The Antiques

by Kris D'Agostino

  Rey Perrin was coming out of the house, luggage in hand, as Josef was going in. Rey saw the taxi and whistled for it to wait.

  “Leaving so soon?” Josef asked.

  “Fuck this family,” Rey said.

  * * *

  Josef poured whiskey, neat, for him and Armie. He handed one to his brother. “I can’t believe what you’re telling us right now,” he said.

  “I’m sorry to be the one,” Arthur McCreary said.

  “I want a second opinion,” Josef said. “We need to get someone else in on this. No offense, pal.”

  “Naturally,” Arthur said. “And I agree. We’ll send it to a colleague of mine in New York. Like I told your mother. More people should see this.”

  “I can’t believe it. I refuse to believe it. Fake?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Conversation in the Sky rested on the mantel. George’s ashes, in the clay urn, sat beside it. Armie stoked and tended the fire. Ana sat on the couch not speaking. Shadow lay at her feet. The dog might have been the only one of them who looked better. His tail thumped on the ground when Abbott came running into the room, fresh from a bath and with Charlie behind him dressed again in her running clothes: tight leggings, fleece pullover, T-shirt. She let out an exaggerated sigh as she sat on the couch and leaned her head on her mother’s shoulder and closed her eyes. Ana stroked her hair.

  Josef went to the Magritte and leaned in close, scrutinized its surface in the fire glow. “Looks pretty damn real to me.”

  “Maybe it’s for the best,” Armie said.

  “For the best? You would say that. Do you know how much money we just lost?”

  “But we never had it,” Armie said.

  “It doesn’t bother me,” Charlie said. “It’s corny, I know, but I’m just glad we’re all here together. This is nice.”

  “Ha!” Josef said.

  “I tried,” Ana said. “You can’t say I didn’t try.”

  “I’m sorry I yelled at you, Mom,” Charlie said. “Earlier. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay, dear,” Ana said. “You were right.”

  “We just can’t turn our back on him,” Charlie said. “We have to do what he wanted.”

  “We have to try at least,” Armie said.

  Abbott, in his favorite My Little Pony pajamas, walked to the couch and fell between his mother and grandmother, his head coming to rest in Ana’s lap. Charlie was again amazed at Abbott’s willingness to get close to her. For whatever reason, he gravitated toward Ana. She was the person he picked. Or maybe it was the house, or Hudson in general, or something else entirely. Whatever it was, Charlie felt good about it. She felt safe and she felt hopeful. She didn’t expect to hear from Rey anytime soon but she wasn’t going to think about that for a while. And she wasn’t going back to California. Not yet.

  Abbott rolled his head to look at her. “Mommy?”

  “I’m right here, cowboy.”

  “Hi,” he said.

  She didn’t try to touch him, though she wanted to, badly.

  “Where are we with the insurance?” Armie asked.

  “They haven’t called back,” Ana said. “I’m sure we aren’t the only ones.”

  “Do we have to think about it right now?” Charlie said.

  “No, we don’t,” Josef said.

  Ana moved Abbott’s head delicately off her lap and stood. “It’s time for Shadow to have his pill,” she said. “Arthur, thank you, for everything.”

  McCreary raised a hand. “Again, I’m so sorry, Ana. I know it’s not what you were expecting.”

  Dr. Ashworth had left a specific follow-up regime: more medicine, twice daily, for the remainder of the week. Ana went to the sink and crushed a pill into some applesauce. Josef finished his whiskey and followed her. When she turned, holding the bowl, he had a folded rectangle of paper in his hand.

  “What is this?”

  “It’s a check,” he told her.

  “You closed the deal?”

  “That’s one way to put it,” he said. “Take it.”

  She put down the bowl and looked. “It’s too much, Josef. I can’t.”

  “You can. I insist. Let me do this. Let me do one good thing here, okay? Or I might lose it. I’ll be fine. I can spare it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m gonna get drunk now,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  “Oh, do me a favor?” Josef said, turning back in the doorway. Ana raised her eyebrows. “Don’t cash that for a couple days.”

  - SUNDAY -

  Josef showered and dressed and sat on the couch. The painting on the mantel held a different luster for him. It was more his father’s painting now. It was the old man, right there in the room.

  He called Natalie. It went to voice mail, so he called again. She picked up. “What do you want?”

  “I wanted to hear your voice.”

  “Please, Josef, I can’t.”

  “I’m just kidding. I’m not calling to hound you.”

  “Okay? So. What?”

  “So we never finished our talk.”

  “You are unreal.”

  “Not that talk. Are you gonna let me take the girls to Hawaii or what?”

  “Maybe.”

  “So yes?”

  “So maybe. I don’t want to think about it right now. It’s Sunday and I’m taking the girls to a museum.”

  “Can I come?”

  “You may not. Call me tomorrow and we’ll talk about your stupid trip. I’m not promising anything, though.”

  “I’m happy,” he said.

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because I think you’re going to let me take them.”

  “If I do, it’ll be the first thing you’ve ever fought for being with them.”

  “Maybe I’ve turned a corner,” he said.

  She hung up on him.

  * * *

  Charlie hadn’t seen Abbott so—she didn’t want to hastily employ the word happy, but what else could she call it? He seemed happy. He was comfortable in the Warren Street house. And she, Charlie, felt a great wash-wave of relief. Rey was gone. The panties were gone. The Enabletal was gone (hopefully forever and most certainly as long as she kept up her willpower). Her jaw felt not quite so clenched as it had been. And on top of everything, she’d woken up supremely horny, which she took to be a good sign indeed. Changes were coming. She felt it.

  Her phone dinged with a text from Melody. She and Dustin had arrived safely in Rome with “the disgusting food on the plane” being the largest problem they’d encountered. Charlie called Leilani Costello and spilled all the beans. Leilani was miffed, but what could she say or do now that Melody was out of the country? It was done. Charlie told her it would be a good idea to call Patrick Kuggle’s people and see if they didn’t want to just let the whole thing slide, get the cops out of the picture, at least until Melody finished filming and returned to LA. Leilani told Charlie to take as much time as she needed. Charlie said she didn’t know when she’d be back. Abbott twirled in the kitchen, cowboy hat on, watching her. She knelt before him, careful not to touch him, and asked if he wanted to accompany her on a trip to the grocery store.

  “Fruit pops?” he quizzed.

  “But of course,” she told him.

  He nodded vigorously.

  * * *

  Out on the front porch Ana sat in one of the wicker chairs, sipping tea. It was brisk and she had a shawl wrapped about her. Josef came out with his coffee, kissed her cheek, and went to the porch railing.

  “You look ridiculous in those shorts,” he called down to Armie.

  His brother pushed up his safety goggles (quite unnecessary and lame to wear while sanding, Josef pointed out). Armie had put on a pair of rubber kitchen gloves and was planing down the troublesome leg on the table.

  Charlie came out of the house with Abbott. “We’re heading to the supermarket,” she told Josef. “Will you be here when we get back?”

  “Of course I w
ill!” Josef said. “I’ve got something amazing planned for us, just you wait.”

  “I don’t know whether to be scared or . . .”

  “Thrilled is what you should be.” Josef got down to Abbott’s eye level. “Remember the rocket, buddy?” Abbott invoked a sort of pirate growl. “I’ll take that as a yes.” Abbott held out Ernest the Donkey Puppet and they bumped fists. “Always a pleasure,” Josef told the puppet.

  Abbott leaned against his mother’s leg, which surprised and stunned her. She looked down, waiting for him to realize what he’d done and pull away, but this did not happen, he just clung to her leg.

  Josef went down to the sidewalk to talk with Armie. “The table looks good,” he said. “You did a good job. Dad would have liked it.”

  “I’m not sure I believe any of that, but thank you. Can you give me a hand carrying some stuff out?”

  “Lead the way,” Josef said.

  They went back into the house and carried the four chairs out, two at a time. With the kitchen gloves back on, Armie dunked a rag into a can of stain and began to coat the legs of the first chair. A car pulled slowly to the curb. A man got out, leaving the engine running. He came around. He wore a gray suit and looked to be about forty. In both appearance and mannerisms, he reminded Armie of Josef. Armie looked back at Ana, who shrugged: she didn’t know the guy either. Apparently Josef did. The two of them shook hands and then Josef brought the man over to Armie. “Bill,” he said, “I’d like you to meet my little brother, Armand.”

  The man extended a hand. “Bill Pullman. Pleasure to meet you.”

  “Like the actor?” Armie asked, shaking the hand.

  “Yes, like the actor, only, clearly, not the actor.”

  “Nice to meet you?”

  “Your brother’s told me a lot about you and I told him I’d come up here and see what kind of work you’ve got going on. So tell me, you built these chairs?”

  Armie looked down at the rag and then at the chairs and then at Bill Pullman. “I did.”

  “I’m having like a revelation moment here? Josef said you were doing amazing stuff. I was skeptical, of course, ’cause I’m always skeptical, but I’m sitting in my car and I see you here with these chairs. And it’s like a revelation. How long you think it would take you to make a hundred of these?”

  “A hundred? Chairs?”

  “Yes. A hundred chairs. And oh, let’s say, twenty-five of that table. I’d need different sizes, but we can go over that later.”

  “It would take a pretty long time,” Armie said. “It’s just me.” He pointed a thumb back over his shoulder. “In the basement.”

  Josef stepped in. “He can get it done, Bill. Just tell him what you need. Tell him why?”

  “I’m opening a restaurant,” Bill said. “I was trying to get your brother in as an investor.”

  “And I said hell no, because restaurants in New York never make it,” Josef said.

  “Except this one is going to make it,” Bill said.

  “The truth is,” Josef said, “Armand’s got a lot of orders pending. People are dying to get their hands on this stuff. I don’t have to tell you—”

  “Josef, I don’t—”

  “People are clamoring for this stuff.” Josef put a hand out for Armie to shut up. “But I’m sure we can work something out. What’s your budget?”

  “So here’s my situation,” Bill Pullman said. “We’re opening, in Brooklyn, in three months. Our chef is locked down. We got this hotshot who’s leaving a well-known kitchen in Manhattan. Never mind where right now. Silverware is ordered. One thing we don’t have yet—”

  “Quality tables and chairs,” Josef said. “So naturally I thought of you.”

  “You did?” Armie asked.

  “I did. I wasn’t joking, this stuff is amazing.”

  “Like I said,” Bill Pullman went on. “We open in three months. I gotta have ’em by then.”

  “I don’t have the equipment to make that many that quickly,” Armie said.

  “He’s just being modest,” Josef said. “You and I can discuss the details.”

  “Did he put you up to this?” Armie asked, pointing at Josef. “Is this a joke?”

  “Well, he called me and asked me to come up here and have a look for myself,” Bill Pullman said, “if that’s what you mean.”

  “Armand,” Josef said, “I think Bill and I can take it from here.”

  “I’m not putting you on,” Pullman said. “I could tell right away you had to be amazing at what you do, otherwise why in the hell would you be wearing shorts like that?”

  “It’s true,” Josef said. “Only a genius would wear shorts like that.”

  “We’ve been agonizing over an aesthetic,” Bill Pullman went on. “No one will agree on anything, and I can’t guarantee they’ll agree about this, but I love these chairs. I love this table. And I think they will too. Let me bring them by to have a look?”

  “They?” Armie said.

  “His partners,” Josef said. “We’d love to meet them.”

  Josef put his arm around Bill Pullman’s shoulder and led him back to his car, talking about the artistic integrity Armie put into every piece, the craftsmanship, the overall superior quality.

  Later that week, when Armie told the story to Audrey over dinner at the Rustic Grape Wine Bar, the story of Bill Pullman—the restaurateur, not the actor—pulling up to Warren Street out of the complete and total blue because Josef, who’d never done anything good for Armie in his whole life up until that point, had arranged it, and how Bill Pullman had asked him to build a hundred chairs and twenty-five tables and how Josef had stepped up and become his “business manager,” Armie added a few innocent embellishments to make himself seem less stupefied than he’d been. Audrey loved the story, and years later, when Armie’s business was successful and they’d married, she added the story to her own repertoire. She got a lot of mileage out of it. She told it at parties and over drinks, at weddings and holiday dinners, at social functions. As if she’d been right next to him when it had happened. He didn’t mind the appropriation.

  * * *

  They went together with a thermos full of whiskey that one of them, with wonderful foresight, had thought to bring along. They took doughnuts and a fruit pop for Abbott. The sun hovered in a gray-blue sky.

  They were a solemn procession—even Abbott and Ernest were docile—as they walked to the waterfront, to the flagpole, to the open strip of grass beside the flagpole. An old man with an enormous mastiff on a leash nodded to them as he left the park and the mastiff let out a solitary, concussive bark. Abbott and Ernest barked a return greeting. Shadow licked his lips and yawned.

  Armie placed the launchpad on as level a patch as he could locate. The chiming of church bells made him pause. The tolling echoed out over the river. While Armie held the pad, Josef threaded the metal rod through the rocket’s guide holes and lowered the vessel into position. Armie connected the wires from the control nodule to the two-pronged metal igniter.

  Ana held the urn, and when Josef was ready she came forward and he opened it, grasping the clay antennae and lifting the lid. He scooped some of his father, all burnt up, depositing the ash into the clear plastic payload compartment of the Loadstar II, until the payload compartment was full of soft gray once-George material. He replaced the nose cone. The rocket’s fins weren’t as straight as Armie would have liked, but quite acceptable given the time constraints he’d been under to assemble, glue, sand, and paint the whole thing in less than twenty-four hours.

  “Think it’ll work?” Charlie asked.

  “Why wouldn’t it work?” Josef said.

  “I don’t know.” Charlie shrugged. “I just won’t be surprised if nothing happens when I hit this button.”

  “It’ll work.”

  Abbott waved Ernest the Donkey Puppet, chanting: “Rocket! Rocket! Rocket!”

  Josef opened the thermos. “Who wants a taste?”

  They all held their cups out. They h
uddled at the picnic table near the launch site.

  Armie raised his cup. “For Dad.”

  Ana told herself it would all be okay and the notion didn’t feel like a lie. Shadow let out a string of sharp, strong barks and set off at a gallop. He bolted and circled the flagpole and came back. He was running, running again, and this confirmed for her, yes, it could all be rebuilt. Or it had never been broken. What they’d created together—bound in that inexplicable, confusing, and ineffable pact human beings made with each other—was still intact. She would go on.

  Her children were on the grass; same as when they were young and free of the baggage adulthood heaped upon them.

  Another notion came to her. It was an idea that the things that happened to you changed you, informed you, shaped who you were, and these things took time, took your whole life, and you were always in flux. Or maybe the opposite was true. Maybe you never really changed, or if you did, it happened only in small, manageable ways. Maybe the spark of who you were came from somewhere else, was handed down, couldn’t be bottled up, had to break out and show itself. And maybe you weren’t supposed to exchange those traits or bend them too much. Maybe they broke if you tried. Maybe time and circumstances and choice sketched you out in certain ways and if those ways were different from the ways others hoped or wanted, so be it. You were your own person. You were not your parents. Except when you were. And this was the thing that the people, lucky or unlucky, who crossed your path, who chose or were chosen—to love you, to be your father, your mother, your sister, your brother, your given family, your chosen family, your friends—this was the thing they’d be forced to reconcile: you were your own.

  You selected your little things. You acquired mechanisms to get through the years. You built scaffolding and then one day you took it away and saw how your work stood up or fell down. Maybe you went to the gym in your spare time, worked on your body, lost the extra flab; maybe you had kids, a family, focused your energy on their problems instead of your own; maybe you threw yourself into your job, full tilt; maybe you battled for a cause or worked with the poor; maybe you went abroad and didn’t come back because the place you wound up felt better than the place you left; maybe you chased money or women; maybe you gave it all away or kept it close; maybe you played video games or walked city streets taking pictures; maybe you drank; maybe you read books or knitted or slept your time away. And of course you made your judgments about people, even while you outwardly claimed you weren’t the kind of person who judged other people. No, not you.