Vanishing

by Cai Emmons

  She hesitated in the hallway, other students hurrying past while she rode the accordion of leaving versus staying. She was paying for this, but she couldn’t stand to be stuck in the same room with Jane for another three hours. I won’t make a habit of this, she said to herself, turning to leave. Rupert was following her in his shuffling slippers—just her ruined luck.

  “I’d like a word with you.”

  He hadn’t said much to her for a couple of weeks. The things he had said were no help at all. Use the poles to create dynamism. How was she supposed to put comments like that to use? For all the money she was paying he should tell her how to fix things. Maybe she should just give up since it was clear he thought she was hopeless.

  He watched her now with the same assessing gaze he brought to her work. A quivering nose hair poked from one nostril. “You have potential, dear. But something is getting in your way.”

  Could she step mutely into the elevator and leave? The elevator opened, disgorging another posse of students who swished past. Hey, Rupert, they said, their voices more windy worship than words.

  “Jane is a wonderful model and challenging to draw. When you can draw her well you will have accomplished a great deal. Perhaps you’re too young to appreciate her.”

  “I can’t do anything about my age.”

  “Are you committed to this work, dear?”

  It didn’t feel as if he was talking to her, but to someone generally like her who he’d never respect. “Yeah.” Then more emphatically, “Yes.”

  “It’s not a question of: Today I am too tired. Today I am not in the mood. It’s a question of making this your life. You must hunger for it.”

  “I do hunger for it.”

  “Then go back in there and show me. By the way, it might interest you to know that Jane is a very accomplished woman. She has a PhD in art history. And she’s a member of Mensa.”

  For the next three hours Tasha drew in a blind rage. She drew her own hand. She drew one of the other students, a dirty-blonde with acne-scarred skin. She drew the tall windows, and a section of the building across the street. She ignored Rupert when he stopped behind her. She didn’t give a rip if the work was bad. She tried to ignore Jane too, but couldn’t completely because Jane had a way of taking over an entire room, her body a roaring dare: Understand I’m beautiful. At the end of the class Tasha tore up what she’d done and stuffed it into recycling.

  It was already dusk. The light was smudged piss-yellow. Her heart pulsed like a broken bike chain. A bald man in a long black overcoat passed her. All these men in stupid power-coats. His mouth gyrated in wild figure eights like a sprung-to-life gargoyle. You couldn’t tell who was crazy. Any passerby could turn on you. You were an anonymous body on whom others would play out their weird shit.

  She called him on a whim. He buzzed her up, said he’d leave the door ajar. The apartment was small, a studio. The window divided the gray twilight into dozens of black-framed squares. The TV was playing “Cake Boss.”

  Julian sprawled on a large bed by the window. Even from a distance she felt the mist of his black mood. Cake Boss and his cronies were circling one of their creations, a huge red sports car with a man at the wheel, all made of cake. She stood watching the screen, men discussing midlife crises.

  “Hi,” she finally said. Julian’s arm jutted forward like a lance to mute the TV. “Cool place,” she said.

  “It’s not going to happen.” He spoke to the ceiling. “It hit me today. I’m not going to be The Man. Not even for a minute.”

  She dropped her stuff, went to the end of the bed and perched there. “How do you know? You’re just beginning.”

  “I’m thirty-two years old, Tasha. I’m not exactly beginning.” What could she say? “That woman Brenda called. They want me to read again. They already told me I was cast and now, apparently, I’m not. They found someone else. Someone better than me.”

  “They said that?”

  “Educated guess. Fact #1: They cast me. Fact #2: They uncast me. Obviously they want someone else.”

  “Can they do that? Cast and uncast.”

  “They can do whatever they want.”

  “It’s only ten lines.”

  “It’s Martin Fucking Scorcese.”

  “You act like he’s some god.”

  “To me he’s a god.”

  “You could always sue.”

  “Get a grip. I’m not going to sue. That’s the quickest way to blacklist yourself.”

  Julian’s eyes were closed. His face had absorbed the gray light. He should be blacklisted, she thought. You don’t ask for sympathy then thrust it back meanly.

  “I’m leaving.”

  He opened his eyes. “Don’t go. I’m sorry.” He got up and came to her and held her shoulders and guided her back to the bed. She watched herself being led as if in a hovercraft. He knew certain things about her—like how her mother had taken a shit in her agent’s office and how news of that went public, ruining Tasha’s life—but the things he knew didn’t add up to everything she was.

  She lay on her back and made him do the work. He peeled her leggings off, his fingernails scoring her thighs. He struggled with her bra, finally ripped it. Theatrics as usual, though in the old days he’d been gentle. Now his big blurry need shrouded her. With each thrust of his pelvis she became more and more invisible. She wasn’t aroused, but she became wet anyway, hating herself. Afterwards, he got up and went to the bathroom to clean himself off. He couldn’t stand to be sticky. He came back to bed with a glass of water. She closed her eyes and ignored the sound of his gulping as well as she could.

  Her eyes opened in a panic. He’d forgotten a rubber. But no, there it was in an ashtray on the bedside table, a withered mess.

  “You don’t know what this means to me, Taz,” he said.

  She walked for hours, the hammering concrete sending arrows of pain up her femurs. It was after midnight when she arrived back at the Roses’. Mrs. Rose heard her and came floating down the hallway in a long nightgown like some Victorian ghost. “Is that you, Tasha?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re alright?”

  “Yes.”

  They both hesitated, Tasha sensing Mrs. Rose had more to say. Don’t worry. You’re not my mother.

  “Sleep well,” Mrs. Rose said before drifting back down the hallway.

  Tasha couldn’t help thinking of her mother. Her mother, the consummate actress, would never wear such drab clothes.

  She slept into the afternoon and woke after class had started. The apartment was empty. She’d been dreaming of Jane, vague images of Jane standing over her, telling her off. She couldn’t stand to think of how badly Jane thought of her. She had to talk to Jane. Apologize. Get herself on a better footing. Talking to Jane seemed suddenly urgent, the key to her success or failure as an artist.

  The class was on break when she arrived. She hovered behind the door frame, peeking in, not wanting Rupert to see her. The model wasn’t Jane. It was another one of Rupert’s weird finds, a freakishly tall woman with an athletic frame and hair clipped short as a terrier’s. Or was it a man?

  “Jane Flint or Jane Cohen?” said the woman in the office.

  “There’re two Janes?” said Tasha. “The one from Rupert’s class. The—large one.” The woman wrote a number on a yellow post-it: Jane Flint.

  Tasha scooted down the Bowery through the current of pedestrians as fast as her short legs would go. She shuttled through Whole Foods to the café area. It was Jane’s choice to meet here, this opulent palace of food. Bouquets of lacy greens, root vegetables Tasha had never heard of, bins of nuts and aromatic coffee, glazed and braided breads, slabs of meat pink as babies’ tongues, fish so fresh their glinting eyes seemed not to have registered their deadness. Everything perfectly stacked and artfully lit.

  Jane had drawn up her motorized chair
to a table at the back of the café, near a cooler of cheeses. Her eyes fell on Tasha. No turning back now.

  Tasha stood over the tiny metal table, exposed as a beggar.

  “Hi.”

  “I thought it would be you.”

  “I’m Tasha. From Mr. Pimble’s class.”

  “I know who you are, gringa. Jane Flint here. But you know that—you called me. Get yourself something to drink.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Jane sipped her coffee. The cup looked tiny. A piece of gray lint had lodged in the folds of her wrist. Tasha turned away, eyes landing on the wheels of orange and yellow cheese. She turned back again and scraped out the metal chair to sit.

  “Well?” Jane said. “You asked me here.”

  The people at the adjacent tables were immersed in books or phones, firmly situated in the business of being their unique selves, but they would surely hear anything Tasha said.

  “This isn’t the best place to talk.”

  “You can’t look at me, can you?”

  Looking at Jane was dangerous as staring straight into the sun.

  “You think I’m a freak.”

  “No, I—”

  “You’ll never be an artist if you can’t look at people directly.”

  Jane was beginning to sound like Rupert. Tasha made a concerted effort. The light from the cheese case illuminated a caterpillar fuzz on Jane’s upper lip. “I know.”

  “You know, but you don’t really know. You want to be great, right? Famous? Make a lot of money with your art?”

  “That’s not—”

  “But you’re worried you’ll fuck up somehow and end up like me. Confined to a chair.”

  Jane was getting worked up. She was short of breath. She took an inhaler from a bag that hung on the arm of her chair. Covering her nose and mouth with the device, she took a few deep breaths. Tasha imagined this must be how it felt to attend church and sit in a pew near the front, guilty of recent sin and being castigated by a minister who saw it all.

  “You don’t know anything about me,” Tasha said.

  Jane’s laugh was husky. She raised both arms so her gauzy purple over-blouse filled with air and her wingspan became wide as a condor’s, startling a woman behind her who, scoping out cheese, took a quick step back. “Heavens,” the woman said.

  Jane shook her head. “Too many tight sphincters in this place.” The woman scuttled away. “You live in a body like mine and you don’t exist for most people. You’re invisible. The plus is you get to observe what most people don’t see. You wouldn’t believe the things people do in public when they don’t realize they’re being watched.” Tasha nodded.

  “I used to be a court reporter. I saw so much shit in the courtroom I decided to make myself more useful. I’m back in school now to be a counselor.”

  “Wow.”

  “You didn’t take me for a student, did you?”

  Tasha shrugged. Was Rupert right about the PhD in art history? About Mensa?

  “You tracked me down. But you haven’t said why.”

  She was losing the thread of her purpose in being here. She closed her eyes. As always it was hard to get things straight in Jane’s presence. “I’m really . . . I had a dream and you. . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s hard to explain.” Her phone was vibrating loudly against the table’s metal. Julian. Fuck. She silenced it.

  “Well—?” Jane prompted.

  “Nothing. An old boyfriend.” She made a face.

  Jane smiled. “Who did you wrong?”

  “You could say that. He mauled me recently.”

  Jane reached out and placed her broad hand on top of Tasha’s. Heat traveled with liquid speed up Tasha’s forearm. “You didn’t report it, did you?”

  “It’s not what you’re thinking. It was my fault.”

  “It’s an ordeal, no matter how you cut it.”

  Jane withdrew her hand and reached into her bag and found her wallet from which she extracted a small laminated photo that she handed to Tasha. An elfin girl of four or five with a riot of blonde curls, standing on a beach in a skirted red bathing suit. She held a plastic bucket and shovel, her legs were splayed. “Me at the Jersey shore.”

  Tasha was afraid of speaking.

  “One of the many people I’ve been.”

  “You were adorable,” Tasha said, immediately regretting her use of the past tense.

  Jane ejected a laugh. “Yeah. Unfortunately two of my uncles thought so too.”

  Julian had called three times, left two messages. What the fuck did he want? Her ear? Her shoulder? Her cunt? Not now, not again. Certain mistakes you only make once.

  She bought herself some new shoes, blue with tough soles, surprisingly hip. She shouldn’t be spending money, but she’d have a job soon.

  The Roses were out. She put on the shoes and wandered around the apartment, listening to the soles thunking over the floorboards. She peered into the rooms she’d never seen before, the master bedroom and a small study. They were orderly rooms and Midwestern-looking, with knock-off Colonial furniture, hooked rugs, lace curtains, not how she’d expected New York rooms to look. The queen bed was neatly made with a mauve quilt; on the dresser was the picture of someone she assumed was their son. She could have gone in, but she didn’t. She’d been known to snoop, but her curiosity about the Roses was shallow and her thoughts were on Jane, the elfin child she’d been, the court reporter, the art historian.

  Back in her room she listened to Julian’s messages. It wasn’t what she expected. He’d gotten the Scorcese part after all, and when he was in his agent’s office he’d overheard people talking about her mother. In January she was going to be in an Off-Broadway production of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf. The agents were laughing about it. What if she took a shit right there on stage, wouldn’t that be taking Martha to a new level! Thought you’d want to know, Julian’s message said.

  Tasha took off the shoes and turned them over to examine their soles. She sniffed the leather, put them on again. Her feet felt safe inside the shoes, her ankles strong. Off Broadway in January, rehearsals would probably start soon. Was she moving here to be close to Tasha, or because she’d made a fool of herself in LA?

  The students were ready, easels set with pads of paper, extra charcoal sticks perched on their ledges. Midday sunlight sparkled down from the tops of the tall windows. It’s time to make art, said the air’s hush.

  But the model was late. Ten minutes went by, fifteen. A tickertape of restlessness chittered up. People checked their phones. A few began texting. Some whispered, which annoyed Rupert, who left the room. Tasha was more aware than ever of being an outsider.

  When Rupert reappeared everyone shut up. “There has been a change in plans.” His enunciation was clipped. “Our model can’t make it. I’d like a volunteer.”

  Embarrassed laughter tripped through the room. You can’t be serious. People shook their heads, grinning. No way, not me. Rupert scanned the classroom slowly, considering the assets and willingness of each student. A clammy coldness clattered through Tasha. She understood what was about to happen. She was already moving to the platform by the time Rupert’s gaze settled on her. “Yes,” he said. “Good. Thank you, dear.”

  The room went silent but for the drone of traffic and some rattle in the heating system. She, the outcast, was stepping up. Her cheeks blazed. Rupert met her at the center of the platform, leaning in to instruct her in a low voice. She remembered him talking to Jane this way. He suddenly seemed kind. He told Tasha to remove her clothing, perch on the stool, and find a position she could hold for a while.

  “I’ll be back.”

  He left the room abruptly and she felt abandoned, frightened, as if the other students, unsupervised, might lynch her. There were so many items
of clothing to remove to reach the point of nakedness. It would have been easier if she’d had a robe to remove in one quick careless motion.

  She began with her new blue shoes then wriggled out of her leggings. The zipper of her skirt stuck. Her nylon sweater was sassy with static. Though she was shivering, sweat dripped from her pits. She stood frozen in bra and underpants, crossing her arms over her large private breasts, fighting vertigo. Why did she volunteer for this, how stupid could she be? She looked over the heads of the students directly in front of her and blurred her eyes, making the world go kaflooey. She thought of Jane, imagined she was Jane, a person who would always be hidden under her mountain of fat, offering it up for viewing like a loud fuck you. Jane was whispering in her ear now: Go girl. Tasha unhooked her bra, shimmied her hips to slide off her underpants, let her clothes stay where they fell, and sidled to the stool.

  The murmur of moving charcoal took over the room. Enshrined by the room’s hush, Tasha turned inward to a self they would never see. Her bowels rumbled. An itch leapt like a fly up and down her back. Her breath became shallow. She thought of her butt, wide and dimpled, splayed wetly across the stool. Not as fat as Jane’s butt, but fat enough.

  Rupert was back in the room, declaring a break. He offered her his overcoat to use as a robe. It swallowed her completely, but the wool was scratchy. He brought her bottled water and a bag of potato chips, and she sat in the corner checking her phone, not daring to look at the other students though she was dying to see what they’d drawn. A text from Julian: Don’t be mad, Taz. I need you.

  As she returned to the platform she glimpsed one guy’s drawing. She didn’t recognize herself. The head had huge Dumbo ears, and tufts of hair stood up like antennae. He flipped to an empty page before she could see more.