Page 38 of A Happy Catastrophe

For a while, we’re all talking and laughing and doing Common Core math problems, and Lola shows me the scarf she’s knitting for William. For the second time this week, Justin and Mookie try to teach us all how to do the Floss, which is a dance that looks simple but defies my attempts to master it. Fritzie is the only one who catches onto it immediately. Lola shows us how to do the Charleston, because she actually remembers learning it from her mom, and amid all the laughter, I actually have to take a moment to look around me at this delightful assortment of human beings. All of them perfect and hopeful and yet just the slightest bit sad from missing somebody who can’t be there.

Sad, but soldiering on anyway. I think I might burst from how much I love them all.

After dinner, when I come back from tucking Fritzie into bed, Lola takes me aside. “What’s up with Patrick?” she says. “Why isn’t he out here with us?”

“He’s working on paintings for his show. He grabs dinner later. Doesn’t like interruptions when he’s creating.”

“Hmm,” she says, and I can hear how weird this must sound. Patrick not participating in life at all. Like the old Patrick.

“A guy is coming soon to interview him about his ‘comeback,’ and I think he’s trying to get a lot of work done ahead of that. He’s nervous about not having enough.” I make air quotes when I say the word comeback. Patrick doesn’t like to think of it that way.

Even as I’m saying this—and Lola’s eyes are searching my face—I can feel myself realize that that’s not what’s really happening.

What is happening is that Patrick is withdrawing, edging further and further away. He pretty much stays in the apartment across the hall most evenings now. I invite him to join all of us for dinner, but lately he mostly brushes me away. He has a litany of reasons he throws out:

He’s working hard, he says.

He needs to concentrate.

Once he gets going on a painting, he has trouble stopping. And some days he has trouble starting.

Also: he’s thinking of what he will say in the interview with Inside Outside. He could easily say the wrong thing, he says.

Also: he probably shouldn’t have agreed to the writeup in the magazine.

Also: maybe he shouldn’t have agreed to do a show at all. Who does he think he is anyway, staging a comeback? Coming back from what, exactly? People will think it sounds pretentious.

But I don’t say any of that to Lola. After she and William Sullivan leave and the teenagers have gone downstairs, though, I go across the hall to his studio. “Patrick?” I call softly.

He’s not in the main room. I stop at the easel next to the window. Usually he doesn’t want me to see what he’s working on. He says he doesn’t believe in showing things in the middle of working on them. The pictures change—the light, the mood, even the message each painting has. It’s all so subjective, he says, that it can be altered simply from being looked at by someone else.

But there it is. I don’t understand all I should about abstract expressionism, but I feel a shiver looking at this painting. It’s all browny-green algae-colored piles of paint. A minimal smear of discordant color tones—at the side. Is that an eye? It looks like an eye. I move closer and tighten my arms around myself.

“Patrick?” I say softly. I hear a stirring from the other room, and Roy comes out and trots over to me, meowing. He winds himself around my legs, and I lean over and pet him.

When I get to the back room, Patrick is sitting on the floor. There’s a large canvas propped against the wall facing him, and he is staring at it, with his head propped on his hands.

His eyes slowly turn to me, and he gets up, startled. He had been so deep in thought that he hadn’t heard me.

I feel my heart clutch in alarm. “Patrick,” I say again. “Honey . . .”

Because what I’ve just realized is that Patrick’s face is so sad and drawn that he hardly looks like himself anymore. How had I not noticed this before?

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

PATRICK

He hears Marnie calling him, and he makes the decision to pull himself together. He scrambles to his feet and composes his face into a smile, puts on an imitation of a man who’s doing fine. He feels like his mouth is filled with dust.

“Hi,” he says. “I was just coming back over. Is everybody gone?” His voice sounds thick and clotted, even to his own ears. He’s shaky, standing up so fast.

“What’s the matter?” she says in alarm and crosses over to him. Oh God. Her face searching his. It’s all he can do not to tell her. Because he knows she’s seeing it all anyway: how the paintings are ripping him up, how cracked he is. Maybe he’s in some kind of stupid existential crisis; isn’t that what people call it? He could say, “Hi, Marnie. I can hear your voice and see your face, but all around you is dust and death. I can’t participate in the love story you’re envisioning.”

But what good would it do to tell her? What can she do? Instead he says in a soft voice, “It’s nothing. Really. I’m just tired. Has everybody left yet?”

“They just left,” she says. “Didn’t you want to come over and eat with us?”

Words show up from somewhere. “I can’t stop when I’ve got something going. I needed to get this painting under control.” He can feel the edge of irritation in his voice and tries to tamp it down, but he can see from her face that he didn’t manage it all that well. He turns away and goes over to the counter, puts a coffee cup down in the sink and runs the water in it. Feels the water running on his hands. Remembers falling down the day of the fire, trying to get to the water.

“And is it?” she says. “Are you unhappy with it or something? What’s wrong?”

“I’m just exhausted,” he says. And then he turns toward her. “Come on,” he says and takes her hand. See how I’m trying? Don’t I get some points for that, at least? “Let’s get out of here. Is there any of that delicious-smelling food left? Hey, did I hear Lola and William out there, too?”

“Yeah,” she says. “They were here. Lola wanted to know if you were okay.”

“I got caught up with work.”

She’s looking at him way too closely.

They move through the studio. He throws a drop cloth over the painting in the front room, hoping she hadn’t seen it.

But of course she had. He can tell by the way she recoils a little bit, just passing it. It’s what alarmed her in the first place, most likely. “Is that the new one?” she says.

“Yeah. One of them.”

“Patrick, it’s so sad. It actually made me shiver.”

“Well, that’s what art is supposed to do,” he says. “It’s not all little flowers and puppies, you know. It’s art.”

She doesn’t answer. He knows he’s been too mean now. Crossed a line into being actually insulting. So he kisses her on the cheek and says he’s sorry. Tells her that something smells really good.

“I think you must be starved,” she says. She’s made red curry, she says. She bets that his blood sugar has dropped. How many hours since he’s eaten? It’s easy to feel overwhelmed and not even know why. Isn’t there a term now for that—hangry? He must be hangry.

while, we’re all talking and laughing and doing Common Core math problems, and Lola shows me the scarf she’s knitting for William. For the second time this week, Justin and Mookie try to teach us all how to do the Floss, which is a dance that looks simple but defies my attempts to master it. Fritzie is the only one who catches onto it immediately. Lola shows us how to do the Charleston, because she actually remembers learning it from her mom, and amid all the laughter, I actually have to take a moment to look around me at this delightful assortment of human beings. All of them perfect and hopeful and yet just the slightest bit sad from missing somebody who can’t be there.

Sad, but soldiering on anyway. I think I might burst from how much I love them all.

After dinner, when I come back from tucking Fritzie into bed, Lola takes me aside. “What’s up with Patrick?” she says. “Why isn’t he out here with us?”

“He’s working on paintings for his show. He grabs dinner later. Doesn’t like interruptions when he’s creating.”

“Hmm,” she says, and I can hear how weird this must sound. Patrick not participating in life at all. Like the old Patrick.

“A guy is coming soon to interview him about his ‘comeback,’ and I think he’s trying to get a lot of work done ahead of that. He’s nervous about not having enough.” I make air quotes when I say the word comeback. Patrick doesn’t like to think of it that way.

Even as I’m saying this—and Lola’s eyes are searching my face—I can feel myself realize that that’s not what’s really happening.

What is happening is that Patrick is withdrawing, edging further and further away. He pretty much stays in the apartment across the hall most evenings now. I invite him to join all of us for dinner, but lately he mostly brushes me away. He has a litany of reasons he throws out:

He’s working hard, he says.

He needs to concentrate.

Once he gets going on a painting, he has trouble stopping. And some days he has trouble starting.

Also: he’s thinking of what he will say in the interview with Inside Outside. He could easily say the wrong thing, he says.

Also: he probably shouldn’t have agreed to the writeup in the magazine.

Also: maybe he shouldn’t have agreed to do a show at all. Who does he think he is anyway, staging a comeback? Coming back from what, exactly? People will think it sounds pretentious.

But I don’t say any of that to Lola. After she and William Sullivan leave and the teenagers have gone downstairs, though, I go across the hall to his studio. “Patrick?” I call softly.

He’s not in the main room. I stop at the easel next to the window. Usually he doesn’t want me to see what he’s working on. He says he doesn’t believe in showing things in the middle of working on them. The pictures change—the light, the mood, even the message each painting has. It’s all so subjective, he says, that it can be altered simply from being looked at by someone else.

But there it is. I don’t understand all I should about abstract expressionism, but I feel a shiver looking at this painting. It’s all browny-green algae-colored piles of paint. A minimal smear of discordant color tones—at the side. Is that an eye? It looks like an eye. I move closer and tighten my arms around myself.

“Patrick?” I say softly. I hear a stirring from the other room, and Roy comes out and trots over to me, meowing. He winds himself around my legs, and I lean over and pet him.

When I get to the back room, Patrick is sitting on the floor. There’s a large canvas propped against the wall facing him, and he is staring at it, with his head propped on his hands.

His eyes slowly turn to me, and he gets up, startled. He had been so deep in thought that he hadn’t heard me.

I feel my heart clutch in alarm. “Patrick,” I say again. “Honey . . .”

Because what I’ve just realized is that Patrick’s face is so sad and drawn that he hardly looks like himself anymore. How had I not noticed this before?

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

PATRICK

He hears Marnie calling him, and he makes the decision to pull himself together. He scrambles to his feet and composes his face into a smile, puts on an imitation of a man who’s doing fine. He feels like his mouth is filled with dust.

“Hi,” he says. “I was just coming back over. Is everybody gone?” His voice sounds thick and clotted, even to his own ears. He’s shaky, standing up so fast.

“What’s the matter?” she says in alarm and crosses over to him. Oh God. Her face searching his. It’s all he can do not to tell her. Because he knows she’s seeing it all anyway: how the paintings are ripping him up, how cracked he is. Maybe he’s in some kind of stupid existential crisis; isn’t that what people call it? He could say, “Hi, Marnie. I can hear your voice and see your face, but all around you is dust and death. I can’t participate in the love story you’re envisioning.”

But what good would it do to tell her? What can she do? Instead he says in a soft voice, “It’s nothing. Really. I’m just tired. Has everybody left yet?”

“They just left,” she says. “Didn’t you want to come over and eat with us?”

Words show up from somewhere. “I can’t stop when I’ve got something going. I needed to get this painting under control.” He can feel the edge of irritation in his voice and tries to tamp it down, but he can see from her face that he didn’t manage it all that well. He turns away and goes over to the counter, puts a coffee cup down in the sink and runs the water in it. Feels the water running on his hands. Remembers falling down the day of the fire, trying to get to the water.

“And is it?” she says. “Are you unhappy with it or something? What’s wrong?”

“I’m just exhausted,” he says. And then he turns toward her. “Come on,” he says and takes her hand. See how I’m trying? Don’t I get some points for that, at least? “Let’s get out of here. Is there any of that delicious-smelling food left? Hey, did I hear Lola and William out there, too?”

“Yeah,” she says. “They were here. Lola wanted to know if you were okay.”

“I got caught up with work.”

She’s looking at him way too closely.

They move through the studio. He throws a drop cloth over the painting in the front room, hoping she hadn’t seen it.

But of course she had. He can tell by the way she recoils a little bit, just passing it. It’s what alarmed her in the first place, most likely. “Is that the new one?” she says.

“Yeah. One of them.”

“Patrick, it’s so sad. It actually made me shiver.”

“Well, that’s what art is supposed to do,” he says. “It’s not all little flowers and puppies, you know. It’s art.”

She doesn’t answer. He knows he’s been too mean now. Crossed a line into being actually insulting. So he kisses her on the cheek and says he’s sorry. Tells her that something smells really good.

“I think you must be starved,” she says. She’s made red curry, she says. She bets that his blood sugar has dropped. How many hours since he’s eaten? It’s easy to feel overwhelmed and not even know why. Isn’t there a term now for that—hangry? He must be hangry.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com