Skyscape

by Michael Cadnum

  All those people, thought Curtis. All those eyes. But he could not concentrate on that virtually invisible audience. The doctor’s presence tugged at him. If only there were some way to break through to the doctor. If only there were some way to really show him what it was like to feel this way.

  They talked for a long time about Curtis’s career, his early success, his travels. There was a break, and Curtis sipped water from a paper cup, and then it was time to talk again. At last the chat twisted, got hard. “What is it you’re afraid of?” asked the psychiatrist.

  As though fear was something you could trace with a pencil, like the outline of the hand. As though talk could accomplish anything. There had to be a way.

  Curtis couldn’t talk.

  During the breaks Patterson did not take his eyes off Curtis, telling him how wonderful Curtis was doing, how fortunate they all were. And then they were back again, the four cameras out there somewhere, still, hulking shapes that Curtis gradually was able to forget. They didn’t matter any more.

  What was it like, the famous psychiatrist should be asking, to have a life like yours? People asking him to sign cocktail napkins, women sticking out their bare arms and, from time to time, other parts of their anatomies, for him to draw a “cute little boat like the one in the museum.” This had gotten to be a party tradition. “Cute little boat” referred to the galleon in Spanish Main, a pastiche of images he had intended, in his wily twenty-year-old mind, to depict nothing much. But because of the title, people saw one of the squiggles as a “caravel out of a luminous summer,” as one really urpy critic put it. So there it was, even on notecards, the “Spanish Main: Detail” that did, he supposed, look a little like a ship if you wanted it to.

  The lights sucked up the air. The glaze of hair on the backs of his hands were irradiated by these lights, pulled upward, the tug of an electric current. Well-designed air conditioning kept Curtis from feeling hot, and Curtis had to admire the lighting, the light used as paint, giving the two men shape and hue.

  After awhile the audience was gone, the dim figures of technicians beyond the cameras faded. He felt strangely alone with Red Patterson, but better than alone, the air rich with the attention of unseen companions. Suddenly it was like prayer, but prayer you were sure was being heard. “I can’t paint,” Curtis said.

  “What happens when you try?”

  Curtis liked this man. Patterson had presence, and one thing Curtis knew: the beautiful has life.

  “I can’t begin to tell you,” Curtis said. And he almost had to laugh at the way the words came out of him. Even prayer falters. There was no way he could communicate with a living soul.

  The psychiatrist was sitting there. Curtis was sitting there, and they were both helpless for a moment. It was absurd to think that therapy would help.

  Dr. Patterson sat there waiting, his eyes saying: go right ahead.

  “I trust you. But,” Curtis continued, “it doesn’t do any good to talk. I’ve never had any faith.…”

  “In words.” Patterson completed the thought for him. But maybe that wasn’t the way he was going to complete the thought. Maybe he had been going to say: in people. In my feelings.

  There had been other therapists, drug counselors, vitamin injections, that were supposed to heal the liver and the neurons both, a brown syrup the body had somehow used up and couldn’t self-manufacture.

  The famous Dr. Patterson should be asking him what it was like to have a life like that. What it was like to have a life that was all electricity and color up to the age of thirty-five, and then dried up.

  What it was like to stop painting, except in your own mind.

  He wanted to tell the doctor—show him, let him see with his own eyes—how Margaret had stepped out of the blur of art-opening plastic wine cups and sodden potato chips.

  He was sitting too long, spending too much time in silence.

  “I can’t,” said Curtis. “I can’t tell you.”

  “What is it you’re afraid you might do?”

  Oh, yes, that, prime question—the question he really had to answer. A painting was an act, a possible crime, a new life that had not existed before. Because they want to buy or steal my work as soon as I finish it. Because they want to own me.

  Before he could stop himself, he had said just that. He had said that people were out to take his work away, wrest it from him while it was still fresh, newborn.

  “Who are these people?” asked Red Patterson.

  If he was dangerous, Curtis recalled, then steps would have to be taken. That was what the doctor had said in London after a blackout, the morning light bright by the time he had awakened curled around a broken bottle on Neal Street. There had been blood on the bottle, old, dried-up and port-black. Curtis had gone to the medical school on Gower Street and they had been delighted to let him talk to one of their brightest, a heavy man with black, pointed eyebrows.

  “I pick up a brush, and there isn’t any hope in it any more. No joy. No feeling at all. When I squeeze paint onto the knife, I stop.”

  Has he really said it? Had he really confessed the truth? Or had his own thoughts become so vivid, and so painful, that they were louder than speech?

  “Are you saying that when you leave us this afternoon,” said the famous doctor at last, “walk out that door, you will never be able to paint again?”

  Curtis looked into the doctor’s eyes. The doctor vanished as tears welled.

  “I’m a sick man,” said Curtis.

  Jesus, this was going better than he had dreamed.

  It was all taking too much time, Patterson thought, that was the only trouble. People were getting a priceless look into the emotional state of this artist, but television was time, containers of time filled with light. You filled up seconds, and then minutes, and when your time was full you were done. I’m doing beautifully, Patterson thought. But there was a clock in the distance, beyond the artist’s head, the red digits displaying the time remaining.

  And it wasn’t enough. Once again, Curtis fell silent. When Curtis stopped talking, the audience shared his anguish. The audience here—and the other, immense audience—was rapt, trapped by Curtis’s look, the way he tried to talk and failed, the way his eyes asked Patterson for help.

  Patterson kept it gentle, so it sounded like a request. “Tell me about the knife.”

  “It’s just a knife.” But his manner told Patterson something quite different. The knife was remarkable in some way. “One of my foster mothers gave it to me. It was a present—she made some extra money selling Christmas cards. I was too young for a gun, and she hated guns anyway. So she gave me the knife. She warned me to be very, very careful with it.”

  Patterson gripped the arms of his chair. Of course, he thought. That knife. The knife Newns used in the films of the artist at work, applying the daubs of color, earth, sky, with the edge of a knife so that the paint appeared to have been sliced onto the canvas, diagonal jagged wedges of pigment.

  “But I can’t talk about the things I have inside me,” said Newns, and Patterson saw before him a gifted man, even an articulate one, made nearly mute by his own emotions.

  “But that is exactly what you’re doing,” said the psychiatrist. This was all so wonderful. They should be able to go on for another hour. But the red digits kept changing, the time left dwindling. In the tradition of private practice, the fifty-minute hour was always running out, but when it was time to leave the patient could say something, a last bit of anguish to build on during the next visit. Television was inflexible. The clock was a god.

  The artist’s voice was broken. “I can’t do it any more.”

  Patterson waited, listening, sensing that to speak now would be a mistake. The audience was frozen. As jaded as people were, they could tell when someone was naked before them. People could tell when someone was desperate.

  But all that angst-laden silence ate up seconds. They were running out of time, and there was nothing Patterson could do. During the last break
you could see the floor director smiling encouragingly, and the four cameras stayed where they were while Patterson told Curtis how great everything was going.

  It was the truth. And yet, the red numbers were insistent. There was a little more time for Curtis to share his doubt, for the audience to feel what he was feeling.

  There was something else that bothered Patterson, a thought he barely allowed himself to consider. The famous miracle wasn’t happening. This was fantastic television, but the magic moment, the cure, wasn’t taking place. People were loving every minute of this—but Curtis was faltering, searching. The big, closing release wasn’t about to happen. Patterson couldn’t deceive himself. When the show was over, and the image of Curtis no longer captured people, some would ask what Patterson had actually accomplished.

  There were sixty-eight seconds left.

  “All my best work is done,” the artist was saying. “I still try sometimes. But—” He made a gesture, tossing something away.

  Patterson stood. He had to do something, and it had to be quick. He looked directly into camera three. “I’m taking you under my care, from this moment, Curtis. From now on I promise you—no one will hurt you.”

  The crowd was still, afraid to make a sound. “You will be in torment no more,” said Patterson. “I am changing my life—for you.”

  And then, the audience realizing what Patterson was saying, there was a rush of applause.

  Patterson flicked his hand, and the applause stopped. Patterson raised his voice. He spoke quickly, but distinctly. “You can have my estate in the desert, Owl Springs, miles from anything, perfect security, perfect peace. It’s yours, Curtis—for as long as you want it.”

  The applause was loud, continuing. Patterson could sense tears in the eyes of viewers, tightened throats.

  Forty-five seconds left. Again, he silenced the applause with a gesture. “I promise you, Curtis—I promise the world,” Patterson was saying. The sound engineers would just have to jack up my voice, he thought, so it can be heard over the applause. “You will find there in the California desert healing like you have never known before. Your paintings will flower. You will recover your soul.” He said the next words with special emphasis. “There will be a new masterpiece.”

  The applause then went on too long, and it was too loud. There was more that Patterson was ready to say.

  “Skyscape is gone,” said the doctor. “Destroyed.”

  Curtis opened his hands: it was the truth.

  Patterson was feeling a little breathless, keeping the words fast. “We’ll make them forget all about Skyscape, Curtis. We’ll do something even more magnificent.”

  When he turned to gaze upon Curtis Newns the look in the artist’s eyes silenced him. Patterson could not disguise the impulse from himself. He coveted Curtis, and all that Curtis represented. There was another feeling, too, shattering, all-healing: he loved Curtis.

  Curtis was alight with hope.

  Patterson was careful to keep his best profile to the camera that was panning from psychiatrist to patient.

  Twelve seconds left. Barely time to help the artist out of the chair, walk him to stage front, to embrace him, the way the director liked to end the show, a nice floor shot, Patterson and his guest, credits, applause.

  All she could think about was: where is Curtis? He should be home by now. She should have known, she would realize later. She should have guessed.

  But she kept herself busy to help control her anxiety. She was answering correspondence. She had a series of computer files, each letter answerable by using one of several formats. The intelligent, courteous fan got one sort of letter, the gushy female fan got a letter equally polite but more reserved in tone.

  A few galleries sent expensive catalogs, hoping, perhaps, for a comment from Curtis that they could use in promoting an upcoming show. Margaret entered the thank.ltr file and made the appropriate alterations in each case. When she was finished she printed out a letter and signed it CN/MD. Before they were married she had decided to keep her maiden name, feeling that Margaret Darcy was both her professional name and a name that kept alive her loyalty to her father.

  The phone made its noise. She snatched at it eagerly.

  It was Teresa. There was a thrill in the lawyer’s voice as she asked, “Are you watching television?”

  The television was turned to the all-weather station, and it took a few moments to find the right one.

  Margaret dropped the remote.

  She felt disbelief. She had hoped Patterson would help Curtis. She had imagined private consultations, the two men agreeing on a schedule of visits. But she had not expected Patterson to put Curtis on the show.

  Then she told herself that this was what she should have expected all along. Of course, Curtis was on television. That was how Red Patterson worked. It was probably even a good idea, she tried to convince herself.

  She heard what Red Patterson was saying, but it made no sense. Except that it did make sense. The meaning was quite clear.

  Curtis was sitting there. He looked happy. Patterson was acknowledging applause, waving to Curtis to join him at the edge of the stage.

  Curtis rose, and put his arm around Patterson. The men were hugging. Curtis was laughing, joyful. She hardly recognized him.

  Margaret was only vaguely aware of the phone on the coffee table. Her voice was strange and weak when she spoke at last, asking if Teresa was still there.

  “It’s wonderful,” said Teresa. “I’m sitting here with tears running down my cheeks. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Margaret couldn’t speak.

  “Red Patterson will do for Curtis what he did for Cal Ackman, the designer, the one who went on to win all those awards. And Jessica Adams,” Teresa was saying, “the woman who wrote those books about life among the chimpanzees. She dedicated her autobiography to Red Patterson.”

  All Margaret could think was: Curtis—what have they done?

  19

  Margaret put on a shawl because she felt cold. It was black cotton, a Mexican cloth with delightful highlights, a present from Curtis one evening, for no particular reason. He gave her things, shared jokes with her, told her his dreams, even the nightmares. She was overreacting. Her confidence had always been dappled with foolish imperfection. There was no reason to worry.

  Curtis would be home soon.

  There was a long wait. The starling squeaked, trilled, imitating nothing, Margaret was sure, simply making its own, energetic noises. Margaret told the bird that everything would be fine, that Curtis was on his way home.

  The apartment was a strange place, she thought, wandering from the studio, to the bedroom, to the living room, huddled in the shawl. This rooms were empty and unkind when Curtis was absent.

  No reason to worry.

  Mrs. Wye called. Wasn’t it wonderful, she said, to see Curtis so happy. It was so smart of Margaret to think of Red Patterson. This was such a breakthrough, and it would help so many people to see joy return to Curtis Newns.

  The sun began to swell and dim, slipping into the Pacific. The early evening clouds, typical of summer, were slow tonight, clawing their way toward land.

  She picked up the telephone, put it down. Jesus, where was he?

  She turned on the answering machine, but she could hear her mother’s phone call. “Do give us a call, Margaret, when you have a chance.” There was one of her mother’s long pauses. “I know you’re busy.”

  Why would her mother sound so triumphant? There were other calls, one after another. Margaret turned down the volume on the machine so she couldn’t hear them.

  In an instant it all changed.

  He was in the room, calling her name.

  Curtis swept her off her feet, up into his arms and spun her around.

  It was so sudden. He was through the door, slamming it behind him, picking her up. She had never seen him like this.

  The shawl fluttered, wafted in the air, and fell, draped over the arm of a chair. She w
as breathless. She laughed, confused. “Curtis,” she said. “I was so surprised when I turned it on—”

  He put her down. She staggered, giggling dizzily, and fell onto the couch.

  “I was on the show!” said Curtis.

  Her voice sounded weak. “I know.”

  “I was on his television show, and do you know what happened?”

  Why, she wondered, was it so hard to say it? “You were happy.”

  “Exactly. Happy! For the first time in years I believed in myself. The man isn’t like any other psychiatrist I’ve ever met. He makes things happen. At first I didn’t know it would work. Even during the show it was hard to explain how I felt. But then, by the end—”

  “I was so surprised,” she said.

  He gave her a look of wonder. “It was your idea.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “What didn’t you know?”

  “That you would be on television. I thought you’d have a consultation—”

  “‘Consultation,’” He laughed. “People don’t ‘consult.’ People don’t just stew in their own misery anymore. They change—all at once.” He roamed the room, exultant. “It was wonderful!”

  She followed him down the hall, into the bedroom. “What are you doing?”

  He hauled a big, portfolio-sized black canvas bag from the closet. He flung it onto the bed, and tugged a black leather carryon from the closet, too, the sort of bag he took when they flew to Kauai for the weekend, in those days when they were first married and the marriage itself had given him happiness.

  She had made him happy. She knew that.

  She asked him again: what was he doing?

  “You saw the show,” he said.

  Her eyes must have expressed her confusion. He stuffed a wad of underwear into the black bag and said, “I’m leaving tonight.”

  She stared, feeling stupid.

  He glanced up at her, folding a shirt. “I’m going to his place in the desert.”

  Ever since the miscarriage bad news had felt like this. A bronze bell struck in her, soundless, reverberating, the resounding of her womb. She wanted to sit, but she remained upright.