by Neil Olson
8
They had been speaking in low voices, but when Teresa entered the dining room they all stopped and looked up. Philip, Audrey, Miranda, Uncle Fred and his latest wife. And an old man in a gray suit, who looked vaguely familiar.
“Where have you been?” asked Philip curtly.
Several pointed replies occurred to her, but Teresa could not get them from her brain to her mouth.
“Are you okay?” her mother asked. “We were worried.”
“You’ve got pine needles in your hair,” said Audrey.
Fred nodded and the wife—Laura, Lauren?—rushed around the table to hug her. As if they were close, though they had met only once. She was brunette and in her forties, a strong contrast to her younger, blonder predecessors. Like James and Audrey’s mother, who’d died of an aneurysm. Or a drug-induced stroke, depending on whom you believed. The second wife had been her physical duplicate, and taken most of Fred’s brief fortune in their divorce. You could see why he might have tired of blondes.
“Aw, honey,” said...Laurena, that was it. She wore an abundance of sparkly green eye shadow and had a slight Southern twang. “So good to see you. How are you holding up?”
“What’s going on?” Teresa asked. “Where’s Kenny and James?”
“My idiot son,” Philip said, “is making a statement to the police.”
“What did he do?”
“He hasn’t done anything,” her uncle snapped. “They want statements from all of you.”
“I’ll explain,” said Audrey. She was transformed since this morning. A coral-colored blouse had replaced the T-shirt, plus a fine silver chain. And she had made herself up carefully. She took Teresa’s arm and led her across the hall to the sitting room. Teresa did not like being dragged, but had to admit that she felt calmer away from the others’ scrutiny.
“Here’s the deal,” said Audrey in a breathy voice, standing close. Every conversation was a seduction. “They found Ilsa.”
“Is she okay?”
“Apparently. She was at her sister’s in Pennsylvania, but she’s pretty badly spooked. Something happened here to frighten her.”
“Like, beyond Grandpa dead in the study?”
“Yeah, something more than that,” Audrey confirmed. “I don’t know what, but I plan to find out.”
Teresa had no doubt that she would.
“Who’s the dude in the suit?”
“Mitchell, Grandpa’s lawyer. Older than dust, but he knows stuff. Turns out he’s got the only copies of the will, and Phil’s pissed off because he won’t show it to him.”
“Where’s James?”
“I thought he was with you,” Audrey said. Insinuation in her tone.
“I haven’t seen him since this morning.”
“Then he’s hiding. Doing his scared-little-boy act, like he always does when shit gets serious.”
Teresa let that go. Sisters were allowed to say things.
“I’ll find him,” she answered, starting away. Audrey caught her arm.
“Are you going to talk to Waldron?”
“I guess. Are you?”
“After how he tried to twist my words? Anyway, Philip doesn’t think we should.”
“And you always do what Philip says,” Teresa scoffed.
“He is a lawyer.”
“So why is Kenny talking?”
“Interesting, right?” Audrey flashed a nasty smile. “First he ignores his father’s advice. Then he won’t even let him be in the room. You know, as counsel. Some tension in the perfect family, seems like.”
Which was clearly cause for glee. There was a rivalry between Philip and Fred that had extended to Kenny and Audrey. Not that it was a real competition. Fred made money, but lost it all. Audrey was a mess. Meanwhile Philip was the successful lawyer his father intended he be, and Kenny had followed in his footsteps. Teresa never felt part of the competition, but her own family—dilettante mother, mad father, her sickly and indecisive self—surely numbered among the losers. Yet she did not hate Kenny for that, or even Philip. She pulled her arm away.
“I’m going to find James.”
She turned in time to see Kenny striding toward her. He threw Teresa a shy glance and went straight out the front door. Coming slowly up the hall behind was Detective Waldron, who locked eyes with Teresa.
“Miss Marías, hello. There have been some developments.”
“I heard.”
“I was hoping to speak to your cousin first, but since he’s not available...”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “Let’s get this over with.”
* * *
Rain mottled the window. Teresa watched gusts shake the dusk-black pines until darkness replaced them with her face in the glass. It was the four of them, in their accustomed spots. James and Teresa over the chessboard, Audrey and Kenny circling the billiard table. Sliding out of each other’s way or hip-checking, depending upon their mood and who was winning. The door to the hall was open, but there might as well have been a sign saying No Grown-ups. They were left to themselves.
“Six ball, side pocket,” Kenny said, pushing up the sleeves of his silky blue shirt.
“No way,” Audrey retorted, but a moment later the green sphere dropped lightly into the worn leather pocket. “Lucky shot.”
“You’re too generous,” he quipped, moving around her to size up the seven.
“Teresa,” James said gently. She swung around to face him. “Your move,” he added, for what was surely not the first time.
“I’m sorry,” she said, surveying the board. She had no idea how the handsomely carved ivory pieces had achieved their current positions, no memory at all of her last move.
“I put my bishop there,” James said, pointing to the black figure threatening her knight. The white pieces looked fretful, as if wondering how she was going to get them out of this mess. Good luck with that, guys. She reached for the knight and James spoke again.
“You don’t want to do that.”
But I do, she thought. She had lost her feel for the game, as well as her ability to concentrate.
“You’re not supposed to coach me.”
“All right,” he agreed. “Did I tell you that I found a sketch you did of me?”
“Really? It must be very old.”
“I think we were ten or eleven. It’s good. You had so much talent even then. I can only imagine how much better you are now.” His faith was heartbreaking, and Teresa could not find the words to tell him that she had given up. “You should sketch me again,” he added.
“Miss, miss, miss,” Audrey chanted, but it was no use. The eight ball rocketed into the corner pocket, and Kenny raised his cue triumphantly. “You suck,” Audrey pouted. “I never win with stripes.”
“Stripes or solids make no difference in the probability of victory,” James said.
“Shut up,” Audrey replied, swatting his head as she passed. “New game. Girls against boys. Come on, Tay-ray, let’s kick some butt.”
Teresa was worse at pool than she was at chess, but had to admit that smacking balls with a stick seemed more appealing right now than trying to outthink her cousin. She tipped over her king and James nodded his understanding.
“What are we playing for?” Kenny asked. “Gender pride?”
“Money,” said Audrey.
“No,” said Teresa, the idea coming to her that moment. “Secrets.”
Audrey smiled wickedly and James looked glum, but no one objected. Teresa racked the balls while Kenny and Audrey did rock-paper-scissors. Kenny won, but James’ attempt at a break sent the cue ball skittering off the table. Audrey broke forcefully, scattering balls everywhere without pocketing any.
“So how does this work?” Kenny asked, lining up a shot.
“Sink a ball, ask a question,” Teresa said. Every
one was hiding something, and she wanted answers. Though she had given little thought to the questions that would elicit them.
Kenny missed and it was Teresa’s turn. She lined up the two, not because it was her best shot but because blue was her favorite color. “Side pocket,” she said, striking with insufficient force. The cue ball tapped the two’s edge, and it rolled ever so slowly toward the pocket. Teetered a moment, then dropped in.
“Yeah,” said Audrey. “Solids, baby.” She gave Teresa a high five.
“Where did you go this morning?” Teresa asked, bringing Audrey up short.
“Wait, you can’t ask me, I’m on your team. Then it’s just everyone for himself.”
Teresa conceded the logic.
“Why did you agree to talk to the police?” she redirected to Kenny. Unlike her cousin, Teresa allowed Philip to play her attorney. Waldron’s questions were straightforward—nothing about her father or the long-ago theft—and she had answered them all. She did not mention the figure in the woods. She had become less and less sure of what she had seen. True to her word, Audrey refused to speak to the detective, and James had not even been asked.
“Same reason as you,” Kenny replied. “I’ve got nothing to hide.” He looked pointedly at Audrey, and then they all did.
“Then why did you keep your father out of the room?” Audrey demanded, but Kenny waved a finger at her.
“One ball, one question.”
Teresa missed her next shot. Then James missed badly, almost tearing the green baize with the tip of his cue. Kenny shook his head in disbelief.
“I’ll trade two questions for a new partner. Just kidding, Jimbo.” He slapped the younger man’s shoulder.
Audrey sank the four. She sized up her next shot before speaking.
“Why has your father hired an investigator?”
Kenny looked at her blankly.
“What are you talking about?”
“He hired somebody this morning. I’m asking you why.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Well, this is a pointless game,” she said, bending over the table. “If I’m the only one who knows anything.” The shot was lined up perfectly, but she struck too hard. The one ball rattled around the corner pocket before bouncing out.
Kenny swiftly sunk the fifteen.
“So where did you go this morning?” he asked.
“Your parents’ house,” Audrey answered, flipping hair out of her face in annoyance. “To borrow clothes. It was too far to go to my apartment. Big woo.”
“I thought that looked like my mother’s shirt,” Kenny said. “She’s going to be pissed when she sees you wearing it.” He sank another ball. “How do you know my father hired an investigator?”
“I met him,” Audrey replied. “At your dad’s.”
“Why didn’t you ask him what he was up to?”
“One ball, one question.”
Kenny tried a bank shot, which missed. Teresa lined up the five, but her mind was on Philip hiring an investigator. A strange development, yet one that proved she was not simply bored or paranoid. Something was up. She missed the orange ball completely.
James stepped up and shot without aiming. Balls rattled around the table, and the nine—a stripe—dropped into a side pocket.
“No good,” Audrey declared. “Didn’t call it.”
“Oh, come on,” said Kenny. “He’ll probably never sink another one in his life.”
“Give it to him,” Teresa agreed. Expecting a fight from Audrey, but all she got was that withering look of pity mixed with contempt.
“Play to win, sweetheart, or don’t play.”
James ignored them, staring at the table as if trying to decipher some message there.
“How did the demon get into the painting in the first place?” he finally asked.
“Whoa,” Kenny laughed. “Where did that come from?”
“That’s my bro,” said Audrey. “No lightweight stuff for him. I don’t know who is supposed to answer that.”
“The idea,” said Teresa, “is that Goya was beset by a demon. That he spent those months in the Quinta del Sordo purging himself of it, by painting all of those horrific images.” She was waiting for someone to interrupt, to tell her to stop repeating creepy family tales and get on with the game. No one spoke; they only looked at her. James urged her on with his eyes. “You’ve all heard this.”
“I haven’t,” said Kenny. “I know Goya made it and we weren’t supposed to look at it, but beyond that...”
“Fill us in, professor,” Audrey added, spinning her cue stick like a baton.
“He painted right on the plaster walls of his house. Possibly over earlier works, some of them look that way. They were transferred to canvas after he died. Long after, in the 1880s, I think. I don’t know who called them the Black Paintings, but that name stuck. A few have become famous. Saturn Devouring His Son. The Witches’ Sabbath.”
“One went missing,” James prompted her.
“There are fourteen at the Prado Museum,” Teresa said, laying her stick down on the table. Her palms were clammy. “Some conjecture a fifteenth. There’s a painting in a private collection in New York which a few historians think is that lost one.”
“But we know it’s not,” James insisted, “because Grandpa had it.”
“Maybe they’re both real,” Teresa replied, not liking his agitation. “Maybe neither. I never saw the portrait. The point is...” What was the point, she wondered?
“You haven’t answered his question,” Audrey pressed. “How did this demon get from Goya into the painting.”
“You’re being too literal. The demon is a metaphor for the trouble in his life.” Why did she have to explain this? “He was old and sick. Deaf. He was too friendly with Napoleon’s gang when they occupied the country, so the Spanish nobility had no use for him anymore. The next step was exile in France, which is where he died. That little house by the river was a kind of internal exile. A place to work the darkness out of his soul.”
“But he left the darkness behind,” James said accusingly. “In the paintings.”
“He certainly left a powerful record of what he was struggling with.”
“He left the demon in that portrait.”
“James,” she said softly. She could see he was on the verge of some kind of outburst and did not want to push him over.
“Where is all this coming from?” Kenny asked.
“There’s been plenty written about the Black Paintings,” Teresa replied. “You can look it up online.”
“But nothing about the demon,” James interjected. “I’ve read it all. It’s never mentioned.”
Teresa was surprised, then realized she should not be. He was obsessive about topics that interested him. He read everything, interrogated anyone. Much like herself. She shrugged.
“Then that part is Morse family legend, I guess. The stories we were told.”
“Not me,” said Kenny. “I mean, I might have heard some things, but not this kind of detail. Who told you?”
“Her father,” Audrey said, with smug certainty.
“Maybe,” Teresa conceded. She had been hearing Ramón’s voice in her head a lot the last two days. It seemed obvious that he was the one to speak of the portrait; everyone else was too frightened. Fear would not have been his lesson, just the reverse. He believed in the work’s power, but not in a negative way. He believed there were things to learn from it.
“Accepting that it’s just a metaphor,” Kenny went on, taking up James’ cause. “How do the stories say the demon got into the painting?”
“I don’t know any story that speaks to that,” Teresa replied. “Maybe it was a matter of his talent for depicting emotional states in—”
“What do you know about the curse?” James interrupted.
>
“Curse?” she asked. “I don’t know anything about a curse.”
“I need a drink,” said Audrey, slapping one ball off of another. Game over.
“Let’s hear it, Jimbo,” sighed Kenny.
James glanced at the doorway. As if an angry adult might rush in to silence him. Audrey went over and pushed the door almost closed.
“The demon doesn’t want to stay in the portrait,” James said quietly. “Right? It’s like a prison. It wants out.”
“I guess that fits traditional demon lore,” Kenny allowed.
“The demon offers each owner of the portrait a deal,” James continued. “He’ll advise them about their, um, worldly pursuits. You know, business or war or whatever.”
“You’re saying the portrait literally spoke to the owners?” Teresa asked in alarm.
“It’s a story,” Kenny complained. Though he looked as anxious as Teresa felt. As did Audrey, who was saying little. “Let him finish.”
“The advice is always good, and the owner becomes successful at whatever he tries. Influential. Rich. But part of the bargain is they have to free the demon after some agreed time. And when the time comes, they’re not willing. They try to cheat it.”
“Never a good idea,” Audrey said. “But there’s a problem with your story. Grandpa Morse sucked as a collector. He lost a ton of money.”
“Not always,” Teresa corrected. “He made some shrewd deals. Anyway, collecting isn’t about making money.”
“What’s it about?” Audrey asked.
“Most often it’s about indulging your tastes.”
“If you’re going to lay down tens of millions indulging yourself, you better have the bank to back it.”
“Teresa’s right, though,” Kenny said. “The old man used to be pretty good at the game. He knew how to push the price on second-rate work. He’d create some story around it, pretend he didn’t want to sell.” Kenny shook his head in admiration at this subterfuge. “My dad used to help him. Then he lost his touch, or lost his marbles. Wouldn’t sell anything.”
