TRIGGER WARNINGS:
--DIY moonlight excavations
--Lovecraftian luridity
--Tacky overpriced art
The shovel bit into lightly tamped earth, just as Ma had predicted. I shouldn’t have been surprised to find myself spending another Saturday night in the garden-and-granite splendor of Swan Point Cemetery. That’s what a liberal arts education will get you.
Tony Scalini, aka ‘The I-talian Scallion,’ was offering me enough money to pay my rent this month. That made this trinket special. Obviously. Rent anywhere near Federal Hill was murder these days, on top of college loan payments, on top of… eating. I didn’t like this profession I’d stumbled into, fetching the occasional mobster’s ruby pinky ring, or even his finger. Still, Tony was good to me. I didn’t ask questions. It paid the bills.
The Fates had decreed I be an artist. I was meant to tour Provence with my oils and brushes, capturing the gently rolling hills decked in grape vines, rows of Cyprus, and quaint crumbling cottages. My canvases would be rude affairs, stretched over hand-hewn poplar struts like the Mona Lisa. After a long, productive life, I’d live on through my pictures.
It was all so clear in my mind. I had it all figured out until Professor Artemus Mundi informed me my work was not up to RISD standards. “You have mastered technique as any chimp might, but I see a dead canvas. Your work has neither spark nor spirit. There is nothing unique here.” He smacked his fingers into his other palm for emphasis. Smack. “Art patrons demand something new!” Smack. “Original!” Smack. “Striking!” How I hated that man. Truly hated him.
Mind you, that was well into my junior year. With no chance at a Fine Arts degree, I scrambled to take any course that would get me to graduation. My summer and winter breaks were shot as I threw myself into The Genius of Gilbert and Sullivan, 19th Century Nautical Macramé, and Zombie Studies. I took top honors in the latter class, which was a mélange of macabre legends and forensic taphonomy with nary a zombie to be had. In the end, I graduated on time. To immediate unemployment.
“You could have been a doctor or an IT guy like your brother, but no. My Nathan had to chase artsy-fartsy stuff,” Ma told me. Often. “You’ll wind up digging ditches.” I’ll give her credit. She was right.
The shovel head scored against something metallic. It was one of the cheap coffins, or else the funeral home had swapped out a shiny mahogany deluxe for this crappy aluminum box. It was illegal as hell, but they could do that when no mourners bothered to come out to the gravesite. If you knew the right guy, like Tony for instance, you could get a great deal on a coffin that had fallen off the truck. No questions asked.
I checked my phone. 2:37am. I was getting faster at this. Also, I was developing an impressive set of guns. Security had driven by at 1:00am and were due back at 5:00am. Checking the immediate area to make sure I wouldn’t be interrupted by horny teens, I cleared off the dirt from the full length of the box. Fortunately, the lid was in two parts. I’d learned to carry a power tool for this purpose. Screws out, I positioned myself over what I hoped was the lower half and lifted the lid.
“Sorry, Granny Jessup, but I need your jewelry.” I took a look inside the casket. Fortunately, the old gal was mostly intact, albeit looking old enough to have dated Lincoln. She’d chosen to take her valuables to the grave rather than give them to her family members. That clearly meant she wanted someone like me to have them. Hoping for more, maybe a big sparkly necklace, all I found on her person was a plain gold wedding band and the silver torc-style bracelet that had brought me out tonight.
I went for the ring first, tugging gently. Her finger may have swollen; the ring held fast. I pulled harder. And again. The finger dislocated with a nauseating pop before the ring finally came away. I slipped it on my own little finger. Wedding rings cost a fortune but brought in far less at the We Buy Gold store.
I should have stopped there.
Tony had told me to be careful retrieving the torc. Under the gibbous Moon, I saw an ornate silver cuff peeking out from her lace sleeve. It was an unusual piece for a woman to choose. One end of the gapped cuff sported an owl’s head, while the other bore that of a lion with jaws open, fangs at the ready. I liked it, but would never call it feminine.
No matter. I wanted to finish, rebury this stiff, and get home for a few hours rest before dawn. I lifted her arm, which was more limber than I’d expected, and worked the cuff over and around her slender wrist. Her tissue-paper skin tore under the lion’s fangs, leaving a scar. A little something oozed out. I felt bad for leaving her like that, but it’s not as though a bandage or an apology was much use to her now.
I looked around. My luck was holding; the lights of a lone boat bobbed along the silty Seekonk River, but no one was about. No one except me and, I imagined, the glum-faced ghost of Herbert Phillips Lovecraft, circling a stone that read, “I am Providence.”
So, I took out my phone and risked turning on the light to examine my prize. This was fine silver, indeed, heavy, and oddly warm. It did not bear a “925,” so it was older than the mid-1970s. Instead, I spotted a rough “lion passant” stamp, meaning the piece was much older, had come from Britain, and was genuine sterling silver. There was another marking towards the center of the cuff’s inner curve. This, I could not make out at all. I took a photo and enlarged the image with my fingertips until the characters revealed themselves.
“What the hell?” I muttered aloud. The glyphs included a series of whorls, forked lines, dots, and was that a bird with an eyeball for a head? “Nonsense.” The sound of my own voice spooked me, and I nearly dropped the silver cuff. I held it tightly. I really didn’t want to fumble and have to grope Granny in the dark. I put the phone back in my pocket. Then I thought for a second. Every time I pulled my phone from my pants pocket, my keys or comb or whatever came tumbling out. At least four combs lived under my car seat. I hadn’t brought a coat; even in October, digging was hot work after all. I did not want to lose the bracelet, so I slipped it on my own wrist just to be safe.
It was time to go. Tossing my power tool over the edge of the grave, I turned back around preparing to lift myself out.
And found myself inches from Granny Jessup’s face. She was sitting there bolt upright.
The Moon sent silvery-blue creepers into the deep lines that told her life’s tale. Even accounting for her time in the ground, her closed eyes retained a certain cruelty, and her mouth turned downwards into a permanent scowl.
“Fuck me!” I screamed.
Granny Jessup responded with a sigh that barely disturbed the faint moustache on her thin lips, still glossy from mortician’s makeup. This sound erupted into a full-on belch, accompanied by a similar release inside the lower half of the casket. The smell was wicked bad.
All perfectly normal corpse behavior, I told myself. Not a zombie.
With my heart beating out "Here's a how-de-do" from The Yeoman of the Guard in 7/8 time, I pushed against her chest, instantly praying my brain did not record the sensation of Granny Jessup’s breasts against my fingertips. She began to recline. Gas continued to spray out of the old gal as she deflated, allowing the cadaver to resume her repose.
Somehow, I got the lid back on, not even bothering to screw it down. I filled in the hole and straightened the headstone. There it was again, under the name Eunice Jessup and her dates. The inscription on the stone was the same as the inside of the silver bangle.
I grabbed my shovel and got the hell out of there.
***
I woke around noon, immediately regretting that I had not showered upon returning home. In fact, I was fully dressed, work boots and all; clods of grave mud littered my sheets.
I rose, gulped down two lukewarm cups of coffee, peed while showering, and headed out. I was due to meet Tony later, but my first order of business was to unload the wedding band.
The shop was little more than a counter with a scale on it and a backroom with a crucible setup. The woman looked at the band, placed it on the scale and named the price.
“Are you screwing with me?” I demanded.
“That’s all it’s worth to me. I got bills to pay here.” Her eye caught a glint of silver poking out of my sleeve. “That’s ugly. If you want, I can melt it down, too. Maybe another twenty.”
“No, thanks.” I told her rudely. I took the two hundred bucks she offered and left.
Back in the Ratmobile, I stared at my new bangle. In the daylight, it was clear the lion was a lioness. Fierce. Powerful. I guessed the owl was there to represent wisdom… or something. Owls could also be a symbol of death, but then so could almost anything. In any case, I liked this trinket. It was different, and it was mine. I’d certainly earned it.
A blaring horn and a hearty “Dumbfuck!” pulled me back to reality. I’d come within inches of having a wreck. Taking a breath, I looked around and found myself in the parking lot of my favorite art supply depot. “Well, Ben and his twin brother can do some damage here,” I said to no one but myself.
I hustled down the familiar aisles of “Vanishing Points Art Supplies” looking for a good gray mist, burnt umber, and some muted pigments to match the mood I was in. The money covered a few new canvases, although I was about ready to paint over the portraits of Linette, my last girlfriend. Painting was good therapy.
Returning home, I set things up, eating something iffy from a Styrofoam container as I worked. My new jewelry glinted in the sunlight as my hand worked the hog bristle brush, making me smile. Damn it looked good on me. For the next three hours, I painted like a man possessed, daring myself to try shadings I’d never used before. I squeezed out a generous dollop of pigment, mixed in cinders from a certain photo, then used a pallete knife to apply impasto-style texturing to give the canvas a 3D impressionistic quality. My fingers moved on their own, while my brain got high on acrylic fumes.
I probably would have kept working through the evening and into the night, except for the loud knocking on my door. No surprise. I threw a sheet over the canvas. Bad enough to have to answer to a landlady; I wasn’t about to listen to her critique my work. I turned the knob.
“You’re more than three weeks late. You don’t answer my voicemails.” Who answers voicemail? “The notes I left on your door are gone, so I assume you read them.” Mrs. Gadwicke was as charming as ever. She rented her rickety mother-in-law cottage to me for a small fortune each month and took it upon herself to get into my business. Whenever Linette used to spend the night, we’d be awakened at 7:00am by the sound of a leaf blower under my bedroom window. It had been six months since Linette dumped me. The leaves were piled high outside.
“I’ll have the rent money to you in the morning, Mrs. G. All of it.” I grabbed one of the small landscapes I’d managed to put into an ornate gilt frame and offered it to her. “Here, take this on faith. One day it’ll be worth more than your house!”
She looked at it, made a face and set it down with the others. “Future money is no money at all. You think the world gives you a free ride? Nobody rides for free. I need to be paid now.”
“And you will be. I just have to drop off – I have a paying job tonight.”
“What job keeps you out to all hours? You’re a handsome college boy. Put on a tie. Smile. Get yourself a steady office job with a future.”
She sounded like Ma. At that moment, I hated them both. “AI is killing all the good jobs. I’m lucky to have found my niche.” At that moment, I saw her eyeing my bedroom, specifically the state of my sheets.
There was that look again. Mrs. G could make lemons pucker. “First thing in the morning. At noon, I call the sheriff’s deputies, understand? They’ll toss you and your priceless Picassos out on the lawn.” Threat delivered, she made an about-face and slammed the door behind her.
I looked back at the canvas and felt its gravity. There was nothing more pleasant than losing myself in my art. It was the sweetest freedom. A near second, though, was getting paid. I was due to meet Tony at his bar in thirty minutes. With traffic, I’d be late.
***
I couldn’t help but stare at the young woman. Such a juxtaposition commanded attention: that fresh, pale complexion beaming out a smile of limitless tomorrows coupled with the shock of hair gone Lily-of-the-Valley white. Even with that hair, she looked young enough to be his daughter. Here at Scalini’s Lounge, however, she looked like what she undoubtedly was. All the girls here looked that way: shiny halters, leather minis above bruised thighs, some with knife wounds.
Working girls aside, Scalini’s was a classy joint. Candles on the tables reflected off polished dark wood walls that rose up to vintage crown molding. A live band packed em in on the weekends. Tony had black-and-white photos of his father all over the walls, grinning with an arm around Frank or Dean or Vic. All gone now. Tony had also commissioned an oil painting over the bar, showing the old man walking by a villa in Provence. My one and only sale was a painting of a place I’d only seen in my dreams.
Tony had the girl squeezed in close beside him in his favorite booth. She picked at an antipasto of La Rinforzo that wouldn’t satisfy a sparrow, while Tony went to town on a big plate of Farfalle Alla Appia, washing it down with gulps of cheap Lambrusco. From there, he could see the whole bar while keeping his back to the wall. It had been decades since the days of mob hits, but you never knew.
“Nathan, amico!” He pronounced it Nate’n, which was fun, I guess.
“I don’t mean to interrupt your dinner, Tony,” I said. The girl looked up at me, smiling coyly. That was definitely fun. Or it would be if a smile didn’t risk a trip to the Providence River in several trash bags.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Nathan.” Don’ be ri-dick-iluss, Nate’n. Tony had seen every episode of The Sopranos, even the crappy finale. “Plant it.” He gestured to the open end of the round booth bench then raised a hand and snapped his fingers. Instantly, a giant platter of Tagliatelle Nere Al Gamberi appeared before me. Tony poured me a generous glass of Lambrusco.
“Thank you.” Say what you will about Tony, his seafood was to die for. I took several bites – it really was wonderful, and I really was starving – before mentioning business. “I got the item you wanted.” Even as I said it, regret washed over me. A throbbing heat made my wrist itchy and uncomfortable.
I looked over at the girl. “I’m Nathan.”
“So, I gathered.” She didn’t have anything to add.
“And you are?”
Tony nearly did a spit take. “Off limits! She’s spoken for, ain’t ya, Sylvia.”
“Yes, Anthony, my I-talian Scallion.” She grinned and rubbed his bulky shoulders.
His eyes drifted shut for a moment. “Mmmm. I’m one lucky guy. How’d I ever find you?”
“I found you, babe.”
Remembering I was there, Tony said, “The item’s for her, Nathan.”
“It’s a family heirloom. It goes wandering sometimes, but it always comes home. Gram Gram was supposed to pass it to me in her will, but she got funny towards the end. I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding it.” Again, a coy look. She had to know the facts. Probably. Maybe. I wasn’t about to take any chances.
I chose my words carefully. “No trouble at all. It was right where dear Eunice left it.” I held out my wrist and pulled up my sleeve.
“Dat? Looks like a piece of costume jewelry. Sugar lips, Big Tony can’t have you showing off that piece of junk.” He raised his hand again and snapped his fingers. This time, a man in a shiny suit appeared out of the shadows. He reached into his coat and pulled out a narrow velvet case. Tony opened it, revealing a diamond tennis bracelet. “Here ya go. Forget dat pezzo di spazzatura. Eh Ah?”
Sylvia looked at me. Her eyes were clear, rich earthen brown, and very serious for someone who looked no older than I was. She was skinny, pretty, what my friends called “tight,” and unmissable with her white mane. It was obvious why Tony liked having her around. There was something more. She was highly confident. She was having dinner with a guy who wouldn’t think twice about killing her whole family. What? Tony didn’t kill people. Take the occasional pinky, sure, but he didn’t kill anyone. In any case, Sylvia showed no concern. She owned the moment. And both of us men.
“What do you think, Nathan? Should I forget about that dusty old bangle and take the diamonds?” She giggled, knowing she’d put me on the spot. If I said she should take the bangle, Tony would be offended that I had talked down his pricey gift. If I went with the tennis bracelet, he wouldn’t pay me for delivering the bangle. Last night’s adventure would have been for nothing.
Taking a sip of wine, I said, “Why not keep both? A cute girl like you can never have too much jewelry.” I said cute, not beautiful or, God forbid, sexy. Even so, Tony pursed his lips and narrowed one stink eye at me.
“Fine. Both. Just make sure people see the sparkler, not the boobie prize from the claw machine.”
I went to take off the bangle. It was… not… easy. Why should I give this to Tony. He didn’t even like it. I couldn’t tell the fat fuck what I really thought about a slob like him throwing himself at a girl half his age… or could I? Somebody needed to tell Tony what Tony really was. I fingered the silver bracelet, sensing the owl’s withering gaze and definitely feeling the prick of the lioness’ tooth.
“Well, college boy? You gonna take off the girlie bracelet or buy a pink tutu for the friggin Pride Parade?” He laughed at his own joke, and around the room shadowy men laughed with him.
“It’s stuck.” The bangle felt hot. Very hot. I was sweating, and still it did not come loose. Sylvia reached over and took my hand, easily slipping the bangle free from my wrist. It was like the temperature in the room went from one hundred back to normal in a second.
By rights, Sylvia should have slipped the bangle onto her own wrist. Instead, she held it up to Tony. “Take a close look, Anthony. See how pretty. It’s very old. It goes back a long way in my family. We’ve fought to keep it through hard times.”
“It’s ugly. What is that, some bird and a kitty cat?” She stroked his face and he calmed down. “Anyways, it ain’t worth dick. I ain’t payin what we talked about for a hunk o’ junk like that.”
“Wait a minute! We agreed!” I was back in rage-mode in an instant, my eyes darting around the table for the sharpest knife.
Sylvia threw her arms around Tony’s barrel chest. “Baby, it’s priceless. I want to wear it for the rest of my life! I’ll tell you what… Why doesn’t my Big Strong Anthony wear it tonight?” The bangle was around his pudgy wrist in an instant. “Get to know it. Then, I’m sure I’ll have to fight you to get it back.” She giggled again, a little girl’s titter.
Tony looked dazedly at the thing at the end of his arm.
All he managed to get out was “Sure, baby. Sure. Anything for you.”
***
I’d never seen Tony’s face so red, and I’d seen him angry more than a few times over the months I’d been working for him. After Sylvia left, he handed me the envelope with the money in it, even included a little extra, but it seemed the last thing on earth he wanted to do was pay me for the bangle. I, on the other hand, would have gladly traded back the cash for the bracelet.
That night, I threw myself into my painting. I was obsessed with a certain concept. It took different shapes, different subjects, but it was always the same. Variations on a theme, like Andrew Wyeth or Claude Monet. No pretty girls or window or water lilies for me, though. The canvases piled up, each one darker than the last. Each captured a spectral subject floating in bleak depths that bent in peculiar fashion. They were people, except they weren’t. Their faces barely registered as such, they were so distorted by pain and fear and something odd, out of place. The subjects varied, but it was as if they all shared the same terrible secret. In a few paintings, twin points of light appeared in the far distance. And there was something else, one detail they all had in common. The silver bangle.
My hands flew across the canvas with purpose I’d never known at RISD. Paul Cézanne forced one poor sap to suffer through one hundred sittings to get a portrait the way he insisted it had to be. These creations of mine were finding their true form in a few short hours. I had nearly a dozen drying, including some over the forgotten face of Linette, when the pounding started on my door.
“Nathan Kyllick, open up. Sheriff’s deputies. Open the door, sir.”
Great. I hadn’t slept or shaved or even brushed my teeth. I didn’t realize what this was all about until I was unlocking the door. The two deputies pushed their way in. Mrs. Gadwicke stood on the lawn, arms crossed, scowling like a constipated cat. “I told you, Nathan. I begged you and begged you, but you wouldn’t listen.”
“The money!” I cried. “Officers, there’s been a mistake. I had until noon.”
“It’s three o’clock, sir. Come on, it’s time to go.” He put a document with a seal embossed at the bottom into my hands and grabbed my arm roughly.
“Wait! I have the money. It’s right here!” I dashed over to the dining room table, which was covered in paintings laid out to properly dry. The edge of Tony’s envelope poked out from underneath the portrait of a woman’s distorted, almost melted face. What strange ecstasy had I imbued into that face, mixed as it was with abject fear? She raised her hands as if to ward off something unspeakable, revealing the silver bangle. “Here.” I pulled out the envelope and quick-counted enough bills to cover the back rent. I offered the bundle to one of the deputies, who just looked at his partner. Then, I walked past them to Mrs. G, who had now entered the cottage. “Here. It’s all here. I swear I’ll be on time from now on.”
She looked around the room. “You’ve ruined this carpet with your sloppy paints,” she started to say. The storm cut itself short, however. Instead of anger, her face registered something else. Almost wonder, definitely a fascination. She looked from one portrait to the next, amazed and unable to quite decide what her eyes beheld. “Nathan. What are these?”
“They’re what I’m working on now.”
Both officers were browsing my works as well. One said, “I’ve seen a lot of stuff out on the streets after midnight. I’ve never seen anything like this. They’re terrible, but…”
“They’re…” Mrs. G hesitated to form the word, “beautiful.”
In the end, she agreed to take the money, although she held onto the eviction notice. The deputies had us both sign some paperwork, but they assured me I was in the clear, at least for now. To smooth things over, Mrs. G also accepted one of my paintings. I threw a white cloth over it and told her to let it cure for a few weeks before getting it framed, but she seemed oddly pleased with her new treasure.
***
Weeks swept past like ravens on some errand. Tony called me for a few odd jobs, mostly to make cash deliveries. Not something for boy scouts, these chores were a lot easier than digging ditches, Ma. Tony said little to me, but paid me well, and the work didn’t keep me out long.
I ran into Sylvia at Scalini’s a few times. She’d look at my hands, which were covered in dark flecks. “I like those colors. Bold.” She pointed to the portrait of Tony’s father in Provence. “I can’t wait to see. I’ll bet you’re working on something amazing.”
She was right.
Every free minute I could find for myself, I painted. I’d chosen my place because it got good light, but lately sunlight didn’t figure in at all. I was just as happy working at midnight as noon, and the cottage quickly filled from floor to ceiling with a horde of phantasmal faces and their common accessory.
That latter item, the silver bangle, had become an obsession. It was simple enough to render a sterling band with a few key details. I threw in highlights of ultramarine, burnt sienna, phthalocyanine blue, along with two shades of white, yet I never got it down to what was in my mind’s eye. I’d worn that bangle myself, and I still felt naked without it, but my sharpest memory of it was that first night, kneeling over Granny Jessup, trying to yank it from her cold wrist. There was something missing.
The engraving.
The odd glyphs were on the inside of the band, of course. Any picture I could show would not… oh, wait.
I grabbed a sketch pad and charcoals. Again, the speed with which my fingers flew amazed me. This was all the same thing, but different. The subject was not distorted. It was flesh and blood solid. And dead. That was important. This man was definitely no longer on the fun side of the great divide. He lay on a non-descript surface, a floor or a field or a parking lot – it didn’t matter – mouth agape, head titled as an odd angle. Dead. Murdered, in fact. How? What was his story? No clues. Nothing for the police to find. I couldn’t care less. What mattered was that he clutched at the bangle with his lifeless fingers, like Tantalus reaching for a piece of fruit. The bracelet lay in the picture, its inner surface exposed to view. With the charcoals, I could easily sketch the lion passant. And then my fingers froze.
The glyphs. Jesus, what were the glyphs? I could just about recall them. The whorls, the creepy eye-bird thing. Just about wasn’t good enough. I needed the bangle. I needed it. It was mine anyway, I’d taken it off of Granny Jessup and…
“Idiot.”
I closed my eyes. Rummaging around the clutter on the table by the door, I found my phone and went to My Photos. It was still there. Odd, but the glyphs were somehow less distinct than the rest of the photo I’d taken that night. It was as if they were shifting, trying to change shape. No matter, I quickly sketched the symbols onto the paper before me.
For good measure, I sketched two dozen variations of this new post-mortem pose. Then I began doing more of these in oils. The colors were amazing. Suddenly, I had an infinite number of ways to render an infinite field of darkness. My subjects were still, but the nameless expanse moved as I added certain touches of light and shade, mostly the latter. These poor souls were being engulfed by a void washing them up and away. Or else towards… something… hungry. Each figure reached out to the bangle like a life ring.
I rubbed my eyes. At some point, I’d need sleep. I didn’t dare look in a mirror. My eyes swept from one of my finished works to another. The earlier versions showed spirits; I knew that now. They were wretched things, yet somehow lovely to look at. I couldn’t explain it; I was better with paint than words.
“You look terrified. No, you look terrified and yet proud of yourself. And you,” I said to my more recent works that definitely showed corpses reaching for the bangle, “look like you’re… what? You look… You look like you’ve just won a great prize. You’re ecstatic. Or orgasmic. No, probably not that. But maybe. But probably not. Get your mind outta the gutter, kid. Maybe you think you’ve won the lottery, really beat the system.” Beat what system? I wondered. “Huh.”
My doorbell rang. The sound was unfamiliar. My few visitors lately had used old-fashioned flesh to pound the boards.
Opening the door nearly stopped my heart. Tony stood there with three of his guys. Sylvia was with them.
“So this is where you live. Nice, I guess.” He was being too polite, like it was forced. Also, he looked tired. Very tired. Drained. Dark circles under his eyes added years to his appearance.
Sylvia swept into the room and began darting from one painting to the next. She picked up one of the newer ones and danced with it. “Wheeeeee!”
Tony put his arm around me, which thrust his beefy hand out from his coat cuff, exposing the bangle. “Sylvia’s got a heart o’ gold. She’s been talking my ear off about what a great painter you are. How she knows from one painting, I–” He erupted into a fit of coughing.
I ran to the kitchenette and got him a glass of water, which he sipped before snapping his fingers. One of his boys stepped behind me and liberated a bottle of wine from the fridge, pouring a glass for his boss. Tony liked this much better than the water. His coughing subsided. He really did look tired. I was no longer angry with him. I still wanted him to give back the bangle, or to give it to Sylvia, but I was also concerned for his health.
“Anyways,” he finally said, “I got a friend what owns a gallery on Weybosset Street. We’re gonna borrow a few of these, see if I can’t convince my friend to hold an exhibition.” He winked at me. “Trust me: he’ll be convinced.”
“Don’t say it like that, Anthony. Nathan’s work will do all the convincing there is.”
My head was spinning. Tony was talking business, but all I heard was “exhibit,” a word I’d always dreamed of hearing. Even so, my focus kept drifting over to the shiny bit of metal on his wrist. I could almost feel it on my own, coiling itself serpentlike just above my hand. It was a warm promise, and I was the heat of it. I felt like a winner. After years of failure, I’d finally beaten the odds.
***
On the night of my exhibition, Sylvia showed up in a stretch limo to pick me up. This was extravagant, even for Tony. Seafood and hookers made for a good living, but he wasn’t super-rich. Anyway, the sleek black car certainly impressed Mrs. G. Her eyes about bugged out of her head. Or maybe it was me. At Sylvia’s suggestion, I’d gotten a fresh hairstyle. I’d also scrubbed the paint flecks off my hands using lemon juice, bought a new suit, and donned my macramé scarf, which was also useful for rigging hammocks.
“Good looking kid,” was all my landlady could say, but she said it with a smile.
Sylvia put it differently. “Hot stuff! Hop in, sit next to me.”
Far be it from me to argue with her. She wore a red sequined number cut dangerously low in front and scandalously high up one thigh. So high, in fact, I could smell her dewy Lilies of the Valley. We drove off, sipping white wine spritzers. It took me a second to realize what was wrong with the picture.
“Where’s Tony?”
“He’s under the weather,” she said, miming hoisting a bottle to her lips.
“Tony? I’ve seen him drink; he loves his vino, but I’ve never seen him ossified.”
“It’s fine. It’s fine. It gives you and me a chance to talk.”
Flags redder than Sylvia’s dress shot up and waved madly all around my head.
“Listen, I won’t lie. You’re a great gal and all, but I don’t think Tony would like it if he knew–”
Suddenly, the light in her eyes changed. She’d always played up her ingénue innocence, tempering it with startlingly clear intelligence. The disarming confidence of… a lioness. Now, she turned deadly serious. “This isn’t about Tony. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a nice man. He wanted something from me, and I wanted some things from him. That arrangement was fruitful for both of us.”
I sipped my spritzer. “Was fruitful. And now?”
“Now, I need a better partner.”
“Sylvia, as I say, I could never betray Tony.”
“There’s no betrayal. Tony is getting what he wanted, a real shot at forever. He could have had even more, but Tony was a good man, too good. Some choices aren’t for good men.”
My mind wouldn’t process some of what she was saying. Forever? As in–? Tony was a lapsed Catholic. Like me, like a lot of people, Tony didn’t think about forever; just about having a good time and then… the big nothing.
The limo went over one of Providence’s forty million potholes.
My tongue turned thick and clumsy. “What are you saying?”
“I’ve seen your paintings. You’ve seen your paintings. You know what I’m talking about. I have my gift. I’d like to share it with you. It’s better shared. I’m asking you to choose, Nathan.”
I looked at Sylvia under the fiesta strips of LED lights that sent rainbows through the back of the limo. There was more in her smile than I could put words to, but if I were to imagine that face on a canvas, it would be one of my later models. There was a great prize involved. An all-time, forever prize. By the time we pulled up to the gallery, I felt myself wanting that prize.
***
The opening was amazing. I’d helped set things up over the past few days, but to see all my faces staring back at me now under key spots creating brilliant cones in the dimly lit room – it had a singular effect, like floating. The gallery owner, a man named Blythe, schmoozed his clients. A few had come up from Manhattan. They too were feeling the power of my paintings. On one wall were the stark canvases of the dead, on the other the spectral after-images of those floating in the void.
“It’s as if they’re supremely happy here… and terrified but still happy over there,” a man in an expensive suit told his wife, pointing from one wall to the other. They were deciding which one they’d spirit off to their Park Avenue apartment when Blythe joined them.
“So much more effective if you buy these original Kylliks by the pair,” he said. “If you look closely, here and here, you’ll notice that these two paintings are of the same person. Each one on the left wall is bound to a twinned image on the right. We have over thirty matched pairs.”
“Oh, yes, I see it now,” the well-dressed patron said.
They were in pairs? I had never noticed that. I’d painted everything as fast as the images came into my mind, but I’d never considered who I was painting. Were these before-and-after images? Huh.
“And here’s the man you want to meet, sir.” Sylvia was suddenly hustling me over to the couple and Blythe. “This is our visionary, Nathan Kyllik.”
“I’m pleased to meet you. In fact, I have connections with some of Lower Manhattan’s wealthiest private collectors. I can’t wait to show off your work, turn a few faces green with envy. I’m putting in my bid right now. Never mind the figure, Blythe, fill it in yourself, as long as I get two of these. Which pair do you like, dear?”
The wife pointed with perfect nails. “That one and its mate, that one.”
“They’ll be at your apartment by the end of the week, sir.”
The wife turned to me. “I have a question. The bracelet. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one quite like it. Is it a real piece, something you own?”
I started to answer, but Sylvia spoke for me. “It belongs to me, actually.” In her hand was the bangle, owl and lioness between her delicate fingers. “It’s a family heirloom. Gram Gram wore it to her grave.”
So you did know.
“She was never good at sharing, and the family was jealous as hell,” she continued. “They expected her to leave the bangle to one of us when she finally died. I say finally. The Jessup women enjoy very long lives. Well, once Gram Gram eventually gave up the ghost, the bangle was supposed to go to me. People should share what they have, don’t you think? Anyway, Tony Scalini helped me sort everything out.”
What was she saying? She was confessing to being a party to grave robbing. She was going to get us both tossed in prison!
“Sylvia, can I have a word with you in private?”
We smiled at the couple and took one step away, not really far enough to be out of earshot. “Don’t look so scared, Nathan. I’m just adding a little mystique. People love a good story to go with their art.”
“Fine. Nevermind that. Where’s Tony?”
“He’s in his bed.”
It was an odd way to say he was sick. I knew. I knew he wasn’t sick, not any more.
“Give me the bangle, Sylvia. It’s… it’s best I wear it.”
“You’ll get your turn, Nathan. Don’t worry.”
She spoke louder and stepped back to Blythe and the wealthy couple. “As I was saying, Gram Gram’s sister told me all about the bangle. She called it a family pet,” she said, waving the bracelet about. “A naughty one at that. Takes special care and feeding.” She laughed. “The bangle likes to go wandering, but it will always come back to a Jessup. Gram Gram tried to cage it up, but we couldn’t allow that.”
The well-dressed man spoke up. “I’d like to try that on, if you don’t mind.”
“No!” I shouted. Everyone looked at me, especially Blythe, who appeared pissed that I’d just yelled at a rich guy in his gallery. “I mean, it’s Sylvia’s. She’s gone to a lot of trouble to get it back.”
Sylvia flashed a wicked smile at the couple. “Would you like to touch it?”
“Yes, please!” they said together, each reaching over with a finger. “Oooh, it’s warm,” said the wife. “And such lovely silver. It would go perfectly with everything I own. I love the style, a torc or slave cuff they used to call it, and I absolutely adore the engravings inside.” The woman’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “What would you accept for it? Go ahead, don’t be shy. Name a price.”
Sylvia giggled. “I wouldn’t think of letting it go, but I might loan it to you both. Let’s keep in touch.”
The couple headed off pleased. I struggled to understand what was going on. “Sylvia, I think that thing is more than it seems.”
“Of course it is. And it’s best handled by more than one person. I’ve made my choice, and I’m going to enjoy it for a long time. What about you, Nathan?”
“Nathan!” The sound of my own name repeated twice in totally different ways startled me. I turned to see who the newcomer was, and my breath caught in my throat. “Uh–”
“I guess it has been a while,” he said, mistaking my confusion for a lapse in memory. I knew it was – “Artemus Mundi. You were one of my brightest students at RISD.”
Which is why you crushed my dreams? I wanted to say.
“I confess, I never predicted this level of achievement, though,” Professor Mundi continued. “These works are great. No, that’s a word for the masses. These are more than great. They’re positively revelatory. They possess life! I get the same wave of sensory overload as when I’m within inches of a Van Gogh self-portrait, that same admixture of heartbreaking beauty and soul-searing pain.”
“Thanks,” I managed to mumble.
“No, no, Nathan, thank you! I wish I could take even the smallest credit for teaching you this. I’ve always said the public is tired of seeing the same thing over and over. They crave something original. Something–”
I smacked one palm with the back of my other hand. “Striking.”
“Indeed.”
“Professor Mundi,” Sylvia interjected, “I’m so pleased you could make it. I know Nathan’s work brings in the right crowd, a very wealthy crowd, in fact.”
“Yes,” Mundi said, scanning the room, “it certainly does.”
“I would love it if you could write us a few lines for the art journals.”
“You couldn’t stop me if you tried. And believe me, the review will glow! Uh–” He looked sheepish, struggling to ask a question. “I couldn’t help overhearing the tail end of your conversation with the Van Gleasons.” The rich New Yorkers. “Do you think I might borrow that little silver bracelet for a few days, as research, you understand? It will add to the article.”
Sylvia’s smile foretold the immediate future.
She meant to give the bangle to Professor Mundi. Whatever it did, she meant for it to happen to him. Whatever it did, it had already done it to Tony. My artistic mind was composing a dual image of Tony. The first found him in extremis. Unlike the others, this one included a second figure, or just a slender hand, reaching in to take the bangle from his wrist. His face was drawn, exhausted, but dangerously satisfied, like an addict given an overdose and only too happy to take it. The other future portrait was there before my eyes as well. Tony’s face was almost unrecognizable. Almost. He floated in the living void, undying. Eternal. The bangle was with him. And on that face, on that distorted, unworldly face I could see the same unclean sense of victory. And also terror, as if his beloved prize carried a high price.
I looked around the gallery. It was the same sentiment on every face, left wall and right. Whatever the bangle had offered them, they’d all taken it. I tried to reach inside myself. I’d worn the bangle, briefly. What did it really offer me? Was it responsible for this renaissance in my work? Probably.
There was something more, something insidious.
“Nathan,” Sylvia said, pressing a warm, round piece of metal into my hand, “I think that you should hand this to Professor Mundi. After all, you two have a special relationship.”
We did. I hated the man. I hated him. I hadn’t hated Tony, but Tony was dead anyway. I hated Mundi, this pretentious man who had no talent of his own and got his kicks ruining the dreams of kids who might have gone further than he ever did in the art world. I hated him.
“I’m not sure, Sylvia. Maybe I should hang onto the bangle.”
Sylvia looked at me, her eyes moist. “Is that what you choose? I’d hoped you were stronger.”
“I think…” I looked again at Professor Mundi and saw Tony’s face. I looked at my paintings, and I imagined many more filling gallery walls all over the world, each canvas displaying this mix of ecstasy and horror. Each face frozen above my signature. Nathan Kyllik. Mothers would whisper my name to terrify their children. For centuries. Forever.
I gave Sylvia my answer.
***
Life goes on in here, after a fashion.
Sylvia and I shared the bangle, enjoying its benefits while lending it out. At first, it didn’t bother me. Strangers. Some old scores, some rich shits. I didn’t feel it. I steered clear of Ma, even moved far away from Mrs. Gadwicke’s cottage. During that time, I managed to create many more portraits. New colors and shadings, experimental styles, each more expressive than the last. My portraits. My faces. The ones Sylvia and I put in this place.
I can’t tell you what changed. One day, I’d had enough. That was it. I didn’t want to do it anymore.
And then I was done.
I continue now, within this wickedly curved space. I’m not alone. Tony is here, so is Granny Jessup. Neither is too happy with me. There are the others, quite a few. I try to stay out of their way, but they keep following me.
This is a vast nothingness of eddies and slipstreams. Here, the only fixed points are the silver bangles we wear, reflecting the nature if not the cyclopean dimensions of our eternal prison. Each of us has one. Identical. They have two heads: the Owl and the fierce Lioness. The bangles don’t come off. Ever.
The void might pulse and undulate for days, or maybe it’s years, and then, inevitably, the eyes appear. The Owl comes. She is the harbinger, and I weep knowingly. The Owl dries my tears, builds me up with the hope that this time it will be different, that I might reach a hand back into the world, pick up my brushes again and create art that touches hearts. I begin to coalesce into something my senses can acknowledge. For a moment, the briefest moment you can imagine, I am Nathan again. I am whole. Full of hope. It is everything. I shine with purpose and joy.
The other one smells it. Hope attracts the Lioness, compels her to rend me into screaming shreds and feed. She stays strong, and her strength supports this realm in which we live, continuing far past our time, having cheated death in the worst possible way. When she is done, I am unformed, unfeeling, floating, but not dead.
The cycle repeats again and again and again. Each time, a tiny piece of myself goes missing. Lost forever. One day, an eternity from now perhaps, I may vanish entirely. That is my only true hope.
Out there, my paintings command stellar prices. I can see them now, really see them. Macabre obscenities. Best things I ever did.
Sylvia is selling them, though she keeps a few hanging in Scalini’s, which is hers now, along with a beach house that used to belong to Professor Mundi, who found his way here like the rest. She is rich and getting richer.
Sylvia will cheat oblivion. She’ll join us here one day in the realm of the Owl and the Lioness, but I think that’ll be a long time from now. I’ll wait. I have some things to say to her. They’re not all hateful. It’s a hard world. I understand why she does what she does, and why she’ll keep doing it to others.
It pays the rent.
###
If you like the creepy stuff, may I humbly suggest you check out Skinners - A Love Story. Not happy with the life you're living? They are.
https://www.amazon.com/Skinners-Love-Story-Riker-ebook/dp/B0C5SXMXS3/
