But he’d been wrong.
“We have to sort this out,” said Peter. “We have to talk.”
Clara sat up suddenly, fighting with the duvet, trying to get her arms clear. Finally she did, and turned to him.
“Why? So that I can just forgive you again? Is that it? You don’t think I know what you’ve been doing? Hoping my show would fail? Hoping the critics would decide my art sucks and you’re the real artist? I know you, Peter. I could see your mind working. You’ve never understood my art, you’ve never cared about it. You think it’s childish and simplistic. Portraits? How embarrassing,” she lowered her voice to mimic his.
“I never said that.”
“But you thought it.”
“I didn’t.”
“Don’t fucking lie to me, Peter. Not now.”
The warning in her voice was clear. And new. They’d had their fights before, but never like this.
Peter knew then their marriage was either over or soon would be. Unless he could find the right thing to say. To do.
If “I’m sorry” didn’t work, what would?
“You must’ve been thrilled when you saw the
“How can you think that?” Peter asked. But it had given him pleasure. And relief. It was the first really happy moment he’d had in a very long time. “It’s the
She stared at him. And he felt cold creeping down his fingers and toes and up his legs. As though his heart had weakened and couldn’t get the blood that far anymore.
His heart was only now catching up with what the rest of him had known all his life. He was weak.
“Then quote me from the
“Pardon?”
“Go on. If it made that big an impression, if it was that important to you, surely you can remember a single line.”
She waited.
“A word?” she asked, her voice glacial.
Peter scanned his memory, desperate for something, anything from the
But all he remembered, all he saw, was the glorious review in the Ottawa paper.
He’d thought it was bad when her paintings were simply embarrassing. But it was worse when they were brilliant. Instead of reflected glory, it just highlighted what a failure he was. His creations dimmed as hers brightened. And so he’d read and re-read the parrot line, applying it to his ego as though it was an antiseptic. And Clara’s art was the septic.
But he knew now it wasn’t her art that had gone septic.
“I thought not,” snapped Clara. “Not even a word. Well let me remind you.
Imagine, thought Peter, as the cold crept closer to his core, having a choice of things to believe.
“And then the messages,” said Clara.
Peter closed his eyes, slowly. A reptilian blink.
The messages. From all of Clara’s supporters. From gallery owners and dealers and curators around the world. From family and friends.
He’d spent most of the morning, after Gamache and Clara and the others had left, after Lillian’s body had left, answering the phone.
Ringing, ringing. Tolling. And each ring diminished him. Stripped him, it felt, of his manhood, his dignity, his self-worth. He’d written out the good wishes, and said nice things to people who ran the art world. The titans. Who knew him only as Clara’s husband.
The humiliation was complete.
Eventually he’d let the answering machine take over and had hidden in his studio. Where he’d hidden all his life. From the monster.
He could feel it in their bedroom now. He could feel its tail swishing by him. Feel its hot, fetid breath.
All his life he knew if he was quiet enough, small enough, it wouldn’t see him. If he didn’t make a fuss, didn’t speak up, it wouldn’t hear him, wouldn’t hurt him. If he was beyond criticism and hid his cruelty with a smile and good deeds, it wouldn’t devour him.
But now he realized there was no hiding. It would always be there, and always find him.
