Post by andyg on Apr 22, 2016 20:53:42 GMT
Another haphazard fiction piece. Thanks for reading!
Mourning the Narragansett Bay
I was a few towns over from my inland home in the woods of West Greenwich, somewhere along the coast of North Kingstown. My GPS led me to the parking lot, and, after scouting for an outdoor ATM with no avail, I went inside to make a withdrawal that wouldn’t leave me with a godawful surcharge. My sister wanted to meet that afternoon at a cash-only diner. Although she insisted on paying, the last thing I wanted from anybody was a sympathy meal.
The air-conditioned interior of the building brought relief from the breezeless summer day. I quickly made my way to the ATM, withdrew a few twenties, and turned towards the exit. It was when I made for a swift exit that I noticed the painting. It rested against the wall beside a portrait of a lighthouse and an aerial photograph of Block Island. What had struck my eye was an acrylic painting of Narragansett Bay.
It was as if the artist had set up his or her easel along Sandy Point, where my daughter and I used to walk and enjoy the sea breeze all throughout the summer months. Looking into the portrait, I could make out the distant silhouette of Patience Island amidst the water formed with opaque shades of blue. For a moment it felt like I could hear the call of the gulls as they marched along the shoreline or the voice of my daughter as she tugged my sleeve, making sure we’d stop for ice cream at the end of our walk.
I never paid much attention to the walls of my local credit union. I knew that the art hanging on the walls were photographs and acrylic paintings from local artists. However, when I found myself waiting at a different branch it struck me how different the art would be closer to the coast. The art reflected the locale, not the photographs of weathered barns and portraits of the dogwood in bloom that I was so familiar with. I scanned the other portraits, identifying their prices, and noted that the portrait of the bay was missing its tag. I withdrew two hundred, what I assumed was an adequate amount, and waited in line to solicit a sale from one of the tellers.
The stanchion ropes held me in place while I waited for an opportunity to confront one of the tellers. I thought about walking up to one of the offices, but they were occupied and I didn’t want to lurk and listen to a father opening up a savings account for his youngest. I waited patiently while an older man in an untucked green button-up made a deposit.
“I can help you,” a perky teller affirmed as I stared off in her direction. She had red hair the color of jewelweed and a smile just as intense.
“Yes,” I answered, approaching her booth. “I’d like to buy one of the paintings.”
She responded with a quizzical look. “I’m sorry. You want to buy a painting?”
“Yes,” I said, and pointed to the hallway with the ATM.
“Oh! I don’t think we’ve ever sold one of those.”
“I’m after the painting of the bay. The one right in the middle.”
“Great, I’ll go fetch the manager,” she said. “I always thought those pictures were so pretty.”
As I waited for her to fetch one of the branch managers, I examined the basket full of lollipops that rested atop her desk. I remembered how my daughter used to dig through similar baskets at our location, searching furiously for a blue pop as if she were digging through a box of jewels, only settling for a sapphire of the highest grade.
“Hello there,” the manager said, holding out a hand to introduce herself. “I hear you’re interested in some local art.”
“Yes,” I answered. “I’d like to make a purchase.”
The branch manager led me to her office where she opened a black binder with still images of each portrait. Each page had some panel of artist biography alongside the asking price.
“I don’t think this book is complete,” I said. “I want to buy the portrait of the bay.”
“Oh, the manager answered, closing the book. That one isn’t for sale. It was a gift to the credit union when we opened the branch three years ago. I remember because that’s when I became a manager.”
I interrupted her pride. “I’ll offer $200 for it. It’s not much, but it’s what I have to offer.”
“I wish I could sell it to you, but it’s the property of our bank.”
“You could put something else in its place. There’s plenty of seascapes that could take its place. I’ll tell you what, I’ll offer you $300 for it.”
“I can’t sell you that particular painting. Like you said yourself, there’s lots of paintings you can buy in this area if you want a permanent view of the bay. I just can’t sell you a piece of our property.”
“What if I upped it?” I asked. “I’ll give you $400 for the painting.”
“I’m sorry ma’am, but I just can’t sell it to you.”
She closed the binder with force and placed it back on her shelf.
“Well,” I said. “I’ll be going.”
I walked towards the exit and made one more pass beside the painting. The deep blue-green shades of the waves reminded me of the life cut far too short. I used to live near the bay, along the coast in East Greenwich, My husband worked at the naval air station that was situated atop Quonset Point. I don’t live with my husband anymore. We haven’t formalized the divorce yet, but we hadn’t seen each other in a long while.
I took one last look at the painting exhibiting my daughter’s grave and proceeded to the door to endure another anniversary of her passing.
Mourning the Narragansett Bay
I was a few towns over from my inland home in the woods of West Greenwich, somewhere along the coast of North Kingstown. My GPS led me to the parking lot, and, after scouting for an outdoor ATM with no avail, I went inside to make a withdrawal that wouldn’t leave me with a godawful surcharge. My sister wanted to meet that afternoon at a cash-only diner. Although she insisted on paying, the last thing I wanted from anybody was a sympathy meal.
The air-conditioned interior of the building brought relief from the breezeless summer day. I quickly made my way to the ATM, withdrew a few twenties, and turned towards the exit. It was when I made for a swift exit that I noticed the painting. It rested against the wall beside a portrait of a lighthouse and an aerial photograph of Block Island. What had struck my eye was an acrylic painting of Narragansett Bay.
It was as if the artist had set up his or her easel along Sandy Point, where my daughter and I used to walk and enjoy the sea breeze all throughout the summer months. Looking into the portrait, I could make out the distant silhouette of Patience Island amidst the water formed with opaque shades of blue. For a moment it felt like I could hear the call of the gulls as they marched along the shoreline or the voice of my daughter as she tugged my sleeve, making sure we’d stop for ice cream at the end of our walk.
I never paid much attention to the walls of my local credit union. I knew that the art hanging on the walls were photographs and acrylic paintings from local artists. However, when I found myself waiting at a different branch it struck me how different the art would be closer to the coast. The art reflected the locale, not the photographs of weathered barns and portraits of the dogwood in bloom that I was so familiar with. I scanned the other portraits, identifying their prices, and noted that the portrait of the bay was missing its tag. I withdrew two hundred, what I assumed was an adequate amount, and waited in line to solicit a sale from one of the tellers.
The stanchion ropes held me in place while I waited for an opportunity to confront one of the tellers. I thought about walking up to one of the offices, but they were occupied and I didn’t want to lurk and listen to a father opening up a savings account for his youngest. I waited patiently while an older man in an untucked green button-up made a deposit.
“I can help you,” a perky teller affirmed as I stared off in her direction. She had red hair the color of jewelweed and a smile just as intense.
“Yes,” I answered, approaching her booth. “I’d like to buy one of the paintings.”
She responded with a quizzical look. “I’m sorry. You want to buy a painting?”
“Yes,” I said, and pointed to the hallway with the ATM.
“Oh! I don’t think we’ve ever sold one of those.”
“I’m after the painting of the bay. The one right in the middle.”
“Great, I’ll go fetch the manager,” she said. “I always thought those pictures were so pretty.”
As I waited for her to fetch one of the branch managers, I examined the basket full of lollipops that rested atop her desk. I remembered how my daughter used to dig through similar baskets at our location, searching furiously for a blue pop as if she were digging through a box of jewels, only settling for a sapphire of the highest grade.
“Hello there,” the manager said, holding out a hand to introduce herself. “I hear you’re interested in some local art.”
“Yes,” I answered. “I’d like to make a purchase.”
The branch manager led me to her office where she opened a black binder with still images of each portrait. Each page had some panel of artist biography alongside the asking price.
“I don’t think this book is complete,” I said. “I want to buy the portrait of the bay.”
“Oh, the manager answered, closing the book. That one isn’t for sale. It was a gift to the credit union when we opened the branch three years ago. I remember because that’s when I became a manager.”
I interrupted her pride. “I’ll offer $200 for it. It’s not much, but it’s what I have to offer.”
“I wish I could sell it to you, but it’s the property of our bank.”
“You could put something else in its place. There’s plenty of seascapes that could take its place. I’ll tell you what, I’ll offer you $300 for it.”
“I can’t sell you that particular painting. Like you said yourself, there’s lots of paintings you can buy in this area if you want a permanent view of the bay. I just can’t sell you a piece of our property.”
“What if I upped it?” I asked. “I’ll give you $400 for the painting.”
“I’m sorry ma’am, but I just can’t sell it to you.”
She closed the binder with force and placed it back on her shelf.
“Well,” I said. “I’ll be going.”
I walked towards the exit and made one more pass beside the painting. The deep blue-green shades of the waves reminded me of the life cut far too short. I used to live near the bay, along the coast in East Greenwich, My husband worked at the naval air station that was situated atop Quonset Point. I don’t live with my husband anymore. We haven’t formalized the divorce yet, but we hadn’t seen each other in a long while.
I took one last look at the painting exhibiting my daughter’s grave and proceeded to the door to endure another anniversary of her passing.