The Long Way Home

“Oh, I know him,” she said.

“He was here?” Clara asked.

“No, I mean I know his work. Now, let’s talk about your paintings…”

And that was that. Clara was polite, but fled as quickly as she could, before she was seduced. But she took the owner’s card. You never knew.

Their last stop before getting on the afternoon train was the art college, where Peter and Clara had met almost thirty years ago.

“The OCCA—” the secretary said.

“Obsessive-compulsive…” said Myrna.

“Ontario College of Canadian Arts,” said the secretary.

He gave them a pamphlet and signed Clara Morrow up to the alumni list. He did not recognize her name, which Clara found both a relief and annoying.

“Peter Morrow?” That name he recognized. “He was here a few months back.”

“So he spoke to you?” said Clara. “What did he want?”

She’d actually wanted to ask, “How did he look?” but stopped herself.

“Oh, just to get caught up. He wanted to know if any of the staff was still around from when he was here.”

“Are they?”

“Well, one. Paul Massey.”

“Professor Massey? You’re kidding. He must be—”

“Eighty-three. Still teaching, still painting. Mr. Morrow was eager to see him.”

“Professor Massey taught conceptual drawing,” Clara explained to Myrna.

“Still does,” said the secretary. “‘Translating the visual world onto canvas,’” he quoted by heart from the brochure.

“He was one of our favorite professors,” said Clara. “Is he in now?”

“Might be. It’s summer break, but the professor often comes in to his studio when it’s quiet.”

“Professor Massey was wonderful,” Clara said as she hurried along the corridor. “A mentor for lots of the younger artists, including Peter.”

“And you?”

“Oh, no. I was a lost cause,” said Clara, laughing. “They didn’t really know what to do with me.”

They arrived at the studio and Myrna opened the door. The familiar scent of linseed, oil paints, and turpentine met them. As did the sight of an elderly man on a stool. His white hair was thinning and his face was pink. Despite his age he looked robust. A grain-fed, free-range artist. Not yet put out to pasture.

“Yes?” he said, getting off his chair.

“Professor Massey?”

His expression was quizzical but not alarmed or annoyed. He looked, Myrna thought, the sort of teacher who actually liked students.

“Yes?”

“I’m Clara Morrow. I understand my husband came by to see you—”

“Peter,” said the professor, smiling and coming toward her, his hand extended. “Yes. How are you? I’ve been following your success. Very exciting.”

He seemed to mean it, thought Myrna. He looked genuinely happy for Clara, and happy to see her.

“Did Peter tell you about it?” Clara asked.

“I read about it in the papers. You’re our greatest success. The student has outstripped the master.” Professor Massey studied the woman in front of him. “Probably because we were never really your masters, were we, Clara? Perhaps that was the key. You didn’t follow us. You didn’t follow anyone.” He turned to Myrna and confided, “Not easy to have a pupil who was genuinely creative. Hard to grade, harder still to corral. To our shame, we tried.”

He spoke with such humility, such awareness of his own limitations, that Myrna found herself drawn to him.

“I’m afraid I can’t remember any of your works,” he said.

“I’m not surprised,” said Clara with a smile. “Though they were heavily featured in the college’s Salon des Refusés.”

“You were part of that?” Professor Massey shook his head sadly. “A terrible thing to do to vulnerable young people. Humiliating. I am sorry. We took care that that never happened again, you know. Peter and I talked about it too.”

“Well, I survived,” said Clara.

“And flourished. Come in, sit down.” He walked across the studio without waiting for their answer and pointed toward a group of shabby chairs and a sofa whose middle sagged to the concrete floor. “Can I get you a drink?” He stepped toward an old refrigerator.

“You used to stock it with beer,” said Clara, following him. “We’d have parties in your studio after class on Fridays.”

“Yes. Can’t do that anymore. New administration. New rules. Lemonade?”

He offered them a beer.

Clara laughed and accepted.

“Actually, I’d prefer a lemonade if you have one,” said Myrna, who was parched after a morning trudging from gallery to gallery in sizzling Toronto.

Professor Massey handed her one, then turned back to Clara.

“What can I do for you?”

“Oh, much the same as for Peter,” she said, sitting on the sofa. Her knees immediately sprang up to her shoulders and a whitecap of beer landed on her lap.