The Black Painting

by Neil Olson

  “I already tried tapping. There’s no hollow sound anywhere.”

  Teresa tried it anyway, and found an area where the acoustics seemed slightly different. All of Audrey’s blows were too high, even if she had found the right spot.

  “Here,” Teresa said. “But lower. It wasn’t more than about two feet high.”

  “Christ, how am I supposed to...” Audrey dropped to her knees, facing sideways to the wall. Then she took a high grip on the shaft and swung. The first two blows barely chipped the surface, but she found her stroke, and the next few dug deep. On the fifth blow, a dark hole appeared. The women froze and looked at each other. Then Audrey seized Teresa and kissed her furiously on the forehead.

  “Nice work, Tay,” she said, switching to a punching motion with the hammer, opening the hole wider. “Cut you in for twenty-five percent, how does that sound?”

  “Who are you planning to sell it to?”

  “I got a guy lined up, don’t worry. We’re talking millions. You understand? Screw Ilsa and all of them. They can squabble over this mausoleum.”

  In a few minutes the hole was big enough for one of them to squeeze through, and that one was not Audrey. Teresa figured she could crawl in voluntarily, or be stuffed in after her cousin hammered her to death. Which she might do anyway, but with life there was hope. Unless something really bad had happened to Dave.

  “Flashlight,” Teresa said.

  “It’s here, somewhere.” Audrey’s voice had grown shaky, and there was a fresh film on her face that was not about exertion. If the portrait was in there, could she even face it? Or might Teresa be able to rush it out of the cellar without interference? They found the flashlight and examined what they could of the small chamber beyond the wall.

  “Nothing,” Audrey said anxiously. “I don’t see it.”

  “It’s bigger inside,” Teresa replied, her own voice becoming constricted. Now, she told herself. The longer you wait, the more afraid you’ll be. The danger is here next to you, not in there. But it was hard to make herself believe it. She lay carefully on her stomach, pushed the bright beam ahead of her, and wriggled in.

  And there it was. Sitting inside the dark alcove that she and James had shared so many times, in some faraway life. Not a painting, but an old and empty wooden frame. The canvas that had once been stretched upon it was gone, though there were paint chips scattered about. And very small nails of a type that might have been popular in Madrid a hundred and fifty years earlier. Teresa held the nails in her palm and understood everything. She saw him huddled here in voiceless terror. Saw him work his fingers bloody to remove the nails. Her tears came again, in a hot torrent this time. Not for herself, or her father, but for the little boy whose soul had died here fifteen years ago.

  “What’s going on? Tay, is it there?”

  “Pull me out.”

  She had the paint chips and nails in one fist and the frame in the other, and could not use her hands. Audrey grabbed her ankles and dragged her from the hole, not gently. Teresa’s jeans and sweatshirt were smeared in filth, but she kept hold of her discoveries. Audrey stared at the empty frame in incomprehension, then looked at her cousin. Teresa only sat there wiping her grimy face.

  “James?” Audrey said faintly. As if testing the word before shouting it aloud. “How? How could he do that? He was afraid of it.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Now? I don’t know. You think he has it with him?”

  “Maybe,” Teresa said. “It was in the attic for a while. Maybe for a long time. I saw nails and paint chips like these. I just didn’t put it together.”

  “Could it be there now?”

  “He might have put it back since I’ve been gone. I’m guessing he has other places.”

  “Where?” Audrey demanded. She sat down hard, exhausted. Defeated even, which was how Teresa felt. Yet neither of them could afford that. It was no longer about Audrey’s crazy scheme. It was about helping the cousin and brother they both loved.

  “I don’t know,” Teresa sighed, her mind racing through the house ahead of her. Every room and corridor, every secret place they had ever found and forgotten. Then out the door and across the lawn and into the trees and... “Wait. I do.”

  27

  Audrey left the sledgehammer but took the shotgun. Teresa’s insistence that they didn’t need it went ignored, and she could not even swear it was true. Because clearly something bad had happened to Dave. No distraction, however serious, would have kept him this long.

  “Unless he found it, and took off with it,” Audrey posited. Having decided to believe in his presence just in time to make a thief of him. The idea incensed her. “The shifty bastard, I’ll murder him.”

  “Dave did not take the painting,” Teresa said, as they marched across the darkening lawn.

  “How do you know?” Audrey’s eyes were everywhere, expecting a trap. She handled the shotgun too casually, shifting it from hand to shoulder to elbow crook. “What does either of us really know about the guy? He’s stolen paintings before. Maybe he’s been playing all of us the whole time.”

  Teresa was anxious enough for such a foolish idea to get a foothold in her imagination. Yet she almost wished it were true. It would mean that Dave was safe, and the painting was out of their lives. Her gut told her there was no way it would be that simple.

  “I’m sorry about what happened to you,” she said.

  “What?” Audrey asked irritably.

  “With Philip, and I guess Pete, too. I didn’t know.”

  “Hey, don’t go inducting me into your cult of victimhood. Nothing happens to me without my say-so, okay?”

  “I’m sure it’s important for you to feel that way.”

  “Shut up.” She swung the shotgun in Teresa’s direction. “Philip is my bitch, always has been. Pete was crazy, but nothing serious happened. He’s the only one I feel bad about. I mean okay, he’s a thief, but they were harder on him than they had to be. Ten years, hell.”

  “Five,” Teresa corrected. “He earned the rest while he was inside. So that’s why you made Philip testify for him, because you felt guilty.”

  “Phil hated doing that,” Audrey jeered. “I didn’t give him a choice. Yanked that chain and he did what he was told. I own him.”

  “Do you own Kenny, too?”

  “Nah, that was only one time. Before he figured out he liked boys.”

  Teresa stopped short. She could not even speak before Audrey was laughing at her.

  “Of course. You would be the only woman in the family who doesn’t know that.”

  “But all those girls...”

  “Yeah, different one every month, right? Maybe he sleeps with some, I don’t know. Look, he’s a handsome guy. Smart, fun to hang out with.”

  “Are you saying that’s his secret? That’s what was in the letter?”

  “You know another one?”

  “Mother of God,” Teresa nearly screamed. “It’s the twenty-first century. It’s cool to be gay now.”

  “Not everywhere. Not in the tiny mind of Philip Morse anyway. Or Alfred.”

  “So Grandpa knew.”

  “Yeah. Probably Ilsa told him. She’s tattled on all of us. For two generations. I think the deal was he had to get married and produce a child within a certain time.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Right? For two-fifty? Now for a million, maybe.”

  “But Philip doesn’t know.”

  “No, and Kenny’s afraid of him finding out.” Audrey shook her head. “It’s pathetic. Gives me leverage with him, though, so it’s all good.”

  “Is there anyone in this family you don’t have leverage on?”

  “You,” Audrey spat, looking unhappy about it. “Now where are we going?”

  “Haven’t you figured it out?” Teresa started forward ag
ain. Stopping had been a mistake, it let fatigue catch up. She was tired enough to fall down on the grass and sleep, but not yet. The pines were ahead. Another chance to make a break for it. Rush in among them, get low and switch directions. But she was too curious, she had to know if it was there. In a minute or so of thrusting branches aside they were in front of the old oak.

  “The tree house?” Audrey said.

  “Close.” Even if Pete had not broken one of the rungs, it would be too far for Teresa to reach the hollow spot. “You’ll have to give me a boost.”

  She expected some complaint, but Audrey only examined the trunk until understanding transformed her face.

  “The hellhole,” she exclaimed, leaning the gun against the tree. “Damn, I should have thought of that.”

  “Hellhole?”

  “That’s what we always called it. It was, like, the door to hell.”

  “I didn’t remember,” Teresa said.

  “You were afraid of everything. Maybe we weren’t allowed to say it in front of you.”

  It seemed depressingly likely. How could such harmless exclusions mean anything to her now, yet they still stung.

  Before Teresa was ready, Audrey seized her around the thighs and lifted. Teresa clawed at the thick bark, ascending until she had a hand on the opening of the hole. Audrey shifted her grip down around the knees to boost her higher. To where Teresa could look straight into the dim cavity. The hellhole. It was deep. Deep enough to hide a serving platter, she knew that. Not quite wide enough for the portrait still on its frame, but surely for the loose canvas. It was too dark to see inside, but she sensed a presence. Not malevolent, as Dave had described it, but dismal. Forsaken. Full of a misery that had soaked into its every fiber, and now emanated from it. Just an arm’s length away, if she was right. Nothing to do but put her hand in. She hesitated until she felt Audrey’s grip weakening, then lunged.

  “Anything?”

  Leaves, mulch and something else. Not heavy enough. Paper, not canvas. Teresa drew it into the waning light and recognized the sketch of James she had done last week. Crumpled and stained despite being carefully folded. He had been here, he was using this place. But no Goya. Did he no longer have it? Had he ever?

  “Would you look at this,” said a voice close by. An insinuating male voice that Teresa had not heard in years. “Hello, beautiful girls.”

  “Pete,” Audrey said coldly, letting go of her cousin’s legs. Teresa thrust her arm back into the hole to catch herself while her feet swung four feet above the ground.

  “Here we all are again,” said Pete. “Like a family reunion.”

  There was something wrong with his voice, and Teresa twisted her head to look. The same green army jacket, stained brown in front with the blood from Fred’s beating. His face was so bruised that Teresa would not have known him. One eye was red with broken vessels, and there were scabs on his split lips, impeding speech. He looked dazed, but not dazed enough to miss Audrey leaning for the shotgun. His right arm swung up, pointing at her.

  “Now, now, missy. That ain’t friendly.”

  He was not pointing, Teresa realized. There was a small black pistol in his hand. She did not believe he would shoot, but evidently Audrey did. She straightened up.

  “What are you doing, Pete? Haven’t you been in enough trouble?”

  “Trouble, yeah.” He dropped the arm to his side again. “It’s a troubled world. I didn’t make it. What are you two up to here?”

  “Right now I’m hanging on for life,” Teresa said, her arm growing sore.

  “You hear?” Pete grunted with a little smile. “Better help her down.”

  “She’s fine,” Audrey said, not moving. Teresa realized no assistance was coming, and the drop was not far, just awkward. She pulled her arm free and fell. Her left foot hit a big root, and she felt a twinge in the ankle. Audrey caught her hand and tugged her to standing. The two of them faced Pete, about eight feet away. The shotgun was between and just behind them, leaning on the oak.

  “What’s that?” Pete asked, pointing at the folded paper Teresa still clutched.

  “A sketch I did.”

  “Must be an important sketch to hide it. That’s my spot, you realize. I feel a kind of ownership of anything that ends up there, know what I’m saying?”

  “Audrey’s right. You don’t need any more trouble, and there are other people around.”

  “Sure are. Two of them are laid out in the woods right now. Couple of your playthings, I do believe,” he said, leering at Audrey.

  “They dead?” she asked, seeming only mildly curious.

  “Hard to say with head wounds. The seriousness. One’s in bad shape, for sure.”

  “Either of them dies, and I’ll kill you,” she promised. She, who was unarmed, speaking to the crazy man with the pistol. Yet it was Pete who seemed discomfited. Unnerved in a way that his flickering grin could not hide.

  “You used to like me,” he said morosely.

  “I like you fine. I’ll like you better if you help us out, instead of messing with us.”

  Teresa would never find out what sort of help Audrey meant. Pete’s gaze drifted past Teresa’s left shoulder and fixed on something. The lost and bloody eyes sprang open in wonder. Shifting quickly to fear.

  “What the hell is that?”

  Teresa and Audrey turned together. Twenty or thirty yards off through the trees, a figure approached. Its clothes were all gray. Its head and shoulders were covered. Its footfalls were inaudible. Tree trunks intervened and it was gone. Then suddenly there again, much closer. Maybe ten yards away. None of them spoke. All three held their breath, unmoving, as if bound by a spell. Until Pete swung the pistol up.

  “Stay where you are.” The ghost came on, neither hurrying nor pausing. “Stay back, damn it. What is it?” Pete demanded, just before he pulled the trigger twice.

  Small as the gun was, the shots were stunningly loud, and Teresa felt physically propelled against the tree trunk, hands over her ears.

  “No,” Audrey screamed, stepping directly in front of Pete, where the next shot would strike her. And Teresa was certain Pete meant to shoot again. Terror had full possession of him. He would empty the weapon into Audrey, the ghost, the trees, whatever target presented itself. Not assessing damage until the fever broke.

  The gun discharged a final time, but Pete was already pitching sideways. A man in a dark jacket had barreled out of the pines and caught the shooter low, bringing them both to the ground with a dull thud and the groan of expelled breath. The second man was Dave, Teresa realized, though the blood on his face had disguised him. There was a gash on his forehead and one eye sagged, but he was pummeling Pete as best he could.

  Audrey’s eyes flared in shock and rage, and she looked down at herself. Prepared for whatever she found, but there was nothing. The bullet had missed. Blinking once, she went for the shotgun, swinging it up and aiming at the two wrestling men. Teresa saw that Pete was now on top, but more than that she saw that Audrey did not care whom she hit. She meant to hurt someone. Teresa ran at her, knocking her shoulder as Audrey squeezed the trigger. There was a loud click, no more.

  “It’s not loaded?” Audrey shouted at Teresa. Looking as if she might beat the smaller woman with the empty gun.

  “Don’t ask me. You’re the one hauling it around.”

  “I thought my dad... Never mind, go after him. Okay? You go after him. Go,” she shouted a last time before rushing toward the struggling men.

  Teresa stood motionless. As if bumping Audrey had taken all her strength. She knew that she should help Dave, yet her instinct and her cousin’s words pushed her the other way. The twin impulses froze her in place. You go after him. She saw a vision of her father, his face twisted in pain, ready to fall forward into a dark abyss. It is all surface, my girl. Do not trust it. Look deeper, look beneath. She glanced again a
t the pile of writhing bodies to see Audrey with her arm around Pete’s neck, dragging him off of Dave. That was enough. She turned to the spot where the ghost had vanished and ran that way.

  The ankle was hurt worse than she had realized. She ran with a limp, slowing with every stride. It did not matter. The figure had not gone far. It rested upon its knees in a small clearing of ferns and maple saplings. Swaying slightly. The sun was behind the trees, and the canvas over the figure’s head seemed to glow in the twilight. Teresa approached cautiously. More concerned about startling the ghost, or of waking from the dream in which she had conjured it, than of any harm it might do her. She dropped to her knees, reached out a shaking hand and took hold of the rough cloth. Her heart rose within her, and she longed to speak the precious word aloud: Dad. But she knew, she knew before she dragged the canvas from the sweaty, tousled hair that it was not so. Only a fantasy she had let herself believe for a few brief days. The deeper part of her, where her father still lived and instructed her, where so many things were understood that Teresa would not let herself see—that part had known all along, or at least since the day she and Fred stood together by the oak, whom she would find under the painted mask.

  “Tay,” James said, his face deathly pale, his eyes wide with puzzlement. Then concern. “Don’t look.”

  The canvas lay in a heap between them, Teresa’s hand still clutching the edge. Despite the warning, she smoothed it out flat, and gazed upon the family demon. There had surely been paint loss before Alfred Morse took possession of the work, and much more since it was pulled from the frame. Its strength dispersed in paint chips strewn around the house and property. Yet great power remained. The background was all brown murk. Only a shadow of the face that had caused death and madness remained, but that shadow carried more horror and desolation than any Teresa had seen, flesh or pigment. Details suggested Goya’s countenance, the curly gray hair and broad nose, but these shrank to insignificance beside the overall effect. Of the intelligent black eyes from other portraits there was no trace, only yellow-white orbs. The skin was jaundiced and blotched, and the mouth hung open in an endless scream, revealing brown and broken teeth. It was not simply an image capable of shocking a fearful and diseased heart into inaction. It was a profound vision of despair. An emotional black hole leeching hope from the very air around it. A spirit in mourning would find no help here, only the knowledge that its grief would be endless and without respite. Death, or the headlong flight from sanity, would seem a wise decision.