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Looking straight ahead at Warhol’s hand-painted canvases, arranged on shelves just like they were in his first exhibit, I think back to the very first time I was introduced to pop art. “My father.”
“Your dad?” He sounds surprised.
“Yep. My dad had the tomato soup can print hung in the den of our house. He brought it home from work after he retired.”
“What’d he do?”
“He managed a large grocery store southwest of Houston. He told me that when he was promoted to head manager, Mom bought him the print for his office. He’d never been one for art and ‘all that nonsense,’ as he liked to say, but he really liked the Warhol print. I think he had a Brillo print and the Coca-Cola print too, but the soup can is the most memorable.”
He nudges my shoulder. “See, I told ya.”
“Yeah, you did.” I laugh. “Warhol, the soup can man.”
I’m quiet, lost in memories, before Chase urges me on. “You were saying about your dad?”
“Oh. Just that I remember one day, I was working on my history homework, trying to memorize dates that to this day I don’t know why I needed to know, when I distracted myself by asking about the print. And from that one question, Dad and I had an hour-long conversation about art. About how he never paid attention to it growing up, because he couldn’t afford it and didn’t understand it. And then my mom had gotten him this print for his office. Mom was a librarian, and Dad always liked to joke how she married down because she was so well-read and he was just a Texas boy with a high school diploma, working a low-end white-collar job.”
“They sound like they were happy.”
“They were. Even when kids didn’t seem to be in the cards for them.”
“I bet they were thrilled when you came along.”
“Ah yes. Back to that.” I nod at the soup can painting. “Even being the white-collar worker Dad was, for some reason, this small poster of a soup can interested him. Made him ask questions. Why is this art? Why does it appeal to me? Who painted it?”
I glance at Chase, amazed that this small story from my past has him so enraptured. Without thinking, I lean the right side of my body against his left, bringing our clasped hands to my lap.
“Five years after Dad’s promotion, after my mother gifted him the Warhol print, he surprised her with a night in the city. He got tickets to the Museum of Modern Art’s pop art exhibit. They got dressed up, had dinner in a nice restaurant beforehand, and rubbed shoulders with the socialites of Houston, which made them giggle. Wondering if all these rich people had any clue they were talking to a grocery store manager and a local librarian. Afterward, they stayed the night in a swanky downtown hotel. Dad said it was fancier than their wedding. Probably cost more too.”
I close my eyes, remembering the day Dad and I talked about art for the first time. The way the sun slanted through the blinds, the rough texture of the tweed couch under my legs, my dad’s soft smile as he told the story. “And nine months later, I was born. All because of a soup can.” I nudge him. “Hence the name Campbell.” I laugh. “Honestly, I’m surprised they didn’t name me Andy.”
Chase isn’t laughing, though. When my chuckle tapers off, I risk a glance at him. His eyes are dark, brimming with emotion, but I don’t think it’s humor. His serious gaze makes me even more anxious than when I was working up the courage needed to tell him the story. It hits me that telling someone a simple tale of why I like pop art shouldn’t be so nerve-wracking. That I probably have some issues I need to work on. And that the sudden anger I feel toward Chase’s silence is unfair. But I can’t seem to help it.
I jump up from the bench, abruptly enough that Chase lurches to the side I’ve been leaning against.
“Anyway, that’s why I like this stuff.” My speech is fast and my voice high. Is it hot in here? It feels hot. I pull my hair off my neck, fanning myself with my free hand.
“Campbell. Bell. Bell.”
Chase’s voice finally breaks through my crazy-train of thought.
“Hmmm?” I blink at him, willing the beads of moisture on my scalp to stop forming.
“Thank you for telling me that story. And for bringing me here.”
“Oh.” I drop my hair and smooth down his shirt I’m wearing as a dress. “No problem. It, uh, probably wasn’t as cool as yachting, but…” I shrug, out of sorts, and try to covertly wipe my brow.
Apparently unconcerned by my odd behavior, Chase wraps me in his arms again while we begin our exit from the museum. His touch does more to reassure me than any words could.
Out on the street, he hails a cab.
“Where are we going?”
“Well, you took me to your happy place.” He opens the cab door and waits until I’ve slid in and over before ducking in after me and giving the cabby his address. “It’s only fair I take you to mine.”
18
BELL
