Carried Away

He blinks, expression blank. Then he scowls and shakes his head. “It’s too dangerous for you to go out there.”

Yeah, I know. I’d probably never find my way back. “I need certain things in that luggage. Important things.”

“Nothing more important than your life.”

I’m glad he thinks so.

“You don’t understand…” I say softly, imploring him to understand with my eyes.

Sighing tiredly, he places his elbows on the table and claps his hands. “You want me to go get your stuff.”

“That would be really nice of you.”

He picks up the remains of his second sandwich and pops it in his mouth. Chewing, he cranes his neck to see out the window. “It’s still coming down pretty hard. You can borrow something of mine.”

This one was clearly not raised to be a gentleman, so I decide it’s time for the nuclear option. “Flo’s in town, Turner. So unless you can lend me some tampons…” I shrug. “I need my stuff.”

It takes my grouchy host thirty minute to walk sixty feet to the end of his driveway, rescue my suitcases out of the orange Cube, and return.

Slamming the front door shut, he drops my bags at my feet and glares at me. That’s alright, I can barely see with the blast of freezing cold air making my eyes water. Shivering and teeth chattering, he strips off his coat and gloves, kicks off his Timberlands.

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

All I get in return is silence. After which he disappears again.

Two bars. That’s all the service I have by early evening as the storm moves out of the area leaving behind flurries and an enormous pile of snow.

In the meantime, I managed to take a hot shower. It’s official, he’s gay. I found Moroccan Oil shampoo and a rainbow bath towel in the decrepit bathroom. For a mountain man, he sure has expensive taste in hair products. The towel looked familiar. It was the same one he had wrapped around his shoulders last night.

After the shower, I wrapped my hair in buns and put on clean clothes, layering Jackie’s already ruined sweater on top. On closer inspection, this place hasn’t improved in cleanliness, and I don’t want to ruin any more clothes that don’t belong to me.

By nightfall, I am so out-of-my-mind bored that I begin to live dangerously––I knock on the door of the room Turner is hiding behind. I figure maybe a little conversation will help kill time, and he did make me arguably the best turkey sandwich I’ve ever tasted.

“What,” the grouch calls out.

This does not bode well, but I persist. “It’s Carrie…Anderson. Can I come in?” Am I curious about what he’s doing in there? You bet. I mean, who is this guy really? An artist? Why does he live here? Does he have a boyfriend? What’s his story? And God knows I love a good story. Is he equally curious about me? Probably not.

“Suit yourself,” I hear an eternity later.

Slowly, I turn the knob and peek my head in. The room is large and well lit. Stretched canvased populate the room, leaning against the walls, on the floor. They are everywhere. Some virgin, others covered with tarps. Yikes. He must be really bad at this if he’s covered all the finished paintings with tarps.

I step inside and find Turner by a large window standing in front of an easel and side table. He’s in the process of cleaning a brush with a rag.

“Do you need something?” he says without looking at me.

An abandoned stool sits close to the door. I stroll over and lean my butt against it. “No, I’m just…really bored and I can’t seem to concentrate enough to read.”

Glancing around, I take note of all the different paint staining the old wood floor, the rolls of linen stacked against the wall. “Is this what you do for a living? You’re an artist?”

“Not for a living…but I do sell them.”

Which begs the question,“What type of art?” I mean, he has them all covered up. He’s clearly broke; this house is the pits. He’s probably not selling many….and I ate his food. I’ll send him a check when I get back on my feet, I decide.

“Landscapes mostly.” He’s still not looking my way, and I’m getting the acute feeling that I’m bothering him.

“Did you always want to be a painter?” A memory jumps out. Of me gathering the personal items on my desk and shoving them in the worn-out LL Bean tote I’ve had since high school. The look on the security officer face as he watched. I may as well have been at Harry Winston planning a heist. A chasm opens up in my chest. This is really not how I saw my life going.

“No…played hockey for a while.”

“Oh, yeah? I could see that.”

He looks my way for the first time since I interrupted his work. “You can see what?”