The Love of My (Other) Life

by Traci L. Slatton

  “It’ll be a long time before I’m ready,” I murmured.

  “Amen!” The rev snuck a look at the Warholish paintings. “Frances here offered to curate a small show at the church and donate the proceeds.”

  “Just to thank you for your part in the sting that recovered Tessa’s head and that she is allowing me to exhibit,” Frances said.

  “Well, I think I played a believable rascal,” the rev said, modestly.

  “Rev, you were a fabulous rascal,” Frances said.

  “Keep the black suit, it looks smashing on you.”

  “I don’t think so,” the rev started.

  Fishnets cut him off. “You can wear it to take me out. On the house, of course.”

  “I’m much too busy at the church,” the rev said, dismayed.

  Frances gestured for me to follow him to his office. I obeyed.

  “Frances, despite the terrible art you show, you’re a good guy,” I said.

  “Watch it, I’ll be showing your art in a few months. And quit hugging me! What is it with you people?” he gargled.

  Brian-like, I had wrapped myself around him, in gratitude.

  * * *

  * * *

  38

  The wedding photo

  Reverend Pincek and I went from the gallery to the cemetery. Along the way, the rev scrubbed his face and changed his jacket. I stopped and bought a pair of racy, gold sling-back stilettos. The rev raised his eyebrows but didn’t comment.

  The funeral was a solemn affair with Mrs. Leibowitz’s children and their spouses and children, some friends, and a bearded Rabbi who led us in Mourner’s Kaddish.

  I thought of all the times Mrs. L had made me laugh, how much I had enjoyed her over the last few years. I thought of her arch way of speaking and her kindness and her love for her Bernie. I was going to miss her. My heart ached with absence.

  I pulled out the photo Brian had given me. It had changed. Brian and Ofee were gone. It was now a picture of me by myself, radiant in the white confection of the wedding dress. I had to smile through my tears. The future was open for me with all its possibilities.

  That night I gave José a check for the co-op board. Then I turned my kitchen table into an easel stand. I set out my paints and brushes on the table. I threw an apron over my jeans and pulled on Mrs. L’s fluffy turquoise slippers. I put the wedding photo up on my refrigerator door with a magnet, I saluted the Chagall on the wall, and I started painting for real.

  * * *

  * * *

  39

  An invitation

  A few months later, just as the new college semester was starting, Ofee went with me to the Columbia campus, ostensibly to help me tape up fliers. He was really there to stand in tree pose while I attached the fliers to obliging posts and walls.

  “This is pretty radical of you, Tessy,” Ofee observed as he segued into bird of paradise pose. “I didn’t know you had it in you. I like it.”

  “Anyone who signs up for my class will be lucky,” I said. “I have a great passion about art to share.”

  The fliers said ART AND LOVE: CLASSES IN LANDSCAPE PAINTING AND FIGURE DRAWING WITH NOTED ARTIST TESSA BARNUM, COLUMBIA GRADUATE. In the center of the flier was an image of the new painting I’d just completed, a mythical landscape featuring poignant, whimsical figures. On the bottom were tear-off strips with my cell number.

  “I like that, ‘noted,’ even though it isn’t completely true, yet,” said Ofee. He moved easily into warrior three.

  “Somewhere in the multiverse there’s a world where I’m already a famous painter. I just have to choose that reality,” I said. “My website will be up by next week.”

  We wended our way around Havemeyer, and I taped up more fliers while Ofee continued his practice. He did fifteen minutes of arm balances, and I chatted with some students about the class I was offering. Then I realized we stood smack in front of Pupin Hall, home of the physics department.

  “Brian,” I said. “I mean, Professor Brian Tennyson.”

  “Is that where his office is?” Ofee said.

  “Yes, and I’m going to do this,” I decided, just like that.

  Ofee, bending backward in full wheel, grunted.

  I laid the stack of papers on his belly and marched in to Pupin.

  I stood outside a door marked DR. BRIAN TENNYSON. Peeking inside, I saw the stylish, well-groomed professor from the lecture. He was talking to a student but noticed me. He gave me a quirky, embarrassed glance and motioned me to come inside.

  As he finished his conversation, I wandered around his office, examining mementoes and diplomas. A few shelves of his bookcase were filled with copies of his books. Another shelf held photos: Brian wearing a rock-climbing harness, clinging to a sheer granite rock face; Brian holding in his arms a decidedly ugly three-legged dog. There was a picture of an older couple who were probably his parents. No photos of a girlfriend.

  “Hello there, can I help you?” asked Professor Tennyson as the student exited.

  “Cute dog,” I said.

  Professor Tennyson walked over and took down the picture, gazing at it sentimentally. “That was Bella. Great girl, kooky, but sassy and spunky and fun. She passed away about a year ago. I still miss her.”

  “It takes time to heal from a loss,” I murmured. I leaned a little closer and tried to sniff unobtrusively: did he smell like the other Brian?

  “It does take time,” Professor Tennyson said, his affect softening. “But why are you here? You’re not one of my students coming in to grub for grades already.”

  Did he really not recognize me from the video?

  Maybe he was acting ignorant. If so, I could play along. “I’m Tessa Barnum. I’m an artist. We’ve never met, but I saw you a couple times a few months ago. I went to your lecture and then you came to a church dance.”

  “That’s right, that crazy guy with the metric tensors phoned me and told me to go to the dance.” He laughed. “I mean, I don’t mean to insult him if he’s a friend of yours. He seemed smart and interesting.

  A bit of a crackpot, though.”

  I had to smile. “Absotively, posilutely a crackpot.

  Well, I’d like to invite you to a show of my work.”

  I handed him a postcard, which advertised: MANY WORLDS: LANDSCAPES OF POSSIBILITY. FORGERY, ART, AND A NEW OLD MASTER. TESSA BARNUM AT THE FRANCES GATES GALLERY.”

  On the postcard was a photo montage of the Bucknell skull, one of my landscapes, and some of my figure drawings. It was striking; Frances had designed it for maximum effect.

  “The skull is ugly and kind of cheesy. I’m sorry, I know a lot of people like that stuff.” He made a half-shrug of apology. “The figure drawings are beautiful.

  Reminds me of Bruegel. The old masters understood something important about life.”

  “You get it about art!” I cried involuntarily.

  “I should, my mother was an illustrator, and she dragged me to every art museum in the world, insisting I take drawing lessons.” He smiled. “Physics and art aren’t so different in their search for the truth, I guess. What are the people doing, building a sand castle?”

  “They’re doing whatever you want them to be doing,” I said, nodding.

  “Cool.”

  “So, are you coming?” I asked.

  He looked away and colored slightly. “I’m kind of busy with the new semester starting, and I have to finish up a paper for a colloquium … .”

  “Sure.” I dipped my head with understanding, though I was disappointed. “This is for you, too.”

  From my messenger bag I pulled the envelope from the other Brian. I had carried it with me every day since he returned to his world.

  “What’s this?”

  “Don’t know,” I said briskly. “I won’t take up any more of your time. Thanks for seeing me.” I went to the door. At the door I was literally struck by a thought. It seemed to come from outside myself—

  it seemed, if such a thing was possible, to come
from the other Tessa. I could almost hear her silvery laugh fading away. I turned around and gave Professor Tennyson a wide-eyed look. “Hey, professor, did you hear that entropy isn’t what it used to be?”

  ● ● ●

  Ofee was nowhere in sight, which meant some college kids had corralled him into an impromptu yoga class. He’d be somewhere on the lawn demonstrating some impossible pose, wrapping his legs backwards around his head to close his eyelids with his toes, or something. I walked across campus looking for him.

  Students strolled past, chattering. Around each of their heads, I imagined planets orbiting, planets filled with multiple landscapes and diverse groups of figures and branching paths. It was a rich, vibrant vision; maybe I would try my hand at painting it.

  Lately I was taking risks in my paintings. Not all the results were wonderful, but some turned out rather well.

  Then I heard footsteps approaching me, sneakers slapping the pavement, and I had a flash of dêjà vu. I turned and it was Professor Tennyson running toward me. I felt a surge of challenge and joy. I took a deep breath and told myself, “Game on.”

  “Hey, do you know what this is?” the Professor demanded, panting. He thrust the letter in my face.

  I shook my head no.

  “It’s a schematic for a many worlds device to travel across parallel universes.”

  “Cool,” I mumbled.

  He grabbed my shoulder. “In my own handwriting! ”

  “Interesting,” I said and laughed.

  “I came here from a parallel universe and gave it to you, didn’t I? Didn’t I!”

  “Why would you think that?” I wondered.

  “Because the letter says, ‘Kiss the woman who brought this to you, and don’t let go of her. You don’t know what it will be like to lose her.’”

  I was overtaken by an impulse. Almost without conscious volition, I leaned forward and kissed his lips gently. Then I stepped back. He looked incredulous. I opened my mouth to apologize, but then I thought, what would the other Brian tell me to do?

  What had the girls advised: go for it?

  So, I kissed him again.

  After a moment, Brian pulled me into his body.

  After another minute, his mouth and hands answered me, passion for passion.

  Tingling in all my girl parts, I wrested myself back from him. “I give you an A for that!”

  “You’d better. Don’t think I didn’t recognize you from that video of us on the Internet,” he said, his voice husky. “So I have a question. That was him, wasn’t it? The other me. It has to be, because that was me in the video, and I’d remember something that awesome.”

  “Well … ”

  Smiling shyly, he put his hands on my hips and drew me in again. “I want a chance to star in my own video with you. I was good in that one, but I can do better.”

  “Just come to my show,” I said.

  Two weeks later, he did.

  Acknowledgments

  Many of Guy’s lines are drawn from History of Beauty, edited by Umberto Eco. Translated by Alastair McEwen. (Rizzoli: New York, 2005).

  Many thanks to Lori Handelman for brilliant editing and warm support, and to Drew Stevens for the ever ingenious book designs.

  Thanks to Tammy Salyer for thoughtful copyediting.

  Many thanks to Gerda and Mark Swearengen, Chris and Stuart Gartner, Michelle Czernin von Chudenitz, Jan Bröberg Carter, Dani Antman, Komilla Sutton, Don Steelman, Sarah Novotny, Lynn Bell, Dr. Dan Booth Cohen, and Mary T. Browne for the warm support. I love you all.

  Many thanks to Sarah Miniaci for excellent PR.

  Thank you to Jarred Weisfeld and Meghan Kilduff for eBook support.

  Many thanks to Kristin Gamble and Charlie Flood for being wizards.

  Thank you to Dr. Bill Chambers, who has something to say about growing up.

  Thank you to Adrienne Rosado, who keeps the faith.

  Thank you to Scott Elrod for his early encouragement. Scott: you rock!

  Warm thanks to Claudia and Steve Jackson, Teri and Steve Himes, and everyone at Telemachus Press for on-going support and encouragement.

  Warm thanks to the readers and bloggers who have read and loved my novels and asked for more.

  Love and thanks to Julia Howard, and to my indefatigable research assistant Madeleine Howard.

  Thank you to my husband Sabin Howard, who has everything to say about art.