That evening, Stanford ran across the same drawing Laurie had been considering, yet what most puzzled Stanford was how that illustration of Agatha had turned up on the dining table. Stanford hadn’t noticed it there that morning, and Agatha hadn’t been present since Tuesday evening. Stanford felt it was wasteful to maintain her full-time employment, although he would continue to pay her wages as though she was still commuting to his home. He’d started to think of the apartment as his place, for it had been two weeks since Laurie’s departure. Stanford conveniently sidestepped his role in Laurie’s absence. Laurie had left and for now Stanford didn’t need anyone near.
Yet Agatha’s image was so lifelike, Stanford could hear her, like she stood right beside him. She didn’t nag about Laurie, she merely hummed, but that tune haunted Stanford, and if for no other reason he was glad to have the place to himself. He picked up Eric’s drawing, not thinking about that man, or about Seth. Stanford stared at Agatha’s determined eyes, then he huffed aloud. That sound echoed throughout the room, making Stanford flinch. He shook his head, then headed to the library, where he placed the drawing in between Seth’s figurines. Then he exited the room, closing the door behind him.
Living alone suited the art dealer, for there was nobody to whom he had to answer. He had agreed to spend Thanksgiving with his father, who would be celebrating with Melanie’s family that year. Then Stanford grimaced; last year his dad had been happy going to Brooklyn, a different sort of gathering than any of the Taylors ever experienced. But Stanford’s mother had been dead going on a year now, no need to tiptoe around that anymore. Michael didn’t know that Laurie wouldn’t be going with them, and if he asked, Stanford would simply say that Laurie was sharing that day with his clan. Stanford assumed Seth would be home by then, and if Seth wasn’t, Stanford didn’t rightly care.
He would just lie to his dad and…. Stanford coughed, then noticed he was back in the dining room. He gazed around; he and Laurie rarely entertained here, and they had never shared Thanksgiving in this house. Usually they went to Brooklyn, for Laurie’s mom desired all her children close, and while Stanford preferred his father’s company, he hadn’t liked spending too much time with his mother once she became ill. Stanford walked around the table, which could comfortably seat six, although eight could be squeezed in if necessary. Yet, the only people Stanford could recall here were the Snyders a few times last spring. Mostly they had taken their meals in the kitchen, cozier in there, plus Agatha was always part of the proceedings.
Stanford headed to the kitchen, which seemed large, probably because he was the only occupant. He had found a sandwich shop near his office where he had gotten something resembling breakfast, then drank the coffee Emily provided. Now she made two pots to make up for the cups he would have enjoyed before leaving the apartment. Stanford drank all of the first pot, and most of the second, and he’d found himself awake later in the evenings from the additional caffeine.
He was quite alert now, he mused, and a little hungry. He’d stopped at a restaurant after work, ordering a bowl of soup. At the time he hadn’t been starving, but soup alone wouldn’t hold him all evening. Had the extra coffee masked his true hunger, and if so, perhaps he would have Emily only make one pot. He mulled over these trivial details, masking the vast emptiness of the kitchen and of that within his heart.
He poured himself a glass of water, drank it slowly, then opened the refrigerator. It was bare, which made him sigh. Maybe he would have Agatha come in once a week, just to clean and shop. She could buy cold cuts, simple fare, Stanford considered. Then he sighed heavily. He’d been rash last week, but his heart had ached so badly, seeing her only increased the pain. He’d wanted to be left alone, not wishing to ponder any more than work. But he couldn’t live at the office, and at home there was nothing to eat, so of course Agatha would need to return.
Leaving the kitchen, he wondered if he should call her that evening. Then he shook his head. He would telephone her tomorrow, arranging her return for Monday. He would manage over the weekend, and he scanned the room as if plotting out what he might eat; Chinese food tomorrow, maybe pizza on Saturday, unless he called his father, offering to take Michael to dinner. But then Stanford would have to explain Laurie’s absence…. But it wasn’t Laurie to distract Stanford’s train of thought. He stared at the dining table where in the center lay the very drawing he had just taken to the library.
Stanford walked toward the table, gazing at that sketch; how in the world had it gotten back in here? He stopped at the edge of the table, but didn’t reach for the sheet of paper. He was certain that he’d taken it to the library, placing it between figures that he hadn’t considered for some time. There had been too many other issues in his head, but now all he pondered was if he was going mad. Was living alone a detriment, maybe he should call Agatha now. Perhaps she could come tomorrow and he would send this sketch home with her. He reached for it, but the paper didn’t feel any differently than earlier; he was sure he’d put it out of sight. Maybe he’d imagined he’d done it, then he stared at the door to the kitchen; had he gone in there, getting a glass of water? Still grasping the sketch, Stanford walked into the kitchen, seeing his glass where he’d left it on the counter, water droplets at the bottom. Then he peered at the sheet, still in his right hand.
He didn’t wish to damage it, but what if he folded it in half? If it turned up again, he’d know if someone was playing a trick, for a crease would remain. He smirked at himself, such a foolish notion, but he blamed Laurie’s insinuations, too many outlandish ideas cast in his direction.
Just as Stanford went to fold the sketch, he paused. To do so would be destroying a work of art. Yes, it was merely a drawing, but Eric had made this piece and…. Stanford took a deep breath, then walked out of the kitchen, through the dining room, to the hallway. Then he approached the library door. It was closed, which was how he remembered leaving it, for he was almost certain he had placed this illustration in that room. He opened the door, flicked on the light, then headed for the figurines.
Carefully he set the drawing between those sculptures, smoothing out the slightly curling edges of the paper. No, he hadn’t folded it, no blemishes marred such a beautiful piece. Stanford stared at Agatha’s eyes, feeling caught in her deliberate gaze. He shivered, wondering how she knew him so well, was he so transparent? Had she known he would flounder without her, and what about Laurie? Then Stanford shivered, a deep chill permeating all through him. Yet to think about Laurie was a foolish endeavor; there was no manner in which Stanford could permit that man back in this house. Agatha was acceptable, but no one else.
Stanford walked to the door, turned off the light, then closed the door firmly behind him. He went into his bedroom, sat on the edge of the mattress, then his stomach rumbled. While it was too late to call Agatha, dinner beckoned. Stanford changed into different shoes, collected his wallet and keys, then left the room, noting the library door was still closed. He smiled to himself, then headed to the front door, where he put on his long coat, trying to decide where to eat.
Two hours later Stanford returned to the apartment. He’d wandered aimlessly for ten minutes, then abruptly hailed a cab, giving directions for his father’s building. The Taylor men ate what Michael’s cook had fixed, and Stanford didn’t mention Laurie. Neither did Michael, until Stanford prepared to leave. A father only inquired if Laurie was under the weather, to which Stanford said that yes he was. Stanford didn’t feel it was a lie, for Laurie was quite unwell. The men agreed to get together next Wednesday, and as Stanford caught another cab for home, he wondered if dinner once or twice a week with his dad would become a habit. It would be beneficial for both men, Stanford mused, then he was dropped off in front of his building. He paid the cabbie, then walked inside the lobby. It wasn’t late, but few people remained. Stanford took the elevator to his floor, then headed for his door. Going inside, he hung up his coat, then rubbed his upper arms. The place felt chilly, but it had been cold outside.
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nbsp; He was tired, any residual caffeine long gone from his system. He checked the dining table, but nothing waited for him. His water glass remained on the kitchen counter, and he rinsed it out, then dried it, putting it back in the cupboard.
The apartment was still; he made the only noise, which wasn’t more than his shoes along the carpeting. He walked past the library’s closed door, as well as doorways to spare rooms. He paused at the guest room door, where the Snyders had slept in spring. Now thinking about their visit, Stanford wondered if it would be their last. Many factors alluded to that idea, the largest being where Laurie was now. Either he had browbeaten Lynne into allowing him to stay or he’d…. Again Stanford couldn’t reconcile reality with the garbage Laurie had insisted was true. And in admitting that, Stanford inhaled an even more painful realization; the life he’d shared with Laurie in this house for so many years was effectively over.
Stanford would become like his father, a single man, although not a widower. Slowly Laurie’s presence would fade away, like that of Stanford’s mother, and soon no one in his family would mention Laurie’s name. Where Laurie chose to live was irrelevant, although Stanford did wonder if Laurie would gravitate to the West Coast. His mother would complain, but that was Laurie’s problem.
Looking across the hallway, Stanford noticed his door was closed. That seemed odd, although he couldn’t actually recall having shut it. He glanced at the library door, which he had shut, and it remained that way. But as for his bedroom…. He shrugged, then headed that way. Opening the door, he flipped on the light, finding his bed as he’d left it that morning, the comforter pulled tightly, although it was slightly askew. He never tidied as well as Agatha did, which reminded him of a phone call to make in the morning.
Then he gazed at his pillow; something rested on top of it, and as he approached, his heart pounded in his chest. The sketch lay where Laurie had put that ridiculous note, how in the world was that possible? Leaving two feet from where he slept, Stanford peered at the mattress, the bedside table, then at the drawing. Agatha’s knowledgeable eyes stared back at him; did she know what was happening, but Stanford didn’t only mean this strange piece of paper that seemed capable of independent movement. Why had Laurie said all those things, why was Lynne permitting him to stay at her home, and where in the hell was Eric? That last query rocked Stanford more than the rest, because if Eric wasn’t in Miami, then Laurie and Lynne were perpetrating a most malevolent scheme. But if Eric was in Florida….
Stanford’s head ached, and he sat on the bed’s edge. He knew he’d put that sketch in the library; why was it in here, yet he didn’t suspect he’d been burgled. Why had Laurie said all those things, or rather, what in the world had gotten into Seth to make up such nonsense? Human beings didn’t alter form, although years before Stanford had thought Eric’s eyes were…. The art dealer shook his head, then picked up the sketch. If he tore it into pieces, would he find it tomorrow on the dining table looking like new?
Something was changing, although Stanford wasn’t sure what. Maybe he was getting careless, was he subconsciously trying to make himself believe Laurie? Could a man drive himself crazy, then Stanford tutted himself. He gripped the side of the paper, leaving a visible crease. Tomorrow when he saw this, for he was certain it would pop up somewhere, would his efforts be noted? Rather destructive efforts, he lamented, and he smoothed out what he could. He stood, taking the sheet not into the library, but to the guest room. He placed it on the dresser, and didn’t shut the door behind him. He did walk back to the front door, assuring that it was locked. Then Stanford headed to his room. Opening his upper bureau drawer, he rifled through socks and undershirts. Then he pulled out the note from Laurie.
Tape held it together and Stanford gently laid it atop his dresser. The words were few, only flight information. It was the last line that Stanford studied: I love you, Laurie. What did those words mean, Stanford wondered. Never had they fought so bitterly, and never had Stanford told Laurie to leave. Yet Laurie hadn’t put up much of a fuss, although he’d mentioned that Sam hadn’t thrown his wife to the street. Stanford recalled each of Laurie’s words as if the whole scene was constantly being repeated in that room. The discussion had taken place in the library, but the note seemed to resurrect that moment right where Stanford stood. If Stanford actually threw out that note, might everything attached to it disappear as well?
Would Agatha’s sketch go missing, might Stanford’s heart stop aching? He traced Laurie’s handwriting, then released an audible sigh, yet he was the only one to hear it. Stanford didn’t believe in ghosts, and while he couldn’t explain how the sketch was traveling from room to room, he knew that had been the case, just as he accepted that Laurie truly believed Eric was a…. Stanford shook his head, then sighed once more, quietly. It was a shame that things had turned out this way, but Stanford’s father seemed to be coping well. Two single Taylor men could support one another as life continued.
But it wouldn’t be life as Stanford had previously lived. He folded the note in half, then left the bedroom, walking to the kitchen. The trash bin was practically empty, and as he released Laurie’s note, it fluttered for a moment, then drifted toward the bottom of the garbage. Stanford didn’t look to see how it settled; by the time Agatha came next, the note would be covered by trash. In the meantime, Stanford would leave Laurie’s possessions as they were. Laurie could arrange for their removal, but Stanford wanted that to occur soon. Maybe not before Thanksgiving, that might seem heartless. Or perhaps that would be best for them both. Stanford would sleep on it and see how he felt in the morning. Then he would call Laurie, to inform him of this news. As Stanford left the kitchen, he noticed his heart no longer ached. He’d simply needed to come to this conclusion as rationally as he made every other decision. Walking to his bedroom, he didn’t peer at Laurie’s side of the mattress. This bed was only Stanford’s now, and it would remain that way until the day the art dealer either died or was carted off to a nursing home. He dreamed of that scenario, passing away unattended, but didn’t recall those dreams when he woke. Instead he stirred with a firm resolve. Once it was a decent hour on the West Coast, Stanford would call the Snyder residence. As soon as it could be arranged, Laurie must remove his personal effects from the apartment.
Chapter 155