No Rest for the Dead

by Andrew F. Gulli; Lamia J. Gulli

  JONATHAN SANTLOFER

  The main gallery of the McFall Art Museum was buzzing. The art world was out in force, curators and collectors, artists and dealers, in high-end designer clothes, tattoos—the latest fad, etched across backs, creeping up the arms of young and not-so-young men and women—no one looking at the art, everyone busy reciting his or her résumé, affecting ennui, eyes flitting like hummingbirds seeking someone, anyone, more important to talk to.

  Rosemary Thomas stopped a moment to catch her breath, leaned against the wall to survey the blur of mostly black-clad cool cats and sophisticates, many of whom she had known for years, but whom among them could she trust? Did they know? Were they laughing at her?

  Poor Rosemary, that husband of hers, well, you know…

  The thought of it, that she was a joke, someone to be pitied, unbearable.

  Ironic, she thought, fixing on the dazzling and disjunctive centerpiece of tonight’s reception—a ten-foot-long, 1947 Jackson Pollock “drip” painting, the artist at the height of his manic creative powers—the kind of painting that rarely, if ever, became available, a gift that she helped Christopher acquire for the museum.

  Their museum as Christopher liked to call it. What a joke. Christopher, a hotshot senior curator of twentieth-century art while she remained a mere associate in Arms and Armor, a musty room that attracted even mustier old men and unwashed teenage boys.

  But wasn’t that the way they’d planned it, Christopher’s career to be the one that mattered?

  I couldn’t make it without you, babe.

  How many times had he said that? And she’d believed him, content to play the quiet, supportive wife with the right pedigree—Shaker Heights family, coming-out party, Wellesley undergrad, New York’s prestigious Institute of Fine Arts.

  The museum owed much of its reputation to her. It was because of her family’s long-standing social connections that she’d easily made contact with old European families and had them donate rare pieces to her museum rather than the bigger, glitzier California institutions. And now, Christopher was building the contemporary collection, the cool stuff that brought in a public who didn’t care much for armor and Gothic goblets, hermetic stuff, old and dry, exactly how Rosemary was feeling these days, like a relic, old and uninteresting, once the backbone of the museum, now ignored, ready to be discarded.

  We’ve outgrown each other.

  You mean you’ve outgrown me.

  I want a divorce.

  After all she had put up with—the women, the humiliation—and now he wanted a divorce.

  I won’t let you divorce me.

  How can you stop me?

  Christopher’s face, the sneer on his lips, burning in her mind as another man’s face came into focus.

  “Oh—” A quick intake of breath. “Tony.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Me? Oh, yes. Yes. Of course.” Can he see it, the shame on my face?

  “You look flushed.”

  “No, I’m… I’m fine. It’s just these events—you know.”

  “Yes, hard work for a curator, but it’s surely fun for me to see the museum acquire such a spectacular piece.”

  “Thanks to you.” That’s it, the right thing to say.

  “Well, not me entirely.” Tony Olsen shrugged, modest, or trying to be. As a generous donor and chairman of the board for the past four years, he had shaped the museum’s direction, and during that time he and Rosemary had become good friends. “Christopher had a lot to do with it. You must be very proud of him.”

  “Yes… of course.” She swallowed hard, felt the blood rush to her head, nausea rising.

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Rosemary?” Tony laid a hand on her shoulder.

  She tried to smile, Christopher’s face still looming in her mind, his words like acid in her gut.

  But the children…

  They’ll get over it.

  “Let me get you a drink.”

  “That’s the last thing I need, Tony. We were so busy I skipped dinner, not a good idea, but I’m fine, really I am.”

  He looked into her eyes, “Rosemary, we all know how much you helped with this acquisition—it’s not even your department—and Christopher getting all the credit. It isn’t quite fair.”

  “Oh, it’s … I’m better at writing grant proposals and soliciting donations than socializing.”

  “You’re a lot more than that. You’re the anchor around here.”

  The image struck her as unflattering: a weight that dragged things under.

  She touched his arm, felt the plush cashmere under her fingertips. “You should mingle, it’s your duty.”

  Tony Olsen gave her cheek a peck and smiled warmly before he moved into the crowd with the kind of ease Rosemary admired but could never muster.

  An anchor, that’s what I am, a dead weight.

  But she’d been a good wife to Christopher, encouraging, willing to take a backseat, allowing him to shine, to be the star. She’d always known that was what he wanted.

  She stared at the crowd; at least half the art lovers had their backs to the Pollock masterpiece.

  “My God, you look awful.” Peter Heusen eyed his sister over the rim of his champagne glass. “You’re as white as a ghost. What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Was it something that oily billionaire Olsen just said?”

  “No, of course not.” Rosemary tracked Tony Olsen, watched him expertly chatting up half a dozen people at once.

  “You know he made his first million in munitions.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “Your naïveté is a continual source of amazement.” Peter sniffed. “Well, I don’t like him.”

  “You don’t like anyone who has more money than you.”

  “That makes everyone, doesn’t it?”

  “Oh, please, Peter, we have the same trust, so I know exactly what sort of income you have, and it’s plenty. You should be grateful.”

  “My dear sister, you play grateful so much better than I.”

  “Let’s not get into this, not here.” Rosemary sighed.

  “Into… what? You mean the loan I asked you for—the one you refused?”

  Rosemary tried to whisper, but it came out a hiss. “We get the same monthly money, Peter. I just don’t spend mine the way you do.”

  “That’s obvious.” Peter gave his sister the once-over, top to bottom. “Aren’t you expected to dress for these events?”

  “Very funny.” Rosemary smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her plain beige dress.

  “Not funny at all.” Peter angled his chin toward the center of the room. “Look at your husband all decked out in his designer tux. Clearly he has no problem spending your money. Why aren’t you on his arm?”

  “He’s got a lot of people to juggle.”

  “Yes, Christopher’s specialty is juggling, isn’t it? He should have been in the circus.”

  “Not now, Peter.”

  “My God, Rosemary, you play the martyr even better than grateful, defending that lout while he makes a fool of you.”

  “Keep your voice down, Peter.” Rosemary scanned the nearby crowd to see if anyone was listening, but they were all too wrapped up in themselves to notice.

  “Why? Everyone knows. He’s not exactly hiding his affairs.”

  Rosemary’s legs felt weak, her face on fire, but she said nothing.

  “Well, if you’re just going to stand on the sidelines and pout, I’m off.”

  “That’s a good idea,” she said, her voice going strident. She took a few steps back. She wanted to turn and run, but she was frozen, her mind like an old record stuck on repeat.

  Is there someone else, Christopher?

  That’s not the issue.

  It is. For me.

  It’s not about you.

  I’m entitled to know.

  It’s my business, not yours.

  I won’t let you humiliate me like this. I won’t!
/>   And what will you do?

  She saw his face again as he’d said that, the cold sneer twisting his lip, the arrogance.

  Rosemary felt cold, then hot, the spotlights blinding, the room suffocating. I have to get out of here.

  A manicured hand on hers, nails ticking her flesh.

  “You’re Chris’s wife, aren’t you?”

  The young woman who said this reminded Rosemary of a ferret, sleek and mean looking, shadowed eyes narrowed, a tight, insincere smile.

  “Yes.” Rosemary nodded.

  “You don’t know me. Haile Patchett, I used to work at the Natural History Museum in Los Angeles?” She flipped her long red hair to the side.

  Rosemary took in the skintight dress, six-inch heels, a dozen silver and gold bracelets at her wrist, the kind of woman she could never compete with; the kind of woman she never met back in Shaker Heights, who seemed to be standard-issue in New York or L.A. or San Francisco; the kind of woman that Christopher always fell for.

  Rosemary just stared at her, had to control herself from lashing out. “Oh, but I do know you, and not from anything you do at the museum.” She sucked in a deep breath. “How dare you come here?”

  “Whatever do you mean?” Haile held on to her smile.

  “I think you should leave.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.” Haile arched one perfectly penciled brow and peered past Rosemary into the crowd—a crowd that was ripe for the picking, she thought, but not tonight. She was looking for someone specific. She looked Rosemary up and down, barked a laugh, then turned away.

  Rosemary’s face burned as she watched Haile Patchett wiggle through the crowd like a snake. Then she caught sight of Christopher, at the center of the throng, expertly juggling six or seven people at once, his pretty associate, Justine Olegard, standing beside him dutifully.

  He was sleeping with Justine too, she knew it.

  My God, is there any woman here he hasn’t…

  Rosemary watched Christopher laughing, brushing the blond hair away from his forehead, still playing the golden boy, and felt an ache in her chest that caused her to gasp. And then that redhead, Haile Patchett, joined the group, her hand on Christopher’s arm.

  Rosemary wished she could disappear, become invisible. But isn’t that what she’d always been?

  It’s my time, Rosemary, and I don’t need any baggage.

  Was that what she was, baggage?

  I’ve done plenty for you, Rosemary, but it’s over.

  Done for me? What have you done for me?

  The room was thrumming, the noise, the lights, the small Jackson Pollock studies—wild splashes of brush and ink—pulsating on the white walls.

  Then it all seemed to stop, the clamor reduced to the slightest hum, the crowd disappearing, and it was just the three of them: Christopher and that horrid redhead spotlighted in front of the Pollock—two figures performing against a backdrop of shimmering paint—and Rosemary, watching. She couldn’t hear what they were saying but read their body language, the woman pitched forward, hip thrust out, Christopher whispering in her ear, her hand gripping his arm.

  But when the woman reached up to touch Christopher’s hair—here, in the museum, with Rosemary watching, with everyone watching—that was it.

  The room was spinning around her like those Jackson Pollock drips. Rosemary knew she was moving, could hear herself mutter, “Excuse me, excuse me,” as she cut through the crowd, the sound of her own breath loud in her ears, heart pounding as Christopher and that woman grew larger and clearer, the individual strands of Christopher’s blond hair and the woman’s black-red nail polish standing out in high relief while everything around them blurred.

  Christopher Thomas beamed at the small coterie of fans gathered around him, then looked past them, and there she was: his wife, hovering at the periphery of the crowd like a pathetic waif.

  He took in the light brown hair hanging limply to her shoulders, her shapeless beige dress. He’d long ago stopped seeing the pretty woman behind the plain packaging. He tried to locate his feelings for her but could not.

  “Hey, juggler.” Peter Heusen slapped his brother-in-law on the back.

  “What?”

  “Juggler, you know.” Peter mimed the act.

  Christopher Thomas regarded him with disdain. Peter, the blowhard. Peter, the freeloader. Peter, who had his uses. Christopher patted his brother-in-law on the back and turned away.

  “So, how does the Pollock look to you?” Christopher asked Tony Olsen.

  “Shimmering. Brilliant. Expensive.”

  “What about s-sloppy?” said Peter Heusen, insinuating himself between the two men, slurring his words.

  Christopher sighed loudly. “My brother-in-law fails to notice the internal structure that Pollock is working with, the choreography of the drips, the interweaving skeins of paint almost like a dance.”

  Peter made a noise through his nose and Christopher snagged him by the elbow, turned him around fast, and hissed in his ear. “Go away, Peter, now. You’re not even supposed to be here.”

  “Oh, fuck off, Thomas, I know you,” Peter said, his boozy breath hitting Christopher’s face like a damp sponge.

  “Chris—”

  Christopher let go of his brother-in-law and turned to the familiar voice.

  “I’ve left over a dozen messages for you,” she said.

  Haile Patchett.

  Christopher could feel the crowd closing around him, collectors and artists, his staff, even the chief curator, his boss, Alex Hultgren, a man devoid of humor, and the chairman of the board, Tony Olsen.

  “I can’t speak now,” he whispered to Haile. “I’ll call you.”

  “That’s what you keep saying but you never do.”

  “Who’s this, Chris?” Justine Olegard took a step in front of Haile Patchett.

  “I could ask you the same question,” said Haile, eyeing Justine, lips pursed.

  Christopher looked from one to the other. “I can’t do this, Haile, not here,” he whispered close to her ear.

  “Oh, you remember my name, what a surprise.” She trilled a fake laugh and Christopher tightened a grip on her arm.

  “Oh, relax,” she said, “I’m not going to cause a scene.”

  “You already have.” He looked around, saw the chief curator, Tony Olsen, Justine, all watching him.

  Christopher painted on a smile, trying to defuse the moment, as Haile Patchett reached up to smooth his hair, an old habit, something she’d seen in a movie no doubt; everything about Haile was theatrical. And he would have stopped her, the act totally inappropriate for the setting, his hand already up reaching for hers when he saw Rosemary cutting through the crowd toward him, her features distorted with anger.

  “Enough!”

  Rosemary Thomas was surprised to hear her voice, so much louder than she expected. She swatted Haile Patchett’s arm away from her husband.

  “What on earth—?” Haile glared at her, mouth open.

  “What you’ve done for me?” Rosemary shouted at Christopher. “For me?” She was trembling but it didn’t matter; nothing seemed to matter. “To think what I gave up for you—the years, my life!—and for what?”

  “Rosemary, please.” Christopher made tamping-down motions with his large hands, a smile frozen on his lips.

  Everyone around them had gone quiet, a ripple effect in motion, the crowd quieting in successive rings until the only people left talking were those on the outer fringe, a throbbing chorus at the museum’s perimeter.

  Christopher reached for Rosemary, but she slapped his hand away and pulled back.

  “Rosemary—”

  “You bastard! I gave you all this. And now—”

  “Rosemary, please. You’ve had too much to drink, darling, you’re not yourself.” He managed an arm around her shoulder, but she shook him off.

  “I’ve had nothing to drink. I’ve never been more sober.” The sound of her voice, her words, still shocked her, but she couldn’t stop
. “You want a divorce, Christopher? We’ll see about that!” Then the room was spinning, the ceiling slanting on an oblique angle, the floor coming to meet it, and she saw Justine’s eyes narrowing and Haile Patchett smiling and Tony Olsen frowning and all the artists and dealers and curators like grotesque caricatures out of a Daumier print staring at her, and then, in a moment, as if someone had thrown a switch, the room came back to life, everyone chattering but looking away, embarrassed, pretending nothing had happened. But it was too late; the reality of what she had done in the middle of the exhibition, in the middle of the museum with everyone watching, rippled through her. Tears in her eyes, cheeks burning, she pushed her way through the crowd and ran out of the room.

  5

  SANDRA BROWN

  Mom?”

  Her day was only five seconds old, and already Rosemary dreaded the remainder of it. She rolled onto her back and pried her eyes open. Her daughter was standing beside the bed, still in her pajamas, a Barbie tucked beneath her arm.

  “Are you awake, Mom?”

  “Yes, honey.”

  “Where’s Daddy?”

  Chris’s side of the bed was conspicuously empty. Rosemary cleared her throat. “He had to go into work early today.”

  It was an obvious lie, even to a child. One Rosemary had used too often.

  Leila looked at Rosemary with sulky reproach. “Your eyes are puffy.”

  “Are they?” Rosemary could tell by feel that they were. “I slept… hard.” She tried to muster a smile.

  “Was it a nice party, Mommy?”

  Rosemary avoided answering. “Is your brother up?”

  “He’s downstairs. We’re hungry.”

  “Ask Elsie to fix your breakfast.”

  “We like your pancakes better, Mom.”

  Her daughter stood there waiting for her. Rosemary pushed off the covers and got out of bed. The events of last night would catch up with her sooner or later, but in the meantime she must act as though this were an ordinary day.

  For the children’s sake.

  For her own sanity.

  The first indication that this might not be a normal day in the life of Rosemary Heusen Thomas came at eleven o’clock after the pancake breakfast. Her children had eaten. She had pretended to. She’d sorted dry cleaning with her maid, Elsie, asked her to schedule the window washer for one day next week, and, having received a reminder postcard from the dentist, called to make appointments for her and the children.