“It’s not so bad.” His eyes were shining. “I needed to fortify myself. I want to show you something, but I’m very nervous about it. Should I show you?”
“Show me what?”
He went on as though she hadn’t spoken, his words coming out lopsided, smeared together. “I was just imagining showing you when you arrived, which seems like a sign, doesn’t it? Mostly I think about showing them to—” Turning, he hurried out of the kitchen.
She followed. “Show me what?”
“What I’ve been doing!” he called over his shoulder, racing up the stairs two steps at a time. The spindly shape of him, the looseness of his clothes, the manic pitch of his voice reminded her so much of Wallace. She forced herself to climb slowly, not to panic and grab him and shake him by the arms and order him to stop drinking, to bathe, to go to school. Was it the house that did this to people? Was there some curse that turned men into mad drunkards?
At the top of the stairs, she paused to compose herself before she walked the length of the dark hall toward the wedge of light spilling from Wallace’s old studio. When she looked inside, sunlight pouring in from the curve of windows momentarily dazzled her eyes. She saw Jamie’s dark shape darting around, and as her eyes adjusted, she saw the paintings.
* * *
—
They were oils, mostly landscapes, some with birds and animals unobtrusively in the scene, almost hidden. At first glance the paintings appeared rough, even primitive, with obvious brushstrokes and patches of solid color, but as she kept looking, she saw they were precise in what they represented, just in a way that was different from the delicate, glossy realism of Wallace’s work, more about mood. Charcoal and pencil sketches were piled everywhere. Jars of water and turpentine crowded the windowsills. Jamie was chattering nervously. “Oils are awfully expensive, but Wallace left some behind, and I hope it’s all right I spent some of your money on supplies. I’ll find a way to pay for more myself, but it just seemed important that I work. It’s the only thing I seem able to do right now.”
Propped in Wallace’s threadbare old armchair was a portrait of a girl with a long face and frank gaze. The same girl appeared on a canvas set sideways on the mantel. The remnants of a fire still smoldered in the grate, blackened scraps of torn paper among the ash. Another painting of the girl lay flat on the floor, grit and flecks of paint marring it. Marian stepped closer to a mountain scene on his easel.
“There’s wind in it,” she said. “I don’t know how there’s wind in a painting.”
Jamie was hovering behind her. “It’s not done. It’s not quite right. I’m so nervous my mouth’s dry.” He drank from the glass he was still clutching. “I haven’t shown anyone, not even Caleb.”
She touched his shoulder, trying to calm him. “You’re an artist,” she said. “A real one.”
His eyes filled. They looked away from each other. She said, “But even real artists need to bathe sometimes.”
* * *
—
In the evening, Caleb showed up. Jamie had been induced to wash and take a nap, and Marian was making headway on cleaning and airing the house. She’d fed the dogs and built a fire. Caleb came in the kitchen door with two trout in a creel. “Mrs. Macqueen,” he said. “To what do we owe this honor?”
She whispered in case Jamie had woken: “Have you seen him lately? Did you know?”
“Your majesty is upset—”
“Caleb.”
He set the basket on the table. “I’ve had enough already with Gilda. I’m not hiding bottles from anyone ever again.”
She put a skillet on the stove for the fish. “You should have told me. How long has he been like this?”
Caleb leaned back against the wall, folding his arms. “I’m not sure. Maybe a month? Before that he was moping around, hung up on that girl, but he was going to school and wasn’t drinking, or not as much. He insists he’s working on something important. I don’t think he’s really like Wallace or Gilda. I think he’s putting this on a little bit.”
From the other room, a brassy dance tune blared from Wallace’s gramophone. Jamie appeared in the doorway, a glass in hand. “Cold for fishing, isn’t it?”
“You wouldn’t eat anything else I could bring.”
“Where do you even find trout this time of year?”
“They go deep, but they’re there.” Caleb took a loaf of bread and a paper bag from his knapsack. “Compliments of Mr. Stanley.”