Annie Oakley's Girl

by Rebecca Brown

  But they don’t know your secret.

  One night after your opening at the Tate last September — the Queen came, the Prime Minister came, David Bowie came, John Lennon came, Peter Cook and Dudley Moore came — one night after your opening, someone broke into the gallery and tore apart all your beautiful canvases. Someone soldered down all your beautiful metal sculpture. They broke your marbles. They smashed your glass. They burnt your wood. (You work in many mediums.)

  The next day, the papers were full of it and the Times and the Guardian interviewed you. There were correspondents from New York, Washington, L.A., Chicago. They interviewed you about the destruction of your beautiful work and took pictures of you crying over the destruction of your beautiful work. But you wouldn’t let them take many pictures or ask many questions because, as you and your agent told them repeatedly, you were much too distraught about the destruction of your beautiful work. How could anyone want to, you asked. Everyone asked: how could anyone want to? Everyone shook their heads. Such beautiful work — irreplaceable. Your picture on the front page of the Times was poignant and moving. I could barely see your face (your head was turned from the camera), but I could see your tears. I saw your tears and they looked real even to me. They streaked down your face gorgeously, like one of your drip paintings after Helen Frankenthaller. Yes, you were very beautiful.

  I had the paper sent up to my room where I was staying at the Y near Russell Square. I’d paid the paper boy the day before because I knew you’d be in the paper.

  I knew because you and I had done it. We’d done it for old times’ sake. We’d had a few quick ones at the Prince of Wales, and then we’d done it. We did it to finish off something we’d left undone. I did it because I wanted to. You did it because you wanted to, too, because I told you I was the only person who knew you wanted to, and because I was the only person who would tell you that, and because I was the only person who would help you do it. You also did it for the insurance.

  We let ourselves into the Tate with your master key, which had been entrusted to you by the Tate Gallery Trustees. I took chains and knives and razors and a whip and a machine gun and a sword and a cat-o’-nine-tails and three hand grenades and a liter of sulphuric acid and a power drill with four big drill bits. You didn’t take anything because you wanted to do it with your own bare hands. The only thing you carried was a flashlight.

  We went in and didn’t turn on any of the lights. We did that for old times’ sake, too. We went through your exhibition and destroyed everything. I slashed and shot and blowtorched and cut and soldered and blasted and whipped and drilled. You hit and kicked and tore and bit and clawed. Some pieces we did separately and some pieces we did under the soft grey glow of your flashlight. We worked almost the whole night and made rubble of everything.

  But then I asked you if we could turn the lights on, please, because suddenly my old fear of the dark was on me again, and I was afraid. But you said we couldn’t because you couldn’t see anything because you had to look surprised when the sympathetic police and curators brought you here tomorrow to see what horrid vandalism had occurred the night before. I said I understood, and I closed my eyes to pretend it was only dark because I had my eyes closed and that it was really light. And then I asked you to tell me it was light and you said, but it wasn’t, and I said, did you think I was a fool, of course I knew it was dark, but I just wanted to be told it wasn’t, and you didn’t understand, but I said, Lie to me, dammit, lie to me, so you did.

  You took me in your arms and you said, It’s light, it’s light, it’s light, it’s light, and you held me and told me that it was light through the rest of the night until just before morning, and then we had to leave before the gallery opened. You led me to the exit door by the hand (my eyes were still closed), and outside where it was beginning to be light, and you told me to open my eyes, that it was beginning to get light. I did and then we shook hands on the steps of the gallery and patted each other on the shoulders like comrades and vowed secrecy. Then we each went home. You took a cab to Grosvenor Square and I hurried to the Russell Square Station Y. I went to bed for a few minutes and dreamt. This is what I dreamt:

  I dreamt that I became an artist, too, and what I did was make and destroy things just like you. But no matter what I did, either in making or destroying it, no one cared. They didn’t consider me an artist or a criminal. They didn’t say, what a shame. They never gave me coverage. They never noticed me and I didn’t know why, because, after all, I was just doing exactly what you had done and, not only that, what I had taught you to do and what you and I had done together.

  I woke up when the paper boy brought me the paper with your picture and the articles about your show. I thought how I was the only person in the world who knew the real story. I knew that you knew it too, but I also knew that you would never think about it, that you would forget it.

  I will not forget it. I will tell it to myself again and again and again.

  THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON: ITS INFLUENCE ON HISTORY

  I think about him all the time. I make up stories about him and dream about him. In fact, that’s not really accurate. The dreams aren’t so much about him as they are about his death and me killing him. I don’t know very much about him. All I know is that I have to kill him and that I think about him all the time and the ways that I can kill him and exactly how I will do it.

  I thought of him tonight at the Daniels’ and today at work on the subway to and from work and on the way to and from the Daniels’ while we were talking and I didn’t tell you. You didn’t know what I was thinking about at all. We were talking about your sister and you didn’t know I was thinking about him.

  He’s going to be on “Meet the Press.” The studio is all lit up and the lights are blaring, silver and bright everywhere. It smells like sweat and makeup. Edwin Newman is there and someone is straightening his tie and coat as he’s looking at some notes in a manila folder. I notice that he’s much better looking in person than on TV. I’m working on one of the cameras when I see him come out. He’s short and he has on white pants, a dark coat with tails, and a red vest. His hair is slicked down, black, and he’s got on a tricorn hat. He’s standing about four feet away from me when I throw an extension cord at him that’s in the shape of a lasso just as I’m snipping the end with a pair of heavy cutting shears. When it hits him, he turns into a red-orange glowing doughboy, like a Christmas ornament. He hops in the air, twisting and flopping. Everything is very sudden. It smells of burnt flesh and makeup and I’ve got him.

  You and I are having a talk. We’re talking about plans and goals and you’ve mentioned the probability of your going back to school for your masters if the promotion doesn’t come through. You aren’t, however, going to rule out the possibility of something totally unexpected like, for example, moving up to Vermont for a while with Bob and Debra if they were really serious and if we could get into living on a farm. You say that, mostly, you just want to be true to yourself and not fix yourself into anything that’s not really you. Also, you want to consider me and do what’s best for both of us. Then you ask me what I think is important for me and what I want to do and I tell you:

  “I want to kill Napoleon.”

  “You what?”

  “I want to kill Napoleon.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I want to kill him.”

  “C’mon, what is this?”

  “I want to kill Napoleon.”

  “OK, OK, I give. What’s the punch line?”

  “There isn’t one. I just want to kill him.”

  Then you look at me and you say, “Right.” Then you ask, “How come?” and I say, “I have to,” and you say, “You don’t have to.” You say, “He’s dead. He’s been dead for a hundred and fifty years.” You say, “What is this?” And you look at me.

  You look at me and you wonder what’s got into me. You wonder if you’re dealing with me in the best way. You look kind and sympathetic. I look at you. Both
of us are proud to look the other straight in the eye. It’s something we’ve built up. You ask me why. I look straight at you and ask you, “Have you ever wanted to kill Napoleon?” and you say, “No,” and I say, “Oh.” Then I say, “Well, I do. I want to kill him. I mean, I have to kill him.” You ask me why, and I tell you I don’t know.

  They’re doing a remake of King Kong in Hollywood. They hire Napoleon as the woman abducted from the skyscraper and me as Kong. In the famous scene, I’m careful to remove him gingerly from the skyscraper. When I bring him to my face, I hardly recognize him. He looks like a cake decoration, only not so powdery; he’s immaculate. I press my fingers to my palm, then fold my thumb over in a very tight fist. When I unclench my hand and ease my fingers open, I think of a Mamma Bellosi Delux Supreme With Everything. To go.

  I spend a whole evening thinking of him. At home you ask me what I thought of the movie. I say I think some of it was really good, but I wasn’t really concentrating on it. You ask me why and I tell you that I was thinking of Napoleon and you look at me. I was thinking how crippled I feel at not being able to abbreviate his name or call him by a nickname or a pet name. Any abbreviation or derivation sounds ridiculous. But then I reason that that is part of who he is; he is inextricably Napoleon. Nothing abbreviated or translatable, and I must kill him.

  Tonight we’re doing dishes after dinner. The Daniels have been over. We’ve played bridge and eaten lots. I am washing. You are drying and putting them away. You use a soft linen dishcloth and I use a plastic aqua-colored ball. My hands are getting pruny and my fingernails are white and soft. The water is greenish-grey with pieces of spaghetti noodles. Orange dots of grease are in it. We talk about the evening with the Daniels. We’re just about finished. I’ve washed everything except the silverware. I pick up a handful of it. I lift it out of the water. It shines and feels slick in my hand. I dunk it back under and almost release my hand to let the pieces separate so I can scrub them individually, but then it’s his puffy white neck in my hand. I look in the water and see his white, greenish face. His cheeks are bloated and he looks like panic. I tighten my hold and look. His hair loosens from being perfectly, tightly combed. It sways like seaweed or a mermaid’s hair. His flesh is soft between my fingers and I tighten my grip, afraid he will be able to slip out because the water is greasy from the meatballs. His face is colored like a fish’s stomach and I think how when fish drown they float up on their stomachs and their white stomachs surface like his puffy fleshy face. His lips pale into the color of peach melba yogurt. His hair sways like a mermaid’s. I’ve never realized how long it was because it has always been stuck down. The water starts looking vaguely pink and I think that that must be from his red sash. I imagine his body being squeezed up through the drain and how it must curve like an “S” coming up through the pipe. When I feel him start to struggle, I hold even tighter, until there is only a little resistance, and release him.

  Then I turn on the disposal.

  We’re at a museum, looking at a show of lesser known contemporary artists. Hardly any of the work is representational. We talk about the work and you ask me what I think of a certain piece.

  “What do you see in it?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Nothing really.”

  “It must evoke something, make you feel something.”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “Well, what does it make you think of?”

  “It reminds me of Napoleon.”

  “Napoleon? How come?”

  “It just does.”

  “I don’t see it at all.”

  “I guess I don’t either. It just reminds me of him.”

  “Everything reminds you of Napoleon.”

  “Yeah. I guess so.”

  I think about him all the time.

  I’m at the Coronation. I’m standing next to David, helping him squeeze oil out and mix it on the palette. We’re about twenty yards away from him and I can smell excitement and bodies behind our corner of oil and turpentine. David is nice to me. He chats with me in French and I start to tell him that I’ve only studied two and a half years of high school French and that I can’t remember any of it, but then I realize that I’m telling him this in perfect fluent French, and halt in mid-sentence. Fortunately he hasn’t been listening and I am not a fool. He has long, thin, creamy-colored fingers, smooth-skinned hands with fine delicate lines. He is very neat and ordered. He sets the blops of paint where he wants them, equidistant from each other on the palette. I want to ask him how he can be so confident and just paint it like this, but then I notice a huge sheaf of pencil sketches and studies for this and wonder how he did them because this is the Coronation and it’s never happened before. There’s lots of music and noise. Glasses clink and it’s more like a party than a coronation. Everyone mingles and chats. Then someone says, “OK, OK, everybody, places,” and everyone gets in place. He’s standing on a platform in the front and starts giving a speech in a French I can’t understand. David turns to me, palm turned upright, and like a doctor saying “Suture,” says, “Number nine, light.” I go to hand him a palette knife but pick up a violin case instead. The lid falls open as I lift it up and out falls a sawn-off machine gun. I catch it before it hits the ground and rat-a-tat off three clips of shells at him and the rest of them, everyone except myself and David. Everyone looks red.

  “We’ve really gotten close lately. I don’t know, I just feel so good about things. I’ve been feeling really good lately.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Uh huh. We have a lot more in common all the time. I really realize it more and more.”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “I feel, like, there’s more things you understand about me and I do about you that we don’t even have to say.”

  “Yeah, really.”

  “Do you feel that way?”

  “Sure.”

  “Like, I really know what you’re thinking when you don’t even say it.”

  “Yeah, really.”

  November. I am walking up a hill near Painswick in the Stroud valley, Gloucester shire, England. Everything is brown and grey and wet. I’m wearing dark brown shoes, slightly scuffed, with dark brown laces. The tips of the laces are the color of toffee. The path is dipped and holed from where the rain goes down. The ground is slippery and I walk cautiously. My hands, gloved and stuffed into my coat pockets, are cold. My face feels cold and hot and I know I will be red when I go back in. My glasses will fog over and I’ll barely be able to see myself in the mirror when I take off my coat in the entrance hall.

  I’m climbing up a hill. Behind me and below, the path twists down into Sheepscombe. Grey smoke goes up from the chimneys. I go up, and my thighs and calves hurt. I stand up to catch my breath. When I look up, I see him.

  He is standing on a plateau, elevated about two feet above the top of the hill. I wonder if he’s cold from exposure. I think that anyone else’s boots would be smeared from the climb, but I know his aren’t and I wish the sun was there to catch the glint off them. His strong head is pressed into his coat. His fine red sash is like Christmas candy, brilliant like eye-blood, straight across his stomach. He stands straight and doesn’t look as if he feels the cold. He wears nothing on his hands.

  He’s looking straight ahead, past me, to my right. I turn around to see if I can see what he’s looking at, but all I can see is the furry line between the woods and sky, and parts of smoke in tails, rising. I turn back toward him and stop. I breathe in deeply, press my hands into my pockets more and start to walk again. My toes are cold and my cold feet feel hard stones pressing on the soles. I go up slowly. He’s about fifty feet away.

  The path is steeper. I can’t imagine him walking up here and I wonder how he got here. I walk up and feel cold go in my lungs. He stays still, looking at the fuzzy line of horizon behind me. I know that I can’t see the things he can in the fuzzed horizon, or past it, and I know that this is why I love him. I feel good, having to work at the climb and I like the greyness of my br
eath, quickening and heavier as I try harder on the steeper path to approach him. I take my hands from my pockets, remove my gloves, and walk with my cold sweaty hands exposed.

  I’m closer to him now, within shouting distance, and I want to say something. I think he must see me or know I am coming. I don’t expect him to say anything and I want to say something.

  I’m only twenty feet away from him. I keep climbing and I can see his boots clearly and there is no mud on them. I can see the thick seams on the sides of his tight white legs, the wrinkles over his kneecaps. I can see the rise of his shoulders as he breathes. Now I can see his clear heavy eyes fixed on the line behind me. I want to turn around again, but I don’t. I keep looking at him. His wrist is red between his sleeve and the opening in his jacket. His other hand is red as well. His face is still and I am close enough to know he hears me stop and breathe. Five feet from him, I stop and look. I want to say hello and then he starts to turn to me. He’s facing me, direct on, and then he starts to turn away. He lifts his right foot slightly and puts it behind himself to turn. His right thigh tightens, and his calf, pulling him around. His left hip, where his white tights and jacket meet, turns towards me. He puts his right foot on the ground and shifts his weight to that. Then he lifts his left foot forward. His eyes lower and he moves his left foot in front of himself.

  Suddenly I feel desperate and I want to say his name out loud. I want to call him, “Napoleon! Napoleon!” He turns from me on a circle; the part that turns away from me goes into air. He’s walking into air. I say, “Napoleon — ” but I can’t say it out loud. Now his back is to me, but only half of his back, the right half has disappeared. He’s turned into the air. “Napoleon — ” His left foot lifts again, forward, to its right; he turns. The left tail of his coat catches on air and his shoulder looks like a cliff. His hair is black and solid, shiny. His boot is smooth. The spur is silver. “Napoleon — ” He lifts his foot. The spur goes up like a stone. I hear the crunch of rock beneath his moving foot. His foot is forward and right. The line moves over my vision like a card cutting over a lens. “Napoleon — ” He puts his foot down. The instant it would touch, he’s gone. I lunge forward, throwing myself at his boot. My hand slaps on a smooth large stone.