No matter what else might happen with this painting, the process of making it was bliss.
That counted for something.
At last, when I finally worked up the courage to sketch his face, I didn’t try to make it make sense.
I wasn’t thinking, What would Norman Rockwell do?
I was thinking about what I would do. What I needed to do—with each mark and each line—to render my experience of Joe’s face.
I was following my own compass. Wherever it would lead.
And it turned out, Sue was right. That was a win in itself.
* * *
I PAINTED—AND TOUCHED, and painted and touched—Joe for two solid hours that night.
He was endlessly patient. Didn’t check his phone or fall asleep or even ask for a glass of water. He just stayed with me the whole time, taking it all in.
When I’d done everything I could do for the night and I had a pretty full, dynamic early painted sketch, I thanked him, like he could go.
“Anyway,” I said, washing my hands at the sink. “I really appreciate you doing this for me. Congratulations. You’re almost free.”
“Free from what?” Joe asked.
“From me. Once the art show is over, we won’t have to see each other anymore.”
“Why wouldn’t we see each other?”
“I’m just saying. I’ve taken up a lot of your time.”
“I was hoping you’d give me roller-skating lessons.”
“But how would Dr. Michaux feel about that?”
Joe frowned. “Why would Dr. Michaux feel anything about that?”
“Aren’t you … you know?”
“What?” Joe took a swig of water. “Didn’t we talk about this?”
“You said you weren’t dating. But I figured you must be hooking up.”
Joe coughed. “What?”
“You’re always … coming out of her apartment,” I said. And a bunch of others.
“Yeah? So?”
“So aren’t you guys … together?”
“Wait—you thought we were—what?”
My fingers were still tingling from touching him. I shrugged.
Joe started laughing then, but I didn’t think it was funny. He leaned his head back and let out a big sigh. “I’m not dating Dr. Michaux. I am pet-sitting her snakes.”
Now it was my turn to be befuddled. “You’re what-sitting her whats?”
“Her snakes,” Joe confirmed. “Remember? Herpetologist? She has a whole den of snakes in there. Even an Indonesian flying snake. It’s pretty complicated, keeping them healthy.”
Okay. I could freak out about a penthouse full of flying snakes later.
First things first.
I needed to get this straight: “You’re … a snake sitter?”
“Pet sitter,” Joe corrected. “Why do you think I was feeding Parker’s cat?”
“That’s what you do for a living?”
I could feel Joe frowning, like that question was really odd. “It’s one of the things I do for a living,” he said.
“All that time … you were going in there to feed snakes?”
Joe nodded. “
“And so the brown bags were full of…？”
“Live mice,” Joe confirmed.
“Oh my god.”
Joe shrugged. “Food chain.”
“But,” I said as I tried to snap the pieces into place, “what about that time I saw you stumbling drunkenly into Dr. Michaux’s apartment?”
“Do you mean the time she had a stomach virus? And I was helping her down the hall from the elevator?”
“You weren’t hooking up?”
Joe shook his head.
“You were just helping her? Just being a Boy Scout? Kinda like when Parker pretended to faint?”
“I’m not a Boy Scout,” Joe said. “But, yes, I was helping.”
I was still working to take it in. “That’s what you’ve been doing? All this time?”
“Yep,” Joe said. “Mostly cats on this floor. And one bunny. Wait. Did you think that I was sleeping with all those people?”
“I mean, I hoped it was something else. But I couldn’t imagine what that would be.”
“You have a very limited imagination.”
“Well, I definitely wasn’t picturing flying snakes.”
“I don’t know if I should be flattered that you think all those people would want to sleep with me—or offended that you think I’m a man-whore.”