Sheila Martinez's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

The next morning Sheila mixed her greens and faced the canvas. The lizard held its pose in the sun. Benito dozed nearby. She lifted her brush and found her rhythm. Then she heard breathing behind her. Hector stood in the doorway again, hands in his pockets, watching her work. Her hand stopped. The line she meant to paint went nowhere. She tried to ignore him. She loaded the brush again. But she felt his eyes on her back. Every time she found the stroke, she wondered if he judged it. The brush wandered. She wiped the smear away and started over. An hour passed and she had painted almost nothing. "You keep standing there," Sheila said. She didn't turn around. "I like watching it take shape," Hector said. He stayed put. "I can't paint with someone staring. I lose the thread." She set the brush down. "I need the room empty, or I get nothing done." Hector was quiet a moment. "Fair," he said. He almost said more, then stopped himself. He stepped back onto the path and walked off. Sheila breathed out. She picked up the brush. The lizard shifted, resettled, and held still again. For the first time the strokes came clean. The green body took on weight. She painted through the whole bright afternoon and did not look up once. A knock came late in the day. A young woman stood at the back door. Ginger hair, a leather jacket, a small red rose at her throat. She held a paper bag in both hands and looked past Sheila, searching the room. "Is the landlord here?" the woman asked. "Hector. I was told he checks this place." "You just missed him," Sheila said. "He left a while ago." The woman's shoulders dropped. She looked at the bag in her hands like she'd forgotten it. "I brought him lunch. He takes lunch the same time every Tuesday. I thought if I came here instead, I might—" She stopped. "That's embarrassing. Forget I said it." "Synthia," the woman added. "I know his name. I just can't ever say the rest to his face." Sheila wiped her hands on a rag. "He was just here. Watching me work. I sent him away." Synthia looked at the tall canvas, the green lizard half-finished, the butterfly on the sill. "You two know each other." "He's my landlord." Sheila heard the catch in Synthia's voice and understood it. "I didn't mean anything by it." "No," Synthia said. "You sent him away." She set the bag down on the step. "Give it to him. Don't say who it's from." She turned and walked off fast. Sheila stood with the warm bag in her hands. She had cleared the room to paint. Now a stranger thought she'd pushed Hector out for herself. The canvas waited, nearly done. But the quiet she'd fought for felt tangled now in something she had not asked for.