A Trick of the Eye

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  The wig did make her look better. But I couldn’t forget the bizarre image I had of her without it—a shrunken head sprouting thin gray strings.

  “Oh, it’s so boring to know I’ll never look well again,” she said irritably. “I have terminal cancer.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. She rattled on.

  “The doctors don’t give me more than a year or two. It’s odd, you know, because I don’t feel as if I’m going to die, and yet I know I am. And soon. But I feel as if it’s all happening to someone else and I’m sort of watching it. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I think so.”

  “I must say I do dread the night,” she went on. “One feels so alone at night for some reason. I don’t know why that should be true since I’m alone all day. But there’s something about the darkness and the stillness. I lie in bed and think about all those evil cells eating up my insides. I can almost hear them—chomping away. I’m not so wedded to this life that I can’t give it up. But I loathe the idea of disintegration. I don’t want to disintegrate.”

  “My mother died of cancer.”

  This interested her.

  “You took care of her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you did. Was it difficult?” she asked.

  “Very.”

  “What was the most difficult thing about it?”

  I thought for a moment.

  “The most difficult thing . . . is now.”

  Mrs. Griffin stroked my right hand.

  “There’s a good girl. Well, enough of all this crepe-hanging,” she said abruptly. “Help me out of this grave, will you? I want to go to the ballroom and see what you’ve been up to.”

  Chapter 6

  Mrs. Griffin took my arm and leaned on me as we walked downstairs, hardly speaking. The effort of the journey seemed as much as she could bear. When she faltered I bolstered her up by putting both my arms around her, a gesture for which she thanked me almost too effusively. Her pathetic gratitude and frail demeanor reinforced the protectiveness I was developing toward her. I felt the power of my own health and youth more keenly as we went on. Walking with her and having to support her from time to time seemed to fuse us together in some primal way. I thought of my mother, remembering what it had been like to be with her in the last few months of her life. She, too, had clung to me during those desperate days as though I could save her. I wondered, as we made our way across the garden, if Frances Griffin was thinking what it would have been like to walk with Cassandra through this, her final season.

  By the time we reached the ballroom, a new closeness had enveloped us. I felt more relaxed in her company. Nevertheless, I held my breath as we entered the room. As eager as I was to see the legendary Frances Griffin’s reaction to my work, I was equally terrified she wouldn’t like it.

  I led her inside. Standing at the top of the stairs, she looked around for a moment and let out a little cry. Breaking away from me with some effort, she walked slowly down the stairs into the middle of the room, where she stood still, examining each of the panels in turn. She spurned my offers of help and, using what I imagined was all the effort she had left in her, pulled my sketching chair into the center of the room, placing it directly in front of the main panel. She sat down and gazed at this, the centerpiece of my creation, with a grim intensity.

  It was the largest panel by far, with the most figures in it, the most activity, and the one on which I’d worked the hardest. Like the others, it had been executed in the primitive lines of a charcoal pencil. At its center was the figure of a faceless young woman making her entrance into the ballroom, wearing a sweeping white dress, holding a delicate spray of flowers in a lace cone, bound with streaming ribbons. A handsome escort, in white tie and tails, was standing behind her, slightly off to one side, so that she alone dominated the room. The blank oval where I would ultimately paint her face looked surreal amidst the completed countenances of the other people on the walls.

  “This girl,” Mrs. Griffin began, continuing to stare at the faceless figure, “who is she?”

  “Your daughter,” I replied softly.

  “My daughter . . .”

  “Yes, if you don’t object. I thought since she was the reason for the room’s existence, I should put her at the center. You built the room for her coming-out party, didn’t you?”

  Mrs. Griffin didn’t answer. Her silence made me nervous. I couldn’t tell whether the idea appealed to her or offended her.

  “You see,” I went on, “I thought it might be rather interesting to freeze that wonderful moment in time forever—as a kind of tribute to you and your daughter, as well as to the purpose of the room.”

  The old woman said nothing.

  “Of course,” I continued anxiously, “it’s far from finished. I can change it if you like. I can change anything or everything. It’s charcoal, easy to erase. Please consider these only as sketches for your approval. I can wipe them all away and start over again.”

  I heard myself rattling on apologetically and stopped. Mrs. Griffin still didn’t say anything. I stood for what seemed like an interminable amount of time, wondering what in God’s name was going through her mind. Then I saw a single tear drop from the corner of her eye.

  “How did you know about the ribbons and the lace cone?” she said, finally, her voice hollow.

  “In the bouquet? I didn’t. It was just something I imagined.”

  “And the dress? How did you know what it looked like? There’s never been a full-length photograph of it.”

  “I didn’t. I just imagined it.”

  She turned and stared at me, stony-faced.

  “That’s her dress, her bouquet. The attitude, the shyness, everything is her. Except the face. You haven’t drawn the face.”

  “I hope I haven’t offended you, Mrs. Griffin.”

  “Offended me . . .”

  I held my breath. I couldn’t make out at all what she was thinking. Then she raised her hands up in front of her face, angling her fingers so they formed a frame through which she could examine certain portions of the mural in isolation. She glanced around at the other panels, but her attention kept coming back to the center one and the figure of her daughter. Suddenly, she stood up with an unexpected burst of energy and announced: “It’s absolutely right! It’s going to be marvelous.”

  I stood there in disbelief watching her walk around to each panel, picking out details she liked. She was a new person—younger, invigorated.

  “I love what you’ve done here,” she said, pointing to a section I was particularly pleased with. “And there—you’ve been very whimsical there . . . so inventive . . . This part will be wonderful when it’s filled in.” And so on.

  Her comments were not only flattering but incisive. She seemed to understand what I was trying to get at, what attitudes I was trying to convey. She went on and on with her praise, drawing attention to all the best portions of my work, dwelling on a fold of drapery, a flower, an expression, as though each was a special treasure. Her initial silence and the resulting suspense made my triumph all the sweeter. I was thrilled that her legendary eye was capable of seeing through these sketches to the end result. She made me feel as if I had succeeded almost as well as my hero, Veronese.

  We then discussed color for a while, both agreeing that the overall effect should be somewhat muted so that the creamy whiteness of Cassandra’s dress could stand out, luminous.

  “You must take your time,” she said. “Take all the time in the world. It must be perfection.”

  “I’m so glad you approve, Mrs. Griffin. At first I thought you didn’t like it.”

  “I was simply stunned, that’s all. It’s just what I wanted. And one so rarely gets just what one wants the first time. Of course I didn’t know it was what I wanted, but now that I see it, it’s the perfect thing. I can’t do things mys
elf, or even imagine them properly. But I have an eye for people who can. That’s the secret of life—knowing whom to choose.”

  She began to speak more slowly and with greater effort. I could feel her energy beginning to flag.

  “Forgive me,” she said at last. “I’m very tired.”

  I offered to walk her back to the house, but she declined, saying she needed to be by herself for a time. I watched her as she left the room, walking slowly and carefully up the staircase, gripping the balustrade, as if she were terrified of falling. As she reached the top, she turned to look at the large center panel once more.

  “Very striking,” she said. “Even from a distance.”

  She disappeared into the garden.

  I stood alone in the ballroom for a long time after she left, reflecting. I still had my work cut out for me but I was elated that Frances Griffin, the great Frances Griffin, had liked my efforts and praised them so highly. Her enthusiasm infused me with energy. I couldn’t wait to get started on the final stage, but I allowed myself time to savor this moment.

  I stared at the faceless Cassandra and said aloud, “Your face is the very last thing I’ll paint. I promise I’ll paint it when the evening I create for you is ready for your approval.”

  I set to work immediately, sorting out colors and brushes, and laying out a general work plan. In the midst of my elation, however, something began to trouble me. Mrs. Griffin’s adulation had been too freely given. In retrospect, there was something false about it, something calculated.

  The Frances Griffin I’d always heard about—the legendary Frances Griffin who had shaped the taste of a generation of rich women with her high standards of style and craftsmanship—was known as a stickler for perfection. Much as I liked the work I’d done, I knew it was far from perfect. Even I could see some of the mistakes I’d made and intended to correct. So why had Mrs. Griffin been so effusive in her praise? From all I’d heard about her, I doubted whether Veronese himself could have presented her with a work she wouldn’t have managed to criticize in some small way. Yet she’d found no fault with anything I’d done in these murals. And I certainly wasn’t Veronese. If only she’d made the slightest criticism, the smallest suggestion, I might have felt less uneasy.

  Once again I found myself wondering if Mrs. Griffin was playing an elaborate game with me, or whether my overactive imagination was looking for hidden motives that didn’t exist. I decided to cast my doubts aside, chalk them up to artistic insecurity, and get on with it. Maybe I was better than I thought. Or maybe the great lady had become less demanding with age. Whatever—I became determined not to let my own doubts about my work undermine the victory of having pleased her.

  That afternoon, just as I was leaving for the day, Deane presented me with a fancy dress box tied up with a ribbon.

  “Mrs. Griffin asked me to give this to you,” he said. “She would prefer that you not open it until you get home.”

  I thanked him as he helped me into my car with the box. I decided not to open it until I got home, not because Mrs. Griffin had requested it, but because I was getting used to being a participant in an ongoing drama I didn’t quite understand. I did wonder what she had given me, however. I kept the box beside me on the passenger seat, eyeing it now and then as I sped down the parkway.

  Brush was lurking by the front door when I walked in. He greeted me warmly, as usual, rubbing up against my leg, purring like a little engine. His long days of solitude always put him in the mood for some affection in the evening when I came home. I was so eager to get to my present, however, I ignored him for the moment.

  “You’ll just have to wait, my little friend,” I said, laying the box on the sofa in the living room.

  Undaunted, he hopped up on the sofa alongside the box, watching me as I opened it. The box was made of thick cardboard and covered all over in lavender cloth. The thick dark purple ribbon around it was pure silk velvet. When I tugged gently at the luscious bow, it wilted away. I couldn’t help thinking how typical it was of Frances Griffin, a woman whose entire life was a series of presentations, to make even the wrapping of a gift so stylish.

  I lifted the top off the box to reveal a flat sea of pale blue tissue paper. Diving into it, my hands itching with curiosity, I discovered a cream satin evening dress, delicately embroidered with seed pearls and alençon lace. Wrapped in a separate parcel was a bouquet of dried flowers sheafed in a lace cone streaming with long white ribbons. There wasn’t a note, nor did there have to be. I knew exactly what it was.

  “My God, Brush,” I heard myself exclaim aloud, “it’s the dress! The dress! Cassandra’s coming-out dress!”

  Brush watched as I extracted the rich garment from its box. I held it out in front of me and examined it. Indeed, it was almost exactly like the one I’d sketched for the Cassandra of my panel: sleeveless with a simple scoop neck, a fitted bodice, a full skirt with a train, its thick satin still lustrous.

  Judging from the looks of it, Cassandra had been about my size. Just out of interest, I went into my bedroom and held the dress up to myself in front of the full-length mirror inside my closet door.

  “Looks like it’d be a perfect fit,” I said out loud to Brush, who had followed me. “What do you think she means by giving this to me? Do you think she wants me to keep it or give it back? What do you suppose she’s up to?”

  I examined myself at all angles, pressing the dress close to my body.

  “It’s amazing how right I got it in the drawing, isn’t it? Down to the bouquet with the white ribbons. How did I know that, Brush? Do you believe in ghosts? In telepathy?”

  Brush blinked his large gray eyes.

  “No . . . neither do I. Just coincidence, that’s all.”

  Though I thought of actually trying the dress on, I didn’t. It seemed too morbid an act. Instead, I folded it up and replaced it carefully inside its cove of blue tissue paper. I decided it would be politic to call Mrs. Griffin that evening to thank her, as I wouldn’t see her for the rest of the weekend, but when I phoned, Deane told me she was resting and couldn’t be disturbed. Was there any message? No, I said, it could wait until Monday.

  While preparing supper, I played back the messages on my answering machine. There were several from Harry Pitt, who was anxious to know how everything was going at The Haven. I felt guilty about not having called him. In one, he suggested we get together soon and asked me if I cared to accompany him to the Goya exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum on Saturday. There were messages from two friends, one male, one female, wondering where I’d been lately—was I away? What had happened to me? There was a message from a potential client, a decorator, asking me to return his call as quickly as possible regarding some large job on a plantation in South Carolina. And several hang-ups. The hang-ups were unusual and I wondered who could be trying to get in touch with me who wouldn’t leave a message. Could it be Mrs. Griffin? She was an unlikely choice, but I couldn’t think who else it might be, unless it was a solicitation of some sort. I decided to let them all go until after I’d had a bite to eat.

  Brush and I enjoyed our respective suppers. I read one of my favorite books, Giorgio Vasari’s Lives of the Artists, as I ate my pasta with fresh tomatoes and basil. I treated myself to a half bottle of Chateau Haut Brion, ’86, since it was my custom to indulge myself on Friday evenings after the week’s work. Brush licked his liver scraps clean and hopped up on the far end of the table to take a snooze while I read parts of the text to him, the lives of artists being of special interest to us both.

  “ ‘In my opinion painters owe to Giotto, the Florentine painter, exactly the same debt they owe to nature, which constantly serves them as a model and whose finest and most beautiful aspects they are always striving to imitate and reproduce. . . .’ ” I read aloud.

  I enjoyed linking myself with painters and craftsmen of the past. Today, alas, it is the scientists, not the artists, who a
re painting the great new pictures with their theories and equations. Their strange, computerized symphonies are the innovative music of these times. So I look to the past for my inspiration.

  After dinner, I returned my calls. The poor decorator sounded agitated when I told him I couldn’t fly down with him to South Carolina to look at the plantation he was restoring. I apologized, saying I was busy, without giving any details. I recommended a friend of mine who was a very competent trompe l’oeil painter and whose favorite period in history was the Civil War. He seemed grateful.

  I then spoke briefly with my two friends in order to catch up with them and told them that until this job was finished I was pretty much incommunicado. They were both quite taken aback and impressed when I mentioned for whom I was working. I’d almost forgotten what magic the name Frances Griffin still conjured up.

  I called Harry back and made a date to meet him at the Met the next day at eleven. He was anxious to talk, but I said I was tired and had a lot to tell him. I told him he’d have to wait and let me take him to lunch after the exhibit. He agreed.

  I got undressed and ready for bed. Just before retiring, I took out Cassandra’s dress once more, immersing my hands in the heavy cream satin as if it were a rich batter. This time, I couldn’t control the urge to try it on. I slid the dress over my head and stood in front of the mirror looking at myself for a very long time before even attempting to hook it up. I was never a very pretty girl, I thought. However, I noted with pleasure that I’d grown rather more handsome over the years, as if I’d once been pretty and my looks were just now beginning to fade.

  I smoothed the bodice of the dress down over my torso, trying unsuccessfully to fasten the endless hidden hooks and snaps at the side, which are the hallmark of the custom-made gown. I imagined Cassandra Griffin, small-breasted, lithe, aristocratic, being put into this dress by a maid on the night of her debut. It was, after all, a dress one had to be “put into” by another person, a dress that assumes the presence of servants for its fitting and maintenance.