The Spare

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Simeon grasped the door handle, strode into the room and began.

“Cobalt blue, my favourite colour.”

Brinley looked up from his easel. Not another substitute?!

Dad had told him that this class would be good for him … he would like Mr. Gee … a real renaissance man … When Dad turned his back, his brother rolled his eyes. His Saturday’s wouldn’t be wasted in some painter’s studio. He smirked. No, he and Dad would do interesting things.

So far, Mr. Gee had shown up for half the sessions. Substitutes, usually apprentices, had taught the rest.

Brinley groaned. Maybe he could convince Dad that he should quit.

He listened as his classmates snickered.

As if reading their minds, Simeon continued, “Think of me as the ‘spare’. The forgotten one. The unimportant one. Until they really need his help. Where would people be without spares? … stuck on the side of the road, in the dark, in the rain or snow … cold, hungry, lost … Never underestimate the spare.”

As he continued the room grew quiet.

“Mr. Gee asked me to come today, to help with some of the areas where he’s flat. Let’s get started.”

Brinley glanced at his easel. His Dad called him, “his spare.” He hated being the spare, the one who had to do the things that his brother didn’t want to do. Most of the time he seemed invisible … especially now that Mom was away.

That’s how Dad called it. Mom was just away. To listen to Dad, you’d think she had gone to the spa with some friends and would walk through the door at any moment.

Baxter’s Buick made sure that would never happen again. Black ice. No fault. No mother.

Dad decided not to have a funeral. He said that she wouldn’t want anyone to be sad.

Brinley remembered that day. He had been in the backseat, on the passenger’s side, when that giant red beast t-boned the driver’s door. Mom never answered. They had been laughing. They had been going to the paint store where she worked. She was going to show him some new pigments that had just come in. Her face glowed as she described them; ever ready to explore new gamuts¹. She never made it that day. He hadn’t been there since. He just couldn’t go there.

Mom loved colours. She mixed paints for others using her hands and her eyes. Sometimes, she’d let him help her. He had marveled at how intricate they were. The human eye can see thousands of colours she had said. They’re different wavelengths of light that bounce off things and dance right into the back of our eyes. If you have good eyes, you see them; if not, you don’t, but they’re still there. Then she would laugh … “even if you’re colour-blind like your brother. Don’t worry, you’re not.”

Actually, both Dad and Bro were colour-blind. They had all sorts of ways of pretending, but they never saw the colours dance the way that Mom and he did.

One day, he had asked her what her favourite colour was.

“I don’t have a favourite.” She said, “Each colour holds its own special position in the spectrum, something like members of a family. Everyone’s different, and everyone has a special place.”

That day, he had asked her why Dad referred to him as his ‘spare’.

She had gazed at him for a very long time before answering.

“Your father fancies himself king of his home. When your brother was born, he proudly wrote, ‘& son’ everywhere he could. Then when you were born, he didn’t want to just add an ‘s’ to ‘son’. You meant so much more. That’s when he decided to take the media approach of ‘an heir and a spare’ used for talking about princes. It didn’t hurt that he had a friend who extolled the virtues of spares.”

She seemed to drift off into a different place where he couldn’t follow then added:

“You’re like cobalt blue,” she’d laughed. “Poor man, never could see colours for what they truly are.”

“Cobalt blue!” Brinley blushed as all eyes turned to him. “Why do you like cobalt blue?”

“Because it is a stable, saturated, pure blue.”

“Unlike Mr. Gee,” Simeon continued, “I have extremely good colour vision. I’m not a tetrachromat², I’ve only met one of those, but I’m still very good.”

“Is that why you’re here today?”

Simeon smiled.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean ...”

“It’s quite okay, Brinley. I told you, I’m a spare. And you guessed correctly. Mr. Gee is colour blind. A brilliant artist, but unable to appreciate his own work, or yours, the way he would like to. Do you remember the deaf composer, or the poet who cried out to God because he was blind? Lots of gifted people practice their skills, knowing that they can’t personally experience their beauty.”

“And today?”

“Mr. Gee asked me to take you to a place he can’t go. He wants you to experience the thrill of mixing your own pigments, preparing paint the way the masters did.”

“What?”

“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me that you have never blended bits of paint before?

Put away your tubes. I have a special set for each of you and then you can choose who you will share your colours with…”

“But we …”

“Paint-by-numbers may be fun, but you always have those artificial lines that tell the viewer that you are an amateur and not a true artist. Do you really want to tell them that?”

Brinley stood by his easel as the others got their supplies. Magic. Mom had called blending paints, magic. He watched the others and yearned for her. Together, they would mix the magical substances that made paint, paint. He thought of the uniformed sized cans at the store where everything was precisely measured and her private room at home with all sorts of different sizes and shapes and colours.

He walked to the front, picked up his assortment and began working. He entered her world.

“You need to pack up.”

Startled, Brinley looked around. Only two of them were left in the room.

“Time to go home.”

“Dad won’t mind if I’m late.”

“Well, let’s not find out.”

“He won’t even notice. All he cares about are “real man” things like football and that stupid car of his. He doesn’t understand what…”

“He understands more than you give him credit for.”

“How would you know?”

“He was different before the explosion.”

“What explosion?”

“The one in the army, before your brother was born. He spent a long time in hospital, and then didn’t want … wouldn’t tolerate anyone mentioning that he had been a hero. Acted like he’d never served his country.”

“He never told me.”

“Didn’t think so. Won’t talk about your mother either, will he?”

Brinley shook his head.

“You’re his spare. He needs you now, more than ever.”

“But…”

“Think about it. Whose idea was it for you to take this class, yours or his?”

“His.”

“Thought so. He knows you’re gifted. He loves you.”

“But…”

“Brinley, let’s go.” There in the doorway, stood his father.

“Dad, when did you get here.”

“Don’t worry about that. Let’s go.”

As they got into the old pick-up, Brinley asked, “Dad will you let me detail your car?”

His father smiled, “my spare.”

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