Page 14 of Beyond the Hedge Maze

“Like Bob Ross?” Jesse interrupted.

Oliver laughed. “Uh, sort of, I guess. Sure. Like Bob Ross. But I’m testing out new styles, so this week I’m focusing on portraits.” He shuffled through his sketch pad and dug out the handful of pictures he had printed off the internet, a random hodge podge of famous people that he was using to practice.

Jesse enthusiastically asked Oliver question after question. Oliver had started that day wanting to be left alone, trying to avoid the pestering inquiries of his grandfather, but now he wanted to gobble up every ounce of attention from Jesse. He wanted to sit at this spot and stare into autumn colored eyes as he talked about his art.

He wanted time to stop, for the world to cease turning so they wouldn’t have to leave the maze.

***

“Did you have a pleasant afternoon?” his grandfather asked as he diced an onion on the butcher block workstation centrally located in the kitchen.

Chapman House, while largely remaining true to its original design and character on the main floor of the home, had undergone renovations in some of the more domestic areas.

While the originals sat dormant and on display, the kitchens located on the lowest floor had long since abandoned use of fire-burning cooking instruments in favor of gas and electric appliances. Copper pots and pans which looked like they came from another time, were actually only a few years old. Modern accessories like a stand mixer and a microwave lay on perimeter counter tops while others were stored in the many, if not too many, different pantries.

Oliver tried to suppress the smile on his face as he began to peel carrots across from his grandfather, but ultimately failed. Sally sat at his feet, whining and waiting for any scrap of food that may accidentally, or intentionally, fall on the floor. He held a piece of the peeled skin out to her, and she eagerly lapped it up before begging for another.

Cooking dinner with his grandfather when he was home from school was a longstanding, unbroken tradition that Oliver secretly loved. Like his paintings, it was another excuse to play with colors, mixing and matching, a craft that he could perfect, one that would evolve and get better with time and practice.

“It was fine,” he finally answered. “Jesse and I hung out. He’s uh, sporty, I suppose. And really nice. And it was fine. Good, even. Good. It was good.”

It was more than good.

“Ah, as long as it was good," his grandfather teased. "If you’re done with those carrots, bring them over here, please.”

Oliver did as he was asked, and hoped his grandfather wouldn’t notice that he may have taken too much skin off of the vegetables, distracted by his memories of the afternoon.

Jesse was intense—intense and direct—and attentive. He laughed loudly and smiled often, and by the end of the afternoon, something had shifted and Oliver was no longer overwhelmed. He wanted to make Jesse laugh. He wanted all that attention focused singularly on himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he had talked so much, if ever.

But there were times, too, when he’d catch Jesse’s mood shift, an abrupt switch to silence—to melancholy. Sometimes Oliver noticed that Jesse’s laughter would surprise him, like it was the first time he’d heard himself make that sound. Oliver wanted to learn why. He found himself curious about everything.

His grandfather motioned to one of the copper pans overhead, and Oliver grabbed it before taking it over to the stove, clicking on the gas, and igniting the flame. With his back turned, he asked, “Will they be back?”

“I suspect they’ll be here for a couple of weeks, at least,” Benjamin replied.

Oliver’s pulse quickened. There was no guarantee that Jesse would continue to accompany his father. He had mentioned that he had other family who lived in England, so maybe he’d visit them instead. But the thought that maybe he’d see Jesse again was enough to sustain him.

“Why exactly are they here again?”

Benjamin paused before responding, which Oliver thought was odd. His grandfather wasn’t one to censor his thoughts. “I’m getting an appraisal on some furniture. Nothing that would excite you.”

He was right, that didn’t sound exciting at all.

Chapter 7

Oliver

Two Years Ago

Oliver dabbed another white accent onto the canvas, like the tiny addition would save the piece. In the back of his mind, he heard his studio tutor’s voice reminding him that " less was sometimes more”, but shook it off. Adding to the painting at this stage was simply a means of distraction, and he was sinking into distractions whenever he could.

He had realized early on that he had made a mistake applying and continuing with the mastery program. Towards the end of his undergraduate program, he had noticed that he was slowly losing the joy he had previously found in painting. Every exhibition, every work produced for crit and peer reviews, felt forced. He had sat down in front of a canvas and created because he was supposed to, and not because he wanted or was compelled to. With only a month left until his final exhibition and graduation, his only option was to finish.

He knew he wasn’t the only one who felt this way. He could poll any other student on campus, within any area of study, and ask them if they still loved their chosen subject as much as they did at the start of their program. Half would say no—especially during exams. But creating art wasn’t the same as writing five thousand words on Ancient Mesopotamia, or whatever the hell was being studied in Classics, these days. There was a headspace needed, a perfect balance of proper light and background noise, of inspiration and focus.

He had none of those things.

The studio spaces on Bullingdon Road were little more than stark white, plywood cubicles. It was meant to provide minimal disruption, to symbolize a blank canvas, and encourage creative collaboration. It did the exact opposite for Oliver. He thrived when the atmosphere around him was warm and familiar, not sterile and surgical.