In 1824 Francisco de Goya traded his internal exile for the truer kind, moving to Bordeaux, where he died four years later. Medical treatment was the official reason, but disaffection with the reactionary regime in Spain was the more likely cause. Or maybe, Teresa considered, he just needed to escape the house he had defaced with his misery. He never recorded his feelings about the Black Paintings. He never spoke of them. Leading many to assume that he had not made them, for how could work of such terrifying magnificence go unmentioned? Goya suffered the usual illnesses and regrets of old men, but as far as history could report, no demon haunted his last days.
“You think it was all invented?” Dave asked, hunched over his coffee. He had a small reddish dent on his forehead that was likely permanent, but otherwise he was unbruised and unhampered by pain for the first time since Teresa had met him.
“All what? There was a painting. We saw it.”
“You know what I mean. The power to unhinge the mind. To kill.”
“Art has power,” Teresa said, clutching her own coffee mug. The November chill on Amsterdam Avenue had gotten to her. “We’re moved to tears by poetry, or by music.”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“It is,” she insisted. “It’s a matter of degree. People walk out of disturbing plays, or have heart attacks during movies. There’s this bad boy author whose stuff is so provocative that audience members pass out at his readings.”
“That’s, like, power of suggestion or something.”
“Exactly. That’s exactly what it is. Grandpa Morse invites a nervous, overweight expert to see the portrait. The guy has already heard and read everything. He’s strung tight as a bow. The scene is set, the lights are dim, he’s left alone to pull off the cloth and...”
“Kapow goes his heart,” said Dave, nodding. “You think Alfred meant to kill him?”
“He couldn’t have planned on it, but I don’t think he was sorry.”
“That’s what DeGross said.” Dave leaned back and glanced around the cramped Hungarian Pastry Shop. Students, visitors to Saint John the Divine Cathedral across the street, artists, the lost and lonely, all crowded in on this gray day to load up on caffeine and oversweet strudel. Despite being rested and healed, Dave was missing something vital, Teresa thought. He was like one of those working dogs—a border collie, maybe—when it did not have a job to do. Anxious and blue. “What about James?”
“What about him?”
“That wasn’t just fear. It sounds like he became someone else.”
“You never knew him,” Teresa said sadly. “You relied on my portrayal, and I’ve come to understand that I didn’t know him either. Not everything. I heard more from Laurena about the incidents at school, going at Audrey with the knife. Apparently he could be violent, on small provocation. Look, he shoved my grandmother down the terrace steps before he had even seen the portrait. The sweet part of him, which was real, which is who he mostly was, couldn’t reconcile his own behavior. He needed an explanation. It was the painting making him do it. He fought and lost, and then it owned him. He was sweet, gentle James ninety percent of the time. And the demon when he was angry, when he wanted to harm. I don’t think it was put on. I think he believed it completely.”
“That’s pretty extraordinary,” he said. Sounding either skeptical or disappointed, she could not tell which.
“I’m sorry, Dave. Did you want it to be magic?”
He looked briefly irritated, but then smiled.
“Sure. Didn’t you?”
“Once upon a time.”
“We’ll have to settle for bringing it back into the world. That’s all I wanted to do when I started out. Recover lost great art.”
“I guess we did that.”
“I wasn’t gloating,” he said quickly. “I know the cost was too high, Teresa.”
So it was. She had spent the last month meditating on the losses the discovery had incurred. Pete had been courting destruction since he got out of prison. She did not celebrate his death, but she wondered who else he might have taken with him had he hung around longer. James would haunt her for the rest of her life. She had so desperately wanted to save him. Yet the fate he most feared had surely awaited. Institutionalization. Mind-scrubbing medication. Was it craven of her to squeeze solace from the knowledge that he had escaped all that? The worst damage may have been to the living.
“Audrey sends regards,” Teresa said.
“Huh.” Dave looked uneasy. “How is she?”
“No idea, honestly. She left the country as soon as they decided not to charge her.”
“They didn’t have anything. Shotgun wasn’t loaded. She didn’t shoot Pete, and that could have been self-defense. It would have taken Ilsa pursuing the vandalism, or you reporting the hammer attack.”
“You’re the only one I told about that,” Teresa replied, trying to sound casual. “It wasn’t much of an attack.”
“She could easily have killed you,” he said, seeing her discomfort. If Audrey did harm in the years to come, it would be on Teresa’s head. For not exposing the dangerous creature she had glimpsed behind that cool-girl exterior. No one else would agree, but Teresa understood that she had taken responsibility for her cousin. They were bound.
“If she shot Pete, would you have covered for her?”
“I don’t know,” Dave answered after a pause. “Maybe. Where is she, anyway?”
“Croatia. The Dalmatian Coast.”
“I hear it’s quite the place,” Dave said with a wistful smile.
“She sounded okay, better than I expected. It was the first time I’d heard from her since, you know.” She paused for a sip of coffee, trying not to say more, and failing. “You should go over there and find her.”
Dave gave her a long and poignant look.
“No,” he said with quiet finality. “That’s not happening. How is Philip?”
“Still in rehab. Speaking normally now, but he’s not right. Head trauma. There could be lasting personality change.”
“Sorry if I’m not broken up,” said Dave. “He’s more or less responsible for all of this. If he didn’t have the decency to die, the least he can do is change his rotten personality.”
“You cash that check?” she asked, which was unkind of her.
“I did,” he answered without apology. “It got me through the last month, but something needs to break soon.”
“They suspended your license.”
“Only in Connecticut. Oh, and Florida, but that’s old. I’m still good in New York, for now. Did Fred ever show up?”
“Last week, motel room in Nevada. Alcohol poisoning. Laurena has him in a clinic now. This will be his third try, and after what happened to his son...”
“You think he knew it was James? That day in the woods?”
“Maybe not consciously. But any parent knows his child, even at a distance. The way they hold themselves, the way they move. Something registered.”
“With you, too?”
“Faintly. I was still trying to make him into my father at that point.”
“Yeah. How is your mother?”
“Doing better than anyone. She told Ilsa the family won’t contest. Ilsa’s selling the house and there’s been talk of setting up a fund. Medical expenses for Philip and Fred, maybe a trust that ends up with the remaining grandchildren. Eventually.”
“How about that? They should have left it to the women in the first place.”
“The only thing is Audrey put a curse on any of us who touched that money. So I don’t know. I may have to work for a living.”
“Take it from me, it sucks.”
“No, you love it. It’s what you do. Hunt clues, get people to reveal themselves. You’re good at it.”
“You’re generous. That was the most screwed-up, unsystematic investigation of my life. Kind of hard when your employer is your biggest obstacle, but still. You’re pretty good at it yourself. We should go into business.”
She was so tempted to take him seriously that she did not let herself answer.
“Is the art collection all settled?” Dave asked.
“My work is done. At least until the will clears probate. I’ve been painting. I quit for a long time, but I’m feeling the urge again.”
“That’s great. Can I ask what?”
“A portrait. It was a request, though at this point it’s really just for me. Hey,” she said, before he could ask her any more on the topic. “Did you call your wife?”
“Oh.” He was surprised she remembered, or maybe surprised that he had mentioned it. “Ex-wife. Yes, I did.”
“How did that go?”
“Pretty well, I guess. She wasn’t thrilled to hear from me, but she did listen patiently.”
“You needed to hear yourself say it,” Teresa replied. “So? Is a reconciliation possible?”
“Reconciliation?” He looked puzzled, then amused. “Is that what you thought? No, she remarried years ago. They have two kids. Like you said, I just needed to do it, for me.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Are there any more women you want to throw me at, or are we done?”
She covered her face and laughed. It felt good, even with her embarrassment.
“Um, I’ll let you know. Thanks for doing this, Dave. Coming up here.”
“My pleasure. I’ve thought about you pretty often this last month.”
“Yeah? You had my phone number.”
“I wanted to give you space. You went through a lot. Would have been understandable if you wanted to forget everyone and everything associated with the whole business.”
“I’m not a forgetter.”
“Well, don’t be a dweller in the past either. Also, you know. I’m a little old to be hanging out with college girls.”
“How old are you, anyway?”
“Forty last June. A very old forty.”
“Big deal. I’ll be twenty-seven in January. My father was twenty years older than my mother. Oh, God,” she laughed again, “look at your face.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry, I’m not confused. You are not my father, and I am not your wife. Just, next time you’re going to the Jersey Shore, give me a call.”
“Pretty bleak down there this time of year,” he mused. “Then again, it’s a long time until next summer.”
Neither of them said any more until they had paid up and were standing on the sidewalk.
The face of the cathedral rose dramatically before them. There were no tall buildings around to challenge its scale. The soot-blackened statues above the doors were life-size, Teresa knew, yet from here looked tiny in the massive and richly ornamented face. The gray sky broke open in blue patches, and low clouds raced above the perpetually half-finished towers.
“Amazing, huh?” said Dave.
“I never get tired of looking at it,” she replied.
“Teresa. It’s not my business, but I can’t get it out of my head. Why do you think your father showed you that portrait?”
She gazed at the sky a little longer before turning to face him. He had such a kind and curious way of looking at her. Men were always searching for their own reflection in women’s faces. Not Dave.
“He was trying to heal me. Trying to calm my noisy mind. Call it shock therapy, if you want, but he meant it with love. I’m not angry with him, Dave. Don’t you be.”
“All right.”
“Have you been inside,” she asked, gesturing to the great church.
“Not for many years.”
“Do you want to go in?”
“Don’t you have class or something?”
“Yes or no?”
“Yes,” he said. “I would like that.”
They crossed the avenue together, and started up the wide stone steps.
* * * * *