I. 

“Careful,” she said.  “It’s still sticky.” 

As gently as I could, I set the canvas down on the easel and stood back.  The smell of turpentine was burning in my nose.  “That okay?” I said. 

“Oh, yes, thank you,” said Jemma, wheeling in to inspect.  “That’s perfect.  What do you think?”  

I looked at the painting.  It was a big piece, and had been awkward to carry, even across the room.  And it was unmistakably Jemma, the kind of visionary grotesquerie that I could just imagine her parents and small-town peers shaking their heads at.  This time her subject was an enormous lizard, dewlapped and spined, colored a deep red and wearing a crown.  It was draped over a mound of skulls, most of which were more or less human, with one wicked-looking claw clasping the dome of one bare cranium like it was the armrest of a sofa.  There was no other background, no horizon, only a deep purple glow fading to almost-black at the edges. 

“Damn,” I said. 

“It’s called ‘A Lizard in Crimson.’  It’s kind of a joke.” 

It would be.  I didn’t know anyone with Jemma’s morbid whimsicality.  She had a MY OTHER CAR IS A PORSCHE sticker on the back of her wheelchair.  Nobody I’d ever met had her fondness for awful puns, or knew more dead baby jokes.  Anyone who knew Jemma could testify that subtlety did not figure chiefly in her arsenal; Jemma was spiked red hair and paint stains and gallows humor.  And a mind like a scalpel. 

“I don’t get it,” I said. 

“That’s because you’re not an aah-tist, darling.”  She leaned over one wheel to pick up a crumpled-looking tube of Artist’s Oil, and tossed it to me.  The label read ALIZARON CRIMSON. 

“Knee-slapper, Jem.”  I tossed her back the tube. 

“Shaddup.  I didn’t say it was a good joke.  You like the painting, though?” 

I looked it over again.  It was creepy, yes, but not in a cheap, goofy kind of way; Edgar Allan Poe instead of Vincent Price.  And it was really beautiful too.  That was always one of Jemma’s gifts: pulling a hint of sublimity out of monstrousness.  One of the things I liked best about going to her openings – aside from being a big, shaven-headed punk at an art show – was going up to some horrified, turtlenecked art major and saying something like that. 

“Yeah.  Yeah, I do.  It’s almost exactly the kind of thing that would set Molly’s teeth on edge.  Which is as good a yardstick as any.” 

Jemma rolled her eyes.  “Don’t tell me you’re still finding reasons to keep her around.  Oh, Jesus, you are, aren’t you?” I smiled.  She shook her head.  “What were you thinking?” 

I shrugged.  “She’s not that bad, Jem.  She’s, y’know . . . fun, mostly.  And she gives good—“  

 “Okay, okay, okay.” She spun her chair towards the canvas.  “Far be it from me to rain all over your domestic bliss.  But you shoulda stuck with boys, Adrian.” 

“Mm, yeah.  I’m sure I broke all kinds of hearts when I went breeder, Adonis that I am.  Speak for yourself, anyway.  I don’t see you renouncing the love of woman.” 

Jemma was pulling out brushes, looking them over with a critical eye.  “Oh, sure.  Lots of action here.  It’s a regular Sapphic love-in at Chez Jemma.  Sometimes I have to carry a stick just to beat the baby-dykes away.” 

“Well, anyway.  I like the lizard.  I think it’s awesome.  Is it going in the show?” 

“Yeah.” This slightly muffled by the end of a delicate brush clenched in her teeth, as she squeezed several kinds of Artist’s Oil on a cardboard palette.  “If I get the detailing done in time to dry, it is.  Still some finishing touches to add before I abandon this one.” 

“Excellent.  It’s wicked cool, Jem.  Maybe my favorite so far.”  I paused.  “So, uh, how’s the . . . the physical therapy going?” 

“Oh, great.”  She leaned in to dab color on the folded tail.  “Be running marathons by the weekend.” 

“Well, good.”  It was a stupid reply and I knew it, but I couldn’t think of anything else. “Hey, if there’s nothing else you need I’ll leave you be, then.” I paused.  “So, you know that’s not true, what you said about me.” 

“What’s that?” 

“About me not being an aah-tist.” 

She looked around, and I was delighted to see her flash a grin at me.  “Adrian, sweetie, you’re a bass player.  I don’t even have time to list the ways that doesn’t count.” 

“Oh, yeah, right.  Well, at least I’m good for lifting heavy objects, then.” 

“And that’s why we keep you around, love.  Of course, it’s also why I’ll be forever in your debt, but what the hell.”  She turned back to the canvas.  “See you Friday, stud-man.  Say hi to the boys in the band for me.  Play nice with the other kids.” 

“I will.”  I shrugged into my big coat and walked out of the studio into the little foyer.  I was ready to leave when I spotted a stack of books on the stand near the door, and picked them up.  They were slender, battered chapbooks bound in heavy black paper with pale, silvery lettering, and all by the same author: Ian Barrett. 

I scanned a few of the titles.  The Feast of Lord Pan. Arlecchino in Hell. The Red Lord’s Comedy.  The Geste of the Great Worm.  Dark Habits.  Song of the White Hand.  Turlupin and the Headsman.  The type inside was small and frequently askew.  Some of the pages had weird little illustrations at the bottom or in the corners. 

“Hey, Jemma.  Who’s this Ian Barrett guy?” 

“A writer.”  

Wiseass.  “Yeah, I figured.  What are these, plays?” 

She wheeled into the doorway.  “Kinda sorta.  He calls them ‘dramatic poems.’  But they do get performed, yes.” 

“You know this guy?” 

“Yeah, I met him about a year ago when he was putting up a show at the Cutup Club.  He used to do illustration for Alan Gemini and Zacharias Cleve and guys like that.  But he writes too.  Says he’s a ‘purveyor of forgotten mythologies.’”

“He any good?” 

“Sure, I think so.  Actually, I’ll let you in on a secret.  His work’s the real inspiration for ‘Lizard in Crimson,’ bad puns aside.  I did that one after reading Geste of the Great Worm.  It’s mind-opening stuff.  Even better onstage.” 

“You’ve seen it?”  

“Oh, yeah.  Here.”  She pulled over to the table and took a tattered, photocopied handbill out of the back of one of the books.  “Some of the guys down at the café talked to Ian and put on Dark Habits last spring.  It was great.  It’s all about psychotic cannibal monks.  I did some design for it.  Got kudos from Ian, too.  Major head trip.” 

“That is excellently cool.  You mind if I borrow one of these?” 

“No, go ahead.”  I took The Geste of the Great Worm off the top and put it in my coat pocket. 

“Thanks. I’ll be careful with it, I promise.”  I bent to kiss her forehead.  “Okay.  I’m going for real now.  Maybe you can introduce me to this Ian guy sometime.” 

“Yeah, maybe so.  Be careful out there.  And Adrian – thanks for everything.”

 “No problem.”  And I went out.

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