Eclipsed Reflections on a Sunday Afternoon

“I really was abducted by aliens in McMinnville the night of the solar eclipse,” Kelly’s brother said while she was trying to paint. Kelly was straddling her art horse on the backyard deck. When she looked behind her, she saw Ian struggling to close the sliding screen door with his elbow. He had a tray of cheese and crackers in his left hand, a glass of iced tea in his right hand, and a joint hanging out of his mouth. It obviously didn’t occur to him to put down either the cheese and cracker tray or the drink so he would have a hand free to close the door. Instead, he stubbornly continued to wrestle with the screen door using his bony elbow. Being unable to figure things out seemed to be Ian’s typical state of existence. He eventually managed to close the screen door without using his hands. Kelly continued working on her watercolor painting, trying to ignore the resident stoner. Ian approached and leaned over Kelly’s shoulder. Evidently, he refused to be ignored.

“Wha’cha paintin’?” he said, breathing down his sister’s neck and blowing smoke in her face. Ian put the iced tea down on the deck so he had a free hand to pick up a cracker. Kelly gritted her teeth as Ian munched on crackers with his mouth open right beside her ear.

“It’s the backyard, genius,” Kelly said, pushing Ian aside. “And keep your crumbs away from it.” At times like this, Kelly wished she had her own place. But it was tough being a freelance artist with only a high school diploma in a bad economy. The only other job she had besides her art was working under the table part time in a friend’s gift shop. And that wasn’t exactly a job as it only generated a paltry income for art supplies. So here she was sitting on the deck of the same house in Northeast Portland where she and Ian grew up, listening to Ian carry on about his alien abduction while chewing with his mouth open and smoking pot. Ian was also a high school educated freelancer, except he wrote magazine articles and an occasional company brochure instead of doing art. It was clear he wasn’t going to be leaving his parents’ house anytime soon either.

“You should do a portrait of me,” Ian said after a time. He took a long drag on his joint.

“Yeah, you’re a great subject to paint,” Kelly said. Sunday afternoon was the only time Kelly was able to paint for pleasure rather than doing work she intended to sell. During the week, she mostly made prints which she could sell cheaply on consignment to local gift shops. She also had an online store and portfolio. Since undertaking art as a profession, if it could be called that, Kelly had only two commissioned art projects, one of which was for the friend who hired her part time under the table. The other project was for her father’s accountant. Local galleries wanted nothing to do with her work, and neither did literary magazines. She had no connections in the art world, and there seemed to be a prejudice against realistic subject matter that demonstrated a modicum of talent. Despite producing art like a maniac for five years since graduating high school, Kelly knew her business was practically non-existent. So, to have her annoying brother breathing down her neck, blowing marijuana in her face, and chewing food next to her ear on the one day of the week Kelly expected to relax was even more irritating than usual.

“This is Portland, Kelly,” Ian said, now sitting on the edge of the deck. “No one wants a painting of a backyard.”

“This isn’t for sale, Ian.”

Ian wasn’t fazed. “But if you were to paint me looking very avant-garde holding a glass of iced tea in a field of glowing cannabis, you might actually get into a local gallery.”

Kelly resisted the urge to dump her dirty water pot on Ian’s head. It would be the perfect time to do it as their parents were gone for the day at Cannon Beach for an impromptu Sunday excursion. “Don’t you have some corporate brochure about dog biscuits you have to write?”

“Unfortunately, no.” Ian scratched his elbow. “Business has been slow, like yours. When I call up, the answer’s always, ‘Sorry, we don’t need a freelance writer at the moment. Goodbye.’ What they mean is they don’t want me.”

“You’re preachin’ to the choir.” 

Ian became quiet for a while, which caused Kelly to sigh with relief. Maybe he would get bored and go somewhere else so she could make some progress on her watercolor. Kelly’s relief was short-lived. As soon as she started painting again, Ian resumed munching his crackers loudly. With his mouth partially full, he started going on about his own problems again. Kelly tried to tune him out, but he was relentless.

“I was thinking about writing some fiction for a change,” he said a few minutes into his rant. Kelly managed to ignore nearly everything he said before reaching this topic, but she heard an opportunity to get rid of him.

“Good idea,” Kelly said. “Why don’t you go back in the house and do that?”

Ian didn’t take the hint. “I would, except that there’s this whole problem with writer’s block. The pot’s s’posed to help, but I’m feeling more inspired toward a memoir or something like that, which is definitely nonfiction.”

Kelly knew she should have let him prattle on but made the mistake of getting involved in the conversation. “A memoir?” she said, putting her paintbrush down. “What on earth would you write about? I can see it now: ‘Hi, I’m Ian. I’m a twenty-four-year-old with a high school education and a freelance writing career that consists mostly of writing articles about stuff nobody cares about. Oh yeah! And I once wrote an advertisement for a washing machine. The End.’ And that’s really pushing it.”

If Ian weren’t stoned, he probably would have been perturbed. Instead, he became thoughtful again. “I would tell the world about the abduction.”

Kelly rolled her eyes. She picked up her paintbrush and tried to paint again. Ian interrupted her attempt at concentration. 

“It was August 21, 2017, the day of the total solar eclipse,” he said, as though narrating the beginning of his memoir to a secretary. “I had gone to a friend’s house in McMinnville, Oregon a week early to observe the celestial bodies in their… cosmic act.” 

This time, Kelly was able to tune out the rest of her brother’s ramblings. She must have heard the story eight times already. Ian’s friend, Josh, who owned a house in McMinnville, was going on a business trip in Washington D.C., so he let Ian be his house sitter while he was gone. The fact Ian was house sitting in McMinnville the same week as the eclipse was just a coincidence, which Ian always conveniently forgot when telling his story. In fact, if it weren’t for Josh going on a business trip that week and giving Ian the keys to his house, Ian never would have seen the eclipse in McMinnville in the first place. From that perspective, Ian’s abduction story was all Josh’s fault. But no matter whose fault it was, Ian stubbornly claimed that on the night of August 21st he was abducted by luminous aliens who took him to their home world. While there, he allegedly married an alien woman, who had a son and a daughter by him, and was then returned to McMinnville. But what was years on their planet, he said, was only two days in Oregon. He knew it wasn’t a dream because when he woke up, it was the morning of August 24th. 

Every time Ian told the story, it had additional embellishments, and he treated every single one of them as fact. He fervently believed that he had been chosen. During some retellings, he actually referred to himself as “The Chosen One” or “The One Who Was Chosen.” No one could convince him otherwise. No matter what logical explanation someone could devise to refute his wild story, Ian had an equally logical counter explanation to prove he was right. He was so convinced the abduction was real, he actually called a conspiracy theory radio talk show when he returned to Portland to share his experience. The talk show host’s serious treatment of Ian’s story, combined with other guests’ corroborating “evidence,” further solidified Ian’s belief in what had surely been a drug-induced fantasy.

“I think I have The Gift, Kelly,” Ian said in a furtive tone, as though secret government agents were listening.

Kelly sighed. At least she managed to finish painting a tree trunk during Ian’s most recent rendition of his alien abduction story. “What gift?” Kelly said, more curious about her brother’s deranged thoughts than she wanted to admit.

“The Gift,” Ian said, as though his emphasis of the word “the” clarified his meaning. “Gramma has The Gift, Mom has The Gift, and now I have The Gift.” He was speaking in his regular voice again, apparently having forgotten his earlier reason for whispering.

“What Gift? And if you say The Gift, I’ll pour the rest of that iced tea over your head.”

“It was a long time ago,” Ian said, undeterred. “It was Gramma’s story.” 

Kelly wondered where this was going and what their grandmother had to do with it, but she found herself listening nonetheless. 

“Don’t you remember? When Mom was young and Gramma was cleaning up after dinner, Gramma saw a light from the kitchen window. She went outside to see what it was, and it was a flying saucer! She called to the rest of the family to come look, but they wouldn’t come. So, Gramma chased after the saucer down the street while waving her arms, begging it to come back.”

“I wouldn’t call that a gift, Ian. You know Gramma’s always been a bit… nuts.”

“Gramma isn’t nuts,” Ian said. “It was around the same time there were a lot of other UFO sightings. And after that, she said she could always hear The Hum at night. There’s Hum Hearers, Kelly. It’s a real thing. And Gramma is one of them!”

“An alien or a Hum Hearer?”

“That’s not funny, Kelly.”

“Okay, fine! But that whole Hum Hearing business is probably just something wrong with her hearing. How else do you explain the fact that we never heard The Hum when we spent the night at Gramma’s as kids?”

“Not everyone can hear it, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t real. There’s lots of reports of it around the world, and nobody knows what it is. But Gramma says it has something to do with the aliens. It’s too bad I didn’t think to ask my wife about it when the aliens abducted me.”

Kelly felt like telling Ian that he didn’t have a wife—and probably never would—but that would only get him started on the alien abduction story again, and Kelly had heard more than enough about it.

“Mom has The Gift too,” Ian said. Kelly realized she was going to hear more about it anyway. “It was back when we were in high school. Do you remember old Mr. Tibbets?”

“D’uh.” Mr. Tibbets was the next door neighbor, who died eight years ago. He was a retired railroad clerk back in the days when there was a good pension but no social security for railroad employees. His wife, a homemaker, was a critical, nosy gossip with nothing better to do than give everybody unasked-for advice. Mrs. Tibbets was still alive, and just as opinionated as she always was.

Growing up, Kelly could rarely walk out the front door without Mrs. Tibbets saying something like, “Why aren’t you in school today? You’d better mend your ways and study hard so you don’t end up out on the street.” The idea of Spring Break and other school holidays was somehow beyond Mrs. Tibbets’s comprehension. Weekends were no better. If it was a Saturday, Mrs. Tibbets would say, “Shouldn’t you be doing your homework? My Anne always did her homework on Saturdays so it was ready for Monday.” On Sundays, it was always, “Did you go to church today? You don’t want to end up in the bad place.” 

Kelly thought the nearly daily criticism would dissipate after she graduated high school. She was wrong. Instead of nagging Kelly about school, homework, and church attendance, Mrs. Tibbets adjusted her helpful hints to include such gems as, “Why aren’t you at work today? Don’t you have a real job yet?” And most recently, “When are you getting married? Time’s a tickin.’” 

What a sharp contrast to Mr. Tibbets! Mr. Tibbets always had something nice to say to everyone. To Kelly, he would say, “It’s a beautiful afternoon. Be sure to enjoy the sunshine,” and other things like that. He was also the sort of person who was happy about everyone’s accomplishments, no matter how inconsequential. Kelly remembered how when she was in the fifth grade, she showed Mr. Tibbets her painting of a koi fish. It was her first oil painting on canvas, and it won grand prize at the county fair. Mr. Tibbets congratulated her and told her what a fine artist she was. 

“Perhaps you’ll be the next Monet,” he said. “I think a painting like that deserves a rose.” Mr. Tibbets took pride in his roses, and loved to give them away to friends, neighbors, and passersby. No excuse was too small for Mr. Tibbets to share his beautiful roses. Kelly didn’t remember what kind of rose Mr. Tibbets had given her, probably because the memory was ruined by Mrs. Tibbets bumbling into the yard.

“What’s all this now?” Mrs. Tibbets demanded.

“Young Kelly here is the proud grand prize winner at the county fair for her lovely painting of a koi fish.”

Instead of sharing her jovial husband’s pride, Mrs. Tibbets sniffed with disapproval. “It would have benefited from some extra greenery around the pond,” she said, always the critic. “Besides, art is no way to make a living.” Heaven forbid anyone have a hobby or a passion in life. Kelly was incensed.

“I’ll show you!” Kelly said. Before Mrs. Tibbets could make a comment about showing respect for elders, Kelly had run into the house with the painting under her arm and the rose in her other hand. She had gripped the rose so hard in anger that the prickles stabbed her. That’s where the memory ended. 

Thinking back to that day so many years ago, Kelly wondered if she became an artist just to spite Mrs. Tibbets, just to prove her wrong. If only she could prove her wrong. So far, she was only reinforcing Mrs. Tibbets’s declaration that, “art is no way to make a living.” And she had been reinforcing that curse for five tedious years.

“Why did Mr. Tibbets have to die first?” Kelly wondered aloud. She knew she shouldn’t have said it, but she was simmering in her memories. Ian seemed to understand.

“Don’t try questioning the cosmos, Kelly,” Ian said. “What’s gonna happen is gonna happen. But what I do know is that Mom has The Gift because she saw Mr. Tibbets pruning roses in his front yard after he died.”

Kelly had heard this story before too. When Mom was in the front yard one day, she stopped to talk with Mr. Tibbets as she often did. They both loved gardening and often shared techniques. According to Mom, their conversation that day was more somber. Mr. Tibbets was unusually pensive, discussing things like the meaning of life and life after death. He concluded by saying, “Somehow, I know everything is going to be all right.” Before Mom could make any sense of that, Mr. Tibbets gave her one of his roses. Mom thanked him and put the flower in a vase on the kitchen table. The next day when Mom was in the front yard again, she saw Mrs. Tibbets. Mom told Mrs. Tibbets she had a nice conversation with Mr. Tibbets, only to have Mrs. Tibbets reply, “How dare you? My husband has been dead for two weeks!”

“Either Mom or Mrs. Tibbets probably had the dates mixed up,” Kelly said when Ian finished telling the familiar ghost story.

Ian shook his head. “Mom knows what she’s talking about,” he said. “And we all saw the rose that Mom put in a bud vase that afternoon.”

“Mom grows roses too, you know.”

“Not roses like that one. No one could grow a rose like Mr. Tibbets.”

There was no point in arguing with Ian. Like Gramma and Mom, if Ian believed something, he believed it no matter what anyone else said.

Kelly and Ian were silent for a time, cocooned in their respective memories. A gust of wind rattled the tree branches. 

“I can feel fall in the air,” Kelly said, thinking about how many autumns passed since she left school for good. How many sketches, paintings, etchings, and drawings had she completed since deciding to become an artist? How many of them actually sold versus how many got rejected outright? She quit counting how many pieces lay about the house, attic, and garage gathering dust. Was Ian right about her art? Maybe she would have far better luck getting into a gallery if she painted psychedelic visions of cannabis rather than realistic scenes of nature. Somehow though, she couldn’t force herself to paint abstract nonsense, even if it had a better chance of selling. Then again, there might come a point where she would have to churn out schlock just to make money. It certainly worked for Picasso.

“Yeah,” Ian said. “I miss summer already. One of these days, I think I’ll get myself a boat, sail on the Willamette into the Columbia, and then just keep on a-goin’ to the open ocean.”

“Well, good luck passing the Columbia Bar,” Kelly said. “They don’t call it ‘Graveyard of the Pacific’ for nothin.’ And don’t expect your alien friends to help you.”

“I guess so.” Ian ran out of cheese and crackers a while back and was working on finishing his iced tea. “I just wish they would’ve let me stay with them. I had a good life there. Here, I get a few bucks here and a few bucks there. There, it was a post-scarcity society. I don’t remember having to do much of anything there. But now that I’m back here, I have things to worry about. Sure, Mom and Dad let us live at home for now, but they won’t be alive forever. And in two years, I’ll need my own health insurance. At least you have four years. I didn’t used to think about insurance so much, but with all the talk of healthcare reform, we might end up in trouble.”

The wind was stronger now, and the sun was beginning to set. Mom and Dad would be home from the beach soon, hopefully bringing some salt water taffy with them. The work week would start again tomorrow. Ian would probably go back to writing. Kelly would mind her friend, Jenna’s, gift shop. After work, Kelly would try to peddle some of her art to anyone who would take it. There had to be a breakthrough at some point. Every day, Kelly told herself there would be a day when her work would be discovered. It was the single thought she needed to cling to on the many days when nothing sold. Maybe that’s what Ian’s solar eclipse alien abduction was really all about, a protective delusion of sorts. Kelly had the dream of disproving Mrs. Tibbets. Ian had the hope of returning to that mythical world in the cosmos. Both dreams stifled the pain of reality.

As Kelly put away her art supplies in the dimming light of the sunset, she tried to focus upon what was going right. She had two jobs to do tomorrow: the gift shop and selling art. It was time to push everything else out of her mind—her brother’s supposed alien abduction, Mrs. Tibbets, the bad economy, and health insurance. Watching the remainder of the sunset helped Kelly focus on the present and brought a sense of calm. When the last of the day’s light finally disappeared, Kelly thought of Mr. Tibbets and how he allegedly said, “Somehow, I know everything is going to be all right.” For whatever reason, Kelly was sure it would be.

The End