“Oh, yeah, bub. Oh, yeah.” Mantis nods, looking across at her. I think of wiry, aging, grizzled Gus. I realize I’ve never thought too much about whether he has a family or a life outside of Lupine Valley; he’s always made us feel like we were his family, his life. “Gus had never been happier. They got away with it for a while. And then Randall found out, and all hell broke loose. Randall and Gus fought bitterly. It got physical, even—tore them apart.” Mantis draws his knees up and rests his forearms on them. Coral looks tenderly down at Mantis’s head. I wonder if she’s looking at the little scar on his scalp. “Randall made Autumn choose: him or Gus. And she chose Randall, leaving Gus alone and devastated. For the next few years, Gus tucked himself away on the Lupine Valley property, just sort of living. Then, one day, about four years later, Autumn just reappeared. Told him that Randall was dead. Pancreatic cancer.” Zephyr leans into me, and I can feel what she’s thinking: the brothers never got to reconcile. How sad. “Autumn moved in with Gus at Lupine Valley, and they resumed their work on the property, trying to make it into what Autumn always wanted it to be.”
“Did they ever get married?” Coral asks, voice soft as the summer air around us.
“No,” Mantis says, leaning into the side of Coral’s knee. The gesture warms me. It’s gentle. Intimate. “As they were completing their work on the land about two years later, almost ready to open up to campers, strange things started to happen with Autumn. Small things at first, like taking a few beats too long to remember certain words in conversations or coming up blank on someone’s name. Mood swings.” The air is alive with lightning bugs. “Autumn was eventually diagnosed with early onset dementia. Then it progressed, and it got bad fast. Scary fast. Gus would sometimes find her in the morning, half-clothed. Out of it. She was forgetting her own name. Gus’s name. Who they were to each other.”
Ash sprawls out on his back on the blanket, looking up into the stars.
“She forgot about Randall, that she had even been married to him or that he was Gus’s brother. She forgot about their earlier affair, what brought them together in the first place. Gus did the best he could to take care of her.” Mantis clasps Coral’s knee gently. “He showed her tons of pictures, old pictures, and took tons more. Started putting together these albums explaining her life back to her. Trying to document everything so he could help her to remember. This is the Ledge, this is the first field we ever cleared, this is your late husband Randall, here at Lupine Valley.” A lump forms in my throat. Gus and that camera of his. Always taking pictures. “Word is he took countless pictures of her. That he has them stashed away somewhere in his cabin.” A chill rolls through me. “Looking back, he probably should have sought more help. But I guess part of him thought he was the only one who might be able to help her, bring her back to herself. Here in this place she loved most in the world.”
Mantis looks up into the trees above us, and then one by one, we all do. We listen to the crickets, the pops of the bonfire, the hushed whistle of the wind through the trees above us.
“So…what happened?” I ask and find my voice is almost a whisper.
“One bitterly cold January night, Autumn took her cane and went outside. No one knows what for or why. The truth is, there probably wasn’t a real, clear reason. She was so far gone by then. In the morning, Gus found she was gone and went out to look for her. He found her less than a hundred yards from their cabin, cold and blue. Dead.” Mantis rubs his palms against his knees.
“Jesus,” Coral breathes.
“How fucking sad,” Trillium coos, leaning into Moss. I watch him stiffen, like he doesn’t want to be touched.
“God—and the pictures. Still,” Barley murmurs, eyes far away, chewing his lip.
“Old habits,” Mantis acknowledges. “Seeing someone lose themselves like that, lose their history. Probably does something to a man.” We all sit with this for a few long moments. The fire is dying down. “And you all do understand that’s why he gives out those nature names, right? Because her name was Autumn. It’s for her.” Something within me seizes up, and I feel rooted to the earth. Zephyr clutches on to my arm.
Someone starts to cry.
I look over at Trillium, but it’s not her. It’s Coral.
“Not so cute and fun now, huh?” Mantis says, looking around at us. Coral continues to cry, and Mantis makes no move to comfort her. His eyes rest on the weak fire between us. “I’ve heard stories,” he says, voice low. “People seeing her in these woods. Seeing Autumn. Cold. Alone.” Coral cries harder.
“You’re making this shit up,” Moss says, looking at Coral with concern.
“Like hell I am. I’ve heard it from a bunch of people. The story about Gus, Randall, and Autumn. Lots of people who have worked here over the years know,” Mantis says, talking over Coral’s sobs.
“But the whole, like, Autumn wandering the woods thing,” Trillium says meekly. “That’s just a ghost story. Summer camps are full of them.”
“Every word of what I’ve said to you is stuff I’ve heard from multiple people. Dead-serious motherfuckers. But you can believe what you wanna believe,” Mantis says gruffly. “I always felt like something wasn’t quite right here. And when I heard all that, I realized I was on to something.” Coral is holding her face in her hands, starting to calm down, her sobs growing gentler. She sniffs, wipes her nose with the back of her hand. Mantis and Moss look at her intently. Quiet settles over the clearing. The mood is low, now. Reflective. Confessional. All too intense.
“I’m calling it a night,” Trillium says with a sigh, getting up off the ground. “I’m too bummed. I want to get out of these woods.”
“I’ll go with you,” Barley says, and he gains his feet beside her, reaches his arms to the sky, stretching. Ash gets up as well, looking eager to leave.
“I’d be good to go, too, love,” Zephyr says in my ear, quiet. “I’m tired.”
“Yeah, alright.” I nod, helping Zephyr to her feet. “What about you three? Wanna call it?”
“You guys can go on ahead if you want,” Coral says, the last of her sniffles leaving her. “I want to stay out a little longer. Nights out will soon be a thing of the past for me.” She pats her belly. “Have to enjoy myself while I can.” Her face is wistful. We’re all quiet for a moment. The air heavy around us, a blanket of remembrance and calm, and something more, darker at the edges.
“I’ll stay, too,” Moss says.
“Yea, I’ll wait,” Mantis says.
“Okay.” She nods. She looks over at me and Zephyr. I feel rooted, something prickling up my spine, whispering at me to stay. Coral’s eyes find mine. “You guys go on ahead. Really.” She gives me an assuring look. I look at them there together, their faces painted golden in the firelight. Coral has stopped crying, and there are hot dogs on sticks, and stars, and the last vestiges of summer nights. Someone can get her something to eat. She’s okay. They’ll take care of her.
Zephyr takes me by the hand, and her touch is all I need to tip me over the edge to leave. Mantis cracks open what must be his fifth or sixth Genesee of the night and gives us a salute as we go.
“Good night, gals,” Moss says.
“’Night,” we call back. Zephyr takes up my lantern, and we leave them in Coral’s Clearing, firelight dancing behind us, growing fainter and fainter, until there’s no sign of them, the three, at all.
Thesis
Her Dark Things by Audra Colfax
Piece #6: The Covenant
Oil and mixed media on canvas. 12″ x 24″.
[Globular and curvaceous smears of orange, red, yellow paint in the cathedral-like shape of flames, azure and midnight blue skimming along edges and depths for contour. Found objects incorporated throughout.]
Note on torn sketchbook paper found in Cindy’s red backpack in the attic of the Dunn residence.
The things people will say
when they are
alone
in the heart of the forest
with just a fire
with just
each other
and some
alcohol
and some
weed
with some pain pressing out
that they can’t contain
like a fairytale their hearts just speaking for them in the night
M said I would do
anything to be great
anything
and the forest swallowed his desperation
C said as soon as this baby
is born as soon as it is
out of me
I will die,
and the forest swallowed her darkest fear
M said it was no accident
what happened
that woman I loved and then grew to
hate
and the forest swallowed his polluted confession
and I said I can help you M
I can help you M
And M said I can help you C
I can help you C
but then the spell was broken
and we remembered
and the air grew heavy with our words
and M said you look scared C
of me, C
better work on your forgetting, C
and the forest swallowed them up
one two three
—July88. CD.
Seven
Lunatic
Max
Saturday, October 20, 2018
I see Audra standing out in the blackening October evening, just in front of the garage, no jacket on, hugging her arms to her body. The warm light from the open garage door cuts a perfect amber square all around her. I peel myself away from the bay window in the living room and sit down on the nearby couch. That drawing of the upside-down raven looms above me. Painstakingly rendered. Fine pencil strokes. Impossible. I could swear I’ve seen this before. I look at it and look at it until my vision glazes over.
I turn my head and look back out the window. In the time between first going up to Audra’s studio and now, it’s like a shade has been dropped on the whole world, as if opaque, chewy molasses has seeped into the air. Late afternoon slipped into evening; too soon it will be night. I get up and go to the kitchen, splash some cold water on my face in the deep, white sink, and dry it with a clean linen hand towel. I go sit down in the living room again. My prayers have left me. There are no prayers left to hold on to.
I hear the door from the garage open and then close. I clear my throat quietly and sit up straight, wanting to look alert, back to my usual composed self. Audra pauses at the entrance to the den. She looks at me. I cannot read her. The skin of her face is awake and vibrant, every pore alive and singing, red splotches on her cheeks and the tip of her nose. Her coppery hair is wild, a little frizzed, a little windblown. And perfect. Her eyes are bright, keen, communicative of something—but I can’t read what. What are you thinking, Audra Colfax? What will you do with me?
“Audra—I cannot tell you how very sorry I am,” I say in my gentlest, most acquiescent voice. “I was a maniac back there. I apologize for it. I’m—I’m not normally like this. You know that.”
“I’ve seen hints of it, Max,” she admits in a small voice, as if it pains her. We look at each other. “When—when you feel threatened. When you don’t get your way.” I am stunned by her gall.
Bitch.
“I’m not threatened by you,” I snap. Audra tips her chin up as if to say, Clearly. She looks a little afraid for once. But also defiant. Could it be any other way with her? “It’s just—it’s been an intense time. And then my ankle—and I drank too much with the Vicodin,” I shake my head. “And, and being here. With you. Alone.” Audra watches me impassively. “You know how I…admire you.” She is made of stone. Of marble. Hard. Immovable. I want to bash her so I can see if she’d crack, chip, break. Anything but this unyielding facade.
“You want to sleep with me,” she says plainly. The world seems entirely silent and still. I swallow but say nothing. “I’ve always known this.” The seconds pass in terrible slowness. There is nothing to do but to face it now. Denying it would do no good.
“But I’m not imagining our…chemistry. Our connection.” Every word is an effort. A heavy silence falls between us. She breathes in through her nose and exhales deeply.
“I’m cold,” she says, “I’ll light a fire.” She walks toward the kitchen. “Why don’t you get cleaned up for dinner.” A child being sent away. I can’t tell if it’s a mercy or a punishment. I watch her leave.
Back in my room, I’ve changed my shirt and rinsed my face again in cold water. I’ve combed my hair. I look like a reasonable middle-aged man now. Not a maniac. I pad out into the bedroom and look down at my laptop on the bed. I grabbed it before I beat my retreat upstairs, the thing feeling like a ticking bomb waiting alone in her grandfather’s office. I work up my courage, sit down, and open it. The screen glows to life before me. My inbox is still there on the screen. It takes a moment to refresh. A few new student emails populate. Some spam. I scroll down to find the email from earlier—the one addressed to Moss.
It’s not here.
But it has to be. I saw it. I didn’t delete it. I don’t remember deleting it. I scan the inbox backward and forward. I check trash. I check the spam folder. Nothing. I type in the keyword moss into the search bar at the top. A few things pop up. A read email from three years ago that mentions an art theorist named Rochelle Mossier-Bard. A read email from eight months ago hyping a new installation at the Museum of Fine Arts called “In Conversation with Moss & Lichen.” An unread email advertising the Mosso luxury apartments in San Francisco. But that’s it. I close the email window and shut down the laptop entirely. I sit there for several long moments. I saw it. Didn’t I? I feel like I’m losing it.
I go down into the kitchen where Audra is starting a fire in a small, devastatingly charming fireplace set in the rock wall with some matches and kindling and a small ball of lint from the laundry. When it catches to her satisfaction, she turns to me, ties up her hair, and says that I’m in charge of keeping it going. There is a little alcove built into the stone beside the hearth holding kindling and smaller split logs. My outpost. I work in silence, and she does, too, preparing dinner. The fact that she will not condemn me or absolve me for what I have done, for what she knows I want, does not soothe. It only heightens my sense of danger. This woman who holds my career, my life in her hands. This woman who wants me completely at her mercy, it seems. The silence is gutting.
“Can you handle a glass of wine, or are you going to be a lunatic?” She looks up at me from her work tearing apart a head of lettuce. Her voice teeters on coldness, but her face is neutral. Imagine a student speaking to a professor that way. Imagine it.
“Yes, I—I can handle it,” I say dumbly. She leaves her immediate work, wipes her hands on the dish towel slung over her shoulder, and opens a new bottle of wine. The faint, crackling smell of smoke from the fire and the deeper, more savory scents of the meal she’s making for us fill my nose. It is intoxicating. The sensory stimulation pulls at my mind as I watch Audra move fluidly around her kitchen. She pours me a glass of merlot but does not bring it to me. She leaves it at the very edge of the countertop nearest me. The extension of half an olive branch only. I stand up from my stool, get the glass, then return to my post. She returns to her salad.
The wood-burning smell evokes memories in me I would rather not contemplate. Romantic evenings with Misha in Cambridge. All the times we made love in front of her fireplace. The way she so often yielded to me. I see her body. I see her face. But now, in my mind, her eyes fill with tears. Her face is wrought in fury, in disbelief. Not ecstasy. I’m remembering when she figured out that I’d thrown the latest
draft of a building plan—a proposed children’s museum in Amherst she’d been working on for months—into an early-morning fire. This was four Januarys ago. We’d been fighting about having a child. She wanted one. I didn’t. I look into Audie’s fire now and see no curls of paper, no geometric lines, no dimensions, no room names. Misha’s pain from that experience helped me create one of my best works that year—a long, languid, purposefully two-dimensional woman draped almost like tissue paper on a hook. Lots of blues, whites, and browns. That’s what Misha was like right after that. Flattened. Punctured. Blue. Stuck. I named it The Draft. It sold from the gallery in twenty-six days. At a nice price, too. I bought Misha a bracelet with part of the proceeds.
And there were other fires. The butter-ginger flicker of fire from a potbellied stove in a small, dark cabin. Sheltering a girl made of the very air at Lupine Valley. When she couldn’t stand to go home. When she couldn’t stand anything. She came to me. She always seemed to me a sickly swipe of ochre, fire, harvest corn just gone to mush. She would weep and weep these diamond tears—I would have her go over everything with me again and again—until those heavy tears made trenches in her face. Then, when she was ready for me, I would draw her. Paint her. Capture her. In her truth. In her cracking, diseased amber, in her misery, a spiritual jaundice.
I prod the logs, whose embers are lava orange, melting, deconstructing.
Hi, Moss
I poke at the logs aggressively, desperate to banish my darkened memory.
Focus. I need to focus.
Focus was my home at Lupine Valley.
I shiver despite the heat and take a breath.
But no one knows of my time there. No one knows.
One crisis at a time.
I need to engage Audra, try to soften the tone of the room, which feels hard and icy. I have broken something between us. I need to fix it. I have to. I think of my colleagues at the institute. Of what they would say if they knew about this. About how I just behaved. What it could mean for my job. For the reception of my work, past and present.
Dark Things I Adore Page 17