“What about your father?” I say. “Think he’d notice if you up and vanished.”
Galla laughs. “Not like he comes around often. Besides, I’m merely an “asset” to him. Our relationship ended the moment I quit. You won’t hear from him again.”
Harsh breeze blows through. Can almost hear the voice of judgment in its chill. Any further objections? No, none that I can think of. Not in time to stop her from heading for the door. “We’ll get on with the rehanging tomorrow,” she says. “But I’m off to bed. You’re welcome to join.”
I nod, she goes inside. Door shuts behind her and the breeze stops. So it’s settled. Starting to think there was never any doubt.
***
Can’t sleep at all. Floors creaking, Galla wheezing, god-knows-what rattling. Sounds are all amplified. Anxiety’ll do that to you. Don’t really believe Galla will go through with it tomorrow, but late at night pessimism becomes a certainty. No idea how to proceed. Tell her the truth? Ha. Think about calling Sabonne, but to what end? Could take matters into my own hands, rush Tate to the hospital. Too many possible courses of action cause a state of paralysis. Only one thing I can tend to now: my art.
Painting’s in its final stage. Been keeping it right here in the bedroom closet. Extract it, take it to the bathroom. Trip over half the tables and chairs in the house, but nobody stirs. How can anyone rest easily in times of crisis? Boggles the mind. Flick on the bathroom light, get a kettle going for ambiance. Light fog in the room, almost like mist. Time to work.
The end’s brutally close, just need one last push. Decide to lay the glass on the floor and take it in from above. Girl’s face dominates the image, and rightfully so. She’s stunning. Seems to be comprised of subtle contradictions. Eyes that plead set above a defiant mouth. Hair of a woman surrounds the face of a girl. Caught in the precipice between…oh, no need to get carried away. Leave that to the critics. A spot of shading in the brow does nicely. Background landscape looks smoothly blurred. Stop thinking entirely, let my fingers do the work. Intuition’s gotten me this far, can’t abandon it now.
Move the painting again, this time to the wall. Onward. More I paint, the more it reveals itself. Like uncovering someone buried. One final touch in the background- a tiny bump. Have to squint to see it. Almost looks like a man. Adds a subtle sense of menace. Wonder if I just painted myself into my own work. Can’t really be sure. But when I step back, I know without a doubt: it’s finished. The one worthwhile piece I’ve ever produced. Thought I’d feel elation or supreme joy. Would’ve even settled for moderate happiness. Instead, only emotion is relief. Thank God it’s over, I think. One less thing I have to bother with.
Take my work to the living room, set it on the table. Figure I’ll at least be able to get a decent night’s sleep, knowing that I was productive. Before long, change my mind, and decide to put the painting in an empty kitchen cabinet. Seems like a good place for it in my hazy mind. Lie down on the couch, aimless thoughts pushing against my skull. Feels like my head’ll burst at any moment. By the time I settle down, sunlight has filled the room.
***
At the kitchen table, waiting for a serious talk that might never come. Lunch was three bowls of oats. Feel like a horse. Only one who touched ‘em was Galla. She seems in good spirits. And Tate’s not puking up, which I suppose is good spirits for him. Five hours to go till the rehanging.
“You didn’t have to sleep out here, you know,” says Galla. “You look awful.”
“How kind,” I say.
“Didn’t mean it as an insult,” she says. “I’m going out to check things over. Take a nap, why don’t you?”
She gets up, heads for the backyard.
“There’ll be plenty of time for naps the next twelve years,” I say.
A little pathetic, I’ll admit. But it gets her to come back.
“Are you worried? Scared? What?” she asks.
“Obviously, there are health risks I don’t think you’ve considered…”
“No, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not asking if you’re scared for me. I’m asking if you are scared.”
Pause for a second before I laugh, but it comes out forced.
“Managed to survive without you or children around for quite some time. Imagine I can do it again.”
“Good,” she says. “That matters to me. It does.”
I nod, she heads to the backyard again.
Someday I’ll say what I really mean, but no one will be around to hear it.
***
Sun’s sinking, time’s short. Look up, notice a vast cloud, milky and flat. Imagine the sun falling onto it and trampolining back up. All fantasy, though. Sun drops right through the cloud in a matter of minutes. The window for a hanging’s almost open. I can feel it.
Galla’s at the tree, finishing her preparations. Decided on the table/bag arrangement, meaning I’ll have some work to do- if she goes through with it. Still can’t imagine she will. She’s taken herself to the edge, but now’s the logical time for a retreat. More difficult to say what’ll happen with Tate. Go over to check on him again. He’s near the patio, resting in his original box. Had him hidden in an obstructed corner, but even that isn’t really necessary. The boy’s so small that the box dominates him. Wouldn’t even know he’s there unless you’re right on top of him. Been checking every few minutes to ensure the boy is sleeping and not dead. Appears he’s still alive.
Fingertips slide along my back. Turn and see Galla, a half smile on her face.
“Think I’ll go for a pee,” she says. “Wouldn’t want to be stuck in there holding it.”
Force a smile back at her.
“Let’s get on with it then,” she says. Starts walking inside.
“Wait,” I say. Overcome by a mad thought. The portrait. She needs to see the portrait.
“What do you mean?” she says.
“Just wait,” I say.
“Can I go for a pee or not?” she says.
“Yes, yes, of course. Meet back here in a minute. Now go!”
Must sound frantic, because she hurries off in a jog. In a bit of a daze, but I’m off to the cabinet. The portrait. Could talk to her for hours, try to convince her, but if she sees the portrait, she won’t leave me. Rational side of me protests: How’s a painting of a girl supposed to change anything? Simple enough- my soul’s in it. Could write sonnets and odes to Galla’s toenails, but none of it’s worth a damn. The picture’s the thing.
Take it from its spot. Still looks fantastic in the light of day. No surprise. Bring it out, hide it behind my body. Galla returns an instant later.
“So…” she says.
Big reveal. Pull out the portrait in a moment of triumph. She studies it for a few beats, her features scrunching up in deep thought. Or confusion. Hard to tell. But then, the light goes off, she sees what I see! But before I can celebrate, recognition turns to deep sadness. Don’t quite know what to make of that.
“Arboss…” she says.
“Yes,” I say.
“Your show. In all this,” she motions to the tree, “it completely slipped my mind. I’m so sorry.”
Can only be described as a gross misinterpretation. Not good.
“No, no,” I say. “The show’s been…it’s been postponed. I’d rather be here with you. Just thought you’d like to see my work.”
She pauses, looks it over once more.
“It’s…good,” she says. And that’s all. Feel like throwing myself into a firepit. Of all the words in the English language- good? Has there ever been a more meaningless four letters? Hate it, love it, fear it. For God’s sake, feel something.
Realize my miscalculation. I’ve shown her a dream. It moves me, but perhaps no one else. Put the painting down in despair.
“You’re sure Sabonne doesn’t mind?” asks Galla. “Postponing your gallery?”
“Sabonne…” I say. On the verge of turning myself in. Oh, why not? Nothing else to lose. “You have to realize…this is difficult
for me to say, but…but I’m not having an affair with her. Swear it. Would swear it on my parents grave, but you know they don’t really matter to me. There was never anything like that, though. I never did it.”
Galla laughs. Actually laughs.
“Of course you didn’t,” she says.
Don’t quite know what to say to that. Was expecting a fight, an accusation. Have to admit, pride’s a bit hurt. “I mean, I could’ve,” I say.
“Not likely,” she says. “When you’re having an affair, you generally sleep with your spouse less often, not more.”
Says that with a confidence that’s a bit disconcerting. Calls a few other things into question. No time to go into that now, though.
“But when we were together, it was always, “Sabonne this, Sabonne that.” You must’ve thought something was there,” I say. “I just don’t understand.”
“You should’ve seen yourself before that first meeting. Chattering on, bouncing around the house like a schoolboy. You were so happy for once.” Takes a slight pause. “After I saw that look in your eyes, I wanted to be more like her. Because…you know.” She smiles. “I was trying to be someone you wanted, that’s all.”
Oh. Should tell her that she never needed to pretend. But the words get caught in my throat. She’s already past me, picking up Tate, and then there’s nothing I can do. If I’ve missed my chance once, I’ve missed it a thousand times.
She climbs up on the table, Tate in her lap. He’s just starting to come to.
“There now,” says Galla. Boy’s not making any noise, but he’s moving a bit spastically. Imagine he’s not thrilled to be back at the scene of the crime.
“Expect he’s traumatized,” I say.
“He’ll survive,” says Galla.
“That’s the hope, isn’t it?” I say.
Approach the pair of them. Galla’s crossed her legs, Tate’s resting on her knee. Table’s low and sturdy, white cloth spread across the surface. Take an end of it, hold up the thin fabric.
“Think you can manage two minutes a day?” says Galla.
“What?” I say. No idea what she’s on about. She sees it in my eyes, and she nods towards the birthmark.
“Two minutes a day. One for him and one for me.”
“Right,” I say.
Try to stay focused on the task, but still waiting for her to call me off. Take two opposite corners of cloth in my hands. Bring them together over their heads. Tell Galla to do the same with the other two. She grabs the first corner. Then Tate starts speaking.
“L-O,” he says. “L-O.”
“Never quite learned the alphabet,” I say. “But not a bad attempt.”
Tate looks me straight on. “L-O.”
Galla bursts into laughter. “Those aren’t letters. He’s saying a word.”
Finally dawns on me. “Hello,” I say.
“Ello. Ello.” Smacks his hand against his thigh with each repetition. Almost like he’s waving.
Galla smiles, draws the other end of cloth up. “Good. That’s very good.” She looks up at me through a crack in the fabric. “Remember- two minutes a day.” As if it’s just another errand. Cook dinner, clean the house, keep us alive.
Pull the four corners together. Can still hear Tate parroting and smacking his leg. “Ello ello ello.” Corners bond, tighten, and the excess fabric turns into the tail. Listen for any sign of them inside, but there’s nothing. All’s gone silent.
Swing the tail up over the tree. It attaches to the branch. Get ready to pull the table out from underneath them, but isn’t even necessary. Bag starts rising on its own, the tail pulling it up. Rises up and up and up, coiling around the branch like a snake. Must be some kind of mechanical lift in it. Fancy that.
Drag the table away in the end. Figure they’d rather fall on grass, if it comes to that. Go back to the patio and finally stop moving. Have to escape for perspective’s sake. Can’t make sense of a picture with one’s nose pressed up against it.
Tree looks somehow older now, its bark coming in rough, its branch sinking under new weight. Or perhaps I’m just imagining it. The birthmark shines a bright blue, stands out against the dullness surrounding it. And the bag…the bag hangs in the air, a suspended white mass. Haven’t seen a heartbeat yet.
Can’t bear to keep looking. Head to the patio, notice the painting. Think about smashing it on the ground. No, I’ve got a better fate for this one. Bring it inside, into the bathroom. Handful of Vaseline’ll do the trick. Dip my hand in the jar, take one final look at the girl. Then destroy it all. Slide my hand from corner to corner, erase every line, every stroke. My art: my greatest failure, on display for no one to see.
Leave the blank glass, go back outside. It’s almost peaceful knowing nothing can be taken from you. Walk up to the tree. Don’t know if they’re alive or dead. Bag decides to answer my question. A faint glow comes from the center. Glow gets stronger, starts pulsing. Know without a doubt it’s Galla. Another pulse appears, a smaller one. The two beat in syncopation, approaching each other, till finally they line up. Glowing brightly, they beat together.
Reach out, touch the birthmark. Close my eyes. Swear I can feel their heartbeats through the tree. A minute goes by, then two. Hold on for just a little longer. Can’t quite bring myself to let go.
The Caterpillar King Page 16
