“Hate drains the energy. I’m all about unconditional love.”
Cyril waited. Trading jabs was a waste of time. Silence was the only route through Gilbert’s defences.
“I was visiting Steve for some legal counsel. Vis-à-vis reducing my debt load. I’m taking a pounding. The three harpies have me on the ropes.”
“What happened to Murphy?”
“Murphy’s on dialysis and a respirator.”
The dog sat up then wobbled over to Gilbert who scooped it into his lap and stroked it under the chin. “You’re tense, Cyril. I would be too. There’s a lot at stake. But a word of advice: it reflects badly on you to go around making accusations. I mean, between me and you, okay, but be careful. People can spin that sort of thing. Don’t go giving Stevie-boy any more ammo than he’s already got.” He checked his Rolex. “You’re late.”
In fact he pulled up in front of Borgland’s right on time though he did not shut off the ignition or get out of the van, he sat there with the engine humming, battling a deeply rooted sense of obligation to go in and sit down and meekly undergo an interrogation with right and wrong answers, and serious consequences. Wasn’t that the mature thing to do? Or was it the weak thing to do? Yet by law he was entitled to a portion of the estate, meaning that instead of full control of a five hundred thousand dollar house he’d get half or a third. But the principle, wasn’t there a principle, wasn’t there always a principle? He put the van in drive and headed home, singing.
FIVE
CYRIL SPENT THEmorning of the art show wrapping his framed and glassed drawings in butcher paper for transport to The Arena. The gallery was on the street level of an old brick building that was deep and narrow, with a high ceiling and a fir slat floor. He arrived at noon to set up, thinking he was early, only to discover that the gallery was already so busy that the only wall space left was in the back by the toilet.
“You’re by the crapper,” said Richard. “That’s good,” he added, seeing Cyril’s stricken face. “People will come out all relieved and yours’ll be the first thing they’ll see.” Eyes wide behind his glasses, Richard retreated.
Cyril went back out to his van to get his drawings, fought the urge to simply drive away, and carried them back into the gallery. All around him clusters of people whispered, and snapped pictures and obsessed over their displays. He unwrapped his pieces then lined them against the wall wondering how to position them. The show was called 8 x 8: Eight works by eight artists. Two rows of four would be boring. He considered two, four, two, or running them at an angle, or in an X. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath and reflected. Did he detect a hint of latrine in the air back here? Would that drive people away? Would they associate his stuff with excrement? Other artists drifted over for a look at his drawings, murmured approval then drifted away. He knew them from class, where there was always an atmosphere of camaraderie, yet now, in this new and public environment a competitive mood prevailed, and he re-evaluated his drawings: gravestones, 18 x 24 inches, black-metal-frames. In one, the stone was the back of a kneeling woman with a long and intricate braid, in another it was a burn barrel brimming with flames, in another it was a paint brush, bristles down, with an apple sporting a Stetson on top of the handle, in yet another the gravestone was a mirror with a winged horse ridden by a laughing demon reflected in the glass.
He went around looking at the other work and found Richard pricing his crabs at five hundred bucks apiece. Cyril hadn’t priced his at all. Was his stuff worth what Richard’s was? What if Richard sold out again and Cyril sold nothing? It was hard enough to do the drawings much less put them on display with a dollar figure beside them only to be ignored or ridiculed by self-styled experts who drifted in off the street for the free wine and cheese. Cyril returned to his corner and considered a price of three hundred dollars, or four, or two-fifty, or one. He shoved his hands in his pockets and inhaled a big breath—yes, definitely a hint of toilet. With a black pen he wrote $501 on the tags by each picture.
The opening didn’t start until seven that evening. An eternity. He went home and cut and raked the lawn and pulled some weeds then went inside and vacuumed the hallway, dusted the Virgin Marys, took a damp Q-tip to the creases in the robe-work and the hair of the icon, and finally tried to do some drawing only to end up staring at his fingers. He gave up and listened to a phone message from John Boston offering him more money to take the job and if not could he recommend someone else. When you didn’t want the work everyone wanted to give it to you. On the porch he looked for the cat but it was nowhere in sight.
He wandered the house and found himself at his mother’s door. It had been almost two months since she’d died and he’d hardly glanced in. Pushing it open he saw, on the side table, his parents’ wedding photo, black and white and grey with a few cream tones. His mother emanated an uncharacteristic optimism, her brow smooth, eyes calm, neck long in spite of the famine that had already eroded Ukraine like a flesh-eating disease. His father had slicked-back hair, a gaunt face, wary eyes, unable to forget, even on his wedding day, the thunderheads of war. Cyril tried recalling the sound of his laughter and couldn’t; the nearest his father ever came to joy was his quiet exultation the day Stalin had died.
Setting the photo on its doily, Cyril picked up the black velvet box and clicked it open. The gold bands were shiny on the inside and dull on the outside. He drew them from their slots and held them in his palm, fit the larger one onto his ring finger and the smaller, his mother’s, onto his pinkie then extended his arm and gazed at his hand. What was the adage: all the fingers of the hand are not the same. Which finger was he? He removed the rings and returned them to their place and shut the box.
The oak bureau had three drawers and an oval mirror. Was there some message he was missing, some clue he was meant to discover? He looked behind the mirror, reached in under the drawers: nothing. Turning to the bed he hoisted the mattress. No, it was not a movie, it was his mother’s bedroom, and there was no trap door or secret compartment, no shoe box full of letters, no revelatory photographs, no diary that explained all, whatever all was. Nonetheless, he opened the closet door. There were her clothes still on the hangers, the smell of old fabric, stale air and the leathery scent of six pairs of shoes set neatly side by side. He parted the clothes like curtains and found an old mirror leaning against the wall and himself reflected from the waist down. About to turn away he reached out and angled the mirror forward and found some large sheets of heavy-grade paper. In the kitchen he laid them on the table. Like ancient charts they wanted to curl in on themselves. He placed oranges on the corners to hold them down and discovered his long lost portfolio for art school, the Stalin-as-dervish postage stamps, including the unfinished one of Stalin on a swing. Thirty years stashed in the closet. His mother had not burned out the eyes. His first impression was favourable, odd, quirky, wobbly of execution, but interesting stuff. For the next half hour he looked at the pictures, wondering if they would have got him into art school, and if it would have made any difference in the long run?
He left the drawings where they were, and went into the living room, and clicked on the TV and caught the last bit of an episode of I Spy. How dated the clothes and cars, and leisurely the camera work. And there, pulling a gun on tennis-pro and CIA agent Kelly Robinson was a lithe Chinese woman in taut black leather: Connie. Cyril stepped close to the screen and stared. Yes, Connie.
Just keep walking Mr. Robinson