Someone Else's Husband(52)

I was jolted awake sometime later by voices in the tent nearest to mine. Richard’s tent. I couldn’t make out most of the words. Just the cadence of a conversation between Richard and Van. The anger between them was unmistakable.

“I am not” and then “…money”—that was Van.

And then Richard: “I am not having this conversation again. I’m going to sleep.”

“I’m done, done—done,” Van replied. A beat later there was some aggressive unzippering and zippering of Richard’s tent, then footsteps stomping away, then what must have been Van’s tent opening and closing.

Then nothing at all.



* * *



*

After Noah and Max leave, I consider leaving, too. I could face the damage in the morning. At least the ruined paintings weren’t intended to be included in the show. Those I’ve already moved to the gallery. But I’m pretty sure the new series is—was—the best thing I’ve ever painted. Figures of women, more fractured than anything I’ve ever done—bolder, braver, more uncompromising. Raw. But there’s also an emotional depth to them. Like what I found in Africa has made its way into my work. The paintings feel like the first tangible proof that a new version of me might be possible. Gone now, erased again. By the Senator.

The sooner I clean up, the sooner I can pretend this whole thing never happened—which, of course, is my specialty.

But the destruction, it turns out, is even worse than I realized—four out of six of my newly finished canvases are sliced, as if with a knife, clean through their center. I could tuck them away somewhere, hope to figure out a way to fix them later. But I don’t think I can bear to be reminded of this feeling of powerlessness; like I’m a ballerina trapped in a sinister music box.

Turns out the paint on the floor and walls is even more of a problem than the damaged paintings. Spray paint, I think when I look closely at the fuzzy edges—neon red, blue, yellow. The colors feel blunt and garish compared to the subtle shades of my own work. The frenzied pitch of the damage feels like someone is screaming at me.

I try paint remover, but it immediately pulls the stain off the floor, leaving a small bleached area. Shit. It makes even more of a mess on the wall. The floor will need a professional. Not cheap, but okay—I can handle this. The damage isn’t permanent. Forward. Onward.

I lift the first of the four damaged canvases and head for the door. There are renovations going on next door, a large dumpster out front covered in warnings blaring: No Unauthorized Use! I’ll need to get the canvases all the way inside, so no one sees. The last thing I want is for the gallery to get wind of what happened, but also for my own sake. I can’t bear the thought of leaving them abandoned on top. Like actual garbage.

Outside on the dark stretch of sidewalk, I stand on tiptoes and peek inside the dumpster. Nearly empty, but not completely. Perfect. In the morning, more construction debris will go on top, and this nasty incident will officially be buried. Like so much else in my past.

I close my eyes as I lift the canvas. It’s not light, and I get it only halfway up in the air before it catches the edge of the dumpster. I manage to slide it up a little farther until eventually it tilts and falls in. A second later, there’s a loud thud as it hits the bottom.

“That bad, huh?” a voice calls.

I startle and turn—Richard, standing under a streetlight, hands deep in the pockets of his navy-blue field jacket. My breath catches, and I feel myself blush. In my defense, the halo of light makes his blue eyes glow.

“Oh, hi…” I’m thrilled. But also a little confused. “How did you know where…?”

It sounds more accusatory than I intended. Richard gestures toward a neon sign in a window above my head: Crystal Ball and All. “The name stuck with me,” he says a little sheepishly. “I looked it up.”

While we were hiking, I’d mentioned to the group my habit of getting my tarot cards read upstairs from my new studio when I was having a bad day.

“Oh, right.” I move away from the dumpster, trying to ignore the rush of warmth moving from my cheeks to my chest. “What are you doing here?” I don’t really care. I’m just glad he’s there.

“Why are you throwing out art?” he asks, ignoring my question.

“Someone broke into my studio and trashed a bunch of paintings. Spray-painted all over the place.”

“That’s— Are you okay?” He looks worried as he comes closer. “Is this—do you think it’s that guy you heard from?”

Of course he makes that connection. Because he listens, he cares. But he’s married. What is wrong with me? God, this…whatever I feel is exhausting. I am exhausting. It is much easier, all things considered, to feel nothing. I focus on brushing the construction dust off my pants. “I don’t know. I think maybe.”

“Can I help you clean up?” he asks.

“It’s okay. I think I need to do that part myself,” I say. Relying on Richard’s help feels wrong under the circumstances. But I do need to tell him about the picture the Senator sent me. “If you give me a bit to clean up, though—I’ll need a stiff drink when I’m finished.”





Richard Falk Police Interview


4:17 a.m., September 12