modigliani T-shirt on my birthday. Once, my sister got a Monet umbrella.
Mom studied The Hay Cart, one hand resting on the bulging, jumping beachball that would, in three weeks, be my baby sister Margaret-Rose. Mom moved my hand to her bouncing stomach – both of us impressed with our baby’s potential career in soccer or basketball.
I went back to critiquing the painting. “It bombs on all three criteria,” I announced, disgust riding my breath. “The Subject? A total Monet wanna-be. The Technique? My little sister, Anne, a mere kindergarten kid, could deliver superior impressionism using a box of crayons.” I turned my back on the painting and addressed the final item on the St. Francis Test. “How does this piece make me Feel?” I gagged. “It makes me wanna throw up.”
Anyway, Julia, the real artist with the real studio and the real gallery showings, was coming for tea. That is why Mother hung The Hay Cart on the dining room wall.
“Mom, we can’t keep this junk on our wall.”
“We won’t. Julia is coming for tea. I’m being polite.” Mom took a deep breath, rubbed our waiting baby, and whispered. “Now I got a big hole in the wall. So much for polite.”
“You could hang your Zen flower piece – Gardenia in Starlight – I love that one.”
She pulled on my grandmother’s chef apron, with Josephine embroidered across the front. “Tie me,” she ordered, “then let’s get to work.”
Mom pointed at the French doors leading to Dad’s office and our family den, “Concert, Saturday. You have a cello solo to practice. I have a table to set.”
My father hired Julia to paint six scenes capturing the landscape of our family’s lake property. I couldn’t wait for the art I imagined: scenes capturing afternoon light dancing on the shallow sandbars, complicated mixtures of lavender, orange, and gold, and the reverent bows of tall brown grass swaying on the beach.
Julia painted six canvases, each failing the St. Francis. She installed the objects in Dad’s dental office, filling the waiting room and hallway. Only five paintings fit the available space, so The Hay Cart landed on our dining room wall.
I headed through the French doors, watching Mom closely. She was nine months pregnant and due any day. I was ready—a Girl Scout Emergency Badge achieved and sewn on my sash, I was EMT prepared.
I loved Dad’s home office – our den. It was my favorite room. Wood-paneled walls, thick casement windows, and an upholstered window seat. The room was perfect for my performances as every female character in The Sound of Music, The Music Man, Camelot, Phantom of the Opera, West Side Story, and Hairspray. You get the drift; if it came to Broadway, it came to our den. Run through a musical or two, and I was ready for cello.
Having practiced my solo, I opened the French doors, salivating at Mom’s tea party spread. The table was graced with warm homemade bread, muffins, blackberry jelly, and potted cream. Mom waddled out of the kitchen, smiling, a pot of coconut tea in hand.
“Practice over, Maria-Francesca?”
My given name is Mary Frances (Mom’s favorite saint is St. Francis, and Dad’s name is William Francis—Frances, Francis everywhere). Mom always calls me Maria-Francesca. She leans more artistic than accurate.
The doorbell rang. Mom sprinted to answer it. And there she was—Julia, wrapped in a fur coat dotted with snowflakes. She had a pretty face and curly brown hair sprayed to stiffness and speckled with melting snow. Her makeup was predictable from her paintings: lips smeared a bloody red, eyelids caked in crackled blue shadow. Thick coal-black mascara emphasized her finest feature – bright blue eyes. Cold, hard, calculating, bright blue eyes. My stomach twisted; the woman herself failed the St. Francis Test.
I glance at my mother: peachy skin radiant without makeup, silky brown hair easily tossed. Radiating a soft, kind, peaceful, inviting glow—an easy A on the St. Francis.
My mother took Julia’s gloved hand, ushering her into the vestibule, and closed the door, “Julia, so lovely to meet you. Finally, we have a chance to chat. But what a day for a tea party. It’s a blizzard out there. Let me take your coat.”
Julia, flustered, pulled back. “Oh no. please, I’ll keep my coat…need to warm up.” She wrapped herself tightly.
“Oh, yes, yes you poor thing. Please, sit, catch your breath.” Mom ushered Julia to the table.
Julia looked over the spread, amazed at the feast; she was hungry. “I thought it was just tea. You didn’t have to go to so much trouble,”
“No trouble. I’m honoring an artist.”
Julia removed her gloves, and my mother reached over and took hold of Julia’s frozen fingers, rubbing them as she does for us kids when we come in from the cold. “We’ve got to get the blood circulating; your hands are like ice.”
Mother rubbed Julia’s hands so softly that Julia appeared startled, but like a child, she let my mother do it. “There you go,” Mom beamed, “warming up already. We should have picked a better day.”
“Oh no,” Julia sputtered, “I didn’t want to wait – for a chance to talk.”
“You’re a determined one, braving the elements; sure, you want to keep your coat?”
“For now,” Julia eyed the feast.
Mom ran through the menu: ” I just got the bread and muffins out of the oven, and only this morning finished canning the blackberry jam.”
“I am famished,” Julia admitted, taking a chair, grabbing a muffin, and slathering it with butter and jam. “This is delicious,” she sputters, her mouth full. “You made this jam?”
“My mother’s recipe,” Mom pointed to the name Josephine embroidered on her apron.
“You could bottle this – you’d make a fortune,” Julia sighed, her mouth filled with the fortune.
“Takes a business mind like yours to think that way.” Mother poured tea for both of them. “There’s clotted cream if you want. A little honey goes well with this tea – adds to the Chai.”
Julia wolfed down another muffin and a piece of bread, both slathered in butter and jam. She ladled cream and honey into her tea. “I’ve never tasted tea this good. On second thought, you should have a cooking show!”
“I already run one,” my mother said, “with five kids so far.”
Julia’s mood shifted. She sat up straight, dabbing her lips with a napkin, “There was something I wanted to talk about,”
Mother sat and poured herself a cup of tea, added cream, and spun the contents with a tiny spoon. She stirred in dreamy swirls as she chatted, “Julia, I have to say it is quite an honor to meet an artist of your caliber—one with a studio and clients. You’ve made such a bold life choice. And my Bill gushes about you.” Mom looked up at Julia. “You said there was something you wanted to talk about?”
Julia nodded, waving her arms furiously, her mouth swollen with my mother’s art. She opened her overstuffed mouth and sputtered something that sounded like “Bill.”
Julia’s words garbled, forging passage through Mom’s confections. With a gulp of tea, she opened enough space to mumble, “Bill and I have fans.” She swallowed hard and repeated, “Have fans.”
“Fans?” my mother strained to decode Julia’s mumbles as I watched from my hidden perched on the office window seat.
Mom tenderly touched Julia’s hand, “Yes, we are fans. Absolute fans!”
Julia choked, swallowing half of the last muffin, and corrected her message. She yelled, “Plans!” Shocking herself at the volume and fearful it might signal aggression, she softly repeated, “Plans, Bill and I have plans.”
“Plans?” my mother repeated as if deciphering a code. I know my mom; she suspected Bill was pitching a few more ‘commissions.’ Julia was here to minimize resistance. Mom bought some time: “Julia, your tea has gone cold. Let me dump this out and get you a new cup. It’s best warm.”
Mom stood and turned toward the kitchen, adjusting Nana Josephine’s apron – revealing that she was not chubby but nine months pregnant with our Margaret-Rose jumping bean.
I craned, watching the effect of this revelation. Joy drained from Julia’s face – she went grey, angry, cold. She looked like how I felt about The Hay Cart.
When my mother returned, cup in hand, Julia stood, opened her coat, and revealed her swollen body. My mother set down the cup with grace. She took Julia’s hands in her own. Julia went rigid as if braced for a slap.
“Julia, dear, just look at you, look at us – two peas in a pod, both ready to pop. And you, saying nothing about it? Silly girl out in this weather?”
Julia sank back into her chair. She placed her hands over her face. I wondered if she was crying or marshaling aggression. She looked up at my mother, tears rolling down her face. She stood, “Bernadette, I don’t feel so well. I better go,”
Alarmed, my mother cradled an arm around Julia’s back, “Delivery pains?”
Julia’s eyes narrowed, “Just regular pregnancy pain.” Julia’s voice was dry and hard.
“Braxton Hicks,” my mom added knowingly.
“Time to leave,” Julia said, pulling her coat tight and fumbling with her gloves. She was upset.
Mom offered ideas: “Maybe we could do this another time? Let me drive you to your studio or call a cab. You shouldn’t be out in this…”
Julia huffed as she yanked on her last glove. “No, it’s better if I walk. I need fresh air.”
Julia took a moment, sighed deeply, studied my mother, and then reached out to hug her. The hug provided me with a nauseating view of The Hay Cart.
Julia left the embrace, thanking my mother. “You are not the woman I was expecting.” Julia pointed to Margaret-Rose as my mother cuddled the jumping lump. “Good luck with the new…” Julia choked.
“And good luck with your baby,” Mom said affectionately.
Julia turned and walked out our front door. My mother went to the window and watched until Julia was out of sight.
Mom turned, smiling at me, “I’ll clean up, honey; you do your cello.”
I returned to my sanctuary, picked up the phone, and called my father—his dental assistant answered. I asked to speak to my dad. Several seconds of music and a drill stopped. In the next moment, Dad was on the phone.
His voice was cheerful: “Maria-Francesca, what’s up?” Then, his voice switched to concern: “Is your mother all right?”
Words left my body in flat monotones, “Julia came for tea.”
The line went silent. Dad’s breath deepened. I whispered through tears. “I know.”
I heard the rattle of shock infused in his breath. I imagined him standing on the other end of the phone, ashen, a dental instrument dropping onto a metal tray.
We breathed into each other for some time. Then, I muttered, “Dad, you better go to confession.”
Epilogue
Some of you, like my mother, walk the earth with angelic trust and Zen acceptance.
Others, like myself, facing a complex reality, gather data, and fight our way to acceptance and forgiveness.
According to the blood test, Julia’s son was not my brother. However, for me, the need for a blood test only confirmed my father’s mortal sin – sins. And the sad web he’d spun.
My father said, “I wondered if one of you would figure it out.”
I looked him in the eye; there was distance between us. “One of us did.”
“I was an idiot!”
“You were greedy!”
“I’m asking you to forgive me.”
I realized he was not going to tell my mother.
“Asking me? I’ve spent a lot of time swearing out loud at two people.”
He said, “I went to confession.”
I said, “So did I. And I’ll probably have to go again.”
I replaced The Hay Cart with Gardenia in Starlight.
MARY-FRANCES SCHNEIDER 