The Remains (4 page)

But then,
I think there was more to it than that. At the risk of tossing him
a compliment, Michael was not a failure as a novelist. His first
published novel,
The Hounds of Heaven
,
received rave reviews. It was an auspicious start for the
young novelist. Problem was, Michael decided for himself that he
was now in line for the Pulitzer, which gave him the right to drink
and snort away whatever money he made in advances and
royalties.

The ultimate result?

An
extended bender landed him unknowingly in Key West passed out on
the steps of Hemingway’s house where he was diagnosed with nervous
exhaustion. It was then I decided, “Enough is too much.” One month
in a Poughkeepsie institution, Four Winds, the dissolution of our
marriage and one personal bankruptcy later, Michael went right back
to
biting
the nail
as though he’d
never skipped a beat. While he still imbibed in a daily beer or
two, his drinking was kept very much in check. Usually by yours
truly.

Back to my original question: why did Michael
insist on working at my place? Despite his setbacks, he was
determined to be a bestseller. That meant a return to his roots,
going back to what made him a success in the first place—writing in
the presence, or proximity anyway, of me. And even though we were
no longer husband and wife, if I could act as some sort of human
good luck charm for him, then what harm could it possibly do?

Besides, when Michael was happy, so was
I.

“Where’d you get the cool painting?” he
asked, the Hemingway guise thankfully abandoned.

I turned, locking my eyes onto the two-by-two
canvas leaned up against the bookcase.

“Franny gave it to me.”

Michael’s eyes went wide.

“Franny,” he said, like a question. “I
thought his stuff sold in the tens of thousands of dollars?”

I nodded. “Strange isn’t it,” I agreed. “He
could easily get ten or fifteen thousand for it from some collector
down in Chelsea, yet he just gives it to me out of the blue.”

Setting his Pepsi down, Michael got up and
walked the few steps to the bookcase. He picked the painting up by
the borders and, as if it were a mirror, gazed directly into it,
studying it at eye level under the light of the stand up lamp.

“Ten or fifteen grand, huh?” he posed in a
scheming voice. “If only writing were that easy. Looks like some
kindergartner on a sugar high went to town on somebody’s landscape
with a set of Sharpies.”

That’s when it hit me.

Getting up from the couch arm, I set my Pepsi
onto the coffee table, taking my place beside my ex. The painting
was positioned between us, below the lamp light, in Michael’s
hands.

“Can I ask you a question? Get an honest
opinion?”

Although we were standing shoulder to
shoulder, I could see out the corner of my eyes that Michael was
smiling, obviously pleased that I’d chosen to tap into his cultural
and artistic expertise.

“When you look into this piece, when you eye
it directly in the center, do you notice anything odd?”

He took a moment to gaze at the painting’s
center point, alternating between pulling the canvas closer to his
face and pushing it away for a more peripheral view.

He bit his bottom lip.

“Like I said, some sugared up, psychotic five
year old and a Sharpie.”

My eyes laser beamed on the bright red, green
and yellow pastel dashes and the pastoral landscape behind them. I
picked out the word ‘Listen’ painted in tan letters.

“You don’t see a word spelled out in the
center?” I pressed.

“What word?”

I reached out with index finger extended and
spelled out the word.

L-I-S-T-E-N.

He bit his bottom lip again, making a funny
light-bulb-shining-over-his-head squint.

“You see ‘Listen,’” he said. “I see
‘S-E-X.’”

There you have one of the essential
differences between Michael and me.

He laughed.

I didn’t.

“I’m serious. You don’t see ‘Listen’ at
all?”

“
It’s not
that I don’t see it, Bec. Because when you map it out like that I
definitely see the word or at least a
word that resembles ‘Listen’.” He paused, chomping
down once more on the lip.

“But?” I said, pushing, pressing.

“But I also see the word ‘Sex.’”

“Michael.”

“Hear me out, honey. The point I’m trying to
make is that this is the work of an autistic genius who, it pains
me to admit, is one-hundred times more successful at his art than
you and me combined.”

The ex was making sense. Beginning to make
sense, that is.

“Your point?”

“It’s like one of those tests the shrinks
gave me night and day down in Poughkeepsie. The Horseshack test.
You know, flashcards with splotches of black ink on them. You’re
supposed to offer up an immediate interpretation of them; find some
meaning, assign some sense to the splotch.”

“Rorschach Test,” I corrected.

“Whatever. I just think that what we have
here is the same or at least a similar situation.”

I nodded, even though I wanted to tell him
that there was nothing subjective about the word I saw in the
center of Franny’s painting. But then maybe Michael had a point.
Maybe the word I saw was a simple case of my interpretation and my
interpretation alone. It wasn’t like I had been looking or
searching for the word when my eyes first glimpsed the image.
Franny hadn’t pointed out anything specific to me. I immediately
saw the word and since then, I hadn’t been able to put it out of my
mind. And what about the artist giving it the title of ‘Listen’?
Was that just a coincidence or suggestive reasoning?

I turned and went back to the couch.

Michael set the painting back down, resting
it gently back up against the bookcase.

“
Ten
grand,” he said, a little under his breath—a little
too
under his breath.

He brought his right hand up to his face,
began dropping one finger after other, all the time whispering near
silent calculations to himself.

“What if we go on e-Bay—”

“Michael,” I spat, cutting him off. “Don’t
even think about it.”

“Just a suggestion,” he smirked, eyes
wide.

“Here’s a suggestion,” I said, gripping the
empty Pepsi can. “Get a job.”

MICHAEL FACED ME.

“What’s this all about, Rebecca? What’s going
on here?”

I shook
my head, ran my hand through my hair as if to say,
Nothing
. But I
felt something snap inside my brain. I felt my heart begin to pound
and Molly’s soft voice filled my head.

“
Tell him the truth.”

But I couldn’t do it. Like a screw that had
rusted over time inside its solid metal bolt, the secret was too
entrenched. Even if I tried to tell Michael, I feared that all I
might possibly manage would be to open my mouth with no words
coming out. So what did I do instead? I just stared at him, with a
frowning, puppy dog face of my own.

“You all right, Bec?” he asked after a beat.
But we’d been married after all. We’d shared intimacy after
intimacy. It was true, he loved me and despite my anger for what
had happened during his binging crazy period, I still loved him
too. With that clearly in mind and heart, I knew that he knew that
I was holding something back. Something that once revealed might
forever alter the way he perceived me. The way he perceived us. Or
what had been us.

I knew how much my silence must have been
hurting him.

Seeking a distraction I picked up his near
empty Pepsi can, handed it to him, then made my way back into the
kitchen to toss mine into the recycling bin. Outside the
double-hung window over the sink the rain picked up in intensity.
This storm was definitely going to be an all-nighter.

“You hungry?” I offered, suddenly hoping that
Michael would say yes; that maybe after a couple of hours and some
hot food in me, I might loosen up that rusted screw, begin to spill
the details of a three decade old secret.

But instead, he entered the kitchen and
tossed the empty can into the blue recycle bin next to the trash
container. Having him next to me in the kitchen made me think about
a time when the bin might have been filled with a dozen empty beer
bottles and the mortgage was three months overdue.

But then it also reminded me of something
wonderful.

Michael and I, during our first year
together, sitting outside the Café Deux-Magots in Paris on a
bright, cool, early spring afternoon. On one side the St.
Germaine-des-Pres church and on the other the Seine, lovers and
thinkers slowly walking the cobble walk that bordered its left
bank. Both of us dressed in leather jackets and scarves, drinking
cappuccinos and smoking cigarettes, our eyes never tired of looking
into each other’s faces, our knees touching under the little round
table and on occasion the tips of our fingers touching and that
wonderful electric shock sensation that went through our bodies
each time it happened. Michael was on his way to becoming a famous
novelist and I was going to be a famous artist and together we were
going to be the toast of Paris and New York.

Eight years later, I was standing inside the
open refrigerator door of my north Albany apartment. I was looking
at the food and thinking that now there was only one person to cook
for instead of two.

“
What’s
so important you can’t stay for dinner?” It was a question I posed
against my better judgment. Not because I knew what he might say in
response. But because I was
afraid
of what he might say.

He pursed his lips.

Here it comes.

He inhaled. “I, uh, have a date,” he mumbled
with a quick nervous bob of his head.

So there it was: bang, pow, right smack in
the kisser.

I would have gladly cut off my right pinky
finger not to look affected, even if I was feeling a lump of lead
lodge itself in my sternum.

“You okay, Bec?” he said yet again. This time
with even more concern in his voice.

What I wanted to say was this: whose home do
you use for a studio? Who do you need to be close to in order to be
creative?

Instead I proceeded to plant the fakest smile
you ever saw on my face.

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?” he asked. “Cause you’re acting
more than a little weird. The ‘Listen’ stuff and all.”

I shook my head, put back one of the two
Pepsi cans and shut the fridge door… a little more forcefully than
the actor in me would have preferred. I needed him to leave. But he
just stood there, brown eyes beaming into me.

“What are you going to do tonight?” he
smiled.

“Bed early,” I said through clenched teeth.
“Big class tomorrow.”

But if I
had said,
Nothing, I have no life
, it would have sent the same exact message.

Michael leaned into me, giving me a peck on
the cheek. He shot out of the kitchen, grabbed his leather jacket
and his beret and put them on.

“By the way,” he said. “What does Franny call
the painting?”

“’Listen’.” I said, following him around the
corner into the living room.

“
Come
again?” he said. The question gave me pause until I realized
Michael thought I had asked him to
listen
. As in, Listen up!

“Meaning,” I clarified, “that’s what Franny
calls the painting, ‘Listen’.”

Michael laughed, as though suddenly
understanding the punch-line to some silly joke.

“No kidding,” he said. “Maybe there’s
something to your vision after all.”

I tossed him a smile. Yet another fake
one.

“I hope you don’t think me a jerk for
dating,” Michael said, as he opened the back door and stepped out
onto the stone terrace in the rain. “You’re free to date too you
know. Test the waters a little. Who knows, maybe in the end, seeing
other people will bring us back together.”

I bit down on my bottom lip.

“Isn’t it pretty to think so,” I said,
closing the door behind him.

TIME TO BE ALONE with my old friend
self-pity.

For a moment I thought about taking a long,
hot shower, then changing into some baggy sweats, popping a movie
into the DVD player. Or maybe I would turn on the Food Channel, get
a dose of Rachael Ray. Something pretty, peppy and mindless…
anything to distract me from the events of the day.

Then I thought of just drinking myself into a
self-sedating oblivion. But then poisoning myself over Michael’s
new found love life didn’t sound very appetizing either. Of course
there was always the cell phone and Robyn. But I couldn’t exactly
call her while she was on a date.

From across the room I stared at Franny’s
painting. The word ‘Listen’ peered out at me from the center of the
canvas like a laughing, heckling hyena.

That’s when I got the most incredible cramp
in my stomach. It felt as though some invisible creep had
sucker-punched me in the gut. Now I definitely knew what I was
going to do next.

I sprinted for the bathroom.

Moments later I was back on the couch,
stomach cramps no longer an issue. But I felt drained. My forehead
was pasty with sweat, my limbs were shaking, my mouth was dry.
Turning my attention to the coffee table, I discovered that in all
my sudden hurry to make it to the bathroom, I must have tipped over
a glass of water because now I was left with a puddle of water that
extended from the tabletop onto the hardwood floor below.

That
spill became the perfect metaphor for my day. You’d think I might
attend to it right away. But Franny’s painting was doing its magic.
It’s
black
magic. It
was calling me again. Not only the image of the grass field and
dark woods beyond it—a landscape that now was very much mimicking
the one of my youth; the field and the woods that Molly and I
accessed from outside the back door of our farmhouse—but also the
crazy, colorful abstract lines that were hastily painted over the
scene.