Death Song (Tales from the Tarot)

6. Charlie

Chapter six

Charlie

C erulean.

Ochre.

Alizarin crimson.

I pluck tubes of oil paints from the display and drop them into the plastic shopping basket cradled over my arm as a slow smile creeps over my face. My first introduction to wet on wet oil painting was old videos of Bob Ross’ “The Joy of Painting.” Buying the same colors I heard him speak about time and time again always makes me irrationally happy. I looked up to him so much when I was a little kid watching PBS when I was home sick from school. My mom had been a huge fan of his before her passing and used his gentle voice to soothe me to sleep while fevers raged and chicken noodle soup bubbled on the stove top. While I did take that love of art created in my childhood to a short career creating street art as a teen, my real skill developed out of my wanting to be like Bob Ross. Saying I started with street art sounds better in an official artist bio, but the roots of my real love of art were planted with happy little trees in mind.

Being able to stock up on paints using the fancy black credit card burning a hole in my wallet is also something I’ve been looking forward to. Not having to pay for supplies for once means I have less time worrying about budgeting and more time creating what I do best. Rex even left me a key to the building so I can come and go as I please, his trust in me throwing me for a bit of a loop. I suppose when you have the kind of money I assume he has, you can afford to take chances, and I know he’ll see this risk was worth it in the end when I deliver his painted mural.

I hum softly to myself as I grab more colors off the display and place them into my basket because I can’t resist the notes of it. I find myself stuck with Rex’s Death Song from my dream playing inside my head more often than not, whenever my mind is idle these days. Sometimes, it gets so persistent that it takes hold of my voice, and humming the notes is the only way I can get it out of my head. Once upon a time, the song that would get stuck in my mind on repeat was the theme song for the DuckTales cartoon from the 1990’s, now it’s the sad song of mourning and death that Rex sang in a dream I had.

Maybe that’s the change The Owner meant.

I snicker softly to myself, shaking my head at my own joke even though it wasn’t funny. Not much is funny these days, but tonight I’m filled with a bit more hope than I’ve been lately, knowing that this cottage painting and the mural in The Pinwheel Club could be the things that end my sleepless nights. It feels like something special, at least, and I’m still begging the universe to bring me the change and transformation I desperately want in my life. Maybe things will start to go my way for once, though as that thought ripples through my mind like water, I grab the last tube of phthalo green from the shelf and turn to find that I am not alone in this aisle of the artist supply store I frequent.

My entire body freezes in place as I see him before a shiver and tremble rattles through me like a freight train. I flinch as he steps closer to me, his perfect suit and perfect hair setting me on edge without him having to say a single word. I glance at his hands as he walks towards me, the instinct to keep safe pushing itself to the forefront of my mind.

“Hello, Charles,” he says, as I ping pong my eyes over him, from face to hands to knees.

He kneed me once in the stomach. I know those are weapons.

Face. Hands. Knees.

“Colin,” I whisper as he steps too close to me for my liking. I take a step backward, putting the basket between us to keep him away as much as I can.

“I thought I’d find you here at some point,” he says with a smile that shows off his perfect, pearly white teeth. “You aren’t answering my calls, and I want to talk to you.”

Because he’s blocked. He can’t reach me. He can’t contact me again on social media or otherwise, and I thought I’d covered all my bases. He isn’t supposed to be able to find me. I swallow hard as I stare at him, heart racing in my chest and hands gripping the handle of my basket so tightly, I can feel the edges of the plastic cutting into my knuckles. “Why?”

“I have a client who’s interested in some of your work.”

Suspicious. Colin knows where my work is handled. “Bowman Galleries?”

His smile turns to a sneer as he shakes his head. “That fucking dog won’t listen to me, so I’ve come to the source. Lots of money, Charles.”

“Charlie,” I whisper. I hate how he calls me Charles. That is not my name, not even on my birth certificate. My mom always told people, ‘Why would I name him something other than what I mean to call him,’ whenever she’d get asked about my name being simply Charlie. Colin never got that. Charles is more dignified, he’d say, turning his nose up at my mom’s choice to name me as I’m called.

“Charlie,” he grinds out, like my name itself is irritating. “Lots of money to be had for your work, if we can discuss.”

“All of my stuff is at Bowman.” It’s not a lie. I haven’t painted anything intended for sale since these dreams have commissioned my canvases.

He shakes his head, offering a knowing smile. “Not all of it.”

My heart stutters in my chest as I take a tiny step backward, putting more distance between us. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m sure you do. The other paintings, Charlie. The ones you spent so many fucking hours painting when we should have been sleeping. The ones of the man and the birds and the castle in the hills. Those are the ones I’d like to arrange to purchase from you, and any else you’ve done since we parted ways.”

Alarm bells ring in my head, and I back away another half step. “I burned them.”

“No, you didn’t,” Colin says with a knowing grin. “And I can make you very rich because of them.”

“I did. I burned them,” I lie, hoping he believes me. Though they are just collecting dust in my closet, the paintings I’ve done of Rex, his lost love, and everything else my dreams have brought to me can’t be sold. The mere suggestion of giving them to Colin for any amount of money makes my stomach wobble and a spike of pain centre itself behind my eyes.

“Charlie, don’t be difficult,” he murmurs, moving forward to close the gap I’ve put between us. How many times have I been told to not be difficult by this man?

When I didn’t want to go to dinner with his bullheaded, racist colleagues on my own birthday.

When I failed to turn down the show I was watching after his phone rang with a very important work call.

When I didn’t stay put in bed after being awoken by the urge to paint.

I glance quickly at his hands, making sure they’re by his sides where they should be as my entire body screams at me to run. Surely, he won’t try anything in a public place, but those words have sent a chill through me unlike any I’ve felt before.

“Please, Charlie,” Colin says. “Just sell them to me. My client is willing to pay. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. Don’t make it dangerous.”

“I burned them,” I whisper, my voice quivering in my throat and my body shaking like a leaf. My stomach rolls uncomfortably, and I hate that he can do this to me still. That just by being near him I am turned back into the frail, weak person I was before he left. I had sworn he would never intimidate me again, and here I am, intimidated as all hell and on the verge of throwing up. “Please leave me alone.”

I take a step back, but it’s too late. Colin’s smile is gone, and his fists are bunched at his sides. Maybe my thought that he wouldn’t hit me in public is wrong, because he sure looks like he’s about to throw a punch or two. I step away again, gripping my basket of paint like it’s a weapon and planning to turn it into one if he comes at me like I assume he’s going to. Colin takes a step forward, his eyes intent on staring directly into mine, but he quickly steps away again, sending confusion rattling through me.

“You really have no idea, huh?”

“No idea of what?”

He laughs, shaking his head but it doesn’t sound friendly at all. “Charlie Marius Polston, you are in over your pretty little head here. I can help. I can keep you safe.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh, but I bite it back, knowing that laughing would only bring fists and knees to my face and body. Colin can keep me safe? Colin. The one who once threw me into the wall so hard I cracked two ribs is my safety. This has to be some kind of sick joke.

“No, thank you,” I respond, gently, like I’m placating a wild bear.

“You don’t know the things I’ve seen,” Colin presses. “The things I know. My client gets what he wants, one way or another, and what he wants now is your paintings, plus any you happen to paint of that foul creature in the future.”

“Foul creature?” Rex is utterly beautiful, and having met him, having sat beside him, those words just feel wrong. Ugly and wrong.

“Charlie, you aren’t smart enough to know what you’ve stumbled into. You don’t know the depth of who you are and that’s dangerous for you. Please, let me help before it’s too late.”

I bristle as he spouts off another classic Colin line. I once confessed to him that I didn’t feel quite smart enough to keep up with the conversations he and his friends had, and instead of comforting me in that moment, he’d simply laughed and agreed. Calling me stupid became part of his repertoire after that simply because he knew it hurt to hear.

“I don’t need your help,” I say. “I’m going to pay and I’m going to leave.”

“Charles. Listen to reason.”

Though I am shaking, I make myself turn away from him and start to head down the aisle towards the front of the store. My knees knock as I walk, and I can feel his eyes boring holes into my back, but I don’t turn around. When I leave the aisle behind, it’s like I can breathe again, and when I turn around to find that he hasn’t followed me, my heart stops quivering so terribly behind my rib cage.

I make quick work of paying for the supplies in my basket with the credit card I was given, then head out of the shop leaving Colin and his strange warnings behind. Pushing everything about the encounter to the back of my mind to sort through later, when my dreams inevitably wake me out of a dead sleep, I head for my old Toyota hatchback and get in, making sure I lock the doors just in case.

“Fuck.” I sigh, talking to myself to soothe the frayed edges of my mind as I sink into the seat. “Did not need that today. You’re okay though. You’re okay, Charlie.”

I survived foster care after my mom died, and I survived Colin being my boyfriend.

“You survived,” I whisper out loud to myself.

The words can only do so much, but where I’m heading next should help even more. The Pinwheel Club is waiting for me, and I have walls to measure so I can spend even more of Rex’s money on even more art supplies.

I can feel when he walks into the building.

Rex’s presence is like a beacon, drawing my head up from the paper I’m scribbling notes on. I’ve been measuring walls and laying out my ideas with painter’s tape on the smooth, white surfaces for the last hour, but I’ve been on my own with just the music playing through the speaker on my phone for company. Having someone here, having Rex present, sends my stomach swooping a bit with nerves. His coffee scent meets my nose as he moves to join me, and I inhale a deep lungful of it, letting the warmth of him soothe some of the butterflies inside me.

I have never loved a smell quite as much as I love whatever cologne he wears.

“I’ve just started,” I offer, pulling myself off the floor. “I promise it will look better than random scraps of tape everywhere.”

Rex laughs. “I trust your vision because I have none. Art was never my talent.”

“What is your talent?” I ask before I can stop myself.

“I’m not quite sure,” he says. “A man I once knew used to say I was good at singing, but I never believed him. I haven’t sang in years so I’m not sure if he was lying because he loved me or telling the truth.”

I know he is a talented singer. I’ve heard his voice, but I can’t say that because explaining how I know this about him makes me sound like I’m losing my mind. Maybe I am, because I also know that the one he’s speaking of is the man he appears with in my dreams. The red-haired one with creamy skin and freckles like mine. Instead, I ask, “What was his name?”

Rex is silent for a moment before answering. “Marius. He was called Marius.”

Another thread tying me to Rex and these dreams I have of him slips into place with the reveal of the red-haired man’s name. Marius. My middle name. Rex gives me a strange look and it’s then that I realize I haven’t masked my surprise at hearing the name as much as I hoped to. “That’s my middle name. Surprised to hear it, that’s all.”

“Your middle name is Marius?”

“Charlie Marius Polston,” I respond with a smile and a shrug. “Not Charles. Just Charlie.”

“Odd,” Rex murmurs, stepping over to look into my eyes. “You know, you remind me of him in some ways.”

“I do?”

“And in other ways, you aren’t him at all.”

“Is that a bad thing? Or something?” He’s looking at me like he expects an explanation for why I resemble his dead lover, but I have none to give. I had noted there were similarities between us when I painted Marius for the first time, but they’re only some physical traits. Red hair. Freckles. Pale skin. Mine is owing to my Irish background, and if I had to guess, Marius was likely Irish as well. That’s where the similarities end, really. His body was built thicker than mine, and though I am tall, he was shorter. At least he is in my dreams.

“Not at all,” Rex says, stepping closer to me, his coffee scent warming me inside. “I am glad you are who you are.”

Colin’s words from the art shop ring in my ears, his comment about how I don’t know the depth of who I am pushing to the forefront of my mind, and I sigh. Rex offers me a questioning look and I sigh again. “I ran into my ex while I was getting paint earlier. He said some things that pissed me off, that’s all.”

“Was it a bad ending?”

That’s putting it mildly, but I nod. Rex doesn’t need the details of the catastrophic ending of Colin and I. “It wasn’t good, let’s just leave it at that.”

“I am sorry to hear that. Some people are assholes.”

A surprised laugh bubbles from me and Rex smiles in response. He’s so proper all the time, it’s one thing that strikes me about him, and to hear him use the word ‘asshole’ somehow feels strange to me. I agree though, Colin is an asshole of the highest order. That’s one list he doesn’t have to seek to get his name onto because he’s already there at the very top as far as I’m concerned.

“Where did you happen to meet this asshole called Colin, Charlie Marius Polston?” Rex muses, looking over my body from top to bottom.

“It’s not very romantic. He attended the art gallery for an open house one night with a handful of his colleagues and he wouldn’t leave me alone. He was charming, back then. Or tried to be, at least. His work friend was knowledgeable when it comes to art, and he wanted to impress him by collecting me, I think.”

“You are very impressive.”

My cheeks burn a little bit as Rex smiles at me, gently. “Thank you. I sometimes think so. Sometimes, I’m still the little kid stuck in foster care waiting for someone to take me home for good. After my mom died, I felt untethered completely. Like a piece of my heart had been torn away and I couldn’t find it again no matter how hard I tried. I became angry and mean, but instead of lashing out, I took my rage out on buildings with spray paint cans. I knew that hitting something like I wanted to would only get me into trouble, but I created trouble on my own anyway. I got caught scrawling the words ‘fuck your cakes’ with a comic of a cupcake with devil horns on the side of a bakery of all places, and that’s when I was taken to the art camp that turned me around.”

“I am glad for that camp,” Rex says, softly.

“Me too.”

“I should bring you a chair to sit in out here,” Rex comments, turning his attention to the tape I’ve dotted the walls with. “The floor isn’t comfortable to rest on.”

“A chair would be nice, I won’t say no to that. Just make sure it’s one that you don’t mind getting paint on. I’ll use a drop cloth, but just in case.”

Rex nods, offering a smile. “Do you need anything else?”

“Nope. A chair is good. Everything else I can handle. I’ve taken measurements and will go order supplies tomorrow morning when the store is open. I have everything for the cottage painting though, might get started on that while I wait for the mural stuff to arrive.”

“Do I get to know your ideas?” Rex asks.

“Up to you. It can be a surprise, or you can know.”

Rex thinks for a moment, then smiles. “Surprise me. I haven’t had a good surprise in so long.”

I nod, hoping he likes flowers and ancient Roman columns because the moment I started thinking of how to fill these walls, those are what came to me first. Overlaid on the historical nature inspired background, I’m going to spray paint the name of the venue in the script style I used to use when I was tagging things on the streets. It’s going to be a good mix of old and new, as is my own personal style, and I’m excited to see how it comes together when it’s out of my head and on the walls of the building.

I haven’t been excited about a project in a while. Even when I’m painting canvases for Bowman Galleries to sell for me, I’m always keeping the customers I know will purchase my stuff in my mind. This freedom to create whatever I want has filled me with ideas and sparked the creativity that lays dormant inside of me.

I just hope I can make it through the time it will take to finish the piece without being dragged down by my endless need for sleep and rest.