That night, alone in my little apartment, I sat on the bed, stroking Brush, mulling over the events of the past few days. I still couldn’t quite believe that Harry, whom I’d loved and trusted all those years, had always been working secretly for Mrs. Griffin, that his friendship with me had been predicated on an elaborate scheme. I thought back on many of the moments and confidences we’d shared, wondering if they’d been genuine, or if Harry had cultivated our relationship with an eye to his commission.
Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars . . . The figure seemed absurd and arbitrary, making me overpriced and undervalued at the same time. Three quarters of a million dollars for a surrogate daughter. I wondered how on earth they’d arrived at that particular figure. How much negotiation had been involved? Was it a flat fee or a percentage of the amount they thought a daughter was worth? Would the sum have been different for the other woman had she been picked? Was she worth a million, or, perhaps, only six hundred thousand? It was so strange. I wondered briefly if poor old Harry had collected any of the money in advance to pay for expenses. No wonder he’d entertained me so well over the years, I thought somewhat bitterly. After all, I was an investment.
Now lots of little things began to make sense. The gift of the dress, Harry’s subtle urging that I accept Mrs. Griffin’s commission, his resourcefulness in finding Madi, his insistence I go out to Colorado to see him, not to mention the fortune cookie from Foo’s. And Rodney? Had all that business about Rodney been a sham? Harry knew full well I had a soft spot in my heart for romance and would have encouraged him to use my interest in finding Madi as a ploy to contact his old lover. Naturally, I’d never expected him to produce any results, but when he did, it seemed too fortuitous a coincidence not to act on. Now, however, it was obvious that Rodney had nothing to do with it. Harry had invented the whole story, following Mrs. Griffin’s instructions to make uncovering the whereabouts of Madi look plausible.
My mind drifted back to the early days of our friendship when I’d confided to Harry on an almost daily basis about my trials with John Noland. I remembered how we discussed my difficult childhood, how Harry had managed to pry out the innermost secrets of my heart. He’d made himself available to me at all hours to talk about my problems. He must have been comparing me to Cassandra every step of the way and reporting back to Mrs. Griffin. The miracle was that I never once suspected any motive on his part other than kindness.
Try as I might, I couldn’t bring myself to hate Harry for what he’d done. I didn’t feel betrayed so much as I felt let down by him. I wondered, had he lived, would he eventually have told me of his involvement with Mrs. Griffin? Or was this a secret they would have kept between themselves forever?
Every aspect of our friendship now seemed tainted by my knowledge that it had started under false pretenses. Yet I was certain that Harry had loved me and been a genuine friend. I kept reminding myself of what Mrs. Griffin had said: that he believed he was doing me a great favor by arranging my adoption by one of the richest and most elegant women in the world.
Other thoughts crossed my mind as I made myself and Brush some dinner. I wondered if Roberto Madi had known all along about Mrs. Griffin’s plan. I suspected not, for it was he who warned me to be careful, that she was up to something, and I should be on my guard. I decided that Madi had simply done what he’d been told to do and gotten carried away in the process, reliving old memories. I wondered where he was now. Had he really left to go around the world, or was that a ruse as well, to get me out there on their timetable?
I had no appetite. Brush licked some of the scraps off my plate and seemed surprised when I didn’t shoo him away. I poured myself a glass of wine, lit a fire, set to contemplate the biggest decision of my life.
All that money, all those beautiful things . . . I could see pieces of gold dancing in the flames. The paintings alone were enough to make me think of selling my soul . . . And what was her price? Not that much. A couple of years—maybe less—with a woman I mistrusted, true, but mainly felt sorry for, and might possibly grow fond of. Would it be such a terrible life being her companion? She’d pamper me, confess her sins, confide her fears and longings. And in return, I’d live at The Haven in the lap of luxury with my own studio, under no pressure to make a living. I’d comfort her in her last days and try to grow to love and understand her as a daughter. Then, afterward—of course I’d always be waiting for the afterward—I’d be rich. What a life I could lead! Buy anything I desired, help other artists, travel everywhere, live surrounded by treasures, never having to worry about money or security again. All very tempting. Yes, I thought, why not? What were a couple of years compared to all that privilege and ease of mind, not to mention the good I could do?
I thought of my own dear mother and wondered if she’d approve? Yes, I thought, of course she would. She’d encourage me to do it. She’d always wanted the best for me, and Frances Griffin was indisputably the best of a certain tradition. It was not a question of Frances taking Mother’s place in my heart. It was simply a matter of expediency, of opportunity, of luck.
“Do you want to be filthy rich, Brush? Hmm?” I said to the little cat, curled up by my shoe in front of the fire.
I began to look around my apartment, mentally going over the things I’d discard, the things I’d keep. The little brass hourglass Harry had given me for Christmas—I’d keep that. I’d keep all the things Harry had given me. My shabby couch—would I keep that? It was so comfortable. No, I suppose that could go. My needlepoint samplers, my botanical prints, the quirky little Victorian chairs with the tattered fringe, my dog’s-head andirons, the coal scuttle I used for dried flowers, the books I’d collected over the years . . . They weren’t things of much value, but . . . I caught myself before I finished the thought. Was I falling into Mrs. Griffin’s trap? Was I too dependent upon the possessions I’d accumulated? Why not just walk out clean and unencumbered?
But as I looked around more and more, I realized just how fond I was of my little nest and how sorry I’d be to leave it. Small and insular as my life was, it was the life I’d chosen and fashioned for myself. I felt an allegiance to it. It gave me a sense of dignity. I thought of my trompe l’oeil business and the good reputation I’d built up over the years . . . Over the years . . . I began to think about time and feel its passing as I’d never quite felt it before.
The flames in the fireplace died down while the clock on the mantel counted off seconds in barely audible ticks. I followed Brush’s soft, rhythmic breathing, watching his little stomach gently rise and fall over and over again. I looked at the backs of my hands. The veins were more pronounced, the skin more wrinkled. There were strands of gray in my hair. The slackness around my eyes and mouth was more obvious. My face had lost the careless strength of youth. I found myself tiring more easily. A good night’s sleep didn’t resuscitate me like it used to. I needed glasses for reading, and my digestion had started rebelling against the occasional overindulgence.
The fruit was just about to turn overripe—but not quite yet. I was in the middle of my life, where time is the most valuable capital. Who knows? I might still meet the love of my life . . . Or develop into a great artist. There were so many possibilities. In that moment, I realized I couldn’t afford to squander even a minute by putting my life on hold to bind myself to Frances Griffin as a supporting player in her sad drama.
The following morning, I drove out to The Haven. Mrs. Griffin received me in the conservatory, a large glass-enclosed room filled with potted plants and Indian and Victorian porch furniture. She was wearing a red silk dress and a colorful chiffon scarf. She looked pretty, rejuvenated in fact, as young and vital as the first day I’d met her. The moment I entered the room, she danced up to me like a young girl and threw her arms around me.
“Oh Faith, Faith!” she cried. “I’m so happy to see you! Now that you’ve had your little think, have you come to your senses?”
“Yes, I think I have.”
“Good.”
She looked quizzically into my eyes, sensing perhaps what I was about to tell her.
“Why so serious?” she asked. “I hope you’ve thought about all the fun we’re going to have. I’ve been making plans all night. I can’t wait to show you my world and all the things I loved when I was young. I’m going to indulge you, you know.”
“Mrs. Griffin,” I began hesitantly, trying to choose my words carefully, “I’ve given the matter a great deal of thought, and, well, even though I’m very flattered by your offer, I don’t feel I can accept it.”
She appeared uncomprehending.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline.”
She released me and backed away.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m afraid not.”
There was a slight pause, then she cried: “Don’t be absurd!”
“I’m sorry.”
“But you can’t be serious. If you like, I’ll give you more time to think about it.”
“That won’t change anything, Mrs. Griffin. My answer’s still going to be the same. I’m sorry. I really am. Believe me. And I’m very grateful to you for the offer.”
“Give me another chance. Do you understand that I’ll give you anything you want?” I heard the panic in her voice.
“That’s very, very kind of you. But I don’t want anything.”
“You must want something!” she pleaded.
She stood staring at me as if I’d just slapped her. I felt terrible having let her down so.
“Look,” I began in an effort to say something to ease her evident pain, “you were right about me. I am too independent. I’m sorry. Maybe you can still get this other girl, whoever she is.”
“I don’t want her,” she replied petulantly. “I want you.”
“Look, Mrs. Griffin, this doesn’t mean we’ll stop being friends. I’ll come out and visit you. Often. Really I will.”
“It’s not the same thing.”
She sank down onto one of the antique rattan chairs whose back was shaped like a huge fan.
“Why?” She glared at me defiantly. “Why don’t you want to be my daughter?”
“I really can’t explain it to you. I’m not sure I can explain it to myself.”
“You disapprove of me?”
“No.”
“Of my methods? You feel I put you through too much, is that it?” she said.
“No, not at all.”
“Don’t lie to me,” she warned.
I could feel her becoming angry.
“I’m not lying. It’s nothing you did. I promise.”
“My God—I’m offering you a kingdom! Are you mad?”
I shook my head. “Maybe.”
“I’m not giving you another chance, you know,” she said in a threatening tone. “If you say no today, that’s it. Do you understand?”
“Yes. All right,” I answered uncomfortably.
She bowed her head and was silent for a long moment. Then she looked up at me, her pale eyes glinting with rage.
“You stupid little bitch!” she hissed.
I was so taken aback by the remark that I burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“Your reaction,” I said.
“How the hell do you expect me to react?!” she shrieked.
Her tone of voice, her face—everything about her was suddenly hard-edged and bitter, full of fury and scorn.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I suppose I didn’t really think about it.”
“That’s because you’re all alike. You never think about anyone but yourselves.”
“Who’s all alike?”
“All of you! Never mind!”
I wondered whom she meant.
She sat, head bowed, fidgeting with her scarf. Neither of us spoke for a while.
“Well, Mrs. Griffin,” I said, finally breaking the silence, “I’d better go out to the ballroom and finish up my work.”
“Do you realize just how much of my time you’ve taken? How long I’ve spent on you? Years! Years!”
“I better go.”
I started to leave the room, when she suddenly let out a terrible cry.
“Ooooh! Damn you! Damn you! I’m ill and alone!” she wailed, bursting into tears. “And there’s no one left!”
She started sobbing. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. God, what a pathetic sight—little gray streams of mascara trickling down her wrinkled cheeks, lipstick caked in the corners of her mouth. She raised her hand to her head and tore off her wig, hurling it across the room.
“God damn you!” she screeched. “God damn life!”
The air reverberated with her cries. She heaved a final sigh, then crumpled back down into the chair.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Griffin. I truly am.”
“That’s not good enough.” She waved me away with her hand.
“It’s the best I can do.”
Her moment of agony passed, and she seemed to regain control of her emotions. She drew herself up imperiously and pointed to the wig, which was lying on the floor under a small settee where she’d thrown it.
“My wig,” she said. “Get it for me.”
I knelt down and picked it up, then walked over and handed it to her. She grabbed it from me, hit it once or twice as if she were knocking off dust, and put it on. Extracting a small mirror from her pocket, she refitted it, tucking in stray wisps of hair. After she was through, she straightened her dress and composed herself.
“You haven’t finished your job here,” she said coldly.
“No.”
“What’s left?”
“Just the face of the girl.”
“Finish it now.”
“Yes, all right.”
“I’ll tell you exactly how I want it done,” she said. “Come with me.”
We left the house by the conservatory door and walked to the ballroom by another, less-traveled route. Mrs. Griffin took the lead. I wondered that she wasn’t freezing wearing only a light silk dress. I offered her my coat, which she declined.
“But you’ll catch cold,” I said.
“Never you mind about me,” she replied angrily.
Inside, her wheelchair and fur blanket were waiting for her in the middle of the floor. She descended the steps and made herself comfortable in the chair, pulling the blanket up around her.
I prepared my palette and brushes, feeling her eyes on me every moment. I approached the figure of the faceless girl and stood in front of it for a long time without moving, concentrating on the blank head, imagining Cassandra’s face then my face, intermingling within the precincts of that smooth white oval. As I raised my brush to begin painting Cassandra’s face from memory, the old woman called out to me.
“Come here!”
I walked over to her wheelchair.
“You’re not to paint Cassandra’s face.”
“But she’s the centerpiece of the room,” I said. “She’s the whole point.”
“You’re not to paint her face,” she said firmly.
“Fine. Whose face do you want me to paint?”
She extracted a small rectangular object from beneath her blanket. At first I thought it was a frame. Then I realized what it was.
“Look here,” she commanded me. “This face. This is the face I want.”
She turned the object around and held it up to me. It was the mirror she had used in the conservatory to adjust her wig. My face was reflected in it.
“Me?” I said, bewildered. “You want me to paint my face?”
“Yes. If it’s the only thing I’m to have of you.”
“I-I don’t know—”
“This is a commission,” she interrupted. “You will do as I say.”
Now this was the Frances Griffin of legend—the steely, exacting woman who was accustomed to imposing her will on the artists and craftsmen in her employ.
“Of course. Whatever you like . . . May I borrow the mirror?”
She shoved it into my hand. I walked back to the easel and took up my palette once more. I looked into the mirror and then began to paint. As I sketched my own face in the oval, I felt as if I’d somehow stood outside my life all these years and was now, at this moment, about to break into it. I shaped and shaded the features, taking pains to present a fair account of the countenance I knew so well. Every once in a while I glanced back at Mrs. Griffin, who sat as still as stone, watching me paint. It was a long, arduous process, getting the expression just right.
Having applied the last stroke of paint, I put down my brush and palette and stepped back to view the work. But even before I’d had a chance to reflect on what I’d done, I heard the old woman’s voice echoing through the room.
“Not good enough,” she said.
I turned around.
“I think it’s the best I can do.”
“Then you’ll have to do better than your best if you expect to get paid.”
I bit my lip.
“May I ask what’s wrong with it?”
“It has no life or depth. It’s a picture without being a portrait. The modeling is flat and without interest. It’s a mediocre representation, nothing more.”
I turned to look at the face again. She was right. The face was flat and without interest.
“I’m afraid I just don’t know how to make it any better.”
“Rub it out. Start again. This time, concentrate on the expression first. Don’t be so worried about the features. Life comes through expression, not through representation.”
I did as I was told. I rubbed out the face and began all over again.
“Start with the eyes,” she counseled dispassionately. “Go behind them before you paint them. Make them see, but first decide what they’re looking at.”
I knew what she meant. As I’d painted them before, the eyes had been dull, blind to their surroundings.
“What are they looking at?” she asked.
“You, Mrs. Griffin,” I said without turning around.
“Good.”
Soon a pair of eyes emerged as vivid and alive and knowing as any in real life. I turned around to see if Mrs. Griffin approved.
“That’s better,” she nodded. “Now the structure. Start with the bones, the skull. You must learn to paint underneath the surface of things if you ever want to do more than cartoons and faux finishes. Facility is no substitute for depth,” she said sharply.
I began sketching in the nose, cheeks, mouth, and chin over the outlines of a skull. I tilted the head, to give it a slightly inquisitive air. Gradually, I put flesh over these bones, building it up, layer upon layer, a painstaking exercise. When I’d finished, I turned around to her again.
“Now concentrate on the mouth. That’s where you tell a great portraitist from a merely competent one.”
As my brush swept and darted here and there, deepening every feature, informing the expression with plasticity and life, I heard the old woman occasionally muttering under her breath, “That’s better . . . Much better . . . No, try again . . .”
Under her exacting tutelage, I became inspired and really began to paint. I knew for the first time what it felt like to work with my heart as well as my hand. The face I painted had weariness and wonder, sophistication and innocence, courage and fearfulness as parts of the whole. My portrait reflected both the soft light of tolerance and the harsh glare of truth. I neither spared nor condemned myself in paint.
I lost track of time. It was the middle of the afternoon when I finally put down my brushes. I looked at the woman I’d created with pride. For the first time, I knew I’d succeeded in painting beneath the surface as well as on top of it. At last I was an artist, not simply a craftsman.
Mrs. Griffin had fallen asleep in her wheelchair. I walked over to her and nudged her gently.
“Mrs. Griffin, it’s done.”
The old woman awoke fitfully.
“Oh!” she cried out, disoriented.
“It’s finished, Mrs. Griffin. Look.”
She gazed at the portrait. The figure on the wall was no longer that of a faceless girl, but of a woman on the brink of middle age. She was staring straight at Frances Griffin with a look of candor and forgiveness. She looked as if she were beckoning to the old woman, about to take her hand and guide her through the crowd to a place where they could be alone together. A daughter reaching out to the mother she loved.
Mrs. Griffin sat silently for some time, staring at the portrait. I stood by, waiting for a word of praise, a compliment, a comment. She offered none.
“Tell Deane to come and fetch me. I’m cold and tired,” she said in a monotone, closing her eyes.
She pulled the fur blanket up around her neck and seemed to doze off.
As I walked across the garden to get Deane, I paused to look up at the great house. The Haven and everything about it was like a stage set constructed for the peculiar play in which I was an unwitting main character.
I found Deane in the pantry, overseeing the polishing of the silver.
“Mrs. Griffin would like to come inside now,” I said.
He looked at me with scant acknowledgment and put on his overcoat. The nurse, who was nearby in the kitchen, followed suit. The three of us went outside. I trailed behind as the two of them made their way to the ballroom to fetch their charge.
Mrs. Griffin said nothing to any of us as we entered. She stared straight ahead without speaking as Deane and the nurse hoisted her in her wheelchair up the marble steps to the main landing. They wheeled her out the door. I watched the sad little trio make their way across the barren winter garden until they were out of sight.
After I packed up my paints and put everything in order for Deane to clean up, I spent some time alone with my masterpiece, looking at it closely, admiring it—especially the portrait of myself. It was good, really good. The best thing I’d ever done by far. I couldn’t wait to come back and photograph it for my records. I was proud to have been the creator of this work, prouder still that it would one day be seen by the public when the house became a museum.
Outside the ballroom, I put down my paintbox and sketch pads and lit a cigarette. I thought of the chain of orchestrated events which had led me to this moment. It was Frances Griffin, not I, who was the trompe l’oeil artist here. She had created a real trick of the eye.
I had one last drag of my cigarette. I dropped the butt on the ground, crushing it out with my foot. I didn’t bother picking it up. I left it there intentionally, to disintegrate on the pristine winter lawn.
As I was loading up my car to drive back to the city, Mrs. Griffin unexpectedly emerged from the house and walked toward me, signaling me not to go.
“Mrs. Griffin,” I said, running to meet her.
“Faith, dear . . .” she said, tenderly putting her hand on my cheek. “Forgive me. I’m afraid I’ve been harsh with you.”
“No, please, don’t apologize—”
“I have, and you must excuse me. It was the disappointment, that’s all,” she said.
I felt my heart reaching out for the old woman once more.
“Mrs. Griffin, I hope we’ll be friends.”
“Yes,” she said, with a sad look in her eyes, “I want you to always remember me.”
“Of course I will! Of course, dear Mrs. Griffin . . .”
I was touched by her fragility.
“I’m afraid I failed to compliment you on your work,” she went on. “The portrait you’ve done of yourself is—well, it’s magnificent.” I felt a little thrill go through me. “More than I could have hoped for,” she continued. “Is it, do you think, the best thing you’ve ever done?”
I thought for a moment, then replied with conviction.
“I do, Mrs. Griffin. And I think it’s quite possibly the best thing I ever will do.” She nodded in agreement. “And I have you to thank for it,” I said. “It’s all because of you, because you drew it out of me.”
“Well,” she said tenderly, “I’m happy I was able to help you in some way. It’s so gratifying to aid an artist in a great creation.”
“Do you think it’s great, Mrs. Griffin? Because that’s all I really care about—if you think so,” I asked, hanging on her response.
“Oh yes, I think it is great,” she said nodding.
“And I’m glad it’s here,” I replied, “I’m glad it’s going to be with you.”
“Yes.” She paused. “I’m sorry things with us didn’t work out another way, but that’s life, isn’t it?”
“I will come and visit you, I promise. I do so want to keep in touch.”
She gave me a radiant smile. She looked restored. It was amazing, I thought, how quickly she could alternate between vigor and exhaustion.
“You’re sure you won’t change your mind?” she said, as though she already knew my answer.
I shook my head sadly. “No, dear Mrs. Griffin, I can’t.”
“Well then,” she sighed, “that’s that.”
“Good-bye,” I said.
“Oh, no!” she cried. “It’s not good-bye—not yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“You must come back tomorrow so that I may give you the final payment you deserve. You will come back tomorrow, won’t you?”
Though I was quite happy to collect so promptly the rest of the money she owed me, I was much more eager to photograph my masterpiece for my book.
“Of course I’ll come back tomorrow,” I said. “And may I bring my camera equipment? I always photograph everything I do.”
“Yes, indeed!” she beamed. “Please do. Please bring all your equipment. I know you’ll want a record of this wonderful work of art.”
I could see how genuinely pleased she was with my efforts. She seemed so docile and understanding at that moment, as if she’d forgiven me for refusing her offer.
“Well, Faith, dear,” she said, kissing me on the cheek. “It’s getting cold and late. Good-bye . . . until tomorrow.”
She turned and walked back into the house, hugging her shoulders to keep warm.
All the way home, I kept wondering if I had, in fact, done the right thing after all, or if I’d been a fool not to accept Mrs. Griffin’s generous offer. I thought of the poor old woman all alone in that big house, imprisoned by her luxuries and her memories, gradually being eaten away by her illness. Would it have been so terrible, I thought, to be with her as a comforting presence for the little time she had left? After all, it wasn’t a matter of years. She was very ill—dying. Had I been too selfish?
As I drove, I imagined what her life would now be like without me as a daily distraction for her. I thought of her strolling over to the ballroom every now and then to look at my murals, and perhaps to think of me. I wondered if she’d continue to call me from time to time and ask me to visit her. I wondered how long she would live. I made up my mind to keep in touch with her. I felt that Mrs. Griffin’s last display of affection toward me that afternoon could not have been easy for her. It had taken courage and kindness in the wake of a deep disappointment. It had made me realize that I was, indeed, fond of her after all. Not only that, I respected her more than anyone I knew, for it was she who had forced me to do my best work, setting me firmly on a path long obscured. Lastly, she was my only connection to Harry, whom I still loved and missed, despite all that I now knew about him.
I stayed up most of the night, throwing away all the old clippings about Cassandra, making a list of the clients I would call to say that I was back in business, as well as preparing my photography equipment for the next day. I packed up lights, a tripod, two cameras, and several rolls of film—color and black-and-white. I wanted to take great care in photographing the ballroom, especially my self-portrait.
I drove out to The Haven around noon the next day, when I had hoped the light would be strong and bright for my photographs. Unfortunately, the sun, which had been shining all morning, retreated under a veil of gray clouds just as I pulled in the driveway. The landscape glowed with an eerie silver light. I parked in the courtyard and began unloading my camera equipment to take to the ballroom.
Walking across the garden toward the ballroom, I wondered where Mrs. Griffin was, if she was going to come down and visit with me while I took my pictures, or if she was simply going to say good-bye to me at the very end. There didn’t seem to be anyone around, not even Deane, who usually appeared somewhere whenever I arrived on the property. The increasing darkness of the day made me glad I’d brought along several lights, despite the inconvenience of having to carry them.
I trudged up the steps of the ballroom loaded down with equipment, feeling an impending sense of excitement at seeing my creation again—especially the self-portrait. Would it look as miraculous to me today, I wondered? Was Mrs. Griffin right? Was it the best thing I’d ever do in my entire life? I thanked God it was here, in this great house, where it would be preserved and properly cared for. If I couldn’t keep it myself, what better home could I have provided for it?
Something—I’m not sure what—made me hesitate before I entered the ballroom. I put down my equipment and took a deep breath. I closed my eyes, swung open the doors, then walked inside, my eyes still closed. I wanted to snap them open, to take in my creation all at once. I stood poised for an instant, eyes shut . . . Then I opened them.
The horror I felt at the sight that greeted me was beyond measure. I clapped my hands over my mouth, stifling a scream that arose from the depths of my soul. The room was white! Not a clean, pristine white—but a terrible, haphazard white, the foam on a great ocean storm! Streaks of it, globs of it, raging over the walls like some ghastly hurricane of whitewash! Nothing was left of my creation but a few random patches of color where the paint had failed to cover the mural completely. Even the ceiling was covered with white swirls—the cherubs, the clouds, the moon—all gone.
The most frightening sight of all, however, was the figure in the center panel—my self-portrait, my masterpiece. Here, no simple whitewash had been used. A grisly impression of my face and body was left, eaten away in parts so that the flesh took on the aspect of rotting carrion. The dress looked as if it had been melted by a blowtorch.
At first, I could not imagine what force had created this sickening effect. I walked slowly toward it. One of my eyes, still in perfect order on that jigsawed face, stared at me as I crossed the room. I was less than three feet away when I realized what had happened, for I smelled an unmistakable stench emanating from the wall. For a moment I stood paralyzed. My self-portrait, my masterpiece—had been attacked with acid!
I felt dizzy and nauseous—reeling at both the smell and the sight of the picture. I fell against the wall, barely missing the still-damp, acid-soaked image, and sank to the ground as though I’d been stabbed. There, I began to weep.
Of all the things Frances Griffin could have done to me—this was unquestionably the cruelest. She had built me up, only to tear me down again. Having helped me give birth, she had destroyed the child!
I don’t know how long I cowered there, sobbing away with a mixture of fear, anger, and self-pity. Gradually, however, my wails abated into intermittent whimpers. Finally, I was mute. Dragging myself up off the ground, I staggered outside, weak and distressed. I gathered up my camera equipment. It was all I could do to get myself across that godforsaken garden.
I reached my car and threw the gear inside. As I was about to get in, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around with a start. It was Deane, looking grave. I couldn’t help it—I threw myself at him and began beating on his chest!
“YOU LET HER!” I screamed. “YOU LET HER DESTROY IT! YOU BASTARD! YOU BASTARD!”
Deane stood his ground, taking my pathetic blows without flinching. When I finally calmed down, he pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to me. I took it and wiped my eyes.
“Oh, Deane, I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “I know it’s not your fault. But why, why did she do it?”
“I don’t know, Miss,” he replied with a pained expression on his face.
“Who did it? Who helped her?” I said. “You?”
“She did everything herself, even the ceiling. I brought the ladder, that’s all. She was up the whole night.”
“She used acid on my portrait, didn’t she?”
Deane hung his head and nodded.
“She’s insane,” I sighed, expecting no response.
None was given. Deane extracted an envelope from his jacket and handed it to me. I recognized Mrs. Griffin’s pale blue stationery.
“Mrs. Griffin has asked me to give you this. It’s your last payment,” he said softly.
I opened the envelope. It was a check for more money than I’d ever seen. So much, in fact, that it looked like a bit of trompe l’oeil itself.
“This check isn’t my last payment, Deane,” I said, astonished. “It’s about ten times my entire fee.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Deane replied.
“She didn’t leave me any other message?”
“No.”
“Well . . . I suppose this is meant to be some sort of consolation. Wouldn’t you say, Deane? She kills my baby and then she gives me a small fortune for my efforts. Everything has a price, right? Right, Deane?” I swallowed hard.
Deane hesitated. I could see this was a difficult moment for him. He bit his lip.
“Miss,” he began, looking around furtively as if to make sure no one could overhear.
“Yes, Deane? What is it?”
“We all thought it was a beautiful thing, your work.”
He so touched me at this moment that I blinked back new tears.
“Did you, Deane? Did you really? You have no idea how much that means to me,” I said.
“We did,” he said shyly.
“Thank you so much.”
I looked at the check again, then carefully tore it in half and handed the pieces back to Deane.
“Do me a favor,” I said. “Please tell Mrs. Griffin her final payment isn’t necessary. She’s already given it to me—in full.”
Deane nodded sympathetically, the flicker of a smile on his lips.
“I’ll tell her,” he said.
Just as I was about to get into my car, I stopped.
“Deane?” I said, suddenly wondering something.
“Yes, Miss Crowell?”
“How the hell did she do it?” I said.
“What, Miss?”
“How did she whitewash that entire room? That’s a lot of work!”
Deane hesitated for a moment. I sensed he was on the verge of telling me something.
“Deane?” I said, pressing him. “Deane, what is it?”
Once again, he checked around to see if anyone could possibly be watching or listening. Then he drew close and put his lips against my ear.
“She’s not sick,” he whispered.
“What?”
“She doesn’t have cancer,” he went on. “She’s not dying. It was all a show for sympathy, and God knows what else. She’s as healthy as a horse. She’ll outlive us all, the old bitch.”
My eyes widened. I couldn’t believe it.
“What are you saying? Why on earth would she make something like that up? Why would she want me to think she was terminally ill with only a short time—?”
I hardly got the question out before I knew the answer myself.
Looking at me with a stony, knowing expression, Deane said: “You tell me.”
We nodded to one another in mutual comprehension. Deane turned around and started heading for the house. I got into my car and drove slowly down the driveway, glancing back at the great estate in my rearview mirror. I saw Deane go inside and close the front door behind him.
Then I caught a glimpse of someone watching me from a window on the second floor. Slamming on the brakes, I jumped out of the car and faced the house, looking up at the window. I saw Frances Griffin glaring down at me, rocking back and forth, her demented laughter ringing out in the winter air.
I stretched out my arm and aimed it at her, pointing an accusatory finger. As I did so, her ghastly laughter stopped. Her face froze. She stepped back from the window into the shadows. With that, the curtain fell.