The Long Way Home

Professor Massey reached out and Clara put her large hands in his larger ones.

“I’m hopeful,” he said. “You know why?”

Clara shook her head. Myrna shook her head. Mesmerized by the soft, sure voice.

“He married you. He could have chosen any of the bright, attractive, successful students here.” Professor Massey turned to Myrna. “Peter was clearly a star. A deeply talented student. Art college isn’t just about art, as it turns out. It’s also about attitude. The place is full of scowling kids in black. Including Peter. The only exception was…”

He jerked his head dramatically toward Clara, who was blotting beer off her jeans.

“As I remember it, Peter did his share of dating,” said Massey. “But in the end he was attracted not to the talented girls with attitude, but to the apparently talentless, marginal girl.”

“I feel there’s an insult in there,” said Clara with a laugh. She also turned to Myrna. “You didn’t know him then. He was spectacular. Tall with all this long, curly hair. Like a Greek sculpture come alive.”

“So how’d you win him over?” Myrna asked. “Your feminine wiles?”

Clara laughed and fluffed her imaginary bouffant. “Yes, I was quite the vixen. He didn’t stand a chance.”

“No, really,” said Myrna, getting up from the stool and wandering over. “How did you two get together?”

“I honestly have no idea,” said Clara.

“I do,” said Professor Massey. “Attitude is tiring after a while. And boring. Predictable. You were fresh, different.”

“Happy,” said Myrna.

She’d walked past the sitting area, and into the back of the studio, examining the canvases on the walls.

“Yours?” she asked, and Massey nodded.

They were good. Very good. And one, near the back, was exceptional. Professor Massey followed her with his eyes. No matter the age, thought Myrna, an artist is always slightly insecure.

“So we know what Peter found attractive in you,” said Myrna. “What did you like about him? Beyond the physical. Or was that it?”

“At first, for sure,” said Clara, thinking. “I remember now.” She laughed. “It sounds so small, but it was huge back then. When my work was displayed in the Salon des Refusés, instead of treating me like a leper, Peter actually came and stood beside me.” She ran her hands through her hair, so that it stood almost straight out from her head. “I was an outcast, a joke. The weird kid who did all these crazy installations. And not crazy in a Van Gogh, artistic, cool way. My stuff was considered superficial. Silly. And so was I.”

“It must’ve been upsetting,” said Myrna.

“It was, a little. But you know, I was still happy. I was at the OCCA, doing art. In Toronto. It was exciting.”

“But you were upset about the Salon des Refusés,” said Professor Massey.

Clara nodded. “That was a professor doing it. It was humiliating. I remember staring at my work, front and center in the gallery reserved for failures. Where Professor Norman had put it. Peter came over, and he stood beside me. He didn’t say anything, he just stood there. For all to see.”

She smiled at the memory.

“Things changed after that. I wasn’t exactly accepted, but neither was I mocked. Not so much, anyway.”

Myrna had no idea Peter had done that. He’d always seemed slightly superficial to her. Handsome, physically strong. And he knew the right things to say, to appear thoughtful. But there was a weakness about the man.

“Can I give you some advice?” Professor Massey asked.

Clara nodded.

“Go home. Not to wait for him, but go home and get on with your life and your art. And trust that he’ll meet you there, when he’s found what he’s looking for.”

“But what’s he looking for? Did he tell you?” Clara asked.

Professor Massey shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Why Dumfries?” asked Myrna.

The two artists turned to her.

“I can understand Paris and the other places,” she continued. “But why a small town in Scotland? He’d just returned from there when he came to see you. Did he tell you about his trip?”

Again the professor shook his head.

“We talked about his time here, at the college,” he said.

“Is there anything that connects all those places he visited?” Clara asked.

“Not that I know of,” said the professor, looking perplexed. “As you say, Paris and Florence and Venice make sense for an artist. But then a small town in Scotland? Did he have family there?”

“No,” said Clara. “Then from here he went to Quebec City. Do you know why?”

“I’m sorry,” said the professor, and looked terribly sad. Myrna began to feel they were harassing the elderly man, haranguing him for answers he so clearly didn’t have.

She walked over. “I think we should be going. We have to catch the train back to Montréal.”

At the door, Professor Massey shook Myrna’s hand.