Michael found the office, the same room in which he had had his last argument with Joshua. He started looking through the drawers of the file cabinet. He wanted to find any documents that pertained to his painting. He found the agreement he had signed with Joshua and burned it in the fireplace. He also burned another paper that served more or less as an inventory of the paintings delivered and the delivery manifest that listed the number of paintings.
He then went out into the gallery and saw the painting there in the dark, glowing the way he always hoped his paintings would glow in the dark. Just a few feet from it, twelve inches above the floor, was one of Joshua’s hideous night-lights. Michael, with great difficulty, managed to get the painting off the wall. The canvas was not terribly heavy, but the size of it made it unwieldy. He stopped as he heard the creaking of floorboards upstairs, but the noise passed. He carried the painting to the front where he leaned the canvas against the wall of the vestibule while he unlocked and opened the door.
A gust of wind hit the canvas as he exited and took him several paces in the wrong direction, but he turned and got the edge pointed into the breeze and pushed back to the driveway where he had left Karen. The canvas was large enough that he didn’t see the goings-on at the van until he was very close, although he thought he heard Karen’s voice calling to him. When he could see what was going on he thought about running. Karen was leaning against the side of the van with her palms flat and her arms raised. There were two men standing with her, one going through her purse with a flashlight and another speaking on a walkie-talkie.
“What’s going on?” Michael said.
“Is this your van?” the man with the walkie-talkie asked. He had an accent, Middle Eastern, Michael thought.
“Yes. And this woman is my wife.”
“What is your business here?” the man asked.
“I was picking up a painting.” Michael directed attention to the huge canvas he was resting on his foot.
“This is the Moroccan Embassy. You cannot park in this driveway.”
“I’m sorry,” Michael said. “We’re done now. See, I’ve got the painting and we’re ready to go.”
“Are you an American citizen?” the man asked.
Michael nodded.
“May I see your identification?”
“May I put the painting in the van first?”
The man snapped his fingers at Karen and said, “You, wife, hold the picture.”
Karen began to balk, but Michael said, “Please, honey, so we can get out of here.”
Karen held the painting up while Michael produced his driver’s license. The man studied it as the other man held the flashlight over his shoulder. Both men nodded, appeared satisfied, and then a blue-and-white police car pulled up and blocked the driveway. The Moroccan man with the walkie-talkie spoke into it and one of the cops spoke on his walkie-talkie and suddenly the night seemed, to Michael, to be full of static and muffled voices.
“What do we have here?” the fatter of the two fat cops asked.
“These people parked in our driveway.” the man with the flashlight said. “Appears it was a mistake.”
“Let me see your license,” the cop said to Michael.
Michael handed it to him, since he hadn’t yet put it away. The other cop walked around the van, examining it with his big flashlight.
“Okay, now turn around and put your hands against the van.”
“Wait a second,” Michael said.
The cop spun Michael around and pushed him against the wall of the vehicle. “Long way from home, aren’t you, Mr. Lawson?” the policeman said.
“Yes, I guess I am.”
“You staying around here?”
“We were in the Henley Park Hotel, but we checked out.”
“Your van?”
The other cop made a complete circle around the vehicle and now stood with his partner. The two Moroccans stepped back and were quietly watching.
“No, the van is rented,” Michael said.
“May I see those papers?”
“They’re in my jacket pocket.”
The cop reached around him, pulled the pages from his pocket, and looked them over.
“What are you doing here?” the cop asked.
“I had to get something from next door.”
The cops looked over at Joshua’s.
“It’s a gallery,” Michael said. “I had to pick up one of my paintings. This one.” He pointed to the canvas with a nod. “See, it’s got my name down on the corner of it. Michael Lawson. And on the back you’ll find my name again and my address on a blue card.”
The two fat cops talked to each other and cast a few glances at the gallery. The talking cop came back.
“It’s just a little late to be picking up stuff, wouldn’t you say?”
“We’re headed back to Denver and it was the only time we had. The owner left the door open for me and told me to lock up. The painting has my name on it.”
“It does have his name,” the until-then-silent cop said.
“You guys got a problem with these people?” the first fat cop asked the two Moroccans.
“No problem.”
The cop handed Michael his license, then gave the painting a good look, turning his light onto it. “You painted this, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Get paid for stuff like this?”
“Yes.”
“Hell, my kid could do that. Hell, he does do it.” He laughed and his fat partner laughed with him as they waddled back to their patrol car.
As Michael and Karen loaded the canvas into the back of the van, the Moroccan men watched them. The one who had spoken said, “I like the picture. Nice colors. Makes me homesick.” The other man nodded.
In the car, Karen was shaking. Michael studied her, feeling bad for her, hating himself for what he was putting her through. He knew he was acting like a shit, knew that she only wanted to be let in and he was taking unfair and cruel advantage, in his way laughing at her. He had all but made fun of her for being interested in the business of the art world. Why shouldn’t she have been interested? Simply because he was behaving, as Joshua had pointed out, like a childish and selfish dimwit?
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She looked at him.
He turned left, following the signs to the freeway. “I’m sorry for the way I’ve been treating you. I really love the way you’re interested in what I feel, the way you’re interested in my work.”
She seemed moved by this.
“Thank you for coming with me.”
She looked forward out the window.
“Do you think I’m crazy?” Michael asked, merging into the fast-moving traffic.
“No,” she said.
“Tell the truth.”
“No.”
Michael decided then, that in some way, probably not a significant or pivotal way, Karen was not to be trusted — that her judgment was at best suspect or that she was simply a liar. Whether she was seeking to protect him or not, it didn’t much matter.
About the Author
PERCIVAL EVERETT is Distinguished Professor of English at the University of Southern California and the author of more than twenty books, including Percival Everett by Virgil Russell, Assumption, I Am Not Sidney Poitier, The Water Cure, Wounded, and Erasure.