But then, I think there was more to it than that. At the risk of tossing him a compliment, Michael was not a failure as a novelist. His first published novel, The Hounds of Heaven, received rave reviews. It was an auspicious start for the young novelist. Problem was, Michael decided for himself that he was now in line for the Pulitzer, which gave him the right to drink and snort away whatever money he made in advances and royalties.
The ultimate result?
An extended bender landed him unknowingly in Key West passed out on the steps of Hemingway’s house where he was diagnosed with nervous exhaustion. It was then I decided, “Enough is too much.” One month in a Poughkeepsie institution, Four Winds, the dissolution of our marriage and one personal bankruptcy later, Michael went right back to biting the nail as though he’d never skipped a beat. While he still imbibed in a daily beer or two, his drinking was kept very much in check. Usually by yours truly.
Back to my original question: why did Michael insist on working at my place? Despite his setbacks, he was determined to be a bestseller. That meant a return to his roots, going back to what made him a success in the first place-writing in the presence, or proximity anyway, of me. And even though we were no longer husband and wife, if I could act as some sort of human good luck charm for him, then what harm could it possibly do?
Besides, when Michael was happy, so was I.
“Where’d you get the cool painting?” he asked, the Hemingway guise thankfully abandoned.
I turned, locking my eyes onto the two-by-two canvas leaned up against the bookcase.
“Franny gave it to me.”
Michael’s eyes went wide.
“Franny,” he said, like a question. “I thought his stuff sold in the tens of thousands of dollars?”
I nodded. “Strange isn’t it,” I agreed. “He could easily get ten or fifteen thousand for it from some collector down in Chelsea, yet he just gives it to me out of the blue.”
Setting his Pepsi down, Michael got up and walked the few steps to the bookcase. He picked the painting up by the borders and, as if it were a mirror, gazed directly into it, studying it at eye level under the light of the stand up lamp.
“Ten or fifteen grand, huh?” he posed in a scheming voice. “If only writing were that easy. Looks like some kindergartner on a sugar high went to town on somebody’s landscape with a set of Sharpies.”
That’s when it hit me.
Getting up from the couch arm, I set my Pepsi onto the coffee table, taking my place beside my ex. The painting was positioned between us, below the lamp light, in Michael’s hands.
“Can I ask you a question? Get an honest opinion?”
Although we were standing shoulder to shoulder, I could see out the corner of my eyes that Michael was smiling, obviously pleased that I’d chosen to tap into his cultural and artistic expertise.
“When you look into this piece, when you eye it directly in the center, do you notice anything odd?”
He took a moment to gaze at the painting’s center point, alternating between pulling the canvas closer to his face and pushing it away for a more peripheral view.
He bit his bottom lip.
“Like I said, some sugared up, psychotic five year old and a Sharpie.”
My eyes laser beamed on the bright red, green and yellow pastel dashes and the pastoral landscape behind them. I picked out the word ‘Listen’ painted in tan letters.
“You don’t see a word spelled out in the center?” I pressed.
“What word?”
I reached out with index finger extended and spelled out the word.
L-I-S-T-E-N.
He bit his bottom lip again, making a funny light-bulb-shining-over-his-head squint.
“You see ‘Listen,’” he said. “I see ‘S-E-X.’”
There you have one of the essential differences between Michael and me.
He laughed.
I didn’t.
“I’m serious. You don’t see ‘Listen’ at all?”
“It’s not that I don’t see it, Bec. Because when you map it out like that I definitely see the word or at least a word that resembles ‘Listen’.” He paused, chomping down once more on the lip.
“But?” I said, pushing, pressing.
“But I also see the word ‘Sex.’”
“Michael.”
“Hear me out, honey. The point I’m trying to make is that this is the work of an autistic genius who, it pains me to admit, is one-hundred times more successful at his art than you and me combined.”
The ex was making sense. Beginning to make sense, that is.
“Your point?”
“It’s like one of those tests the shrinks gave me night and day down in Poughkeepsie. The Horseshack test. You know, flashcards with splotches of black ink on them. You’re supposed to offer up an immediate interpretation of them; find some meaning, assign some sense to the splotch.”
“Rorschach Test,” I corrected.
“Whatever. I just think that what we have here is the same or at least a similar situation.”
I nodded, even though I wanted to tell him that there was nothing subjective about the word I saw in the center of Franny’s painting. But then maybe Michael had a point. Maybe the word I saw was a simple case of my interpretation and my interpretation alone. It wasn’t like I had been looking or searching for the word when my eyes first glimpsed the image. Franny hadn’t pointed out anything specific to me. I immediately saw the word and since then, I hadn’t been able to put it out of my mind. And what about the artist giving it the title of ‘Listen’? Was that just a coincidence or suggestive reasoning?
I turned and went back to the couch.
Michael set the painting back down, resting it gently back up against the bookcase.
“Ten grand,” he said, a little under his breath-a little too under his breath.
He brought his right hand up to his face, began dropping one finger after other, all the time whispering near silent calculations to himself.
“What if we go on e-Bay-”
“Michael,” I spat, cutting him off. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Just a suggestion,” he smirked, eyes wide.
“Here’s a suggestion,” I said, gripping the empty Pepsi can. “Get a job.”
Chapter 5
Michael faced me.
“What’s this all about, Rebecca? What’s going on here?”
I shook my head, ran my hand through my hair as if to say, Nothing . But I felt something snap inside my brain. I felt my heart begin to pound and Molly’s soft voice filled my head.
“ Tell him the truth.”
But I couldn’t do it. Like a screw that had rusted over time inside its solid metal bolt, the secret was too entrenched. Even if I tried to tell Michael, I feared that all I might possibly manage would be to open my mouth with no words coming out. So what did I do instead? I just stared at him, with a frowning, puppy dog face of my own.
“You all right, Bec?” he asked after a beat. But we’d been married after all. We’d shared intimacy after intimacy. It was true, he loved me and despite my anger for what had happened during his binging crazy period, I still loved him too. With that clearly in mind and heart, I knew that he knew that I was holding something back. Something that once revealed might forever alter the way he perceived me. The way he perceived us. Or what had been us.
I knew how much my silence must have been hurting him.
Seeking a distraction I picked up his near empty Pepsi can, handed it to him, then made my way back into the kitchen to toss mine into the recycling bin. Outside the double-hung window over the sink the rain picked up in intensity. This storm was definitely going to be an all-nighter.
“You hungry?” I offered, suddenly hoping that Michael would say yes; that maybe after a couple of hours and some hot food in me, I might loosen up that rusted screw, begin to spill the details of a three decade old secret.
But instead, he entered the kitchen and tossed the empty can into the blue recycle bin next to the trash container. Having him next to me in the kitchen made me think about a time when the bin might have been filled with a dozen empty beer bottles and the mortgage was three months overdue.