【by Maya Sasaki-George】
I met him at a gallery opening last December; he asked me for a cigarette as I stood out by the entrance, pretending I was waiting to meet someone. I don’t know why I always did this—I was twenty and very lonely, and I guess I saw something glamorous in the idea of being stood up. I would loiter on the sidewalk for at least fifteen minutes or so, freshening my lipstick, rummaging around in my purse, sighing, periodically checking my watch; then when I felt enough people had seen me, I would stuff my hands in the pockets of my coat and slouch inside, dejected. It was a good ritual, and one I stuck to religiously—I was less than pleased to be interrupted by a tap on the shoulder from the meaty finger of one Rufus Gardner.
“Got a smoke?” he had asked, rubbing at the side of his nose with his other hand. He was clad in a scratchy brown suit a few sizes too small, and proudly sported a garishly festive red-and-green necktie. Much of the fabric was noticeably discolored by stains of indiscriminate origin.
I smiled politely, chanced a glance at my watch. “Afraid not.”
Rufus took this in stride, flashing a crooked grin my way. “For the best, I suppose. Filthy habit.”
I happened to agree, if only because my meager stipend stretched no further than groceries and the occasional check mailed home. “Sure,” I replied, attempting to humor him, “Don’t you know your body’s a temple?”
This seemed to please him tremendously. He hitched up his suit pants and amicably shook his balding head. “Little late for that, honey.”
I checked my watch again. My fifteen minutes were up. “Going in?” I asked him, nodding my head at the gallery’s unassuming front door.
“Oh sure, sure,” he replied, as if the art show were some mildly pleasant diversion from his real plans for the night, “What the Hell. These things are never any fun alone.”
This irked me slightly—I hadn’t meant we should stick together once inside—but still I smiled at the man and let him lead me indoors, relishing the rush of warm air as we left the street behind. This was what I lived for: the first five seconds of an art show. The sounds of posh laughter, clinking glasses, soft jazz piped through a radio overhead. I closed my eyes and breathed it in.
When I opened them again, Rufus was still watching me in that peculiar way of his—his large, puffy eyes blinking slowly and thoughtfully and his lips tugged sideways in a lopsided smile. He didn’t say anything else, merely rocked on his toes a bit and patiently waited for me to speak.
“Well,” I offered, not sure what other choice I had, “Shall we?”
Rufus nodded, suddenly cheerful, and extended an arm; after a moment of indecision, I demurely accepted, and then the two of us were off, charting our way slowly but surely across the gallery.
The collection was called Anguish and clearly thought highly of itself—each piece depicted a different lost soul trapped in purgatory, some wailing in misery, some tearing at their flesh, a few almost saint-like in their forlorn resignation. I did my best to frown and nod and feign deep thought, the way you were supposed to when a lauded piece of art failed to impress you. I had learned this method from a painting instructor back when I was still in school—or rather, I had taught it to myself out of necessity when he tried to show me some work of his own.
Rufus took his sweet time with every painting, coming to a full stop before each one and letting his gaze roam over every inch. His expression never changed; sometimes he would absentmindedly rub at his five o’clock shadow with the back of his hand as he pondered the disconsolate men and women sprawled across the canvases in front of him, but that was it.
The centerpiece of the show had a small crowd clustered in front of it, obscuring the painting from view; the closer we got, the less promising it seemed. There was much pointing, discussion, a whole hushed spectacle. This was another lesson I had picked up from my days in university: the more a piece was oohed and aahed, the less likely it was to possess any real substance. For all his flaws, my instructor had at least made sure I understood that.
As I watched Rufus inspect the sixth painting in the series—a bedraggled, toothless man lamenting at the bank of the river of souls—a waiter brandishing a platter of champagne started in our direction. He was a handsome young man, perhaps not much older than me; he had neatly-combed hair, deep-set eyes, a strong jaw. I was far from the first to notice him, which only furthered my intrigue—older women in silk dresses flashed him long, amorous looks and dazzling smiles as they plucked the flutes from his tray. The waiter paid them no mind, merely solemnly nodding as they murmured their thanks and brushed manicured hands over his uniformed forearm.
I tapped Rufus’s arm with the limb still held tight in his grip. “I think they’re bringing champagne around.”
Rufus looked up, harshly pulled from his reverie, “Hm? Oh, of course.” He signaled the waiter with a wag of his fingers, a funny grin creeping back onto his features. “Even churches have wine, don’tcha know.”
The waiter approached, dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Champagne?” he inquired, voice well-practiced and toneless. I remembered it well, the monotony, the agony of catering events like this—I had worked as a server myself at nineteen, just after I’d flunked out of school. I thought it was possible the waiter would be able to smell those six months on me, an idea that at once excited and terrified me—I quickly deferred to Rufus, diverting my gaze to him.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Rufus replied gregariously, releasing me at last to reach with both hands for a glass, “And something for my daughter too.”
My eyebrows shot up for just a moment—I quickly schooled them back in place. The waiter turned his attention to me, eyes dark and strangely haunting. “For the lady,” he answered, lifting a flute from his tray and offering it placidly to me.
Startled, I reached out and accepted; as the waiter moved on, diligently attending to his duties, I wondered quite urgently if he was cursing me to Hell in his heart. Did he know I had once been just like him? Could he sense I’d washed out, that I hadn’t had the fortitude? Did he resent his obligation to serve me, begrudge my fine clothes, my elegant surroundings?
I brought the champagne to my lips and tried to take a sip—it tasted like vinegar going down, searing my throat, sharp and acidic. It took all the composure I had not to gag.
“Something wrong?” inquired Rufus, visage growing troubled, “Didn’t like what I said?” He patted me kindly on the hand. “Just a little joke, honey, no one’s holding you to it.”
“No, it’s–” I choked down more champagne, “Might you know where the ladies’ room is?” It was the wrong choice of words; my self-disgust only grew.
Rufus relaxed a bit, not noticing my grimace. “Sure, right down there,” he replied, pointing to an almost invisible door near the gallery entrance, wood painted the same eggshell white as the walls. “Nature calls. I can hold your drink while you go, if you like.”
“Uh–” After a second, I passed him the glass, nodding my thanks. “Won’t be a minute.”
With that, I was off, making haste to the restroom. I just needed a splash of cold water on my face, a glance in the mirror, a minute to think. Inside, there were three stalls and one sink; two women lingered by the mirror, one admiring her hair, the other washing her hands. At once, I locked myself in the very first stall, hoping to drown out their insipid conversation. I could still see the two women from the crack in the stall door; despite my distress, I couldn’t help but peer out at them.
“I didn’t like it,” said the first, shrill voice cutting through the room. She paused for a moment, adjusted a curl. “I didn’t think it fit with the rest of the paintings, did you?”
The other woman shrugged, turned off the tap. “I don’t know. I sort of thought it was nice. An enjoyable break from all the doom and gloom, no?”
“But as the main work?” the first woman rejoined. “In a collection called ‘Anguish’? He hardly seemed anguished to me, Josephine.”
“It’s art, Mary-Alice. It doesn’t have to make sense.”
Mary-Alice huffed at this comment, rolled her beautiful eyes. “You’re so dull these days, you know you used to be fun.”
“Right,” replied Josephine, shaking her hands out above the sink. “Be a dear and pass me a towel or two, will you?”
Mary-Alice complied and the two were soon leaving, bickering blissfully receding as the door clicked shut behind them. I exited the stall in a hurry, desperate for a long hard look in the mirror.
There I was in the glass, young and pretty as ever; I had used to be plain before I entered university, but my instructor kept me fed on a diet of wine, fruit, and painting, and it hadn’t taken long for my new self to emerge.
Even after my disturbance, I still looked alright—My cheeks were brushed pink, my lips stained deep red; there was even some charm to my faint dark circles, the slightly bruised look under each of my eyes. I didn’t look like a girl who’d waitressed exhibitions all over town just to make rent; I looked like a woman scouting out her next fine art purchase, which, I supposed, I was.
I smoothed down my hair and made my way out of the restroom and back through the gallery. Rufus had polished off his drink and was signaling a waiter for another by the time I returned. I found myself oddly surprised and relieved to find him still standing there.
“You’re back!” Rufus remarked jovially, returning my glass at once, stem now smudged with his fingerprints. “I was beginning to think you had run off for good.”
I smiled, ventured a sip; the champagne tasted alright now, spreading warmth through my body. “So little faith.”
Rufus grinned at my words, loosening the tie from his neck with two fingers. “Can you blame an old man for his paranoia?”
I shrugged lightly, still smiling. “I guess not.” Everything was in order; the night was back on track.
“Shall we?” asked Rufus, nodding his head at the exhibition’s star portrait. I directed my gaze towards the far side of the room—the crowd seemed to be clearing up a bit.
“Alright,” I replied, “I suppose enough waiting’s enough.”
Rufus led me along with a fond shake of the head. “Isn’t that a sweet attitude. No, I’m quite sure you’re right—the night is still young, but I’m balder by the second, eh?”
Even through the thick fabric of his suit jacket, I could tell Rufus’s forearm was unpleasantly damp with perspiration. Gingerly, I slipped my arm from his, pretending to root around in my purse for the last twenty feet or so before we reached the painting.
Abruptly, Rufus came to a stop; I stopped as well, clicking the purse closed, and finally allowed my gaze to rest on the painting.
It was a portrait of a boy, a humble thing drowned slightly out by its gaudy golden frame. I was quite sure the style was fashioned after nineteenth-century funeral paintings, the way children were made to look just like adults, only smaller. This boy’s face was like that, his long nose defined, his thin lips stretched sideways in some sorry attempt at a placid smile. The artist had given him round, rosy cheeks like a cherub, jumbling the features into some ageless horror, but what truly shook me was his eyes. Wide, round, and blue, they were the picture of innocence—but the deeper you looked, the more you saw. The black irises shone in the gallery lights, thin coating of lacquer making the inky darkness gleam. Both eyes were terribly dilated—there was only a thin rim of blue around each—until all you could see were the two terrible cavities like burn marks or pools of oil. The boy sat in church, tucked away in a pew, and his heavy black clothes could’ve been from any point in history. Sunlight streamed in from an aperture of stained glass off to the side, color absorbing indiscriminately into the boy’s pale skin and dark clothing. In his hands, barely visible at the bottom of the canvas, were clutched a muddy bouquet of white lilies and a wooden toy boat.
It was, in all respects, a completely ordinary painting. No remarkable talent, no renaissance buried in the habitual brushstrokes. At first glance, it was almost sweet. A child in church on a Sunday morning, a child smirking agreeably from every angle but plain dead-on. On any other night, I would’ve dismissed the piece as pleasant but worthless. But there was something in the eyes. There was something in the eyes I couldn’t get away from.
I must’ve seen this boy somewhere before, of this I was sure; watched him playing in the park, rolled my eyes as he threw a fit in the grocery store, seen him in a circle wiped clean on the bathroom mirror. Sweat pooled at the small of my back. I felt like a dog chasing its own tail, or something equally as foolish; a child afraid of the dark but too headstrong to say so. The crowd continued to move around me—I understood this in some distant way—but Rufus and I stayed still as statues in front of the painting. I tried to swallow. I tried to blink.
My gaze crawled to the placard to the right of the frame. In the Midst of Life, We Are Undead, it read, along with the year it had been painted and other insignificant details. I stepped back. Beside me, Rufus stirred.
“Ah, I remember being young,” he sighed, breaking the silence at last, “when everything felt like the end of the world.”
I tried my best to nod, to clear my arid throat. “Oh,” I replied, voice all wrong, “Oh, sure.” I paused for a moment to let my supposed indifference sink in, and then: “Right, but it isn’t?”
Rufus chuckled at this, good-natured and gruff. His eyes continued to scour the painting; I only watched him. “Oh no, it usually is—just ’til the next world-ending thing comes along, anyway.” He shrugged and scratched the side of his nose, ever magnanimous. “But what do I know? Just flapping the gums, honey, that comes with age.”
“Sure,” I repeated, still nodding dumbly. “Sure, I know.” I could tell he knew I didn’t, but he was kind enough not to say so.
I made a show of checking my watch. It was half past ten o’clock. I had the distinct sense that if I did not leave the gallery just that second, something terrible was going to happen.
“I ought to be getting back soon. It’s only a few blocks away,” I ventured, subsequent pause a bit pointed. “It’s awfully dark out.”
“Right,” said Rufus, blissfully taking the hint, “Well, I’d be happy to walk you home, if you like.”
“Thank you,” I replied, and away we went. Under yellow-gold streetlamps and the faint glow of the moon, Rufus walked me back to the small brick building I’d lived in since quitting the catering job almost half a year previous.
“Is this it?” Rufus asked when my footsteps idled on the sidewalk just before the building’s stoop. I nodded. “Wow,” he went on. “Home sweet home.”
For once, I made no effort to hide my grimace. “Only until I get back on my feet, you know.”
Rufus raised his eyebrows but didn’t press the subject, extending a large, calloused hand for a shake and offering me one final broad, toothy grin. “It’s been a wonderful night,” he announced. “Something told me you’d be good company.”
I nodded again, smiled faintly, accepted his hand; one firm handshake later and Rufus was waving goodbye, plodding off into the night. The folded bit of cardstock he’d somehow managed to pass me sat heavy in my hand. Dazed and terribly exhausted, I stuck the card in my pocket and unlocked the door.
Inside I found myself unlucky—I was not alone. At school I had called him Professor; when I moved in upstairs, he had told me to call him James. This I staunchly refused, so we’d settled on his surname, Alaire.
“Who was that?” asked Mr. Alaire, peering down at me over the rim of his old-fashioned glasses.
My feet ached in the heels I was wearing. I wished I could go to bed. “Who?”
Alaire rose to his feet, eyebrows sharply creased. He cast his newspaper aside and made his way over to me. “The doddering fool who just dropped you off. I could see him through the window, you know.” He fixed me with a frown. “Surely not the sort of company you keep in your free time?”
Sometimes at night I would think about killing him. What it would feel like, how long it would take. Every so often I made it all the way to the top of the stairwell and would peer down at him sipping wine in the living room and trying to paint. I’d watch his every movement until my gaze caught the moment which revealed who he truly was—a coughing fit, a splatter of paint on his apron, sometimes a quiet shedding of tears—and then I would return to bed. This was a lifelong affliction of mine: I could never really hate something once I got to know it. Even the dead, even devils had eyes.
But for now the tearful old man was gone, and the usual Alaire before me. My hands had grown ice-cold in my pockets, but there was something strangely soothing in the sharp corners of Rufus’s note. I clutched it tightly as I spoke.
“Oh, him,” I replied, voice carefully mild. “He’s—” I found myself shrugging then, suddenly sure nothing else felt quite right, “Well, I suppose he’s my father.”
Alaire’s frown only deepened. The disapproving creases on his forehead sloped ever darker. “Is that a joke?”
I eyed the staircase with longing; I would have to walk right past him, so I stayed rooted to my spot. “I don’t know.”
He waited a moment, let my words hang puzzled in the air. “You don’t know?”
I thought of Rufus’s thick, sweaty arm in mine, his mismatched clothes, his odd turns of phrase. “No,” I decided, and that was that. “How peculiar you are, Mr. Alaire. It isn’t a joke at all.”
Alaire, for his part, took this information in stride. “Right,” he replied, taking his seat once again. He gestured for me to sit across from him at the table; I pretended not to see. “Not an intellectual, surely? Of course, I’ve no doubt he’s a lovely man. But not an artist.”
I shrugged again. There wasn’t much else to say.
“It must’ve looked quite strange all your life,” Alaire mused on, swirling the dregs of wine in his glass and picking up the newspaper again. “The two of you together. A beauty like you and a—well, you know. A bum like him.”
I remembered I had once had a kind landlady, the proprietor of the small downtown apartment I’d grown up in; she was a frail, elderly woman I’d called Aunt Bernadette. She had always worn hats with too many frills, a handbag stuffed with hard candies, and was never far from one of the building’s slothful, coddled felines. I supposed, in a way, her death marked the beginning of my troubles.
The man was still speaking. I did my best to cut him off as politely as I could. “Mr. Alaire, it’s been a long night,” I interrupted. “I really ought to go to sleep.” I dipped my head to him once in a gracious goodnight, then made my way smoothly to the bottom of the staircase, the sixteen thin blocks of wood that separated Alaire’s residence from mine.
When I was halfway to freedom, he called out my name; I reluctantly paused and allowed him a glance over the rail, if only to spare myself the indignity of hearing him say it a second time. “Yes, Mr. Alaire?”
“Well, what of the paintings?” he inquired, clearly still put out from our previous exchange. “Did you and your father find anything worth purchasing? Any new additions for my collection? As you might know, the wall across from my bed is still dreadfully empty…”
I considered saying nothing. It would’ve been all too easy, to shake my head and sigh, to tell him I’d keep searching and let his next big acquisition be a mediocre landscape at the next opening I went to. But my eyes were what he paid me for, and I had nowhere else to go.
“Oh yes,” I replied, guilt devouring my stomach. “There was one—In the Midst of Life, oil on canvas. The collection’s crowning glory.”
Alaire frowned at me, anything to keep me from getting away. “I heard that piece wasn’t any good.”
“Yes,” I repeated. “Yes, I heard that too. You know, it might be the only painting I’ve ever seen worth a damn.”
He was stunned. I resumed my ascent. “Goodnight, Mr. Alaire.”
A few seconds more and I was back in my bedroom. I wanted to kick off my shoes and climb into bed at last—but one final task occupied my mind. From the pocket of my coat I produced Rufus’s parting gift: unfolded, it was a sorry attempt at a business card, flimsy and endearingly cheap. Rufus Gardner, it read, for whatever you need. Then his telephone number, printed in large, rounded type. I stared at each number in turn, committed them to memory. It was a good number, looping here, squaring off there—I knew I would never call it, but what was the harm in looking?
I took a pushpin from the top drawer of my writing desk and pinned the card to the wall beside my bed. This was eleven months and some odd change ago. Alaire did end up buying the painting—it gathers dust beside his wardrobe. I never saw Rufus again. I could never bring myself to take his card down either.