The Marriage of Sticks Page 7

  “A miserable woman, but quite a good painter. I have a small watercolor by her I want to sell. Would you be willing to look into the best way for me to do it?”

  I told her about James Stillman and me, about his dealings with the Adcock estate, and what happened to him afterwards.

  “Too bad you two didn’t meet when you were older; you’d probably be happily married with a house full of kids. But that happens: we keep meeting people or having experiences at the wrong time. The greatest love of my life was a man named Shumda, but I didn’t know that till I was ten years smarter. When we were together, I was just a kid auditioning different men for mad love affairs. I was looking for heat, not light.

  “You know how we look back and say, ‘Gee, I was dumb when I was seventeen.’ What if you look at it the other way—seventeen-year-old Miranda looks forward at you now. What would she have to say about what you’ve become?”

  “What would seventeen-year-old me think of me now?” I laughed.

  “Exactly. She’d probably be furious you didn’t marry this James and save him.”

  Hugh had given me his business card at the party. I called and we made an appointment to meet. Frances gave me the Adcock painting to show him. I was surprised she was willing to trust me with something so valuable.

  “You can only steal it. But if you do, then you won’t be able to come back and visit. I’d rather know me than rob me.”

  The day before our meeting, Hugh called to say he had to go to Dublin immediately. We could cancel the meeting, or he could arrange for one of his assistants to see me. I said the assistant would be fine. If necessary, we could meet after he returned. When I put the phone down I was disappointed, but nothing more.

  An hour before the appointment, I had a confrontation with the man I had been dating. He came into the shop all excited about a new video camera he’d just bought.

  Within fifteen minutes he was insulting me. He said I was cold and calculating. I’d squeezed him empty like a tube of toothpaste, then dropped him in the trash. I let him go on until all he had left was splutter.

  “I have an appointment now. I have to go.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”

  “Haven’t you said it all?” I stood up.

  I don’t know what my face said at that moment. My heart and stomach were calm. More than anything, I was glad it had come to this. Now I wouldn’t have to diplomatically sashay around him anymore. I’d have guessed my expression was nothing but empty. Who knows? Whatever was there, his eyes widened and he slapped me across the face.

  Staggering backward, I banged into a metal filing cabinet. The edge of it stabbed me in the small of the back. Crying out, I fell to my knees. I saw his feet coming toward me. I curled my body inward, sure he was going to beat me.

  He started laughing. “Look at you! That’s where you belong, on your fucking knees. Let me get a picture of this. I want to remember it.”

  I heard a whirring sound and, fearfully looking up, saw the camera up to his eye, pointing at me.

  “This I gotta have. What a memory!”

  It went on forever but I wasn’t about to do anything to anger him further.

  “Miranda, get off your knees, honey. You don’t have to beg me for anything. You’re the liberated woman.” He dropped the camera to his side and walked out.

  My mother used to hit me. Long after I’d grown up and could talk to her about such things, I asked why. She refused to admit she ever had. I said, “Don’t you remember the time I broke your purse and you slapped me?”

  “Oh, well of course, then. Dad gave me that bag.”

  “I know, Mom, but you hit me!”

  “You deserved it, dear. That’s not hitting.”

  All grown up, on my knees, petrified he would come back and do worse to me, I wondered if I deserved this too.

  I could call the police, but what might he do then? I felt helpless. So tough and clear in business, I easily held my own in most situations, but most situations didn’t scare you to your marrow where a child still lives and cowers at the real monsters walking the earth.

  Hugh Oakley’s office was in a building on Sixty-first Street. I went in spite of what had happened. I knew if I didn’t, I would have gone home and been afraid. I needed something to do. This meeting wasn’t so important that if I started crying again in the middle of it, I couldn’t leave fast.

  When I got out of the elevator, I took a couple of deep breaths and tried to pull myself together. For the next few minutes I could be cool, crisp, and professional. Try to avoid my fear that way. But when it was over I would have to return to the world where he lived. What could I do about that?

  The door was marked simply OAKLEY ASSOCIATES in the same letters Hugh had used to write down the book title for me at the party. As I put my hand on the brass doorknob, I heard, faintly, a violin inside the office playing something sprightly. I felt a jolt of joy. The unexpected music said there were still lovely things on earth. I went in.

  The outer office was furnished with antiques and paintings, but there was no sign of a receptionist. The phone on the desk was lit with blinking lights.

  The music grew much louder. I made out a flute and bass along with the violin. I know nothing about Irish music, but from the jump and flow, I had a hunch.

  A few steps farther into the office, I called out a tentative hello. Nothing. More steps, another hello. The music kept going, light and gay as a dance. I thought, What the hell, and went toward it. There were several rooms. One was open and I peeked in. The place looked like a laboratory. Test tubes and Bunsen burners… It reminded me too much of high school chemistry class and I moved on.

  At the end of the hall was another open door and that’s where the music was. It abruptly stopped and a woman said loudly, “Damn!”

  “That was good! Why’d you stop?”

  “Because I blew the damned passage again!”

  “Who cares?” Hugh said.

  “I care.”

  Walking over, I knocked on the door. “Hello?” Slowly poking my head in, I saw Hugh, a man, and a woman sitting in straight-backed chairs with music stands in front of them. Hugh had a violin on his lap, the woman had some kind of flute, the man an acoustic bass guitar.

  “Miranda, hi! Come in!”

  “Am I interrupting?”

  “No, we’re just practicing. Miranda Romanac, this is Courtney Hill and Ronan Mariner. We work together.”

  “Your music is wonderful.”

  “Our lunch hour. Come on, sit down. We’re going to run through this again and then we’ll talk. We’re playing ‘Ferny Hill.’ Do you know it?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t.”

  “You’ll love it. Let’s go.”

  They started playing. I started crying. I didn’t realize it until Courtney looked at me and her eyes widened. Then I felt tears on my cheeks and gave a gesture that said it was the music. And it was, more than anything else. Nothing could have been a more perfect antidote to what happened earlier. Irish folk music is the most schizophrenic I have ever heard. How can it be so sad and happy at the same time, even within the same note? Simple and direct, it tells you yes, the world is full of pain, but this is the way through. As long as you’re in the music, the bad things stay away. They performed the tune perfectly. For those few minutes, I cried and was more content than I had been in days.

  Finishing with a flourish, they looked at each other like kids who had sailed through a great adventure without a scratch.

  “That was beautiful.”

  “It was good, huh? But let’s get down to business. What have you brought us?” Hugh looked at me and obviously saw the tears but said nothing. I liked that.

  I undid the strings and paper around the painting and held it up so all three of them could see it at once. They looked at it, then at each other.

  “Is that what I think it is? A Lolly Adcock?”

  “Yes.”

  Hugh took it from me. The
y huddled over it, making quiet comments, pointing here and there.

  “Hugh didn’t say anything about you bringing in an Adcock.”

  “I would have, if I’d gone to Dublin,” Hugh said.

  Ronan rubbed his mouth. “You know what my gut reaction is? Stay the hell away from it, Hugh. Even if it’s real, after the Stillman fiasco, people are going to be gunning for anyone who authenticates an Adcock.”

  Hugh brought it close to his face and sniffed. “Doesn’t smell fake.”

  “It’s not funny, Hugh. You know exactly what he’s saying.”

  “I do, Courtney, but that’s our business, isn’t it? We call them as we see them. If we’re wrong, then we’re wrong. Who knows, we may find out it’s a fake when we check it out.”

  “I still agree with Ronan. Whatever we might get out of it, it’s not worth the trouble.” She looked at the painting and shook her head.

  “Fair enough, but would you begin to check it for me?” He spoke quietly. The others got quickly out of their chairs and headed for the door.

  We sat and listened to them walk down the hall. Far away, a door closed.

  “Why were you crying?”

  “I thought you were going to ask where I got the picture.”

  “Later. Why were you crying?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes. When you came in, your face was somewhere else. Someplace bad.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You weren’t expecting this.” He held up his violin. “You had a different face on and you had to change it very fast. For one second I could see you brought something awful in from outside. The tears proved it.”

  “You’re a good detective, Hugh.”

  “It’s only because I care.”

  What could I say to that? We sat long moments in silence.

  “Someone hit me.”

  “Do you need help with them?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why would someone want to hit you?”

  “He thinks I’m a bitch.”

  Hugh took two yellow hard candies from a shirt pocket and handed me one. As I unwrapped it, he opened the other and popped it in his mouth; then he picked up the violin and began to play quietly.

  “I don’t think I’m a bitch.”

  He smiled. “Who is he?”

  “A man I’ve been dating.”

  He nodded, silently saying, Go on. He played the Beatles’ “For No One.”

  I started out slowly but was full speed ahead in a few moments. I described how we’d met, the dates we’d had, things talked about, what I’d thought of him right up until the fateful slap.

  “A painting licker.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a man in England who goes around licking the paintings he loves. Locking’s not enough for him. He wants a more intimate experience with his favorite pictures, so when he’s at a museum and guards aren’t watching, he licks ‘em. He has a postcard collection of each one he’s done.”

  “Crazy.”

  “It is, but I understand it. I think that’s what happened with your man: he couldn’t have you and it drove him crazy. So he did the only thing he could do to own you for a few minutes: scared you. It always works. For today, or however long you’re going to be afraid of him, he does own you.”

  “Damn it! Damn that power men have. Whenever they don’t like something, they can always hit us. You’ll never know that feeling. Always that little bit of fear in our heart.”

  “Not all men hit women, Miranda.”

  “But you can, and that’s the difference.”

  A small white bullterrier ran into the room and over to Hugh.

  “Easy! Miranda, this is Easy. Whenever we play, she runs and hides. The only dog I’ve ever known that actively dislikes music.”

  “That breed always scares me.”

  “Bullterriers? She’s a cream puff. She only looks like a thief.”

  She looked more like a bleached pig, but her face was sweet and her tail was wagging so furiously that I couldn’t resist reaching out to pat her. She moved over to me and leaned like a stone against my leg.

  “Why do you call her Easy?”

  “My daughter named her. No reason. I brought her home from the kennel; Brigit took one look and said her name was Easy. Simple as that.”

  “How many children do you have?”

  “A daughter and a son. Brigit and Oisin. Oy-sheen.”

  “Oisin? Is that Irish?”

  “Yes. Both kids were born in Dublin.”

  “By the way, why didn’t you go to Dublin?”

  “Because you were coming. When you said you’d be happy to see my assistant, I thought, Uh oh, when would I see her again? I knew I had to be here.”

  Once again I tried to figure out how to respond.

  “You say things that throw me off, Hugh.”

  “People say I’m too direct. I didn’t go to Dublin because I had to see you again. It’s that simple.”

  Courtney called out from down the hall, asking him to come. He stood up, put the violin on the chair, and started out of the room. “I was going to call you the other day but you called me. I didn’t want to wait any longer. Ever since we met, most of my days seem to be about you.”

  He left me sitting with Easy leaning against my leg. It took a while before my body started shaking, but when it did, it came on strong. So strong that it roused the dog from her doze. She looked up at me. I closed my eyes. My heart pounded inside its cage of bones. I couldn’t wait for him to return.

  Here I am, an old woman with a shaky hand and a cheap pen, writing about sex. Is there any greater irony? Most of the time I cannot even recall what I ate yesterday. How do I presume to remember and write honestly about that most evanescent act, fifty years after it happened?

  I will stand up and walk to the kitchen. On the way I’ll think about how to do it. There are some chocolate cookies left. I want to eat two and drink a glass of cold water. Eating is sex for old people.

  This is my home, what’s left of a life in its final few rooms. There are some photographs. My parents. Hugh and me. Zoe on the porch of this house. The only piece of furniture I have kept over the years is Hugh’s easy chair. Despite having been re-covered two times it is shabby-looking now, but I would never give it away. On the table nearby is a photograph of Frances in her New York apartment. All of her possessions surround her, the paintings and rugs, that lush abundance of color so much a part of her being. The difference is, Frances wanted to remember everything. I don’t. Better to keep my last surroundings simple. Avoid any fatal memory or malevolent connection from things best left to their uneasy sleep in my heart.

  Certain things must be here. Most importantly the pile of sticks in the fireplace. Every one of those pieces of wood is important. Written on each is a date and a reason. I have never counted, but would guess there are twenty now. Hugh’s collection was much larger, but he started his years before I did.

  It was his idea: When anything truly important happens in your life, wherever you happen to be, find a stick in the immediate vicinity and write the occasion and date on it. Keep them together, protect them. There shouldn’t be too many; sort through them every few years and separate the events that remain genuinely important from those that were but no longer are. You know the difference. Throw the rest out.

  When you are very old, very sick, or sure there’s not much time left to live, put them together and burn them. The marriage of sticks.

  An hour after I visited his office to have the painting appraised, Hugh Oakley and I were walking through Central Park. He told me about the marriage of sticks and suggested I start my collection right then. I was so nervous about what was about to happen that without thinking, I did. It was from a copper beech tree. I knew nothing about trees then. Foliage, plants, things that grew. I was a city girl who was hurrying to a hotel to have sex with a man I knew was happily married with two children.

  “What’s
the matter?” He stopped and turned me so we were face to face. We were holding hands. A moment ago we’d been racing to get to a hotel. I assumed he’d been there before. How many other women had he sped along like this, rushing to get them into bed?

  “You look miserable.”

  “I’m not miserable, Hugh, I’m unstrung! Somebody hit me this morning, and now I’m here with you.” I stared at our clasped hands and kept staring while I spoke. “I don’t do things like this. It’s everything together, full volume. Dangerous, right, wrong… Everything. I thought you’d be in Ireland. I thought your assistant was going to appraise the painting and I’d go home. Not this. This is all new territory for me.”

  He looked around and, seeing a park bench, pulled me to it. “Sit down. Listen to me. What you’re doing is right. It’s your heart and the adventurous part all saying go. Our checks and balances hold us back too much from risking anything.

  “Don’t let them, Miranda. Do it. If nothing else, you’ll remember this later and say it was crazy but you’re glad you did it.”

  My eyes were closed. “Can I ask a question? Will you answer honestly?”

  “Anything.”

  I straightened my back. “Are you worth it?”

  I heard him take a sharp breath to answer but he stayed silent a long moment. “I think so. I hope so.”

  “Do you go to hotels a lot with women?”

  “No. Sometimes.”

  “That doesn’t makes me feel special.”

  “I’m not going to apologize for the person you didn’t know till today.”

  “That’s facile, Hugh. This is a big thing for me.”

  “I’ll do whatever you want, Miranda. We can stay here and talk. Go to a movie, or go somewhere and make love. It’s all the same to me. I just want to be with you.”

  Two Rollerbladers pounded by, followed by a bunch of kids in crooked caps, carrying a big boom box.

  We watched the parade pass before I spoke. “Know what I want to do? Before anything else?”

  “What?”

  “Go to the Gap and buy a pair of khakis.” It was a test, plain and simple. I said it only to see how he would react.