Omelia

Francis sighed as he cracked open the door to his humble art studio. It was quaint in size but had a large reputation. It wasn’t the reputation he had longed for since boyhood, but it was what he had inherited an art restoration studio. His father, his father’s father, and probably his father before him had restored art. Never artists themselves. Only restoring what once had been. Francis often imagined the ghosts of the artists mocking him for studying their small brushstrokes for hours to make even the tiniest of details new again, instead of painting himself. He loved painting. He proudly hung a few of his own with price tags in the window, but only the beggars would stop briefly to gawk before hobbling away.

“Top of the mornin’ to yah,” Bronz chirped, almost pushing Francis down as he barged into the room.

Bronz was Francis' younger nephew. He had also inherited Bronz as an apprentice with the studio. Bronz was driving him mad, but the boy had no other hope than the family business, and Francis wasn’t going to let him go penniless. He was 16 and made Francis feel like an old man, even though Francis hadn’t even hit his 30th birthday.

“You’re chipper this morning, aren’t you?” he asked.

Bronz began speaking as if Francis could read his thoughts before he even said them. “I had the most interesting dream last night, and you were in it, my dear Francis. We were both drinking coffee and eating chocolate. Oh, it was wonderful! There was so much chocolate!”

Francis nodded like he was listening, but in reality, he had stopped listening to Bronz the moment the little brat had opened his mouth. Francis looked in the mirror on the studio wall and stroked his black beard. It was as if his father was looking back at him. He wondered if he had been this talkative with his father in the mornings as a young man.

Francis placed the painting he was restoring on the table. He was painstakingly removing any dirt or debris from the canvas. It was a simple painting, a few feet in diameter. It was a scene with angels, fairly typical for his line of work. This particular painting had years of chimney smoke building up, and it would be days before Francis was finished. It had been sitting in a parlor above a fireplace. Bronz began cleaning the paintbrushes and sweeping while whistling a tune he had made up from his colorful imagination.

It was then they both heard a knock. “Shop is open!” Francis yelled out without looking up. They waited for the bells to ring above the door, alerting them to a customer's presence, but they never rang.

This time, Bronz stopped sweeping. “Hello?” he asked, but still no answer.

Francis' curiosity had been piqued, so he carefully placed his tools down and went to the front door. There was no one there, but what had been left behind sparked his curiosity even more. A large package, wrapped in brown paper and string, had been left at the door. The package was only about 4 inches wide but stood taller than Francis and was almost 5 feet long. Francis looked at the package and was surprised to see payment tied to the top. It was four times the normal payment for even a painting of this size.

“Bronz!” Francis shouted with joy. “Stop whatever you're doing and help me get this inside!”

Bronz, hearing the urgency in Francis' voice, nearly flew outside.

The two men carefully placed the package on the largest easel in the studio. Before going any further, Francis reached into his pocket and pulled out a small but generous amount of money for Bronz.

“You’re tip, good sir,” Francis pretended to bow like there were boys playing soldiers.

Bronz's eyes grew huge. “What is this for?”

“Being such a help,” Francis said cheerfully.

“Well, what should I spend it on?” Bronz asked.

Francis regretted sharing his excitement and riches with him.

“Get a date with a loose woman,” Francis called out.

Bronz looked like he was confused and slightly offended.

“I’m only kidding, boy. Do whatever you like, but right now, slowly help me take this wrapping off.”

Bronz put his money inside his jacket pocket and began pulling string off the paper. They removed all the paper from the back. Francis carefully looked over the back of the canvas for any damage. None, except a bit of water damage nothing he couldn’t handle. Then, in the very corner, was written a name in black pen: “Omelia,” in small cursive letters. It was written so elegantly, like a lover signing off on a Valentine’s poem.

When they had both studied the back, they carefully removed the cover to the face of the painting. The melancholy gaze of a woman greeted them. She was a mermaid in seafoam, with pale skin and light eyes. Her blonde hair cascaded into the sea like ribbons of satin. Both of them stared for a moment.

It was Bronz who broke the silence. “A mermaid?” he asked, but it was just senseless chatter.

The painting was exquisite but quite dirty from possible decades of sitting on a shelf, though no damage could be seen on the front either.

“Well, Bronz, this is your lucky day,” Francis said with a pleased smile. “You’ll be working on the Frit’s painting while I work on removing the dust and dander from our lady guest.” Francis chuckled to himself at the clever joke.

Francis closed the door to the little shop and began working on gently brushing the dust off the painting and assessing the water damage. On closer inspection, he noticed small flakes of blue were missing. He would need to fill all of those in after his cleaning process was finished.

Francis worked through the day while Bronz worked on the Frit’s angel painting. The day quickly passed. Francis was still removing the old painting's varnish when Bronz asked if he could leave for the evening.

“It’s getting late, Uncle. Would you mind if I returned home?” Bronz had his hands in his pockets like his hands had minds of their own and might get into mischief if he took them out.

Francis looked outside and saw the sky was beginning to darken.

“Of course, send my love to your mother,” he said cheerfully.

“Are you leaving, Francis?” Bronz asked.

“I’ll leave once I’m done. It will only be a few more minutes,” Francis added.

Bronz left the little shop, locking the front door behind him, leaving Francis alone to work in the soon-to-be candle-lit shop.

After some time, Francis checked his pocket watch. Five minutes till midnight. He couldn’t believe he had let time slip through his fingers once again. He stood back and looked at his work. He felt accomplished.

He was alone with only a candle. He stared into the eyes of the painting. Her eyes almost glistened in the candlelight. He brought the flame closer to examine them. He felt nervous, with a tinge of almost boyhood embarrassment, so plainly staring at the painting. The shop was quiet, except for the gentle sound of the night air blowing past. Francis took a step to the left and then to the right, trying to see if he had missed anything. The woman's eyes followed his gaze. Francis almost jumped but then came to his senses. He walked to the other side while carefully watching the eyes. They didn’t move. He chuckled to himself at his child-like fear. He was growing deliriously tired from work. He walked to the back of the shop with his candle before locking up for the night. He took one last look at the painting. The eyes hauntingly looked back at him. He slammed the door shut and ran upstairs to his apartment. He knew he needed sleep. He crawled into bed without even taking the day's clothes off.

The following morning came quickly. The sun crept through his open window and laid a beam across his face. Francis’s eyes opened, struck by the sun. He put his hand to the sky to block the rays.

He lumbered out of bed and wandered downstairs. He found Bronz had already opened the shop. Bronz was admiring Omelia. His head turned like a dog staring at his master's bread, begging for a morsel. His face was directly in front of her bosom. His fingers loosely gripped a broom as he had begun to sweep but grew distracted.

Francis's nostrils flared. “Get away from her.” He said, but it came out louder and more coldly than intended.

Bronz shook his head like he was being pulled from a haze and began frantically sweeping the floors.

“I’m sorry,” he quickly said while looking down.

Francis’s mind softened. “It’s alright, Bronz. I just don't want you to get caught up in your daydreaming. I had a long night last night, and I believe the lack of slumber is beginning to get to me.”

Francis poured them both a cup of coffee. He normally didn’t share his life-giving nectar with Bronz, but he was feeling guilty.

Bronz took the cup carefully and took a sip. “Thank you, Uncle.”

Francis just nodded a small acknowledgment.

“I’ve had some long nights myself,” Bronz said quietly.

Francis surprised, looked at the boy and winked. “What have you been doing in the night air?”

“I’ve made some of my paintings with my extra earnings,” he said meekly.

Francis felt bittersweet. This was a conversation he had with his father so many years before. His father had laughed at him and told him he would never sell a painting. He needed to focus solely on the business. He was determined not to be his father, but he also didn’t want to give the poor boy false hope.

“How about you fetch one today and hang it in the shop window? If someone buys it, you can keep the profits.” Francis felt like this would be fair. The boy could learn the same lessons he had without the harshness.

Bronz almost leaped into the air. “Can I fetch one right now?”

Francis thought for a moment.

“That will be fine, but please be back soon. Don’t be daydreaming all morning. I need my brushes clean for this afternoon.”

Bronz nearly flew out the door, running home to his mother.

Francis was alone in the shop. Francis took the opportunity to look at Omelia without an audience. It was now his turn to gawk instead of Bronz’s. He felt like he shouldn’t be just plainly looking at the painting. Her skin was supple, and her bosom was covered in droplets of water. He wondered if the subject was cold when the artist painted her covered in ocean waves. He wondered if she was the artist’s new lover, not yet capable of seeing her flaws, or if maybe she was a complete fabrication of someone’s mind. He wondered if she had been a creation of 15 women, all with beautiful facets, and the painter combined all their lovers into a single angelic creature. He would never know, but his mind just kept thinking of possibilities of who she could be. Francis picked a brush and placed a glass of varnish to his right. He stroked the brush in the small container to only wet the tip of the bristles. He pondered where to start. He normally began in a corner and worked his way down, but applying the new varnish always made the painting “pop” to life. He knew Omelia would not disappoint him. He decided to carefully work in all the corners, slowly moving toward the center of the painting. He wanted to leave the eyes last for a final reveal. He watched as the waves came to life. Her hair was silky, even smoother than he had realized. It ran through the water like kelp. He finally, oh so carefully, caressed the brush across her cheeks. They turned a cherry red like she was blushing at him. He smiled like a schoolboy and reached out to touch her cheek and caught himself. He looked at his hand like it was a foreign object and placed it in his lap. He held his breath as she brushed her eyes. He for a moment wondered if the brushes would cause her pain. He let out a sigh of relief, staring into her eyes. They sparkled, but entirely differently than the ocean. Her eyes glowed a new shade of blue he had yet to see. By all normal standards of his practice, she would be finished, but Francis was yet to lay down his brushes.

Bronz seemed to crash into the room, throwing open the door with one arm while grasping a painting with the other.

“Bronz, dear boy, you didn’t have to run for your life,” he said as he stood from his stool.

Bronz gave him the painting he was holding. “Uncle, what do you think?”

Francis took the piece in his hands and looked down. It was a close-up of a street cat’s face. The yellow cat almost smiled, like it was clever.

“Very… nice, Bronz, you have paid extreme attention to detail. It is lovely, however, there isn’t a large market for alley cat paintings that I am aware of.”

“That’s fine. Can I still put it in the window for sale?” He asked eagerly.

Francis nodded as Bronz practically leaped into the store window.

“Just don’t be discouraged if no one purchases it,” Francis felt bittersweet.

Francis took the remainder of the day to fill in any small details of paint that might have come loose from Omelia. He tried to look at the painting an inch at a time, so as not to be consumed by its largeness. The day flew by as both the men worked on their paintings. Then the door rang. A gentleman with a monocle and cane stood before them, waiting to be served.

“Can I help you?” Francis asked, not recognizing the man.

“I would like to purchase that painting in the window. I noticed it doesn’t have a price yet. Money is no object. I must have it!” The gentleman spat out as he drew out his wallet.

Francis's heart skipped. Finally, at long last, to be recognized.

“The yellow cat. He looks exactly like my Mrs. Kitty. I shall hang it in the study,” said the gentleman.

Francis felt heat on his face. He didn’t know if it was sadness, jealousy, or anger.

He turned to Bronz. “Well, Bronz, name your price,” he said, gesturing to the customer.

Once the gentleman had left, Bronz stood proudly, holding his money. He walked behind Francis and grabbed his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Uncle, one day you can sell a painting like me.”

Francis felt his hot blood pumping to his head. “Bronz, just go home.”

“I’m sorry, I meant no harm, Uncle,” Bronz spat out.

Francis mustered up the most grace he could. “It’s alright, Bronz, I am very proud of you. You are the closest thing I have to a son or brother, but tonight I just need to be left alone.”

Bronz quietly left the shop and closed the door behind him.

Francis was alone once again with Omelia. He let the hot tears of defeat roll down his cheeks. He took his own paintings in the window and threw them out into the streets with the cats. He was just a bachelor and knew he would never love and never be a real artist. He madly grabbed his paints and Omelia. He stood in front of the mirror. He felt like he was being watched by her eyes, but he no longer cared. He began slowly and then, as time passed faster, furiously painting. He painted well into the night until he had to light a candle, but he didn’t stop until he had painted himself with his only love, Omelia. He now was grasping her in his arms, their lips about to meet. His hands were tightly holding her waist. When he knew he was finished, he threw down his palette and stood back. It was perfect, but now it was ruined for everyone except him. Now not a single man could stare into her eyes and wonder if she was thinking of him. Now Omelia was forever altered.

“What have I done?” he whispered to only himself in shame.

It was then he heard a woman cry out, “Francis.” It was soft and quiet, but he knew she must be screaming far away. It sounded familiar, but he had never heard it before.

He grabbed the painting and began running down the street, calling her name. “Omelia!”

Rain was pouring down on him as he ran. He went toward the edge of town, where the ocean waves were throwing themselves into the sand.

“I’m here, darling,” she replied.

She was right in front of him, somewhere in the waves. He removed his boots and shirt and dove into the water. Swimming through the waves, his legs felt heavy. He still carried the painting.

He yelled out for his love, “Omelia!” in between breaths.

Through the waves, he saw under the water. He dove deep until he could feel the pressure on his body. He froze, looking for Omelia. His body felt frigid, and he now couldn’t see which way to the top of the water. He let out a scream, only for it to be muffled in the water. He felt the water fill his lungs. He panicked. Then he felt a hand grab his. It was soft and gentle. He followed the fair-skinned hand up to meet the face of Omelia.

He felt peace.