Myrian arranged her brushes, unrolled the cloth, and laid out her flat silver pans. She walked up and down the length of the wall measuring the space, and after this retrieved a large white pad and sat next to me. I watched the motion of her hand as she began sketching the figures she envisioned on the wall. The ease and innocence of her creation appeared as if by magic, reminding me of pictures drawn by Rea. I missed my daughter terribly—the psychological evaluations I was ordered to take before being granted a visit were scheduled for next week—and imagined her then on the kitchen floor, drawing with crayons and markers, producing her own series of works: trees and flowers, people with enormous smiling heads, circles and squares shaded with every available color. Myrian looked my way, and seeing that I was lost in thought, asked if I was all right.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
She finished her sketch and returned to the wall, prepping the surface before stirring azure blue paint inside a clean silver pan, then mounting her step stool with broad brush raised, she applied the first coat of sky above the space where the dinosaurs would eventually appear. I was no longer used to rising early, my habit since moving downtown to stay up late, afraid to cede the day and crawl off to bed where Gee’s absence was even more acute, and in my effort to shake off the last vestiges of fatigue, I focused on Myrian and the wobble in her stool as she moved back and forth. “Be careful,” I couldn’t help but warn, however adept she seemed while scooting about.
“Careful who?” she mocked me with a quick little two-step.
“Who’s going to catch you if you fall?” I also tried to sound in good humor, though my voice lacked energy and trailed off.
By morning’s end, Myrian had finished a portion of the sky—the first coat without clouds—and moving to the left side of the wall, she dipped a fresh brush into a newly stirred pan of brown paint and began outlining a large brontosaurus. We ate a lunch of pancakes and eggs and then Myrian returned to work as I settled back in my chair where I continued watching her. She chatted easily with me, impervious to disruption, never once losing focus on her painting as we conversed about some of the other tenants in the building, the predicted snow for this evening, and bits and pieces from our personal histories we were inclined then to share. (Myrian, I learned, was born in New Baltimore, her mother a bookkeeper for a small chain of grocery stores, her father—“a professional shit”—gone before she turned six.) I moved my chair from the flow of traffic, sat just beside the coatrack while Myrian worked left to right, the crease in her canvas tennis shoes bending straight across the top of her feet as she stood high up on her toes and reached for an upper section of sky.
Toward mid-afternoon, the image of a tyrannosaurus and a velociraptor appeared. (Later in the week would come a stegosaurus, a diplodocus, and a triceratops, three cavemen with stone-age spears, two pterodactyls, and a wooly mammoth.) People walking by the front window stopped to take a peek, while customers seated at tables stared over their sausages and steaks and flapjacks, entertained, by Myrian’s work. One woman passing outside caught my eye, her red hair and long legs looking very much like Gee. I rose part way out of my chair and stared after her, only to realize my mistake. Myrian turned and noticed my change of expression, the way I gaped then pouted and audibly sighed. She stopped painting and set her feet flat on the stool, once again asking, “Are you all right?”
I wanted to let go altogether then and talk to her of love, to ramble on about Gee and Rea—as I so often did—but Myrian kept me from trouble once more, and coming from the wall she approached my chair, her face filled with pathos and eager to soothe me, she gently rubbed the side of my cheek with her warm hand, and whispered, “It really is a sorry bit of nonsense.”
Around four o’clock, she went to the bathroom to rinse her brushes. I helped seal the cans of paint and placed them beneath the drop cloth that, along with the other supplies, was stored against the wall. Myrian laid her brushes out on a soft orange cloth. “How are you holding up?” she asked.
“Well,” I replied, though I was, in fact, quite tired. “We should stop at the market. You’ll eat dinner with us, alright?”
“Thank you, but I need to lie down first.”
“Sure,” she agreed. “I’ll take you home.”
“Home?” (Yes!) I thought again of Gee and slumped back in my chair, sinking through my shoulders and hips, my legs dangling in front of me as Janus’s black rubber boots shifted unbuckled and loose at the end of my feet. The collar of my coat was disheveled and I tipped far to the left, barely braced against the fall as I continued to think of my wife. (For some reason, I conjured the image of her ankle and how she read at night in bed with her leg bent out from beneath the sheet, the light and shadow falling across her foot so that the curve in the space behind her bone and the smoothness of her skin in the shaded dent seemed uniquely sensual and warranted my slipping down and kissing her flesh.) In the process of picturing her this way, I froze and emitted a bleak, disconsolate groan.
Myrian stared back at me, then suddenly she was tossing off her coat and retrieving her sketch pad and stick of charcoal. “Don’t move,” she said. “Can you hold it?” her request needless for I could not have stirred even if I tried. Half tumbled, the twist of my shoulders and tilt of my head, my arms tipped over and hanging in midair—reaching and rejecting—my booted feet like large black weights anchoring my narrow legs, I remained immobile while Myrian sketched my pining form. Unlike with the dinosaurs, these drawings demanded her full attention, and she worked in silence, explaining only as she finished about the canvas she hoped to paint and how her earlier attempts to conceptualize her ideas had failed. “I almost have the woman, but the man keeps giving me fits. I tried to use Janus as a model, but he never looks vulnerable enough to me. I see him in a certain way and wind up leaving out the cracks and dings. But you, Walter,” she reached over and squeezed my arm. “With you, everything’s right there,” she smiled as if offering me a compliment, then stared back down at her work.
I lifted myself at last and rubbed the ache and numbness out of my arms, my neck, and thighs. The series of sketches Myrian drew embarrassed me—there I was, all contorted in my weakness and confusion—and yet I also noticed a hint of perseverance in my eyes, in the curl of my hand and the way my arm was bent in an effort to hold on. (I was pleased Myrian had what she wanted and said as much later.) The afternoon had a strange vermeil cast to the sky which I observed as we drove off, and soon I was standing in the dwindling light outside my apartment building, watching Myrian head toward the market as the first traces of snow began to fall. I waved, and bracing myself against the chill, turned and walked upstairs.
Coming inside, the jangle of Janus’s black boots marked my steps as I reached the third floor landing and fished out my keys. I was tired and thinking still about Myrian’s sketches, about Gee and Rea and all the rest, I was about to open my door when Martin Kulpepper appeared from inside his own apartment, shot a quick look toward the stairs, then called, “Hey, Walt,” and quickly toward me. We’d spoken only once, a brief introduction in the lobby a few days ago, though occasionally in the morning and sometimes late at night I heard Martin in the hall as he surprised Myrian with conversation. Now here he was, using the same unctuous tone, for what reason I wasn’t sure. “Damn cold day, isn’t it, Walt? Why don’t you come by my place? I’ll get us a drink to warm us up.”
“No, thank you. I’m going in to rest.”
“Come on. There’s something I want to show you,” he slapped at my arm, stood waiting until I gave in, relocked my door, and followed him across the hall. “So how are you feeling, Walt?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“That’s good,” he disappeared into the kitchen, returning with two beers. “I understand you’ve just come from the hospital.”
“I’m sorry, but how do you know this?”
“Alphonzo Pearl.”
“I see.”
>
“Nothing serious I hope?”
“No.”
“You look all right. What was it? I hear you had some kind of breakdown?”
“It wasn’t, really.”
“No? And your being here now is what?”
“A period of convalescence.”
“Ahh.”
I twisted the top off my beer while Martin sat in the opposite chair, his legs crossed, his black hair cut to fall just above his eyes, the gaps in his thin moustache further aggravating the runty features of his face. He pointed a hand in my direction, and said, “I heard about you at work. I’m in A and F at Great Mercantile. That’s Adjustment and Fraud.”
“I understand. But I don’t have an account with Great Mercantile. Why should they have an interest in me?”
“Tod Marcum,” he grinned and drank his beer. “Your friend has a policy with us, covering his home and business, and GMI’s legal department was looking into the effect of your fraud on indemnification,” Martin clicked the heels of his shoes together. “Legal wanted to see what civil actions were available in GMI’s role to protect Marcum against foreclosure. Lucky for you Marcum doesn’t plan to sue you, though I can’t say why. Seems his debt got covered, but GMI would have come after you for sure if they had to pay anything out,” he took another sip of beer. “So,” he raised an eyebrow, “why’d you do it?”
“Excuse me?”
“Marcum. Why’d you screw him?”
“I should be going,” I got up from my chair and made my way back across the room, with Martin following after me. “Wait, Walt. Alright, we’ll talk about something else,” he caught hold of my elbow. “Finish your beer. I still want to show you something. Do you like art? I’m a photographer. I’m sure Myrian told you. We’re good friends, you know.”
“I didn’t realize.”
“Oh, yeah. If it wasn’t for old Doc Kelly. What do you make of that anyway? My take is there’s nothing really going on there. The guy’s a mess, all ancient and beat up. I give it another month at most.”
“I have to go,” I repeated.
“The two of them together defies nature, don’t you think?”
“Myrian and Janus are good people. They’re happy together.”
“I don’t see it.”
“Nevertheless,” I reached for the doorknob.
“Alright, wait. Come on, I want to show you something,” he guided me back around to the far wall where he pointed to a picture of Myrian in the moonlight. The photograph was encased in a silver frame covered with a clear sheet of glass, the sky and space around Myrian a velvet black, the trees and buildings nearby faint in shadow just after dusk. She was walking with a long scarf, white with flecks of sapphire, wrapped around her neck, a grey coat with deep side pockets into which her hands were sunk, and her shoulders slightly arched as if shielding herself from the wind. (Although I refused to say as much, the shot was actually quite good.) The power of the camera’s lens brought Myrian’s face in close, revealing her lost in thought, her path lit by the moon, a single white ray falling over her. “What are you doing with this?” I asked, vexed by the image of Martin standing at his window spying down on the street below. “Does Myrian know?”
“Of course, of course,” Martin waved me off. “Now look,” he took the picture from the wall and handed it to me. “What do you see?”
“I see a woman at peace,” I answered, and determined to dispute Martin’s claim of Myrian only biding her time with Janus, went on to describe how tranquil she looked, how serene in her stroll. “I see how content she is. I see a woman unperturbed and completely at ease. She’s happy.”
“Of course,” Martin took the picture and placed it back on the wall. For a moment I thought he was about to stroke Myrian’s face with the side of his hand, but he stopped short of this, and without turning around said, “She’s by herself, you see, without the good doctor weighing her down, with the moon I hung watching over her. She feels a change in the air and this appeals to her. She knows I’m watching her. She can sense me there. Hell, Walt, what else does she need?”
CHAPTER 17
Jack Gorne bought a bottle of Dewar’s and left the west side of Renton shortly after five o’clock. The snow outside was heavy with larger flakes mixing together, producing a white counterpane against the dusk. At a stoplight on McLarren and First, at a crossroad near Holiday Market and the Warwick Congregational Church, a much smaller car than Jack’s black Lexus lost traction and skidded into his bumper. The slight tap was insignificant, and still Jack sat through the green light, forcing the driver of the other car to come out into the cold and approach his window. “Did you dent me?” he asked.
“Sorry,” she answered.
“Fuck that. Is there a dent?”
Myrian went back to look, and as she did, Jack accelerated through the intersection, sending up a spray of snow and ice in his wake.
Inside my apartment, I kicked off Janus’s boots and hung my coat on the hook behind the door. I stood exhausted, the measure of silence sweeping over me in stark contrast to the rattle and buzz which had otherwise occupied much of my day. My mouth was dry, my head and limbs weighted as if with sand, and just as I settled down to rest after my outing with Myrian and encounter with Martin, I was disturbed by a sudden knock at the door. The pounding was fisted, as if by someone trying to startle me or in a hurry to get inside. I called from the couch, “Who is it?” then got up and undid the lock.
Jack came in, pulled off his gloves, and unbuttoned his coat. “So this is where you’ve been hiding out. Jesus, Brimm. Your world and welcome to it, eh?”
I reclosed the door as Jack handed me two small bags. We hadn’t spoken since before my collapse, though unlike other friends, colleagues, and clients and peers who found my circumstance indecorous and avoided me with grave intent, Jack said, “I’ve been looking all over for you. I was out of town for awhile and phoned you a few weeks ago from L.A. to talk up a deal and that was the first I heard of what happened. By the time I got someone to tell me you were in the hospital they’d released you. I actually had to hire a man to track you down. Your wife wouldn’t tell me a thing,” Jack smiled. “I heard about Marcum. Goddamn, Brimm. Goddamn!”
Jack pointed to one of the bags he’d given me. “Dewar’s,” he said. “Let’s have a drink. You look like hell,” he tossed his coat and gloves on the couch while scrutinizing the apartment. “What are you doing in this shithole anyway?” he took the Dewar’s from me and went into the kitchen where he poured us each a glass. The heat inside my apartment clicked off and the air was chilled. Jack put his glass down on my writing table, and placing a hand atop the radiator, gave a quick yank which produced an immediate rattle and hiss. He turned and sat in the chair across from the couch just as the heavyset man in the apartment upstairs came home and stormed through his flat. “Christ, Brimm, the sky’s falling,” Jack laughed, and smoothing a crease from his slacks, asked, “So, what’s the story? What are you doing here? What’s this all about?”
I allowed myself a small sip of whiskey, and cupping the glass in both hands said, “Nothing. I caught a bug. I was laid up for a while and was looking for a quiet place to recover my health.”
“Here?”
“It isn’t so bad.”
“And the wife?”
“Gee’s not with me.”
“I see that.” Ever since our evening together at Talster’s, I’d avoided discussing Gee with Jack. Even after Old Soles closed and rumors of Tod’s financial reversals began circulating through the city, I said nothing, but there seemed little reason to avoid the subject now. Jack settled his legs out in front of him, and chimed, “I warned you, didn’t I? I told you to figure things out first and not fuck around. You should have come to me for help before everything blew up in your face.”
“Maybe so.”
“Maybe nothing. What you need now is to get back on your feet. Let me get you out of here and put you up some place nice.”
“Thanks,
but no. I can’t just yet.”
“What do you mean? What are you waiting for?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What do you think’s going to happen hanging around here?”
“I told you, I don’t know.” The wind rattled my window, whistling along the brick. Jack sipped at his drink, slid his chair toward the couch, bent forward, and set his jaw. “Listen, Brimm. Forget whatever it is you think you’re doing. What’s done is done. You need to regroup.”
“That is what I’m doing.”
“Like hell. You’re hiding out is all. You’re punishing yourself for no reason. Give yourself some credit. There was absolutely nothing wrong with your plan.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Jesus, you were this close to pulling everything off,” he moved his thumb and forefinger a half inch apart. I stared at the distance, and after a brief calculation, said, “I was never as close as you think.”
“Sure you were. You had your foot on Marcum’s throat. All you had to do was push down.”
“I couldn’t. You don’t understand.”
“What don’t I?” Jack leaned further forward and slapped at my knee. “Listen, Brimm, you were clever enough to get the ball rolling. You’d be home right now with your sweet wife and daughter if you hadn’t crashed and burned.”
“I got sick.”
“You gave in.”
“I made a mistake.”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Fuck, Brimm, what mistake? We’re talking about real life here, not some fairy-tale landscape. Right and wrong are just words. They’re arbitrary abstractions at best. The only legitimate definition for what’s fitting is that which gets us what we want.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Well, maybe you should,” he pointed then at the second bag he brought which I’d set on the floor. “Take a look,” he said. “A housewarming gift.” Inside was a dark grey revolver. “If you’re going to live in a sewer, you should at least arm yourself against swine.”
Walter Falls Page 16
