The Greek
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The occasion had been convened to celebrate my passing the G.E.D. examinations that officially made me a high school graduate. I had another purpose in mind.
Alana wore a little black dress that knocked my socks off. I wore a new navy suit. My old suit no longer fit. I was 6'-3" tall and 185 pounds that night. My shoulders had widened, and my chest had deepened, and I had six-pack abs. I figured another fifteen pounds would do it for me if I didn't grow any taller.
We turned heads when we walked into el Faro, the restaurant where we'd had our first lunch together. We hadn't returned for dinner, but if their dinner was a good as their lunch, el Faro would become my favorite restaurant in Santa Fe. When I say we turned heads, it would be more accurate to say that most of the heads turned for Alana. Still, I noticed a few women checking me out.
We dined lavishly. I loved it that Alana didn't worry about calories when we celebrated, or if she did, she at least didn't mention how fattening everything was. She took her pleasures where she found them, and tai chi and running with me every other morning kept her weight right where she wanted it. Her hips had widened slightly, I'd noticed. I said nothing, but I appreciated her more womanly form. If Hector let me hang around long enough that Alana and I married and she became pregnant, I'd do a series of her depicting various stages of her pregnancy. I'd call the series the Miracle of New Life, and that series, I believed, could cap the Aspects of Alana series and become the new pinnacle for me to reach for and possibly exceed with my work. The next series, the Madonna and Child series, could do that.
I need three more years minimum, Hector. Do you hear me?
Nothing. No response.
Back at the house, instead of retiring for the night, I suggested a walk to our new home site.
"Okay," Alana said. "I'll change my shoes."
"No, we'll be careful. There's a full moon, we'll be able to see well enough to avoid tripping or scuffing our shoes.
We strolled hand in hand admiring the night sky and the black Sangre de Cristo Mountains off in the distance.
When we stood on the ground where our new home would rise up to give us our own place to live and grow, I turned her to me.
"Alana, I love you. I love you with all my heart, all my mind, with every breath I take. You are my soul mate. When I turn eighteen, when I become a man according to the laws of the land, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"
I'd solved my dilemma about making Alana a widow at nineteen. If Hector swapped me again before I turned eighteen, she wouldn't be a widow. If he didn't transport me to another body until after I turned eighteen, then I'd marry her anyway. I loved her. I wanted her for my wife.
I'd surprised her. The light of the moon shined in her startled eyes.
I had another worry. Alana was Catholic; I wasn't. That roadblock had to be breached.
"I'm not Catholic," I said before she could respond. "I believe in a God, perhaps the Catholic God, but if I agreed to become Catholic, I'd be living a lie. Nevertheless, I want you for my wife to love and cherish for all the remaining days of my life. I want you to be the mother of my children. Please say you will marry me."
She didn't leap into my arms and exclaim, "Yes!" She didn't say no, either. She placed the palms of her hands gently on each side of my face, looked up at me with love in her shining, dark eyes and said, "Yes, I will marry you, Eric, my knight in shining armor. I love you more than I can say. Not spending the rest of my days with you would be torture. I'm Catholic, but my God understands." Then she kissed me with love, not passion.
I took the engagement ring that I'd purchased for the occasion from my suit pocket and slipped it on her finger, which suddenly altered her serious demeanor. She squealed with joy, waved her finger in the moonlight and shouted, "I'm going to be Mrs. Eric Kleiner! Thank you, God!"
Milestones. Life is made up of milestones. I rushed the completion of the preliminary designs for the compound for two reasons. Winter would arrive in Santa Fe before we were ready. I wanted the new buildings closed in before the snows fell. And, I wanted the design work done before my first one-man show in Jackson Hole. While I worked on the designs, I selected the architectural firm we'd hire to do the working drawings, and Dad had pointed me at a general contractor that he believed would do a good job at a reasonable price. Dad and I also conferred with a bank about the construction loan. We'd paid off the seller of the house and acreage, so the property was free and clear. The bank liked that. We also had over $500,000 cash on hand. The bank liked that, too. And they really liked the backup take-out permanent loan we arranged should my poker winnings fall short. We didn't mention my poker winnings to the bank.
I presented the preliminary designs for the construction loan in the presentation room in the offices of the architectural firm I'd selected to work with me on the compound. In attendance at the presentation were a representative from the architectural firm, the general contractor, two executives from the bank, and my family, including Alana. She and I had worked together to create some fantastic renderings of some interiors. My father would stand up to present the landscaping plan, which was phenomenal. He understood the climate and the plants that would flourish in Santa Fe, and his design sense surprised me.
The presentation went well. The bank committed to the construction loan, and the architectural firm started the working drawings. Two weeks later, the plans were submitted for building permits, and the City Building Department responded faster than I'd believed a bureaucracy could act. We broke ground in time to close in the structures before the first snow flew—hopefully.
My paintings sold out the night of the opening in Jackson Hole. The average selling price had been increased to $2,000 by the gallery owner when he received them in crates from UPS. The gallery owner was ecstatic with the results. So was Erin. She was really looking forward to the show in New York. So was I.
After I finished the preliminary designs, I started the series of paintings for the Santa Fe show: Santa Fe Landscapes. I wanted to call the series Alana in Santa Fe, but with her death sentence and the possible publicity we'd receive from the opening, I couldn't. The paintings featured Alana both wearing clothes and nude in front of backdrops of Santa Fe scenes. I completed the series just before the New York show. Erin said she'd schedule the Santa Fe opening for the week before Christmas.
Milestones, the events of life.
I started to worry how long I'd remain Eric Kleiner. At the New York show, my life as Eric Kleiner would be five months old, the same term for my life as Debra Oakman. When I'd opened my eyes as Eric Kleiner, I was a drug addict, under arrest for dealing drugs, expelled from school, in other words, a complete mess. In five months I'd turned Eric Kleiner's messy world on its ear. My new father had married the love of his life and was working two landscaping contractor jobs, work he enjoyed and in which he excelled. My mother was happy working for a professional potter, trying to become all she could be. I'd saved my fiancée from a death sentence, and she was also learning her chosen craft and would become all she could be. And as Eric Kleiner I was succeeding even beyond my expectations. Given the time, I'd become the artist I'd always wanted to be. When I was Aaron MacDonald, I'd gone into architecture because I didn't want to be a starving artist. Texas hold 'em poker came later.
I worried. Had I achieved what Hector wanted me to achieve as Eric Kleiner. Would lighting soon flash down out of the sky and move my essence to another body?
Stop worrying.
The two words resonated in my mind as if someone had spoken them.
Hector? I said silently. I waited with bated breath. Nothing. No response.
Did I stop worrying? No. As the days flew past I attributed the two words to my imagination. Wishful thinking, that's what it was, I told myself. I loved my life as Eric Kleiner. I liked my new, youthful body. I loved my new parents. And most of all I loved Alana. I'd told my father that she was my soul mate. I'd told him the truth. As Aaron MacDonald there was no Alana. As John Windom there was no Alana. As Debra Oakman there was no Alana. If Hector moved me again, I'd die. I wouldn't want to live without my Alana at my side.
And my to-do list had not gotten any shorter. Each time I reached one milestone, I created another. I wanted to marry Alana. I'd create an Alana Wedding series from that event. And more than anything, I wanted to paint the Miracle of New Life and Madonna and Child series.
I'd loved Piper. I still loved her. Whatever body I occupied, I'd love her. I'd love her until I died. In my mind, she was my daughter. But I would also love the daughter Alana and I would have. I'd love her as much as I loved Piper. And a little boy. I'd love my son with Alana, too. Just as much. Just as much.
I need five more years minimum, Hector. Do you hear me?
Nothing. No response.
The New York art scene is nuts. I'd never seen so many weirdoes in one place in my life, any life. I looked sedate in my navy suit, white shirt and regimental striped tie. Alana looked gorgeous in her little black dress. She stole the show. I didn't mind, except predatory men sniffed around her like she was carrion and they were hyenas. I loved her more when I saw how she handled their overtures, pushing them away without offending, except for one jerk. I stepped in and marched him to the door. I was pleased that I'd remained so calm. I didn't break any of his bones.
The Aspects of Alana paintings sold out during the pre-show that Alana and I didn't attend. The average selling price for each painting was $10,000. I have to admit, I didn't know about pre-show sales. Erin had mentioned buyer's lists, but I had not known what she meant. Evidently, gallery owners have buyer's lists made up of art lovers, collectors, and investors that gallery owners give first rights to purchase works in their one-man shows.
Except for one sour holdout, the praise from the art critics was effusive, and Erin told me the holdout praised only mediocrity.
"He hammers real talent to justify his own self-proclaimed superiority," Erin said. "He's a mediocre man, mediocre as an artist in his youth, mediocre as an art critic. Don't worry about his scathing comments in the newspaper tomorrow. Everyone in the art world knows him, knows how he fashions his reviews. If he praised your work, you'd need to worry."
Stop worrying, I'd heard in my mind a while back.
I need ten more years minimum, Hector. Do you hear me?
Nothing. No response.
The show in the Santa Fe gallery the week before Christmas was also a success, but my paintings didn't sell out during the pre-show, and one painting had not sold when the opening night came to a close. Part of it was price. After the success of the New York show, Erin insisted that Santa Fe Landscapes had to be priced 5 to 10% higher than Aspects, and part of it was the gallery owner's buyer's list. Erin explained the latter reason.
"Santa Fe," she said, "is an artist community, but it's still a small town. There are a thousand times more buyers in New York than there is in Santa Fe."
I thought the gallery owner would be upset. She wasn't. She raised the price of the remaining painting, and it sold before Christmas.
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