Lynn stood rigidly over the light box, making polite but reserved sounds.
Her stalker, whom she hadn’t yet noticed, was standing outside the gallery window, staring at Lynn through the glass fondly. He was wearing red pants, a green shirt, a blue tie, a yellow jacket, orange shoes, and a purple hat with a white feather sticking out of the top. He looked like an elf. Or a parrot.
When Charlie was done showing Lynn the transparencies, he said, “So, what do you think?”
She glanced at him almost pleadingly. “Oh, Charlie. I think you should trust your instinct. I’m not the right person to ask right now.”
“I want an answer. An honest answer. Yes or no. Do you like them?”
“Charlie, I’m not …”
“Yes or no, Lynn! Yes or no, goddammit!”
The cuckoo clock Patricia had recently bought for Lynn did its hourly thing. Its doors flew open, the yellow bird came out, but instead of saying “Cuckoo!” it said, in Patricia’s voice, “Stalk! Stalk! It’s four o’clock! Do you know where Mr. Dupont is?”
Unwilling to be distracted, Charlie said, “Just answer me, Lynn, do you like them?”
“No,” she said gently. “But it doesn’t mean anything.”
“Shh! I brought two canvases with me.” He quickly unwrapped them. “This work is phenomenal,” he said. “I’m no longer asking you, I’m telling you. Because I don’t have the slightest doubt.”
“That’s great,” she said.
“Really? You like them?”
“Well … I meant it’s great that you feel so strongly about them.”
“But do you like them?”
Lynn scrutinized the paintings, searching for the faintest speck that might thrill her. In one painting, Charlie had, for the first time ever, painted not one, but two tiny shapes. One appeared to be strangling or hugging the other. In the second painting, the single tiny shape was in a fetal position, or possibly just thinking in a position like The Thinker, by Rodin.
The little shapes became blurry through Lynn’s tears.
“Can I ask you a question?” Charlie finally said.
Lynn nodded.
“Do you think I suck, or do you think you suck?”
“I think it’s probably me,” she said.
“What do you mean it’s probably you? I won an American Prix de Rome, a Guggenheim, an NEA, and an NYFA. I’m at the forefront of academic interest. Doesn’t that speak for my work?”
Patricia laughed softly. Lynn frowned with alarm at the lack of tact.
“Did you take a look at your stalker today, Lynn?” Patricia said, pointing to the window.
Lynn looked at her stalker. “Why is he dressed that way?”
“Who knows,” Patricia said. “Maybe he watched that nature show last night on birds and decided to dress colorfully to attract your attention.”
Charlie packed up his art and left without saying anything.
Roland dropped quarters into the hand of the homeless man, who looked into his eyes, and whispered, “You’re being followed.”
When Lynn gave him change ten seconds later, the homeless man said to her, “You’re on a downward spiral of self-destruction. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket.”
And after Lynn, he said to Alan, “Take a class, a vacation, a multi-vitamin. Take your mind off romance, take control of your life and your future.” Alan stared back at Ray, who was screaming, “Go and see a movie, take a self-improvement class. You’re better than them!”
At a small café near the gym, before their scheduled game of racquetball, Alan told Roland that his color theory hadn’t worked. Roland was pleased, and said, “That’s terrible.”
Alan was silent, looking down at the table morosely.
To be nice, Roland tried to change the topic. “So, what did you do last night? Did you go out?”
“I walked down the stairs of my building, making sure the stairwell doors were closed on every floor.”
“Why?”
“In case there’s a fire. It’s really important for the stairwell doors to be closed. It prevents the fire from spreading too quickly. I check the doors every day.”
“Doesn’t it take time away from your stalking?”
“It only takes about four minutes.”
“Did you do anything else last night?”
“No. I tried to understand why my color theory didn’t work.” Alan looked disillusioned. “I really thought it was the key. I mean, it made so much sense. Look at us. Color was the only difference between us. Now that we’re both colorful, we could be twins. Well, no, I’m exaggerating, but you know what I mean. We’re both fine-looking guys, relatively charismatic, intelligent, pretty well educated, somewhat athletic.”
Roland could no longer be polite.
“Where did you go to college, Alan?” he asked.
“Putnam.”
“I went to Harvard.”
“Same difference,” Alan said, nodding. “Both good colleges. Don’t tell me you’re going to quibble over which is better?”
“Who always beats whom in our games of racquetball?”
“I think we’re pretty well matched. So far, you may have beaten me more often. I don’t really keep track of these things.”
“Which one of us is a lawyer, and which one an accountant, not even a CPA?”
“You know the answer to that.”
“Who is six-three, 190 pounds, muscular, with a full head of hair? And who is five-seven, 190 pounds, not muscular, and bald?”
In a small voice, Alan said, “Well, who has blond hair and blue eyes?”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, who has blond hair and blue eyes?”
Roland stared at Alan for a few long seconds, then said, “You are a short, fat, balding man with blue eyes and a few patches of yellow fuzz. You’re like Danny DeVito with blond hair and blue eyes.”
“But you don’t have them at all.”
“That’s right.”
“Wait, let me get this straight,” Alan said, smiling. “Are you trying to tell me that you don’t think we’re equal in the realm of desirability? Are you trying to imply that you’re … um … superior to me, in some way?” Alan stared at Roland’s locket, feeling sorry for whatever family member or sweetheart was in there. He pitied that relative for being associated with such a pompous ass.
Roland saw him look at his locket, guessed his thoughts precisely, and rolled his eyes. In his locket was not a family member or sweetheart, but cyanide, for the purpose of self-deliverance if the need ever arose. Wearing a cyanide-filled locket was a tradition in his family. The item had been passed down four generations. When Roland had turned fourteen, his father had taken him on a walk, “man to man.” (“D’homme à homme,” is what he actually said, since they were French.)
“I want to give you this,” his father had said, pulling out of his pocket a chain from which swung a locket just like the one hanging around his own neck, the inside of which had always remained a mystery to Roland and his sister.
The young Roland took the locket.
“C’est du cyanure,” his father said. (“It’s cyanide.”)
Roland’s innocent eyes opened wide. “To kill someone?”
“No!” the father said, shocked that his son’s mind would jump to such vile conclusions. “To kill yourself.”
Roland winced and looked up at his father to make sure he wasn’t joking. “But I don’t want to kill myself.”
“One day you might.”
“Why?”
“Sometimes in life, it happens,” his father said, in his usual impatient tone that meant, “You are a moron, my son.”