As he showed me his treasures, I realized his room was actually a museum. So much pop culture and history were collected here. Everything was authentic and most were signed with a personal note to Wenton. It was amazing to see how much love and care surrounded him. Obviously, only a man with an incredible amount of money, power, and connections could pull off a room like this. While I hadn’t seen KP’s house and didn’t know if he had anything similar, I did know that he had put a lot of time and effort into creating this for Wenton. It again showed a more tender side of KP, one who dearly loved his disabled brother.
After Wenton showed me around his cottage, we walked the grounds, and he introduced me to his friends. I met a host of people with a vast range of mental health conditions. I started to understand that the residents were people who, for either medical or mental reasons, couldn’t live outside of the facility.
Most of Wenton’s friends were genuinely kind people, yet all were affected by some unseen ailment that seemed to plague them in one way or another. These were lovely people trying their hardest to find some right in all of the wrong around them. It was both amazing and tragic, because while they presumably struggled, they also saw things no one else did, both the good and the bad. They could see between the lines and the things they discovered both excited and terrified them. It made me think about mental illness. Why did these people need to be separate from society? Why couldn’t society see their struggle and make a larger space for them? Meeting Wenton and his friends brought up a lot of questions for me.
I assumed my father must have been mentally ill. To put your wife and child in your car with the intention of killing one or both of them was insane. He thought what he was doing was right. He assumed that my mom deserved to die for what he perceived was her trespass against him. But if he had been given a chance to get help before his delusions swelled out of control, they both might still be alive today. It was only by some grace of momentary sanity that I wasn’t also killed. It all felt very overwhelming.
After we made our way around the grounds and returned to Wenton’s cottage, KP announced it was time to start the painting. I set up my easel and paints, laid a drop cloth, and put on a smock so as not to get everything covered in paint. KP laughed at me as I stood there ready to paint.
“Now you look the part,” he teased.
“You know painters actually wear this stuff. It keeps things from getting all painty and dirty,” I quipped playfully.
“I bet most painters don’t look as sexy as you do wearing it,” he smoldered.
“I bet most patrons know it’s impossible to look sexy in a large, formless garment that is basically just a bed sheet sewn into a jacket,” I played.
His nostrils flared, as did desire in his eyes. “I bet most patrons don’t have to wish the painters would let them—”
“Don’t!” I gave him a warning glare. “I’m completely positive most patrons don’t wonder anything about the painters they work with.”
He winked. “You’d be surprised.”
I didn’t think KP even knew what he was doing. Maybe he couldn’t help being sexual. He may have been so used to it that when faced with desire, he had no way to tame it completely. I felt safe since Wenton was there and I was starting to trust KP a little more. Luckily, Wenton had no idea what we were talking about and tried to stay as still as possible while I sketched him. My sketching didn’t take long. I was kind of a mad scientist when it came to drawing. I would be able to start the first layers of the painting right away.
I looked at Wenton’s facial features, which were different than most people’s. There was an oddness to their crafting, making Wenton look even more friendly and childlike. I wanted to make sure I captured the intellect behind his eyes which saw beauty in the peripheral dimensions of the world. His need for images of old women and ice cream, or firefighters sitting on a bench covered in sweat and soot defined his vision of the life he imagined around him. He saw the fine lines in humanity and the unspoken stories.
KP was able to capture those moments with his eye and iPhone, but it was Wenton who knew they existed even though he had no proof beyond his own four walls. I also wanted to illuminate the kindness and love that simply radiated from him. As I started to paint, I soon discovered that Wenton was one of the most genuinely beautiful humans I’d ever met.
We spent hours together as I painted. We gave Wenton several breaks as we all shared wine and food, talked more of the things that KP had seen on Wenton’s behalf and shared stories of their childhood together. Apparently, KP was quite a mischievous child, which came as no shock to me.
I smiled at Wenton. “That’s not hard to believe.”
“Wait, that’s not fair,” KP protested.
Wenton raised a finger. “Is too.”
KP gave his little brother the eye. “No, tell her the truth.”
“I used to get KP in trouble,” Wenton said, peeking up through his lashes. “I would do all the bad stuff and blame it on him. He never could get out of it cause our mom just assumed he did it. My parents didn’t think I was smart enough to pull off some of the crazy stuff we did.” He giggled, causing me to laugh at the sweet sound.
“Like what?” I was intrigued.
KP crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh yes, Wenton, share with Miss Ashcroft all of the insane stuff you got me in trouble for.”
“Well, let’s see.” Wenton tapped his chin. “My mom was allergic to bees so I blew dandelion seeds all over her garden. Eventually the garden was overrun by dandelion flowers and bees!”
“Wenton,” I scolded, “bee allergies are very serious.”
“Yes, and so are punishments for ruining mom’s garden,” KP added.
Wenton ignored us both. “Then I replaced all the sugar bowls with salt. Aunt Margret barfed at breakfast after drinking a big gulp of coffee.”
“Oh my god, Wenton, you were horrible!” I teased.
“No, what was horrible was being forced to hear Aunt Margret’s hour-long tirade about what a crappy person I was,” KP said with a note of real sadness.
“Why did you do all those mean things, Wenton?” I asked, still trying to keep things light.
“Nobody paid attention to me,” Wenton said, completely honest. “I thought I could get attention. KP’s a great liar, so no one believed him when he told the truth. I walked every time.”
A good liar, huh? I filed that bit of information away in my brain for later. While I was starting to trust KP a little more, I didn’t trust him entirely, which was smart. We barely knew each other.
We stayed until dark, and it was time to go since KP had a long drive back to New York. We said our goodbyes and shared our plans to see him again the following weekend. Wenton was sad to see us go, but happy that we would be returning.
On the ride back to my house, I thought he might turn on Abba again, but he let the quiet surround us for a few minutes. H was battling with himself over some issue, I could tell. I got a little nervous, but not enough to say anything or unsheathe my sword. After a few minutes of just watching the scenery pass, KP spoke up.
“Wenton was diagnosed with Williams Syndrome when he was about two years old. It’s a chromosomal disorder that affects his brain, heart, lungs and facial features.”