I come into Richard’s apartment alone on the night of the launch. I come into the space that I can’t bring myself to call home. I guess that point is moot now, considering Richard doesn’t seem to care where I sleep. The rooms are completely transformed now. The place looks like any other gallery, what with the lights and white cubes and smell of vanilla covering over the scent of paint and plywood. At least he hasn’t changed the locks on me or anything.
My sibs have decided to boycott the exhibit and Richard, since they think they’re the only ones who should have any influence over me. I stand by the door in my new black dress, my red high heels, and my buzz-cut. I let the doorway frame me for a minute, the way people do when they’re trying to make an entrance. Richard did not let me see the exhibit after he hung it. I would have liked to have mounted it myself or at least given him some input, but he acted all secretive about it. He tried to pass off all the cloak and dagger stuff as a surprise. Now I kind of wish I had a blindfold to hide my eyes from the glaring white walls gouged with my dark paintings. There’s a row of them along each wall, all but the one of me abusing Mom altered by Richard. I barely recognize my original concept for any of them. I clamp my hands to my shorn head and stifle the urge to cry. The museum director’s sister greets me, telling me she finds my new work interesting. That’s my least favorite descriptor in the world. “Have you spoken to our Richard yet?” I shake my head. Richard comes into view. She points him out and says, “There he is! Just follow his red shoes with your red shoes!” I mince over to him in my idiotic shoes. Why did I wear these things? Richard likes my pretty feet but it’s not a fetish or anything. He probably wouldn’t have minded my usual sneakers, although I’m not so sure about his interest in my comfort anymore. I stop to pull off the shoes and continue to walk toward him, dangling them from my wrist like a purse. I wonder if he remembers the fairy tale about red shoes. Richard, encircled by museum staff, lifts a hand in greeting. Maryann is huddled close to him, almost under his arm. He throws off her off with the rest of his people and gallops over to me. “You cut your hair!” he accuses me, with a frown. “Well, yeah. You told me to.” “What? I’d never suggest that. I loved your hair. Are you feeling ok?” He taps his finger against my temple. I’m confused. Was it Clara, then, who told me to cut my hair off like some prisoner? “Prisoner of love,” I mumble. Richard doesn’t hear me correctly. “Yes, everyone loves the show!” “Oh, really?” I point to a viewer who stands transfixed in front of one picture, only to turn away, shaking his head. Richard says, “He’s obviously culturally blind.” He calls over Maryann. “She did a lot of work for the show. You should thank her. She’s a great protégé.” “What happened to your other protégé?” I’m referring to myself, but he doesn’t understand that. It occurs to me once again that I don’t know a lot about Richard. “The press is here, so you’ll have to talk to them. OK?” He looks at me as if he thinks that might be too much to ask. “Better put your shoes on.” I lean on his arm to slip each foot into its leather case. If he moved his arm away for a second, he could send me sprawling across the polished parquet floor. He doesn’t, of course, and I turn on my red high heel to introduce myself to the reporter. After the pleasantries, I steel myself for questions, as if this tampered-with show is on the level, which it is not as far as I’m concerned. “So, who are your inspirational models?” “My model is figurative-abstract fusion like Miles Davis’ jazz fusion–a blend of jazz and rock.” “Do tell. I’ve never heard of this fusion.” The reporter is so young, it’s no wonder. There are lots of things he hasn’t heard of yet. “There has always been figurative-abstract fusion, going back to Turner with his mature work of storms, fire and vague buildings in the background.” “So he was the first?” “Yes. Turner was the daddy of figurative-abstract fusion painting. Probably, we next see it in Picasso’s cubism. The Dames d’ Avignon was certainly both abstract and figurative, as was all ensuing cubist painting.” “Oh, I see. After cubism, I guess lots of artists–fauvists, German expressionists, Klee, Kandinsky – had figuration and abstraction. Am I right?” “Yes. All figurative painting, even the old masters, had an abstract base– concern with color, line, value, composition, etc. Some painters took those concerns and turned them into the subject matter and came up with entire abstract paintings – first Kandinsky, with his improvisations-and later the abstract expressionists.” “What about Gorky?” “Gorky painted a little before the abstract expressionists, and combined subliminal imagery with lyrical color. So he was a figurative abstract fusionist. So was de Kooning, with his women’s series.” I’ve collected a good group of people around me by now. This must be what it feels like to be a docent at a museum. Richard hovers around the edges of those gathered, trying to reconcile their interest with the confusion and disillusion on the faces of the people slowly passing by the pictures. “That’s very interesting, and I get it,” the reporter says, “but what’s with the black marks cutting through your compositions? They seem like they don’t belong there.” “Oh, that’s the contribution of my personal muse.” He’s within reach now, so I tug him close to me. He can’t pull away in front of all these people, so he puts his arm around me and digs his fingers into my flesh. With a scowl, Richard negates my characterization. He struggles to save face, coming up with an arty sounding theory that might apply if the listener has a shallow enough understanding of art. Why didn’t he prepare a better explanation? I could have helped him with one. People nod politely and some of them take a second look, trying to reconcile eyes to ears. They want to be polite. They don’t want to be part of the group who doesn’t get it, so they play the emperor’s new clothes game. One or two give up, shrug their shoulders and shake their heads. More guests see that, and draw courage from it. These are the ones who don’t wait for refreshments, although the director sends out waiters to circulate around the small room with their trays of pretty food. These guests are the ones who mumble graffiti, their voices louder and louder, and begin to leave the show in a long slow stream of disillusionment . “What does she mean about the personal muse?” “We don’t care who’s financing her show!” “It’s a vanity show.” “Such a fall for the artist.” Richard disappears, too, which is funny since he lives there. Maryann goes with him, grabbing for Richard’s hand. After he’s gone, the director comes up to me, her face wrinkled as a brain. “Why did you disown your black marks? After all we’ve done for you. You have no idea! We’ve gone to huge expense to put you on the map. And now you accuse ‘a personal muse’ of basically destroying your paintings?” Her hands fly to her head in exasperation. I really don’t know why she’s upset. I mean, I do know why, but it’s not her fault that Richard overstepped, and it backfired. It wasn’t her hand in my studio swirling nonsensical black paint over my pieces. “It is what it is,” I say. This time, I know Richard and I won’t be reading reviews in bed together. A few reviews come out immediately, and they are scathing, even gleefully vicious. The writers heckle Richard, “the muse,” about tagging my paintings and destroying my intellectual property. I come out looking pretty good because of my lecture, knowledgeable, and generous enough to pretend that Richard did not ruin my work. I’m the angel and he’s the devil. For the next few days, he doesn’t answer his phone. I have no choice but to go to the apartment if I ever want to see my paintings again. I’m pretty sure we’re over as a couple, but what about my art on the websites? Will he take it all down and plunge me back into poverty? Or did my brother fix all that? What happens to the new gallery? Is Oranges & Sardines still in business without my work? We’ve got a lot of loose ends to tie up here. People should be more definite about breaking up with a person, not just ghost them. I always was. Definite, I mean. I sent my high school boyfriend a dozen dead roses, completely blackened, when I was done with him. The End. I knock, but Richard doesn’t answer. I use my key, the one he gave me even though I would not give him Mom’s. He is not glad to see me. At first he pretends he doesn’t know the show flopped. I see he has marked many of my pieces with red ‘sold’ circles. Did he really manage to sell them, or is he just trying to make it look like he did, to interest other patrons? Richard clearly hasn’t slept or bathed or shaved in a while. He’s kind of repulsive like this, if you want to know. I don’t get near him, but I don’t intend to kick him while he’s down by holding my nose or anything. I play along with his routine, but don’t look at the labels by the pictures or ask any details. That doesn’t leave much to talk about, and the silence seethes between us. It also doesn’t last very long. He starts to blame me for the failure of his apparently sold-out show. “Why did you tell people I made marks on your work?” “Because you did!” “No. You did. I watched you do it, all the while spouting your theories about your need to be punished, or some such psycho-babble! You really had me going, convincing me that you were being so daring and wild and high-concept.” “You must have egged me on.” Suddenly I’m not sure about what’s true and what’s not. I point out that there was one painting that received praise in the reviews, the one about hitting Mom, and it was the only one he did not touch with his black mark. The significance of that was not lost on me even a minute ago, but now it’s fading. My voice, too, fades as his gets stronger. He can’t hear me over his own stream of abuse. He’s saying horrible things to me, throwing every lie I’ve ever told, every cruelty, all my betrayals, back in my face. It’s as if he’s turned me inside-out and knows intimately all the darkness of which I’m capable. The more he insults me the more his features distort into those of any vicious man, manipulator, or poseur. I used to be able to spot those kinds of creatures so easily. How could I let a guy so similar to me swallow me whole? “Oh, and Maryann said there was a rumor you went nuts a couple of years ago. Maybe what people see as genius in your work is actually madness.” “Maryann?” I suddenly can’t place the name. “Yeah, Maryann, my protégé, the woman who did the article on you, the one who helped me hang this show. You just saw her, for chrissakes.” “My breakdown is common knowledge among the small town gossips. I’m surprised you claim you didn’t know, especially when there’s another rumor going around that you’ve been stalking me for years.” “Stalking you? Who says? Did the museum director tell you that? She’s always been jealous whenever I take an interest in another woman. She can’t stand being relegated to my business partner.” “What business is that?” Ah, I’ve hit a nerve. He looks confused for an instant, and can’t come up with a reasonable answer. Finally he blusters, “Can’t you tell when people are gas-lighting you? What’s wrong with you?” “You mean besides my taste in men?” He slaps me. The sound snaps our connection and frees me from him utterly. The blow unbalances me and has me reeling backward; but I recover and drive toward his torso. I grab his crotch and twist his testicles. He stumbles and falls moaning to the floor. “I suppose you’re going to cry about this, too,” I say over my shoulder as I head for the door. “Just like you cried the first time we had sex.” I drive toward home, shivering with fury. Revenge is all I can think about. My brothers are too old to beat up the bad guys anymore. Lawyers would be involved, and I never do well with them. But I need to vent, I have to damage someone. I stop outside the coffee shop, the image of Maryann rising in my mind like a poison planet. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a man about my age, driven out of his mind by something. Screaming obscenities that make no sense, he drops his white cane and feels for the gasoline can at his feet. He pours the gas over his head. As the crowd he’s gathered surges forward, he strikes a match. A roar goes up and the crowd flows backward. People are screaming or calling for help, everyone’s little phones glinting. The burning man turns to take a last look around, as if there is still a way out. Two men knock him to the ground and smother the flames. There are sirens and stretchers and now I’ve forgotten what I came for. I inch homeward leading a line of honking cars. I’m in the middle of a panic attack, I can’t go any faster. I leave the car running on the driveway while I stagger into Eddie’s room. I left my heavy black pea-coat in his closet and I need it now. Rain has turned to sleet and I’m shivering with cold. I see the shape of my coat in the closet and I pull the string on the lightbulb to make sure that’s what it really is. My old madness clings to it like remnants of fabric, hiding in the collar, in the lining, in the pockets. Why is a wood handle sticking out from the closet shelf? Why would Eddie keep a hammer in his room? No, that’s not it, the handle is too long. I grab it carefully and see that it’s a gun. My old gun. I shrug on my coat, shove the gun in my pocket, and crawl toward Richard’s apartment. As I drive through barely visible streets, each streetlight with its golden halo burns out as I pass, leaving a trail of darkness behind me. I burst back into Richard’s apartment. He rushes at me and I point the gun at him. He freezes. “Pack up my stuff and put it in the car,” I order, waving the gun in the direction of my drawing board. I see him glance at his phone on the counter, calibrating his chances. I lunge at the silver rectangle and grab it before he can. He makes an excuse for his slowness. “You injured me,” he says, cupping his crotch. “You slapped me!” “Asymmetrical warfare.” “Shut up. I don’t want to talk to you ever again.” “Your loss. I could have made you a star.” I indicate the box of art supplies with my gun. “You mean I could have made lots of money for you with your stupid little cons. Not gonna happen. They know everything now.” “Who? What do you mean?” He can’t tell if I’m bluffing or not. Neither can I as a matter of fact. I don’t actually know what I think I know, but everything I’ve absorbed from half-truths and naked lies, whispers and air-ducts, contraband in the backs of closets and confessions in ledgers, has suddenly clicked, and spills out of me. “I mean, you line up good artists who are vulnerable, and then you use them. You find their weakness and convince them you’re to be trusted. What a laugh. You get us thinking we can’t manage without you, and then you work your little scams. But you’re not even good at it. Your cons have never taken you where you want to go, no matter whose coat-tails you’re riding on. Taking advantage of your more gifted but desperate betters, that’s your bread and butter. But all that stuff is small-time. The little stuff distracts everyone away from your main venture. You get your artists to copy pictures and you sell the forgeries. The museum director helps you find buyers, right? That’s what you meant when you said business partner, right?” “Wrong. What nonsense. You know nothing. You have no proof. Your hallucinations are manipulating you.” I wobble and waver, feeling for the boundaries of my parallel existence. Sensing my mind sliding out of its grip, I smile, and Richard looks confused. He may embody my disease, but he does not contain all of me. “Of course we have proof. Have you checked your closet lately? There used to be more tubes of paintings than there are now. More black ledgers, too. But don’t worry. The police are taking good care of them.” Richard lunges at me. “Are you sure you should attack someone who is both armed and dangerous?” In the air, I describe a question mark with my gun. His lips tighten over his mouth, shut at last. “Better be a good boy and take the paint box and the drawing board and put them in the car. Keep whatever you paid for. I can’t be bought so cheaply.” He has no choice but to do what I say. He carries the paint box under one arm, my drawing board under his other one. His stringy biceps quiver with the effort, and the cold. I haven’t let him put on a coat. On the way back to the house, I realize the car I’m driving still belongs to Richard and I must give it back. I will have to unpack my things, retrace my route and return the car, and it suddenly seems like too much effort, it feels like I’ve been wandering in circles for years. I start to cry, but I press on through my windshield of tears, and unload my belongings from the car. My brothers see what I’m doing and help me do it. They don’t make me talk. They just help me for once. One final time, I aim the emptied car toward Richard’s apartment, my gun in one pocket, his phone in the other. It buzzes relentlessly. Who can be calling him? I realize I no longer have to care. I park the car and open the door to the apartment quietly. I don’t want Richard leaping out at me. It occurs to me that I could have slid his keys under the door. What made me think I had to come up? I could have spared myself one more fight. Do I still want the chance for a different ending? But Maryann has already taken my place, lying naked on our bed with him. I don’t make a sound, although everything in me screams. In a moment, they will see me standing over them with the gun. Before I start shooting, I will toss the car keys at Richard and laugh as he tries to catch them and misses. Richard and Maryann will roll off either side of the bed while I shoot six holes in a vertical line down the mattress, dividing it in two. I’ll see blood ooze from the down as the cops kick through the walls of the building, guns drawn. One of the cops looks just like Clara. On the wall, the alter-egos in my paintings break free of their frames, and reproach me with my crimes, carrying Richard’s big black marks before them like crosses. Mother is the last to climb down from the cruel collar I painted to imprison her. She shuffles toward me dragging a cloud of alizarin crimson behind her. I reach out to her with one hand, the other fumbling with my gun. She comes as close to me as she can. She raises herself on her toes, and slaps me with a deafening crack.
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“We got an invitation today, and I think we should accept.”
It’s a few days later, and I haven’t been to Mom’s house once. I’ve just been here, alone with this man. I put my brush down. How can I work when he is always interrupting me? It’s strange enough to be working in a corner of the unfinished gallery we live in. “Stanley is doing one of his nude landscapes. He wants volunteers to become as one with the huge piles of plowed snow outside the museum.” “Oh god. Then what? Will he photograph them or send them straight to the hospital for hypothermia?” “He’ll throw a party first and get us pleasantly drunk, so we don’t feel the cold. Also, we will generate body heat from our sheer numbers.” Richard seems to have made up his mind that we’re going to this thing. He can’t tell a good concept from a cliché, looks like. And does he even know that the liveliest art spaces are in lofts and warehouses, burnt out train stations and bombed churches? It’s the people and art that make a scene, not hype. “I don’t drink, remember, and I’m susceptible to bronchitis. This level of silliness is contra-indicated for me.” “Come on. It would be great publicity, a nice bridge between your previous and forthcoming shows. You were a nude model in art school, for god’s sake. This shouldn’t make you uncomfortable.” Is he really double-daring me? “Except physically.” He should want to protect his investment, shouldn’t he? “If you catch cold, I’ll make you lots of chicken soup and rub your chest with Vick’s.” He gathers me in his arms and I feel a steely insistence where the cajoling should be. I sigh. Some things aren’t worth the fight. He takes my exhale as agreement, releases me, and goes to the computer to RSVP. The first twenty minutes of the reception are annoying. Richard immediately leaves me to bend over some nude girl with a glass of champagne. She doesn’t like him, clearly, but accepts the drink while she scans the room for someone to save her. I’d do it, but I’m chatting up the artist/photographer, the only person in the room with clothes on. “It will be a comment on collective behavior,” Stanley is saying to me. He is refining his verbal artist’s statement for when the arts writer from the paper gets here. “Is that why you made the waiters strip down, too?” “No. That was pure whimsy.” “Was it whimsy when one of them resisted the mandatory nakedness and you immediately kicked him out?” “At least he was dressed for it.” “Dressed for what?” “The cold.” Stanley excuses himself. He doesn’t want to talk to me anymore, and besides, the reporter has appeared, shucking off her clothes at the door. Stanley tries to tell her it’s unnecessary, waving his arms wildly as if to shield her. From the corner I see Richard miming applause at her striptease, and only then do I notice that this naked woman is Maryann. Her body is better than mine, but mine was as good when I was her age. She really has her heart set on Richard, I see. It must be because she knows about me and him. Unavailable men are sexier to some women. She loses no time in wafting over to him in a cloud of spicy perfume. Why I should put myself through this, again? Maybe I shouldn’t. I should just leave. But that would mean defeat. Something in me always wants to win, even if it’s a booby prize like Richard. Well, he’s not really a booby prize, but I can’t help thinking he’s no prince. I try to listen to the conversation between Maryann and Richard. Words form in their mouths and slant downward with their frowns. My brain doesn’t get it and my body seizes up with a clenching apprehension. I head for a bedroom, any bedroom, to lie down. Stanley has other ideas for me, and everyone else. He calls us to order. We all file out in a single line and begin to climb an enormous, hard-packed snowdrift. The photographer wants a neat line but soon people are slipping off the cold grey mountain, leaving gaps in the procession. I’m already shaking and every time I try to latch onto a knob of ice to pull myself up, I lose my grip and begin to fall. Hieronymus Bosch-like hands beneath me shove me back up. When I finally fall all the way, it feels like the distance to the ground is longer than it actually is. The strongest muscles of the crowd keep ascending, digging a color-swatch of flesh tones into the side of the snowy rock-face. At the very top, the first man who reaches the pinnacle dances around in the pale sun, penis flapping. That man is Richard. The pictures taken, point made, we run back into the building to put on our coats. My panic has backed down, surprisingly. Sometimes my anxiety acts like a cutter who trades psychic pain for a smaller, immediate, physical pain from tiny slashes. Inside, our company feels more like a regular gathering now, with small fights breaking out, slurred words about aesthetics and politics. One woman drunkenly lets in a stray dog from the street, several of the men chasing it back outside, yelling “Refugee! Deport it!” and laughing wildly. Since we are now clothed, some of us encourage the photographer to strip; to be the only nude in a room full of winter coats might make a statement complementary to the nudes on snow mountain. His eyes widen, and there are many hands pulling at him. He’s blinded by the flash of many tiny cameras. I’ve got to look away; his terror is real, and my symptoms rise up and sink again like waves of grief. I’ve got to get out of here. I take a cab to the apartment. I pour a hot bath, but the thing that really warms me is a sense of simmering anger. The experience with all those bodies did not make me feel at one with humanity. Quite the contrary. What I now feel is humiliation. I pick up a CD, thinking music will calm me. The disc is titled with a favorite song of mine and when I open the jacket I am delighted to see many other pieces listed, too. It takes a minute for me to realize my glitch. An album always has more than one song. I throw myself on the bed and give myself over to an anxiety attack. When Richard comes in, it’s very late. I have been suffering for hours, and my episode is only just now sputtering to a halt. He roughly pries me out of the fetal position. Is he angry? Why is he angry? I smell spicy perfume. “Why are you acting like that, all sweaty and twitchy? I can’t talk to you when you’re like this!” Richard’s voice is shot through with ill will. “Can you snap out of it, please? I need to ask you some questions.” He yanks my head toward him so I will look him in the eye. He’s too close. All I see is a bald eyeball, with green veins dangling just under the skin. I stare at him for too long and Richard heaves an exasperated sigh, finally pushing me away. He has already begun to abandon me. I knew he would. They all do. His figure fades as he walks toward the door, and disappears entirely when he slams it behind him. My mouth opens on words sticky as syrup, closing down on silence. With Richard gone, I can’t get out of bed. I mean, every morning I stagger to the door to let the construction workers in, but then I crawl back under sheets that smell of Richard. The noise the men make is punishing, but I make myself take it. I must deserve it, but I no longer can remember why. Hours or days later, my family troops in with soup, as if I’m sick. Have we all made up, then? Clara cajoles me into getting washed and dressed. I can’t really focus on what the boys are talking about between themselves, and when they talk directly to me, they choose their words so carefully, it’s like they think I’m a child. They act like I can’t understand. I may not be able to speak much, but I can listen. That lyric about how you can’t always get what you want, but sometimes you get what you need, plays in my head as I listen to my family speak. Eddie, who is thumbing through one of Richard’s ledgers, asks “Is this yours, Mandy? The book you record your anxiety attacks in?” “No. That’s Richard’s. He doesn’t let anyone touch it. My record books are still at home.” Steven moves with studied nonchalance over to Eddie, to look at the book. Eddie runs his fingers down the rows of data, and the three of them clearly understand something I don’t. To me the symbols are nothing but scattered insects on the page. Clara helps me pack a few things in my grey case. ”I remember when we got this piece of luggage,” she says softly. “We gave that girl Phylandra such a hard time about it,” I smile. “She couldn’t believe we wanted nothing to do with her time-share, and we were just there for the free gift.” “Remember how her boss kept turning up the thermostat? She thought she could sweat a commitment out of us.” “Uh-huh. So where are we going now?” I realize I don’t care. I’m ready to be led wherever they want to lead me. “Come home for a while. Why not? Mom misses you. You have lots of art supplies there and you don’t know when Richard is coming back. When he does, he’ll know where to find you.” “What about the workmen? Who will let them in?” “That’s Richard’s problem, isn’t it?” “I guess.” “Can I see the red shoes before we go, just for fun?” Clara asks. “They’re in the closet right in front of all the copied paintings,” I say. “What copied paintings?” All three of them rush to the closet. The red shoes are not there. Did Richard take them all with him? Does that mean he’s not coming back? The air is full of electricity. My skin prickles. The family’s faces reveal nothing, but I’m missing something, I just know it. “The paintings are like the ones Richard is always trying to make me do.” Clara unrolls a painting, and I identify the artist and title of the painting. She’s excited. Why? I don’t get it. “We should get out of here. Ready to go?” Steven’s voice is urgent. We lock up the apartment. The boys each carry out a ledger and an armful of mailing tubes. When I protest, Eddie says, “We’re not done with them,” in the same voice Dad used to use to end a discussion. It’s good to be home. I don’t know how long I’ll be allowed to stay, but it feels like I belong here, the same as always. I wander the rooms to check that everything is where it’s supposed to be: the curio cabinet in the corner, Mom propped up on the white sectional with her can of Ensure, all my objects marching along the dresser as usual. Everything is the same, just a little more faded somehow. Maybe I just need to clean the windows. They’re not letting in enough light. I get a sponge and glass cleaning spray from the kitchen and start to work. A pall clings to the glass and I have to really put all the strength of my arms to get it clean. I destroy a sponge with all my rubbing and go to get a new one from the drawer. I forget which drawer holds them, and I open the wrong one. It’s full of knives, collected over a lifetime: steak knives, paring knives, butcher’s knives. I wonder why Mom or Eddie didn’t change the drawer they are stored in, after the fuss they made when I was sleeping with them under my pillow, or when I cut my tongue that night after the show. I take out the cake knife I last used. I look over its serrated teeth and a shiver climbs my spine. I run my thumb over the mother-of-pearl handle and cradle it in my hand. It has a certain heft. A gleam that’s mesmerizing. I’m horrified as I watch myself draw the sharp side across the inside of my wrist. Before I can do much damage, I become aware of an insistent ringing in my brain. Through the window above the sink I can see the figure of Richard. It’s not my imagination. He’s standing on the porch, in the flesh, poking the doorbell like an eye. I put the knife down on the counter, and unlock the door. “What happened to you?” I say, pointing to his black eye and scabbed lip. “I walked into a door. Why aren’t you at home? The contractors haven’t been able to get in for hours.” “First off, I am home.” Being under the shingled wings of the house gives me lots of courage to back-talk him. When did I lose my knack for that, anyways? It used to be my forte. Richard blinks, surprised. Then he stares at me, unblinking, for longer than I ever imagined a human could. He dismantles me, brick by brick, with that stare. Then he pulls me to him as if he expects me to kiss his bloody lip. My fists are against his chest, but turned in the wrong direction for pushing him away. He takes his hands from my waist and puts them on my shoulders. He pushes down and I sink slowly past his unbuckled belt and unzipped fly. I’m unconvinced the linoleum floor will catch all the pieces of my disintegrating flesh. He changes his mind about what he wants from me as I dissolve beneath him. He has heard voices coming from the other room, coming closer. He pulls me up by my hair, and quickly rights his clothes. “When will you grow up and quit running home to mother?” “You were the one who left! What was I supposed to think? You’re the original enigma wrapped in a conundrum. I can’t read you.” “You could if you had any empathy.” Empathy. That’s one quality where the doctors tell me I’m deficient. But it’s not a vitamin. I can’t just find some and stock up, so I don’t go home with Richard, and he doesn’t try to make me. I stay put, but two days later, he’s in my kitchen again. I put the bag of groceries I just brought in on the counter, and say, as mildly as I can, “How did you get in?” “The door was wide open. You should be more careful. I just stopped by to see how the big project is going. Your studio is locked.” He waggles his fingers, which are holding a lit cigarette. I didn’t know he smoked. Doesn’t he remember I’m allergic to smoke? I peer into his face, which today bears no evidence of being in a fight or walking into a wall. “Yeah, I keep the studio locked when I’m not in it,” I say, pulling out my key. I curse the quaver in my voice. I know he’s mad that I won’t come home with him but he doesn’t seem to think we’ve broken up, either. “I can’t really work at the apartment. I know you’re remodeling it for me and I’m grateful. It’s just that right now there are too many construction men around making too much noise. I’ve done some good work here, while you were away. You said you wanted wild. Come in, and I’ll give you wild.” The studio door squeals open and I silently present my new pictures to him. He scowls. The contortion of his features confuses me. It’s not what I expected. I review the possibilities and decide he’s scowling because his bruised eye hurts. “These aren’t really wild enough, Amanda. This one is too muddy,” he points out. “This one is much too brushy. And this portrait is too disjointed.” “I think you’re missing the point,” I say, offended. “In my portraits, I use color freely to express the subject’s personality while the facial features remain realistic.” I look for the change in his posture, the surrender I always feel in his body when I talk about art. It’s not there this time. “Here, let me show you what I think the point is.” He loads a brush with black paint and paints over my marks on the canvas. “What the hell!” “What? You don’t mind do you? Our work is basically collaborative, after all.” How does he figure that? Richard puts the brush down and stands behind me to pull my hair out of my collar. “We’ll have to do something about this hair, too,” he murmurs. By the time we come out of the studio, my new pictures have all been mangled, and I have been left as burned out as the ash on Richard’s cigarette. I’m still fuming when I describe his trespass to Clara, and she reflects the anger right back at me. “What nerve! He’s a control freak! A vandal! I knew you shouldn’t trust him,” she says. She picks up the brush still dripping with the black paint Richard used to ruin my pictures. She carefully wipes it on a rag and places it in a glass jar filled with turpentine. “Look. He left your favorite sable brush in a shambles.” She peers more closely at the mutilated painting. “It looks like he was trying to imitate your style here, with this gesture. Over here too. What nerve!” “He must have picked that up by watching me paint at home.” Clara stiffens at that characterization of Richard’s place and I smile inwardly. “That’s why I don’t like to be watched. It’s like a chef giving away her secrets.” “That’s why you don’t like to join art groups?” “Yeah. Look at this. What is it? Remember when I was in school, and I’d imitate Kandinsky and Klee, all those guys? My homages even then were so much better than Richard’s puny marks.” “Well, you’re the real thing, and he seems intent on hitching his wagon to your star. What that phrase you always use about people who want a piece of you, take a number?” Funny, Clara’s fallen right back into her cheerleading role. “Yeah, except now I can’t even give it away. There is no other gallery knocking at my door, and Richard’s already gone to so much trouble to put together the new show. I guess I’ll have to put up with his interference. What do I have without him? Who else would turn his apartment into a gallery for me?” “Take a look around this house, why don’t you. Every wall is covered in your work, from your student days onward. It’s like a retrospective in a museum. Can’t you want what you already have, for a change?” No, I can’t. If I stop moving forward, I’ll get stuck, I’ll sink. People need to see my work. If I can’t get them to look, it will be as if I’ve blinded them all. I get back into my studio the following day to erase Richard’s influence. To get in the right mood, I stare at my reflection in the mirror until the features distance themselves and I can no longer recognize my own face. That’s how I know I’m ready. I swipe the canvas with color, vibrating, saturated hues that mean something, I don’t know what, not yet. I want something spontaneous to happen. I wait for an image to form in my mind. I paint it. After developing the space and losing and getting back the image many times, I can recapture the original image, and merge the figurative with the abstract. But first I have to turn on some music. My senses overlap, and I begin to paint the way the music sounds. My perpetual theme of vision emerges. Pursuing the idea of vision, to find what blocks understanding, raises the memory I’ve spent a lifetime pushing down. The little boy I blinded would be an older man by now. He’s spent decades trapped in the dark and this act of mine is the only way I can lead him out of it. With my brush, I build an igloo of blue blocks housing two figures. Their bodies are made of the same blocks and one is leading the other off the page. I use blue, black, and white. The only other color is pale yellow, applied to the corner of the eye of the dominant figure, and streaked across the forehead of the other, whose eyes are empty. Clara knocks on my door, which she never does when I’m painting. A breach. “What do you want?” “Can you help me with Mom?” It’s hardly an emergency, but I guess the standards for interrupting my work have changed here too. Mom has decided to go without her dentures again, and Clara wants me to get her attention while she, Clara, inserts the teeth from the back. “What good is this going to do?” “It’s supposed to be less traumatic if the old person can’t see what you’re doing. Otherwise, it feels like an attack.” “So you’re sure I’m allowed to touch her?’ Clara nods, curtly. “Why didn’t you take her to the dentist? He said he would put her teeth back in any time.” “He won’t do it anymore because she just takes them out. Lots of dementia patients quit wearing their dentures. Nothing awful happens to them. Old people all over the world are toothless. She’s already eating only soft food and milkshakes, so she doesn’t really need teeth. But let’s try one more time.” “God, she looks so old without them. It makes her lose all her looks.” “So? She is old. And she’s not going to enter any beauty pageants. The sight of her toothless face probably just reminds you she is on her way out. If this doesn’t work, we’ll all have to get used to it.” Already, Mom is pushing our hands away, along with her last chance at having a smile. “The last dentist wanted her to get a new set of dentures.” “I bet he did. They’re expensive. But she’d take the new ones out, too.” “Well, there’s no point, then.” “Why are you so disappointed, Mandy? Think about it, how would any dentist get Mom to open her mouth long enough to create a mold and all the other steps to making a new denture? She’d have to keep her mouth open for a long time, over several visits. She’d have to be able to follow instructions.” “He could put her to sleep.” “What? Anesthesia? That stuff is what made her slip off her Alzheimer’s plateau when she broke her hip! Even the pain pills she took for her recent fracture deepened her dementia! How can you even think of putting her through that?” “I guess I can’t, if none of you wants to but me. I know I don’t get a vote.” “If Mom takes the new dentures out anyway, plus her brain is further damaged by the anesthesia, it would have all been for nothing. It’s way too high a price to pay.” “But the last dentist said she has practically no bone left in her jaw and he has to build it up or it’ll just cave in or something.” I curse the whining tone creeping into my voice. “That’s better than losing the last bit of her mental capabilities.” “Oh, you’re so dramatic!” I explode. We still have no luck getting Mom to accept the dentures, so Clara takes them to the sink, rinses them, and sets them on a paper towel on the counter. She pauses as if she has something more to say but leaves the room instead. I pick up the teeth from the counter. Mom shows her gums to me in her new version of a smile, and I shake the dentures at her, and then open and close them in a parody of biting. Mom looks puzzled, so I pretend to hit her with them. I keep doing it until she raises her arms to protect herself. I put the dentures in my pocket and leave the kitchen before Clara comes back. In the studio, I set the false teeth on the table with my brushes and pigments, and begin to paint a small face, mouth open, trapped in red and black circles. On the right, in the foreground, I make a green figure tormenting the helpless one. The sadist has a vicious look on its face. Richard will like this one, I bet. It’s perfect, he’ll say. “So, remember when you almost dropped out of art school to marry your boyfriend because you didn’t want to lose him?” Clara is helping me pack to move more of my stuff to Richard’s, but is trying to talk me out of my relationship with him at the same time.
“That was different.” I pick up the jeweled elephant from my dresser, and try to decide if I should take it with me. How do I choose? Clara’s given me all of my most favorite little things in this room. “Yes, it was. You were actually in love.” I think of Don, his dark hair and six-and-a-half feet dwarfing my small blondeness, and have to smile. We lived together one summer, with Mom’s blessing, which she normally wouldn’t give for a situation that naughty. I worked in a doughnut shop, rising before dawn to go to work, and he pieced together part time jobs to make the rent. We had completed our sophomore year in college, and that was enough elitist education for him. “It’s a workaday world,” he’d tell me, the opening salvo in his campaign to get me to drop out and marry him. I very nearly did. Clara folds the teal sweater she gave me for my last birthday into my grey suitcase. I pick it up with two fingers, as if it stinks, and shovel it back into my drawer. “Who says I’m not in love now?” I glare at my sister but she doesn’t wilt. Neither of us speaks for a long moment, a moment filled with our history of goodbyes. I drop my eyes first and resume packing. I pull what I need from the drawers of the white bureau she chose at seven, excited to have her own room before I made her share it. Little girls want their own rooms, but I only wanted to climb into a bed with my sister. It was the best way to make the ghosts leave me alone at night. “Remember, you’re the reason we all came together to be a family again, to support you and help you with your recovery.” She scratches an old label under the lamp that spells out LAMP. It was there because one drug made me forget the names of everything and Clara suggested putting labels on my objects. “Come on! You came home to help Eddie with Mom. You thought I’d be in the halfway house for two years! Steven was the one who came home because he thought I might need help. And now he’s just waiting for the cops to kick me out of the house so he can take over my room.” “He’s not doing that. You really think he has a thing for frilly canopy beds? I’ve told you a hundred times that I only alerted your doctor to the abuse in case there was a clinical reason for your lack of control. We didn’t want to involve Family Protective Services, we only wanted treatment for you. Your doctor is the only authority figure in your case so far. You’re still allowed to live in this house. You just have to make sure you don’t touch Mom.” “I’d be crazy if I did, right?” I laugh my most insane laugh just to scare her. And then I say, “Well, if none of you will even let me near her, what’s the point of me hanging around, now that I have another place to go?” She’s a runner. They never stop running. It had been a tough day at home. There were tons of new aides swarming the place, trying to figure out how to look after Mom. It’s hard for me to hang back when I know the answers to their questions: yes, she likes cheesecake but not grilled cheese, she’d rather have vanilla Ensure over chocolate, she won’t take her shirt off anymore during a sitz bath and she thinks the water hurts her, she sleeps in odd positions but there’s no need to wake her up and turn her around. Once when I went into the kitchen while the aide was feeding Mom, I heard her tell Mom how beautiful she is. Mom repeated the word ‘beautiful’ a few times so I went into her room and brought out a photo of her at age twenty-four, looking like Rita Hayworth. I showed it to the aide and said, “See? She really was beautiful.” The woman turned her shoulder away from me as if I was contagious or something, and mumbled, “Still is.” So I have to try to remember to steer clear of the aides. They’ve obviously been instructed to steer clear of me. It only winds up hurting Mom in other ways, all this separation from me. If she’s in the kitchen and I pass by in the hall, she’ll start to wave and all I’m allowed to do is wave and smile before I disappear into my studio, still hearing her voice going, “She’s my little…” She says it over and over, never finding the syllables for daughter. So why should I stay? I look at the family photos tucked in the corners of my mirror frame. If Richard doesn’t deliver on his plans for my career and the whole thing blows up, I’ll be glad I didn’t take more things like that with me. Something tells me that, if my objects are not right where they’ve always been, I might lose the trail back home. Does that make sense, or is it what they call magical thinking? How would I even know? My sister interrupts my thoughts with some of her own. She bites down on her words, so she’s irritated. “You can go or you can stay. You can toggle between the two places. It’s entirely up to you. We’ll still try to look out for you, the same way we protect Mom.” “Bet you never thought you’d have to protect Mom from me, did you.” Clara hangs her head at my words, as if she’s the guilty one. My bullying is working so I keep it up. “You told the shrink on me, Eddie called the cops, and Steven wants me gone.” I repeat their crimes, counting on my fingers. “Didn’t he just volunteer to help you take your things over to Richard’s?” “Yeah. So? He just wants to get me out of here.” “You’re being unfair to him. He didn’t have to upend his life for the family. I’m surprised you’re so happy to be giving us the slip.” “Patients have rights, the docs all say, and I need to get my life back.” “You don’t have to rush into a relationship with a virtual stranger to do that. I haven’t even met Richard yet, for God’s sake.” “So? He’s way too old to be vetted by my sister.” She pats the side of the suitcase absently. “Well, we’re still all here for you, regardless.” What does that even mean? I zip my bag hard, almost tearing it, and drag it down the hall until Steven takes it from me. He puts it with my other belongings in his car. I don’t tell Clara this, but I’m not that committed to the move. Besides, Mom’s house is nicer than Richard’s, and I’m not sure that being so involved with him is the best way to get my life back either. He may look like the only game in town, but turn out to be no more than one piece of the puzzle. Not necessarily Mr. Right, but Mr. Right Now. “How do you want to do this?” Steven asks as he backs the car out of the driveway. “First stop is my storage unit. I have to get a few pictures that need work.” “Sure thing.” He turns on the radio but I can’t stand the sound when it’s mixed with the smell of gasoline and the movement of traffic. I shut it off. We drive in silence, but once in a while, he hums under his breath, catches himself, and smiles. Steven and I get out of the car and climb a steep hill to the unit, our breath visible in the chilly air. This barren, isolated, rundown place always makes me nervous. I hand the key to the unit to my brother. “My hands are too shaky to work this thing.” He takes the key, and stands in front of the lock. He swears. “What’s wrong?” “Someone’s broken in. Look here, look at the lock.” It dangles off the door like a broken finger. I step into the space to see which pictures have been stolen. “The oldest ones are gone, just the oil paintings, but no drawings.” “So, the thief steals in chronological order?” “Those were the simpler compositions. More realism.” “The thief must know who you are.” “Why do you say that?” “He was careful not to damage anything, and he seems to have reorganized the work he didn’t steal. It’s neater than it was the last time we were here.” We report the break-in, and get a new lock that Steven says is better than the broken one. I’m glad he’s with me today, I guess. When I tried to tell the facility’s manager what happened, my words got all garbled like they do when I’m stressed, and Steven had to explain the situation for me. After our detour, we finally arrive at Richard’s. “Oh no! We didn’t get all the pictures I needed. I wanted two others,” I say as we put down our boxes on the floor. “We’ll get them later. Don’t worry.” Steven assembles my drawing board while I try to take his advice. The tension between us has eased, and soon we’re prattling on about the family and our memories of Dad. “After he died, for months I’d drive to his grave and talk things over with him,” Steven says. “I remember Mom ran into you there more than once. She said you looked so much like Dad, crouching down in the snow, a cigarette dangling from your lips, that for a split second she believed he had come back from the dead.” “And now she doesn’t even recognize me at all.” “She likes you, though. Didn’t I hear you playing piano for her the other day?” “Yes. I was tuning the instrument with our old tuning fork and she came out and stood by the piano the way she used to when Dad played for her. I started playing some of the old torch songs she liked and she started to hum along, snapping her fingers and twitching a little. I think she likes those songs even better than when Clara and I play classical music for her.” Steven sighs, and stops talking. I wonder how often he does this, escaping into his own thoughts so completely. Not as much as me, I hope. At least I’ve got a medical excuse. “Do you remember the time my first wife beat you up?” His question, after the lull, makes the skin on my arms prickle. “How could I ever forget? She set back my recovery by two years.” Mom and I had been tidying up the little house across the street from the one Janice and he had lived in for most of their marriage. They had just separated, and Steven had not wanted to move too far from his young sons, so he bought the house directly across from his old one. The floor plans were identical. The only difference was that the old one was white and the new one was red. Janice decided that Mom and I were trespassing on her marital property and rushed at me when I opened the door to her furious knocking. We traded blows and I got the worst of it, all up and down the street. I knocked her glasses off her face and Mom came out, picked them up, and handed them to her. Why would she do that? It was like siding with the enemy. Treason, or something. Janice went home to make up her face to simulate bruises, a technique she had used before to get Steven in trouble. I don’t know who coached her either time. Probably it was her one and only girlfriend. Her sisters couldn’t be depended on, since they were always busy disowning each other. Anyways, Janice called the cops and I wound up shackled and handcuffed, interrogated by an official who said, “I have my own opinion about what happened here, but go on and tell me your side of the story.” I did, and Janice sensed her plan was about to backfire. She dropped the charges. She didn’t want to traumatize the kids, she said, but she never cared about those boys. “So, tell me the truth,” Steven says, looking straight into me. “Who hit who first?” This was the big question the cops were fixated on, too. I didn’t see why it mattered. “I hit her first,” I say. “That’s what I thought,” my brother says. He knows that while other people say I’m fragile like a flower, I’m actually fragile like a bomb. “Remember, right after my wedding, you got mad about something and insisted that Clara drive back with you to Maryland the next morning? What was all that about?” I try to recall. “Let’s see. It was before my first breakdown but I was already in a bad mood all the time. Clara was trying to get something going with some guy and live with me at the same time. She was exhausting herself going between the two apartments. I wasn’t doing well romantically, myself, but I showed up at the Tavern or else Club Charles every night in case the boy I had a crush on showed up. I wasn’t painting much at that time. I don’t remember why. After being out all night, I’d sleep all day, so the only chance I got to see Clara was before I went out to the bar. Clara’s boyfriend thought she was too involved with my life, waiting around for me all the time, and I thought she was too involved with his. Anyways, I was looking forward to the wedding, but Mom ruined it for me the morning after the ceremony when she told me to leave Clara alone, and let her try to close the deal with the boyfriend. She needed to get some security in her life, Mom said. As if marriage is more secure than sisterhood! I woke Clara up right there and then and pulled her physically out of bed. ‘We’re going, let’s go!’ She went along with it even though she didn’t want to, probably because I was acting all manic and she didn’t want to make me worse.” “So that’s how you turned her into your sidekick?” “I guess. She’s always been scared of my moods.” “So what happened when you finally got back to your apartment?” “I’d given my key to a girl from the bar who I thought was my friend. She trashed the place. She’d had a big party, pizza boxes stinking everywhere, and she’d stolen some clothes. She left a leather jacket that was too small for me as payment. The nice jacket made us even, she said when I confronted her.” Steven nods, but doesn’t have any more to say on the topic, apparently. I want my brother to plug back into the present again so I go, “See these?” and point to the reproductions on the wall above the couch. “They aren’t my actual paintings. Richard copied them and he thinks I haven’t noticed. They’re both a copy of a copy.” Steven gets up close. “Yes. But what has he done with your originals? And why didn’t he put those up? Didn’t you say they were supposed to be gifts from you?” “Yeah. He’s always trying to get me to paint these kinds of pictures, you know, copy the masters. It’s like an exercise you’d give students. Maybe he thinks I need the practice. Or he’s trying to get me to change my style. I’d rather do my real work. I don’t mind if he sells that, like he did with the pictures from the show.” “How is he paying you?” “He made a trust at the lawyer’s and gives me money from it when I ask.” “What? Like an allowance?” “I guess. He’s trying to make sure I don’t lose my benefits.” “You have a contract, then? I mean, if he’s your dealer or agent or something, you need tax records and stuff, don’t you? What papers did you sign? And by the way, weren’t your pictures insured for the show? Where’s your protection?” “My protection is the trust between us,” I say in a prim voice I barely recognize. I’d like to believe it. All the time he’s talking to me, Steven’s fiddling with Richard’s computer. It’s like how a doctor distracts you from the pain of the giant needle he’s putting through your skin. Steven logs on after only two tries at Richard’s password, Redshoes. “People should choose their passwords more carefully,” he murmurs. But it’s so easy to remember, I argue silently. A minute later, he says, “Bingo. Well Mandy, it looks like you’re pretty successful on these gallery websites.” He scrolls through the sites on the recent history tab. “They’re auctioning off that one we photographed last month right now. Let me look at the bids.” “That painting is practically still wet!” I know I’m missing the point but I can’t tell where it is. “You’re not rich enough to pay all your own medical bills, but you’re making headway.” “That’s wonderful! So I could ask Richard for the money to buy a bigger easel?” “Think bigger. Way bigger.” “Maybe I could get a car that would hold more canvases at one time.” “Bigger.” I scratch my head, literally and figuratively. Steven chuckles. “You need to see a lawyer and draw up a business contract. Agents get a commission. The rest is yours.” I try to take all that in. He clicks and taps for a few minutes, and turns to show me the screen. Photos of my paintings come up, including the missing ones from the storage unit. My brother is proud of himself. “Right now, Richard Redshoes is officially stealing big profits from you. Your work is probably paying for all these renovations.” He taps the buttons that will redirect the payment of my work directly to me. “He wouldn’t use me like that!” I explode. “Why do none of you want me to get famous, or think a guy might like me for myself?” “Hold on a second. I’m trying to help you right now! You’re talking like a teenager. Of course, we know a guy might like you for yourself. We like you.” In spite of the fact I’m not a good person? In spite of the fact you caught me hitting Mom? In spite of the fact you practically threw me out of the house? He goes on, “And that’s not the point. You work hard, and we don’t want you to get fleeced. We’re just looking out for you.” “Well, quit it! Leave me alone!” “Before or after I haul the rest of your stuff up out of my car, and provide any other services Your Majesty requires?” They all want to be thanked for every little favor, all the time. I never got the hang of that kind of politeness. Now, when he exits the apartment, leaving me stranded, neither one of us says goodbye. After pacing and fuming for a while, I log off the computer and then take a cab back home to get my car. I see Steven there, lying on the yellow leather couch, trying to stretch out his back after all the heavy lifting he did for me. I snub him. He hates that. I drive to the coffee shop first thing. I can’t believe Steven thinks Richard is a con-man. Why would he say he set up a trust like the one Daddy set up for me if he hadn’t? And why should Richard break into my storage space? He knows I’ll give him whatever he wants. No, someone else must have broken into it. I look around the cafe reeking of coffee. It’s brightly lit, glaring even, and I imagine everyone with a bullseye on his forehead. In the corner I see the boy from the hospital parking lot. He looks flustered. He can’t ignore me this time, but when I beckon to him, he pretends he’s blind or stupid. I get up from my chair and stomp a threatening step toward him. It’s meant to be comical, and he catches my drift; takes a deep breath and slowly comes to me like some fish I’m reeling in. “Did you steal my paintings?” I pose my question and his face drains of color. His hands start to shake. I’m congratulating myself on finding the real thief so fast, while he snakes his trembling hand into his jacket. The word gun flashes across my mind, but he’s pulling out my exhibition catalogue, dog-eared now. I bark a derisive laugh and he jumps. “Oh, keep it,” I say. “I’m trying to find someone who stole my actual paintings.” “Someone robbed you?” He’s horrified and it’s no act. “Yeah. Took my pictures out of storage and sold them online.” “That’s crappy! Will the police help you? I have a cousin on the force.” I let him write down this cousin’s contact information. When he passes the paper to me, I see the mark on his forehead disintegrate. I wave him away and he slinks out the door. I sit back down to my coffee and hope I don’t see anyone else I know. No such luck. Everyone in the neighborhood comes to this place for happy hour, although there is no liquor. So what’s so happy about it? There are little fried snacks they give to customers, for free, for one literal hour. They don’t have to be actual paying customers, either, as the line of homeless people now forming at the buffet table knows. The museum director catches my eye. As usual, she’s well-dressed enough in her artsy-craftsy style so that the less pretentious customers give her a wide berth. I flick my wrist at her and she takes it as an invitation to sit down with her plate of free food. The buffet tables are already being put away to discourage any gorging. “Poof! It’s like a mirage,” she jokes. I don’t respond. Seeing as I have no food, she plucks a morsel from her plate, puts it on a napkin, and pushes it toward me. “Did you hear about our colleague Nancy, the woman who does intaglio?” “What about her?” “She got caught in an e-mail art scam last week and lost several pieces, as well as some money.” My mouth is full so I gesture for her to go on. “Someone from Milan sent her an email to say they had looked at her online portfolio and wanted to buy some specific pieces. The con-man offered to send her a check, banker’s draft, or credit card number to pay for the art. The payment he would give her was for the cost of the art work and the cost of shipping overseas, he said. He then asked her to send the overpayment to his shipping agent. So he essentially got her to send him money before she discovered the payment was fraudulent.” I can’t really follow all this, but I swallow the rest of my snack and make the appropriate sympathetic noises. “We must protect you from this kind of trickery!” You and what army? I silently ask. We are interrupted by the director’s sister. They are dressed like twins, but they are not identical. In fact, they are opposites in coloring and height and girth. Nobody would guess they were related. The sister says to me, “We’re sure our friend Richard looks out for you in these matters. We hear he has taken you under his capacious wing.” “I suppose you might say I’m protected. Richard and I are now an item, as they say.” The sister raises her eyebrows while the director furrows hers, intent on her snack. The twin goes on, “Oh! We thought it was purely a professional relationship.” She also bites into a crunchy appetizer, rather viciously. “Well, isn’t it nice, and fitting, that the pair of you got together. He’s been following your work avidly for years.” “Hmmm.” I toy with the rest of my finger food. I already know it’s too greasy to eat, and anyways I’ve lost my appetite. “He’s got quite an eye. He noticed your work at the Drawing Center. He says he met you there, when he was a waiter working his way up in the gallery system. Perhaps he was beneath your notice in those days. You were very up-and-coming.” Why is she being so familiar with me? She doesn’t know me. I wonder which twin Richard had to sleep with to get me a show. At the first flare of my jealousy, the light in the room dims. A girl comes to the table to ignite the candle on the red checkered tablecloth. The shadows distort the director and her twin’s faces, but the flame gives the waitress an angelic glow. “Did Richard ever tell you the story about his signature red shoes?” the sister asks. I shrug. I try to ignore his shoes, mostly because they scream for attention. They actually do amuse me, but I would never admit it to Richard. I think of my old professor, who looked me up and down whenever I wore Mom’s fake fur tiger print coat. It was too flashy for him, but he was attracted to it all the same. My long blonde hair and good legs bothered him enough that he would mutter “Sensory overload!” when confronted with all the erotic symbols at once. The twin goes on. “When we were all young and hungry in New York, he sought high and low for an accessory to make him stand out and get noticed. We tried out hats, cravats, wild socks, and then we told him a fairytale about a girl who finagled a pair of red shoes, went out dancing in them, and could not stop. The shoes could not stop dancing, I mean. And she could not take them off. The shoes, I mean. So, she danced to the town executioner’s house, and talked him into slicing off her feet. Which he did, being blood-thirsty by both nature and vocation. The red shoes, with the girl’s feet still in them, danced away. So the shoes became a talisman for our Richard.” There’s too much information crushing my mind. I start to say something but forget what it was. My hands begin to sweat and shake. I excuse myself. The director barely notices my leaving, and ignores her sister as she leaves too. I wobble to a standing position and begin to move toward the exit. I drive slowly back to the apartment, accompanied by honking cars lined up behind me that cannot pass me on the narrow road. When I unlock the door to the apartment, I think I’m in the wrong place, but then I remember the apartment is part gallery now. I throw my body across Richard’s bed, wishing he’d come home. He’s the only one who can soothe me. He’ll tell me about the director and her sister. At last, his key turns in the lock. I’m half asleep by then, but I startle fully awake. “Did I scare you?’ he laughs as if that was his intention. “Of course not. I knew it was you.” “Do you want to go back to sleep, or shall I make tea?” He’ll make it anyway, whether I want it or not, so I stretch and yawn and sit up against the pillows. We settle in with our cups. “How was your day?” “Well, I found out that my storage facility was broken into, for one thing.” His voice drops to the pitch he uses when he’s paying attention. “Did you report it?” “Yes. Steven was with me and helped me out. I wanted to bring a canvas or two here to work on.” He raises an eyebrow and glances over at my easel. My half-finished copy of a de Kooning is propped up there. Finger exercises, scales, and arpeggios is what I think of all that. Once, I suggested he let me do my own painting in the style of the famous artists, not copy the actual famous painting. He said that’s been done to death, even more so than the ordinary kind of copying. I don’t care. It would’ve made it more interesting for me, but that’s not the point, it seems. “So you think someone broke into your bin. Did they take your work?” “Yeah!” “And you think they might have sold it?” He asks the questions like he’s trying to get me to piece together a puzzle, or like my shrink does when she wants me to answer my own question. “Why else would they break in? To tidy up?” “That’s my job, isn’t it, to sell your pictures?” “And nobody else’s.” I snuggle up against him, but his body is as unyielding as cement. “Do you mean to say I must clear the sale of each piece with you first?” “Well, uh…no, I guess.” I’m beginning to understand. “Because, you know that would really slow things down. If I am to continue doing what I’m doing for you, I need complete access, no second-guessing of my motives on your part. And for God’s sake, ease up on the paranoia!” “Oh. Ok.” “I am sorry about the lock. I intended to have it fixed this week. Make me a copy of the new key, will you? And, as for the disorganized finances, you’ll get what’s coming to you, of course. I can’t believe you would think otherwise.” I could have done with a little more reassurance, but Richard has set down his teacup by the side of the bed, turning away from me. In seconds he’s asleep. It makes me jealous, how easy sleeping is for him. I listen to him murmur in his dreams as he sinks in deeper, and I picture the workings of his brain. I wish I could comb his synapses for clues about how he feels about me. Whatever it is, we’re too entangled to separate now. He’s my last chance. Why am I so afraid of breathing on my own? Why does he want to devour my life, how did he catch my disease, is he my creation or am I his, is evil real, why do I feel like I’m melting? I’ll never be able to sleep now. I get up and quietly open the bedroom closet. The line of red shoes looks different to me tonight, smaller somehow, not as amusing. It must be the influence of the museum director and her sister’s dancing shoes story. I crouch down to look at the shoes more closely. I want to catch one moving. I reach out to jiggle a patent leather heel. What makes me reach deeper into the closet, and wave my fingers through the dark air beyond the row of shoes? I’ve never done that before. A scent travels toward me, a faint whiff of oil paint rising from a shape, solid and cylindrical. I reach my hand in deeper and feel dozens of mailing tubes leaning against the closet wall. I pull one out from the thicket. I unroll it, synchronizing the noise with Richard’s snores. I’m careful not to make a sound. It’s an abstract by Helen Frankenthaler. Even before I take it out of the closet and into the light, I know it’s a fake. |
AuthorCheryl Snell is an award-winning poet and novelist, author of the new family saga Bombay Trilogy, a retelling of her previous novels Shiva's Arms, Rescuing Ranu, and Kalpavriksha. Archives
October 2020
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