Drawn to Troubled Waters

Chapter 1: The Bridge

            History repeats. The past has a way of circling around and around; the good and the bad. It’s hard not to get sucked into the vortex of your own history; it’s even worse when it belongs to someone else…

            New York City: the architectural mecca of my world. I wander the streets at all hours of the day and night just drinking in the surroundings. I am especially drawn to the bridges. My favorites are located in Central Park. There I sit on a bench and study the curves and lines for hours, often sketching until the natural light of the afternoon fades into dusk. I can’t explain to anyone how I can be so obsessed with something I am terrified of.

It’s not unreasonable to connect bridges with water and water with drowning. The strange thing is there’s no trauma in my past that can explain this fear. I was not unattended in a bath tub or pushed into a pool as a child. I never had much cause to swim growing up in the city but I have no problems with chlorinated water. There are enough bridges spanning the carriage roads in Central Park to keep me content. I occasionally venture near enough the lake or small waterways to sketch their structures but always from a safe distance.

Today I am on a secure patch of grass, focusing on the rounded curves and floral cutouts of the Gothic Bridge. I don’t notice the figure that approaches until I am looking at a pair of tanned legs which my eyes follow up past trim shorts and a colorful blouse to the face of my favorite drawing teacher.

Mrs. Daniels gives me a smile with the tilt of her head. “Roberta, I thought I might find you here.”

I standand wipe charcoal dust on the baggy T-shirt that belonged to an ex-boyfriend. “ I hope you haven’t been walking all over the park looking for me.”

I know when she looks at me the first thing she notices is the long lanky limbs that my father had hoped belonged to an athlete. He was sorely disappointed when I chose to use my hand eye coordination for a brush rather than a softball bat. Then there’s the curtain of average brown hair that hangs straight down around my face. It is my armor against the world.

“Actually, it was the first place I looked. Please, sit.” She settles down next to where the trampled grass shows  I’ve spent the last two hours here. She gives a casual glance at my sketch pad. “May I?”

I nod, folding my legs beneath me, always happy to get her opinion. I've not seen much of the art teacher since graduating the previous year. I’ve been fortunate to get a small gallery to showcase some of my watercolors. I still have my night job at a local pizzeria to pay the bills. I am determined to make it on my own with as little help from my parents as possible.

“These are quite good, though I’m not surprised. You’ve always had an eye for this type of art. I wish you would have brought your charcoals to the gallery. They’re so much stronger.”

I duck my head, never quite sure what to do with her words of praise. “No one wants stuff like this. That’s what George said. He said people want color for their walls.”

She gives a wave of dismissal with her hand. “What does George know? He’s a businessman not an artist. Actually I’m here about your bridges.”

“Oh?” What could she want with my sketches? Maybe she needs help with a group of students. I’ve helped her out before in one of the charcoal classes. But no, classes have been out since the beginning of May. A summer class maybe?

“I’ve gotten an interesting request through a friend of mine. A benefactor; who would like to remain anonymous, wants you to do a sketch for them. All expenses paid plus payment for the finished product.”

I brush away my hair so I can study her a moment. Her face is calm and she has her factual professor look. “Me specifically or did you suggest me?”

“You specifically. I must admit that I’m rather intrigued by the request. If it wasn’t through such a good friend I wouldn’t have even entertained suggesting it to you. She assures me though the offer is on the up and up. It could be quite an opportunity for you Roberta. And get you out of this city.”

I flip the cover of the sketch book closed. “What sort of opportunity? Where exactly is it they want me to travel to?” I’ve taken some summer trips with my parents to the Coast of Maine and once we even went on my Dad’s business trip to Philadelphia, but I confess I’ve never been below the Mason-Dixon line.

“Mississippi.”

I place the piece of charcoal I’d been using in beside the others in the neat little case I carry with me everywhere. I try to keep panic out of my voice but I know I manage at least one squeak.  “As in the state of Mississippi? As in the Mississippi River?”

“Yes the state, but not that river. You’d fly into Jackson and then take a bus to Money, Mississippi. I don’t know much about that area but that’s what Google’s for right?” She puts a hand on my arm as if sensing that her touch will have a calming effect. “Roberta, I think this would be good for you. A chance to see a bit more of the world. And on your own terms.”

I nod, chewing on my bottom lip. The South though? That would be like sending a super model to Africa. How would I cope with strange foods and weird customs? I’m a city girl. What do I know about country living? “What exactly does this mysterious benefactor want me to do?”

“As I was saying, you’ll travel to Money, Mississippi. There’s some famous bridge this person wants you to sketch. No watercolors. No paints. They just want the type of work you’ve been doing here in the park. They’ll provide a place to stay, a meal allowance and some cash for supplies and any other things you might need to complete the project.”

I collect my things and stand. I scrunch my face in puzzlement. “Why all this mystery? Why not just contact me themselves? It feels a little weird. All this for a sketch of a bridge.”

Mrs. Daniels stands beside me, brushing at grass on her pants. “Stranger things have happened in the art world, we both know that. I promise that I have spoken with my friend. A friend I trust completely.”

“When and for how long?"

“They’d like you there by the first of June. And as long as it takes from there I guess.”

“That’s two days from now. Not much notice.”

We begin to walk towards the entrance of the park. New Yorkers are lounging in the grass, drowsy with the midday heat. Others bicycle or jog past. Often I think there are two speeds here, lazy and full tilt with no in between. This city has a vitality about it that I never tire of. Do I really want to leave all this?

As we near the entrance she stops me with a hand on the arm. “I know you want to think about this Roberta, but I think you should take the leap.”

I look around. All these people cocoon me in anonymity. The pretzel vender is the same one every day, but we don't exchange names, just money for goods. This is my comfort zone; my hiding place from the world. A world that I truly love but often feel I don’t belong in. I'm twenty-three years old and it' time I did something to forward my life. This could jump start my career, or at the least give me enough money to pursue my art for real.

“Tell them I’ll do it.”

We part ways as we step into the full sun and away from the shade of the park. I head towards the Metropolitan Museum of Art, needing to soak in as much culture as I can. I'm sure a place like Money, Mississippi will be lucky to have paved roads.

            That night I dream about falling from a bridge.