Tiger B (tigrrr) wrote in tiberiusswann, @ 2011-06-11 19:09:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | tiger |
Wednesday 10th December
Who: Tiger, Ma and Pa
Where: His parents' house
When: Afternoon of the 8th
What: The inevitable....
It was rare that Tiger got away from the hustle and bustle of his newfound duties as boyfriend and makeshift ‘Dada’ but today the artist finally got to spend some time with his family. After waking up at his family home he had spent breakfast playing a game of checkers with his mother, a bid to keep her mind active. Next was a brunch with his cousins who insisted on hearing about his new girl, and then a few hours with his Nana who insisted on being shown pictures. Tiger then went back to spend some time with his parents before he returned to the school. His mother was very eager to see the work he’d been doing during his studies as mostly it was a highly concealed secret until Tiger was happy with it so he’d brought a few pieces he’d worked on at TJS just to show her.
After watching a film and updating them on his relationship and also agreeing to invite Cissy for Christmas (‘unless she is otherwise engaged!‘) Tiger finally brought his pieces from the car and set them up like a gallery in the living room. It was painstakingly prepared, with rugs and throws decorating the living room to give it 'atomosphere'. Of everyone his parents had been the most supportive about his career of choice. Even when he’d put a vast array of tattoos on his body, essentially permanently scarring the body they had created, they had believed that he was expressing himself and that it was very good for him to do so. His mother had been the driving force behind his going to college and the comfort when he’d quit, hating that he had chosen her over getting a professional qualification for his ‘natural gift’. That’s why Tiger liked to make a show of his work, give her an experience. After helping her husband clear up because Diana Bentley despised feeling useless, she made her way to the living room, wobbling slightly. As soon as she saw the display her eyes lit up and Tiger gestured.
“May your eyes feast on the wonders you behold...” he said very grandly, sweeping his arm across the canvases which made his mother smile and laugh. For several moments she stared and for a second he worried she’d gone from her mind, one of her episodes, but she strode forward, smiling and confident. Tiger breathed a silent sigh of relief.
For several moments Diana studied the paintings and designs: the one of Mia, that he’d copied from the original, paintings of Blue, Cissy and Grace, himself, a funny self-portrait – ones of houses, lights out the window, scenes of the school... she delighted in looking at them, touching some of the brush strokes and generally smiling. Tiger was so glad he could still make her smile.
“These are all so wonderful,” she sighed, shooting him a smile. “Truly, you are a great artist.”
“I guess it runs in the family,” Tiger said shyly. Though he wanted praise, sought it from them, it was always a little embarrassing to be gushed over. She continued to study them, comment, whisper 'wows'. Tiger was grinning like a lunatic.
Diana straightened, holding the droplet of her necklace in her fingers. “You really have a great talent. I love art like this. You know my son, he has art in him. You should show him these pieces...”
It took Tiger two seconds to register exactly what had just happened. With a slow raise of his head he stared at Diana, the smile fading from his face. “Your son?” It was the only thing he could say.
“Yes!” The response was proud, animated and lively as she turned to face him. “Theodore. He’s six. Always draws on things, you cannot stop him if he has a crayon in his hand. He is good for his age, he shows great promise. Just like his Nana...”
Diana had to be joking, pulling his leg. She was making it up. But then he had seen her little wobble before, her momentary lapse. This was no joke. Not even realising that his breathing had increased, Tiger tried to stop himself choking. ”Theo - Theodore Elvis Bentley..”
“Yes!”
“Mom...” How could she not know who he was? Even during her normal episodes she was always asking him ‘Theo, why does this phone not have a cord?’ or ‘Theo, where am I?’ Sometimes she asked him to ring her father only to be told that he had been dead for five years. The reaction was always the same – acknowledgement but no grief. He hadn’t believed the day would come where she wouldn’t remember him. Hopeful that something, somewhere, would trigger it, he stepped forwards and placed a gentle hand on her arm. “Mom, come back. You know where you are, what year it is – it’s 2008, Mom, and I’m Theo... I’m your Theo...”
She merely nodded. “Good name. Strong name. He will find inspiration in you.”
The way she looked at him was agonising. She was looking at him but her eyes held nothing like the maternal warmth he was used to. He was just a boy. An artist she’d just met, he meant nothing like being her only son. Theo was still six, playing with every pen he could reach, and this strange tattooed man was nothing more than a friendly stranger. She didn’t recognise him at all.
Alan, his father, strolled in as Diana was still chattering. She had moved on to talking about the portraits and he regarded the room with a smile and a nod, putting his hand on his wife’s back. “Our boy’s done good hasn’t he?” he said proudly, not taking any note of the pained expression on Tiger’s face. Diana turned to him and nuzzled him fondly.
“He has. I was just telling this gentleman how he should show Theo his things, maybe teach him...”
The look between father and son was instant and knowing. Tiger’s sad eyes showed him everything if Alan didn’t gather already. If Diana wasn’t removed soon... One moment passed and Alan began to guide his wife from the living room back to the kitchen. “Come on, my love, we need to get the kitchen sorted.”
“Kitchen? Darling don’t be silly the gallery does not have kitchens...”
“Nevertheless let’s see if there is one...”
Tiger remained in the living room, staring at the door. His mother had forgotten him. In an hour she might remember, call him and apologise profusely for putting him through it, but it was happening. After five years of being recognised, of still being her son, she was starting to forget him. He was going to be a stranger to his own mother.
Alan walked back to the living room a minute later to find it empty, apart from the painting, the familiar sound of his son’s engine leaving the gravel path outside the house.