Page 11 of Family Affair
Chapter 3
When Frank was fourteen years old, he got in trouble with Madonna.
With his phone privileges revoked for transgressions too numerous for him to keep track of, he snuck into his father’s study to make a call to Jessica. The girl of many a fine attribute, Jessica possessed the nicest round ass his young brain, saturated by Playboy images, could conjure. Calling her ranked the highest on his priority list.
It was late, way past time for him to be in bed, but he didn’t care. His parents wouldn’t come and chase him to his room, not with the poker party going on in the house. Even now the voices and the laughter carried from the billiard room where the game was taking place along with shady business decisions reached between his father and his guests.
Come on, he wasn’t stupid. He saw what was going on, heard things mentioned in his presence, and generally was old enough to add two and two together. He knew well and good that some of the people who came to visit didn’t earn their expensive cars and fine clothes by slaving in the office from nine to five.
Ward Williamson came tonight. It always surprised Frank to see the prim and proper preacher fraternizing with the likes of Abe Collins, or Juicy Abe, no doubt so called because of his full moist lips and the propensity to sweat at any temperature.
The Madonna belonged to Abe. All five of them did, displayed in the study in various degrees of completion. Aside from being an art dealer of questionable repute, Abe fancied himself an artist. Not a shabby one, in Frank’s knowing eyes, but not outstanding.
He took a step closer to the fully completed canvas. The lady in the painting was so incredibly sad. She sat at a table, pictured from the chest up with a brown cape covering her dark hair. Hands folded in prayer, she was looking at some remote point with unseeing eyes, deep in mourning for her crucified Son. She didn’t seem all that divine or intimidating.
In fact, Frank wouldn’t have known for her to be Madonna if not for the droning lectures of his private art teacher, Mr. Noff. In the course of their lessons, Mr. Noff had plied Frank with boring and useless information about the history of arts, and realism, and Renaissance, and portrayal of saints across the centuries. He had shown him countless art books with illustrations of works done by famous artists whose names Frank never bothered to remember. He cared little about any of that information, more interested in when he’d be ready to paint live naked models.
A few months back he had worked up enough courage to express his desire to his teacher, and Mr. Noff had been only too delighted to provide an opportunity. Capturing nuances of the human body, he had said, was the most challenging task an artist could accomplish. He would gladly undress and sit for Frank to master that skill.
Staring at the man’s pudgy, fifty-something body was so far from what Frank had had in mind that for a few moments there he had been rendered completely speechless, feeling his face alternate from flaming hot to icy cold to hot again.
In the end he had to concede, politely and quickly, that perhaps his skill wasn’t developed enough for live models yet. He’d been terrified that Mr. Noff would insist. Then he’d have no choice but to appeal to his parents to stop with the lessons, and that would be a shame since he’d come to love creating art.
The painting of naked Mr. Noff hadn’t happened, but some of his lectures stuck. Surprised, Frank realized that he had enough background knowledge to make an assessment.
The Madonna was a replica, he could tell that much, although he couldn’t have supplied the title or the author of the original to save his life.
The fully completed oil version propped on the easel lacked in a way that was obvious, yet he couldn’t define the flaws. Some things… Light, maybe? Or was it the perspective that was off? She was okay, but not perfect.
He switched his attention to the four unfinished sketches of the same Madonna laid out on his father’s desk. The painting supplies lay scattered around indicating work in progress.
He eyeballed the easel again.
Yep, Abe sucked. Where she should feel alive, the Madonna looked wooden. And the dark background should have more play of shadows. How did he know it? He just knew.
He approached the desk and picked up one of the sketches, swapping the finished version with this new outline. A picture formed in his mind, fueled by the old masterpieces he had had a chance to study with Mr. Noff. He squeezed more paint on the palette and selected a brush. There, her eyes would be more emotional, her hair softer, and the goblet in front of her, its bottom encircled by a wreath of thorns, should cast a shadow that Abe failed to deepen.
The French doors opened letting his older brother Cade in from the backyard. The smell of freshly smoked cigarettes surrounded him like a toxic cloud.
They both started.
Cade recovered first. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Frank looked back at his beautiful, almost finished portrait of Madonna, and his heart sank. Shit. He messed up Abe’s stuff.
“Painting.”
Cade gave him a look that said “weirdo” and replaced their father’s lighter in its proper place. “They asked you to?”
“Not exactly.” He wiped the brushes as the anticipation of a hell to pay settled in.
“You’re a moron.” Cade gave him a pitying look, making him feel small and stupid.
He bristled. “And you aren’t? You were smoking right in front of the windows.”
“You saw me?”
“No.”
