The Portrait

by Megan Chance

  It had happened again—the thought filled him with desperation, a terror so pure he shook with it. God, it had happened again, and he didn't know why, didn't know how to keep those good feelings from spiraling so completely out of control, from turning on him, from destroying him. And the worst part was he couldn't remember, at least not completely. There were just bits and pieces that floated back, like those from a particularly inexplicable nightmare, an alcoholic fog. There was a night—somewhere, a night— where he and Rico had gambled at The Red House. Yes, he remembered that, or parts of it anyway. But after that, there was nothing. After that, there was . . .

  After that there was Genie.

  Jonas closed his eyes. His heart raced in sudden panic and bleak desperation. He had done something to Genie. Christ, what? What unpardonable sin had he committed this time? He couldn't remember. God, he couldn't remember. There was a dark pit in his mind, hovering, waiting, and he knew it was where his memories were. His memories and his reason, hiding from him. Taunting him. Baiting him.

  You're mad. The voice whispered to him, a haunting murmur. You're as mad as they've always said you were. . . .

  No. Jonas fought the thought, forced himself to push back the covers, tried to control his shaking. His false hand hit the edge of the bedstead, and he looked down at it in surprise, wondering why he hadn't taken it off for the night, trying again to remember getting into bed. The memory was truly gone; in its place was exhaustion and despair. Wearily, aching in every bone, every muscle, he undid the straps to his hand and let the appendage fall to the mattress, feeling too weary to pick it up, not caring enough to wear it.

  Clumsily, slowly, Jonas got to his feet. He stumbled to the tapestry guarding the door and pushed it aside, blinking at the gray light coming through the studio windows. It was raining outside. Pouring. For a moment he stood there, staring at it, feeling the dampness ease into his heart, his soul. The autumn was gone. It was winter now. Coldness, bleakness. Months of weather to match his spirits. Don't think of it. But he couldn't help himself. He couldn't stop the images from crowding his mind: barren trees and frozen mud and colorless horizons. People died in the winter. They froze to death in their little shanties and were buried in the hard, cold ground. Nothing saved them. Not faith, not prayers. In the end God made fools of them all.

  Just as He's made a fool of me. The thought weighed upon him, heavy and unrelenting and merciless. Jonas shuffled to the window, sinking into a chair and staring out at the grayness, at the slashes of rain streaking the glass. Dead leaves caught in the wind, ripping from branches, spiraling crazily to the walk, leaving trees that were bare and dark against the wet stone of the buildings across the street. It was cold; he could feel it through the glass, and he thought he should start a fire to warm the studio. He couldn't summon the energy to do it, so instead he just sat there, cold and shivering, watching the sleeting rain and wishing . . . wishing what? Wishing he were normal? Wishing he weren't so damned lonely?

  Wishing Genie were here with him?

  He laughed mirthlessly. Genie was never coming back again, he knew. He'd driven her away, like the others. Like Rico, who abandoned him every year, searching for friends in Paris, friends who weren't so demanding, friends who didn't embarrass and scandalize and hurt. No doubt she felt the same way.

  The thought filled him with sadness so stark he couldn't bear to feel it. He tried to concentrate on the swirling leaves instead, but the words kept intruding, increasing his misery and his pain with every repeat. She's not coming back. She's not coming back.

  That voice was so loud he barely heard the footsteps in the hall or the tap on the door. When it finally did intrude—a relentless knock that pounded in his head —he couldn't bring himself to answer it. There was no one he wanted to see. Rico would only look at him with those sad, too-knowing eyes, and Genie was gone forever. And there was no one else. No one.

  The rapping stopped. He waited for whoever it was to go away, waited for the tread of steps over the creaking floor. The sound didn't come, and he was just telling himself he'd missed it when the lever clicked and the door jerked open. It was Rico, he thought without turning around. No one else would dare—

  "You're awake." It was Genie's voice, rushed and out of breath.

  No, it couldn't be. It's a lie. It was not her. It could not be her. Slowly he twisted to look.

  She stiffened at the sight of him. He'd shocked her, he realized. He saw it in her face, in her frozen little smile, the attempt to school her expression. He wanted to take offense but he couldn't. She looked so flushed and radiant and wet. Rainwater dripped from her pink bonnet, darkened the matching wool of her mantle. She set aside a net bag of food and quickly lifted off her bonnet, shrugged out of the coat, hanging them both on the pegs by the door. She was wearing a pale green dress.

  Reseda green.

  Memories came flitting back, jagged puzzle pieces that barely fit together. Her body twisting beneath his, her rapid breath, the feel of her hair. White-shirted waiters and carriages and screaming in a hallway. The images were terrifying, humiliating, and he pushed them away, too afraid to give them life, too afraid to remember.

  "I wanted to get back before you woke," she continued, an almost desperate rush to her words. "I'm sorry it took so long. I imagine you're hungry."

  Christ, what had he done? He shook his head. "No."

  "No? But you haven't—"

  "Why are you here?"

  She blinked. Wariness slipped into her expression, a hint of despair that made him angry with himself, and that anger twisted inside him, mean-spirited and ugly. Because of it he wanted to be more hateful, to drive her away because he could not stand himself, and she was so perfect. So beautiful and innocent and young. So incredibly strong.

  He turned back to the window before she had a chance to answer him. "Get the hell out."

  He expected her to go. Expected to hear the click of the door.

  Instead, all he heard was her soft—too-soft—voice. "No."

  "No." Her answer startled him. The unexpectedness of it increased his anger.

  "Decided to brave the monster, have you? How courageous you are." He heard the biting sarcasm in his words.

  "Is that what you think you are?" she asked. Her voice was very calm, very even. "A monster?"

  "What else would you call it?"

  "I'd call you a genius."

  "Ah, a genius." He laughed self-deprecatingly. "Don't lie to yourself, Genie. Geniuses don't scream like madmen or rape innocent women."

  He heard her gasp—a short, startled sound. "Rape?" she asked. "You raped someone?"

  He turned to look at her then, saw the paleness of her face, the blackness of her eyes within it. "Didn't I?" he countered bitterly. "Or did you strip your clothes off willingly for me?"

  Her lips tightened; he saw the flex of her jaw, and he waited—again—for her to run. But she stood her ground, met his gaze. She wasn't afraid of him, and he wondered when she'd learned that. Certainly she had every reason to be afraid: The memories tangled in his head. He remembered screaming her name somewhere —ah, where? He pushed the half memory away. Suddenly he didn't want to know. He really, really didn't want to know.

  "I was willing," she said firmly. "And I'm not young. Or innocent."

  He barked a laugh. "No, of course not."

  "I'm twenty-six years old," she said, lifting her chin —as if she were braving a monster after all. "And I'm not ... a virgin."

  "Not anymore. I made sure of that."

  "Before then, even."

  "Oh?" he asked scornfully. "Someone kissed you once, perhaps?"

  "Is it so hard to believe?"

  He shrugged. Her words wounded him for some reason he couldn't fathom. He felt the sting of irritation and was unsure whether it was because he didn't understand himself or because he hated the idea that she had made love to someone else. The thought annoyed him further; again he felt the tug of mean-spiritedness, the need to push her away. He knew
how cruel his words were before he said them and didn't care, wanted to hurt himself by pushing her away and punish her for letting him.

  "Is it hard to believe that you kissed someone? No. But I'll warrant you haven't had a man between your legs before. I haven't seen that kind of innocence since I was thirteen."

  She took a step back as if he'd slapped her. Jonas waited to feel the touch of satisfaction and was startled when he only felt more depressed, more angry. He jerked back to the window, back to the stark New York winter, to barrenness, and told himself she would leave now. She would leave because he'd hurt her, because he'd crushed her the way hopelessness was crushing him.

  Leave, he thought. Leave before I hurt you more. And then, to guarantee it, he said, "Better watch out, Genie, the monster has teeth. I told you to get the hell out of here."

  He heard nothing. Not a single sound. Not a step or a sigh. It was so quiet he wondered if this were all an illusion, if maybe she wasn't here at all, if he'd imagined the whole thing.

  "His name was Nicholas," she said softly. "I thought I loved him."

  "How sweet," he said cynically.

  She went on as if she hadn't heard him. "But he—he loved someone else."

  A pause. He sensed her pain hovering between them, filling the air, and he refused to let himself feel it. If he felt it he would cry. If he felt it, he would get down on his knees and beg her never to leave him. And then he would be the one who got hurt. Because she would leave him. The moment she realized what a burden he was, she would go, the way they all did. In a way he wanted that. In a way he wanted her to leave so he could sink deeper and deeper into that darkness that waited for him, so he didn't have to make any effort to elude it. If she left, he could go back to bed and stay there, give in to sleep and restless dreams and forgetfulness.

  "Life is like that," he said. He meant to stop with that, just that clean, cynical statement, a hurtful declaration. But despite himself, the other words spilled out, the words he'd never meant to say—and especially not to her. "What do you want—a guarantee? There aren't any. People say they love you and then they leave. They say they'll stay no matter what happens. But they don't." He paused, feeling the pain well up so strongly inside him that he spoke the last in a whisper. "They never do."

  There was silence again. So much of it, and so long, that his words seemed to reverberate within it, a ceaseless rhythm, a painful reminder. "They never do." Not his mother or his father, not his sister or his brother Charles. Not Rico. No one.

  Then he heard her step behind him, felt her hand on his shoulder. A calming touch, a steady one. So tranquil it hurt him—physically hurt him—even as it soothed him, even as he felt her strength pouring into him.

  "I won't leave," she said. "Not as long as you need me here."

  The unsaid words floated between them, twisting out of his reach, sucked away by that awful blackness. "People say they love you and then they leave," he'd said, and he wondered if her answer held the first part too, if she thought that she loved him but was too afraid to say. He wished she'd said it, though he knew he wouldn't believe her. Hell, he didn't believe her now. He never believed anyone.

  Because of that he didn't give her an answer. Because of that he said nothing. But even so he felt himself stiffen beneath her touch, a too-revealing response, one that gave him away. He stared at the window, trying to ignore the feel of her hand on his shoulder, the strong, gentle heat, the only warmth at all on this cold, dark, rainy day. Christ, he felt cold to his very center. Cold and barren.

  And suddenly he was glad she hadn't said "I love you." Glad because he couldn't have said it back, because his heart was heavy and empty and he didn't know if he could care about anything anymore.

  She waited a few moments, and then she eased away, leaving a chill at his back. He heard her moving around the studio, and the comforting sound of her movements only made him more miserable. He thought he heard her humming, and he closed his eyes and listened to her, growing more desolate with every wavering note. She reminded him of all the things he would never have: a wife, a family, a normal life— God, a normal life. Was there such a thing? He thought of all the people he knew, of the way they talked. Planning for two weeks from now, a year, five. . . . They talked about the future as if it were a guarantee.

  He wished he knew how they did it. Even planning for the next day was beyond his capabilities. He didn't understand how to think that way, how to plan, and he wanted to. He wanted to understand how people mapped out their lives, how they went so easily through a day. How they managed to keep from destroying the people around them, destroying themselves. He looked down at his arm, at the too-smooth stump, the thick pink ridge of scar. Christ, how did they do it? How did Genie do it?

  "Genie," he said. His voice was hoarse and rough, it didn't sound like his. But the moment he spoke she stopped, he heard the silence.

  "Yes?"

  He tried to read her tone. Was it wariness he heard? Concern? He didn't know, couldn't decide. He continued anyway. "Genie," he said again. "Tell me—tell me how you plan your day."

  "How I plan my day?" She sounded confused now. "I'm not sure what you mean."

  "Do you ... do you have a schedule?"

  She gave him a funny little smile. "A schedule? Yes, I suppose you could say that."

  "You know what you're doing each day."

  "Yes."

  He took a deep breath and looked away from her. "How do you know?"

  "Well . . . There are just things that need to be done. And people who expect you for things. Dinners, for instance. And parties. And school. Just . . . things." She moved across the room; he felt her presence behind him, and then she was in front of him, leaning against the window. He wondered if she was cold, and then realized the fire she'd started had warmed the room. But he was still cold. Freezing cold.

  She gripped the sill with her fingers and shook back her hair. She was wearing it loose. It fell over her shoulders and down her back, light brown strands clung to the satin of her dress.

  "Just things," he managed.

  "Yes. Things like ... I went to Atkinson's every day for lessons. Always. Unless I was too sick to go—"

  "Too sick?"

  "Yes, well, I—I was often ill." She rushed through the admission as if it embarrassed her. "Before Chloe died, they were going to send me away, to a hospital. But then she died and . . . and I didn't go."

  The name sent anger spearing through him and he tried to remember why. "A hospital? What kind of hospital?"

  "I don't remember," she said quietly. "Does it matter?"

  No. No, of course it didn't. He shook his head. "Go on."

  "Go on?" She paused, cocking her head as if she were trying to remember. "Well ... my father was a great scheduler. He loved his salons—we probably had one or two a week. People came from all over the state. Writers and artists. . . ." She closed her eyes and smiled as if she were recalling a precious memory.

  He wondered how she did that. How did people have memories that were precious? He had none. Only things he would rather not remember. Despair and embarrassment and pain. All of his memories were like that.

  She opened her eyes. "Hiram Powers was there once."

  "Ah, yes, he did the sculpture you disliked. 'The Greek Slave,' " he said.

  "Yes. I wasn't lying when I told Mr. Tremaine I'd seen it."

  "I never supposed you were," he said. That night at Anne Webster's came back in hazy detail. It seemed a hundred years ago. He hadn't even planned that, he remembered. Had just gone and expected to be welcome—and was.

  He sighed, feeling drained. "I don't understand schedules," he said bluntly. "I've never had one. I don't know what will happen from moment to moment. Some days are good. Some . . ." He shrugged, letting the sentence fade into nothing, letting her draw her own conclusion, waiting for the look of arrested sympathy on her face, the pity he hated and wanted at the same time.

  "Oh, Jonas." She came to him, all soft compassion and
healing words that frightened him, pained him. But he didn't try to pull away when she knelt before him, between his legs. She reached out to take his hands, grabbing one, stopping short just before the other. He saw the moment she saw the stump, saw her startled shock, the quick way she tried to hide it.

  His embarrassment numbed him, his self-hatred sprang to life. Deliberately he grabbed on to it, held it.

  "Does it shock you?" he asked hoarsely, not sure what answer he wanted her to give, whether he would prefer the truth or a lie.

  "Yes, a little," she admitted, holding her ground. "I've—I've just never seen it before. I was surprised."

  "Surprised." He laughed humorlessly. "Not as surprised as I was when they took it. I woke up alive and without a hand. I didn't expect either one." He lifted his arm again, staring at the artificial smoothness of the flesh, the rounded hump of a wrist, the ridge of still-pink scar that marked the sutures. And then he turned over his other hand, wrist up. There it was, the companion scar that marked it, a thin white scratch, barely noticeable but there nonetheless. He eyed it casually. "Odd, don't you think, that I could cut one so deep and not the other?"

  It took a moment for her to understand his words. He knew the precise moment she realized his meaning, felt a tingle of satisfaction at her gasp. She had given him the response he wanted finally, the one he expected. Revulsion. Horror. The same reaction his father had. The same look he'd seen on the face of his roommate at Barbizon, who'd found him bleeding and semiconscious and wanting to die. Jonas had screamed at them to leave him alone, had fought them when they tried to take him to the hospital, fought until the blood loss make him weak, until he passed out in the wagon.

  And when he'd awakened it was to the stench of cauterized skin and the coppery scent of blood. It was to horror so intense he'd thought he would never see its like again.

  But that was before he'd gone home.

  That was before Bloomingdale.

  He looked at Genie with smug satisfaction. She was like all the others, after all. Her horror was proof of it. Like them, she was only willing to love him, to stay with him, until she found out the truth. Madness was an easy thing to deny when it meant only brilliance and temperamental behavior. It was not so easy when it meant playing God.