The Artist Home

Slowly, cautiously, Robert, along with the other creatures that slither, crawl, and kill in the night, crept toward the cottage.

Frogs, crickets, and others about to be eaten raised a chorus of protest as loud as in a rainforest. “Go back.” “Go back.” “Go back.”

At the door, he rehearsed the mnemonic she had taught him. “Cross my heart and hope to die.” It played in his mind to the tune of “Mary had a Little Lamb.” Cross my heart and hope to die. Hope to die. Hope to …

It was too dark for him to see into the drawer. He fumbled around, the contents clanging like off-key church bells summoning the living to follow the dead. Then he pulled one out.

She had directed everything, what to wear, how to get to the cottage, how to disarm the alarm — even what knife to use. But she had not told him about this. She had not told him how to kill someone with a knife.

Chapter 1. A Foolish Life

Youth, where did it go? During his childhood, he had tried to give it away. After he succeeded, he couldn’t get it back.

He was 25, alive, and had lived a foolish life. He was introspective enough to see the foolishness of someone who was only 25, thinking they had already lived a foolish life. But today, that wasn’t a foolish thought. It was a final thought.

A late summer cold front had come through the Chicago area, and with it, rain, which temporarily cooled off the region. He put on his jacket to protect against the cold and the rain and went out to sit in the gazebo.

He brought three things with him: his phone, a bottle of scotch, and a gun. The phone was always with him. The scotch, to help him through this cold, rainy day. And the gun, well, the gun was for today as well.

Rain drummed on the roof and the patio, saturating the surrounding grounds. A musty smell of earthworms rose from the earth and filled his nostrils. Occasionally a breeze blew mist onto his face, and he huddled deeper into his jacket. Rain and fog all but hid his view of Lake Michigan. The mansion, which he had never been in, was nearly invisible. The carriage house he lived in was hidden behind him. The weather closed in, and his world became small. He started drinking the scotch.

He was a college graduate, an artist, and a photographer, and today he was going to kill himself.

He had started off searching for the soul of America — somewhere between Wichita and the Bighorn Mountains. He ended up in Chicago.

He was going to capture that soul in his photographs and paintings. Instead, he was producing images for a porn dealer. (He preferred calling it “exotic artwork”) The “artwork” was displayed in Gallo’s Galleria. “Galleria.” He snorted. In this case, a polite name for “Porn Shop.”

At first, the dealer had him do pictures of pretty, young, naked girls. He thought that a cosmic joke. I’m a disaster around girls. He invented a set of rules when working with the models. A shield he could hide behind.

The internet is full of free pictures of pretty, young, naked girls. There weren’t many sales of his artwork. He needed to earn a living, so the dealer gave him erotic stories to illustrate.

This wasn’t the life he dreamed of when he was a little boy, when he imagined the glorious adventure his life was to be. His mother would take him out at night, and he would sit on her lap in a rocking chair. The two would look up at the stars. His mother pointed out the big and little dippers and how to find the North Star. “Find that,” she told him, “and you will always know where you are. You could be an astronomer.” That was a big word. He couldn’t pronounce it. He asked her if he could drink from the Milky Way. She laughed and hugged him to her chest, and the two looked up and danced among the stars. His father did not dance.

He called her in the year after he left, her phone had been disconnected. Click. He called a friend of hers. “She quit school and left soon after you did. And screw you if you think I’ll tell you anything more.” Click. He called her parent’s house. They lived in Chicago. Click.

Even in his alcohol muddled mind, he could see more clearly now than he did then, that she had loved him.

The young think if something comes easily, it will come again. Love had found him when he wasn’t looking, but he left it to chase the wild wind across the Great Plains. Love was not going to find him again.

The owner of the estate was the self-same owner of where he worked, Gallo’s Galleria. Still, he was told the owner liked to support the arts, and from time to time, made the carriage house available to a promising artist where the artist lived for a while, developing and creating — all expenses paid.

He was told he was being given this opportunity because he was considered somewhat “up and coming.” He had even been featured in one of the City’s small arts magazines.

He did not feel “up and coming.” What he did feel was his life leaving him, oozing from his entrails, up his chest, down his arm, trickling through his fingers and out the brush like the paint that dripped onto his easel.

When he was young, his canvas was blank and white, waiting for him to paint on it with all the colors of the rainbow. But he had done it wrong and smeared his canvas with the same gray that he was sitting in now.

To say he was going to kill himself infers purpose. That is not entirely accurate. His life had no purpose — nor did today. He would stumble into his death with the same bumbling, blundering, and fumbling he lived life. His soul search had bogged down in the back room of a porn shop. He had neither the inclination nor wherewithal to do differently. To move forward seemed too hard, and going back — futile. Go back to what? His mother gone, his father dead, and Arianna, yes, she was gone too.

The phone was always with him. The scotch, often enough, but the gun, the gun was unfamiliar. It had been his father’s. Unlike the phone, and even the scotch, he kept it hidden in a drawer under his socks and the photograph.

He tried to pull back the gun’s slide. His fingers, wet from the mist the wind blew at him, slipped. He startled when the slide clanged against the barrel. He tried again, holding tighter this time, and saw the cartridge load into the chamber. He held on tight and let the slide back slowly. He did not know if the gun would go off if he just let go. He didn’t want it to go off by mistake. That would be really dumb — accidentally killing myself.

Throughout the cold afternoon, he took turns drinking the scotch and handling the gun, sometimes placing it to his head, once even putting the muzzle in his mouth, tasting metal and oil that several drinks of scotch were needed to take away.

Looking at the muzzle. Such a small hole, really. Could so much damage come out of it?

Had it been this way for his father? The only sin from which one can not repent.

Well, there was no glory in this. What would Sister Agnus say? “Thou shall not kill.”

No problem, “God’s in His Heaven, and all’s right with the World.” Next.

There’s the one about honoring your mother and father, so they may have a long life.

Irrelevant. Your father’s dead, and who cares about your mother? Not you. Go on.

“You shall not steal.” He prided himself on that one — never have — never will.

Don’t covet your neighbor’s stuff. I’m good with that. I’m an artist. I’m supposed to be poor and starving.

He took a drink of his scotch and looked out over the patio and the pool. He smiled. If you’re going to kill yourself, why not in a mansion rather than a shack? He had tried shack, mansion was better.

Well, it can’t mean that. God has people kill other people. God kills all kinds of people all the time.

What d’ya think, He had his fingers crossed? It counts, killing is killing. Soldiers at war, capital punishment, self-defense. Yep. All killing.

What if it’s just a matter of interpretation? What if it read, “Thou shall not murder,” instead of “Thou shall not kill?” Now that could be a different thing.

That might work. “Murder” sounds like there’s some assent, some purpose, some evil intent.

So let’s go with “murder.” “Murder” is definitely the better way to go. “Thou shall not murder.” You can’t murder yourself, you can only kill yourself.

He was an observer of life, not a doer in life. Even now, he was watching from about three feet to his left and two feet above his head.

He use to think his life should have some reason. It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

He put the gun in his pocket, picked up the phone and the scotch, and went back to the carriage house.

Chapter 2. I’ll Call You Robert

Scene 1. The Two Girls in His Life

He was in the Carriage House the next morning, sitting at a table that looked out on to the patio and the pool area, staring at the gazebo and the chair where yesterday he had sat with the gun to his head.

It was a place he now and would forevermore call, “My Spot.” The cold front had passed, the storm clouds were clearing, and the hot Midwestern summer returned, now even muggier because of the recent rain.

“Carriage House,” is what the agent said the owner’s wife called it, hadn’t been used for horses for the last 100 years. A “stable” is what the original owners thought they had built. There were two sections. The front was a large space with token, functional furniture. The agent told him its primary use was for party spillovers from the pool area and accommodating a sleep-over partier who had too much to drink. On one side stood a bar that also provided the essentials of a kitchen. On the other side was a bathroom and behind that a room with a bed and small closet. Occasionally an artist was allowed to live here — that would be him for now.

The second part of the Carriage House was a room in the back, as large as the front, but unlike the front, it was full of an eclectic collection of chairs, couches, boxes, mirrors, lamps, tables, and numerous paintings and pieces of art. He could see it had been used as a studio, for there was lighting, an easel next to a small table to hold paints and art supplies, and another, large table, on which a model could sit or lay and pose.

When he moved in, he brought nothing with him to add to the place: no furniture, no nicknacks, decorations, and, except for the gun and the photograph, no mementos. Two suitcases of clothing, his camera equipment, and a used Jeep were all he possessed. When he looked about the place, there was nothing of him in it. When he would ultimately leave, there would be nothing of him left to show that he had ever even been here.

He hadn’t committed suicide. He wondered if he even wanted to. He played yesterday over in his mind, and the voice taunting and goading him. That voice had been with him during his childhood, sitting inside the top of his head, criticizing him when he would make a mistake. “Idiot.” Chiding him for his dreams. “Fool.” It was with him when he had found his father. “Guilty.” If the family returning hadn’t interrupted him, would he have finished it? In that last second, would he have pulled the trigger? He could have ended his misery by ending his life. Did he want to live? He thought about that. The voice was mute. Live? He didn’t know. But die? No. He didn’t want to die. He couldn’t kill himself. Then he became more depressed because now he realized his misery would never end.

The extent of that thought slipped over him and smothered him like a second skin. He was grieving. Why? His father? Perhaps, but that was two years ago. That should be enough time for grieving. His mother? No. He was over her. Yes. He certainly was. He cried when she left, terribly. He had vowed that would never happen again. Arianna? Sweet, pure, chaste, well no longer chaste thanks to him, Arianna. If ever he had sinned, it’s what he did to her. He remembered her first words to him, “You look lost.” Yes, he was.

“Hi. You look lost.”

It was the start of his fourth year at the college. In his first years, he focused on science classes and rarely went to the Fine Arts Building. Now he was taking a drawing class and only had a vague idea of the location of his classroom.

“I’m in that class too,” She said. “C’mon, I’ll walk with you.”

Her name was Arianna.

They sat next to each other, their only class together that semester. He was studying visual arts. Arianna was more performing arts. He was not into that. He lectured her.

“Dance, acting art forms are not permanent, unlike painting and sculpture. Someone rehearses hard for a dance recital, performs it, and it’s over. Even say, a play, is over after each performance, and certainly after the final curtain. But a painting. A painting lives on even after the artist is gone. A written song is permanent, but the playing of that music is over with the last note.”

They spent the next days discussing what else they were not into, what they were into, their interests, their not interests, likes, dislikes. Arianna wanted to be a dancer. He wasn’t sure what he wanted, only sure that whatever he did, it had to be great. Who they knew, why so-and-so acted that way, why the World was the way it was, how it could be — should be — would be better, what each wanted to do during their lifetime in it, and all that was wrong with pineapple on pizza were topics they pondered and probed.

Whispering during class, hurring between classes, lunch together, strolling to her dorm, they found whatever time they could to be with each other. She was from Chicago. He thought that made her sophisticated. Still, it was cute she blushed during the “drawing the male nude” part of the class.

“Would you like to go see a movie?”

She would.

They became a couple, and climbed the first few steps of intimacy. He held her hand during the movie and even put his arm around her shoulder when he walked her back to her dorm. Through the following days, that arm massaged her back while the couple walked about, and pulled her waist or hip playfully to him whenever she would say something silly. And Arianna was sure to frequently say something silly.

The first kiss — that took a little while. Their dates always ended with their saying goodnight at the steps of her dorm, where other couples were busy making-out. He left her there several nights without the kiss and kicked himself each time. She wanted to be kissed — didn’t she? Get some nerve, Pal. Then there was that night they stood with their arms around the other. Everything there was to talk about said. “Well, good night.” “Night.” “I probably better get going.” “OK.” “Night.” “Night.” He moved his head toward her. She closed her eyes, their lips touched, and then suddenly there was no more talking.

Kissing now took place pretty much anytime they were together, serious kissing when they were alone. Arianna held his face while their tongues explored each other’s mouths. He mussed and tangled her long hair during their sessions, and she would need to comb it out when she got back to her room. He had mentioned how he liked her legs, and how smooth they were. So, even as the days grew shorter and the evenings colder, she wore skirts and shorts for him.

Their favorite spot was on the bandstand in the park by Arianna’s dorm. Sometimes other couples used this place, but as it got colder, he and Arianna were usually alone. Here he explored the limits of their intimacy. His hand ran up and down on the outside of her legs at will, but on the inside, when it climbed too far, Arianna would press her legs together to signal, “far enough.” And a gentle, firm hand from her stopped his whenever it tried to get inside her blouse.

There was a flash of light as the patio door of the mansion opened and caught the sunlight. For the two months he lived in the carriage house, he had never seen that door open.

Then she came out. Later in life, he would reflect, and she walked into my life. Then he would smile. Did that sound too much like Humphrey Bogart? He guessed she was the owner’s daughter. The agent had told him she was about 20 — he hadn’t mentioned she could make his heart stop. She had a long, slim body and blond hair, her breasts thrust against her bikini top, and her bikini bottom clung on her swaying hips. She was barefoot. He saw the muscles in her legs and calves flex as she walked. Her breasts were small, like a girl’s. He liked that. The models he photographed for the porn were all large breasted, “Give the customer what they want.” He couldn’t make out the color of her eyes at this distance. He thought blue.

She moved with the grace of a dancer to “My Spot” and tossed a towel on it. Then she stretched and pulled at her suit and did those other things a girl does when she thinks she is not being watched. He felt dizzy, his head larger, then he took a breath. She spread out the towel, put on some lotion, and laid down.

He stepped away from the window while he examined her so she wouldn’t be able to see him. He studied her, assessing her as he did with the models during a photoshoot. There they knew they were on stage, to be posed, evaluated, and critiqued. That’s what they were paid for, after all. When people are face-to-face, one or the other will occasionally avert their eyes, turn the head, not stare too long at the other. It isn’t polite. But this girl was unaware of the intensity with which his eyes were probing her, and there was nothing polite about it.

He cooly photographed nude models nearly every day without even the hint of an erection. Perhaps the fact that this was improper, his observing her without her knowing, intimate with her on his terms, maybe the secrecy of it, that aroused him.

She was a distance from him. He wanted to see her closer, so he got his camera and telephoto lens from the back room and pointed it at her. He adjusted the zoom to bring her in. There, that was better. He filled his camera’s frame with her face, her breasts, her legs, her bare feet. — It was just second nature that he started clicking the shutter.

Occasionally she got up and stretched a bit or paraded around swinging her arms. Once she had skipped over to the pool and threw water on her face. He caught her as she turned around, laughing. It was almost like he was next to her.

After she left, he brought his computer to the table and loaded the photos into it. A good half were unusable. He had not held the camera still enough for the extreme telephoto close-up shots. Some were blurred, and some, the gazebo or a chair blocked her when she had changed positions. Most were because he had been so damn nervous. He deleted these.

He devoted the rest of the day to studying the remaining photos. She was not perfect, he decided. Her left eye was a little narrower than her right. The right side of her lip curved up slightly, so it looked like she was thinking of some secret joke. When she pulled her hair back, he noticed her ears stuck out. Deformities, he thought, that if a little more pronounced would make her ugly. As they were, they made her beautiful. Her legs were perfect. He saw her eyes were blue.

He picked the best twenty photos and transferred these to a separate folder in his computer.

That night he went to bed and held the computer on his knee so that he could see the screen. He opened the “Twenty Favorites” folder, set it to view as a slide show, and masturbated.

He spent the next morning with his computer, scrolling through the folders that held the several thousand photographs he had, many of which he had taken himself at the studio in the porn shop. So many girls, in various stages of undress, in various interesting poses, doing so many provocative things. He had access to gigabytes more photos with his link to the computer at the Shop. The folder with the twenty he spent last night with was the one he kept going back to.

His favorite was of the girl after tossing water in her face. It was a wonderful picture, the best of them all. Funny he found it so appealing. It didn’t show any of her except her face. She wore no makeup, water dripped off her nose, wet strands of hair caught across her face and her half-closed eyes. It revealed the innocence of a girl laughing at her silliness and the beauty of a woman who could still do that. It was charming and seductive, innocent and sensual, and he fell in love with it. He made it the background on his computer so he could look at it while he worked.

All the photos, including his favorite, were slightly blurred. He had held his camera as steady as he could, but at a high telephoto close-up, some jiggle was unavoidable. He got his tripod, secured the camera to it, set it on the table next to the window, and waited for her.

He waited the entire day. She never came out, nor the next. But the next day, she did, following the same ritual as the first day. He watched her lying there and took pictures, watched her breathing, and took pictures, watched as she stretched and moved, and took pictures.

The next day she also came out. He was waiting. He followed her through his camera, observing her close up. He had a lot of photos of her by now, but those were frozen and lifeless. He wanted to follow her as she moved. Watch her skin glistening with the sun and lotion. Feel her breasts moving up and down as she breathed in, then out, then in. He breathed with her. He could make out the tiny blond hairs on her chest, the peach fuzz that covered her body, and imagined skimming his fingers over them, giving her goosebumps, causing her to giggle, teasing her, arousing her. Up, down, up, down, she breathed.

Her pouty breasts pressed against the fabric of her bathing suit. Her nipples poked at the material. Why didn’t she sunbathe topless? Nobody was around. He took off her top, and his eyes roamed over the mounds of her breasts, his tongue circled her nipples, kissing them, sucking them in, out, in, out making them hard. He turned the camera back to her face.

Image - Kellie sees Robert spying on her

Shit. She was staring at him.

She stood up and walked toward the carriage house.

Image - Robert is caught spying on Kellie

His leg hit the table, causing it to scrape on the hard floor and the camera and tripod to fall over. His face froze. His heart skittered. He ducked down and peered over the windowsill. Shit. Shit. Shit. Caught.

No, I wasn’t. Really, you must be mistaken. Shit. Shit. Shit.

She strode in without knocking. There was no time to hide the camera.

“Hi, my name’s Kellie.”

He sucked in his breath and was only able to blurt, “I’m Bob … Bob Doran.”

She strolled up to him, her skin tan and glistening, the heat of Summer washing behind her. “Bob. Hmm. No, I think I’ll call you Robert.”

Kellie handed him the pink jar with the lotion she used when she was sunbathing. “Here, Robert, help me out, put some lotion on my back. It’s a special one I have made for me. It’s a sunblock, a moisturizer, it doesn’t absorb into the skin, so it keeps things slippery, and it smells good too.”

“Is it good for arthritis?” Robert asked.

Kellie tilted her head and looked at him. “I don’t have arthritis. Why would you ask that?”

“Oh, no reason. Just kidding.”

“Do you always make fun of what people are saying?”

“No, sorry … Maybe when I’m nervous.”

“Oh, so do I make you nervous?”

“Yeah, a little.” “Amazed” and “dazzled” were two other words Robert thought of, but to his credit, did not say.

Kellie grinned and placed one hand on her chest to hold her bikini top and reached behind her with the other and pulled at the straps. Then she turned, exposing her bare back to him.

Kellie’s skin was warm. She smelled like the summer sun. Robert parted her hair from the back of her shoulders and put the lotion on her neck. Then he worked his way down her shoulders and back. Her bikini bottom did not cover much. Robert hesitated.

“Do all of me. I don’t want to get burned.”

Robert flushed and finished spreading the lotion.

“Thanks. Would you tie me up?”

“Do what?”.

“What are you thinking? Tie my top back up, Silly.”

Robert did, then Kellie bounced around. “Where’s your phone?”

Before he could answer, Kellie was halfway across the room. “Oh, I see it on the table.”

Robert panicked, the prostrate camera and tripod were there too.

Kellie picked up the phone. “Here’s my number. Maybe you can call me sometime, and I’ll return the favor.” She headed toward the door, then turned. “Robert, it’s OK if you take pictures of me.”

Robert’s face turned feverish, his ears burned, he stammered. “I don’t—”

“Robert, don’t lie to me.”

“No, I don’t—”

“I hate liars. Always tell me the truth. OK?”

“OK.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

“Do you promise to always tell me the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Robert, you can take pictures of me. OK?”

“Kellie, I …”

“Robert?”

“OK.”

**********

Scene 2. Phone Sex

For the rest of the day, Kellie filled Robert’s head — right to the brim. He tried to do other things to get his mind off her, but he kept sneaking back to his computer and its images of her.

She was his angel, his temptress.

He wanted to inhale her in and devour her.

Own her, and surrender to her.

Ravish her, then love her.

That night he got ready for bed. He took off his clothes and underwear and laid down. Kellie had not taken her jar of lotion when she left. Robert opened it, inhaled her perfume, and rubbed it on.

He fantasized about what he wished he had done to her. Kiss the back of her neck when he moved the strands of her hair. Massage the lotion onto her soft skin, warm from the sun, her body awakening, reacting to his caresses. Nibble on her ear, then take her hands that were holding her bikini top to her chest and pull them away. Then massage the lotion on to her soft breasts and firm body. Her breathing quickens from his fondling, her nipples harden. His left arm presses against her breasts, pulling her tight to him. She moves her hips on him. His right hand cooly picks a gob of lotion from the jar and smears it down her stomach, mixing it with the wet of her perspiration. His fingers stretch out and push under her bikini bottom. She sighs and rises on her tiptoes to meet them–

Robert’s phone rang. He jumped. It was Kellie, wanting Facetime.

Oh, crap! How to explain this? Robert didn’t move while the phone rang and waited until it stopped, then took a breath. His face was flushed. He was still holding his erection when the phone rang again.

She’s not going to stop, is she. He had wanted to see her again, talk to her, hell, have anything to do with her. OK. OK. She can only see my face. He answered the phone.

Kellie’s voice sounded like she was just getting out of bed. “Hi, were you thinking of me?”

“Yes.”

“Were you masturbating?”

“Kellie… “

“Don’t lie to me. You promised to always tell me the truth.” Teasingly, “Are you pleasuring yourself?”

“Kellie… “

“Robert?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m glad you’re thinking of me while you’re masturbating. Let me watch. Turn your phone around so I can see.”

“Kellie, really what—”

“C’mon, let me see.” Teasingly, “C’mon. C’mon.”

“Kellie.”

Purring, “Pleeeeease.”

“Oh, hell.”

Robert turned the phone and propped it with his pillow.

Kellie giggled. “Don’t let me stop you now.”

Robert lay his head on the pillow, carefully so as to not disturb the phone, and returned to what he had been doing.

Kellie’s voice was soft through the phone. “I liked what you did to me today.”

“I liked that too.”

“I came so hard.”

“I just put lotion on your back.”

“Is that what you were thinking when I called?”

Robert nuzzled the phone. “No.”

“Were you thinking of what happened between us today?”

Robert nodded.

“You were so shy. I had to prompt you. ‘Put some on my front.’ You did, on my chest, being so careful not to touch my breasts. I took off my top. ‘All of me,’ I said, and closed my eyes. And you did. ‘Lower.’ You moved your hand down and brushed along the top of my bikini bottom. ‘Lower,’ I whispered. You shot fire through me. It’s a good thing you held your arm around me while I was climaxing, or I would have collapsed on to the floor.”

Robert’s hand was pumping up and down on his cock, moving faster, as was his breathing. Kellie’s bedroom voice was whispering through the phone next to his ear. His legs pressed against the mattress. His hips lifted. His free hand clutched the bed sheet, stretching it toward him. Her fantasy was working for him as well as his had.

“Would you like to cum?”

Robert groaned.

“Close your eyes and let me help you out with that.

“My hands are on you now.

“Can you feel me?”

Robert’s head lifted off the pillow, his face scrunched.

“You feel so strong.”

His stomach muscles tightened as hard as a drum.

“I’m not going to stop.”

Robert’s legs stiffened.

“I want you to cum. Are you going to cum?”

Robert grunted through clenched teeth.

“You can pretend I’m a boy if you want to.”

His head jerked back against his pillow. The phone bounced onto the bed.

Kellie giggled as Robert climaxed, “Bye, Robert,” and she hung up.

Prologue

Chapter 1. A Foolish Life

Chapter 2. I’ll Call You Robert

Scene 1. The Two Girls in His Life

Scene 2. Phone Sex