The Golden Fleece

The Girl in the Painting

Previously, on The Golden Fleece

For the full episode list, click here

Jason walked beside Esme. The smell of her perfume was strong. Every few seconds, he’d exhale forcefully to expunge the smell from his lungs. Jason felt her thin hand force its way between his arm and torso. He decided not to shake her off. She was so thin, he was worried that any small movement would blow her away.

Jason felt somewhat embarrassed to stand beside her. People sent them strange looks as they passed. Jason knew why. Knock-kneed and fragile, Esme was so obviously a girl cosplaying an adult. Jason could see it in the way she clasped her hands when she spoke and pressed her lips together after speaking. No use growing up faster than the world pushed you to. Seemed silly.

Click-clack.

Her strapless heels slapped the concrete steps of the city’s Museum of Art. She giddily looked up at him. “I didn’t think you’d call!”

Jason forced himself to smile politely. He smoothed the front of his blue button-up shirt with his free arm. He was craving a cigarette.

“I also didn’t know you’d agree to take me here,” she continued. “I don’t get to see it so much with Mike or anyone. No one wants to go these days on the account of tickets being so expensive. But I got taste—or I’m tryna develop some. I’m going to be a lady some day. You like art, Jason?”

She waited for his answer while he forked over fifty dollars for two tickets. The exchange was made. The laminated paper felt thin and cheap in his hands. Jason thought there must be a joke in there somewhere.

Jason shook his head in response to Esme’s question. “No.”

“Oh. But you look like you would.”

“Do I?”

Esme snorted and smacked his arm. “You’re so funny!”

She unfolded a pack of gum and offered Jason a stick. “Want some?”

He contemplated it. Having a stick of gum might distract him. He was really craving a cigarette. The box was burning a hole in his jacket pocket.

“No, thank you,” he said.

Inside the museum, Jason chose to look at his shoes. They were boots, the nicest pair he owned. The laces were fraying and the leather needed to be polished. Scuff marks littered the heel and toe. Many years ago, while his father worked, Jason would lay beneath the desk and make faces in their reflection. He couldn’t see himself in its surface anymore.

Suddenly, Esme snapped the gum between her teeth.

Jason sent her a sidelong glance. It was the third time she’d done it. He found it mildly annoying, especially in the silence of the museum. Careful to avoid taking in the art, Jason observed the few others who milled through the bleached rooms.

His eye strayed to a crowd. They gathered around its simple lines and geometric shapes. Jason felt nothing while looking at it.

Curious.

Esme took it in with an air of seriousness. “Incredible,” she commented.

“Isn’t it?”

It was a man who’d spoken. He was somewhere in his late thirties or early forties. He wore a leather jacket over a neatly arranged suit. The stranger took in Esme with open appreciation. “This work has a lot of passion,” he said.

Jason raised an eyebrow.

Esme slipped her arm from Jason’s. “Really?” she asked. “How can you tell?”

With a sigh, the stranger passed a hand through his hair. “I’m a man who studies art. I can’t help it. I’m drawn to it.”

“Oh, wow,” Esme breathed.

The man pointed. “See the brushstrokes? The artist was in intense emotional pain.”

“Terrible!” exclaimed Esme.

“No,” Jason said.

The man and Esme both looked at Jason as though he were interrupting.

Jason resisted an awkward grin.

Esme scowled. “Don’t be rude, Jason! This man is a…a… a connoisseur. I think he knows what he’s talking about.”

The man held up his hands while chuckling. “No, no, it’s alright. I love a good debate.” He looked at Jason. “Why do you think not?”

Jason cocked his head. “Nothing’s imposing about this. It’s just there.”

Crossing his arms, the man returned, “you find most art imposing?

“Sure. Artists always wanna impose through art.” He paused, then added, “feelings. Anger, despair, passion, joy. They force it on you.”

“Isn’t that connection?”

“No. Connection goes both ways.”

“Sounds like you feel things a little too deeply if the art causes that much offense.”

The man looked at Esme and laughed. “What a funny alteration that would be, huh?”

Esme giggled.

Jason didn’t respond. He’d lost interest in the conversation, for it struck him: the art held no emotion. Here he was, braced for impact for the wall of passion that accompanied images. Why? For nothing? Had he outgrown the reaction?

Distracted, Jason wandered off. He figured Esme would still be there when he returned.

As he’d said, they were, indeed, unimposing. Most art was difficult to take in, but all of this… it was like noticing a chair in the corner.

Is all of the art here like this? he wondered.

His footsteps echoed in the empty space.

Jason found himself in a small room. There were no visitors here. At the far end, a lone painting hung. The room felt large in comparison to the painting. He laid his eyes upon the image.

Was he shrinking?

The world fell away.

The ambient sounds of the museum faded.

The sound of fountains trickling fills the room, followed by the sound of wind through trees. There came the plucking of a foreign, ancient instrument. Jason could smell the sea and hear its surf crash against the shore. Sailors shouted to each other. In the distance, ships’ sails billowed in the wind. In the foreground, a woman sat. She perched on a marble balcony.

A Dutch master had crafted her sad eyes and the contrasting sybaritic reclining pose. Beneath tender strokes of his brush, the woman breathed into the physical world.

Like magic.

A man’s voice filled Jason’s head—not his own. It carried a lilting Dutch accent: I thought it must be Sheba, for surely she came from the uttermost parts of this earth. Queen-like in stature, heavenly in appearance, melancholy in nature. Unseen by all, it seemed, except for me.

-The Unknown Woman,

by unnamed Dutch artist, c. 1655

Jason reached out in a trance, driven by an innate impulse to draw ever nearer to the woman. Closer, Jason could observe each acrylic ministration that made up her pale-olive cheeks. He could only see those dark eyes gazing out, reflecting a sort of romantic misery. The eyebrows were sharp and slanted to express some deep emotional agony.

“Sir, please keep your hands behind the barrier.”

Jason started, looking over at the woman who had spoken. He cleared his throat. “Sorry.”

The attendant crossed her arms. “The sign says not to touch the art.”

He looked at the woman, then down at the velvet barrier against his hip. Jason couldn’t remember stepping so close.

He left.

Jason searched for Esme back amongst the modern art. The crowds were suddenly too loud; the rooms totally full. His chest was hurting. He placed a hand on it and sucked in a few lungfuls of air. It did little to relieve the discomfort.

Where did all these people come from? Jason wondered.

He spotted Esme in a corner. The same man from before continued to talk with her. Jason took her by the arm. “Time to go, Esme,” he said.

“Already?!” she protested.

“I gotta get you back home.”

The stranger interrupted. “Can I at least get your number?”

“Not happening,” said Jason.

“Why not?” Esme whined.

“Esme, this man’s too old for you. Let’s go.” He dragged her along as he walked away.

The stranger simply shrugged with mild disappointment.

Esme followed Jason with some reluctance. “How’s he too old for me?” she grumbled. “I’m out with you, aren’t I?”

“I’m too old for you.”

Esme looked back at the man. She looked as though she might argue. Then, she gave a sad shrug. “Yeah, I guess.”

Jason released her and ushered Esme toward the door.

Jason parked just outside Esme’s family home. Crickets chirped and the night was balmy. His thoughts turned to the woman in the painting; the Mediterranean climate.

There was a soft click as Esme removed her seatbelt. She looked at Jason. “I’m sorry you didn’t have a good time.”

“I did.”

Her eyes widened and her brows lifted. “Really?”

“Sure.”

“Yeah, but I shouldn’t have laughed at you with that guy.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

A moment of silence passed between them.

“You really think you’re too old for me?” Esme asked.

“Yes.”

Looking out the car’s window, Esme released a heavy sigh. “Yeah… You’re probably right.” She laughed. “Bet that guy’d freak out if he knew I was in school.”

Jason did a double-take. “Still in school?!”

Realizing her mistake, Esme looked down at her feet.

Jason tapped the steering wheel. “Holy—why’re you always at the shop instead of class?”

“I dunno,” she mumbled. “I get bored, I guess.”

More to himself than Esme, Jason said, “still in school… that’s no good.” He turned to her. “You should go to class. Do you want to stay in this dump forever? Do you want to be a loser? Huh?”

She gave a glum shake of her head.

“No. Of course not,” finished Jason. “I don’t wanna see you around the shop anymore with those older girls, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Now, go inside. It’s dark.”

Esme exited the car, looking like a kicked puppy. She stepped out. As she turned to shut the door, she said, “goodnight, Jason.”

“Night.”

Jason watched her shuffle up the steps. She opened the screen door and twisted to look over her shoulder. She waved.

Jason returned it.

---

Beep!

Jason’s answering machine blinked. He could see it from the kitchen table. The red light caught his eye in a way that annoyed him. Of course, he wouldn’t do anything about it. That would require that he listen to the messages. He knew what it would say already: “hi, Jason, it’s grandpa!”

Jason rose to his feet and moved into the living room. “Pencil and paper,” he whispered under his breath. He found a pen, but no paper.

Paper, paper, paper!

Jason moved quickly to the bookshelf and grabbed a random volume. He hastily opened the cover and gripped the lining and index. They were violently ripped from their moorings.

He threw himself down at the coffee table. Pen was pressed to paper and started with the eyes. Jason screwed up his face in concentration. Her eyes, what did they look like again? They were almond shaped. Jason tried, then stopped to take in the damage. He’d drawn two lemons on the page.

“Maybe it just needs some shading,” he mumbled.

It didn’t work.

He hated it before he could finish the lashes on her left eye. With a sigh, Jason tore the picture to shreds.

So he tried again.

Again.

Again.

And again.

The wastebasket filled to the brim. Each iteration was sillier than the last. Worse still, Jason could not emulate the same reality-bending sensation that the initial artist created around the “unknown woman”.

Giving up, Jason went to bed.

He lay beneath a thin sheet and stared bitterly at the ceiling. In the apartment above, he heard creaking from footsteps. It swung to and fro. He turned on his side and noticed the open closet door. In the darkness, Jason’s mind wandered—no matter how he tried to steer it—back to the museum’s singular exhibit.

Why was she so sad?

Why did he care?

Well, it’s not really him that cared. That was a part of the alteration. It was just an imposed connection with the work’s creator. The woman was just a woman. The painting was just a painting. And Jason was just a man with too much time on his hands. Too much and too little.

He shook himself. “Stupid,” he muttered.

Rising from his bed, he crossed the room and shut the closet door.

He turned the bedside lamp on and reached to the nearby cassette player. He pressed play. Jane Eyre picked up from where it left off.

“Where was I? Did I wake or sleep? Had I been dreaming? Did I dream still? The old woman's voice had changed: her accent, her gesture, and all were familiar to me as my own face in a glass—as the speech of my own tongue. I got up, but did not go. I looked; I stirred the fire, and I looked again: but she drew her bonnet and her bandage closer about her face, and again beckoned me to depart. The flame illuminated her hand stretched out: roused now, and on the alert for discoveries...”

---

Jason was given a name the next day: Francisco “Frankie” Ortega.

He’d seen the name before. Jason stood outside his house, reflecting on the last time he’d been there.

“You do it, Jason.”

Jason looked at Lou, face devoid of expression. He didn’t argue. It felt like a test. Instead, he took up the iron bar. Its surface was rough in his grip. It dug into the callouses in his palms.

All the while, Frankie was pleading. “I just need another week! One more week! I’ll get Yong the money! Please!”

“Should’ve thought about that before gambling,” deadpanned B.

Jason swung iron before he could give himself a chance to think about the moral and emotional consequences.

He’d dropped Frankie off at the hospital, rather than throwing him out onto the street as the other two had wanted. That didn’t help the feeling much.

The memory caused Jason’s stomach to shrivel.

Oh, well.

The evening cicadas and crickets were singing. The dusk washed everything a reddish grey. Jason breathed in the smell of freshly cut grass.

This neighborhood wasn’t a bad one. They had yards. He could hear some kids playing nearby; probably wringing out the last game before the street lights came on and their mother called. A place like this would make good collateral.

Jason looked at the townhouse and heaved a sigh. Some people never learn, he thought. A fractured arm was not enough to keep Frankie away from loan sharks or the casino table.

$500,000-plus-interest would be taken somehow, some way. Jason felt the weight of the tool bag in his hand. It clinked csystallinely. Randy had given it to him that morning. “He can spare a kidney to cover the debt,” he said.

Jason took a steadying breath and straightened. “One more time,” he whispered. “This will be the last time.”

Of course, he was lying to himself. But Jason suspended disbelief just enough to allow himself to grip the bag in his hands more readily.

He moved up the steps and rapped on the door.

Suddenly, there was the sound of a fence gate slamming shut. Jason turned to see a balding thirty-something man bolt out the side of the house.

That was Frankie.

Jason dropped the bag and gave chase.

Frankie didn’t make it very far. At the gas station, he stopped for breath. He spotted Jason and released a loud cry. “No, no, man! C’mon!” He scrambled for something in his pocket, a handgun. Jason sprinted faster.

Slow and gangly, Frankie never even managed to raise it above his waist.

Jason landed a solid kick to Frankie’s midsection. The gun fell from his grip as he hit the ground with a painful smack.

Calm, Jason picked the gun up and tucked it in his waistband. He looked around. No witnesses. So far, so good. He’d need to get Frankie back into his house to finish the job.

Frankie lay there, cowering in the ugly yellow light. “I have the money! I’ll get it! I can pay you guys back, I swear!”

Standing over him with his hands on his hips, Jason shook his head. “You make this harder when you run, Frankie. You should know that.” He wiped the sweat from his face on his shirt sleeve. “Making me chase you in this heat? Shit.”

“I didn’t even see you there! I didn’t run!”

“Sure.”

“How do I still owe you people? You’ve got my sister working for you now! When’s it gonna be over? Huh!?”

Jason didn’t answer. It would never be over.

“Please, man,” Frankie pleaded, “I got family.”

“Everyone does.”

Jason reached into his pocket and procured a small, sharp knife. The handle was cold in his hand. It was not a part of him. That would help to remember when he began carving. Not much—not yet, anyway. The real work would happen when they moved inside. Jason felt his heart rate slow.

“Let’s go into the house, Frankie,” he said.

Frankie howled. “Please!” His voice echoed.

Jason glanced at the gas station’s shop. A pale face retreated behind the counter. They wouldn’t call the police, they wouldn’t help Frankie. All most people wanted was to be left alone. His eyes caught sight of a poster in the window.

WIN WIN WIN!

WIN A TRIP TO THE ISLAND OF RHODES! A MEDITERRANEAN ADVENTURE CALLS YOUR NAME!

A sailboat floated on azure waters. Were they the same, Jason wondered, as the ocean that flowed behind the woman in the painting?

The cicadas continued their song. A breeze ruffled his hair, moving it into his eyes. He could smell summer night: sweat, humidity, damp pavement, and the faint brine of the nearby ocean. It might rain later. The combined acrid scent of the gas station made his head dizzy. Jason wished he could go back along the path he’d come. Perhaps he could settle onto someone’s porch steps. He could light up a cigarette and watch the evening pass by. It sounded nice.

“W-we’re in the neighborhood,” stammered Frankie. “You don’t want to kill me in front of kids, right?”

Jason looked down at Frankie. He’d forgotten he was there. The handle of the knife had warmed.

Jason knelt, placing the tip of the blade below Frankie’s chin. “Mr. Yong doesn’t run a fuckin’ charity, okay?” he said, voice quiet.

Nodding emphatically, Frankie said, “I understand.”

“You’re going to disappear for a while.”

Frankie’s eyes widened. “Okay.”

“That means no gambling.”

“Got it.”

Jason dug the blade deeper.

“I said, I got it!” Frankie squeaked.

“When next I see you, you will have the money you owe Mr. Yong.”

“O-okay.”

The week after, it was late and he couldn’t sleep. Someone’s Honda engine ripped through the night. The sound reverberated through the city like the cry of some ancient beast. He walked along the streets, beneath power lines that criss-crossed like veins. Neon women beckoned with painted fingers. Their digital limbs stuttered in the light summer rain. Droplets of water drummed with a pitter-patter on his skull.

Jason stuck a cigarette between his teeth. Yet, he did not light it. There was no itch for nicotine. It wouldn’t be enough.

He had to see her again.

What was this fixation? Jason wondered. It had hit him like a truck.

Jason hoped that by walking he’d grow bored and go home. He found himself moving in a particular direction, carried by moonlight. Street lamps guided him toward a long, grassy path. The city’s last park. It moved him from the dingy lower levels to the city’s uptown.

Jason found the museum open; its lights warm and inviting. Nervous, he mounted the steps.

He paid for his ticket without noticing the price.

There were few people there. Most seemed to be taking advantage of still hours; a quiet vengeance against the workday. He picked up a pamphlet and pretended to browse the modern art.

He recognized a familiar name printed at the bottom.

With special thanks to our benefactor: E.H. Yong.

Jason cocked his head. So, Mr. Yong donated art here. That was unsurprising, really. His uncle fancied himself a slice of the upper crust.

He looked around. For some strange reason, Jason expected Mr. Yong to show himself. It felt like this was all on purpose. Maybe placing the painting here was a grand joke or method of torture.

Of course, that was silly.

Still, he crushed the pamphlet in a tight grip.

He moved through the exhibits, searching for her. His heart began to beat faster. Jason did his best to steady his breathing. He caught his reflection in a nearby glass window. Lack of sleep was apparent. His clothes were wrinkled and damp. Black locks were plastered to his forehead from the rain. Anxiously, Jason pushed his hair from his eyes.

The room was before him. Jason fit his lower lip between his teeth. He crossed the threshold.

There she was; as though she were waiting for him. She sat as she always did. The room was silent and empty. Jason was pleased with this. He approached her.

“Hello,” he whispered.

She did not answer. Her eyes glittered with unshed tears.

Why?

He inched closer. Was he crazy or could he smell jasmine?

The silk of her dress glittered and the gold bands on her wrists clinked. Jason could swear he witnessed her chest rise and fall. What did her skin feel like? What would her hair smell like? And her voice? Desperately Jason wanted her to turn her eyes toward him. See him. Speak to him.

Maybe if she could see him, he could be real.

Engraved on a plaque beneath the painting were the words:

Generously donated by E.H. Yong

His mood darkened.

Everything belonged to the dragon. Even her. This filled Jason with a deep sense of disquiet. His jaw clenched tightly.

He dropped his gaze to the floor. It’s just art, he told himself, if she’s real, she’s been dead hundreds of years.

Oh.

Yes, that’s right. She would be dead. Dead and gone.

Jason swallowed.

---

To be continued…