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Who Will Save Your Soul?

Bridget Cowles


��“Please help me,” Alma pleads to a peaceful plastic dash-board Mary praying on a shelf above the table where she’s sitting. Images of the Virgin litter her table, her walls, even her bathroom. She runs her hands through her hair, pushing her bangs off her forehead. “Why can’t I just do this?”

��Again she puts the unlit cigarette between her lips, sighs. She hopes she won’t light it.

��Looking up at the calendar, she stares at the date with the thick black square around it. Three more days. Yet not one thing worth submitting to her current boss, Beverly Taylor, “acclaimed children’s author.” Beverly writes much too cute for any real child.

��Alma yawns, long and loud. “Staying up all night is definitely not as easy as it used to be,” she mumbles, dangling the cigarette. Instead of working on the contracted illustrations, she finds herself scribbling an image of Virgin Mary. Mary is at the seashore holding a colorfully striped beach ball, a 1940’s-style swimsuit covering her modestly, still unmistakably the woman who bore Jesus. At Mary’s feet sits a long haired baby boy, lovingly stroking the red shell of a crab, tears on his cheeks.

��Alma shakes off the urge to indulge her artistic whims, admonishing herself. Got to draw these stupid bears.

��She looks at the clock. “Thirty minutes since the last one,” she announces to the room, empty except for her oldest friend, Buddy, sleeping on the tattered corduroy couch. The aging retriever raises his head at the sound. He thumps his golden tail once and lies back down. Instantly, the dog is snoring softly. She puts down her pencil and slowly unwraps a Hershey’s Kiss. The silver square of foil joins numerous others in the ashtray which also holds the unlit cigarette, the filter wet from hours in and out of her mouth. The chocolate rests comfortingly on her tongue, slowly turning liquid. Her eyes close and a small moan is swallowed with the first drops of melted chocolate.

��Looking up, her eyes rest on a primitive Virgin of Guadalupe made of Mexican clay, painted with Liza Minelli eyes and rosebud lips. She hangs on the wall next to a mermaid who could have been crafted by the same villager. One hand is on her green scaled hip, the other behind her head in a movie-star pose. The two clay women look like sisters. That would make an interesting story, she thinks, smiling. Maybe she should write the story of the Immaculate Virgin and the siren of the sea, sisters taking vastly different paths. She could do some great illustrations for a book like that, and maybe get out from under Beverly’s thumb.

��Alma releases a long sigh and places the cigarette back between her lips. Break’s over. Get serious. She talks to herself sternly now.

��For the twentieth time she pulls out her draft of the story. It’s about a family of amazingly cute bears. The tale centers around the mischief which Brother Bobby gets into by ignoring the advice of his wise parents. Sister Sally shines in her perfection. The more trouble Brother Bobby gets into, the more Sister Sally minces around being helpful. Alma hates that bear.

��Her own sister, Gloria, gorgeous and thin just like their mother, always got the good grades, always dated the handsome rich sons of their parents’ friends: she is her mother’s dream. Now married to a successful cardiologist, she still has the perfect life. Nothing like me; I’m Brother Bobby, the family embarrassment. Unlike Sister Sally the bear, her sister Gloria doesn’t try to be perfect. She just seems to have been born that way.

��No point in dwelling on her mother’s disappointment at having a daughter so different from her ideal. She will never really please her mother; the illustrations are their only link. Pulling out clean paper, she pastes a cheerful smile on her face. Done it before. I can do it again. Last time it was that adorable family of kittens. The smile quickly stiffens. How many times can this same insipid story be told? Who cares, anyway, about this perfect little family? Does Beverly really think anyone will buy this piece of fluff? Alma gets paid whether it sells or not. “God knows, I need the money,” she reminds herself.

��Grimacing at her reflection in the hammered tin mirror hanging on the wall, she says sickly, “It’ll probably sell a million copies.”

��The longer she lives alone, the more she talks to herself. Lack of sleep seems to be increasing the tendency threefold. She shrugs. Who’d care anyway?

��Alma walks across the room barefoot to the dishwasher-sized refrigerator and pulls out another diet Dr. Pepper. Maybe caffeine’ll help, she thinks as she opens the fourth soda of the morning. Ten years ago they would’ve been beers.

��“And ten years ago I wouldn’t have thought twice about prostituting my talent,” she says to her retriever. He wags his tail, eyes still closed.

��She opens the French doors, letting the breeze draw in the heavy scent of honeysuckle backed by the occasional whisper of wisteria. The season’s almost over for the sweet flowers; better appreciate these last few. Looking up at the clock, she sees it’s time for more chocolate. She’s made it another half hour. She pulls the paper tab on the tip and the foil peels down. “Thank you for giving me something to live for,” she says aloud to the chocolate gods and reaches for two more.

��The damp cigarette drops from her fingers to the floor, unnoticed by Alma. The soft thump is heard by the old dog, however. His eyes open and his ears point forward. He hops off the couch and stiffly walks across the studio to investigate, his nails clicking on the wooden floor. Gently, he picks up the bent cigarette in his mouth and carries it to the side of the couch. He drops the prize and pushes it with his nose where it joins the other twisted, broken, or soggy unlit cigarettes that have been dropped in the last two weeks and now lie half-hidden beneath the couch. Alma watches him clean up after her and laughs softly, stifling another yawn.

��“Okay, gonna do it now,” she assures herself and her beloved companion, now back on his couch, circling to get comfortable.

��She knows what Beverly wants. She was very explicit about what she loosely referred to as the “characterization” of her bears. They should be done in a variety of pastel colors: “Pink for Mother Bear, blue for Father Bear, green for Brother Bobby, and lavender for Sister Sally,” Beverly instructed, sitting in her ever-present steel blue cloud of cigarette smoke. “You know, like the Care Bears, but not too much like the Care Bears,” the older woman had warned. “And I want Mother Bear wearing an apron.”

��Beverly Taylor, the author of Bobby Bear’s Lesson, has written sixteen other successful, animal-populated, moral little children’s books promoting the ideal of so-called “family values.” She’s an even bigger hypocrite than I am, Alma thinks. Right now she’s probably getting it on with her pool-boy while her most recent husband’s upstairs drinking himself to death. She and her mother have always struggled with each other, but ever since Daddy died it’s been even harder.

��Sighing again, she walks back to her drawing table, formerly the front door of an up-valley mansion. On the far side, the hole left by the removal of the old brass knob is the perfect size for the cobalt blue Bromo Seltzer jar which holds her pencils. She selects an easily erasable soft Koh-i-noor and sharpens it. The yellow lacquered wood is smooth between her fingers. Enough stalling-here goes.

��“What I’d really like to do is draw them like a family of hard-core bikers,” Alma says now to her studio walls. She smiles as she envisions them all encased in black leather and denim, Mama Bear leaning back against the sissy bar of Daddy-o Bear’s Harley, the kids in the side car. That’d knock old Beverly on her ass. She gives herself a minute to enjoy the image of the author’s horror at the desecration of her perfect family.

��The few moments of pleasure at her mother’s expense fade away. Back to the reality of her job, her life. Why does she work so hard to get her mother’s approval, even though she tells herself she doesn’t care what Beverly thinks? No matter what she does it will never be enough. Gloria and Beverly have lunch at the country club every week. They shop together and go to the same parties. Alma knows she has always been her mother’s great disappointment; she even heard her say so on the phone once. “Well, yes, I’d love to have both girls attend the dance at the club, but you know Alma just never fits there.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “She really is her father’s daughter. Gloria, on the other hand, is my girl and I just know she’ll make a perfect match.” Alma was sixteen.

��Even when she does exactly what Beverly asks, she gets nothing in return but more criticism. “The drawings are nice enough, Alma dear, but don’t you think they’d be better if you’d just-” She shakes off the image: counterproductive.

��On the radio, a song catches her attention. Jewel’s singing, “And who will save your soul if you won’t save your own?” Good question. She thinks about how when she’s tired she seems to find more significance in familiar things. Like songs. Sometimes even TV commercials. God, Jewel’s got a beautiful voice. She’d give anything to be able to sing like her.

��One more thing, she thinks as she rummages around for her small box of matches. Then she’ll really get to work. She lines up the tall glass cylinders containing her Virgin candles. The Lady of Fatima, the Virgin of Guadalupe, La Milagrosa, the Sacred Heart of Mary, the Lady of Lourdes, hopefully they will give inspiration and guidance. Her Holy Lady of Latte candle-a birthday gift-stands at the end of the line. The candles now lit, the smell of sulfur and hot wax mixes with the sweet scents from the flowers outside.

��When she places the pencil against the expanse of white paper, she has every intention of drawing Mother Bear cheerfully cooking breakfast while Father Bear sits in his recliner, a newspaper clutched in his furry blue paws, a cup of coffee steaming on the TV tray next to the chair.

��Once again, however, instead of drawing the overly familiar images of the frolicking family of pastel bears, she finds herself branching off in a more creative direction, her fatigue pushing her forward. As she starts to draw, her fingers seem to have their own plans. Working faster and faster, she draws Mother Bear in a long black nun’s habit, a large crucifix at her waist, a ruler and a huge ring of keys clutched in her paw. Father Bear wears a priest’s cassock, a pious expression on his face, a Bible held before him in both paws. Brother Bobby wears the coarse robe and open sandals of a monk who has taken the vow of poverty and hard work. He carries a basket of grapes, the vineyard visible through the open door of what appears to be a chapel where they are all gathered in their religious pursuits. Little Sister Sally is clothed in the simple dress of a novice and kneels in prayer before a life-sized statue of the Virgin, a bear.

��Alma is exhausted from the spent rush of energy. She drops her pencil and looks down at the paper, simultaneously bursting into laughter and tears. “What’s this supposed to mean?” she asks the flickering candles lined up in front of her. No answer comes. She has been sitting here for thirty-two hours not drawing. What is the message I’m supposed to be getting?

��She stomps to her closet, stands on the rickety wooden stool and retrieves the slightly mashed cellophane-encased pack from behind an old box of love letters. Angrily, she clamps a stale cigarette between her teeth. Back at the table, she opens the small box of wooden matches. She lights one, stares at it until it burns her fingers and drops it in her jar of watercolor water.

��If she doesn’t get the drawings done by Friday, she stands to lose everything, little as that is. Beverly will never hire her again to illustrate another of her horrid little stories. She also knows she’ll lose this picturesque studio where she and her dog have lived since she moved back to town. Bitch. She’ll kick my ass right off her estate, even though I am her daughter.

��Picking up her warm diet Dr. Pepper, she walks to the couch where her dog is sleeping and sits next to him, pulling her knees to her chin. She scratches her friend between the ears. He nuzzles his face into her leg and gives his tail a weak wag. “You know, Buddy, getting fired and evicted might be the best thing for us both.” She fondles the cigarette, stroking her fingers down the length of its whiteness. She runs it beneath her nose, smells it, and slowly places it between her lips.

��She walks back to her drawing table, sits down, pulls out fresh paper, and picks up her pencil. “On the other hand, maybe I’ll do this one last book for her. Just one more.” She raises her soda can in a salute to the row of Virgin candles, takes a long drink and starts.






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