Water Colors

Some nights, Eugene stays late, chatting up the barmaid or talking football with a friendly Pole. Tonight, Eugene is silent. From a stool in The Last Pub ‘Till Boston he watches amber liquid turn thick in his glass. His eyes closed, Eugene feels the beer’s smooth, rich taste as it rolls toward the roast that was his supper.

“Forty-four Guinness and a glass a’orange juice,” he mutters, “all the vitamins and minerals ye need to survive.”

Eugene drops a Euro on the bar and steps out into the salty evening.

The street is empty, like most nights, and the wind off the ocean gains speed as it rushes toward Eugene’s thin, yellow windbreaker. He shivers, but walks on. A few minutes later he reaches the town square.

There is a tailor, a solicitor’s office, a small shop for ladies’ hats, and one for art supplies. The picture windows are dark and Eugene can see himself reflected in the glass, with the words Tillie’s Bonnets and Buttons across his forehead. There is a light on in the window of the second floor, above the art shop, and, despite the cold, the window is open.

Eugene tilts his head until the street lamp glances off his bald patch.

“Oy Kerry! Let me in then.”

A woman’s face appears for a moment at the window, her blonde curls reaching out as if to get a whiff of the night air, or a better look at her caller below. After a pause and a loud click inside, Eugene puts his hand to the door and it swings open. He stands at the bottom of a steep set of stairs in the dark. It smells like fish; the greasy remains of a thousand Friday suppers.

He stumbles up the stairs in the dark until he reaches a door. Kerry is standing in the doorway smiling. She moves to embrace him, but he grunts and pushes past.

“Ye dinna tell anyone I was comin’ did ye?” Eugene demands before he is halfway through the door.

“Course not ye old fool. Who would I tell?”

The flat is tiny, but he counts at least a dozen colors on the wall. His face softens for a moment, remembering the fuss Kerry made to ‘fix’ the pastel pink mum chose for her childhood bedroom. He pushes the memory aside.

“Do ye have what I came for?”

Kerry turns and goes into the kitchen, leaving Eugene glancing anxiously from Blue Peacock to Salon Rose suddenly unsure why he is there. Before he can turn to leave, Kerry returns with a small parcel, about the size of a shoebox wrapped in brown paper.

“You’ll need a canvas of some kind.” She notes. “And an easel for that matter.”

She hurries back into the far room and returns with a roll of canvas tucked beneath her arm and a small wooden frame, which she hands to Eugene. She smiles at him and winks. Eugene scowls for a moment, afraid that she is mocking his endeavor, but she puts her hand on this arm and he blushes, forgetting his momentary panic.

In the kitchen a sharp whistle calls and she rushes away. Eugene smells bergamot and the fainter scent of caraway as she carries in two heavy blue mugs and a matching plate of soda bread.

“You’ll need something to keep off the cold.”

He winks and pulls out a flask, but she pushes the mug into his hand and he takes a sip. The tea is sweet and milky, dissolving the last aftertaste of hops on his tongue.

Time passes quickly for Eugene as he sits in the warmth of the bright little flat. Looking at his watch he sighs, heaving himself from the armchair. He picks up his parcels and puts on his cap.

“Good luck ‘da.” Kerry walks him to the door.

Out in the street it is still dark and the wind has gotten stronger. Eugene wavers for a moment and looks up at the window, hoping she will call him back.

He walks on, past the town square and along the strand. He takes the cliff road, where the wind is stronger. He turns for a moment to look back at the town and the sunrise, but the wind nearly blows away his cap and he hurries on.

A few more kilometers down the road he reaches a place where the ocean has carved strange patterns into the earth. Here, he turns from the road and walks straight toward the sea. He climbs gingerly over the uneven terrain; his hands are full and cannot steady him.

He does not stop. He walks to the edge of the ocean. At near high tide, the waves throw themselves closer and closer onto the shore. Eugene shakes a flash of panic; maybe today the sea won’t stop.

The waves are wild and he can feel the foam soak through his thin clothing. The salt stings his face where the tiny nicks from his razor leave windows defenseless to the elements.

He finds a flat rock and tries to open the easel. The wind pushes back his efforts and he regrets not asking Kerry how it is supposed to work. The wood bangs against his shin and he almost looses balance- seconds from falling into the sea. Even when he has the frame open, it takes him an eternity to stretch the canvas over it, the wind pulls it from his frozen hands.

Finally he opens the parcel. Three tidy brushes of varying width and ten plastic tubes with silver tops marked with names Eugene has never heard of; cadmium red, ultramarine blue, hansa yellow, and so on.

The sky moves through shades of grey as Eugene mixes paints and spreads them across his canvas. He hears nothing but the crash of surf and can see only the ocean stretching out before him. The waves move closer, sometimes, the water licks his feet.

In an instant there is a wave crashing with a furious roar centimeters from consuming him. Perhaps, he thinks, he should go back, but this wave only reminds him why he is here.

By the time he tucks his parcel away into his pocket and rolls the canvas under his arm, the tide has pulled away, leaving long strands of slick green weeds along the rocks. Despite his exhaustion, he smiles and waves to the ocean before turning back toward town.

The next morning, shivering from fever, Eugene groans and tosses in his bed. His wife brings him beef broth. She clucks at him for a few days until he pushes her away and rises from his bed. She finds the canvas and demands why he risked his life to make this hideous, speckled, mess of paint. He just shakes his head.

When he is well enough to leave his house, he returns the paints to Kerry. She stares at the painting for a long time. Eugene begins to sweat. Finally, she turns and kisses him gently on the cheek.

“’Tis marvelous ‘da.”

Sitting once more in her armchair, he explains.

“Me and yer ma were watching some nature show the other night. Said the ice caps were melting, said the oceans were filling up. And, well, I thought to meself- Gene, you better catch it now fore there ain’t an island te stand on.”