The Love of My (Other) Life

by Traci L. Slatton

  ● ● ●

  But a little while later, we were. We sat on a bench along the bike path by the Hudson River boat basin, not far from where Mrs. Leibowitz had gone for her ride. It was evening and the sun slanted down over the river, which reflected back streaks of red, orange, and pink. Across the river rose the variegated Jersey skyline, with tall buildings whose lit windows winked at Manhattan.

  I was soon deep in the idea of rendering the whole view as a landscape painting. It would be so breathtaking—I could even give it a Goya-like sadness—it would be beautiful and evocative in the way that nothing at the Frances Gates Gallery even aspired to be. What was wrong with contemporary art that the very principle of beauty had been lost?

  That ugliness had been enthroned? That art had become so constrained into individual expressiveness that no one but the artist who assembled it knew what it meant?

  Didn’t people realize that they were shortchanging themselves by accepting this drek as art?

  “You know what’s weird?” Brian was saying.

  “Weird?” I knew damn well what was weird.

  “Weird is Cliff Bucknell getting millions for crap.

  Weird is Dung Madonna ever getting funded. Annie Sprinkle, for Chrissakes. The junk that passes for art in the Whitney Biennial, that’s weird!” Somehow I had found my way to my feet and was gripping Brian’s arms.

  “Down, girl. Boy, you get triggered easily by that art stuff. I meant weird in terms of parallel worlds.”

  Brian pried off my fingers and maneuvered me firmly back to my seat beside him on the bench.

  “Oh, that. Nothing’s weird. It’s not weird at all, you showing up like a bad virus and claiming to be from a parallel world. Not weird, nope.”

  “Ha ha,” Brian gave me an ironic, sidelong glance. “What’s weird are the differences between here and where I came from. Some are minute.

  Some are huge. But you’re still Tessa, my wife. You are, and yet, you aren’t. It’s a paradox.”

  “You’re not my husband.”

  Brian reached over and took my hand gently.

  “Believe me, I know things about you. You lost your virginity with your brother’s math tutor. You were sixteen, he was twenty-three. You seduced him in the music room when your parents took your brother to soccer.”

  “I tried to seduce him, he said no,” I murmured.

  In my mind, a split-screen opened up. On one half, set in Brian’s imaginary alternate universe, I was sixteen again, all skinny limbs and a big mouth freshly released from braces. I was passionately kissing that math tutor. I could still see how hot he was: burly and dark-haired with clean-cut features that belonged on a movie actor, not on a math nerd. Then I unbuttoned his shirt, and I could almost … almost … feel the juicy triumph of the moment.

  On the other half of the screen of my mind, in the real world as I knew it, I remembered running my hands along the tutor’s shoulders. He turned away, told me I was too young and innocent, and to stop it because I didn’t know what I was doing. I had never felt so vulnerable.

  Not long after that, David had a party. His parents were out of town, and I finagled to get him alone in a closet and have my way with him. After that, we’d been together more or less forever… .

  Until three years ago.

  “There was no rejection in my world, Lolita,” Brian said. He was peering closely into my face, must have seen the emotions chasing themselves across it.

  I shook my head and grinned. “My mom was sick upstairs in bed. I was so humiliated. But no one knows about that, not even Ofee!”

  Brian raised my hand to his lips and kissed my palm. “You love red wine, but you’re allergic to it.

  You sometimes get a histamine reaction. Here.”

  He released my hand and gave me a folded photograph.

  I was suspicious but I opened it. There I was, smiling back at me, radiant in a big white wedding dress with a gossamer veil floating around me like a white aura. On either side of me stood Ofee and Brian, both in tuxedoes.

  “It’s photo-shopped,” I stated, though a shiver went along my spine. “Ofee would never wear a tuxedo, not in any universe.”

  “Happiest day of my life!” Brian said.

  “Do you need medication? This is a really elaborate stalker gig.” I held out the photo for him to take.

  Brian secreted it back on his person. His eyes were effervescent when they returned to me. “Let’s go back to your apartment. One of your drawings showed people having sex.”

  “None of my drawings shows people having sex!

  And neither are we. From now on, we’re strictly platonic.”

  But it wasn’t a vow I could keep when we got back to my apartment. Brian kissed me in that inscrutably irresistible way that high-jacked my good sense, and I blamed my lack of willpower on the red wine and my histamine reaction.

  Too bad I didn’t get a histamine reaction in this world.

  * * *

  * * *

  17

  Nine of spades

  The next morning, I left a note for Brian next to him on the bed where he was still sleeping soundly. “Thanks for everything, you’re amazing, please leave,” read the note. “PS, I saved the last yogurt in the fridge for your breakfast. Please put my skull on the kitchen table.”

  I was in my office helping Mr. Jenkins figure out his amplifier telephone when cacophony erupted in the church. I had a sinking feeling, and when I peeked out into the church, sure enough, there in the nave was Brian performing magic for a crowd.

  He was clumsy and obvious, narrating his inept trickery with jolly, oblivious patter. It made me groan. I slammed my office door shut.

  “EH?” shouted Mr. Jenkins.

  “Nothing, nothing, Mr. Jenkins,” I said, waving him to silence. I took a moment to think deeply.

  What to do, what to do?

  Then I grabbed my cell phone. It was still working, though for how much longer, I didn’t know. My mobile bill was getting a little stale. I peered out through a crack in the door and waited for my best friend to answer his cell phone, half a world away.

  “Tessy, sweetheart, is that you?” Ofee drawled.

  “Ofee, I miss you!” I cried.

  “I miss you too, Tessy, but I only have a moment.

  I’m actually in Scorpio pose right now. Demonstrating for my students.”

  I had a flash of Ofee, unibrow and all, twisting himself into a pretzel while talking on the phone to me. In the background, beautiful Thai people served fruit and drinks to impressed onlookers.

  “Okay, sweetie. Don’t you still do privates with the dean’s wife at Columbia? Have you heard of a guy named Brian Tennyson?”

  “Brian who? Oh, wait, yeah. The physicist. He’s an author, too,” Ofee said. His voice changed timbre, and I could tell he was transitioning to a different pose.

  “What pose?” I asked. “You mean he’s a real professor?”

  “Flying crow,” Ofee said. He raised his voice, speaking to someone near him. “That’s great, Martin, what do you call that, Sleeping Warrior with piña colada? Just breathe.” His voice returned to a softer tone. “Tessy, I heard some gossip. He went crazy.

  Break with reality. Institutionalized. Big scandal.”

  That makes sense. I opened my office door wider to see what was going on.

  Brian was trying to summon a quarter from elderly Mrs. Simon’s ear while doing a card trick for a choir singer. He yanked the old lady’s wig, pulling it askew.

  I yelped. “Gotta go, love you!” I threw down my cell phone and darted toward Brian.

  “Here, Blue Eyes, pick a card.” Brain fanned out a deck of cards and held it toward the choir singer, who obliged.

  “Help, I can’t see through my hair,” quavered Mrs. Simon.

  The choir singer replaced the card in the deck.

  Brian grasped Mrs. Simon’s wig and righted it.

  He dropped half the deck, saved the other half, and triumphantly held up a sing
le card. “Shazam, the nine of spades!”

  “I drew the three of diamonds,” said the blue-eyed choir singer.

  “I’m sure it was the nine of spades,” Brian insisted.

  “Three of—”

  “Brian, time for lunch,” I said, reaching through the group. “Let’s go.”

  “Tessa, I missed you this morning. That wine last night really zonked me out.” He nuzzled and then kissed me.

  I tried to push him off me and lead him away, but he turned back to the choir singer and resumed arguing good-naturedly.

  Naturally, Reverend Pincek chose that moment to bustle up and join us. “Tessa, I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Well, he seems very nice,” the rev said. “Maybe he could entertain the kids at our Saturday open house. Will he work for free?”

  “He’s only in town for a few days,” I said, hurriedly, to dispel such a disastrous notion.

  But Brian suddenly tuned in. “I’m here until Sunday afternoon. I love kids. I wanted some of my own.”

  He smiled and shook the rev’s hand. “Dr. Brian Tennyson, nice to meet you.”

  Reverend Pincek clapped him on the shoulder with approval. “Henry Ward Beecher said, ‘Children are the hands by which we take hold of heaven.’ You’re a fine young man, Dr. Tennyson, I’m sure you’ll have fine sons and daughters yet.”

  The blue-eyed choir singer drew Brian back into the debate, and the rev turned to me. In as quiet a voice as he could manage, which was not quiet at all, the rev asked, “Did you hear that, Tessa? He’s nice, and he’s a doctor.”

  “Not that kind of doctor,” I started.

  Joan, the secretary, charged up with a sheaf of papers, saving me from an explanation that could only cast serious aspersions on my own character.

  What the hell was I doing sleeping with a crazy man?

  What the hell was I doing with my life?

  The one question I didn’t ask myself, which I probably should have, was what the hell was I doing with the Bucknell skull?

  “Come on, Brian, let’s go.” I took hold of his arm firmly and pulled him away. “You brought it, right?

  I have to meet Guy.”

  Brian opened his mouth to say something, but the rev cut us off at the door.

  “Tessa, I have to ask you to take some time off.

  We found a plumbing leak. Our funds—”

  I shook my head. “I can’t duck out, Rev. People depend on me. Pay when you can.”

  “We’re pretty broke right now,” the rev rumbled.

  “I hate to take advantage. You know we want to pay you.”

  “A donation will come through soon,” I promised.

  “I don’t think so,” Brian said, with a rueful smile.

  “I do,” I said and tread heavily on his foot.

  “We’re certainly praying for one,” said Reverend Pincek.

  “While we wait for the answer to our prayers, tell me, Rev, are you charging for the senior dance?”

  Brian asked. He draped his arm around me with casual familiarity, as if we’d been married for ten years. “You know, to raise money.”

  The rev and I exchanged a look. I said, “Most people who come to eldercare are on fixed incomes.

  They live on social security.”

  The rev scratched his chin. “It’s a nice idea, Brian, but we don’t want to add to their financial burdens. The new health care laws have strained the tight budgets of the elderly to the breaking point.”

  “Some of them are even forgoing medications because of the new financial burdens,” I added. “The government passed a law and didn’t bother to think about how real people would be able foot the bill.”

  Some of the money I made at the church had been spent on Mr. James’ costly medicine. “It was the triumph of philosophy over humanity,” I said. “Of course, the health insurance companies are just getting richer than ever.”

  “Not another one of your rants,” Brian said firmly, holding up his hand. He thought for a moment.

  “Charge non-elderly people. Make it an everyone dance, a family dance. Get the teens in here. Little kids. Charge anyone under sixty-five. You might not get a lot of people, but hey, I’d take my granny to a dance for an hour to make her happy. And if there’s food involved … ”

  I have to admit, the rev and I were dumbfounded.

  Neither of us had ever considered such a radical idea. I said slowly, “We’d have to spread the word fast.”

  “There must be an email list for the congregation,” Brian said.

  “We can put it up on our website,” the rev sang.

  “We can put up a sign on the door,” I enthused. I could visualize it, and I’d get to try out some of that new titanium white … .

  “The Bible study group meets Wednesday nights,” Reverend Pincek said.

  “Tonight!” I exclaimed. “They’re a gossipy bunch.”

  “This could work,” the rev said. “Everyone’s welcome, kids under ten are free. That might bring in some of the young families, too.”

  “Kids under five are free,” Brian said. “And park some big jars around for contributions.”

  “I’ll get volunteers right on it,” the rev said, with excitement. He galloped off.

  Brian squeezed me in one of his bear hugs.

  I pushed him away. As I moved forward, my foot wobbled. Not now! The heel of my shoe was broken.

  “Right when I have to meet Guy.”

  “It’s a sign,” Brian leered at me playfully, “for us to go home and cuddle. Then go see Frances.”

  I took off my shoe and glared at the offending heel. “What part of ‘no’ do you not understand, the ‘N’ or the ‘O’?”

  “You know you want to,” Brian said. “You have to give back the skull. Do it now. Frances is a good guy, he’ll understand that you only meant to help the rev.”

  But I had a better idea, and I dug in my bag for a role of duct tape which I brandished victoriously. “I can fix my shoe. I can do anything with duct tape!”

  “Oh, brother.” Brian sighed. “I’ll go home and make lunch. Do you have any money for me to buy food, or am I using that tub of laundry quarters I found in your linen closet?”

  “You’re coming with me, mister,” I said. “I’m not letting you out of my sight until I have the skull. I think you have it on you.”

  * * *

  * * *

  18

  Modern art

  The Rothschild Gallery was even more pretentious than the Frances Gates Gallery. Rooms were dimly lit, swathes of fabric hung down, and flatscreen TVs shared wall space with exceptionally atrocious abstract art.

  Naturally, there was a rave review from The New York Times prominently placed in every room.

  “This is the ugliness of ugliness. This crap makes me want to kill myself,” I muttered.

  “Tessa, sweetheart, life is always right. Don’t even joke that way,” Brian said.

  We moved from room to room. I was supposed to meet Guy here, but I didn’t see him among the black-clad hipsters. I spied a partly open door in back. “Let’s check this one,” I said.

  We entered a large empty room that wasn’t quite as dark as the rest of the gallery. There wasn’t anything in the room except some red lights high in the corners, glowing like red demon eyes. I must have been grimacing to myself because Brian stroked my cheek and shoulder.

  “The stuff looks like a four-year-old crayoned it, but why do you care so much? Why let it trigger you?”

  “Art can be so much more,” I murmured. I leaned into Brian’s warm, solid chest. It had been so long since a man had held me with love and support.

  Truth be told, my ex had never been good at that.

  He hadn’t held me much physically, other than our sporadic conjugal connections. He hadn’t held me emotionally at all.

  “What, exactly, can art be for you?” Brian asked.

  He nuzzled me and drew me c
loser in to his body, as if he craved me.

  This was it, the central, ineluctable question of my life: what can art be for me? I had never framed it this way, but hearing Brian articulate it opened up something.

  Could art be my livelihood? It was certainly my passion. But could it sustain me?

  And what did it mean to me, apart from the material aspects?

  I bi-located into the Louvre, so that I stood in front of the sweeping Daru Staircase. I was a young girl looking up to the gorgeous rippling Winged Victory. “My eighth grade French class went to Paris, to the Louvre. I walked up the stairs to the Winged Victory, and I was smitten! It’s so beautiful and full of life, timeless and eternal. Looking at it, all the mundane stuff of life fell away. All the petty misery. I was healed, I was exalted. I was transformed. That’s what real art does!”

  “Fair enough, this stuff isn’t art,” Brian observed.

  His words pulled me back to the Rothschild Modern and the schlocky degraded stuff that passed for art at even the most exclusive galleries. Brian waved toward the door. “It’s entertainment. So what?”

  “So these commodities corrupt art as a field,” I cried, willing him to understand.

  “Why not take a stand against it by making beautiful art? Not by stealing. But by showing your own art. Your paintings are beautiful—people will buy them.”

  I gulped and covered my face with my hands. “I may have made some stupid choices in the past. Bad choices.”

  “Choices that keep you from painting?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Sweetheart, you can’t hold on to the past that way. Whatever you’ve done, own it, apologize, make amends if you can, and then move on.” He nestled me closer in to the crook of his neck and shoulder and kissed my forehead.

  “My reputation … ”

  “Fuck your reputation,” Brian said, but tenderly.

  “You’re young and alive. As long as you’re breathing, you have a chance. To make things right, to make a fresh start. It’s a gift.”

  “You don’t understand,” I whispered.