Laid Bare: Essays and Observations by Judson, Tom (read 50 shades of grey .TXT) 📕

Marion, opening the screen door to her newest paying guest, the relief in her eyes momentarily erasing the tired sadness that usually showed there. “Please come in out of the cold. I just put a tray of biscuits in the oven for dinner. Why don’t I show you your room and I’ll bring some into the front parlor.”

The small china plate sat on the table between them, a few stray crumbs sitting amid a pool of honey that had dripped off the warm, flaky buns. Clive agreed, yes, it was nice of her friend, Mr. Clark, to give him Marion’s card. No, he did not know Mr. Clark very well. Would Mrs. Giles object to Clive setting up his easel in his room. Of course, he would be very careful with the paints and the solvents.

“Well, I don’t really know… Would you be able to work in the garage? There’s a stove there. I don’t use it for anything, uh, anymore.”

“Yes, Mr. Clark explained that to me. That would be fine, thank you. I would like to pay you two weeks’ rent in advance.” Marion thanked Clive and watched as he climbed the stairs to his room.

During the following weeks leading up to the holidays, Clive and Marion became more comfortable with each other. Marion had no interest in art or in travel, but she enjoyed listening to Clive talk about things even if she didn’t understand them. And Clive appreciated the company. Marion didn’t quite understand what he was attempting to do with his shading colors, but she was sure it would be lovely, just lovely.

Clive spent most mornings in his studio garage, stopping to rub his fingers in front of the small coal stove when the cold became more intense. Marion wouldn’t come into to the garage, but she’d call to him from the kitchen door if something was warm just out of the oven.

Clive would come in to the house, passing the patch of brown near the kitchen door, and the two of them would spend a few moments together before returning to their work. Sometimes Clive would borrow a bowl or some fruit to to use as a subject. Marion was reluctant to let him take the vase of Cala Lilies her sister had brought her, but Clive made her see how perfect they would be t paint. She was disappointed later when he failed to bring them back into the house.

One afternoon, after replacing the blue enameled coffee pot on the stove, Marion sat at the table across from Clive and, screwing up her courage, said, “I hope you don’t mind, but, since you do owe two weeks’ room and board, I asked at the new school up the street and, well, they’re ready to work on the interior and all the classrooms need to be painted, and…” Her voice trailed off as she saw Clive’s posture stiffen.

“Oh, yes,” said Clive, sounding slightly more British than usual, “while I do understand the position I have placed you in, I hope you will appreciate that I am not a house painter.”

“Yes, but…”

“Thank you for the pie. I really should return to my work.”

Flushed, Marion blurted out, “You will be joining us for Thanksgiving on Thursday, I hope.” Clive replied, “Thank you, I’ll be sure to let you know if I can,” and closed the kitchen door behind him, walking slowly back to his studio, past the brown patch on the side of the house.

The next few days were as chilly inside as they were outdoors in the steely November cold. Clive stayed in the garage until late at night, painting, and Marion fixed him a tray in his room for supper. That Wednesday, as he headed upstairs, he found a telegram placed just outside his room. He picked it up and went inside, closing the door behind him.

Marion was up early the following morning, her younger sister having come by before the rest of the family to help with the Thanksgiving meal. Looking at the clock above the stove she realized that Clive was sleeping much later than he usually did. She climbed the stairs and stood in the hallway outside his room, listening for sounds of life on the other side of the door. Hearing nothing but the tick of the clock on the landing, she knocked gently.

“Mr. Simmons? I thought you might want to know what time it is so you could get ready to join us for dinner.” She opened the door a crack and looked in the room. The bed was neatly made and Clive’s suitcase, which usually sat on the stand at under the window, was gone. Marion walked stonily down to the kitchen, torn between anger and disappointment.

Ignoring her sister’s queries she stalked across the yard to the garage, the dead, brown grass crunching under her low-heeled shoes with each determined step. Along with repeated cries of, “Mr. Simmons!” she knocked firmly on the garage door. But, still there was no response.

Marion took a deep breath and pulled open the heavy garage door. She stepped into the gloom; the dust stirred by her footsteps dancing lazily in the shafts of sunlight coming in through the two eight-paned windows on the wide door. She had not been in here since her husband’s death two years ago and, even now, lowered her gaze so she would not see the beam above her head that had played a leading role in the turn her life had taken.

As her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, Marion could just make out an artist’s easel standing at the far side of the room near the cold stove. Walking towards it she knocked into a small table, just managing to catch the vase it held before it fell to the dirt floor. As