Excerpt from

 

Until the Dawn

1982
SoHo

Painting can be an evil mistress. She can love you tender and she can love you raunchy, and she can rip your guts apart.

When you put that last stroke on your canvas and you know you've done it right, and you step back to look at what you've done, a deep sigh comes all the way up from your loins and you say "Yes! Yes, by God, I did it."

But it can also be like a cramp in the pit of your stomach that wrenches your intestines and won't let go; because to make a painting you have to reach deep down inside and pull it out, and when it doesn't come it's like the dry heaves. And the loneliness of it! The loneliness is unbearable. You're all alone in a huge loft and you're slinging paint with concentration so intense it's exhausting, and when you finally set your paint bucket down and step back to see what you've done there is not a soul to share that moment with, be it ecstasy or be it loathing; because you've experienced a rape or a battle or the most tender of caresses, and it was all between you and that goddamn canvas; and suddenly you get this memory flash from back when you were in art school and your professors ripped your work apart, and you look at your painting and you can't even see it. You haven't the slightest idea whether it's art or crap. So you grab the freight elevator down to the street and you walk to the corner bar and get gloriously drunk.

***

Red Warner wrote those words. He wrote them in that bold scrawl of his. He wrote them in his journal not long after his final exhibition and that now-famous party that ended with a scream and a mad rush of fleeing bodies, and Red Warner slumped on the floor in a pool of blood like the day's washing from a slaughterhouse.

skip ahead to:
Tupelo, Mississippi
1919

In the fall of 1919 Rudy Sullivan walked into the imposing lobby of the Warner Bank. Smack in the middle of the lobby there was a fishpond, skirted by tropical plants. A dozen goldfish swam lazily in that pond. Rudy sidled up to the pond, his red, lumpy hands crushing the shapeless hat that he held against the crotch of his overalls. He dipped his hat in the water and wrung it out, then used the wet hat as a rag to wipe his sweaty brow, pushing aside the unruly strands of red hair that were sticking to his eyebrows. A bank teller pointed him out with a curt nod of her head, and said something to the customer who was standing at her window, a plump young woman with a severe hairdo. The young woman turned to look at Rudy. She shook her head and contorted her face into an expression that said, What's this world coming to? She stuffed her money into her purse, snapped it shut, and huffed to the door.

Rudy Sullivan recognized her. She was the new teacher at Tupelo High, where he worked as custodian. Mabel Cook by name. She directed the school choir and was a stickler for penmanship and insisted students address her as Mrs., even though she was an old maid. When not teaching, she spent her time playing piano for Calvary Baptist Church or teaching private music lessons in the parlor of her little house on the hill across the street from the old diner.

“Afternoon, Ma'am,” Rudy drawled.

She swept past him and flung open the outside door. Nearby, another door stood partly ajar. The name inscribed on its brass plate was: Charles Warner, President. Rudy approached Charles Warner's office with a sideways gait and leaned around to peek in. Seeing that the office was empty, he sat down on a lushly padded wooden chair with an elaborately carved back and claw feet. He sat forward on the edge of the seat, his demolished hat clamped between his knees.

“Excuse me, sir,” a lady said, “is there something we can help you with?”

“No Ma'am. I'm waitin' to see the coach, uh... Mr. Warner.”

“I'm sorry, but he is not here right now. Could someone else help you?”

“Oh no Ma'am. I got to see Mr. Charlie. I don't mind waitin'.”

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