behind tiny oval glasses, the feel of his bony arms wrapped around my back. As I gazed at his creation, I saw myself watching him raptly, pictured him fitting together the wooden stretchers, tiny bits of dead skin flaking off his hands as he stretched the canvas taut, perhaps pricking his finger on the staples as he electric-gunned them through the fabric and into the soft wood. The unctuous smell of linseed oil adhered to the lining of his nostrils, as it did mine, flowing out again mixed with the essence of his soul as he breathed across the virgin canvas, priming its surface. Minute smears of oil from his skin brushed the surface when he carefully measured the area, the tip of his pencil flecking the corners as a guide. A single bead of sweat quivered on the smooth coat of white concealing the primer and quickly dried.
"Every canvas is imbued with the painter's essence, Gail," Anastasias used to tell me, "with his soul, his life-force, quiescent within the piece until the attention and adoration of the spectator releases it in a glorious synthesis that enriches both the painting and the viewer. You have power within you as a participant with the artist, even if you never paint a stroke." He helped me understand that few museum visitors realize the awesome responsibility entrusted to them. They fail to show the proper respect due the artworks, treating them as inanimate objects that exist only to serve their baser needs. His philosophical musings always suffused me with power, with the knowledge that I had influence and control over an artwork, whether or not I had it in any other sphere of life.
When I returned home, Douglas was angry that dinner wasn't ready, and I couldn't understand why until I looked at the clock on the stove. I must've stood in front of that painting for a full hour. The thought of it shivered my body with ecstasy.
The right words placated my grumbling spouse and soothed his ruffled feathers, and the painting was momentarily forgotten in a whirl of meal preparation and fielding questions from and doling out advice to Stephen and Mindy, whose cold was miraculously gone. At dinner I avoided all mention of the painting. Not that I had the opportunity if I'd wanted to mention it. Douglas groused his way through the entire meal about some case that wasn't going the way his clients and the partners wanted, railing against everyone in the legal system from clerks to judges, throwing in the Senate for good measure.
After dinner, the children ran off to their homework and television and Douglas, who had a years-long affair with the telephone, retreated to his study to harangue whomever had the misfortune to be at home when he called. As I washed the dishes, scrubbed the top of the stove, and wiped the counters and table, my thoughts wandered back to the smooth red square supported by a field of white. What if I could crawl inside the square, I wondered while I fastened up the trash bag and dropped it inside the garbage can behind the garage. The staccato of Douglas' barking into the phone and the skirls and bleeps of Stephen's Game Boy and the whining soundtrack of Mindy's favorite television show would all snap off, like shutting the back door behind me. The smooth redness would surround me, wrapping me in its pristine color and rich music, for I'm certain that color has a sound all its own. The fervor of my devotion would maintain every molecule of red, every nuance of its surface, merging my purpose with that of the artist in a true ecstasy of collaboration, a thrill of control, an orgasmic rush of--
"Gail?"
Douglas' voice buzz-sawed me out of my red cocoon. "Are you out there?" The screen door snapped shut behind him like the finality of an execution by gunshot and his face loomed out of the darkness. A nearby streetlight illuminated his furrowed brow and pursed lips. "How long have you been out here? The kids have been in bed for half an hour."
I shoved the lid down on the plastic can, but years of rough treatment had warped it and it sprang off again. He sighed loudly, elbowed past me, and said, "Here, let me do that."
I handed him the lid and retreated into the house.
Thursday the museum is closed, and even though I only come for the staff meeting, I visited the painting afterward. The quiet, empty halls depress me and I always feel pressure to pay especially close attention to the artworks because no one else will, so I go home exhausted, with one of those sharp little headaches around my eyes, requiring a lengthy nap before the kids come home from school.
To my delight, a lengthy review about the show came out in the newspaper Friday night, actually mentioning Anastasias DeGraffenried by name, raving about the works, recommending it highly, and praising the curator for her expertise in procuring the exhibit. I cut out the article and pasted it--right next to the brochure announcing the show and a small paragraph I printed out from the Internet about Anastasias and his recently-opened studio in Atlanta --into a memory book I keep, certain that the publicity would draw attention to the entire exhibit and especially my favorite painting.
My presence isn't really required on Saturdays, but as long as I've been volunteering at the museum, Douglas has had charge of the kids for the morning, even though this morning he complained vociferously that he had to work. "Take them to your mother's," I suggested as I started the Mercedes SUV. "I'm needed at the museum."
As I expected, on Saturday the place hummed with activity. Children's laughter bounced off the polished floors up to the high ceiling of the entry foyer, layered with the soft thumps of athletic shoes and clicks of hard soles, the hushed comments of adults who felt they had to whisper as if in church, and the coughs of smokers deprived of tobacco for the duration.
"Are they angry today?"
Fred's voice in my ear startled me, but I covered the jump reflex by smoothing my hair. "No, they're not," I answered with a smile. "Everyone's admiring them."
"Since Alabama lost last week, I guess no one's going to the game," he grumbled, folding his arms across his chest.
"A true fan," I replied, "would go regardless of the outcome."
He stared at me. "You don't watch sports at all, do you?"
I assumed it was a rhetorical question and moved closer to the DeGraffenried. The smooth red glowed vibrantly against the white canvas, the white frame neatly harnessing its exuberance. "This is what I watch."
Fred grunted, ducked his head, and stared at the painting. Suddenly I remembered his remarks a few days ago on modern art. Panic needled at my skin from the inside, and when he opened his mouth, I knew what he would say.
"What a piece of crap."
My hands shook, palms tingling. "Don't say that, Fred," I said in a harsh whisper, as if remonstrating my children. "It'll hear you."
"I just don't understand how they can call something like that art. My five-year-old does better in kindergarten." Fred shook his head from side to side.
"I agree with ya there, buddy," said a man in a bulging T-shirt and severely strained jeans, elbowing Fred. "Just gimme a can of Sherwin-Williams, and I could do that."
A dull whine like a saber saw volumed behind my eyes, and I whipped my gaze frantically from the men to the painting. "Stop it right now! You don't appreciate--"
"Hey, Margie, looky here," the fat man called to his similarly-clad wife. "This is what the city spends our tax dollars on."
I grabbed Fred's folded arms and said, "If you don't do something--" I scarcely heard the words coming out of my own mouth because of the whining buzz in my head, and it took every ounce of strength in my body not to run from the room. But I had to stay and protect the painting from their scorn. If it wasn't already too late.
Fred sighed and said, "Okay, Mrs. Theriot." He leaned over and whispered something to the fat man, who glanced from me to the painting, laughed, and nodded.
"Thank you," I mouthed as the couple lumbered away. Fred shrugged, pushed back his cap, and walked to the other side of the gallery.
The whining subsided, although my fingertips tingled and my legs wobbled beneath me. I dragged the bench closer to the DeGraffenried and sank down, rubbing feeling back into my icy arms. The painting seemed normal.
Or was that a black spot in the center?
Swif
tly I ducked toward it. The red surface of the square was dull and rough, slightly pitted as if the paint had been rolled on over sheetrock. And sure enough, just off center of the square was a tiny pinpoint of black.
I sucked my hands over my mouth, smothering a shriek that clawed its way up my throat. The center of my chest hurt sharply as if pierced with nails. He had finally done it. Fred had damaged the painting with his criticism. And what damage! I'd seen the effects of neglect on a work of art, but never outright scorn.
Scarlet flashes obscuring my vision, I stumbled across the room and plucked at Fred's sleeve, dragging him back toward the DeGraffenried. "What's wrong with you?" he demanded, thick eyebrows clustering over his nose. "Are you ill?"
"Oh, no, I'm perfectly fine," I retorted, doubting he'd catch the sarcasm. I ignored the bead of sweat trickling down the side of my face and went on, "It's the painting you should concern yourself with."
He hunkered down in front of it. "Did someone do something to it?"
"You did, you dolt," I said through clenched teeth. "Just look."
"I don't see anything."
I stamped my foot in exasperation, and a tingle zipped up my leg. Shoving his shoulder, I said, "The red. It's all lumpy now, and there's a black spot in the center."
Fred puffed out his cheeks in a sigh,