A Quiet Summer Night

I walked into my apartment, kicked off my high heels and slipped out of my uncomfortable skirt. For the first time today, I could breathe.

In my bedroom, I hung up my work clothes and put on my paint clothes. Tonight was Tuesday night, my favorite night of the week. A night when I put on a smock and taught others how to paint. A night when I finally put my art degree to use. The degree that caused my Uncle Ted to ask, “What will you do with that?” And my Aunt Janice to say it was a waste of time and money even though I had enjoyed every second I spent in art class. 

The disapproving comments persisted after graduation. It didn’t help that I couldn’t land a job in a museum like I had hoped. Six months into my job search, I finally gave my resume to my father, an investment banker, who finagled a job for me in his bank as a teller, a position I still had all these years later. Without a relevant bachelor’s degree, I wasn’t able to climb the bank’s professional ladder. So, every day, I counted other people’s money and the minutes until five o’clock.  My day job may have paid my bills, but my night job fed my soul.

Back in my kitchen, I set up my easel, laid out my brushes and squirted acrylic paint on a plastic palette. Then, I opened my laptop and logged into my Art Class, USA’s account. As I reviewed my notes on painting, “A Quiet Summer Night,” the first few drops of a rainstorm splattered my window.

At six fifty-five p. m., I opened the class’s link. My first student, someone named Judy, was already in the waiting room. Once I admitted her, Sue arrived followed by Michel. Once everyone’s video was on, I said, “I’m so glad you’re here. My name’s Flora Posey. Let’s start by telling everyone your name, where you’re from and one thing about yourself.”

The woman in the upper right corner spoke first. “I’m Sue. I’m from Cleveland, and I’m the head librarian for the public library.”

“That sounds like a fun job. I bet you have great book recommendations,” I said.

She smiled. “I do.”

“My name is Judy,” said the lady in the bottom left corner. “I’m from Ontario, and I’m a stay-at-home mom.”

I inclined my head. “You must be busy.”

“I’m exhausted.” She ran her hand through her short hair, causing it to stick up in places.

“I’m Michel,” the lone gentleman said in a heavy French accent. “I live in Paris.”

“France?” I asked.

“Oui.”

“Goodness. What time is it over there?”

“One.”

I leaned backwards. “In the morning?”

“Oui. I am an artist.” He pronounced it artiste. “I do my best work at night.”

I understood being a night owl, but since I had to be at the bank by nine a. m., I had to force myself to go to bed early. “What is your media?”

“I am a sculptor. This is my studio.” He stepped aside to show a bright white room. Behind him, a large piece of stone stood on top of a brown drop cloth that covered the floor. A small domed area at the top of the stone looked like a head pushing its way into the world.

“Well, I’m glad everyone is here. I hope you have fun tonight.”

I started the class by showing them the supplies they needed and how to mix the paint.

“Let’s start by painting a horizon as a reference point.” With the handle of my brush, I pointed to a spot a third of the way up the canvas.

“We’ll start with the sky.” I showed them how to blend the colors and add clouds. Next, I instructed them how to paint trees on the horizon and how to add leaves by lightly tapping their brushes against the canvas.

“Okay, we’ll take a ten-minute break while our paint dries. Then, we’ll start our house.”

Judy and Sue turned their videos and mics off, but Michel and I left ours on. His back retreated out of the frame. I went to my sink and dumped my murky paint water. Turning the tap on, I rinsed my cup with warm water and added more.

A loud crack of thunder caused me to jump. Water splashed my sleeve. I grabbed a paper towel and blotted my cuff as I walked to my bedroom.

After changing shirts, I returned to the kitchen, passing my computer on my way to the sink. On the screen, Michel was talking to a beautiful blonde. As I rinsed my brushes, I listened to their guttural voices speaking French. I wondered what they were talking about at one a. m. When the woman’s soft voice started to rise, I turned towards the computer. She shook a finger in his face before she shoved him. He stumbled backward into the table holding his computer. Regaining his balance, he picked something up from the table. He raised his hand above his head. What was he holding? I moved closer to the computer. When he brought his hand down, I realized it was a hammer, one that a sculptor used to chisel stone. I gasped as the hammer connected with the top of the blonde’s head. She crumpled onto the floor with a sickening thud.

Michel spun around to face the computer. I ducked my head and busied myself with cleaning my brushes. Did he know that I had heard and seen him? Could he find out where I lived? If so, would he come after me? What about the poor woman? Was she dead? I had to do something, but what?

Judy and Sue hadn’t turned their videos back on, so I causally said, “We’re still waiting on the others. I’ll be back in a minute.”

I turned my video and mic off. Then, I called my police department.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

“I’m on a virtual call, and I just saw a guy assault a woman with a hammer.”

“What’s the street address?”

“I don’t know. The man lives in Paris, France.”

“Ma’am, there’s nothing I can do about a crime in Paris.”

“Don’t you have the number to their police department?”

An electronic sound ended the call.

I looked at the computer. Michel stared at the screen. Judy was back, but Sue’s video was still dark.

I called Lissa Rose, my contact at Art Class, USA. She didn’t answer. I texted her. I need the names and addresses to tonight’s attendees. It’s an emergency. As I waited for a response, Sue appeared on her video. Now, Judy, Sue and Michel were looking at the computer, waiting for me. Their disembodied faces reminded me of Jan, Marcia and Bobby Brady on the opening credits of The Brady Bunch. I waited another minute, but Lissa didn’t respond.

I took a deep breath and rejoined the group. “Welcome back. Let’s start with the house.”

As I painted shingles on the roof, my phone pinged. The students were busy painting, so I read the message, which contained everyone’s first and last name and email address. According to Lissa, Michel’s last name was Blanc.

A quick glance at the computer showed all the students absorbed in their art, so I quickly searched the internet for Michel Blanc, sculptor, Paris, France. There were five results. Three had pictures, but they weren’t of Michel. None of the results had street addresses. I’d have to be creative to find where he lived.

I traded my phone for a brush. “So, tell me a little more about yourselves. Do you have a favorite local restaurant?”

Judy said, “There’s a place down the road called Canadian Bacon. They serve the best breakfasts. I love breakfast, but I don’t get to eat it anymore since I had Emma. I don’t get to do much of anything.” She started to cry.

I don’t have time for this, I thought, but I said, “I’m sure she’s a beautiful girl.”

“She is.” Judy wiped her eyes and smiled.

“Who else has a favorite place?” I looked at the computer’s clock. How long had it been since the assault? If the woman was still alive, was she still unconscious?

“There’s a bar called the Back Stop. I like to go there during baseball season. They always show the Cleveland Guardians’ games on TV.”

“That sounds like fun.”

“It is.”

“What about you Michel?” I asked. “I hear Paris has fabulous cafes.”

“We do.”

“What’s your favorite?”

“I don’t have a favorite. They’re all good.”

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. “How about a favorite bar?”

“I don’t have one. I don’t like to drink. It interferes with my creativity.”

I wanted to call him a liar. Instead, I asked, “What about a park? Do you have a favorite place to walk or read?”

“I stroll through the park by my apartment.”

I sighed with relief. “Oh, what’s the name of it?”

At that moment, a knock sounded on the computer. Michel’s head turned. “Excuse me.” Then, off camera, he said, “Bon jour.”

Muffled voices answered him. I screamed, “Look inside!” Judy and Sue stared at me, but no one appeared in Michel’s video. I screamed again, “Look inside!” Still, nobody showed. I screamed once more.

Two police officers, dressed in black uniforms with checkerboard trim around their caps, finally appeared on the screen. They stooped and then quickly stood. One man fumbled with his phone then spoke into it in frantic French.

The other officer stepped towards the computer and addressed us in his native tongue.

I replied that I didn’t speak French.

“I do,” Judy said. With her help, the police officer questioned each of us. I was the only one who had witnessed the attack. After collecting my statement and everyone’s contact information, the police officer ended Michel’s video session. Not knowing what else to do, I turned my attention to Judy and Sue and asked, “Where were we?”

A few days later, I read on the internet that the woman was Michel’s wife and she had died from her injuries. The online article said that Michel and his wife’s argument had woken one of their neighbors. The neighbor often heard the couple fight, but this time, when she heard the thud, she knew something was wrong, so she called the police.

I was called to be a witness for the prosecution. Despite the grisly circumstances, the prospect of traveling to Paris and visiting the Louvre made me smile until I learned the French government wouldn’t pay my expenses to appear in person, and I couldn’t afford the airfare. So, when it was time to testify, I dressed in the only suit I owned and sat at my kitchen table as I told the French court what I had witnessed. My statement lasted four minutes, half of which was the interpreter translating for me. Five minutes after my testimony started, the judge said, “Merci,” and ended the virtual call, leaving me with a blank computer screen.

The computer’s clock said it was three a. m. While a new day had started in Paris, in the States, it was still the middle of the night, and I had to work the next morning. I rose from the table and shuffled to my bedroom where I changed into my pajamas and went to bed.