The Last Little Blue Envelope

by Maureen Johnson

  He tried to step past her, but she blocked him again, putting her hands on his chest.

  “Don’t,” he said simply.

  “You need to explain. Why did you do this?”

  “I don’t need to explain anything.”

  He gently removed her hands from his chest and kept walking. She glanced at the letter in her hand. It started where the last part cut off in Ireland.

  tell you.

  Gin, do you remember how I used to drag you to the Museum of Modern Art all the time and make you stand in front of a crazy, huge painting of a woman on a sofa sitting in the middle of a jungle? Think back for a moment. I’ll wait. . . .

  From her spot in the street she could look in the window. She saw Cecil take his position at the podium. The sale was starting. Cecil was nodding and pointing politely at people she couldn’t see, saying numbers she couldn’t hear. Then he stopped. A few minutes later, people started trickling out. It was over. The piece was sold.

  Mari stepped outside. She looked at the sky first, then took the steps carefully, holding on to the brass banister for support. She looked up and down the street, waving Ginny over.

  “Ah, here you are,” she called.

  She carefully took a seat on the steps. She had to be over seventy, Ginny realized. Her joints were stiff. Ginny sat next to her.

  “Did you two have an argument?” Mari asked, indicating Oliver’s retreating figure.

  “Not exactly.”

  “It seemed very dramatic, whatever it was. I love drama. But you missed the sale.”

  “What happened?” Ginny asked.

  “The person who bought it was passionate about it. A hundred and sixty-seven thousand pounds.”

  A hundred and sixty-seven thousand pounds. Another large sum of money Ginny couldn’t really compute.

  “You don’t seem excited,” Mari said.

  “I am . . . I’m just . . .”

  “I know,” Mari said. “Sales are strange. You make the art, and then suddenly, someone’s paying for it. Suddenly it’s a commodity. . . .”

  “I didn’t make the art,” Ginny said.

  Mari shook her head and patted Ginny’s knee with her gold-taloned hand.

  “Cecil told me you did the assembly and the rubbing.”

  “I just put it together,” Ginny said.

  “You don’t just put together a work of art, love. It’s not a sandwich. You were trained. Maybe you weren’t aware of it, but you were trained. It’s a very good work. I’m quite proud of that girl. Proud of you both. That’s why I had to have it. There was a bidder from Tokyo who was giving me a hell of a time in there, for instance, but I was determined.”

  She smiled and let Ginny take in that piece of information before she continued.

  “I’m good friends with a curator at the Museum of Modern Art in New York,” she said. “I think that piece belongs there. So I’m going to speak to them about donating it. I think it should go home and be where lots of people can see it, don’t you?”

  “You bought it? And you’re sending it to MoMA?”

  The door opened again, and Chloe stomped past them, down the steps.

  “I’ll get the car, yeah?” she said.

  “Thank you, love.”

  Chloe gave Ginny a firm nod then headed off down the street in long strides.

  “Chloe took a real liking to you,” Mari said. “She doesn’t take to just anyone. She’s got good taste, does my Chloe. I’m going to get her paintings down here next.”

  From behind them, Ginny heard a car starting in the small private parking lot behind the building.

  “Thank you,” Ginny said.

  Mari patted Ginny’s shoulder with her gold-taloned hand.

  “Money is for doing things, my love. Don’t sit on it like a hen sits on an egg. It doesn’t hatch. I should know. I’ve made enough of it.”

  A small, black sports car, some ancient model that was probably from the seventies, came pealing down the short gravel path and pulled blindly into the street, stereo pulsing.

  “Make sure to come to see me in Edinburgh sometime,” she said.

  Mari walked slowly to the car and lowered herself into the seat. It was just barely off the ground. She and Chloe gave Ginny a little wave, and then they pulled off to terrify London traffic.

  The Conversation

  Well, we’re done. But I have a little more to say. I don’t want to be dragged off the stage just yet.

  Do you remember how I used to drag you to the Museum of Modern Art all the time and make you stand in front of a crazy, huge painting of a woman on a sofa sitting in the middle of a jungle? Think back for a moment. I’ll wait. . . .

  Ginny sat on the sofa and glared at the letter. For the first time, she wanted the letters to shut up and stop asking her questions. What she wanted, for once in her life, was a letter that provided a simple list of foolproof instructions. Would you like to succeed in life and love and not be a crazy person? Do the following. . . .

  Yes. That would be nice.

  It was her last night in London. Richard was in the kitchen, talking on the phone about some work crisis. They were supposed to go to dinner in a little while to celebrate the sale. She didn’t really feel like celebrating. Yes, the piece had sold. Yes, she had more money. But aside from that . . . she had a ruined relationship and more questions than answers. She’d had the letter for hours now, and she couldn’t even bring herself to read it. Even the one stupid thing she had to finish while she was here—the essay—wasn’t done either. Failure on all levels.

  Someone was ringing the front doorbell. Ginny almost fell over the coffee table in her haste to answer it. But it wasn’t Keith. It was Ellis, hopping lightly in the cold.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I just wasn’t in any state to say good-bye the other day. I didn’t want that to be your last memory of me, chucking my guts up into a train toilet.”

  Ginny held the door open for her to come in, but she waved this off. “I have to go,” she said. “I’m starting a volunteer job, doing an evening shift at a crisis call center. It’s quite bad around this time of year, apparently. I just wanted to see you before you were off. So . . .”

  She stood there bouncing for a moment. A gust of cold wind came in and flooded the living room.

  “I don’t want to interfere,” she said, “but . . . I think you and Keith should talk. I think you’ll both regret it if you don’t work it out. And I think it would be a shame if you didn’t take this opportunity to talk in person before you go. But . . . I suppose I’ve said enough. That was awkward. I’ll shut up now.”

  She opened her arms and gave Ginny a hug.

  “Anyway . . .” Ellis backed down one of the steps. “Hopefully you’ll be back. I’m glad I got to meet you.”

  “I hope so,” Ginny said. “And . . . I’m glad I met you too.”

  She shut the door quietly and looked around at the decorations in the living room, at the hole where the upside-down tree had been suspended.

  “All set,” Richard said. “Hungry? You’re going to like this place.”

  “Could I have one hour?” she asked.

  Keith’s window was open, the lights around it being drawn inside by some unseen force. She thought about calling up, but then she decided to knock on the gold plastic door panel. David opened the door. That was lucky—Keith might not have done the same.

  “Gin!” he said. “I heard you were here.”

  It was good to see a friendly face. David indicated that she could go upstairs as she liked. She took the stairs softly, but Keith seemed to know she was coming. He had dragged in half the strand of lights and was fiddling with the bulbs. What he was attempting to do, Ginny had no idea, but he looked pretty intent about it. He didn’t even look up when she came in. “How was your auction?” he asked, not sounding very interested. “Are you rich now? More rich, I mean?”

  “I can give you money for your car.”

  “I’m not really interested in your m
oney.” From Keith, that was a first—and definitely not a good sign.

  “Why are you so angry?” Ginny asked.

  “Angry? I’m not angry.” His face was utterly composed and calm.

  “So why didn’t you come to the auction?”

  “I was busy,” he said, pulling in a few more feet of the lights. “I do have other things going on in my life, you know.”

  Though he wasn’t exactly welcoming, Ginny sat down on the red sofa, pushing aside a few books and shirts.

  “Are you taking them down?” she said, gesturing at the lights.

  “No. I’m fixing them.”

  “I leave tomorrow,” she said.

  Keith nodded and continued fiddling away with the bulbs. This was how it was going to be. If she wanted this to happen, she would have to shove it into existence. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked. “About Ellis. We talked every day. You never told me. And even after I came here, you never even told me. You never said a word.”

  “Told you?” he said casually. “You met her. . . .”

  “You know what I mean,” she said. “You said we were ‘kind of something.’ Why didn’t you just tell me?”

  Silence. Just the sound of the television from David’s room. Keith yanked out one bulb and the whole string of lights went out. “Maybe I will take them down,” he said, yanking the plug from the wall. “Don’t want to start a fire.”

  He began pulling in the lights with greater force, each bulb emitting little pings of protest as they were pulled over the radiator under the window. For a few moments, it appeared that he was never going to answer, but finally he spoke.

  “I told you about my old girlfriend, Claire?” he said, coiling up the lights into a messy tangle.

  He had, on a train ride over the summer. It was the first time he really told her anything personal, how he had been in love when he was sixteen, and his girlfriend had gotten pregnant and dumped him, unable to cope with the turn their relationship had taken. He’d gone off the rails. That was where Keith the thief started.

  “She told me she wanted to be my friend,” he said. “Then I went out and stole a car. She’s the reason I have a criminal record.”

  “You have a criminal record?”

  “I stole a car,” he said, as if this was obvious.

  “You didn’t say you got caught.”

  “Of course I got caught. Several times. Allow me to show you my gallery of ASBOs.”

  “As whats?”

  “Anti-social behavior orders. The chav badge of honor.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “My point,” he said, “is that none of this explains what you did. Making out with the guy who was exploiting you, then throwing it in my face while I was trying to help you . . . yeah. Well played.”

  “You just said that when you and Claire broke up you stole a car.”

  “That’s different,” he snapped. “There is nothing personal about stealing a car. It’s just a car.”

  “It might be to the person who owns the car.” She was yelling now. “You took someone’s property. I kissed someone, which I am allowed to do, even if you don’t like him. Besides, he didn’t take the money, so you can let it go now.”

  “He didn’t take the money?” This gave Keith pause. “Why? Did whatshisname with the hair, from the auction house, did he . . .”

  “He just didn’t take it.”

  Keith just shook his head, as if unable to comprehend this new information. Finally he looked at Ginny, square on, his face open and honest.

  “I thought I was doing the right thing. I didn’t want to ring you up and tell you I’d met someone. It seemed wrong to do that to you over the phone.”

  “So you decided not to tell me at all?”

  “You came here,” he said. “You met her. What was I supposed to say? She was right in front of you.”

  “You were supposed to say, ‘This is my girlfriend.’ I had to figure it out.”

  “That would have been better? You would have wanted me to say, ‘Oh, yes, this is my girlfriend? Behold her.’ How would that have helped? I could tell from the expression on your face that you’d worked it out. I didn’t want to make you more upset.”

  He had a point, sort of. Not the best point. Not a sharp point. But a kind of point.

  “You had days after that,” she countered. “There were plenty of times you could have said something. I just needed to hear it from you, that’s all.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “To make it official or something. I didn’t want it to be true, but it would have been better coming from you, because I had . . . hope, or something.”

  Keith hung his head, his hair falling over his profile and hiding his expression.

  “Gin . . .”

  “You know what’s funny?” she went on. “I like Ellis. A lot. I’m glad you picked her. Half the time the last few days I liked her more than you.”

  It took a lot of her to say that, but she felt better once she did. Stronger. She heard him laugh a little.

  “That’s fair,” he said. “And you know how I feel. When I go old and stark raving mad, we can be in the mad home together. You’ll keep sneaking up on me, and I’ll keep taking your money, and your teeth. . . .”

  Keith sat down next to her on the sofa and put his arm around her. This time, she knew why it was there.

  “I have to get back,” she said.

  “I can’t offer to drive you home, but I’ll walk you there.”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I should take a cab, anyway. I promised Richard. We’re going to dinner.”

  “I have a number for one.”

  The cab was fast. He had barely called when there was a honking out front.

  “They’re just around the corner,” he explained.

  No more good-byes. It was time to go.

  She would come back to this house, maybe. Keith was a student. He might move out. But if she did come back, it would never be the same. She would never look up at those black blinds with the same anticipation, or stare into that piece of patterned gold plastic in the door and think when the door opened, she would be greeted with a kiss. All of those little fantasies, so carefully cultivated, were wiped away. Maybe this was what Aunt Peg meant all along—returning was a weird thing. You can never visit the same place twice. Each time, it’s a different story. By the very act of coming back, you wipe out what came before.

  Keith was watching from the doorway. She had to walk away, chin up. This was hard, but it was not impossible.

  That was the amazing part. It was not impossible.

  The Probably Problem

  It was midnight. Ginny was in bed, staring at the wall. She wasn’t tired. Now that her time in England was almost over, every second seemed precious. So much of this trip had been painful and strange, but she still wanted to hold on to it.

  She got out of bed and looked out the window. There was a purplish ambient light over London, just enough that she could see the outlines and shadows of the things in the neighbor’s gardens. She spent a few minutes trying to guess what the objects were—tiny, round chimneys, sheds, bikes, old boxes.

  She was tired of guessing games. She crawled back into bed and pulled out the letter.

  yet.

  Gin, do you remember how I used to drag you to the Museum of Modern Art all the time and make you stand in front of a crazy, huge painting of a woman on a sofa sitting in the middle of a jungle? Think back for a moment. I’ll wait. . . .

  She didn’t need a moment to think about this. She knew the painting well. It took up an entire wall at MoMA. It was very vivid, with deep greens and yellows. A naked woman lounged on what appeared to be a maroon sofa, while around her, tigers peered curiously through the grass, and a long orange snake wound along the ground. In the background, another woman, half-hidden in the foliage and oversize flowers, played some kind of instrument.

  The painting is called The
Dream. It’s by Henri Rousseau. Rousseau was always my hero, for many reasons. The paintings, for a start. Their colors. Their strange, childlike perfection.

  Rousseau was entirely self-taught. He was completely unaware that people saw his style in any way weird. He just assumed that people would want to look at the paintings, that they would be accepted. Critics called his style “primitive.” (Some called it worse things than that.) He was considered groundbreaking by people like Picasso, who bought one of his works off the street where it was being sold for scrap canvas.

  By profession, Rousseau was a toll collector in Paris. He never saw a jungle in his life, but he painted them over and over again. He painted the ones he saw in his mind. He placed figures in his paintings, figures that are as big as the landscape.

  As I write this, Gin, I know my mind is dying. I am sitting on a sofa in London, several thousand miles away from you. I am like that woman on a sofa in the painting. I see things around me that I know should not be there. Twice today, I’ve reached out to pet a cat that I know we don’t own, that I know cannot possibly be sitting next to me. But I happen to like my imaginary cat, and when I reach out into what must be empty space, I can feel her fur, and the soft rise and fall of her chest. I call her Probably. As in, “I probably need to take my meds, because I am seeing the cat again.”

  The hallucinations aren’t always that pleasant, but I’ve been pretty lucky. And the one thing I see most often, Gin? It’s you. You walk up and down the stairs. You crawl in the bedroom window. You sit on the kitchen table. You talk to me all day long when Richard is at work. You tell me about school. We play 20 Questions (and you win). You are all over this house. Honestly, you should probably be paying rent.

  Of course, I haven’t seen you in two years, so you appear in lots of different ways. Sometimes, you are five years old. Sometimes, you are your actual age. Sometimes, you are forty. Once, you had to be about eighty-five. But it’s always you, Gin. There is a single, golden thread that runs through all the Ginnys. As I write these letters and paint my pictures, you are here with me, advising me. Encouraging me. These paintings are your paintings. And as for this last work . . . I can only see it in my imagination, because it’s not done yet. I’m so good I can complete a work of art after I’m dead.