False Impressions

by Laura Caldwell

  “Have you been to therapy?” Syd asked.

  “Not individual therapy,” I answered, not sure as I said it whether the distinction mattered. Sam and I had taken a stab at couples’ counseling. “But I really should, after the year I’ve had.”

  For some reason, this struck both of us as funny, and we laughed.

  “Wait, we have to get back to where we started,” I said. “Free association questions. And I’ll give it back to you.” I paused for a beat. “Look at me. Now, answer the question—what do I look like to you?”

  “The way God should look.” Syd also looked surprised at his own words. “Wow, sorry. That’s bizarre, sorry.”

  “That is bizarre. But I think that’s the point of this,” I said, waving my hand around the room, warming to the concept. “And I’m liking the sound of this bizarreness. Continue, please.”

  Syd smiled. “I think you’re incredibly sexy and…something else…I don’t even know what. But I didn’t think I could feel a sexual appreciation like this for anyone but Madeline. I’m kind of relieved.”

  Madeline and Syd had broken up around the time she moved to her new gallery last year. And in all that time, he hadn’t found anyone else attractive? “Nothing has been sexy to you except Madeline?” I asked.

  “That’s about right. Since I met her. It’s fucked up.”

  He said nothing.

  I said nothing. Finally, I asked, “So what exactly did you mean when you said I look like God should look?”

  He breathed out hard. “What did I mean?” he said, somewhat quietly as if asking himself. “I’m not traditionally religious, but if I did have to put an appearance to God, it would be magical and fiery.”

  “And that’s how you see me?”

  He nodded.

  “Okay,” I said, immensely flattered. “I will pretty much love you forever.” If he had any sense that I was working on Madeline’s thefts and he was trying to distract me, he was doing a good job.

  Syd laughed.

  “Do you believe in God?” I asked then. I had never asked that question of anyone, and I was surprised by the boldness of it.

  “Well…” He looked like he was thinking some more. The moment stretched, and I started to feel a little uncomfortable.

  “Maybe that’s an unfair question,” I said, “because everyone’s idea of God is different.”

  “Do you think I believe in God?” Syd asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why do you say that so definitively?”

  “You seemed like someone who sees the world as amazing, and usually those people believe in God as the world.”

  “Well put,” Syd said. “And you? Do you believe in God?”

  No easy answer came. My parents had taken us to church when I was young, but I couldn’t even remember what denomination the church was. I was envious, sometimes, of people who seemed so clear about their faith. People like Maggie, who went to church nearly every Sunday, and so did her family and they all knew exactly what they meant when they spoke of God.

  “I’m fascinated by the concept of saints,” I said. “My friend Maggie’s family is always murmuring requests to one saint or another. Like St. Christopher. Apparently, he can make sure you travel safe. And there’s another one who can help you find lost things.”

  “My family is from Pakistan, and they’re traditionally Muslim. We really like our saints.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Oh, no. People visit the saints’ tombs—they believe that by being close to the tomb they can share in some of the saint’s spirit.” He stared at me. “I used to think Madeline was a saint or a goddess of sorts.”

  “Used to?” I asked.

  “She’s human,” Syd said. “I know that now.”

  “Because you’ve seen her failings?”

  He shook his head. “Because my longing for her is waning. Finally.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say to that. Because I didn’t think I believed it.

  I asked him about Pakistan, and he explained he’d only been there once. I asked him how that culture had influenced his art and his life. He felt fortunate to be Pakistani, he said, but also to be an American. “Seeing my family’s heritage from a distance—I think that’s a gift.”

  He talked about how Madeline was the first person who allowed him to see his outsider status like that. Before her, he hadn’t felt entirely Pakistani or entirely American, and as a result, he always saw that as a bad thing. Until Madeline. She was an outsider, too. Even more so, since she didn’t know her birth family.

  Syd looked in the distance, a wistful gaze. “I want so badly to take Madeline there. To Pakistan.”

  Every road, every conversation, it seemed, led back to Madeline Saga.

  We had been talking for a while when we heard a faint knock, then another, this time louder—two raps.

  “Has it been an hour?” I asked Syd. The gallery owner had told us that when the hour was over, he would knock on the pyramid to let us know.

  “No.”

  Another knock. “That’s the signal.”

  “No,” Syd said again, sure and definitive. Then silence. Suddenly the room felt too quiet—tomblike.

  “Our hour is not up,” Syd said.

  “Uh, what do you mean?”

  More silence.

  “Seriously,” I said, starting to feel seriously itchy.

  “Seriously,” Syd intoned back. “The hour is not up, until…”

  “Until?”

  “Until you answer the question.”

  “What question?” It was hot in there, too.

  “The question,” he repeated.

  It felt as if the hidden room was sealing itself, becoming airless. I listened for another knock, but there was nothing.

  “Do you believe in God?” Syd asked.

  “Is that the question?”

  “That’s the question.”

  Did he really want an answer?

  He said nothing more.

  “Yes,” I said simply. “If I can say that the universe is God, then yes.”

  I turned and grasped for the ladder. As I climbed it, I realized that my own questions hadn’t been answered. I believed Syd was obsessed with Madeline still, but had he been stalking Madeline? Had he forged the paintings? Did he write that letter?

  But I couldn’t stop myself from climbing up those stairs, out of the Pyramus, as quickly as possible.

  32

  Syd, Madeline and I all went back to the gallery. I was confused about why Madeline had invited him, but as we talked and walked, it was clear she still didn’t believe the letter was from him. And I think it was that letter that made her want Syd around as protection.

  I felt more at ease now that we were out of the Pyramus. Thankfully, I was losing what we’d experienced in there. The hour hadn’t been physically taxing, but it had been intense. And spiritually? I didn’t often use that word, but yes, it had been spiritually intense, too.

  When we got back to the Wrigley Building, we said hello to the security guard, who pointed to a small crate that had been delivered for Madeline. “Madeline,” I said. “Would this be a good time for you to show me how you unpack deliveries?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “And Syd probably knows about the process, too, right?”

  “Yes,” Madeline said. “Probably more than me.”

  Syd smiled in awknowledgement.

  Interesting.

  In the back room, Madeline and Syd began unpacking the crate, both giving me instructions about how to pry open the top, how to ensure that nothing inside was touched.

  Madeline pulled off the top of the crate and opened the packing slip.

  “Who is it from?” Syd asked.

  “It doesn’t say.” Madeline shrugged.

  “Maybe it’s that Rothkov,” Syd said. It sounded like they had shared such conversations many times before, and clearly they still spoke about the art Madeline currently represented.

&nb
sp; Madeline’s gloved hands finally found something inside and she lifted it out.

  “What in the hell?” I heard myself saying. I clamped my mouth shut. Clearly, I hadn’t developed my art tastes very much because to my eye, what she was holding was gruesome. And I’m not a girl who says gruesome very easily.

  It was a wooden pedestal, painted black, with something plastic above it. The plastic had been molded to look like a block of flesh, and in the top was a knife. The knife’s blade was sunk deeply into the block, a ring of blood around the handle.

  Madeline put it down, the curiosity on her face turning to something verging on horrified. I looked at Syd. His black eyebrows were furrowed, his face suspicious. He stood and walked toward her, looking over Madeline’s shoulder. None of us said anything. Instead, we all looked at the depiction of a block of flesh with a knife deep in it. The wood handle of the knife gleamed with gloss, the “blood” below it looking coarse in comparison.

  Syd reached into the crate and looked around. “There’s no other information.” He glanced at Madeline, concerned. He picked up the packing slip. “I’ll call the shipper.” Taking out his cellphone, he walked to the far side of the room when the call was answered.

  I went to Madeline’s side, trying to let go of my judgments and associations about that piece of art. If Madeline had taught me anything, it was to let go of my usual reactions to things. Acknowledge it, she had said once, asking what I thought of a certain sculpture she’d received. Feel what you feel, then put that down and step around it. Let yourself be a blank slate. You are part of the art, the way you look at it, the way you take it in. View each moment as fresh, each sight as a treat to your other senses, as well.

  But I couldn’t help it, because the more I made myself lean in, the more my senses reeled. I looked at Madeline, who was gazing at it, slightly openmouthed, as if trying to make sense of it.

  Syd came back to the table. “No info,” he said. “The person filled out a sheet to ship it from a storefront delivery place, but they tried the numbers listed and they’re both bullshit. They think the name is, too.”

  “Like the email,” Madeline said in a toneless voice.

  “What’s the name of the shipper?” I asked.

  “They wrote a company name, Abunai Enterprises.” He spelled it for us.

  I typed it into the search engine on my phone. “It’s Japanese for warning or look out.”

  “Really?” Madeline said vaguely. “I don’t speak much of the language.”

  Something dawned on me. “Does Amaya?” I asked. She was the only Japanese person I’d met through Madeline.

  “I believe so.” Madeline said nothing else, just examined the piece.

  “It’s wood,” she said, nodding at the base. “And plastic, I think, and the knife appears to be real.”

  “Could it be a nod to Conner?” Syd asked.

  “Connor who?” I said.

  “Joshua Connor. He was a sculptor who often used things like knives and scissors.”

  “Are they always that…that violent?” I asked, nodding at the piece. I thought of the email Madeline had received. For your falsity and selfishness, you should be cut and stretched like a canvas. Was the knife a reference to that?

  “No,” Madeline said. “In fact, they are quite peaceful images.”

  “It’s probably a stunt,” Syd said. “New artist and all that.” I studied Syd to see if he was acting, pretending not to know what this thing was. I couldn’t tell.

  “What do you mean, a stunt?” I asked him.

  “Well, a lot of artists try to gain the attention of a gallery by doing something flamboyant or aggressive. Sometimes anonymously. And then, later, they’ll pop up and tell you it’s them. They’re trying to say something by sending just the art itself.”

  “I don’t think that’s it,” Madeline said.

  “Then what is it?” Syd asked.

  “Who is it?” To me, that was the truly scary thing. We still didn’t know.

  Madeline sighed, stepped away and pulled her phone out of her pocket. She seemed to want to distract herself, but a moment later she froze.

  Then she spun around. “I got another email.”

  I didn’t have to ask which one. “What does it say?”

  Madeline said nothing, just read it one more time, then stepped forward and held out her phone for Syd and me.

  The email said, I hope you, somehow, feel the pain, the agony, of being dismissed so many times.

  33

  “Enough is enough,” Mayburn said, when I’d finished telling him about the anonymous sculpture Madeline had received. “It’s time to smoke this dude out.”

  “Or this woman,” I said.

  “Right.”

  We were at Lucy’s house, a mansion in Lincoln Park that took up three lots on Bissell Street. The house was L-shaped, with everything facing a large courtyard. That courtyard was mostly bare of bushes and grass now, but a number of pine trees held white lights, making the courtyard a glittering yet relaxing site.

  We sat together in Lucy’s living room. Mayburn was waiting for Lucy to get home so he could watch the kids while she went to an evening yoga class. I’d insisted we meet asap so I could explain the latest.

  “So, how do we smoke someone out?” I asked Mayburn. “Like a sting operation?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ooh, exciting.” I held myself back from clapping. Not only was I excited to take part in such a thing, but I really wanted to figure out this situation for Madeline, sooner rather than later. It was taking too much from her, adding too much stress. And the whole thing was getting freaking scary.

  Mayburn leaned back in the armchair where he sat and looked out the windows at the courtyard. “Clearly she has someone following her, and now threatening her. But before we can stop that, we need to know who’s doing this.”

  “And why,” I added.

  “Right,” Mayburn said. “So, Madeline is still into the clubs and parties and the art openings, I assume?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Any events coming up this week that you know about?”

  “There’s an opening at some gallery and a party after at a club.”

  “What club?”

  I thought about it. “It’s on Hubbard. That place with the two floors at the top.”

  “Near Dearborn?” Mayburn asked. I nodded. “That’s perfect.”

  “Perfect for what?”

  “You need to let Madeline move around, but stay close to her and find out who is watching her.”

  “How am I going to stay close to her and find the person at the same time? Especially if they’ve been watching Madeline at the gallery lately? I’m pretty easy to spot.”

  “Good point.” He furrowed his brow, thinking.

  We heard the garage door open, and Lucy and her two kids came inside. “John!” Noah and Belle yelled, running at Mayburn and launching themselves onto his lap.

  I watched with a smile as Mayburn hugged Belle and then tickled Noah, both of them crawling all over him.

  I stood and hugged Lucy. “Hi, Iz!” she said. “I’ve missed you.”

  “You, too.”

  We stood and looked at Mayburn, still playing with the kids. “They love him, huh?” I asked.

  “Love,” she said.

  “Hey, one second, one second,” Mayburn was saying to the kids. “I’ve got to say hi to your mom.” He looked up at Lucy and me, like he was about to extricate himself from the kids and stand. But then he froze for a second.

  “I got it,” he said.

  “What?” Lucy and I asked at the same time.

  Mayburn directed his gaze at me. “You know the problem we were just discussing?”

  I nodded.

  “Have you ever wanted to be a blonde?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Now is the time.”

  34

  “So, how’s the dating going?” I asked my dad.

  We were sitting at breakfast place called Toast in Linc
oln Park. Across the table, my father wrapped his hands around a white coffee cup and blinked under his copper glasses. I had never seen him do that before, the quick blinking.

  I was about to retract my question when he broke into a smile. Then he quickly dropped it, as if the expression had embarrassed him.

  “What?” I said.

  He seemed to not be able to help it—he laughed, then dropped the laugh just as quickly. But he answered. “It’s just so remarkable.”

  “You met someone?” I hoped he didn’t hear the surprise in my voice.

  “No, I mean, I’ve been out with a few people,” he said. “But they seem to expect me to…” He looked around as if searching for the word. “Well, they seem to want me to…emote.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, they want you to talk, to share yourself.” He said the word share as if it were something exotic.

  “And you don’t like to share.” It was not a question.

  He shrugged grandly, and I could see that he’d retained some of the gestures he’d acquired from his Italian mother and from living in Italy. Italians are masters of the grand shrug, one that can be used as a response to anything.

  “Look, when your mom and I were young, nobody really shared—” he made air quotes “—as they call it. And then I was out of the country.”

  “Yeah, you were out of this life,” I said. Sometimes when I was talking to my dad, I snapped at him out of the blue, as if some comment had formed at the outer reaches of my memory and came out of my mouth before the rest of my brain could process it.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “No problem.” My father looked at his coffee cup, nonchalant, then continued, as if eager to talk. “The thing is, when I left the country, when I was…as you said, out of this life, I kept a low profile. I never ‘shared’ with anyone. I never talked to anyone.”

  “Except for Elena,” I said, referring to my dad’s sister.

  He gave a single nod. “Yes, with the exception of Elena. But I never did know everything about her, did I? She never fully shared with me.”

  Our waitress put our meals in front of us—oatmeal for me. I looked at my father’s plate, which held something called a pesto scramble. “So, you know,” he continued, “I have an entire protocol in my head for determining whether or not something is classified. On a number of different levels.” He shook his head now, as if not wanting to bore me with the details. Meanwhile, I stared at him, rapt. Every once in a while, he let me behind the curtain of Christopher McNeil, and as Madeline had once said about art, it dazzled me.