Stumbling into the living room the next morning, Stephen looked around and took in the peculiar assortment they made. Agnete sat on the floor next to Frankie, watching as he marched a carved horned toad back and forth over her shin. Alice’s eyes never left Agnete’s face, but she was glued to Phinneaus’s side, her fingers tracing the veins on the back of his hand. Saisee wore a path between the kitchen and the living room, bringing out mugs of coffee, and plates barely visible beneath clouds of spoon bread, ambrosia dotted with maraschino cherries—the cheerful red of them an affront to his eyes—and rosy slices of ham. And Finch, in spite of his drawn appearance, tapped away on his laptop, occasionally giving Stephen an uneasy glance. No doubt ordering multiple copies of Pat the Bunny, Stephen thought.
Luggage had been dropped everywhere, as if their plane had disgorged its contents over the house, and there were boxes of papers stacked high in the room’s corners. When Stephen asked about them, it was Phinneaus who answered.
“Natalie’s papers. At some point, Alice and Agnete may need to go through them. Saisee brought them all down from upstairs.”
“From the attic, you mean?”
“Lord, no,” Saisee said. “From Miss Natalie’s rooms on the second floor. No one ever goes up to the attic. Those stairs are so steep they’d likely kill a person.”
No one ever goes up to the attic.
Stephen leapt from the sofa and ran to the front hall, starting up the stairs. He turned around a third of the way up, running into Agnete, who had followed him, and said, “Grab my case, can you? It’s at the bottom of the stairs with everyone else’s things.” He raced up to the second floor and then to the attic, taking the stairs two at a time. Having no luck with the knob, he threw the weight of his body against the swollen attic door, jubilant when it yielded and swung open.
Agnete was right behind him; he could hear her breath just over his shoulder. It took no more than a second of scanning the room before he found it, a large crate propped up against the wall in the corner. There was a trunk in front of it, some moving boxes of sweaters with the lingering scents of mothballs and lavender sachet, and paper bags full of magazines: Art in America, ARTnews, Art & Antiques. The dog-eared pages in each were mentions of Thomas Bayber.
“Someone was a fan,” he said, thumbing rapidly through back issues, a cloud of dust coating the inside of his nose and making him sneeze. “Help me move these.”
“Whose is all of this?” Agnete asked. “My mother’s?”
“I don’t think so. I doubt she even knew this was here. It looks like it was all Natalie’s.” He pointed to a yellowed address label on one of the magazine covers. He pushed the clothes and bags of magazines away with the side of his foot, then he and Agnete each took an end of the trunk and pulled it toward the center of the attic. The crate stood alone against the wall, its corners opaque with webs and the carcasses of small insects.
“Stephen, we should ask Alice before we do anything else. All of these things are hers or Natalie’s. Maybe she’d prefer to be there when they’re opened.”
Stephen tried to control his pulse, his breathing. The hairs on his arms were standing up; he could feel a spark of static at the back of his throat that refused to be swallowed. His mouth was almost too dry to form the necessary words. “Alice has been through a lot. Don’t you think it would be better if we knew what was inside before we dragged the crate downstairs? If it’s not the painting, we can tell her it’s not here. Save her the disappointment.”
“Oh, but I haven’t been through anything at all,” she said, her voice heavy with sarcasm. She rubbed her hands together; he could see she was as anxious as he was. “Really, Stephen. Does anyone believe you when you say things like that? You’re the one who would be disappointed, not my mother.”
“Agnete, please.”
She hesitated before nodding. “All right. Do you have anything we can use to . . .”
Stephen had opened his case and was thumping a small pry bar against his palm. He wedged the end of the bar into the sliver of space where the crate’s frame met the top slat and pushed up until the nails screeched out and the top of the crate loosened from the front panel. He motioned for Agnete to help, and the two of them pulled the crate to the middle of the attic floor, laying it flat. Stephen handed her the pry bar, then got on his knees and reached inside.
“Whatever is in here, it’s well-wrapped.”
Agnete was looking at the bottom corner of the crate, at a shipping label. “It’s addressed to Alice,” she said. “Stephen, look. Do you recognize this handwriting?”
He stopped pulling at the bundle and scooted over next to her. “Yes,” he said. “That’s Bayber’s writing.”
“My father,” she said, looking at him.
Her father. He hadn’t thought a thing about that, about the way she and Bayber were connected, what both of the paintings might mean to her. He’d thought only of their value in a broader sense—the thrill of the discovery, rare additions to a known and supposedly finite body of work. Now he stopped, remembering the cuff links he kept with him at all times. How would he feel, unexpectedly coming across something of Dylan’s? Agnete was right. That would be worth more than all the Pollocks and Mangolds, the Klees and Gormleys put together.
Agnete’s skin was stretched thin over the bones of her face, a filament of blue visible along the side of her neck, appearing again at her temple. He could see the even ledge of her teeth pressing down against her bottom lip.
“You should be the one to open it,” he said.
She shook her head. “No. Both of us. You were the one who brought us all together, Stephen. You and Professor Finch.”
He hesitated, then nodded, and they turned the crate so its open end faced them. They stuck their arms inside and grabbed hold of what felt like a moving blanket, shimmying it back and forth until it was free of the crate. Stephen pulled the covering aside, and Agnete gasped.
“That’s my mother. That’s Alice. She’s beautiful.”
He stood the third panel of the triptych up against the wall. The oil was in a large but simple gilt frame. He thought of the other two pieces as he studied this one, mentally arranging them in their proper order, seeing the way the backgrounds would bleed into each other; the girls in the outer panels each pulling their younger selves away from Bayber and into the future; the past, present, and future joined. But where Natalie clutched at an infant Agnete and looked solemnly at the viewer, Alice, in her panel, was facing sideways and looking up to the sky, her face radiant with joy, her hair free and floating around her in an aura of pale gold. One arm encircled the swell of her belly while the other reached behind her for the hand of the younger Alice. The blue grosbeak that was missing from the cage in the center panel was here, perched on Alice’s shoulder, looking like it was whispering in her ear.
Agnete was crying. Stephen rested his arm awkwardly across her shoulder, and she turned in to him, burying her face against his chest. He could feel the front of his shirt getting damp. He attempted to nudge the crate out of the way with his shoe, but it was too heavy.
“Agnete, there’s something else in here.”
She wiped her face with the palms of her hands and watched as he lifted a smaller painting, covered in a piece of flannel sheet, from the crate and unwrapped it: a medium unframed canvas.
“What is it?” she asked him.
“I’ve been here,” Stephen said, tracing the painting lightly with his fingers. “I know this place. It’s your father’s summer house. Where he and Alice first met.” The view was from the lake, in the middle of a storm. Stephen could approximate the vantage point; he could almost feel the waves pitching beneath him while he stood in a small boat, looking toward land. The foreground was a miasma of froth and foam, swells charging across the water, a wet sheen reflected from the rocks onshore and from the roof of the cabin. The windows were illuminated by a murky glow, and smoke curling from one of the chimneys hinted at a fire burning. He looked more clo
sely. Watery smears across the top of the painting were actually the shallow Vs of birds, several flocks flying in the same direction, but the strokes did not look quite like Bayber’s. Stephen turned the painting over and handed it to Agnete, who read out loud what was written in strong cursive on the back:
Alice,
Do not let grief be the only map you carry, lest you lose your way back to happiness.
T.
EPILOGUE
Finch stopped at Thomas’s apartment—his apartment—the morning after they got back to the city. Mrs. Blankenship was settled on the edge of a chair in the living room waiting for him, her coat buttoned up to the neck in the chill air, a piece of paper folded in her gloved hand. The heat must have gone off again. That, or Cranston’s largesse had come to an abrupt end. Finch would have to call someone.
“I can’t go into the back rooms anymore,” she said. “It makes me so sad.” She pressed the paper into his hand. “It was in the drawer of the nightstand. I found it when I was gathering his things: medicines, eyeglasses, his hairbrush. There isn’t much.”
Common vanities, hidden away. Finch couldn’t recall ever seeing Thomas in glasses. He took the paper she held out to him.
“I didn’t read it.” She wouldn’t meet his gaze, which suggested otherwise.
“I’ll see you at the service tomorrow,” he said.
Mrs. Blankenship nodded. “Do you want me to stay?”
“You go ahead. I’ll lock up.” Finch squeezed her hand, realizing the woman was bereft. She and Thomas had had their own relationship after all; so many years of fussing and sorting, clucking and picking up after. What had they talked about, the two of them? He shook his head when she offered him her keys to the apartment. “We’ll sort everything out later.” He wondered if Stephen might not be interested in living here, or perhaps Agnete.
After Mrs. Blankenship left, the room settled with the same thick quiet he’d felt months ago at the cabin. He went into Thomas’s bedroom and pulled the drapes open before sitting down in the chair by the window and unfolding the piece of paper. It was a letter.
Mr. Stephen Jameson
c/o Murchison & Dunne, 22nd floor
October 1, 2007
Stephen,
I understand from others you are a man who appreciates directness and has little patience for the meandering discourse that passes these days for conversation. So be it. I do not yet know whether you and I will have the pleasure of meeting. I agreed years ago never to contact you at the behest of your mother, and out of respect for her husband, I have abided by that agreement until now. But as the years in front of me grow fewer, I would like the opportunity to at least once see my own son.
I did not love your mother, and she quickly realized she did not love me. I make no attempt to justify my behavior, past or present. I have lived my life in service only to myself, and now I am left with the deserved remains of such a life. Your father—the man who raised you—was a good man, though that word does not do justice to his character. He was a far better parent than I had the inclination to be.
You have a sister, Stephen; a half sister if you prefer. I do not know her whereabouts, but my hope is that you are able to find her, and that she is more of her mother than of me, although to imagine two on this earth drawn from the same hand seems more than God would allow. If you are in need of counsel, seek out Dennis Finch. He is a principled man, and compassionate, someone who will remind himself of your best qualities while struggling to forgive your worst. In short, he is a friend. You can trust him to do what he says, a trait which becomes increasingly rare.
It is hard to know what to wish for someone who should not be a stranger, yet is. So I will say only this. The estimation of an artist’s talent is often based on his ability to render both light and shadow. If you have any choice in the matter, spend your time seeking the former.
Thomas Bayber
Finch folded the piece of paper and stuffed it into his pocket as he heard again Bayber’s words on that October afternoon. Would it be so strange I would want back what I once had, just as you do? It was never the triptych Thomas wanted to reclaim. Finch looked out the window and watched the sun paint a wide swath of light on the buildings across the street. There was not nearly enough time after all.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have been incredibly fortunate to have as my agent the wonderful Sally Wofford-Girand and her team at Union Literary. My editor at Simon & Schuster, Trish Todd, has been a gracious navigator, helping me see what was in my head but not yet on the page, and Thalia Suzuma at HarperFiction U.K. gently encouraged me to uncover parts of the story I hadn’t realized were hidden. I could not have asked for more supportive guidance and enthusiasm than I received from the three of them. Thanks, as well, go to the team at Simon & Schuster for all of their efforts on my behalf.
To my readers: Ellen Sussman, teacher, mentor and friend, whose generosity has been unparalleled, thanks are not enough; and Christine Chua, my extraordinary tiger writing buddy, who always helped me find a way out of the weeds, your encouragement, keen insights, and thoughtful suggestions were invaluable. Calvin Klein has been a constant supporter from before the beginning, and I am grateful to have him, and the extended Klein family, in my life. To Gabriela Cosio-Avilla; John DeMartini; Anne Ferril; Nancy Hoefig; Philip McCaffrey; Lori Petrucelli; and Jean, Mike, and Tony Valentine, your enthusiasm and support have been sustaining. For all of my writing friends who have pushed me and celebrated with me, I have been blessed to have both your feedback and your gracious support.
To my family—I could not have done this without you: my father, who found the missing words; my sisters, who believed this was possible before I did; and my nephews, Conor, Cody, and Kyle, whose love of reading is inspirational. And most important to my mother—first reader, best reader, always.
© CHRIS HARDY
TRACY GUZEMAN lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her work has appeared in Gulf Coast, Vestal Review, and Glimmer Train. The Gravity of Birds is her first novel.
www.TracyGuzeman.com
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Tracy Guzeman
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First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition August 2013
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Guzeman, T
racy.
The gravity of birds / Tracy Guzeman. — 1st Simon & Schuster hardcover ed.
p. cm.
1. Sisters—Fiction. 2. Choice (Psychology)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3607.U98G73 2013
813'.6—dc23 2012025703
ISBN 978-1-4516-8976-1
ISBN 978-1-4516-8978-5 (ebook)
CONTENTS
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About Tracy Guzeman
The Gravity of Birds: A Novel Page 35
