Kalliope 2014.pdf May. 2014 | Page 77

Don’t let Mom have a boy, he thought, adding lips. He barely touched the canvas with a plum red, the lips transparent, lovely, and nothing like any woman he’d ever known. Pouring some old crusty grey onto his easel, he made eyes. The iris fanned from the pupil like cracked ice. Tony was startled to find they were Rebecca’s. “Always start with the eyes,” he thought. Rebecca’s eyes stared at him, so neglected, that Tony felt ashamed to have forgotten that important rule of painting. His woman turned out to be a prisoner, stuck in her wheel chair with her broken eyes and mismatched body. Tony did not know how to let her free. He freckled the cheeks and pierced the ears, but she only looked younger, and sadder, a piss poor reflection... But of what, Tony did not know. He wanted to crumple it up and start over, but he was too hungry to continue painting. Instead, he went downstairs to the kitchen while she dried, and later threw her in his closet. They were starting to read Romeo and Juliet in Mr. Pyramus’ Honors English class. Mr. Pyramus was a firm believer in reading work out loud, setting up a little stool in front of the class. He called on Rebecca to read the prologue. She kept her eyes down on her walk up to the front of the room, clutching her copy of the play tightly to her chest. So thin, propped up on the stool, timid, she looked like she could crack into a thousand pieces. Tony half-expected her to squeak. “Two households, both alike in dignity…” “Two”… “Dignity”… these were sounds crisp as bone and as languid as skim milk. Tony stared at Rebecca, memorizing her face, but he only heard the words. All sense left, and the words broke into beats, chaotic pulses desperate as a hummingbird. Shakespeare or Rebecca, he didn’t know why or which. And she never looked up. She read each line. Resolutely. Tony couldn’t find the right word to describe it. It was anything but squeaky. Rebecca transformed into wavelengths, losing all classical distinctions: gender, age, race. He knew why she read so intently… how the words grasped at your throat, tightly, lifting you into the air until you were floating, lighter than a speck of dust. She finished her section, and finally looked up, half-smiling. Then 75