by Marielle Mondon
At Georgetown University, a music student and part-time nude life model becomes involved with the first true passion of her life, a man who awakens her to the weight of experience she already possesses - as well as the ups and downs yet to come.
RICO CUT HIS HAIR last September and I can’t bring myself to make a new portrait of him. He stands in front of me, elevated, changed, shifting no weight. It is near winter now, but I’m certain his eyes are the same as they were last spring when I met him, still blue like dirty ocean with young lines around them when a smile comes. He wears his long gold necklace with the cross and the dove on it, the one that once lived on my desk for three weeks. Save for this necklace, he is naked—always, always, always naked, as that is the rule—and posing with his hand in the back pocket of a girl who has no name.
The room where I draw him is white and has the false calmness of central air, has an almost marble coolness like the benches around the Washington Monument. I can see its pointed top, distant, outside this window on the sixth floor. Naked is the rule in stencil drawing, and I have started with stencil because that is, I have been told, the framework for all painters. But I’m already cheating because I’m a painter all the time. Even now, I’m cheating, standing up here so the art students can copy my body down on their big beige papers, and all the while I get to look ahead to the Washington Monument and start painting without them.
I have skipped many phases in making art. Rico’s portrait, his very first, struck me with a tangle of loose tweed for his hair, his wild curly hair, struck me so hard I didn’t even realize he was the image attached to the tweed and—fuck.
Already I can tell this one is no good. Let me start over.
Rico cut his hair last September and I can’t bring myself to make a new portrait of him. That part, I know, is pretty certain.
Rico cut his hair off the day after we slept together. When we first met, it had reached his shoulders and always got caught in the coarseness of his black beard. We met back when he used to sell his extra tablets of Adderall during exam season and balanced out his studies with pills and weed. There was one night when we had both finished our final tests of the year and, careful not to touch each other, I coughed over his bong, and I saw him do it—he was selling tablets to some kid who looked like a freshman but in fact was a junior, so clean, so red-eyed and tired, who exchanged them for a handle of whiskey and then went on his way. Rico said, Next year we’ll go to bars. I’ll be back and we’ll go to bars.
He told me it was for job interviews, the haircut; he told me it was for appointments in big offices full of tiny desks where he would complete sentences with other men. I told him I needed my hair for my interviews, told him how it keeps me covered, but what I meant to say was that I needed his hair too, because, you see, the picture I made of Rico is one I created with my eyes closed and my hands clasped in prayer.
His portrait sits on me like I’m a closed baby grand, the image glossy behind its thin gilt frame, dusted from time to time when too much gray has fogged his face. It sits on me like a water stain to the finished oak. It’s framed like the way my friend Rosemary—framed like the way Rosemary and her family frame pictures above their big, three-piece sofa in their family room. Their sofa is gray and plush, softer than most things I have ever sat on, and I love the way they have a room in their house that they can call a family room; I love the awards they have outlining the walls. Music awards (Rosemary, the middle child, and the most beautiful), math awards (Jacob, the eldest brother), and tennis (John Paul, the youngest brother, of course).
John Paul had drawn a picture of Mommy, Daddy, Jacob, Rosemary, and himself, holding Rosemary’s hand. Their limbs are thin pencil threads. He had glued their faces on with pennies. Everyone is Abraham. This portrait, too, it outlines the walls.
It takes me about twenty minutes after my robe is removed to no longer feel naked. Twenty minutes. I don’t tell many people about this job. Today when I pose I stand with my legs close together, like something could jump out at me at any moment. The hard, round calluses of my big toes are touching, slowly shifting up and down against one another. I would like to get my calluses softened and my toenails painted very soon. My roommate has recently declared it is Good for the Soul.
This drawing class started around four o’clock, but now that November is upon us, I can already see my reflection in the top-floor windows. At once I see the Washington Monument and my own small body, one image on top of the other.
I draw pictures too, just like John Paul’s and just like these students’, in sketchbooks I’ve had four, five years. Always the multitasker, I draw them mostly in my eyelids now because it’s easier and faster, only sometimes it starts raining from the inside of my portraits and landscapes and down my face.
On Sundays I sing at the Presbyterian church down the street from the studio apartment I share on campus with another girl and, most nights, her boyfriend. She is from New York, New York, and her only form of ID is a passport used for occasional family trips to Sweden. She is little like a pepper and as blonde as the sun, and her boyfriend towers over her with a shrilly voice and acne. Everyone who meets them asks me the same questions because a) she’s barely five feet tall and he’s six foot three, and nobody knows how that’s been working, and b) she’s so pretty and yet he truly resembles some kind of cartoonish monster who gets pastier when drunk, like the night he vomited in our bathroom. White fish and white Russians. She knows that he knows he is lucky to have her so she says to him whatever she pleases. Calls him moron, asshole, fag. The sofa has become their private island: a bedroom, office, and kitchen all at once. They watch television and floss their teeth. They grocery shop on Sunday evenings for the entire week and cook pungent meals, fish tacos and bowls of chili, and on nights when the air conditioning is broken, it’s hard to fall asleep.
Nonetheless, I sing down the street from the studio, and every time I go into that church I’m afraid they’re going to find out I’m a phony, that I was baptized a Catholic twenty-one years ago, that I’m in it for the cash. I am in many things for the cash. I sing down the street after a lifetime of Catholic school and the Eucharist and the head nun, Sister Matthew. How can she be a Sister and yet also a Matthew? Why didn’t anyone ever ask about that before? I sing down the street after eight years of recycling our different uniforms—light seersucker September to November, then thick wool plaid for the winter, then a return to the seersucker in the last months of school that followed Easter. We enjoyed the plaid because it hid the dirt after we rolled down the hill that our private school sat so high and privileged upon. We literally rolled down, bodies horizontal, the hill tall, sloping, flashing past us in patches of green, brown, and a blue sky.
I wake up hungover Sunday mornings and sing to make forty dollars a service. The women in choir ask me how I learned to sing. I don’t tell them about the nuns. Instead I just say it’s been there since kindergarten and it hasn’t left yet. Last summer at home with my mother for the first time in months, she said, So I guess I should have paid you to go to church. I get it now.
One Sunday last April I closed my eyes during silent prayer and I really did pray, and that was when I drew my first portrait of Rico. I made his jaw using tan toothpicks that formed a fine rectangle; I made his hair thick like tweed and colored it in with the light brown shavings of chocolate in curly loops that exploded off the paper. The tears were sitting in my eyelashes then, hanging on in tiny rings, and I let them drop so I could wipe them away before the rest of the congregation—do they call it a congregation?—could open their eyes.
After the service the thin post-graduate who sits next to me on the soprano side asked if I was going to brunch with the group. The Brunch Bunch, they called it. The speaker that day had said, To all you students who want to join us for brunch, just so you know, I’ve got the church credit card. I told her no, Sorry, too much to do, term papers and the like, and as I walked the block and a half home I called my mother.
I sat in the apartment lobby telling my mother hints about the falling out with Rico.
She told me how on the zodiac I am the crab. That I stay in my home as I look for another. And you eat everything you can reach, she said. That’s why you’re so delicious!
When I tell her about my singing for forty dollars a week I don’t tell her about the times art students look at my body and try to copy it for several hours. I don’t tell her how the summer before junior year a man on the street, just a block or two from my apartment, had said, You have a very nice figure, young lady. Why are you laughing? I’m serious. You could make a lot of money.
I smiled, polite, and continued to walk, but he gave me his card. An actual card for the fine arts department of the school up the hill, and eventually I went, and eventually I disrobed.
I didn’t tell my mother that Rico is also the crab and that when I met him I thought, Thank God. Thank God Rico never took one of those classes, never studied how to make art, just studied maybe how to notice it, how to talk about it. Me, I study music, but Rico, he holds briefcases that look like a father’s. He wears shoes that, when I see them on his feet, it’s like me dancing in my mother’s heels.
I have seen Rico’s feet, bare and olive with some dark hairs on the big toes, curling like the rest of his hair.
When I hung up the phone with my mother on that Sunday last April, I stayed in the lobby for a small time, wary of the slumber and nakedness I would walk in on between my roommate and the other. I sat there wishing for something deep and cool to dive into, and when summer came and I went home to Saratoga, Rosemary led me from her plush gray sofa to her backyard pool so I could dive.
I am still; I am still gazing at the pointed tip of the Washington Monument outside the art room. The air is cool and coming in large, clean gusts, but the hair that reaches to the small of my back is starting to stick. I am still and damp with sweat, waiting again for something deep and cool to dive into.
about the author
MARIELLE MONDON is a writer living in New York. Born from two French immigrants, she grew up outside Philadelphia and studied English at the George Washington University in Washington, DC. She is currently enrolled at the Columbia University School of Journalism, where she creates multimedia stories about neighborhoods in Harlem and Washington Heights for TheUptowner.org. She also spends time running, taking photographs, and writing music.
from the library
In Our House
by the Sea
by Kirsty Logan
Romance is candlelight on cheekbones, blurring gazes and the press of heels on strange sheets. But what happens a year later? You’re sharing bath towels and bickering over who forgot to buy a light bulb. There is beauty in a familiar hand on the nape of your neck. There is love in waking up under a shared blanket. This story is about the romance of domesticity.
“Kirsty is one of the best and brightest . . . when I read her stuff I feel like I could taste it, chew it, roll it around on my tongue, the language is so delicious and sturdy and musical. She also has a knack for getting relationships exactly right in her writing, whether between parent and child or lovers or friends.”
— Amber Sparks, Fiction Editor at Emprise Review
After undergoing a cosmetic treatment to recover her lost youth, a middle-aged woman finds herself reconnected to her alienated daughter - a young woman still searching for her own path in life - in an unexpected and incredible way. A modern-day fable from two-time Scotiabank Giller Prize nominee Pauline Holdstock.
“Hers is the kind of prose you get lost in.”
— National Post on The Hunter and the Wild Girl
“Holdstock’s writing manages to be both heartbreakingly poetic and densely detailed ... sad passages, ghostlike recollections, written almost from the vantage point of the present, establish the book as a great work of fiction.”
— The Globe and Mail on Into the Heart of the Country, longlisted for the 2011 Scotiabank Giller Prize
“Holdstock, with a few deft strokes, pulls the reader into the tumultuous life of an alluring rabble of characters: painters, sculptors, patrons, fools, and slaves . . . In Beyond Measure, she proves herself a master of pacing. Her lively, macabre plot trips lightly along in spite of its dark elements.”
— The Globe and Mail on Beyond Measure, finalist for the 2004 Giller Prize and the 2004 Commonwealth Writers' Prize
A man in the throes of a breakup is selling all of his possessions on Kijiji and Craigslist. Greg’s couch, his VHS tapes, obsolete desktop computer, and cow-shaped clock – it all must go. Between pot smoking, pizza eating, and watching Alfred Hitchcock’s Rope, he meets with would-be buyers, taking his old life apart piece by discount piece in order to figure out what went wrong.
In the Afternoon
by Laure Baudot
Catherine wants what Richard has: a richly decorated house, and a perfect, lavished-upon baby. Catherine also wants Richard: a disaffected diplomat whose true passion is for cinema. But Catherine is only the babysitter, and her envy—and its fallout—come to the fore when Richard is accused of a crime, and she must decide whether to help exonerate him.
“Laure Baudot’s prose is exquisite, patient, and sophisticated. In the Afternoon immerses you in the fascinating and complicated mind of a babysitter who is wise beyond her years, yet dangerously impulsive at the same time. This story is irresistible and heartbreaking.”
— Sarah Selecky, author of the 2010 Giller Prize–shortlisted collection This Cake Is for the Party
The depredations of a corrupt local government and the ravages of a harsh prairie winter force an ostracized but self-sufficient widow to open her home to innocents with nowhere else to turn. Journey Prize finalist Seyward Goodhand's effortless storytelling allows the humanity to shine through in this grim take on a classic tale.
In New York City, Ben smokes too much and sleeps with women as a way to deaden his insecurities. With every indiscretion, he fights off adulthood for one more day, until the return of an ex-lover leaves him unsure of everything. Ben’s best friend, Josh, struggles to find the good in his marriage to Maddie, even as he searches for a way to keep from losing her. Ben’s neighbor, Mrs. Aguilera, looks to make peace with those she has already lost. Gripping tightly to one another like the oddest of families, Ben and his friends embody the place in which they live: a city where everything combines, with a touch of perfect madness, into something more than the sum of its parts.
“I love this story because it’s just plain good. The characters are broken and unsure, but the love they have for each other and the humor that carries them along is genuine and lovely to behold. This story made me laugh even while it was hitting me in the gut, and I’d like nothing more than to sit down and drink a beer with everyone in it. Mr. Goodman, thank you for rocking my literary waffle.”
— Lish McBride, author of Hold Me Closer, Necromancer
by Cynthia Flood
New wife and mother Julie is a woman struggling to find her place. Her dilemmas, while modest, feel harsh, and reflect the ways in which women were once denied control over their own bodies. Her first steps toward independence bring great pain—and not only to herself. With sparing, incisive prose, Cynthia Flood unravels what it meant to be a married woman in post-war era Vancouver, creating an evocative and even unsettling experience for the reader.
“With a precision of language that startles and delights, Cynthia Flood offers glimpses of those moments in which the essence of an entire life is revealed.”
— Nancy Richler, author of The Imposter Bride
“What a great story! Told in terse, restrained sentences, yet opening to a lush and radiant heart, Addresses captures the anguish of a marriage gone off the rails, and the moments of redemption that arrive from unexpected places. Flood’s use of language is uniquely her own–staccato, clean as a knife, and brilliant. Cynthia Flood has done it again.”
— Shaena Lambert, author of Radiance
“The abruptness of the title tells so much about this exquisitely drawn story by Cynthia Flood. ‘Tell the truth but tell it slant,’ Emily Dickinson advised, and that’s always been the approach Flood has preferred for her bone-china fictions, edging into them sideways. Once escorted into the story’s arrhythmic heart, we readers have no choice but to immerse ourselves in a world long gone but still very much with us, to emerge both shaken and stirred.”
— Dave Margoshes, author of A Book of Great Worth
In the rugged Nepisiguit River region of northern New Brunswick, two hunters face off. One is local sports lodge employee Danny Knockwood, a Mi’gmaw guide with a withered hand. The other is Mui’n, a one-eared black bear battling his inexorable hunger. When Danny is charged by the lodge owner to hunt down the bear that is frightening guests at the salmon pools, his personal values come into sharp conflict with his commitment to the task. The resulting confrontation tests both his physical strength and his beliefs, as Danny begins to recognize a kindred spirit within the fiercely determined bear.