Sheila Martinez's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

The canvas stood ready. It was taller than Sheila, primed white, waiting for the painting that would win her a solo show. But she had no subject. Her palm sketches felt flat now. Benito dozed in a patch of sun. The three-headed lizard watched her from the corner, its spotted skin bright against the wood. Sheila stared at the empty white and felt sick. A wall of nothing was worse than a postcard. She tried to force it. She mixed green and loaded her brush. She lifted it to the canvas. Then she stopped. Nothing she painted meant anything. She set the brush down and sat on the floor. "I rented this place for a masterpiece," she told the lizard. "And I've got nothing to say." A knock came at the open back door. A short older man stood there in a neat suit, a red tie at his throat, his gray mustache thick. He held a jar in both hands. He was the landlord who had warned her about the yard. "Checking the critters," Hector said. He lifted the jar. Inside, a butterfly beat its wings. Orange, blue, and white flashed against the glass. "Found it trapped in the shed." He looked past her at the blank canvas, then at the lizard in the corner. "You haven't started." "I don't have anything to paint," Sheila said. Hector set the jar on her table. He unscrewed the lid. The butterfly climbed to the rim, then flew. It crossed the sunlit room in slow loops. It landed on the lizard's middle head. The lizard went still. Three pairs of eyes shifted to watch the wings open and close. Sheila's breath caught. The spotted creature. The bright wings. The light pouring across both. Nothing she had sketched looked like this. This was strange and alive and hers alone. No gallery had ever hung anything like it. "That," she said. "That's it." Hector followed her stare. "The lizard?" "The lizard. The butterfly. All of it." She grabbed her pad and drew fast, catching the lizard's pose before it moved. "Nobody paints these. Nobody even keeps one as a tenant." Hector almost smiled. Then he stopped himself. "Suppose not." He tucked the empty jar under his arm. He lingered a moment, like he meant to say more. He didn't. "I'll leave you to it." He left. Sheila turned back to the canvas. The blank wall was not a problem now. It was a promise. She chose a brush and blocked in the lizard's long green body, head by head. The butterfly lifted off and settled on the windowsill. Sheila painted until the light moved. By dusk the shape of the lizard filled the lower canvas. The subject was found. Now she had to finish it before the butterfly left, before the lizard moved for good, before the thing in her head slipped away.