Big Picture: Stories

Cerulean

The front left wheel of the lawn mower looked like it was ready to fall off. The machine’s original blue was now rust red and brown and the writing on it that at one time had read WESTERN AUTO now said TERN AU. The wheel wobbled with a rhythmic squeak as the short man with the shaved spot on his head pushed the mower up the walk toward Gail and Michael. They were standing at their door, bags of groceries at their feet while Michael dug into his pockets for his keys. The man with the mower stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked up at them.

Michael looked at the man, then at Gail, then at his grass, which didn’t appear to be in great need of cutting.

The man raised five fingers and pointed to the yard.

“Five dollars?” Michael asked.

The man nodded, then rubbed his nose while he looked away.

Michael turned to Gail, who shrugged. Michael studied the man’s filthy jeans and his shirt, which appeared to be made of a fabric too heavy for the heat. “Okay,” he said. “Five bucks.”

The man didn’t say anything. He turned and walked to the edge of the yard and started pulling the cord of his machine’s little motor.

Michael found his keys and got the door open. Inside, he and Gail set the sacks on the counter.

“Are you sure that was a good idea?” Gail asked, putting the milk into the refrigerator.

“It’s five dollars,” Michael said.

“I don’t mean the money.”

Michael sat at the table and watched as Gail put away a few things. “I think it’s okay.” He paused to listen to the motor outside. “The grass doesn’t really need to be mowed, so what can he mess up?”

“I don’t mean that either,” Gail said. She opened a new bottle of cranberry juice and poured a glass. “What if he sees us as a soft touch?”

“We are a soft touch.” Michael stood and walked to the window. “It must be ninety degrees out there and he’s wearing a wool shirt.”

“He can take it off if he wants,” Gail said.

“Well, he’s not doing it. He’s sweating like crazy out there. What if he has a heat stroke while he’s working for us?” Michael considered that.

“What is it?” Gail asked.

“I’m going to give him one of my T-shirts.” He went upstairs and into their bedroom. He pulled a light blue shirt from the shelf in the closet. The letters UNC were faded. He took the shirt back to the kitchen. Gail was still putting food away.

“You’re not serious,” she said.

“If he keels over, we could be liable.”

Gail paused. “I suppose.”

“I’m going to ask him to change into this.” The sun was slicing into his back as Michael walked out the back door and across the yard toward the man. He waved to him when a few yards away. The man stopped pushing the mower and watched Michael approach. He didn’t turn off the machine. “I brought you this shirt,” Michael said loudly.

The man looked at it, but didn’t seem to understand.

Michael pointed to the man’s soaked wool garment and then held the T-shirt out to him. The man nodded and unbuttoned what he was wearing. He took it off, handed it to Michael, and took the T-shirt. The wool was indeed soaked and Michael felt uncomfortable holding it. The man pulled the light blue shirt over his head, his hair wet from perspiration, and down over his soft, glistening belly. He nodded a thank you and went back to pushing the machine. Michael walked back to the house, and draped the wet shirt over the railing of the steps. Inside, he walked to the sink and washed his hands.

Gail was peering out the window over the sink. “I see he put it on.”

Michael dried his hands with a couple of paper towels. “Yeah. He was sweating like a pig. It’s unbelievable out there.”

“He asked to do it,” Gail said. “Do you think he can’t talk?”

Michael shrugged. “You know, that’s a big job for only five dollars.”

“He’s the one who asked for it,” Gail said.

“Yeah, but it’s sweltering out there. It’ll take him a couple of hours. He’ll use a buck’s worth of gas at least. So, he’s doing it for four dollars.”

“Have you ever heard the term ‘bleeding heart?’”

“Tell me it doesn’t bother you,” Michael said.

“Of course it bothers me.” Gail sat at the table with him. “But I am glad you didn’t bring that shirt in here.”

“That’s something else that bothered me.” Michael leaned his head back and blew out a breath. “I was really uncomfortable handling that thing after he’d been wearing it.”

“Who wouldn’t be?” Gail laughed. “It’s soaked with sweat and who knows what else.”

“I know, but still …”

A couple of hours went by and there was a knock at the door. Michael found the man standing there, his lawn mower at the bottom of the steps. He had his wool shirt back on, but it was not buttoned. His chest hair was shining with sweat and moisture sat in the cracks of his belly. He held the blue T-shirt by his side.

“All done?” Michael asked.

The man nodded.

Michael put his hand in his pocket. “Do you live around here?”

Another nod.

“Which way?”

He pointed up the streeet toward the busy avenue.

Michael handed the man his money. “Here’s ten dollars. It was a bigger job than I thought at first.”

The man looked at the ten, then fished a five out of his pocket and pushed it toward Michael.

“No, it’s all for you,” Michael said.

But the man shoved the five at him again. Michael felt obliged to take it and did. The man then handed Michael the sweaty, light blue T-shirt. Michael took it, and his fingers touched the slick, salty water from the man’s body. He closed his hand around it and looked at the yard.

“You did a fine job. Thank you.”

The man stepped back down the steps, grabbed the handle of his mower, and walked away up the street.

Michael closed the door and felt the air conditioner switch on and pump coolness at him from above. He went into the back room and put the UNC T-shirt on top of the washing machine. While he was standing at the kitchen sink lathering up his hands Gail came in.

“So, how much did you pay him?” she asked.

“Five dollars,” he said, tearing off a couple of towels from the roll.

“I’m impressed.”

“I tried to give him a ten, but he gave me change. Still didn’t say a word.”

“I wonder if he can hear,” Gail said.

“Don’t know.”

“I’ll bet he reads lips. And I’ll bet that’s how he can stand out there with that noisy machine for hours.”

“Possibly.”

“What’s wrong?” Gail asked.

“Nothing.” Michael opened the refrigerator and just stared inside. “It’s really hot out there. You think he has a place to live?”

“Who knows,” Gail said. “Hand me a diet cola.”

Michael grabbed a can and gave it to her. Opening the can she cut her finger and shook it in the air. She took a swallow. “So, who’s going to cook?” she asked.

“I will.”

“That was easy. I’ll help.”

Later that night, after dinner, Gail was watching television and nursing another diet soda. She sat in the overstuffed chair with her legs folded under her. Michael passed through on his way to the bookshelf against the far wall.

“They’re talking about the suicides at the Golden Gate Bridge,” she said, referring to the program on the television. “This guy is supposedly an expert on suicide.” She laughed. “How can you be an expert on suicide and still be alive?”

Michael chuckled, too. “I suppose that’s a good point.”

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I thought I’d sit in the other room and read for a while.”

“Come on, sit in here with me and watch something stupid.”

“Nah, I’m just going to read.”

“Come on, veg with me.”

Michael looked at the book in his hand.

“You can sit on the floor in front of me and I’ll rub your neck.”

Michael tossed the book onto the coffee table and sat in front of her. “You’re a terrible influence.”

“That’s why you married me. Because I like to give.”

“Does your mother know how you talk?”

“Nope.”

Michael felt his wife’s fingers on his neck and watched the images of the bridge in San Francisco. “Do you mind if we watch something else?”

Gail picked up the remote control and switched channels, moving past an old movie, a soccer game, a couple of ads, and settled on an exercise show. The woman leading the group counted out loud between whoops and encouraging words.

“You’re not serious?” Michael said.

“Do you think she has a good body?” Gail asked.

“She ought to; she exercises for a living.” He watched the woman in spandex. “Actually, I don’t like her body. I don’t like her legs.”

“They’re thin.”

“So? What’s thin got to do with anything? Her legs are shapeless.” He turned and looked at Gail. “Now your legs … your legs are not shapeless.” He pretended to bite her knee.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He puckered his lips. “Kiss me.”

Gail leaned forward and kissed him. A noise in the backyard caused her to sit up straight. “What was that?”

“Don’t know,” Michael said.

“Do you love me?”

Michael reached and took his wife’s hand. “Yes, I love you. You know I love you.”

“There’s that sound again,” Gail said.

“I’ll go see what it is,” Michael said and found his feet. Gail followed him into the kitchen. They didn’t turn on the lights. Michael looked out the door window and Gail looked out through the window over the sink. “I don’t see anything.” Michael opened the door and stepped out onto the small deck. He looked over at the garbage cans and saw that one of the metal lids was on the ground. He walked down and put the top back on the container, thought he heard something behind him, but turned and found nothing.

Gail called to Michael from the door.

“It must have a been a cat or a dog,” he said. He pressed the lid firmly down and stepped back up to the door. “Yeah, cat or dog, maybe a bear or hyena.”

“Or a duck-billed platypus.”

Upstairs in bed, Michael felt the little movements that told him his wife was close. He tried to think of his love for her, but it seemed to get lost in his head. He felt her come, then shut his eyes and rested his face on her thigh.

The next morning Michael returned from his run and jumped into the shower. He kept the water cool. He was tired of the hot summer weather. He made the water a little colder and let it strike his face. His knees ached a bit and he remembered a time when they didn’t, when his runs were longer and seemed less boring. He turned off the water, grabbed a towel from the rod, and dried. It was Sunday and he’d promised Gail that he would try to get the dryer to stop making a new, high-pitched whine. He slid open the closet door and there, sitting on top of a stack of sweaters and pullovers was the light blue UNC T-shirt. He stared at it. Gail must have washed it and run it through the whining dryer while he was out running. He touched it, thinking about how it had been on the body of that man. He was ashamed that he was afraid to put it on. He picked it up and sniffed it, found that it smelled like the soap they used. He tossed the shirt on the bed and looked at it while he found and put on underwear, socks, and a pair of jeans. He looked at himself in the mirror and noticed how old he was getting. He walked downstairs to the kitchen with the shirt in his hand. He took a yogurt from the refrigerator.

“I was wondering if you’d actually wear that shirt,” Gail said. She had file folders open on the table and was making notes.

“What’s the big deal? It’s washed, right?”

Gail nodded. “I’m just surprised.”

“Didn’t mean to surprise you.”

“Are you all right?” Gail asked.

“Sure. Why?”

“You didn’t sleep well.”

“No, I guess not.” Michael rubbed his forehead.

“Are you happy?” she asked.

“It’s just work, honey.” He looked at her eyes. “I thought I’d look at the dryer,” Michael said. “But I have no clue where that sound is coming from.”

“Well, it drives me crazy. You know how those little high squeals can squirm all through the house and find you and get under your skin and make you want to kill the nearest person.”

“I’ll fix it.” He slipped the shirt over his head and took a bite of yogurt.

“Good.”

It was hot in the back room. The air conditioner failed to pump relief there and the morning sun pounded at the slatted windows. Michael had the dryer turned on its side and was checking the belt. The problem was, of course, that as long as the machine was disassembled it had to be unplugged, and therefore couldn’t be turned on to allow him to hear the noise. The belt seemed tight enough without being too tight and all the screws and bolts were fast. He lay there on his back, reached inside, and sprayed the motor and belt with WD-40. He let his head fall back and stared at the ceiling. He scratched at his shoulder, then at his chest. Gail called to him from the kitchen.

“How’s it coming?” she asked, now standing in the doorway.

Michael didn’t say anything, just looked at her and shrugged. He started to put the dryer back together.

“You’re soaked,” Gail said.

Michael looked at himself and wiped the perspiration from his face.

“I’m going to make some lemonade.”

He gave her the okay sign with his fingers and watched her turn away into the kitchen. Michael got the dryer back together and turned it on. It didn’t whine. He didn’t know why, but it sounded the way it was supposed to sound.

Gail leaned into the room. “All right, you fixed it,” she said and was gone again.

Michael put away the tools. He felt good. He felt easy. He went back upstairs, stripped down, and got into the shower again. He put on another shirt and some shorts.

“Where’s the lemonade?” he asked, walking into the kitchen.

“I’ll pour you some,” she said, opening the refrigerator.

Michael sat at the table and watched his wife. He loved the way she enjoyed her body, the way she moved. “Are you still working on the same chapter?” he asked her.

“I’m always working on the same chapter.”

“That’s not quite true.”

“True enough,” she said. She pushed a glass of lemonade in front of her husband.

“Thanks.” Michael took a long swallow. It was cool and tasted good, but he felt a little out of sorts.

“It’s really hot in the laundry room, eh?” Gail sat in front of her work at the table.

“Pretty warm.”

“You looked sick out there. I’m glad you showered. You look a lot better now.”

Michael nodded. “Wouldn’t want to look sick.”

There was a knock at the door and Michael got up and looked through the door window. It was the man from yesterday, with his lawn mower. “You’re not going to believe this,” he said to Gail.

“What?” Gail got up, came to the door, and looked out. “Didn’t he finish the job?”

“I thought he had.” Michael opened the door and stepped out into the heat.

The man pointed at the yard and held up five fingers again. Michael looked at the grass. Gail came out, too.

“You just mowed it all yesterday,” Michael said.

The man flashed five fingers again.

“Thank you,” Gail said, “but we don’t need you today.”

“I tried to give you ten dollars yesterday,” Michael said. “Listen, I’ll give you another five because you earned it, but we don’t need our grass cut again.” He turned to Gail. “Would you grab a five for me?”

Gail went back into the house.

“Can you talk?” Michael could smell the man, recognized the smell from when he had carried the wool shirt before. “Can you hear me or are you reading my lips?”

The man nodded and smiled.

Gail returned with the money. Michael took it from her and handed it to the man.

The man turned away and, somewhat relieved, Michael and Gail turned back into the house. Michael had just closed the door when the sound of the lawn mower split the air. He looked at Gail.

“That guy scares me,” Gail said.

“He’s harmless,” Michael said.

“He’s a nut.”

Michael looked out the window at him, wearing the wool shirt, struggling to push his mower with the wobbly wheel. “He’s pretty weird, all right. We’ll let him do this today.”

The man mowed the already mowed lawn and was gone without a knock at the door. Michael suddenly noticed the silence. He got up from his desk and walked from window to window, looking out.

“He’s gone,” he said to Gail.

“Good.”

“Boy, that machine of his makes a lot of noise,” Michael said. “Listen to how quiet it is now.”

“Yep.” Gail yawned and rubbed her eyes. “I hate work. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.”

“How old do you think that guy is?” Michael asked.

“If he comes back he won’t get any older; that’s all I know.” Gail sharpened a pencil. “I don’t know. Sixty?”

“I’d bet he’s our age.”

“Looks sixty.”

“He does; you’re right.” Michael rubbed the back of his neck. “Of course, I feel sixty.”

The following morning was overcast and Michael had trouble pulling himself out of bed for his run. Lately he’d had to force himself. He’d had to force work as well; the paintings were staring back at him, mocking him, scaring him. He tied the laces of his shoes and grabbed the nearest shirt, which happened to be the light blue UNC T-shirt. Gail stirred when he opened the door of the bedroom.

“Michael?”

“I’m going running,” he said.

“Is it still dark?” she asked sleepily.

“No, just cloudy.”

Her head fell back onto the pillow.

Michael walked down the stairs, pulling on the shirt. The morning was a bit cooler than it had been and Michael felt it helped him start at a better pace. He ran toward the avenue, crossed it, and turned up a street parallel to it. His strides felt good and long. Then he saw it. At the mouth of an alley, between a house and an old hardware store, was the wobbly wheeled lawn mower. It was parked next to the wall of the store. The store was dark and there was no one around. Michael slowed and then ran in place, staring at the mower. He looked at the house and wondered if the man lived there. He looked down the alley and saw that it opened onto the avenue. He ran that way and glanced around, not really knowing what he expected to see.

He arrived at home to find Gail collecting her papers at the table. “How was your run?”

Michael nodded and went to the cabinet for a glass and filled it with water from the bubbler.

“I’m going to make some breakfast,” Gail said. “Would you like some?”

Michael shook his head.

“Are you okay?”

Michael blew out a breath and raised his water glass to her. Gail studied him for a second, then went back to her papers.

Michael set his glass on the counter and walked upstairs, pulling off his shirt on the way. He called back down to Gail, “Hey, I changed my mind.”

“What do you want?”

“Pancakes?”

“Okay,” she called.

Michael got cleaned up and collected clothes from the hamper to throw into the washing machine. He made a point of finding and including the UNC T-shirt with the load. He held the shirt for a second over the filling drum of the washer, then dropped it in.

“What’s wrong?” Gail asked at the table, pancake on her fork.

Michael unscrewed the cap on the tin of syrup. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Something’s wrong. Is it the painting you’re working on?”

“Nah.” Michael took a bite. “These aren’t bad.” He paused. “Actually, work is going along pretty well.”

“Good.”

“I saw that guy’s lawn mower this morning.”

“Excuse me?”

“That beat-up mower he used on our yard. I saw it when I was running. I didn’t see him, just the mower.”

“Oh,” Gail said. “And?”

“I saw it. That’s it.”

“Was it everything you expected?”

“Very funny,” Michael said.

They were silent for a bit, then Michael said, “People used to believe that forces and spirits could enter into sculptures.”

“I believe that. I believe that about your paintings,” Gail said.

“They thought that the spirit the thing represented would enter it.” Michael rubbed his temples. “I think I try to find spirits when I work. I think I’m looking for them.”

“There’s a lot of power in your work.”

“I’m not talking about power.” He didn’t exactly snap, but he regretted the way he’d said his last words.

“I’m going to be late for class.” She stood and grabbed her satchel from the counter, kissed Michael on the forehead.

“See you later,” Michael said.

“I love you,” Gail said.

“I love you, too.”

Michael cleaned the kitchen and then went out to his studio. He turned on the standing fan and stood in front of it for a few seconds. He didn’t work on the painting he had going, but took it from his easel and replaced it with a blank six-by-eight-foot canvas. He began to cry as he put blues on his palette: cerulean, cobalt — hue and color, pthalo, and indigo. He stared at the blank canvas, but was able to apply only one shade, cerulean. He started at the lower lefthand corner and moved slowly, with short strokes from a small brush, diagonally toward the upper righthand corner.

He went into the house to cool off and have a yogurt for lunch. He put the load of clothes into the dryer.

Back in his studio, Michael slowly pushed the cerulean into the canvas, scratching it in since there was so little paint on his brush. He’d always prided himself on the fact that, although he painted abstracts, he never began a canvas without a vision. That vision was subject to change, sometimes great change, but he usually knew what he wanted, what he was trying to express. This time was different. He pushed in more blue. Hours passed and the whole field was covered at last, blue and flat. He wanted to get far away from the canvas, far, far away, and try to see it like a piece of fallen sky. He recalled a Chinese thinker named Chhiao who claimed that from a certain distance a mirror could see a person, but that person would be unable to see the mirror. So, in fact, one could be someplace and not know it.

Back in the house, he decided on another run before Gail returned home from school. He grabbed the blue T-shirt and sprinted down the street toward the avenue, slowing as he neared the traffic. He crossed over to the next street and turned toward the hardware store where he had seen the silent man’s mower. The mower wasn’t there and Michael had to admit to himself that he was disappointed, although he was at a loss to say why. He continued his run, cutting it short and arriving home to find Gail’s car in the driveway and the mower man at work on Michael’s close-cropped yard.

“Did you tell him he could mow again?” Gail asked Michael as he came through the kitchen door.

Michael went to the sink for a glass of water, looked at her as he drank it all.

“Did you?”

Michael walked into the laundry room pulling off his shirt. He opened the lid of the washer.

“Michael?”

He dropped the shirt into the machine. “No, I didn’t tell him he could do it.”

“This is too weird. I’m calling the police.”

“Let’s ask him not to come back first,” Michael said. “We haven’t actually tried that yet.”

“He’s crazy.” Gail leaned against the doorjamb. “He scares me, Michael.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to him.”

Michael walked outside without a shirt and approached the man from behind as he was pushing and pulling the mower around a shrub. Michael tapped the wool-covered shoulder. The man turned without a start. Michael pointed to the machine, motioning for him to turn it off. The sound spiraled into silence as the two men just looked at each other.

“You’re going to have to leave,” Michael said.

The man stared at him.

“You do fine work, but you’re going to have to leave. I’m not going to pay you for this.”

He turned and reached for the pull start of the lawn mower.

Michael stopped him, grabbing the long-sleeved woolen arm. “No. You’re scaring my wife.”

The man looked at the house.

“You have to leave.”

The man looked at his mower, at the house, and then at Michael.

“Please,” said Michael.

The man dragged the machine to the sidewalk and walked toward the avenue, not looking back.

Michael went back into the house and said to Gail, “I think he got the message.”

“Did you have to threaten him?”

“No.”

“What did you say to him?”

“I simply told him that he wasn’t going to be paid for the work and that we didn’t want him coming back.” Michael looked out the door window.

“My hero.”

“Right.”

Michael looked at the lawn, which had been cut day after day, and saw that nothing made it look any different. But something was better about it. He tried to see where the man had left off in the middle of the job, but there was nothing there, just grass the same height and green-turning-to-brown color everywhere.

Michael’s run was slow. His knee ached slightly, but he pushed on, taking a different route. He came finally to the alley and there was the mower. It was later in the morning and the hardware store was open; rakes and spades and brooms had been pushed out onto the sidewalk as if they were things people bought on impulse. Michael walked inside.

“Do you know who owns that lawn mower in the alley?” he asked at the checkout counter.

“Lawn mower?” the man asked.

“It’s parked right beside your store.”

A teenager who was making keys said, “He’s talking about Teddy’s machine.”

“Oh. That’s Teddy’s machine,” the man said. “He works yards around here. Want to buy it?” He laughed.

“Where is Teddy?” Michael asked.

“He’s around if his machine is out there.”

“What do you know about him?”

The man gave Michael a long look. “There’s not much to know. He mows people’s yards.”

“Can he talk?”

The man frowned. “I never heard him talk.” He turned to the kid. “You ever heard Teddy talk?”

“Nope.”

“Then how do you know his name?”

The man considered the question. “I don’t know.”

That night Michael held Gail’s head against his shoulder in bed. He stroked her hair. “I love you,” he said.

“I love you.”

“No, I really love you.”

“Well, I really love you,” Gail offered, pretending to fight.

Michael fell into an awkward silence.

“What’s wrong?” Gail asked.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Something’s wrong.”

“I just love you. Is that all right?”

Gail didn’t say anything.

Michael lay awake for a while, feeling his wife’s breathing, counting her breaths, her heartbeats.

Michael sat in front of the blue canvas. He didn’t work. He just looked at the blue and waited for the sound of the mower out in his yard. He reached forward, touched the still wet oil color, and rubbed the pigment into his fingers. He often had the urge common to painters to eat the paint, and the urge had never been greater than it was now. He took a brush and put more cerulean onto the canvas. The added paint didn’t change the blue on the canvas, didn’t make it darker or more blue, but he continued to apply it: the same color over the same color. He licked the paint from the fingers of his left hand, felt the oil slide down his throat, and imagined it coloring the walls of his esophagus and stomach. With the blue that would not mark the blue on which he painted, he wrote that he loved his wife.

Michael had a vague, smudged recollection of Gail’s face upside down, framed by her swinging hair. Her mouth was saying, “I love you, Michael.” He left the memory and his eyes opened only to be bothered by bright sunlight. He knew from the quality of the light that his window faced west. The first thing on which he focused was the yellow plastic bracelet on his left wrist that read, LAWSON, MICHAEL, and he felt relieved to find that he was still himself. He looked toward the light and saw that the window was covered with a panel of wire mesh. Michael knew where he was and the rawness of his throat reminded him of what he had done. He was slightly surprised to find that he was free of constraints and that he was dressed in pajamas rather than a gown. There was a plastic pitcher and two plastic cups, one yellow and one red, stacked on the bedside table. Michael sat up and filled the yellow cup with water, although it was still stuck inside the red. He swung his legs around and let his feet touch the floor; his limbs felt unmanageable, heavy. His fingernails had been trimmed brutally short and the tips of his fingers ached. There was a square window in the door of the room with wire mesh in the glass, about nine-by-nine inches. No one was looking in from the other side: an absence Michael noticed with both fascination and despair. He looked at the portable toilet by his bed. He pushed himself to his feet and found his equilibrium, then negotiated the several steps to the door. He tried the knob to find it locked, then went back to his bed where he waited quietly, sitting with his knees pulled to his chest.

The tumblers of the lock fell, the knob turned, the door opened, and in walked a tall orderly, dressed in baby blue with a crease in his trousers. One hand held a tray and the other pointed a finger. “I knew you was up. How you feeling, brother man?”

“All right,” Michael said.

“All right, then.” The orderly put the tray down on the rolling table at the foot of the bed. “How’s that throat?”

“Scratchy.”

“Well, we got you some yogurt and some tapioca for dessert.” The young man laughed, a snorting laugh. “Kind of a color-theme-thing going on, wouldn’t you say?”

“I like yogurt,” Michael said.

“Good.” He looked at Michael for a long second. “Well, anything you want, you just ask Randy.”

“Randy.”

“Yeah, you just ask me. I got the joint wired.”

“Can you get me a mirror?” Michael asked.

“Why you want a mirror?”

“I want to look at my throat. I want to see if it’s blue.”

Randy sighed and his manner changed. “Sorry, can’t get you that. Your throat ain’t blue, man.”

“Thanks.”

Michael watched the door close and listened to it lock, surprised by how little he felt, surprised by how uncrazy he seemed. He lay down on his side, put his head on the pillow, and faced the window, feeling the light through his shut eyes. He fell into sleep and started to dream. He was sitting under an oleander with a black dog that was not his, watching a parade of purple and house finches, jays, and finally, one rufous-sided towhee. He looked at the black dog and the animal looked at him. He stroked the dog’s head while he turned his gaze up through the branches and leaves of the oleander. He found the blue of the sky.

When Michael awoke he was staring at an expanse of blue, but there was no wire mesh protecting it, no window holding it away from him. He sat up in bed and realized he was staring at his canvas set on an easel. There were two people in the room with him, a woman and a man, on each side of the painting.

“I’m Dr. Unseld,” the woman said. Her hair was tied back and she wore a brown skirt and a tight white sweater.

“And I’m Dr. Overton,” said the man, his bald head catching light from the ceiling fixture. His tie was loosened and his collar button undone.

Michael nodded, sitting up, rubbing his eyes, and making the sheet neat about his middle. “How is my wife?”

“She’s fine,” Dr. Overton said. “A bit concerned.”

“I can imagine,” Michael said.

Dr. Unseld smiled. “Do you remember this painting?” she asked, but didn’t pause for an answer. “This is what you did before you ate the oil color.”

Michael nodded.

“Do you recall eating the paint?” Dr. Overton asked.

“I think so.”

“How do you feel about it now?” Overton asked.

“I feel fine. I’m sorry, I’m not really sure why I did it. Somehow work got the better of me.” Michael looked at the canvas.

“Is that how you think of your work?” Unseld said, stepping away from the easel and closer to the bed. “As an adversary? As an enemy?”

“Sometimes.”

“What were you thinking while you were eating the paint?” Overton asked.

“I don’t know,” Michael said, looking at the man’s eyes. “This seems a lot like an ambush. I mean, to just wake up and find you in here with that thing.”

“An ambush,” Overton said. “So we’re the enemy?”

“I didn’t say that,” Michael said, frowning a bit. “Listen, I did something that I shouldn’t have done, something that doesn’t make a lot of sense, doesn’t make any sense. I realize that. But I love my wife. I like my life most of the time. I don’t like being in here.”

“Do you remember the man who mowed your lawn?” Overton asked.

“Yes.”

“What do you remember exactly?” Unseld asked, sitting in the only chair in the room.

“What do you want to know? I can tell you what he looked like. Gail and I didn’t really want him coming back like he did. Why are you asking me about him?”

“Just asking.”

“Listen, am I allowed to go home?” Michael asked with a long sigh.

Dr. Unseld crossed her legs and leaned forward, resting her elbow on her knee and pinching the bridge of her nose. “That really depends on you,” she said.

“You mean there’s some sanity question that I can answer and then you’ll unlock the gates?”

“You can see our situation, can’t you?” This from Overton who was studying the canvas with his arms folded across his chest. “How do we know you’re not still dangerous to yourself?”

“I guess you don’t,” Michael said. “But I’m not dangerous to anyone else. To tell the truth, it’s none of your business if I want to kill myself. I may as well tell you that I wasn’t trying to do that when I was eating the paint.”

“What were you trying to do?” Unseld asked.

“I was trying to eat the paint,” Michael said. “Stupid, I know, but I wanted to taste it. I looked at it and I wanted to eat it. Like I said, stupid.”

Unseld and Overton looked at each other and seemed to communicate with their eyes. Unseld stood up from the chair and went over to Michael’s side. “Don’t worry,” she said.

“What is your relationship with the color blue?” Overton asked.

“It’s a primary color,” Michael said. “Of course, that canvas is cerulean.”

“Does that make a difference?” one of the doctors asked.

“In so far as it’s not indigo or pthalo blue, I guess.”

“I see,” Overton said. “It’s a kind of sky blue, isn’t it? Does it make you think of freedom?”

“Not really. Do you think you might be overworking the loose associative stuff?”

Unseld smiled.

“So, can I go home?”

“We’ll see.” Overton said.

Michael nodded, deciding that to show anything less than calm forbearance and muted patience would certainly work against him. He was already sorry that he had slipped and referred to his work that way. But he also did not want them believing that he was acting out the role of the “compliant, good patient” in an attempt to deceive them. He found, however, as he laid his head back down, that he didn’t care. His head was hurting rather severely, but it was a headache he recognized, had cataloged, and knew well, so it comforted him to have it. He took comfort in the very knowledge that so greatly concerned him previously, that as diagnosticians these people were Neanderthal.

Michael was awake and sitting up in the chair when the door was unlocked later that day for Gail. He stood and they embraced, lovingly, with mutual concern, but with a distance, not so much a coldness as an absence of heat.

“I’m sorry,” Michael said. “I’m so sorry.” He was hugging her tightly, speaking into her hair.

Gail pulled away from him and sat on the chair. “Are you okay?”

Michael walked to the window and looked out at the lights in the parking lot. “Yes, I’m okay.”

“I’m scared,” she said.

“I know. I wish I could take it away.”

“I guess time will do that,” she said, bravely, lying, not looking at him but at the bed. “You know, I really hate your head. I hate knowing it gives you pain and then I hate you sometimes.”

“It surprises you that I understand what you just said?”

“You understand everything,” she said. “You’re too damn understanding.”

Michael tried to be silent without giving the impression that he was withdrawing. He noted how his imprisonment was allowing him a certain perceptive distance, a mechanical or clinical eye that he found uncontaminated by his own wants and insecurities. Still, he was troubled by his indifference.

“I do love you,” he said.

“Everything seemed to be going so well,” Gail said, rubbing one eye.

“It was.”

“Then what happened?” She looked directly at him for the first time and he found that a relief. “Tell me what happened, Michael?”

Michael sat on the bed, leaned forward, his hands clasped in his lap. “I don’t know.”

“Will it happen again?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“I know,” he said.

“You can’t know. You didn’t know this was coming, did you? Did you?” The anger was finding its way into her voice. She stroked her hair and pulled it behind her ear. “Will you talk to the doctors?”

“I’ve already talked to them.”

Gail stood and Michael stayed seated. “They say you’re coming home.”

Michael nodded. “I want to come home.”

“You conned them just like you conned me. Just like you con me every day. They like you, Michael. They think you’re smart and funny and …” She stopped and bit her lower lip. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”