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Hidden Wings

By May Tomlin

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CHAPTER 1


The gnawing reared up again in LaRae Gunther’s midsection. She shoved the vibrating cell phone beneath the text book and caught the professor frowning at her before refocusing on the drawing. Fingers clenched around a medium charcoal stick, she contrasted the subtle curves of the vase with harsh shadows. A critter eating at her insides was the only way to describe Mother’s nagging. She pushed a stubborn lock of hair off her face, then tucked it into the pencil bun on top of her head and gathered her things. As she left the classroom, a text lit up the screen: Mom is worried. Respond to her voicemails, sis.

LaRae donned the bargain tweed coat and stepped out of the hall, navigating a puddle at the front doorstep. Accidentally dropping her phone in water would take care of the pestering. She tramped across campus through wet snow, the icy blasts off Lake Michigan taking bites out of her face. Although wrapped in layers of newly acquired Goodwill clothing, she felt frozen to the bone. That seemed about right. Like the rest of her life. Why not add her toes inside wet leather boots to the list? A seagull swooped down and snatched a soggy crust by her feet. Enviously, she admired its audacity and proficient wings while forcing her own legs to dash towards the dorm. After digging out the ID and sliding it through the electronic lock to the building, she glanced at the bulletin board in the hallway. Among the leaflets announcing activities ranging from concerts and study groups, to occult medium consultations and vegan cooking classes a new poster snagged her attention. The Art Showcase Exhibit run by the Fine Arts Department was opening tonight. She came to an abrupt halt. Was it safe to attend or would it wake up the old longings? She shook her head, deciding on the library. When the elevator stopped on the fourth floor, she strode to suite 17 and changed out of her charcoal-dusted frock. The elective class was rough on her clothes, but oh so easy on her soul. The only drawback was that it also poked at her yearnings.

A vibrating noise emanated from the laundry hamper. Her mother’s seventh attempt at reaching her. With a clipped greeting, LaRae answered.

"Where have you been, Rae? Did you get the brochure? Dental hygienist! The community college says credits from your freshman and sophomore year will transfer."

So this was the most recent in the litany of career suggestions. LaRae thought of how she had disposed of that particular brochure in the recycling bin.

"I knew we would find it someday. With the recession, it’s a perfect fit. There will always be bad teeth. People part with hard-earned money for this service. Of course, I don't go. A couple of dollars’ worth of dental floss is all I need. But most folks get their teeth cleaned twice a year. Extravagant, I know. But that's our society." The voice sharpened. "Are you tuning me out, Rae?"

"Mom, we've been through this. I have chosen a Bachelor's degree. Please turn off the speaker on your cell phone?”

Dishes clattered and the faucet got turned on. With Illinois cornfields in a deep freeze, Mother took her frustrations out on her house, performing another spring cleaning.

"Are you reorganizing the cabinets?"

"Been letting things slide since Christmas. With the time it's taken to find a different path for you, I haven't been as thorough as usual." Instead of turning off the speaker, her mom yelled louder.

LaRae sank down on the bed, weariness settling over her like a wet wool blanket. The idea of wearing a white coat and taking inventory of the mouths of Dresden’s population caused a gag reflex. While her mother droned on, LaRae shut out the anxious undercurrent beneath the spoken words. But the current snagged her, pulling her under, leaving her clamoring for air.

"You'd better suck it up Rae. Life is hard. It is difficult to keep bread and butter on the table. I've told you before and I'm telling you again. These highfalutin’ colleges have majors that prove worthless. The other day when I picked up half-priced Fruit Loops at the discount store, I asked the cashier about her education. What does she brag of having? A Master’s degree in sociology."

Swooshing noises and crackling indicated the phone was being placed outside on the porch. The snapping sound of the kitchen rug being beat against the railing caused LaRae to tense. The seriousness her mother exhibited in ridding the house of pathogens reminded her of the CDC trying to eradicate Ebola.

"Sociology, my hat. Just as bad as choosing an art major. And now she is sorting dented tomato cans!" Over the yelling, a loud clunk and crash resounded. A garden pot must have been caught in the beating.

In their conversations, the "bread and butter talk" led to all kinds of suggestions on how to avoid debt and make an honest living. Hard as she tried, she could not see herself selling steel-toed work boots in the neighbor’s shoe store or working as the pet groomer’s assistant in order to start her own full service kennel. Shuddering at the thought of doing close-up business with God’s four-legged creatures, she decided if everything else failed, she'd be a hot dog vendor on a sidewalk in Chicago. It beat tending to teeth, feet, and animals' intimate parts.

"Your dad agrees. Even with financial aid your education is costing too much. The new mechanic at the garage said his wife works as a nurse at Wilmington General. They offer a bonus for new hires. If you keep turning up your nose at everything I suggest, you could do the nurse assistant training at Heartland Community College."

"It's a quasi-miracle I got accepted at Northwestern University. I am discussing the choice of major with my academic advisor plus taking an aptitude and personality test."

Her mother harrumphed, the information stuck in her craw. Over the line the clattering of porcelain and glass increased to a crescendo.

She will break something. Once again, I'll be the source of more unhappiness.
"Your dad and I never needed a personality test to find out whether running his auto shop and me taking care of our house and children would be suitable."
Amanda was beeping in.

"I have to go Mom, I'm getting an urgent call." She clicked over to the next call but let Van Gogh’s “Red Vineyard” beckon to her. The museum print lit up her otherwise sterile dorm room wall. She stepped into the scene, meandering down the rows of grapevines, the setting sun of Provence kissing the back of her neck. Her index finger and thumb plucked a grape from the heavy, drooping vines, cradling the warm, plump fruit in her palm.

"Earth to Rae. Are you there, sis?" Amanda chirped.

No. I’m on Mars, sick and tired of interference. "Don’t send texts with messages from Mom, Mandy."

"Ouch, Miss Grouch. Why are you so bummed? Just because we changed our minds and want you home does not mean you need to act snotty."

LaRae rose and paced the cubicle-sized bedroom reminiscent of a doctor’s office. A year and a half of inhabiting the space, and it still looked the same. As a freshman she'd envisioned Indian tapestries in rainbow colors draped over a four-poster bed, with ethnic rugs covering the floor and Moroccan lanterns spilling star-shaped light over the desk. But once the initial giddiness of moving in had faded, she'd done nothing. In awe, she trod the hallowed ground of this fine institution, studying beneath beautiful leaded windows in the warm glow of wood paneling, yet on the inside she remained an onlooker, observing but not participating. "This is my ticket out of Dresden," she protested to Amanda. "I don’t care if I end up with a gazillion student loans." But her sister interrupted.

"I have a game changer. Brace yourself: I am pregnant!" The din of Zumba music that had been blaring in the background stopped, as if waiting for the squeal LaRae could not muster. "You say nothing? I just peed on a stick at the gym. Drew keeps begging for a sister and Mickey needs a playmate. It'll mean more stretch marks and saggier breasts." A pop resounded against LaRae’s eardrum. Amanda was into blowing bubbles with her chewing gum. "The way Christopher’s commissions are picking up I'll get a tuck or two. 'Mummy tuck' they call it. All the rage in Hollywood and the big cities."

Loud smacking filled the pause.

"I'll break it to him at Sweet Yogu’s tonight. I already crave their chocolate fudge topping."

LaRae rolled her eyes. It didn't take pregnancy for her sister to develop or indulge cravings. "I am happy for you. It must be due around fall break so I'll come help you then."

"I need more than that. I am stressed out of my mind building our house in Normal. What color of granite? Brass or chrome fixtures? Recessed lighting or crystal chandeliers? I lie awake agonizing when I should be resting. Then I stress about Domingo and Jose not understanding English. I specifically asked for slate colored porcelain tiles, and they put real slate up the guest bathroom wall. A terrible mess, I tell you. You have no idea what I'm going through!"
LaRae pulled off the rest of her clothes while listening. From one harrowing ordeal to another, Amanda was the long-suffering heroine of never ending trials. "I’ll come down Friday, but I’m not quitting school."

"That’s quite an attitude and we will discuss this more. Make sure you bring Mom’s new vacuum. Please vacuum under the beds, it'll help me. Nausea is a beast."

LaRae grimaced and ended the call. Forever a victim of her sister's persuasive charm, she'd get corralled into scrubbing the bathrooms next. Even outside of pregnancy, Mandy feigned dizziness when cleaning toilets and tubs. Fortunately, Amanda’s cleanliness standards were not as unattainable as Mother's. LaRae stepped in the shower, letting the jets soothe her muscles while searching for a distraction from "Operation Repatriate Rae." After pulling on black yoga pants and a matching hoodie, she headed out the door.

The Open Art Studio welcomed visitors, offering refreshments and wine. She placed a cracker and a piece of Emmental cheese on a disposable plate.

Beautifully lit spaces highlighted graduate students’ works. Surreptitiously, LaRae slid a hand over the abstract sculpture to her right. It was smooth and cool to the touch. Her fingers itched to hone the Russian doll-shaped granite object. It needed something. Eying it from different angles, she toyed with various possibilities. When going to bed tonight, ideas would surely emerge and forms, shapes and colors crystallize.

She walked across the gleaming marble floor to the paintings. An oversized painting, in the tenderest shades of pinks and blues, portrayed a nude cradling an infant. Executed with a palette knife, the angles appeared sharp yet smooth. LaRae took in the texture of the canvas, sensing the buzz starting at the bottom of her spine. It never failed. Exposed to the expressions of other artists, LaRae’s body started its own little jig, arms reaching out, grasping for a substance to mold or imprint. With nothing, her hands felt bereft. She clasped both palms together and watched the art students greet visitors, smiling and thanking them for their compliments. And while watching, the darkness seeped in. Why them? Why not me? After bundling up, she exited, treading gingerly on the iced pavers of the quad. Like life itself, one wrong step could lead to disaster.

Despite the cold, a strange heat seared through her head. I am mad. The realization hit her. And the more she pondered it, the more fury bubbled up. Back in the dorm, she locked the door and sat cross-legged on the floor, maniacally tapping the keyboard of her laptop until she pulled up the description. Not one item on the list repulsed her. On the contrary, like a mermaid's mesmerizing song, the proffered curriculum exerted an irresistible pull. She rose to find Starr. When her roommate did not answer the knock, she stuck her head in the door. "I just decided to major in Art Theory and Practice." Her suitemate looked up from a compromising position and Starr's boyfriend's eyes skewered her.

"Whoa girl! You just about caught us in the act. Lucky for you we still have clothes on!"

LaRae apologized profusely and backed out.

"That’s great news! Glad you didn't pick anything dumb," Starr yelled from the futon in her densely furnished room. Throaty laughter followed. LaRae leaned against the wall in the hallway and pulled her left earlobe. On her mother’s immaculate fridge, magnets never suspended Crayola drawings or splattered water colors. Instead, art work had mysteriously disappeared while sensible crafts like knitting and sewing were mandatory. Into that setting, LaRae was dropping a bomb.

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