Martha gave a short rasp of laughter. “That’s probably because you only talked to nice people. You should have come straight to the bitch.”
They were interrupted by the sound of hammering on the front door and the simultaneous ringing of all the bells in the apartments.
“Oh, God. That’ll be Dennis. His wife has kicked him out and he keeps coming back when she’s at work hoping someone else will let him back in. Excuse me a moment.” She unfolded herself from the chair and limped out to the hallway, pulling the door to behind her.
Jean didn’t fancy Dennis’s chances against Martha, with or without her walking stick. In the distance she could hear raised voices. She occupied herself during her hostess’s absence by looking through the canvases propped against the wall. She was confident that Martha wouldn’t mind her snooping and might even expect it.
The paintings, chiefly cityscapes of bomb-damaged buildings, derelict churches and patches of empty land, took Jean by surprise. She knew nothing of art, except what she had picked up from trips to the National Gallery, and had imagined Martha’s style to be bold, abstract and incomprehensible. These were, to Jean’s inexpert eye at least, old-fashioned, naturalistic and rather pleasing. In each of the scenes a tiny detail provided a note of beauty or optimism among the grayness—a delicate flower growing in a crack in a wall; a rainbow in an oily puddle; a bird nesting in a ruined chimney.
While she browsed, her thoughts kept straying back to Martha’s curious assumption that Gretchen was lying to her. It didn’t make sense. Why would Gretchen have needed to lie to Martha, her friend, and, moreover, someone who hardly seemed likely to disapprove or judge?
The commotion in the hallway reaching a crescendo, Jean felt moved to investigate. She found Martha and the would-be intruder engaged in a tug-of-war through the mail slot, with Martha’s walking stick as the contested rope. Perhaps inspired by the arrival of reinforcements, Martha abruptly let go of the handle, which flew back, catching in the jaws of the mail slot and sending the assailant tumbling down the steps. She hastily snatched the stick back to her side of the door while he continued to shout abuse at her.
Several of the other residents of the house now began to descend to investigate the commotion, which was clearly a regular occurrence of no great moment. Having satisfied themselves that it was “just Dennis,” they shrugged and returned to their apartments, leaving him raving outside on the pavement.
“Sorry about that,” said Martha, cheerfully, adjusting her headscarf, which had become twisted in the scuffle. “It’s par for the course.”
She seemed quite invigorated by the altercation. Jean felt a rush of affection for her quiet, suburban street, where the only sound likely to disturb the peace might be the whir of a lawn mower or the jangle of a milk truck.
“I was looking at your paintings,” she said. She was going to elaborate but lost courage when she saw Martha’s expression darken. “I like them,” she finished lamely.
“Please don’t say any more,” Martha said, holding up a hand as though to ward off blows. “I hate it when people praise my work.”
“It’s better than criticism, surely?” said Jean, feeling bound to defend herself. She had never met anyone quite so resistant to flattery.
“You can’t accept compliments and then dismiss brickbats. You have to treat those two impostors just the same. For my own sanity, I choose to ignore them both.” She fiddled nervously with her wrist bindings as she said this, unbuckling and tightening the straps.
“Do you exhibit? In galleries and things?” Jean sensed herself venturing across thin ice again but was unable to stop herself.
“I’m trying to build up a body of work that I feel completely comfortable with.” Martha’s tone was brittle. “It’s a hard world to break into.”
“I’m sure,” murmured Jean, retreating to solid ground.
“Luckily, I have my two days a week teaching to bring in enough to live on.”
“It must be difficult to do both.”
“Teaching is a drain on my time and energy. But I’m good at it,” she said, a trifle defensively. “And on the other days, I paint.”
“Well, I won’t keep you any longer,” said Jean. “I don’t want to take up precious painting time.”
“It’s all right. The light in here is lousy in the afternoons anyway. So . . . Gretchen.” Martha sat back down and rummaged in the cookie box, looking puzzled to discover it was now empty. “I suppose she’s married now.”