Lindsey Harrington is a Nova Scotia writer with Newfoundland roots. She writes fiction and poetry from her home in Dartmouth, where she lives with her husband and two dogs. She is the 2021 recipient of the Rita Joe Poetry Prize and is working on a collection of short stories about breakups called Coming Apart. She is a founding member of the Tufts Cove Writers’ Collective.
“I wrote this story after I picked up a piece of art off the side of the road in May, 2021, near Dalhousie University in Halifax. At first, I just drove by but throughout the day, I kept thinking about it. Eventually, I went back for it. I felt guilty taking it, but I also didn’t want it to get damaged by the weather, or end up in the landfill. The experience made me think about our relationships with specific pieces of art, how art enters and leaves our lives, and if the art ever has any say in the matter. Within the story, the painting of Jennifer is inspired by the work of Peggy Tremblett Taylor, particularly I haven’t missed you. In fact, I’ve been revoltingly unfaithful to you (2013).
Carolyn’s eyes locked with hers. They moved her, so she stopped. Even though she was running late, Carolyn couldn’t bear to leave the woman languishing against a soggy mattress in the drizzle. Looking at the expanse of bare flesh and the unflinching green eyes, a name surfaced in Carolyn’s mind.
“Jennifer,” she murmured, touching the woman’s hair.
It was end-of-term. University students were vacating overpriced apartments and returning to rural reprieves. U-Hauls lined the roads. A smattering of broken lamps and pressboard desks punctuated the sidewalk. Perhaps Jennifer too was destined for a moving van.
Carolyn stroked the canvas and craned her neck. She looked through the glass of the apartment building door — nothing. She waited for a student to emerge, ferrying boxes to add to the Jenga tower, but no one came.
The beads of rain collected on Jennifer’s skin like chickenpox. Carolyn stood in the May showers for what felt like an eternity, one hand on the painting and one toying with the car key. Jennifer convinced her it was time to go, and she relented.
Gently, she lifted Jennifer into the air and rocked her back and forth to remove the worst of the water. Carolyn stood her upright in the trunk and blotted her with a towel she kept in the back. She paid special attention to Jennifer’s delicate facial features and the length of her naked body. A deep blush climbed Carolyn’s neck and landed on her cheekbones.
Jennifer looked like a hostage in the trunk. Carolyn peered over her shoulder before taking Jennifer in her arms and hurrying to the passenger side door. She struggled to reach around for the door handle and to arrange Jennifer on the seat, face out. After a moment’s hesitation she grabbed the seatbelt and buckled it over the canvas. Carolyn turned the fan full-on so Jennifer could dry out and warm up.
Carolyn drove home with one hand on the steering wheel and one hand on her precious cargo, her appointment long forgotten. The whole way she went ten under the speed limit. She eased her foot onto the brakes well before every stop sign. When she pulled into the driveway, she let out a sigh of relief. Her shoulders fell away from her ears and her breathing steadied.
After Jennifer was unbuckled, Carolyn checked her over: no bumps or bruises from the drive. And amazingly, she seemed no worse for wear from the rain. Carolyn waltzed her up the driveway and into the porch, debating which room and wall were the worthiest.
But inside the painting seemed changed. The eyes that implored her from the sidewalk now accused. The lips, previously placid, were a sneer. Carolyn told herself it was a trick of the light, but in the living room and the hallway, it was the same. Still, she refused to believe her eyes.
“I’ll hang her in my bedroom,” she said firmly.
She measured the painting’s width against that of the wall and put fine pencil marks where needed. She got out the drill, anchors, and screws, and followed the steps of the YouTube tutorial playing on her phone. All the while, Carolyn avoided the eyes on the canvas.
“I hope you enjoy it here, Jennifer,” she said, placing her on the wall. Carolyn rested the level along the top to confirm everything was perfect. She took a step back to admire her handiwork. Jennifer’s gaze had morphed into one of approval. Carolyn smiled, head tilted upwards like an eager puppy.
She texted her friend Amy a photo of Jennifer.
Check out my roadside find!
Ew. Why? read Amy’s lightning-speed response.
Carolyn huffed air through her nose and didn’t reply. She looked from the photo to the painting. Jennifer was beautiful. What did Amy know about art anyways?
That night, Jennifer’s parted lips and tapered eyes beckoned. Carolyn’s eyes moved down the canvas. They took in the heavy breast and torso, and landed on the soft place between Jennifer’s legs. The pillow of pubic hair and discreet opening invited her in.
Carolyn reached underneath her duvet. Her hand moved down the length of her own body, eyes on the painting. When her fingers reached her nest of pubic hair, Jennifer’s eyes flashed in anger, her mouth a straight, harsh line. Carolyn pulled her hand away from her clitoris like it was the metal handle of a hot pan.
She bolted out of bed and rushed past the painting. Gulping down a glass of water, she paced the halls. She shouldn’t let a painting tell her what to do. Carolyn marched back into the bedroom, past Jennifer, and into bed. She thrust her hand back below the covers, but the moment had passed.
Instead, she wrestled with sleep, trying to force her body into acquiescence. Sleep wouldn’t come under Jennifer’s glower. After an hour, maybe two, Carolyn got out of bed and took Jennifer down. She turned her to face the wall like a punished child. Back in bed Carolyn could feel Jennifer’s disapproval thick in the air. Another hour passed and Carolyn dragged Jennifer out into the hallway. Still, she couldn’t sleep.
Finally, she hauled her out to the rain-soaked curb. Fat drops fell on Jennifer’s face as she implored Carolyn to bring her back in. Carolyn wavered; was she conjuring something from nothing? Back and forth she debated but no painting was worth this — no matter how beautiful. She turned on her heel and left Jennifer to warp and dissolve under the rainy night sky.
Back inside, Carolyn immediately fell into a fitful sleep, interrupted by night terrors of Jennifer, face smeared across the canvas, one eye drooping like a stroke victim’s. Pricks of sweat alighted along Carolyn’s forehead like the rain on Jennifer’s brow outside. Still, she forced herself to stay in bed. She would not rescue Jennifer again.
In the morning Carolyn nursed an exhaustion coffee couldn’t touch. She hid behind her living room curtains, stealing glances of Jennifer between the panels. The sun had come out and she looked untouched by the rain. Carolyn drank deeply from her cup, warming her fingers on the ceramic. Should she bring Jennifer back in?
A minivan pulled over and a family clamoured out onto the sidewalk. The parents circled the painting while the children chased each other around the vehicle. The parents’ eyes locked over the canvas.
Carolyn looked down. Jennifer’s face still radiated from the frame, but her body was covered by a cascade of cherry blossoms. The parents gently loaded Jennifer into the trunk, against the back windshield.
As they drove off, the painted woman winked at Carolyn, shrunk, and disappeared into the distance.
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