by Lamb, Wally
“He’s nothing like Marissa, that’s for sure,” Viveca says. “She was certainly in rare form tonight.”
“Because she had too much to drink. When she and Lorenzo started doing those tequila shots and I suggested she’d had enough, she told me to stop acting so ‘momish.’ ”
“Well, it was a special occasion, after all. And she was fine. A little over-the-top near the end maybe, but nobody minded. Everyone got a kick out of those stories of hers about some of the auditions she’s been on. That imitation she did of the asthmatic casting director with the bad toupee was hilarious.”
To her, maybe. But I kept hearing desperation in those stories Marissa was telling—all those failed attempts to put herself out there. She worries me. I wonder if Orion noticed anything when she was visiting him.
“Well, it was a lovely evening,” Viveca says. “Just the kind of night I’d hoped for.” Really? I’d felt like I was walking on thin ice the whole time. “So, are you excited about our big day tomorrow?”
“Yes. I’m nervous, though. I’ll be relieved once it’s over.”
There’s an uncomfortable pause on her end. “Not nervous as in, you’re having doubts, I hope,” she says.
“No, no, of course not.” But I’ve already had one failed marriage. How could I not have doubts? “It’s just . . . well, you know how I am. I’m just not comfortable being the center of attention.”
She laughs. “Not even at your openings! Remember when that art critic from the Post came up from Washington to see your first show? He kept telling you how marvelous your work was, and you kept apologizing for it.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Well, darling, it’s a bride’s prerogative to be nervous on the night before her wedding. I just hope you’ll be able to relax and enjoy yourself tomorrow. I have some Xanax with me. Maybe you should take one before things get under way tomorrow.”
“We’ll see,” I tell her. “Right now, I just need to get some sleep.”
“Of course you do. And I do, too.”
“Oh, and about the Jones painting? I was going to look around for it some more when we got back here, but I’m just too tired. I will tomorrow morning, though. Or I could just call Orion and ask him what he did with it.”
“No, don’t,” she says. “I don’t want him to think I’m hounding you about it. He’s probably dropped it off at an appraiser’s and that’s where it is. Don’t worry about it. Now go get some sleep.” She tells me she loves me, I tell her I love her, too, and we end our call.
I walk over to the bureau to put down my phone and, out of habit, check my messages before turning it off. Which is silly, really. Why would the kids be calling me when I’ve been with them all evening? I’ve had two missed calls, both from the same number. A 4-0-1 prefix. What is that, Rhode Island? It’s probably that same condo company that called me last week. Come for a free weekend in Newport, enjoy the beach and the mansions, and let us sell you a time-share. Damned pests. Didn’t cell phones used to be immune from those stupid robo-calls? . . . Orion’s kept the same framed photos on the bureau, I see. He and I on our anniversary cruise, the five of us on that whale watch we took. My eyes linger on the kids’ high school graduation portraits. God, they look so young. The lighting in the restaurant was dim tonight, but I think I saw some gray in Ariane’s hair. Orion’s mother went prematurely gray—she probably takes after her. . . . Andrew’s hairline has receded a bit, and his face is thinner than it was back then. Makes him look even more like—No! Don’t go there. Chase Kent out of your head or you’ll never get to sleep.
I put my hand on the lamp switch, ready to turn it off, then change my mind. There’s a stack of magazines on Orion’s bedside table. I’m keyed up. I’ll read until I get drowsy. I pick up a New Yorker and thumb through it. Find an article on Julian Schnabel. That will do.
I pull down the covers and climb into bed. Lie back on the same familiar mattress with its peaks and valleys. The same pearl gray sheets I’d lie against while he nuzzled me, kissed my neck and told me how much he loved me—the predictable preliminaries. I got pregnant with the twins at the first place we lived in, but Marissa was conceived here, in this bed. My mind wanders back to the way Ariane’s baby was conceived: in some fertility clinic office, by injection. Why couldn’t she have waited? Held out at least until she was in her midthirties? It wasn’t inevitable that no one else would come along. She gave up too soon. . . .
These pillows feel different—firm and spongy. Not nearly as comfortable as the goose down pillows we used to have. The kids told me tonight that he’s met someone up there on the Cape—a marine biologist who teaches at . . . where was it? The University of Rhode Island? They seemed to like her. Well, good. I’m glad for him. I’ve worried about Orion. I still don’t understand why he gave up his practice so suddenly, or why he’s decided to put the house on the market. Well, whatever. If he’s rebuilding his life, then good for him. I may have left Orion for Viveca, but I still care deeply about him. I glance over at the pictures on the bureau. We shared a life, for Christ’s sake. He’s the father of my children. Why wouldn’t I still love him?
I punch these stupid new pillows, trying to get more comfortable, but they’re unyielding. Why would he have kept everything else the same but gotten new pillows? It doesn’t make sense. Okay, stop it, Annie. Just read.
“At Palazzo Chupi, the converted West Village horse stable where artist and film director Julian Schnabel now resides with his . . .” Three unique and interesting individuals. She’s right. They are. I’m glad she likes them. And no, that comment she made about Berkeley wasn’t a dig. It was just an observation. . . . Well, it was a special occasion, after all. And she was fine. A little over-the-top near the end maybe. Was it just that, or does she have a drinking problem? She’s around alcohol all the time at that bar where she works. . . . Has he always been that reserved and serious? No, just the opposite in fact. I mean, he’s always had a temper, yes, but Andrew’s always had that playful side, too. I smile thinking about how he and Minnie’s son hit it off this afternoon—Andrew coming back down from the attic with his old Atari or PlayStation or whatever it is. Hooking it up to the TV so that he and Africa could play video games. Minnie’s son was in heaven. And so was Andrew, for that matter. The two of them whooping and hollering like they were both little kids. But then tonight, sitting across from Viveca, he seemed so . . . glum. But maybe it didn’t have anything to do with my marrying her. Maybe it is his work. Is he playful with his girlfriend? I hope so. I hope she makes him happy. I wish she had come out here with him. I’d have liked to see the two of them together. Then I’d know. . . . What did they say that woman’s name was—the one Orion’s seeing? Tracy? That’s a younger woman’s name. I can’t remember knowing any Tracys back when I was in school. That couldn’t have been her calling me from Rhode Island, could it? No. Why on earth would she be calling me? It’s those time-share people.
“At Palazzo Chupi, the converted West Village horse stable where artist and film director Julian Schnabel . . .” Ariane came up to bed when I did, but Marissa and Andrew were still downstairs. Did they remember to lock up? Orion told me a while back that there’d been a break-in three or four houses down the hill. He’d said whose house it was, but I didn’t recognize the name. I get up, open the bedroom door, look down the stairs. The front hall light is still on and I hear voices—the television, maybe? Did they forget to turn it off? I’d better go down and check.
Standing at the entrance to the living room, I look through the French doors at the two of them. Marissa’s fast asleep on the recliner, her head flopped back, her mouth wide open. Andrew’s slumped on the couch, watching TV. There are three or four beer bottles on the coffee table, and he’s holding another. After Minnie and Africa left for their motel, he went out and came back with two six-packs. I walk into the room and sit down beside him. “Hi, honey. What are you watching?”
“Movie,” he says, his eyes still on the TV.
I look over at Marissa. “Your sister’s dead to the world over there, I see. When did she conk out?”
“About five minutes after this thing started,” he says. “She got all excited when it came on, and the next thing I knew, she was in snooze mode.”
“Well, it’s been a long day. What’s the movie?”
“Pulp Fiction. I’m a big Tarantino fan.” He takes a swig of his beer.
“Quentin Tarantino. Right? I met him at Viveca’s gallery last year.”
He turns and looks at me. “Really?”
“Uh-huh. But there was a big, noisy crowd and he was talking so fast that I kept missing parts of what he was saying.” No reaction. “You’ll have to ask Viveca about him. She knows him better than I do. He’s bought some pieces from her.”
“Yeah? Anything of yours?”
“Oh, no. I doubt my work is his cup of tea. His movies are pretty violent, aren’t they?”
“Yup. That’s what I like about them.”
“Really?” No response. “So. Speaking of Viveca . . .”
His body clenches. He sips his beer. “What about her?”
“Did you . . . do you like her?”
He shrugs. “She’s okay, I guess. Why?”
“No reason. I was just wondering. You know, it means a lot to us that you’ve made the effort to come out for the wedding.”
“Does it?”
“Yes, we both appreciate it.”
“No problem.” And that ends that.
I nod toward the TV. “So what other ones has he done?”
“Tarantino? Reservoir Dogs is his best. And uh . . . Kill Bill, Jackie Brown, Natural Born Killers.”
I tell him I saw that last one. “Part of it, anyway. I couldn’t take it, though. It was so brutal, I had to walk out.”
He looks at me and laughs.
“What?”
“No, it’s just . . . That’s a little hypocritical, don’t you think? Your stuff’s got plenty of violence.”
“Some of it has, yes. But—”
“I mean, when I was a little kid, some of it would kind of spook me. One of them, especially. The one where a little paper doll boy was being buried alive by a paper doll woman.”
I nod. “His mother. That piece was in my Grimms’ Fairy Tales series. I’d based it on a strange little story called ‘The Stubborn Child.’ ”
“Yeah, well, whatever it was based on, I’d go to bed and start thinking about it and then I wouldn’t be able to sleep.”
“Oh, honey. Really? I’m so sorry. You should have said something.”
“I did. I woke up Dad and told him. A couple of times, he took me back to bed and stayed with me until I got to sleep. But hey, when I got a little older? I started thinking your work was pretty cool. Actually, it was Jay Jay who convinced me.”
“Jay Jay?”
“Yeah. He was over here at the house one rainy day. We were like, maybe, ten or eleven. We were bored, so we went down to the basement to play some darts. And Jay started looking at these sketches you had done that were taped to the wall. And he goes, ‘What’s up with your mom?’ And I was—no offense, Mom, but it was kind of embarrassing, you know? Because the drawings were of a woman cutting some dude’s head off. In one of them, she was slicing his neck with a knife, and in another, she was holding up his head.”
I nod. “Artemisia.”
“Say what?”
“Artemisia Gentileschi. She was an artist from the Renaissance. I’d discovered a painting of hers in a book about baroque art. Judith Slaying Holofernes, it was called. I was doing some studies of it. Planning to base a piece on it, which I never ended up following through on. But I can see how, taken out of context, those drawings must have seemed pretty strange. And I’m sorry they embarrassed you.”
“Yeah, but let me finish. Jay started complaining about how his mother was Mrs. Fuddy Duddy, and how it must be cool to have a mom who was an artist who did stuff like this. And after he said that, I started thinking that, yeah, your artwork was pretty cool. So who was Judith, anyway? And what did she have against the poor slob whose head she lopped off?”
“It’s from the Old Testament. I’d started reading up on the artist. And apparently this Bible story spoke to her. As a revenge fantasy, I guess. She’d been raped and then publicly humiliated. Blame the victim, you know? Which happened a lot back then.”
“Happens a lot now, too. This woman, Jen, that I knew back in basic training? She got raped by her sergeant, and she was afraid to say anything because of that blame-the-victim stuff. And when it did come out, he didn’t take the hit for it. She did. They ended up giving her a dishonorable discharge.”
I shake my head in disgust. “What I admired about Artemisia’s painting was that she was taking back some of the power. Symbolically, I mean. Using her palette and brushes instead of a knife.” Gunfire explodes on the television. I glance at the gory murder scene in progress but have to look away. “I guess the difference between me and your friend Tarantino is that I’m exploring violence in my work. Not, you know, glorifying it. But maybe that’s not fair. Like I said, I only saw that one movie of his.”
“Part of one,” he reminds me.
I smile. “Point taken. But what I’m saying is that when I take on the subject of violence, it comes from a different place. I’m exploring justice issues, not just, well, blood for blood’s sake. But who knows? Maybe that’s what Tarantino’s drawing on, too.”
“It’s personal for you, isn’t it?”
I flinch. “Personal? What . . . what do you mean?”
“Isn’t it about your childhood? That flood you were in? One time when I was poking around down in your studio, I found this magazine article someone had written about you—about how angry your art is. And one of the things you said in that thing, I still remember, was how ‘violent’ the water was that night. And hey, your mother and sister drowned. Why wouldn’t you be angry about a raw deal like that? I knew a little about your childhood, but I found out a lot more when I read that article.”
Not the worst of it, he didn’t. I remember how cautious I was with that reporter. What I did and didn’t tell her. “Like what, for instance?”
“Well, I knew your mom drowned that night, but I didn’t know your baby sister died, too. I didn’t even know you had a sister. Or that you got put in foster care after your father lost it. Left you in the lurch or whatever.”
Left you in the lurch with me.
Stop it! Shut up!
“Well, Andrew, reporters ask a lot of questions, but some of your answers get lost in translation.” Change the subject! Change the subject! “But anyway, my childhood is ancient history. So tell me. What do you think about your sister’s big news?”
He looks momentarily confused. Then he frowns. “Ariane’s you mean? I don’t know. Seems more like a Dr. Frankenstein pregnancy than God’s plan. In my opinion anyway. But hey, it’s her life. Right?”
“Uh-huh. I just hope she doesn’t regret it down the line.” I repeat what Viveca said over the phone: that Ariane is grounded and levelheaded, despite the decision she made. “So she’ll make it work, whatever the outcome. I guess both of my twins are in transition, huh? She’s having a baby. You’re getting married. It’s just too bad your fiancée couldn’t make it. I was really looking forward to meeting her.”
“Yeah, well . . .” He clunks his empty down on the table. Pulls another beer from the carton at his feet. “You know, now that I think about it, Oliver Stone directed Natural Born Killers. But Tarantino had something to do with it. Wrote the screenplay, maybe.” He points his beer bottle at the TV screen. “Okay, this part’s cool,” he says. “Watch.”
In the movie, a couple is at a nightclub. They’ve just announced a dance contest. The man doesn’t want to compete, but his date insists.
“Isn’t that John Travolta?”
“Yeah. Him and Samuel L. Jackson are hired killers. They’re hilarious.”
Hilarious hired killers? John
Travolta and his girlfriend get up to dance. “I like his little ponytail. He’s a good dancer, huh? Did you ever see Saturday Night Fever?”
He opens his new beer and takes a swig. “Unfortunately.”
“That’s an old Chuck Berry song they’re dancing to. Uncle Donald had the forty-five. He and Mimsy will be here tomorrow. Did I tell you?” He nods. “That’s the twist they’re doing, by the way. Oh, and now he’s doing the swim. Who’s playing the girlfriend? She looks familiar, too.”
“Uma Thurman. She’s his boss’s wife, not his girlfriend. There’s a great scene coming up where she ODs on something and Travolta starts freaking out. He’s supposed to be looking out for her, and if she dies, he’s going to be up shit’s creek with his boss.”
“Oh. But anyway, it’s too bad Casey-Lee couldn’t come. I was looking forward to meeting her.”
“Yeah, you just said that.” He grabs a pillow and holds it against his chest. Okay, message received. But when I look back at the TV, a commercial’s come on. He grabs the remote and turns down the volume. “I hate it the way they jack up the sound when these stupid ads come on.”
In the quiet, I hear Marissa snoring. “Boy, she’s really out. Isn’t she?”
He glances over at her and shakes his head. “Not surprised after what she put away today.”
“Oh, I know. It seemed like every time I looked down at her end of the table tonight, the waiter was refilling her wineglass. And then those tequilas on top of that?”
“Yeah, and she was already feeling no pain when we got here this afternoon. Knocked down a couple of Bloody Marys before we left the Cape this morning, ordered herself a double Jameson at the place where we stopped for lunch.”
“Oh my god. Do you think her drinking’s becoming a problem?”
“Duh,” he says.
“Maybe this acting thing is taking its toll. She’s always joking about those auditions she goes to, but it must be pretty stressful.”
