Perfect on Paper

by Janet Goss

  Work was a godsend. Having something to focus on besides Hank’s lengthening silence allowed me to maintain my stasis, and re-creating all those paillettes in paint required it. Under a watchful glare and a heartache that throbbed all day, I worked nonstop to transform the somber portrait into a riotous hybrid of two centuries.

  When I finished, I stepped back and smiled for the first time since Sunday. If anything, the woman’s expression was rendered even more malevolent by the addition of zebra print and the colorful strands of beads that cascaded down her neck.

  She just needed one finishing touch.

  I picked up a pair of coral-colored starburst earrings and, after making two tiny incisions in the surface of the photograph, affixed them directly to my subject’s ears.

  Perfect. Now I was done.

  As soon as I spotted the mannequin outside Vivian’s shop on Friday morning, I took the piece downstairs.

  Initially, her expression rivaled the portrait’s for sheer peevishness. “What the hell is going on here? Where’s the damn pig?”

  “On sabbatical.”

  She drew closer to inspect the surface of the photograph. “Actually, this is pretty clever. I love what you did with the earrings—and the Mackie jacket really pops. Guess this is a whole new direction for Hannah.”

  “That’s not a Hannah,” I said. “It’s a Dana.”

  “But—”

  “Sorry to break the news like this, but Hannah passed away last week. Complications from pneumonia.”

  “You can’t do that! It’s like—it’s like throwing away a fortune!”

  “I see it differently. You’ll save a fortune not having to hire an attorney to defend you against a fraud indictment.” Tom-Tom had done some additional research on the matter. As he’d informed me during our recent dinner, Vivian and I, as well as Graciela, were very much liable if Hannah’s true identity was ever exposed.

  But it was more than fear of prosecution that had caused me to lay Hannah to rest.

  “I’ve finally decided to lead a completely honest existence. Which means I’m no longer willing to paint under an alias.” Or lie to another boyfriend, I thought. Or derail my future in some new, unprecedented manner. I tilted my head in the direction of the canvas. “Take it or leave it.”

  She paced back and forth for a minute or so, eyeing the portrait and cursing under her breath. “What the hell,” she finally said. “Let me put it in the window this weekend and see how it goes over. We’ll stick with our usual fifty-fifty split, of course.”

  “Sixty-forty.”

  “What?”

  “Whoever buys the painting is likely to spring for the jacket as well. That’s pure profit for you.”

  “All right, fine. Sixty-forty.”

  “Unless it sells by the end of the weekend. Then we’ll know we’re onto something, and I’d say that entitles me to seventy-thirty.” Before she could unleash a fresh torrent of venom, I added, “I’m sure the volume will make it worth your while.”

  “Sixty-five percent, and you’re lucky I’m in a good mood. And speaking of volume, where do you expect to find a steady supply of old portraits?”

  “I have an idea about that.”

  When the 7:42 Bieber bus pulled into Kutztown that evening, Elinor Ann was waiting in the parking lot. I’d called right after my meeting with Vivian to let her know we had some major antiquing to do that weekend.

  “You’re skinny,” she said after hugging me.

  “I’m aware.” I’d lost nearly five pounds since my confrontation with Hank. I looked over at her idling car. “Where’s Cal?”

  “At home.” She paused. “With the boys.” She stood there, beaming, while the meaning of her statement sank in.

  “That’s fantastic! Was it the jumping jacks?”

  “Not this time.” She rolled her eyes. “It was Lurch.”

  During the drive home, she explained how her miraculous cure had come to pass.

  “Cal had to go see one of our suppliers in Harrisburg a couple of days ago. He was already running late, and he couldn’t find his cell. Turns out Angus has a new girlfriend, and he’d borrowed the phone for some late-night pillow talk. Well, Cal was mad enough about that, but when they turned the bedroom upside down and couldn’t find the phone—you can imagine. By that point the boys had to get to the school bus stop, so Cal stormed off in the truck with my cell, and it was time for me to take the dog out.”

  “That reminds me—how’s the house-training going?”

  “It’s—don’t ask. So anyway, Lurch, uh, assumed the position, and right after he was done and I was scooping up his, uh, deposit, I heard the faint strains of Iron Butterfly coming from inside the dog.”

  “What? Why?”

  She shot me a meaningful glance. “ ‘In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida’ happens to be Cal’s ringtone.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Oh yes. Well, by then the bus had already picked up the boys, and Cal was westbound on Route 22, so what choice did I have? I didn’t have time for jumping jacks. All I could do was grab Lurch and rush him to the vet. And ever since then”—she shrugged, smiling—“I’ve been making myself go out at least once a day ever since, no matter what.”

  “I can’t wait to meet this dog. He’s my hero.”

  “Well, your hero just cost me twenty-two hundred dollars in surgical fees, but I think maybe it was worth it.”

  “I bet that’s cheaper than a shrink would have been.”

  “That’s what I keep telling myself. Besides, all that exercise was giving me shin splints.”

  We led a charmed life that weekend. On Saturday morning, Elinor Ann and I rose at dawn to go scour the outdoor markets and antique shops of Adamstown.

  I’d already picked up three portraits when we spotted an aging biker-type leaning against his run-down truck in the parking lot of the Clock Tower Antique Mall. Propped against a tire was an oval-framed photograph of an exceedingly prim, white-haired matriarch with a neck like a giraffe—perfect for adorning with necklaces.

  “How much?” I asked.

  “Twenty-five.”

  “Is that your best price?”

  “What the hell. Make it fifteen.”

  As I opened my wallet, the man said, “Got a lot more like her in the truck if you’re interested in that sort of thing.”

  Did he ever. More than a dozen portraits were stacked inside, and most of them met my needs perfectly.

  “To tell you the god’s honest truth, I can’t hardly get rid of these things,” he confided. “I clean out houses for a living, and damn near every one of ’em’s got a bunch of dead relatives hanging on the walls. Ugly dead relatives.”

  We quickly exchanged cash and email addresses before loading up the trunk of Elinor Ann’s car.

  “You know, Angus is always looking to make a few extra dollars,” she said on the way back home. “I’m sure he’d be willing to come out here every month or so to make pickups for you.”

  “That sounds great. Now, how much is it going to run me to have you ship them out from the plant?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  That night, Lurch, who was as adorable as promised—even with a huge plastic cone on his head to prevent him from chewing on his stitches—slept at the foot of my bed. Which was no substitute for Hank sleeping next to me, but it was probably the best action I was going to get for a while.

  All weekend, I checked my cell incessantly for messages, but none of consequence appeared.

  “Aunt Dana?” Eddie said while we were at Willy Joe’s, having a late lunch before Elinor Ann took me to the bus. “How come you keep messing around with your phone?”

  “Oh, I’m just hoping to hear from a friend of mine. We had a fight.”

  “About what?”

  But how to answer the question? “My loose morals,” was concise, but obviously age-inappropriate. “I… did something that made him mad.”

  Angus let out a grunt. “Men.” I smiled, wishing he weren’t at that
age where a hug in public from one’s aunt constituted a severe breach of etiquette.

  “Don’t worry, Aunt Dana,” Eddie said. “You’re too nice to stay mad at.”

  “Eddie’s right,” Elinor Ann said while we waited in her car for the bus to appear. “I’m sure Hank will get over this. You just have to give him time.”

  “How much time?”

  “I’m not Nostradamus, in case you haven’t noticed. But when Cal and I came to the city and I saw you two together, it was obvious he cares about you. Four good months shouldn’t be undone by one unfortunate… lapse in judgment.”

  But Hank not only knew about my lapse in judgment; I’d spent Tuesday afternoon showing him exactly what had transpired for the duration of it. “I guess all I can do is… nothing. And hope he eventually comes around.”

  “Or not,” Elinor Ann said.

  I raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe it’s time to move on from Hank and meet someone new.”

  “What are you talking about? Didn’t you tell me it was time for me to be sharing my life with someone when I was here at Thanksgiving?”

  “I was, but then I realized something. Maybe you’re just not ready yet. People mature at different speeds. I got married and had kids—I had to do it faster than you. And I hate to admit this, but maybe I’m a little… jealous of you.”

  “Elinor Ann, nobody should be jealous of me. Especially lately.”

  “Well, you never got panic disorder.”

  “True.”

  “And you get to paint for a living. And you don’t have to pay for two college educations. And for all you know, you might meet the man of your dreams next Thursday.” She shrugged. “You can’t force yourself to settle down. Maybe being a grown-up is overrated.”

  I smiled, shaking my head. “That’s exactly what Billy Moody said to me a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Well, maybe he’s right.”

  I peered at her suspiciously. “Who are you? And what have you done with Elinor Ann?”

  “Oh, stop. Listen, Dana—I hope things work out with Hank. I really do. But if that doesn’t happen—well, I have a feeling you’re going to be okay.”

  “God, I hope so.” The bus rounded the corner, and I reached for my overnight bag and two portraits—enough to keep me occupied until the shipment arrived from the plant—and hugged her goodbye.

  “Think positive,” she said. “And for god’s sake—eat something once in a while.”

  By the time I returned home to discover an unblinking red light on the answering machine, despair forced me to take action.

  I was going to go over to the brownstone first thing in the morning and plead with Hank to forgive me. He hadn’t been unfaithful. If one of us was going to have to throw him- or herself on the mercy of the other, he was the obvious choice for throwee.

  I noticed with satisfaction that the ancestor painting was no longer displayed in the window of Vivian’s shop when I went out the following day. Good—my initial attempt to live an honest life had apparently been a success. Now all I had to do was hope my luck would hold.

  Hank’s truck was nowhere to be found on Seventh Street, but that was hardly unusual. He could just as easily be parked on Sixth, or Avenue A. Besides, even if he wasn’t home, I refused to be dissuaded. I’d brought my key, and I was prepared to go inside and wait for as long as it took for him to return. At least Dinner would be happy to see me.

  But instead of the familiar padlock, I discovered a pair of ornate brass doorknobs had been installed in my absence.

  I rang the bell, my heart pounding despite my determination.

  After a few minutes, an elderly, elegant blond woman dressed in a red velveteen pantsuit opened the door.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Oh—uh, is Hank around?”

  “You mean the contractor? He cleared the last of his things out of here over the weekend. I’m the decorator.”

  “The… decorator?” I stood there like some sort of jilted fish, my mouth opening and closing in wordless disbelief.

  “Yes, dear. He went off to—I forget where he said he was going, but if you’ve got a minute, I’m sure I have one of his business cards around here somewhere.”

  “That’s okay.” I slowly turned and began to navigate the front stoop, praying my legs would hold out until I made it back to the safety of home.

  “I’m sure you can track him down on the Internet,” she called after me. “It’s Wheeler. W—H—E—E…”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  A SIGHT FOR SORE EYES

  A couple of weeks passed, the time feeling like both an eternity and an instant, marked by working, musing, self-recrimination, and sad, sad music. I became a nocturnal creature, sleeping late into the afternoon after painting until dawn. It was a good way to stay out of sight, where I belonged.

  “You’re really starting to worry me, Dana,” Elinor Ann said. “Maybe you should just call the guy.”

  “Hank has both my numbers. Obviously he doesn’t want to talk to me.”

  “Maybe he just needs a little push.”

  “All evidence points to the contrary.” Just the memory of walking down the brownstone’s steps under the watchful eye of the decorator was enough to make my stomach hurt.

  “Are you eating?”

  “Trying.” All I could manage was tea and English muffins, like a sick person—which was exactly what I was. Not to mention heartbroken. And guilt-ridden. I’d lost almost ten pounds by now, but Elinor Ann didn’t need to know that.

  “Well,” she said, “at least the paintings are selling.”

  That they were. One afternoon I was awakened by Vivian’s broomstick, followed by a phone call when I failed to materialize.

  “You have to come downstairs.”

  “I don’t have to do anything.”

  “Come on—it’s good news. Incredible news.”

  “We’re a Best Bet!” she announced, brandishing a copy of New York Magazine, when curiosity lured me into the shop an hour later.

  Oh, “we” are, are we? I silently responded.

  Even so, my mood did lift a bit when I saw the picture of my long-necked matriarch next to an enthusiastic blurb with the headline, FASHION VICTIMS.

  Dana Mayo’s clever pastiches of ancestor portraits and vintage froufrou are just the thing to add zing to your walk-in closet—or studio apartment. Better still, you can pick up both the artwork and the outfit that inspired it at Chase, Manhattan on East Ninth Street.

  “That is somewhat exciting,” I conceded.

  And the perfect offering to take with me on my trip to Florida at the end of the month. Dad had made it clear he didn’t want birthday presents, but he’d be delighted if I were to present him with proof of my productivity. Perhaps I’d go on down to Gem Spa on Saint Mark’s and buy him a copy—along with one for myself.

  When I got to the newsstand, I hesitated. I’d come this far. Maybe it would be a good idea to continue on to Fred and Ethyl’s and eat a proper lunch for once.

  “There she is,” Ethyl said when I walked in. “Where’s Ol’ Blue Eyes?”

  “I was just about to ask if you’d seen him.”

  She laid a hand over her heart when the meaning of my words registered. “Aw, that’s tough. Sorry, girlie. I thought you two kids were a match.”

  “So did I.” I dropped into a seat at the communal table.

  “Lunch is on me today.” She sized me up, adding, “and you’d better finish it or you’re gonna disappear into thin air.”

  It was one of those freakishly warm days that sometimes arrive out of nowhere in mid-March, exposing the pasty limbs of the locals and inspiring way too much kissing on the street. By the time I returned home, I just wanted to draw the shades and crawl into bed.

  The phone began to ring as soon as I opened the door.

  “Hello?”

  Click.

  This time I knew better than to hurl the receiver against the wal
l. I’d only just replaced it.

  When the unseasonable weather held, I determined I should take advantage of it. The sunlight would be good for me. So would some physical activity. I resolved to take daily walks on all the side streets between Second and Avenue B, starting with Fourteenth. By the end of the week, I’d wrap it up down on Houston.

  Maybe I’d see Hank’s truck.

  But it was nowhere to be found along the sidewalks of the East Village. By now his work could have taken him anywhere. I might never find him.

  I did, however, find Ray Devine. A scrap from one of his old billboards—ironically, just the “Healthy” panel from the “Healthy, Wealthy, and Wise” campaign—still fluttered at the corner of Eleventh Street and First Avenue.

  I leaned against a wall and took him in. God, Ray, I silently addressed the picture. If only you were healthy.

  That was when I realized I hadn’t even begun to mourn the loss of Hank. I was still mourning Ray.

  Tears formed in my eyes and rolled down my cheeks. An ancient bag man pushing an overloaded grocery cart approached me for a handout, but he begged my pardon and continued down the street as soon as he saw my face.

  Then I got even crazier, if such a thing was possible. I began to make daily pilgrimages to see Ray, even though the temperatures had plummeted back into the twenties and some punk band, posting handbills for its upcoming gig, usurped the billboard and obscured half his image.

  The handbills were what finally snapped me out of it. This was ridiculous. And self-destructive. And no matter how much Ray’s death might have affected me, I still knew I’d been right to end the relationship, no matter how hard it had been at the time. I could never have wound up the way Lark would be soon enough, married to a man who was decades my senior; wondering every day if he would cheat on me the way he’d cheated on the previous wife.

  I took a deep breath. It was time I got unstuck and went about the business of my future, whatever it turned out to be.