Fifteen Years Had Passed

Fifteen Years Had Passed

A short story.

Ford McLain

From: Fyodor MacClesh
To: Suzanne Beauchamp
Sent: July 25, 2024 11:18 pm
Subject: RE: Fifteen Years

Dear Painter’s Lover,

Just a few days ago, I stood in the large empty room that had been my studio for the past five years. It was sterile, free of any sign that I had taken photographs, sketched, and painted there. The walls had been painted over and were now white. The floor, once marked with oils and acrylics, boot marks and cigar ash had been sanded and stained. My table that once held books and small canvases, chess board, wine bottles, rocks glasses and cheese plates, had been shipped off to Spain with a few other pieces of furniture and of course my paintings and books. My napping couch was thrown out. I have already ordered a new one for the cottage and it is on its way. It was strange, dear. The room was no longer a studio, and for all the memories I had there…that we had there over the past five years…during the last moments I stood there, I felt no attachment to the empty space.

I’m glad that you wrote me before I left, because for the first time in our 15-year relationship I was actually concerned – hell! I was scared – that you were not talking to me. Perhaps you needed time to adjust to the change. Perhaps you were angry that I followed through with my promise to move to Spain. Or were you hurt? The last e-mail didn’t say. Actually, it didn’t say much.

Your light touch and warm kiss the last time you were here were wonderful. The silence with which you handed me the bourbon and walked out was gut-wrenching. The lack of contact for the weeks after made me a nervous wreck.

And of course, when I become a nervous wreck, I indulge in my hedonism. Gallery Seven – the very gallery in SoHo where we finally physically met 13 years ago – wanted me to do a reprise of the “cheeseburger” series. Once I learned about it, I tried to reach you, to give you first dibs on the feast I would consume, but you weren’t responding. So, a few friends came over for the next two weeks. We ordered burgers from various places and with various toppings, photographed them, devoured them, played conga drums and Velvet Underground songs, drank lots of Anchor Steam, and then I kicked them out around midnight and painted for four hours. I’d nap, wake up around noon and start the cheeseburger orgy all over again. The paintings will be shown starting next week and will include the following:
1. blue cheese with bacon,
2. provolone with guac,
3. tomato and ketchup,
4. buffalo wing sauce and blue cheese,
5. onion ring and American cheese,
6. egg foo yung (with the sauce), and
7. tomatoes and cukes.

It was fun…but very lonely without you. You sitting on my couch, enjoying the guac and provolone burger, licking the guac off your fingers and lips while I took your picture would have been a great last hurrah for my last weeks in New York.

But there was little sleep. Four hours a day, at most. Lots of drinking, a little pot, and a few young art protégés who didn’t mind cleaning my paintbrushes or running down to grab the burger deliveries. But there was no you. And if you were there, I would not have had such a party, nor would I have put on ten pounds (which I hope to work off with half hour walks down to and from the local cervezeria).

I am so glad you wrote. So glad that you touched base before I left. Your message was short and cryptic, and I’m not sure what it means. But you wrote. And I was happy.

Spain is going to be great, and I can’t wait for you to visit. I want you here with me. Hell, I need you here with me. Even if it’s for a few days once a month, I will find a way to get you here, if you want. Just as I offered the last time I physically saw you.

(OK, going to take a break from writing and walk down to my new bar. There’s a lovely young American sculptor, Sophie, who is fun to talk with. Not here a few days and I’ve already made a new friend. This letter will continue. And I want to go deep.)

It’s two hours later, and I’m back. Good and buzzed but still able to type and spell check.

Sophie bartended and we talked about sculpting and painting, women and beer. She’s a great gal and I think we’ll be good friends. Haven’t figured out what kind of friendship we’ll have, but I enjoy her company, so whatever works.

On the walk back up to 7 Calle Gaudi, I thought of the past 15 years. I thought about our friendship and how it took us two years to finally physically meet. I thought of the night that you surprised me at Gallery Seven, when I had expected you to be in Chicago. Remember what you were drinking? A red blend from California, called Menage-a-Trois. In hindsight, I kind of overused that joke that night. With you, my publicist, any other woman who came close enough to us at the gallery bar. But I was a bit looped and giddy from the event. After all, it was a great night and the first time to have pieces hung in a NYC gallery. And great that you surprised me. And later, at my hotel, when we finally got away from the party and upstairs, and for the first time we made love (I must have been a bit looped, because until that point, I didn’t realize you were auburn-haired).

From that night forward, it was all over for me. I was sunk. I had sworn to live the life of a confirmed bachelor, promised never to re-marry, never to fall in love again, never to commit to anything more than friendships with benefits with any woman who might be crazy to ask for more. But as we lied there in the darkness, as you slept and I ran my hand down your gorgeous, tanned back, I knew it was over. I was hooked.

And you knew it. You knew I was yours and you knew that you would have me from that point forward, until one of us died. Sometimes, you can just tell.

Yet, for fifteen years, you enabled my fantasy (or delusion?) of being the single guy, the painter, the philanderer (not that I was all that successful at it), the teacher/mentor to future young artists. You kept your distance, gave me my space, never hovered over me those times that we were together, and encouraged me to play, knowing full well to whom I truly belonged. I always wondered why.

And you facilitated my dream of going overseas. How you must have been sick of it! Every time we were together, at least once, I talked about this move. For fifteen years. In writing, over the phone, and in person. And except for that one time in the hotel about seven years ago, you never questioned it, and never tried to change my mind (maybe you realized it was hopeless). And you stayed with me even after you knew I would physically leave – not that I didn’t offer for you to come with me. Neither of us was attached to anyone significant.

So I planned, and you even helped me plan: researching real estate in the area, learning about ESL programs where I could teach, looking up fun restaurants and bars, and finding out where the best galleries and dealers were. Your enthusiasm was never muted. And as the time got closer, you got more involved, until I found places and made negotiations.

Then you started to back off, about six months ago, when things were starting to solidify. And at that point forward, the more excited I became and the more I talked about Spain the less you responded…

Oh (writes the painter, as the bat finally hits him over the head)!

Fuck!

My selfishness wins again. Dammit! Goddammit! You never wanted me to go. You had aging family and obligations in the United States; it wasn’t so easy for you to leave as it was for me. I could have stayed, at least for another ten years or until you were ready, if you were ever ready. I was doing well in NYC. I didn’t have to leave. I didn’t need to be so inflexible.

What was it like for the past 15 years to love such a narcissistic bastard?

And what was going through my head?

Why would I not bend?

Why would I not sacrifice or at least moderate my plans to accommodate you?

You wanted to stay and even if you tried to tell me, I would not have budged.

But I loved you. No, I do love you.

Even as you kept silent and supported my ambition, even though I knew that you were not ready to be so far away from the States, I always envisioned you coming with me. You always made me feel good about myself, and I hope that I did the same. You did what you wanted, in terms of work and art; you took photographs, made movies, designed costumes. I figured you were totally happy. I thought we were happy. Hell, we were happy with our arrangement, weren’t we? No marriage, no new kids, just us.

This happened before, at the end of my marriage. The hubris, the selfishness, the complacency. Thinking everything was great and then realizing otherwise when it was too late.

This one thing, this stubbornness of mine to go overseas, not considering whether you wanted to go or not…and my not caring.

Suzanne? My love? My soul mate? We’ve been through a lot together over fifteen years, made love, made art, and aged well. Why didn’t I have this revelation during that period that you didn’t respond to me, before I left New York? Where was my head, if not up my ass?

Did I lose you?

Write me, when you can. Write me and tell me what an ass I was to run off. You were supposed to be my long-term companion, the one for whom I pretty much forsook others. Write me and tell me what I can do to fix this. Write me and let me know that you are still the painter’s lover. Please. I need to get hit over the head with a club. I don’t do well with subtlety from others.

Your last message was so cryptic. What the hell!
Four words: “Be patient. Have faith.”

(There’s a knock on the door, guess I should answer it, get rid of them, send off this e-mail, and then figure out what to do…).

Story Draft

In Bed

by Ford McLain



“I want to live in Spain.”

Ted MacClesh lay naked in bed, his glasses on top of his head, and a glass of garancha in his hand. It was a very cold night in Albany, below zero, but the studio was warm, and he was comfortably ensconced beneath a flannel top sheet and a heavy down comforter. On his nightstand, to his right, was a stack of books, which included “Don Quixote,” “Iberia,” and “Death in the Afternoon.”

“Did you hear me? I want to live in Spain.”

Jane, who was lying on her side to his left, was also naked and was trying to sleep. She had heard this before.

“I know you do, love. But if we are going to get up early for the drive tomorrow, I need to sleep now.”

“Fair enough…but I will have no one to talk to, and it gets quite lonely here when you are asleep.”

“It doesn’t get lonely here without me?”

“Not as much. It’s worse when you are here and are asleep ahead of me. When you are not here, I am used to being alone. When you are here, it seems more lonely.”

Ted took a sip of his wine and placed it on the nightstand. He could hear his cat, Mister B, breathing noisily in the main area. He must have a cold again.

“Well, why don’t you turn off the lights and put your arms around me?”

“I can do that,” mumbled Ted.

And he turned off the light on the nightstand, took a last long drink from the wine glass and rolled over on his side, shimmied closer to Jane, wrapped his right arm on her side and had his left arm above her head, his hand playing with her hair. Jane smiled as she felt the tickle of his chest hair against her back and could smell the wine on his breath as he kissed the back of her neck.

“I love you, you know, Jane.”

Jane smiled, closed her eyes, grabbed his right hand with hers, brought it to her lips, kissed it, and held it close to her chest.

It had been a long day…for both of them…and a long night, most of which was spent at the Black Vulcan. Jane was happy being in bed, and she was drowsy and almost asleep. She enjoyed visiting with Ted, going to his bar with him, watching him work the room and schmooze with his bar buddies and the lovely female wait staff, and she kept an eye on him to make sure he was not drinking too much, and smiled when she saw that the bartender, Carol, was watching out for him, too. Ted could drink when he got social, and sometimes he would go beyond what he should. But not tonight. He was gregarious and enjoyed the talk and the flirting, but he did not drink anything beyond his usual stout and whiskey. He only had two stouts and two whiskeys, the last round of which he nursed.

Ted was more into something else that night. And she was a redhead.

“Did you have fun tonight, Janie?”

“I did. And I am glad that you did not drink so much. Thank you.” She squeezed his hand and he kissed the back of her neck.

“Well, we have a bit of a drive tomorrow morning. Quebec City is about 7 hours away.”

Jane thought about the redhead in the bar, the one that Ted’s eyes followed all night. She seemed to be in her late 20’s or early 30’s, was about the same height as Jane, a bit buxom, but well-proportioned, and she had the bluest eyes Jane had ever seen. And her hair was a dark red that almost seemed brown in the darkness of the oak-paneled room. Only the lighting above the bar when she came around to get a drink revealed her to be a redhead.

“Did you ever get to talk to her,” Jane asked Ted, keeping his hand against her.

“Who?

“You know. The redhead.”

“No.” Ted moved even closer to Jane and squeezed her a bit more with his arm. She could feel him against her behind, getting a little firmer.

“I should helped you out. Why didn’t you talk to her?”

“Well, I was there with you, and a gentleman always leaves with the one who brung him.”

“We are friends, Fyodor. I would have helped you out. Were you feeling shy?”

“Not at all. I was with you, and I knew you were sleeping over, so why complicate things?”

“She was awfully pretty. Nice breasts, nice ass, well-dressed, and she wore glasses. She was perfect for you. I would not have minded. You could have gone with her.”

Ted thought of the redhead, and he thought back on some of the fantasies that went through his head earlier that night as he watched her. He wanted her, and he wanted to bring her home with him, but he also wanted to spend time with Jane, as he was doing at this moment. And there was the trip tomorrow.

“I was with you. I am here with you now. We are driving to Quebec tomorrow morning. Why complicate things?”

“But you were into her, I could tell. Why deny it?”

Ted kissed her ear and kept playing with her hair. His other hand went back to Jane’s waist and started to move onto her hip.

“I don’t deny that I wanted her, but sometimes men need to have some sense of self-control, some sense of proportion. Priorities. I was with the woman I wanted to be with tonight.” This was the truth, he told himself.

“What if I said that I wanted you to have her?”

Ted smiled and kissed her ear, then her neck, and then her shoulder. He loved Jane’s body.

“Would you have wanted her, too?”

“You know I don’t like girls like that. But I am a bit of a voyeur. I would have enjoyed watching.”

Jane smiled, as she knew that thought would stir Ted. She felt him against her and she felt his hand move slowly from her hip down her leg and then behind and between her legs until it was where he had planned for it to be all along.

“I would have enjoyed her, if you would have watched…but we never would have gotten out of here on time in the morning. We would have had to make her breakfast and talk to her and make her feel at home and welcome, and there would have been some sort of girl talk while I took a shower, and then you two might have decided she should go to Quebec, too, and then we would have to deal with her logistics and the politics of who sits in the front and back seats, and I would have been stressed and not relaxed at all driving for 7 hours. It would have been a nightmare.”

All this time, Ted’s hand was moving slowly and purposefully inside of Jane and she was breathing heavily and rubbing against him, and she could feel him firm against her behind while his hand was inside her. His other hand still played with her hair.

“It could have been worth it. And who knows, I might have broken down and gotten into it.”

“It would have been a nightmare. At least for me. I like a lot of women around me and enjoy a good three-way, but I don’t like to be accountable and would not want to deal with it the next day.”

Jane could feel herself get closer, and Ted could feel her too. He moved his hand faster and moved up against her, and continued this in silence until she gasped a few times, exhaled and relaxed. Ted slowly removed his hand, wiped it on the outside of the flannel sheet, and placed his arm around her body again.

“Thank you,” said Jane, as she closed her eyes and smiled. Ted had good hands.

“Thanks for staying over and keeping me company. I could have picked you up in the morning.”

Then Jane rolled over and leaned on top of Ted’s chest.

“You may not believe this, Fyodor, but I like being with you. You are a good friend.”

She gently played with his graying chest hair and she kissed him lightly on the mouth. Ted was a good guy, she thought to herself, if a bit sad. A few years earlier, he was a bit of a mess, but he was working on it, and he had a good heart, and Jane knew she loved him very much. They would never marry, and they would never have children, but they would always be friends, if not always lovers.

And who knows, Jane thought to herself as she lay against him, her head on his chest and her arm around his waist, maybe she too would want to live in Spain, when they were older.

For the moment, however, she focused on Albany, on being in the bed with her friend, and did not worry about logistics for the drive the next day, like he did. Jane could tell that Ted was still awake and a bit restless, so she grabbed the wine bottle that was on her night stand, poured herself a glass, took a sip and passed it to him. And they talked late into the night. About redheads, three-ways, bourbon, Quebec, the Black Vulcan wait staff, and Spain.