YOU’RE A FUCKING PARASITE
LIVING OFF JUDITH’S WORK
I BET YOU’RE GLAD SHE’S DEAD
DID YOU KILL HER, PAUL?
FUCKING LOWLIFE
MONSTER
He rereads it several times, just as he reread the last one, though he isn’t smiling, isn’t pleased, and the paper trembles in his hand. He tells himself this is just another crackpot like Eddie, but it feels different. Worse. He reaches for his whiskey bottle, unscrews the top shakily, and takes a long, hot swallow. As it pools heavily in his stomach, he burps. He lets the letter and envelope drop to the floor instead oftearing them up—he isn’t sure why—but then he stares down, compulsively rereading.
The truth is, heisa parasite. What else could he be? Though technically he isn’t “living off Judith’s work”—theHarper’scheck still hasn’t arrived, and even when it does, it won’t give him any great financial boost. But heisprofiting from her work in other, less material ways, and he may profit greatly after this gallery show, so…the label will be irrefutable then. He fixates on the word and takes it in, lets it settle inside him. It almost feels good—cathartic, anyway—to let the wordparasiteattach to him—like a parasite itself.A parasite living off a parasite, he thinks with a dry chuckle. The word pierces the skin of the dream he’s been living since theHarper’sfeature appeared, and for the moment he welcomes it, savors its blunt truth.
A blunt truth he would never publicly own, of course.
A blunt truth he’ll soon shove to a shadowed corner of his brain.
After a long while, he reaches down to pick up the letter with thumb and forefinger, scanning the words, wondering for the first time who wrote them. Certainly a woman; he can almost taste her woman’s rage.
But what woman? A deranged stranger, or someone he knows? Someone like his student Charlie, maybe. He doesn’t believe itisCharlie—not really—but someone like her: drawn to Judith’s work and the drama of her death, eager to blame Paul in the absence of anyone more deserving of blame. The writer is frustratingly unaware, too, of her own hypocrisy—because she would never have known about Judithwithout Paul’s involvement. And she’d never have had the opportunity to hate him, then.
He wonders if she’s written more.
He returns to the pile, recoiling from the thought of finding another but still sifting through the letters quickly, almost eagerly. Finally, he dumps them all on the floor and gets on his knees to survey them.
After a few minutes, he’s certain: there are no other envelopes addressed to him in block letters with a missing return address.
He should be relieved—and he is, to some degree. But he also wants more.More information, he tells himself, so he can figure out who this epistolary enemy might be. But he also craves more nastiness and hurt: the delicious pinch of real feeling at a time when his life often feels unreal. Wonderful, but sometimes unbelievable.Fucking parasite, though, he can easily believe.
He picks up the letter and rereads it, letting it prick him all over again.
22.
The next morning, with a hot cup of black coffee in hand and rays of sun warming his kitchen, Paul rereads the scolding letter and laughs out loud. It’s childish. Pathetic. A missive from someone’s deranged mind. Why did he let it bother him so much? Paul isn’t a parasite; he’s a hero for bringing attention to Judith’s work. Other letter writers have said as much—like the woman artist from Arkansas, and many more. Why listen to some hateful outlier when most voices praise and thank him?It’s a choice, he tells himself.And I choose not to listen anymore.
He folds the letter up and slides it into its envelope. Sets it carefully on his desk. He won’t destroy it the way he did “Eddie’s”; destroying it would mean it has power over him. He’d rather treat it like just another letter in the pile. And the letters—good or bad, admiring or outraged—don’t mean much anyway. Far more important and worthy of his notice is the day ahead: his first as consulting curator at Doven Gallery. The most important job he’s ever had.
He takes more care than usual getting ready. With his brown pants he wears a white button-down shirt he forgot he had. A little tight across the chest, but he likes how he looks when he checks the mirror: serious, quietly stylish, and mature. Professional. He’s trimmed his beard and carefully combed his hair. His worn winter coat won’t make much of an impression, but he doesn’t need to make an impression—he’salreadyin. He heads for the train in high spirits, relishing the clear blue sky and hardly noticing the frigid air. The world feels electric, rich with possibility, and the usual sights and sounds of the city—even the frosted bags of garbage piled on the sidewalks—delight him.
When Paul enters the gallery, Jahan welcomes him with a firm handshake and a beaming smile.
“Mr. Sorenson, so wonderful to see you.” Paul thrills to the sound ofMr. Sorensoncoming from Jahan Davani’s lips but tells him to call him Paul—just as he did when they first met days ago. The two men take their seats on the aggressively modern, uncomfortable chairs Jahan seems to favor, and Jahan leans forward, his brown eyes warm and keenly focused.
“I want this to be an iconic show. Legendary. And, Paul, you will play a huge part, involved in everything—but not the tiresome things. My staff will handle those.” He gives a big laugh, and Paul tries to match it. The thought of staff handling “the tiresome things” is extraordinary, thrilling—but he tries to act as though he’s long been a stranger to grunt work.
“The show is about Judith, yes, but it’s also about you,” Jahan goes on, pointing his forefinger at Paul.About me?Paul wants to ask, letting himself imagine, for a moment, that Jahan saw his old photograph inHarper’sand wants to feature his work alongside Judith’s. “You and Judith are fused in the public mind. Judith is the star, of course,” Jahan says, evaporating Paul’s little dream. “Her work will be the centerpiece. So will her death—whether we like it or not. But the story of ‘Judith and Paul’ is compelling, too, the one about this singular talent discovered by her brilliant photography instructor. People adore stories like this, so you must know how crucial you are—both behind the scenes and out on the main stage.” Here, Jahan makes a sweeping gesture with his arms. Paul has the sudden impulse to stand and take a bow—and he’s almost giddy enough at Jahan’s words to do it.
“Now. Let me give you the grand tour, introduce you to the staff. They’re absolutely dying to meet you.” Paul floats up out of his chairand drifts after Jahan, allowing himself to revel in the moment as he shakes hands with one eager staff member after another. With each handshake, he discards more and more of his old self—the shabby college instructor and has-been photographer—and leans into the bright new person who belongs in this goldenworld.
23.
Outside, Paul leans against the window of a closed florist and lights a cigarette. The smoke fills him up, tastes delicious. He lets his mind drift over the past several hours: meeting Tasha, Jahan’s gorgeous assistant, who seemed to instantly like him; seeing the rooms to be filled with Judith’s framed photographs, and his own printed words; signing the contract that saidCONSULTING CURATORin all caps.
In all caps like:FUCKING PARASITE. I BET YOU’RE GLAD SHE’S DEAD.
The words jolt him out of his reverie. He forgets the glory of the day and fixates on the letter again—especially the accusation that he’s “glad she’s dead.” He isn’tgladshe’s dead, but he can’t deny that things are working out for himbecause she died. If she hadn’t, and if she’d ever published her photographs—which was doubtful—he’d have been a brief mention in her interviews at most.I had a photography instructor who pushed me to send out my work. I resisted but finally did it, thanks to him…She wouldn’t have named him, because who would need to know his name? Only hers would have mattered.
