The Black Painting. Neil Olson
but they had been with other people. He hunched his shoulders and avoided eye contact. Teresa was surprised when her mother mentioned how tall James was now. In her mind he was still a floppy-haired boy.
“Did I frighten you?” he asked.
“No,” she stammered. “Yes. I frightened myself.”
Teresa rushed up the stairs and threw her arms around him. It was out of character, but what the hell. He had an unfamiliar smell. Like a man. Yet underneath was the warm bready scent she remembered. After a short hesitation he wrapped his long arms around her. The very awkwardness with which he did it was comforting.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Teresa said.
“Your mother told me. I’m sorry.”
“Be sorry for all of us,” she said, stepping back to look into those curious brown eyes. His expression had not changed.
“I’m sorry it was you who found him.”
“Might as well be me as anyone.”
“No,” James said earnestly. “You’re more sensitive. It should have been Uncle Philip or Audrey. It wouldn’t have bothered them.”
You didn’t see his face, Teresa thought. She had not told her mother or uncle about the expression their dead father wore. It seemed cruel and unnecessary. Yet Audrey was sure to say something. If not immediately, then eventually.
“Audrey was there. She took care of me.”
“She takes care of everyone,” he said. Repeating his sister’s mantra, without conviction.
“Yeah, I heard that.”
“I need to talk to you,” James murmured.
“Of course,” she replied, stepping closer. But a voice nearby intruded.
“Where else would she be?” Kenny shouted back to his father as he approached. Loud, confident Kenny. “Probably grabbing all the best bottles for herself.”
“Later,” James said, staring at his shoes. “When we’re alone. I need your help.”
“Whatever I can do.”
“You know what’s going to happen.” His voice grew hard, as did his eyes when he looked at her again. “Don’t you? They’re going to blame this on me.”
In a fever dream she rose and fell. Surfacing, she was in the bedroom at Owl’s Point. It was day, but the light through the curtains was weak. Rain spattered the window. Her skin was hot and damp. James stood next to the bed, watching her with a clinical concern. He was a boy again, or still, or always.
Is she going to die?
She better not, said another voice. Or we’ll get the blame.
We didn’t make her sick.
We’re in charge of her until they get back from burying Grandma.
Why isn’t Ilsa in charge?
Don’t be stupid, Audrey said. Ilsa’s the help. We’re family.
James leaned in and touched her burning neck with his cool finger. His touch was soothing.
I don’t want her to die.
Then get your hands off her, Audrey said.
Why? he asked, pulling away.
Because you’re the Angel of Death. Everyone you touch dies.
I am not, he screamed. James rarely raised his voice, and the pained cry was awful to hear. That’s not true. That’s not true.
All right, Audrey groaned. Shut up, I’m sorry. She slumped down in the window seat. God, this is boring. Tell me if she stops breathing.
James leaned close again, careful not to touch her. There were angry tears in his eyes. Don’t die, Tay. Please. I’m going to help you, Tay.
She was pulled under, into a black and suffocating silence. She struggled, not seeing, not breathing, a red flashing behind her eyes. Suddenly the darkness released her, and she shot upward.
The same room. But empty and nighttime. Teresa was sitting up in a small bed. The same that she had slept in when visiting this house as a child. The same bed in which she had thrashed in a fever on the day of her grandmother’s funeral. Miranda had not understood how sick her daughter was, and in any case it was her mother they were burying. She had to be there. Audrey was assigned to watch Teresa, and James stayed with them. Which meant they were all in the house when the theft occurred.
Teresa reached for the water glass and took a sip. It was a different dream than usual. She knew dreams were not memory, and that even memory lied. But the standard nightmare featured James’ faraway scream of terror. Audrey waking from her nap in the window seat to rush out and find him. Teresa desperately trying to rise from the bed, only to collapse again. Something like those things had happened. This new dream took place earlier that day, and must be an anxiety-fueled construction of her unconscious. Surely Audrey never said those cruel things. Surely James’ words to Teresa the previous evening—that he would be blamed—had simply worked their way into her sleep.
She drank more water and put the glass down. Where had he gotten the idea? How could he be blamed? She had learned no more; they were not left alone the rest of the evening. James receded into himself while everyone else talked manically and to no purpose. Teresa fell asleep in her chair, then finally dragged herself to bed. She waited for James to tap on her door, but if he ever did she was long gone to dreamland.
As the room slowly brightened she realized there would be no more sleep. She rolled out of bed and unzipped the travel bag her mother had brought, with spare clothes. The ugly green corduroys and extra-large Yale sweatshirt. Good old Mom. Teresa dressed, pulled on her sensible boots and went down the back stairs to the kitchen. Then out the mudroom door. A heavy mist rolled in from the sea. The pines were shadows and the ocean invisible. The house might have been sitting in the clouds. It was cold. She needed a jacket, but was not willing to go back for it. She drew her hands into the sleeves of the sweatshirt and wrapped her arms around herself, then made her way toward the sound of surf. The gazebo materialized out of the mist. It needed paint, and the floorboards were rotting. How long since anyone had sat here, drinking a cocktail and watching the sunset over the Sound? What a bleak and barren place this had become in her time away. She could not have imagined it. Maybe she would come out here this evening. Wrapped in blankets, with a whisky.
The lawn ended abruptly and there was the ocean. Or a murky stretch of it. Just beyond where she stood, a rocky slope fell thirty feet to the phosphorescing water. Teresa looked for a spot where Audrey might have leaped into the waves without killing herself. It did not seem possible. Maybe it had been farther along the ledge, or maybe the tide was higher. Maybe Audrey was indestructible. For the first time in days, Teresa missed Marc. He would try to comfort her if she called him now, but she would not do that.
She stared down at the dark seaweed swaying in the white foam. Afraid of losing her balance, she crouched. Her fingers twitched, seeking a pencil. How would she capture this on paper? The monstrous shape of that rock, the black water. Would she shade in the mist or represent it as an absence, the white of the page? And why was she thinking about this when she had not sketched in months? A shred of memory or an image from a dream flitted around her brain, and she tried to get hold of it. Before she could, a strong emotion seized her. Indistinct at first, it coalesced into a kind of dread. Which shifted quickly to fear as Teresa sensed someone rushing at her from behind. She stood up fast and turned.
No one. Only the mist, beginning to dissipate. She had been certain of a presence, about to place a hand on her shoulder. An involuntary shudder went through her. Cold and damp were penetrating the sweatshirt. She started back to the house and immediately saw a figure in the pines. It was a man in a gray coat, his head bent in thought.