I tore back the newspaper slowly, not wanting to look too closely at the painting until the whole of it had been revealed. Having stripped all the newspaper away, I stepped back and stared at the picture for a long time. It was an old-master portrait of a mother and child. The mother, wearing a sumptuous brocade dress, encrusted with pearls and jewels, was seated on a green velvet divan dandling a rather plain-looking little girl on her knee. The little girl, simply dressed in white silk, was holding out a flower to her mother. The frame was hand-carved and gilded.
The more I looked at this charming, innocent pair, the more I began to see how very odd they were. Everything about them seemed slightly off-kilter, as if the artist had meant for this vision of apparent wealth and familial piety to somehow disconcert the viewer.
When I stepped up to inspect the canvas more closely, I saw that both the mother and the little girl were composed of a conglomeration of seashells made to look like parts of the body. Every aspect of their respective anatomies—eyes, nose, mouth, hair, hands—was a different shell, brilliantly chosen, exquisitely painted, and artfully arranged to assume human form. It was one of the most remarkable trompe l’oeil works I’d ever seen. I doubted there was another like it.
There was no signature on the canvas. I turned the picture over to see if there might be some indication of the painter or a date on the reverse side. The slatted wooden back had only one thing on it—a yellowing label with something written on it in faded brown ink. I took it to the desk and examined it closely under the lamplight. It read: “Property of Harry Pitofsky, Jan. 1976.” Harry Pitofsky. Harry Pitt.
I went back into the kitchen, where Brush was still chasing pieces of excelsior around the floor. I rummaged through the packing to see if there was a note from Harry. There was none. I couldn’t imagine what he meant by leaving me this painting, except that it was an exquisite work of trompe l’oeil which he knew I’d appreciate. The mother-daughter theme seemed a bit strange, given that my mother was dead and that I had no children of my own. But Harry obviously had his reasons.
That night, as I lay in bed, the painting propped up on my bureau so I could look at the shell people, I thought about the fragility of existence. I thought about Harry, about my vanished family, about Cassandra, the Griffins, and the loss of love in life, and finally allowed myself to weep.
Chapter 18
I stayed inside my apartment for the next few days, lost in the lassitude of grief. I ordered my meals in from take-out places in the neighborhood, browsed through old art books, watched television, read some, and slept a lot. Brush stayed closer to me than usual, perhaps sensing I needed his companionship more than ever. At times I felt Harry’s spirit hovering around me. I talked to him out loud, reminiscing, telling him how much I missed him. I stared for long periods of time at the curious painting he’d left me, trying to decipher the message, if there was one. I thought about the ballroom—how I was going to finish it, and when. My desire to see Frances Griffin and confront her had waned in the wake of Harry’s death.
One evening, a week later, when I was toying with the idea of going back out to The Haven to finish my job, the phone rang. Instead of letting it ring and having my answering machine pick up, as I’d done for the past few days, I answered it myself.
“Hello?” I said tentatively.
“Faith, it’s Frances Griffin.”
I sat up.
“Mrs. Griffin, I was just thinking about you. How are you?”
“I’ve missed you, Faith. When are you coming back to me?”
“Well, I thought I’d come out tomorrow,” I said, feeling this was something I wanted to get over with as soon as possible. “I still have some work left to do.”
“Yes. And we have a great deal to talk about. I look forward to seeing you.” She hung up.
I got up so early the next morning that even Brush had a difficult time rousing himself to have breakfast with me. I was on the road by seven-thirty.
It was a cold, dreary day, pale and monochromatic. A light rain turned into a fine drizzle, then stopped. Gray clouds rolled over the horizon. I sped along the highway, thinking about the first time I’d driven out to The Haven last spring. The vibrant colors of that day had intensified my excitement at the prospect of working for Frances Griffin. Now, as I approached it, I saw no beauty left in the house or its grounds. It looked more like an asylum rotting in the middle of a geometric wasteland. The woman who lived there was no longer a queen, but a lonely old invalid whose life had been a model of deceit and tragedy.
I pulled into the courtyard and got out of the car. The cobblestones were still slippery from the rain. Deane opened the door as if he’d been expecting me. He mentioned nothing about my having been away, nor did he offer any word of welcome.
“Mrs. Griffin is in the ballroom,” he said flatly.
I wondered how she knew what time I’d be arriving.
Deane showed me through the house but did not accompany me the rest of the way. He opened one of the French doors in the living room and waved his hand in the direction of the ballroom. His manner was as chilly as the weather.
I stepped outside and walked across the garden. The country dampness crept into my bones. The grounds seemed smaller without foliage to lend them perspective. I passed by the wisteria arbor, whose tangled vines looked like petrified snakes weaving in and out of the trellises. The bright flower beds were gone. In their place, tidy patches of brown earth marked the withered grass.
The steps leading up to the ballroom were as slippery as the cobblestones. Once inside, I saw Mrs. Griffin sitting by herself in her wheelchair in the middle of the floor, a fur blanket tucked around her legs. She turned toward me as I came in.
“Oh, Faith—” she said, “you’re here . . .”
As I walked down the steps, I glanced around at the completed murals. Whether or not I’d managed to create a work of art was a judgment better left to posterity, but I believed, at the very least, I’d done the job I was commissioned to do. I’d made the room come alive. I almost expected to hear soft strains of music and muted conversations. I was struck once again by the haunting figure of the faceless girl in the white dress occupying the center panel. She anchored the scene beautifully, easily holding her own as the centerpiece of the ball. The only thing left for me to do was to paint in her face.
Mrs. Griffin now seemed to embody all the sadness I was feeling about life at the moment. Her wig sat so low on her brow it looked like a hat. Her makeup was a little too heavy and a few razor-thin lipstick lines pricked the outline of her mouth. I didn’t hate her or feel particularly sorry for her. But I still felt she was up to something, and I’d run out of patience with her game, whatever it was.
“Mrs. Griffin, why did you choose me to paint this room? Why am I really here? I would like to know.”
She flinched slightly.
“What do you mean?” she said.
“I mean why me, of all people?”
“I told you—I admired your work.”
“No, that’s not it.”
“Why, yes it is,” she replied.
“No!” I cried, hearing my voice ricochet around the empty room. “That’s not the reason!”
She looked at me sheepishly.
“What is?” she said, like a child.
“I don’t know, but I’ll tell you what I think.”
“Go ahead—”
“You didn’t choose me to paint this ballroom. You chose this ballroom because I could paint it.”
A dark smile passed across her face like a fleeting shadow. She took a deep breath. I knew I’d hit my mark.
“You wanted me here for some reason,” I said. “If I’d been a plumber, you’d have had me out here to fix a sink.”
She laughed nervously.
“I’m serious,” I went on. “It wasn’t my work you wanted, it was me.”
I paused. “Am I wrong?”
Her body stiffened, then relaxed suddenly. She let go a sigh of relief.
“No,” she said at last. “You’re not wrong.”
I stood over her, nodding like the victor I imagined myself to be.
“Then why, Mrs. Griffin? Why me?”
She looked up at me with a new softness in her expression. She beckoned me to come sit by her.
“Please, pull up that chair,” she said.
I positioned my sketching chair close to her and sat down. She smelled strongly of perfume, yet, once again, I detected a stale, off-putting aroma underneath.
“Are you warm enough?” she asked.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I replied brusquely.
“Calm down,” she said, patting my hand.
I felt tense and tried to relax.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Griffin. I’m just upset. I’m upset about a lot of things. A lot of things don’t make sense. And there are other reasons—personal reasons I won’t bore you with.”
“What reasons? We must be honest with each other now.”
Her manner was gentle and conciliatory.
“Well, the truth is, a really close friend of mine’s just died and”—I felt my eyes beginning to brim with tears—“and I just feel very, very low at the moment.”
I was trying hard not to cry.
“Poor old Harry,” I heard Mrs. Griffin say.
I looked up.
A shock went through me.
“What did you say?”
“I said poor old Harry.”
“Did you know Harry?” I asked.
“Oh yes.” She looked at me pointedly.
I shivered slightly.
“Wait—Harry Pitt—the antique dealer?”
“Yes, dear. Harry Pitt. Harry was a very old friend of mine. Here, take this.”
She pulled out a lace handkerchief hidden in the cuff of her sleeve and handed it to me. I declined it, extracting a tissue from my pocket instead.
“An old friend?” I said, dabbing my eyes. “Harry told me he’d only met you once or twice years ago, very briefly. That you bought a commode from his shop and then asked him to get some things for you at auction.”
“Yes,” she said, hesitating. “Well, you see, that’s what I told him to say.”
I could feel the blood rushing to my head.
“You told him?”
“Yes, my dear. Oh my, my,” she said, wringing her hands together. “I thought surely you would have guessed by now.”
“Guessed?” I said, staring at her in amazement. “Guessed what?”
“That we know, knew one another, Harry and I.”
“No,” I heard myself stammering. “I-I didn’t guess.”
“Perhaps that’s just as well,” she sighed. “You’re not suspicious. That’s good. But, you see, Harry and I go back a very long time. He’s been my best friend in many ways, as he was yours. I shall miss him more than I can say.” She smiled sadly.
I shook my head from side to side, not believing what I was hearing.
“What are you talking about, Mrs. Griffin? What are you saying?”
“My dear, this shouldn’t alarm you so. I see you’re becoming very agitated, but there’s no reason.”
“But why wouldn’t Harry have said something? When I asked him about coming to work for you, all he said was that I should do it. He never said he knew you. In fact, he was always asking me about you, as if you fascinated him.”
“He was asking you about me to find out what you thought of me.”
“I’m very confused, Mrs. Griffin. I want to know what’s going on,” I demanded.
“Yes, dear, I understand that, and I’m going to tell you the truth now,” she said in a measured voice. “Harry did know me. He knew me well. I met Harry Pitt just after Holt and I were married. What he told you is true—I did walk into his shop and buy a commode from him. I could see from the things he had there that he had an extraordinary eye, so I asked him if he would deal privately for me, without anyone knowing. In fact, Harry was responsible for some of the greatest acquisitions of my life.”
I shot up from my chair.
“Why didn’t he tell me?” I cried.
“Oh, it was essential our relationship remain absolutely secret so that when he bid for things or purchased them from other dealers, they wouldn’t know he was acting on my behalf. Otherwise the prices would have gone up or they might have used my name somehow. You know how people are. And anyway, I don’t like people knowing too much about me or the things I acquire. It’s none of their business.”
I felt as if the ground was shifting under me.
“So . . . Harry knew your husband?”
“Yes, of course. Though Holt never had much use for him. Holt didn’t like gay men. They threatened him.”
“And Cassandra?” I said, knowing the answer already.
“He adored her. She used to call him Uncle Harry whenever he came around. I would have made him her godfather, but Holt objected. And, anyway, it would have given our relationship away.”
She blinked twice, innocently. I began pacing around the room.
“Why did he lie to me? Why?”
“I’m afraid that was my fault, Faith dear,” Mrs. Griffin said, following me with her eyes. “I thought you’d be shy about coming here if you knew the whole truth all at once. Harry and I discussed it endlessly, and we agreed that it would be better to let you find things out for yourself. That way you could come to a gradual understanding.”
“Understanding? Of what?”
“Of me, of course. You remember when I said to you one day I’d need all your compassion. Well, you see, now I do.”
I whirled around, glaring at her.
“Why?!”
She lowered her eyes.
“If you are to love me as a daughter, you must understand me, and forgive me.”
“Love you as a daughter?” I said, mystified.
“As you know too well, my own daughter died. And I feel somewhat responsible. But I can’t help that. That’s in the past. And now I want a daughter, you see. Another one, to replace the one I lost. I need one. I need you.”
I was speechless. I let her go on.
“A couple of years after Holt died and I was all alone, Harry convinced me that I should think of adopting a child. Do come and sit by me, please.”
“I prefer to stand, thank you.”
“You think I’m the wickedest woman who ever lived, don’t you?” she said, theatrically.
“No, Mrs. Griffin. I don’t know what to think.”
“Please, come . . .” she said, indicating the chair next to her.
I walked over and sat down beside her once more.
“I told Harry I was too old to adopt a child. He explained to me that he didn’t mean an infant. He meant an adult. Of course, finding someone—the perfect person—was a problem. But then, finding the perfect anything is a problem, I’m sure you’ll agree.”
I nodded, too riveted to speak.
“Roberto Madi,” she said, changing her tone of voice. “Tell me what you thought of him?”
My God, Madi—I’d nearly forgotten all about him.
“You know I went to Colorado?” I said.
“Know, my dear? I sent you there.”
“You sent me?”
“Well, it wasn’t that difficult because you were so curious. All Harry had to do was push you a little. He called me when his little dog died. He was very upset he couldn’t go with you. He was worried, he really was. In fact, the very last conversation I had with him was about that.”
“I see.”
“I assured him Roberto was completely harmless and that he would do as he was told. But Harry was a worrier. Tell me,” she asked, “
didn’t you find it strange that Harry located Madi so easily, and that Madi was suddenly willing to talk after all these years?”
I thought back on it as she pointed it out. Of course, it seemed ludicrous. I was angered by my own gullibility.
“I guess not,” I sighed.
“Never mind, you’re just like Cassa. Sophisticated in some ways, ingenuous in others. It’s charming. As I told you, you’re not suspicious by nature, which is good. Suspicious people always wind up alone.”
“Please go on.”
“I spoke to Roberto after your visit to his house,” she continued. “He told me a little bit about what happened. You shouldn’t have left like that. It can be very dangerous out there alone at night.”
“I was frightened,” I said.
“I don’t blame you. I was very annoyed with him for showing you the police photo. Of course, then he started accusing me of things, as usual, saying I was responsible for sending you there in the first place. The old litany—everything’s my fault,” she said, sounding annoyed.
“Did you tell him to show me the movies?” I inquired.
“I don’t know anything about any movies, and I don’t want to know,” she snapped. “But I told him to tell you the truth about what happened. About Holt and everything. You understand now why I could never have told you those things myself.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Roberto’s very emotional. He carries on so. But don’t let that fool you. He’s also very practical,” she said with contempt. “Why do you think he’s kept his mouth shut all these years?”
I shook my head.
“Because I’d have cut him off in an instant if he’d told anyone. And no matter what he says about not caring about money, I assure you he wouldn’t have liked that,” she said.
“No, I suppose not.”
“Anyway, to get back to what I was saying, he couldn’t get over the resemblance between you and Cassa. You know, I think he was quite taken with you. Even though I don’t like him and I know the feeling is mutual, I’ll always have a soft spot in my heart for him because he loved Cassa so dearly. I instructed him to tell you everything. I thought it would be better coming from a third person, though I’m sorry he got a bit carried away.”
A Trick of the Eye Page 25
