Inside that painting there's another painted window, floating above the madman's bed. I could see it from my own crooked bunk, even with no light from my own window. The painted shutters are deeply wrong. They're way too big. Too much wood to close over the casement. There in the dark, I couldn't decide whether they floated in front of the window frame or behind it, folding into the bedroom or fanning outside. I had to find a way to close them, make them fit the frame. One night, without warning, I found I could wiggle them.
Time to wake the sister. Wake the sister. Please. Not at all. Time to oil their hinges. Each night that I exercised the shutters, they got a little easier to open. Pretty soon, Elise had barely fallen asleep before I was stealing off to the painter's bedroom. And as soon as I got there, the breezes would start to blow. I loved it. My private little secret, which I had the good sense to hide from everyone. Making the wind blow. Making the ground move beneath my feet. All the things that pubescent girls eventually learn to do more prosaically.
Jackdaw turned away, hiding his rush of color.
I got… too good. Too skilled at animation. Each of the objects in that painted room wanted its turn. I made gusts of southern wind twist the towel and slap the cyan shaving minor against the wall like a float slapping a dock. I got so I didn't even need breezes. I made the drawer in that crippled little bed table slide open unsponsored. I worried that the scraping would wake up Elise. But I couldn't stop. Couldn't keep from trying out new games… A night came when the room jumped, all by its lonesome. Started shaking before I gave it the mother-may-I. The chairs began to slide across the sloped floor. Horrible. I had to look away. But when I looked back, they'd start drifting all over again. Worse, the bed began creaking, from the weight of invisible bodies. It no longer had anything to do with gravity or wind or the ocean rolling. I wanted off the boat. I tried to steer our bedroom back to dry dock. I repeated the proof, over and over: the Earth was solid. The paint was fixed.
She pointed one finger up into the air. St. John of the Cross.
Then it was… like you said. The thing I should have had the sense to be afraid of all along. I walked past the room the next morning, in daylight. And saw the clack of a loose shutter. At last I figured what was happening. Hereditary. I'd go insane. As raving as the painter, whose private things I was stupid enough to play with while he was away.
You weren't about to lop off any body parts?
Don't. Even. Joke. I asked Elise if the paintings ever seemed… strange. "Our gallery of Visual Instruction?" She was a dozen games behind me. "Oh, perhaps to others. Never to us! Don't forget: we had the wisdom to pay millions for them…" I could have wrung her neck. I was frantic with imagination. I went back into the room and copied it, trying to make it stop. I fixed each furnishing at its exact distance from all its neighbors with a number-two pencil on blue-ruled paper. Then, to keep the colors from drifting, I went at it with my own paints. Once I got the folds of the towel down, it would stop flapping. When I found the exact lip of the shutters with my brush, they'd never move again. Her chin muscles twitched: almost never. I thought that if I could paint this room… thought that if I could get the colors right…
She stopped long enough for Jackdaw to hear them — the creakings downstairs, the middle-of-the-night shutter hangings, the armed father, family violences in some godforsaken Air Force barracks in yet another host country that did not want you there. When Adie resumed, her
voice was perfect again.
Just a hysteric child's voyage, I guess. It passed with puberty. But all through my teens, I couldn't look at a painting without repainting it. You know how childhood nightmare goes. You roll it back, demon by demon. Twenty years later, all that's left is a colorful story. That's how you learned to paint?
Adie smiled, the crisp Crosshatch of a technical pen. That's how I learned to copy. I never could make my hand do anything interesting without an original nearby, threatening me.
But you're so good. You drew all those… things! Her smile smeared outward into wet charcoal. Lovely, reassuring trinkets that have sold everything from book jackets to fake Belgian chocolates. Never mind. Copying keeps fruit on the table. And it's landed me this job, on the bleeding edge of whatever we're on the edge of. You never told your sister? Elise? Sort of. Years later. When we were out of school and both bussing
tables at MoMA. What did she say?
She said that I should get counseling. That Mom and Dad had fucked us over good, between the two of them. That going to a shrink was the best thing she'd ever done for herself. This was just before Elise moved uptown in the wake of the art bubble. Ah. Our millions!
Did you… ever…?
Go to a shrink? No. I went downtown and tried to become a painter. It didn't work. But neither did Elise's therapy, in the long run. And hers was more expensive.
Did your mother ever…?
Died, Adie interrupted. At Langley Air Force Base, Virginia. A very unromantic death.
Did your… father ever see… anything that you made?
That depends. She looked away, on a mythic place where gifts really reached their recipients. Nothing she'd ever made — offering, bribe, buyoff, retaliation — had ever come close to hitting its mark. That depends on what you mean by "see."
Jackdaw heard the current in her. He searched out the lab for a place to flee. But the chance for flight was over. This painting. This bedroom of yours? You sure you want to.. animate that one?
No. I'm not sure. I've never been sure of anything in my life. Except that that place is beautiful.
Jackdaw nodded, ready to go there.
24
There was a song. A piece of music. A beautiful thing, you used to say, back when the word meant nothing. Back when existence let you listen. In another life, you loved that piece. Now every note is gone.
You lie in the constant dusk of this sealed carton, willing the tune to come back to you. You try all the possible opening intervals, checking off the permutations, like trying to remember someone's name by ticking off the letters of the alphabet. Chasing does nothing. A song like this returns only of its own volition. It will descend, or not, only by grace. All you can do is keep still and wait.
You lie waiting, without expectation. But the song does not come. Not one phrase. Only a shifting stumble of tones. You lie forever in the dark, inviting the melody. You spend days making yourself available, ready for any arrival. But all that comes to you is the piece's name: a convalescent's song of thanks to the Godhead.