by Stephen King
"So you said. Tell me something, muchacho. Looking at this . . . and thinking of all the other ones you've done since you started . . . would you change the accident that took your arm? Would you change it, even if you could?"
I thought of painting in Little Pink while The Bone pumped out hardcore rock and roll in thick chunks. I thought of the Great Beach Walks. I even thought of the older Baumgarten kid yelling Yo, Mr. Freemantle, nice chuck! when I spun the Frisbee back to him. Then I thought of waking up in that hospital bed, how dreadfully hot I had been, how scattered my thoughts had been, how sometimes I couldn't even remember my own name. The anger. The dawning realization (it came during The Jerry Springer Show), that part of my body was AWOL. I had started crying and had been unable to stop.
"I would change it back," I said, "in a heartbeat."
"Ah," he said. "Just wondering." And turned to take away Elizabeth's cigarette.
She immediately held out her hands like an infant who has been deprived of a toy. "Smoke! Smoke! SMOKE!" Wireman butted the cigarette on the heel of his sandal and a moment later she quieted again, the cigarette forgotten now that her nicotine jones was satisfied.
"Stay with her while I put the painting in the front hall, would you?" Wireman asked.
"Sure," I said. "Wireman, I only meant--"
"I know. Your arm. The pain. Your wife. It was a stupid question. Obviously. Just let me put this painting safe, okay? Then the next time Jack comes, send him down here. We'll wrap it nice and he can take it to the Scoto. But I'm gonna scrawl NFS all over the packing before it goes to Sarasota. If you're giving it to me, this baby is mine. No screw-ups."
In the jungle to the south, the bird took up its worried cry again: "Oh-oh! Oh-oh! Oh-oh!"
I wanted to say something else to him, explain to him, but he was hurrying away. Besides, it had been his question. His stupid question.
iii
Jack Cantori took Wireman Looks West to the Scoto the following day, and Dario called me as soon as he had it out of the cardboard panels. He claimed to have never seen anything like it, and said he wanted to make it and the Girl and Ship paintings the centerpieces of the show. He and Jimmy believed the very fact that those works weren't for sale would hype interest. I told him fine. He asked me if I was getting ready for my lecture, and I told him I was thinking about it. He told me that was good, because the event was already stirring "uncommon interest," and the circulars hadn't even gone out yet.
"Plus of course we'll be sending JPEG images to our e-listers," he said.
"That's great," I said, but it didn't feel great. During those first ten days of March, a curious lassitude stole over me. It didn't extend to work; I painted another sunset and another Girl and Ship. Each morning I walked on the beach with my pouch slung over my shoulder, prospecting for shells and any other interesting litter that might have washed up. I found a great many beer and soda cans (most worn as smooth and white as amnesia), a few prophylactics, a child's plastic raygun, and one bikini bottom. Zero tennis balls. I drank green tea with Wireman under the striped umbrella. I coaxed Elizabeth to eat tuna salad and macaroni salad, heavy on the mayo; I chivvied her into drinking Ensure "milkshakes" through a straw. One day I sat on the boardwalk beside her wheelchair and sanded the mystic rings of yellow callus on her big old feet.
What I did not do was make any notes for my supposed "art lecture," and when Dario called to say it had been switched to the Public Library lecture space, which seated two hundred, I flatter myself that my offhand reply gave no clue as to how cold my blood ran.
Two hundred people meant four hundred eyes, all trained on me.
What I also did not do was write any invitations, make any move to reserve rooms for the nights of April fifteenth and sixteenth at the Ritz-Carlton in Sarasota, or reserve a Gulfstream to fly down a gaggle of friends and relatives from Minnesota.
The idea that any of them might want to see my daubings began to seem nutty.
The idea that Edgar Freemantle, who one year previous had been fighting with the St. Paul Planning Committee about bedrock test drillings, might be giving an art lecture to a bunch of actual art patrons seemed absolutely insane.
The paintings seemed real enough, though, and the work was . . . God, the work was wonderful. When I stood before my easel in Little Pink at sunset, stripped to my gym shorts and listening to The Bone, watching Girl and Ship No. 7 emerge from the white with eerie speed (like something sliding out of a fogbank), I felt totally awake and alive, a man in exactly the right place at exactly the right time, a ball that was a perfect fit for its socket. The ghost-ship had turned a little more; its name appeared to be the Perse. On a whim, I Googled this word, and found exactly one hit--probably a world's record. Perse was a private school in England, where the alumni were called Old Perseans. There was no mention of a School Ship, three-masted or otherwise.
In this latest version, the girl in the rowboat was wearing a green dress with straps that crossed over her bare back, and all around her, floating on the sullen water, were roses. It was a disturbing picture.
Walking on the beach, eating my lunch and drinking a beer, with Wireman or on my own, I was happy. When I was painting pictures I was happy. More than happy. When I was painting I felt filled up and fully realized in some basic way I had never understood before coming to Duma Key. But when I thought about the show at the Scoto and all the stuff that went into making an exhibition of new work successful, my mind went into lockdown. It was more than stage fright; this felt like outright panic.
I forgot things--like opening any e-mails from Dario, Jimmy, or Alice Aucoin at the Scoto. If Jack asked me if I was excited about "doing my thing" at the Selby Library's Geldbart Auditorium, I'd tell him oh-yeah, then ask him to gas up the Chevy in Osprey, and forget what he'd asked me. When Wireman asked if I'd talked to Alice Aucoin yet about how the various groupings were to be hung, I'd suggest we volley some tennis balls, because Elizabeth seemed to enjoy watching.
Then, about a week before the scheduled lecture, Wireman said he wanted to show me something he'd made. A little craftwork. "Maybe you could give me your opinion as an artist," he said.
There was a black folder lying on the table in the shade of the striped umbrella (Jack had mended the rip with a piece of electrician's tape). I opened it and took out what looked like a glossy brochure. On the front was one of my early efforts, Sunset with Sophora, and I was surprised at how professional it looked. Below the repro was this:
Dear Linnie: This is what I've been doing in Florida, and although I know you're awfully busy . . .
Below awfully busy was an arrow. I looked up at Wireman, who was watching me expressionlessly. Behind him, Elizabeth was staring at the Gulf. I didn't know if I was angry at his presumption or relieved by it. In truth, I felt both things. And I couldn't remember telling him I sometimes called my older daughter Linnie.
"You can use any type-font you want," he said. "This one's a little girly-girl for my taste, but my collaborator likes it. And the name in each salutation is interchangeable, of course. You can customize. That's the beauty of doing things like this on a computer."
I didn't reply, just turned to the next page. Here was Sunset with Witchgrass on one side and Girl and Ship No. 1 on the other. Running below the pictures was this:
. . . I hope you'll join me for an exhibition of my work, on the night of April 15th, at the Scoto Gallery, in Sarasota, Florida, 7 PM-10 PM. A First Class reservation in your name has been made on Air France Flight 22, departing Paris on the 15th at 8:25 AM and arriving in New York at 10:15 AM; you are also reserved on Delta Flight 496, leaving New York's JFK on the 15th at 1:20 PM and arriving in Sarasota at 4:30 PM. A limousine will meet your flight and take you to the Ritz-Carlton, where your stay has been booked, with my compliments, for the nights of April 15th-April 17th.
There was another arrow below this. I looked up at Wireman, bewildered. He was still with the poker face, but I could see a pulse beating on the right side of his
forehead. Later on he said, "I knew I was putting our friendship on the line, but somebody had to do something, and by then it had become clear to me that it wasn't going to be you."
I turned to the next page in the brochure. Two more of those amazing reproductions: Sunset with Conch on the left and an untitled sketch of my mailbox on the right. That was a very early one, done with Venus colored pencils, but I liked the flower growing up beside the wooden post--it was a brilliant yellow and black oxeye--and even the sketch looked good in reproduction, as if the man who'd done it knew his business. Or was getting to know it. The copy here was brief.
If you can't come, I'll more than understand--Paris isn't just around the corner!--but I'm hoping that you will.
I was angry, but I wasn't stupid. Somebody had to take hold. Apparently Wireman had decided that was his job.
Ilse, I thought. It's got to be Ilse who helped him with this.
I expected to find another painting over the printed matter on the last page, but I didn't. What I saw there hurt my heart with surprise and love. Melinda was ever my hard girl, my project, but I had never loved her the less for that, and what I felt showed clearly in the black-and-white photo, which looked creased across the middle and dog-eared at two of its four corners. It had a right to look beat-up, because the Melinda standing next to me could have been no older than four. That made this snapshot at least eighteen years old. She was wearing jeans, cowboy boots, a Western-style shirt, and a straw hat. Had we just come back from Pleasant Hill Farms, where she sometimes rode a Shetland pony named Sugar? I thought so. In any case, we were standing on the sidewalk in front of the little starter home we'd had in Brooklyn Park, me in faded jeans and a white tee-shirt with the short sleeves rolled up a turn and my hair combed back like a greaser. I had a can of Grain Belt beer in one hand and a smile on my face. Linnie had one hand hooked into the pocket of my jeans and a look of love--such love--on her upturned face that it made my throat ache. I smiled the way you do when you're about an inch away from bursting into tears. Below the picture it said:
If you want to keep current on who else is coming, you can call me at 941-555-6166, or Jerome Wireman at 941-555-8191, or your Mom. She'll be coming down with the Minnesota contingent, by the way, and will meet you at the hotel.
Hope you can come--love you either way, Pony Girl--
Dad
I closed the letter that was also a brochure that was also an invitation and sat staring silently down at it for a few moments. I did not entirely trust myself to speak.
"That's just a rough draft, of course." Wireman sounded tentative. In other words, not like himself at all. "If you hate it, I'll junk it and start again. No harm, no foul."
"You didn't get that picture from Ilse," I said.
"No, muchacho. Pam found it in one of her old photo albums."
All at once everything made sense.
"How many times have you talked to her, Jerome?"
He winced. "That hurts, but maybe you have a right. Probably half a dozen times. I started by telling her you were getting yourself in a jam down here, and that you were taking a lot of other people with you--"
"What the fuck!" I cried, stung.
"People who'd invested a lot of hope and trust in you, not to mention money--"
"I'm perfectly capable of refunding any money the people at the Scoto may have laid out on--"
"Shut up," he said, and I had never heard such coldness in his voice. Or seen it in his eyes. "You ain't an asshole, muchacho, so don't act like one. Can you refund their trust? Can you refund their prestige, if the great new artist they've promised their customers doesn't materialize for either the lecture or the show?"
"Wireman, I can do the show, it's just the goddam lecture--"
"They don't know that!" he shouted. He had a hell of a shouting voice on him, a real courtroom bellow. Elizabeth took no notice, but peeps took off from the water's edge in a brown sheet. "They have this funny idea that maybe on April fifteenth you'll be a no-show, or that you'll yank your stuff altogether and they'll have a bunch of empty rooms during the tenderloin of the tourist season, when they're used to doing a third of their yearly business."
"They have no reason to think that," I said, but my face was throbbing like a hot brick.
"No? How did you think about this kind of behavior in your other life, amigo? What conclusions did you draw about a supplier who contracted for cement and then didn't show up on the dime? Or a plumbing sub who got the job on a new bank and wasn't there on the day he was supposed to start? Did you feel real, I dunno, confident about guys like that? Did you believe their excuses?"
I said nothing.
"Dario sends you e-mails asking for decisions, he gets no answer. He and the others call on the phone and get vague replies like 'I'll think about it.' This would make them nervous if you were Jamie Wyeth or Dale Chihuly, and you're not. Basically you're just some guy who walked in off the street. So they call me, and I do the best I can--I'm your fuckin agent, after all--but I'm no artist, and neither are they, not really. We're like a bunch of cab-drivers trying to deliver a baby."
"I get it," I said.
"I wonder if you do." He sighed. Big sigh. "You say it's just stage fright about the lecture and you're going to go through with the show. I'm sure part of you believes that, but amigo, I gotta say that I think part of you has no intention of showing up at the Scoto Gallery on April fifteenth."
"Wireman, that's just--"
"Bullshit? Is it? I call the Ritz-Carlton and ask if a Mr. Freemantle has reserved any rooms for mid-April and get the big non, non, Nannette. So I take a deep breath and get in touch with your ex. She's no longer in the phone book, but your Realtor gives me the number when I tell her it's sort of an emergency. And right away I discover Pam still cares about you. She actually wants to call and tell you that, but she's scared you'll blow her off."
I gaped at him.
"The first thing we establish once we get past the introductions is Pam Freemantle knows zip and zoop about a big art exhibition five weeks hence by her ex-husband. The second thing--she makes a phone call while Wireman dangles on hold and does a crossword puzzle with his newly restored vision--is that her ex has done bupkes about chartering a plane, at least with the company she knows. Which leads us to discuss if, deep down, Edgar Freemantle has decided that when the time comes, he's just going to--in the words of my misspent youth--cry fuck it and crawl in the bucket."
"No, you've got it all wrong," I said, but these words came out in a listless drone that did not sound especially convincing. "It's just that all the organizational stuff drives me crazy, and I kept . . . you know, putting it off."
Wireman was relentless. If I'd been on the witness stand, I think I'd have been a little puddle of grease and tears by then; the judge would have called a recess to allow the bailiff time to either mop me up or buff me to a shine. "Pam says if you subtracted The Freemantle Company buildings from the St. Paul skyline, it would look like Des Moines in nineteen seventy-two."
"Pam exaggerates."
He took no notice. "Am I supposed to believe that a guy who organized that much work couldn't organize some plane tickets and two dozen hotel rooms? Especially when he could reach out to an office staff that would absolutely love to hear from him?"
"They don't . . . I don't . . . they can't just . . ."
"Are you getting pissed?"
"No." But I was. The old anger was back, wanting to raise its voice until it was shouting as loud as Axl Rose on The Bone. I raised my fingers to a spot just over my right eye, where a headache was starting up. There would be no painting for me today, and it was Wireman's fault. Wireman was to blame. For one moment I wished him blind. Not just half-blind but blind blind, and realized I could paint him that way. At that the anger collapsed.
Wireman saw my hand go to my head and let up a little. "Look, most of the people she's contacted unofficially have already said hell yes, of course, they'd love to. Your old line foreman Angel Slobotnik
told Pam he'd bring you a jar of pickles. She said he sounded thrilled."
"Not pickles, pickled eggs," I said, and Big Ainge's broad, flat, smiling face was for a moment almost close enough to touch. Angel, who had been right there beside me for twenty years, until a major heart attack sidelined him. Angel, whose most common response to any request, no matter how seemingly outrageous, was Can do, boss.
"Pam and I made the flight arrangements," Wireman said. "Not just for the people from Minneapolis-St. Paul, but from other places, as well." He tapped the brochure. "The Air France and Delta flights in here are real, and your daughter Melinda is really booked on em. She knows what's going on. So does Ilse. They're only waiting to be officially invited. Ilse wanted to call you, and Pam told her to wait. She says you have to pull the trigger on this, and whatever she may have been wrong about in the course of your marriage, muchacho, she's right about that."
"All right," I said. "I'm hearing you."
"Good. Now I want to talk to you about the lecture."
I groaned.
"If you do a bunk on the lecture, you'll find it twice as hard to go to the opening-night party--"
I looked at him incredulously.
"What?" he asked. "You disagree?"
"Do a bunk?" I asked. "Do a bunk? What the fuck is that?"
"To cut and run," he said, sounding slightly defensive. "British slang. See for instance Evelyn Waugh, Officers and Gentlemen, 1952."
"See my ass and your face," I said. "Edgar Freemantle, present day."
He flipped me the bird, and just like that we were mostly okay again.
"You sent Pam the pictures, didn't you? You sent her the JPEG file."
"I did."
"How did she react?"
"She was blown away, muchacho."
I sat silently, trying to imagine Pam blown away. I could do it, but the face I saw lighting up in surprise and wonder was a younger face. It had been quite a few years since I'd been able to generate that sort of wind.
Elizabeth was dozing off, but her hair was flying against her cheeks and she pawed at them like a woman troubled by insects. I got up, took an elastic from the pouch on the arm of her wheelchair--there was always a good supply of them, in many bright colors--and pulled her hair back into a horsetail. The memories of doing this for Melinda and Ilse were sweet and terrible.
