The Black Painting. Neil Olson
story. Her eyes were red and damp, her face haggard. She clutched Teresa fiercely and would not let go for a long time. They were not a warm family. Neither Grandpa Morse nor Ramón Marías were physically demonstrative. Yet there had once been this kind of strong affection between mother and daughter, so long ago that Teresa had nearly forgotten. When did it stop? And which of them had been the one to pull away?
“He loved you very much,” Miranda said as she drew back. “I’m sorry he didn’t get to tell you. I’m sorry I kept the two of you apart all these years.”
Her tone was matter-of-fact. No hair-pulling theatrics from Miranda; that was not her style. But Teresa heard the depth of grief in those few words.
“He told me,” she said. Had he? In one of those occasional phone calls? If he had not used the word, he had surely conveyed love in the ways of which he was capable. In his curiosity about Teresa’s life, her studies, her desires and fears. “I could have gone to see him anytime. I spent four years half an hour away from here.”
“You knew it would upset me,” her mother countered. Which was true, but not the whole truth.
“It doesn’t matter now. I’m sorry for you. You must have been close to him once.”
“No.” Miranda dabbed her face with an overworked tissue. “I don’t know, maybe when I was small. Mostly he was this faraway figure. Always traveling, or locked in the study. Then he would come crashing over us like a storm. Poor Phil got the worst of it.”
“Never heard you sound sorry for Philip,” Teresa said.
“Yes, well. These last few hours some things have come back to me. Memories.”
After briefly enjoying her uncle’s torment, Audrey “found” the study key and gave it to Philip. He searched the room at length, not finding whatever he sought. Later he was on the telephone, barking at lawyers and law enforcement types, talking to the newspapers. Now he sat at the dining room table, speaking quietly with his sister. Audrey’s father—Alfred Arthur Morse III, called Fred—was flying in the following day, and James and Kenny were both on the train from New York. Audrey was phoning friends and family, and pouring drinks. Mostly for herself. Teresa kept falling asleep. All it took was sitting down and she went right out. Shock, the others kept telling her. Rest, we have it all covered. But she would not be under more than a few minutes before that dead gray face came swirling out of the void. Jolting her awake. It was going to be a bad night.
A good smell drew her to the kitchen, where she was treated to the sight of Audrey in a frayed pink apron. Stirring the contents of a large pot.
“Don’t laugh,” Audrey warned.
“I wasn’t going to,” said Teresa. “Okay, I was.”
“Rick used to say I could burn water.”
“Is that why you divorced him?”
“Try this.”
“What is it?”
“Ilsa’s famous beef stew. There’s a vat of it in the fridge.”
Teresa did not remember the famous stew, nor did she usually touch beef. But she had eaten nothing since an apple on the train, and slurped the spoon greedily.
“Delicious, count me in.”
“Find some bowls.”
Teresa served while Audrey got a bottle from the cellar. A dark, complex French red. Teresa did not know wine, but it seemed too fancy for a grieving family eating leftovers. Then again, maybe there was no better occasion.
“This hasn’t had time to breathe,” Philip complained.
“Neither have I,” Audrey shot back. There were a few minutes of peace while they ate, but Audrey could not endure peace for long. “I wonder if this is poisoned. Like if that’s how Ilsa knocked off Grandpa?”
Everyone stopped eating but Miranda. Teresa felt her stomach turn over.
“Ilsa did not poison your grandfather,” Philip said. “She was devoted to him.”
“Sure she was,” Audrey agreed. “But who knows what all those years of abuse can do. How it can twist a person. You know what I mean?”
Philip would not meet her gaze.
“Stop it,” Miranda said, dropping the spoon into her empty bowl. “Father didn’t abuse Ilsa. She was the one person he always treated with respect.” Then she began to laugh. “Sorry, I’m imagining poor Freddie coming in and finding us slumped over our bowls.”
“Oh yeah, that’s really funny, Mom,” Teresa said, but Audrey was also laughing. Look at you two, Teresa thought, not for the first time. There was no love lost between them. Audrey thought Miranda was pretentious, and Miranda found Audrey a bad influence on her cousins. Yet they were similar in so many ways. Same dirty blond hair, bleached gold. Same round face and high cheekbones, same curvy build. Same sense of humor and raucous laugh. If you had to guess the mother and daughter at this table, Teresa would not be in the equation. As a teenager she used to ask, who is my real mother? Of course Miranda was not reckless like Audrey. Or not anymore, but Teresa had heard stories of her youth. Crashing her mother’s car on Long Hill Road. Calling home from a Mexican jail during spring break. Sleeping with her professors, including the one she married: the handsome, penniless, half-mad philosopher from Madrid. What a disappointment it must have been when her father ended up loving Ramón. Teresa herself had heard Grandpa Morse say, “He is more of a son to me than my sons.”
“Dead soldier,” Audrey announced, tipping the last of the bottle into her glass. “Tay-ray, help me pick out another.”
“You’re still calling her that ridiculous nickname?” Philip said in dismay. “She’s a grown woman.”
“At least I know how to pronounce her real name,” Audrey replied, sauntering off.
“I’m useless about wine,” Teresa said, but she got up and followed.
The door to the wine cellar was between the kitchen and study. She got shaky even approaching the latter room, but made it down the wooden steps without incident. The cellar was dimly lit, yet brighter and cleaner than Teresa remembered. The cracked stone walls had been smoothed over and it appeared that some racks had been replaced, as well. She had once known this chamber intimately—it was James’ favorite hiding place—but now it felt alien.
Rather than examine bottles, Audrey leaned against the wall and slipped something out of her pocket.
“Sorry,” she said, unwrapping a baggy and removing a bent joint. “Had to get away from the grown-ups.”
“Aren’t we grown-ups?”
“Speak for yourself.” She patted her pockets, looking for a lighter, no doubt. “I’m holding out ’til my forties.”
“Good plan.”
“You’ve always been an old lady.”
“I guess,” Teresa said, leaning against the wall beside her. “Or just a weird one.”
“You and James,” Audrey scoffed, finding a tiny blue lighter. It had to be tiny to fit into those jeans. “You’re so invested in being different.”
“More like resigned.”
“I love my brother to death.” Audrey lit the joint and inhaled. “He’s a good kid,” she squeaked, holding in the smoke. Then exhaled forcefully. “But nobody could dispute that he’s a little off, you know? You’re not like that. You get other people. You see the world straight on. I always feel like you’re faking the weird girl act.”
“I’m not faking anything,” Teresa said. She knew better than to let Audrey rile her, but she was feeling vulnerable. “I promise you, I spent years trying to be like everybody else. To like the clothes or the music or the movies they liked. To have friends. To fit in.”
“Poor