AllFreeNovel
Share Us
To my dismay, my eyes well up again. “There’s nothing anyone can do.”
“At least let me take you out for a drink—so we can talk about it.”
“Thanks, but talking isn’t going to help.” It comes out more snidely than I’d intended, but I’m not in the mood to care about my manners. Besides, I can’t become too reliant on Mikoto, crying on her shoulder at the drop of a hat. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”
I brush past her and keep moving north, until Allen morphs into First Avenue, and then finally turn right on Seventh Street. The thought of being in my apartment alone suddenly fills me with dread and I end up continuing east past my building. At Avenue A, I cross the street and hurry along the southern end of Tompkins Square Park to a divey bar on the corner of Avenue B, a spot I’d been to with friends from the website where I once worked. Thankfully it’s only a quarter full. In the back, I settle down at a beat-up wooden table by a door that says “Employees Only. Do Not Enter” in huge, bold letters, as if anyone else who steps through will burst into flames. Actually, bursting into flames doesn’t sound half bad right now.
The waitress moseys over, her hair a mix of pink, purple, and blue strands. I order a white wine, only fitting, it seems, since that’s what people at the gallery are drinking in those little plastic cups right now. The front room is probably already packed with hip, downtown types, none of them—other than Josh and Nell—aware that my collages are resting against a wall in the back office in desperate need of repair.
Arethey repairable? I finally ask myself. With the help of adhesive remover, I can certainly scrape or peel off the damaged image on each collage, but then what? These aren’t paintings that simply can be touched up. For one of the collages, unfortunately not the one with a buyer, I know I can find an exact replica of the image that was damaged, but there’s little chance of that with the other nine. I’ll have to find new images for the empty spots, images I not only find compelling on their own but make the collage as a whole come together again. Of course, no matter what I come up with, the pieces will never be the way I first envisioned them.
And even if I do manage to repair each and every one and Josh confirms another show, what guarantee do I have that Jane Whaley’s minion won’t return and try to wreck the new ones as well? For that matter, whatelsedoes she have in store for me?
The wine arrives and as soon as I take a sip, I’m seeing the party again in my mind’s eye, and Josh offering up the lame “damaged en route” excuse to anyone who even remembers there was a second artist listed on the invitation.Josh, the guy I actually thought might be interested in me. Though I’d always known he was slick, I’d found that appealing in its own way. He knew what he wanted and didn’t hesitate to go after it, wielding his charm when it could pay off for him. But I’d glimpsed him tonight in a whole new light. Frenzied, the opposite of smooth, more worried about the fate of the party and his potential liability than what the damage meant for me—and then relieved-looking when he found out I’d probably brought the nightmare on myself.
My phone pings from inside my purse, startling me. I dig it out and see that there’s a text from Nicky.
Hey, are you okay?
Can she really think Imightbe?
Instead, I type,Just having a drink, trying to process everything.
I wish there was something we could do. We all feel devastated.
For the first time I can recall, I feel livid with my younger sister. She’s trying to be helpful, of course, trying to ease the sting of our mother’s veiled disdain tonight by encouraging me to think it’s all in my head. But by covering for our mother over the years it’s only made matters worse, I realize. She’s allowed me to hold out hope, to pretend I might simply be misinterpreting the situation when that isn’t the case at all. Now, I finally get it.
I’m tempted to order another glass of wine just so I don’t have to go home yet, but it has a cheap, weird aftertaste. And I’d only be delaying the inevitable: sitting in my apartment with just Tuna for company. I signal for the check, pay without swallowing the last inch in the glass, and step into the night again.
Though I’ve been in the bar less than an hour, it feels much cooler outside now. The wind has kicked up, too, blowing plastic bags and scraps of paper down Avenue B. I glance to my right, into the park. It’s open until midnight, but from this angle, there seems to be no one in there.
Seventh Street, at least the block I’m trudging along now, seems deserted, too. I pick up my pace, unsettled by how desolate it feels. A dog barks from somewhere inside the park, and a second later I hear the muffled command of its owner. As I glance instinctively toward the sounds, I catch sight of something out of the corner of my eye and twist my neck to see behind me. There’s a man back there walking in the same direction as I am. He’s tall and stocky, and wears a long black coat, but I can’t quite make out his face in the darkness.
I quickly face forward again. Avenue A isn’t that far, and I can see cars shooting by on it, trying to catch the green light. Just to play things safe, I increase my pace even more.
But so does he. With my stomach dropping, I hear the scuff ofhis shoes on the sidewalk and a few seconds later, the muted pant of his breath.
It’s nothing, I tell myself.He’s probably in a hurry, too.But a second later, a primitive part of my brain orders me to sprint, and I’m running as fast as I can in my chunky heels, praying that I won’t end up splayed on the sidewalk.
The crosswalk light on Avenue A changes from Walk to Don’t Walk just as I approach the corner, and I skid to a stop, nearly colliding with another man.
“Whoa, look out,” he exclaims. He’s out walking a small brown and white dog and looks annoyed.
“Sorry, someone was following me,” I say, gasping for breath. As I spin around, he follows my gaze. No one’s there. Not the man in the overcoat, not anyone. He must have ducked into the park from a Seventh Street entrance point. The dogwalker, a guy of about sixty with a bristly beard, shrugs and resumes walking.
Once the traffic light changes, I dash across the avenue, and though my lungs are still tight from exertion, I jog the half block to my building and race up the three flights of stairs. It takes a few seconds to slide the key into the lock, but I finally manage to open the door and stumble into the apartment.
Tuna’s on the back of the couch, licking a paw, and she eyes me intently, as if she senses something isn’t right. Stripping off my blazer while I move, I do a quick check of the apartment and then drop onto the couch. My heart’s beating so hard I can feel it in my fingertips. After catching a few more breaths, I peel off my boots, which already look like crap. That’s the problem with cheap, trendy boots you order online. You’re not really supposed to walk in the fucking things.
I flop my head back against the lumpy cushion. Was that guy behind me just in a hurry, headed into the park for drugs or a hookup or simply to burn off steam? Or was he sent by Jane Whaley? Everyone of her ambushes has seemed to come out of nowhere, and I won’t have a clue when the next one will happen or what it might entail. She defaced my art and ruined my opening, and it’s hard to imagine what could be worse.
That’s wrong, actually. Dying could be worse. For the first time, it occurs to be that my life could be in danger. Whaley bragged yesterday about her team of lawyers, but it’s possible they’ve told her that she doesn’t have much of a case against me, and she’s been toying with other options. If I die, the trust will bypass her and go to her kids, but that might provide all the satisfaction she needs.
Behind me I feel Tuna shift position, and I twist around to make sure she’s okay. As I run a hand down her silky back, I notice her eyes suddenly dart to the right, and I spin back around, thinking she might have seen a mouse, but there’s nothing there.
Just thinkingmouse, though, triggers a memory of a comment Jane Whaley made the first time we met. “Go ahead, scurry away like a little mouse,” she’d said. That’s exactly what I did. And it’s what I’ve been doing tonight as well. Scurrying out of the gallery, scurrying away from my family, scurrying home down Seventh Street. In fact, it’s what I’ve been doing ever since I met her—running scared. I’m afraid every time I enter my apartment, afraid to even venture into my own studio to work on my art.
I can’t let her win. I can’t allow her to destroy my chance of living life as an artist... and realizing my dream of parenthood. I have to find a way to stop her.
