Perfect Lies

by Liza Bennett

  “Brilliant mind,” Meg said, her standard comment for people impossible to work with.

  “Oh, Jonas is full of crap. But he does know how to pick talent. He has some wonderful designers. And I think your work is just extraordinary.”

  “Why, thanks.” Meg responded well to flattery, even when she felt—as in this case—that it was condescending and possibly insincere. She noticed that the gallery was empty now except for the wait staff, who were starting to clean up. “I’m sorry I ended up being so late,” Meg apologized, though it occurred to her that perhaps the crowd had left a little early.

  “How did the opening go?” she asked, turning to Ethan. The contacts gave his eyes a startling blueness.

  “Great. At least, that’s what Hannah was telling me when you came in. I sold only two pieces.”

  “Sales are not the point,” Hannah said. “Notice is. And just about everyone of value was here. The Times. The Voice. Paper. By representing you, I’ve told them you’re important. Someone to watch. Even if they don’t understand your work—even if they don’t particularly like it—they’ll have to notice it.And once your name’s in the right kind of print, sales follow. Cause and effect. Not to worry, darling.”

  “I’m not worried, Hannah, believe me. This has been the most amazing night of my life. I suppose I should attempt to be more sophisticated and urbane about it, but screw that. Just to see them all out there, finally…”

  Ah, his sculptures. They were crafted from blown glass in what seemed to Meg an endless and arduous process of turning and firing, cooling and shaping. Ethan made his living selling the table glasses and paperweights that he and his assistants Clint and Janine Lindbergh turned out every morning in the Red River studio. But his heart and soul went into the sculptures—free-form masses of swirling glass that he worked on every afternoon. He’d been at it for more than a decade now, honing his style, perfecting techniques, mastering the problems of pigmentation and balance. Meg was vaguely aware that over the past three years Ethan felt he’d made some kind of breakthrough. That the pieces he turned out were—as far as the process would allow—everything he wanted them to be.

  Once, years ago, when Ethan had first got the studio up and running, Meg endured one of his ardent dissertations on glassblowing—how it all begins with the biscuit-shaped piece of colorless crystal, called a gob, which is flamed and transferred to the blowing rod, or pontil, and then placed in one of the gas-fired furnaces and periodically removed to be turned, tempered, blown, and shaped. What happened next depended on what was being made—water tumblers, paperweights, wineglasses, or (and of course this was what Ethan really cared about) a section of one of Ethan’s flamework sculptures.

  “Glass is totally unforgiving and limiting,” Ethan had explained. “One mistake—one crack or fissure—and days of planning and work can go down the drain. But that’s what makes it exciting as well. The limits. The demands. I mean, you can do any fucking thing you want with oil or acrylic, stone, wood. But glass—it’s molten, mercurial, dangerous.”

  Meg would never admit this to another soul, but she thought Ethan’s sculptures were hideous. If anything, they reminded her of those long, thin, colored balloons, twisted into shapes that were supposed to resemble schnauzers or giraffes, that were handed out at county fairs and children’s parties. Except that Ethan’s pieces were larger, grosser, and made of glass. That anyone would actually want to display them—let alone buy one—was beyond Meg’s comprehension. But then so was the work of Basquiat and Clemente, not to mention practically the whole school of abstract expressionism. Meg knew she was no judge of modern art—she could only assume that Ethan’s work fell roughly into that category—so she’d learned long ago to keep her unvarnished opinions to herself.

  Ethan had walked over to one of his pieces—a towering mass of oranges and reds that looked to Meg vaguely like a giant torch.

  “That’s one of the ones he sold,” Hannah told her.

  “Who bought it?” Meg asked.

  Something in her voice must have revealed how she felt about Ethan’s work because Hannah replied, “A collector. A very prescient one. Ethan has a real future in front of him. I hope you all recognize his potential. I’d hate to think of him turning out wineglasses for the rest of his life.”

  “Of course, we all support Ethan,” Meg replied, insulted. She thought of the various odd jobs Lark had taken on so that Ethan could devote half his day to his damned “art.” Lark put up her own preserves and baked organic breads and muffins, which she sold through a local farmers’ market. She worked several afternoons a week as a masseuse in the Whole Life Healing Center in nearby Montville. For years she’d been writing and illustrating children’s books. None of them was ever picked up by a publisher, but Lark had a local printer run off three of her stories, which she sold at the general store in Red River. The way Meg saw it, Ethan was not so much supported as indulged.

  Over dinner, Meg began to see Ethan from a slightly different perspective. Later, when she tried to reconstruct how everything had happened, she realized that she had probably been looking at Ethan through Hannah’s eyes that night. They’d walked to a restaurant three blocks from the gallery—a small French bistro, run by a gay couple who were on a first-name basis with Hannah.

  “So, dear heart—how did it go?” one of the owners asked as Hannah as Megan and Ethan followed her into the restaurant.

  “Henri, you remember Ethan?”

  “Of course. Our man of the hour. How did it go?”

  “I sold two pieces,” Ethan said.

  “Lovely. But I meant the hors d’oeuvres, dear.” Ethan’s face fell. “David spent all morning on those tiny olive tarts.”

  “They were unbelievable—disappeared in a flash. Henri and David cater all my openings,” Hannah explained as she slid into the banquette beside Ethan.

  Meg faced them across the candlelit table. Between them on the white paper tablecloth sat a glass of crayons for doodling and a latte cup spilling over with tea roses. Ella sang somewhere nearby with loving regret. You’re going to turn me down and say can’t we be friends….

  “I went to the Biennial after all,” Ethan told Hannah, referring to the Whitney Museum’s showcase for emerging artists, which was held on odd-numbered years. “And it didn’t much matter. I looked at the stuff, and thought I must be living on a different planet.”

  “But in a way you are,” Hannah replied, sipping wine that one of the owners had poured without being asked. “Your influences are totally different. So much of what you see at the Whitney is from the urban-angst school.”

  “It all just seems so—dead. Self-referential.”

  “Well, of course. But you’re a romantic. Unlimited horizons. Nature’s wild child. It’s very fresh.”

  Ethan looked down at his glass and his hair, Meg noticed, fell across his forehead, glinting in the soft light.

  “Please. No puffery. Save that stuff for your critic friends and clients.”

  “I’m not flattering you, Ethan. I’m helping you define yourself. You’ve been out in the damned woods for twelve years now. It’s important for you to understand your context.”

  “Why? As you said yourself I don’t really have a place in the art world that the Biennial defines. Do you know who my two biggest influences are? Auguste Rodin and Louis Comfort Tiffany. Now if I could somehow combine the power and genius of Rodin’s sculpture with Tiffany’s mastery of glass—well…”

  “Personally—and I beg you not to jump down my throat because this sounds vaguely like a compliment—I think that’s what you’re doing.”

  “Please, Hannah.” Ethan, laughing and shaking his head, held up both hands in a mock attempt to ward her off. “That sort of thing goes straight to my head. I’m really better off working alone in the wilderness and feeling unappreciated.”

  “Somehow,” Hannah replied, signaling Henri that they were ready to order, “I doubt that.”

  Ethan’s and Hannah’s conversa
tion continued over an excellent dinner of artichokes vinaigrette and poule grille, but Meg didn’t bother to follow the actual words. She was listening instead to its deeper, surprising context—Ethan was being taken seriously as an artist by the owner of one of the leading galleries in Manhattan. Lark’s Ethan, her Ethan. She was impressed and more than a little ashamed of herself for not having believed in him until now. She’d always assumed his work was amateurish, something akin to a hobby. She’d even dismissed the Judson Gallery opening as a fluke. In fact, she’d been worried that at the opening they would all have to watch in embarrassment as Ethan was humiliated by a mocking Manhattan art establishment. This was obviously far from the case.

  “Luigi wants to meet you.” Meg caught Hannah’s lowered reverential tone.

  “Not… from the SoHo Guggenheim?”

  “Just to meet,” Hannah replied, leaning forward to spoon the lemon peel out of her espresso. She tapped it off on the rim of the tiny white saucer. “Perhaps over dinner sometime. I might put something together at my place in a week or two. But I make no promises.”

  “Hannah … I’m so grateful.”

  “Understand something, Ethan. This is not just about you anymore. It’s also about me. My eye. My judgment. Ultimately, my reputation and the success of my gallery. I do absolutely nothing out of the kindness of my heart.”

  Though Meg was tired and tried to beg off, after dinner Ethan insisted that they all go to a jazz club in Tribeca he’d heard about.

  “You’ve got to help me celebrate,” he’d urged Meg when Hannah had gone to the ladies’ room. “I need you here—I just can’t process this kind of happiness on my own.”

  And celebrate they did. Ethan ordered a bottle of champagne as soon as they arrived at the black-painted basement that constituted Voulez Vous. Two dozen beat-up looking tables were scattered around a small room that stank of dead cigarettes. A raised wooden platform against a far wall promised a small combo band; a bass leaned against the keyboard of an upright piano. But they were the first to arrive and Meg could feel Ethan’s disappointment that the evening had come to a sudden standstill. Though ordinarily she would have refused champagne at ten o’clock at night, she’d caught some of Ethan’s ebullient mood. Hannah obviously had as well because, though the champagne was terrible, they made it through the bottle by the time the band started to play.

  The small combo played old standards riffled through and reshuffled like a deck of well-thumbed cards: “Autumn Leaves,” “Stardust,” “Night and Day.” Another bottle of champagne materialized in Ethan’s hands. He couldn’t hear Meg saying “no more” over the music. He refilled her glass. And filled it again. The band was surprisingly good. At some point, Meg realized that she must be slightly drunk because the champagne had started to taste better. She found herself smoking a cigarette. She looked across the table and saw that Hannah and Ethan were gone. No, they were dancing. Her arms were around his neck, and he was whispering something in her ear. He took a small step back and looked at Hannah in the slightly mocking way Meg knew so well. She couldn’t see Hannah’s face, but she could hear her strange, carrying laughter.

  They’re writing songs of love, but not for me. …

  The Gershwin lyrics seemed to have been written especially for Meg, but what had she done to deserve them? Why had Lark been so lucky—the first time out—when it came to finding the right man, and Meg had failed more times than she cared to count? Feeling very tired and sorry for herself, she watched groggily as Ethan guided Hannah around the now crowded little dance area. It seemed to her that they were holding each other much too close, Hannah’s lithe body a smooth fit against Ethan’s large, powerful frame. At one point she thought, but couldn’t be sure, that she saw Ethan kiss Hannah on the forehead. She told herself that this was something he did to his daughters and to Meg herself all the time. It was a gesture of pure, impulsive affection that certainly didn’t mean much of anything. And yet, Meg’s last conscious feeling was one of floating unease.

  “Hey, there, baby,” someone was rubbing her shoulder and smoothing back her hair. “Time to go home.” Oh, Lord! Meg sat up abruptly—she’d fallen asleep, her arms cradling her head on the tabletop.

  “Ethan … I… must have … What time is it?”

  “Two a.m. You’re a regular party girl.”

  “What did I do?” The room had cleared out.

  “Honestly?” Ethan sat down next to her. “Are you sure you want to hear?”

  “I’m not used to drinking so late….”

  “That you made pretty obvious.”

  “Tell me—what happened?”

  Ethan laughed, leaned back, and ran his hands through his hair. “You snored.”

  “Oh …” When she turned her head to look around, the room spun at a sickening angle. “Where’s Hannah?”

  “I put her in a cab. They’re closing up here. Let’s get you home.”

  She nodded off again in the taxi, her head bobbing against Ethan’s shoulder until he finally put his arm around her to steady her, and she slept in the crook of his arm.

  “Home again, jiggedy, jig.” A door opened and light spilled into the cab. “Let’s go, bright eyes.”

  Her head cleared a bit in the elevator, which was a pity because she could a painful drumming was starting to build behind her eyes. The overhead lights in the hallway were trying to pierce her cranium.

  “Should I help you with the keys?”

  “I’m not entirely incapacitated,” Meg said as she fumbled with the lock. Her apartment door swung open.

  “Will you be okay?”

  “I’ll be fine. I’m sorry if I made a fool of myself in front of Hannah—I was just trying …”

  “Meg…” His right hand touched her chin. She looked up at him.

  “I think I’d better come in,” he said.

  Why does it happen? How does it start? What force—fierce, gravitational, blind—draws one body to another? There was certainly no thought involved. She didn’t turn on the light. The door closed behind them. She leaned against it. He stepped toward her. His body pressed against hers. His lips were in her hair. He was kissing her.

  “Ethan.” She stepped back abruptly. “What’s going on?”

  “You know.” He moved toward her again.

  “Please … I think you’d better go.”

  “Meg, come on,” Ethan said, his arms sliding back around her waist. He had an erection; she could feel it against her hip. “You know it’s what we’ve always wanted.”

  “Jesus, Ethan! Don’t be ridiculous!” She pushed him away. He leaned against the wall, facing her in the dark.

  “I’m not afraid to say it, Meg. I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you.”

  “Wanted me? What the hell does that mean?”

  Ethan stepped forward and pulled her to him with such force that her head snapped back. She struggled against his grip, but it was as if she had lost her footing. She couldn’t breathe.

  “No!” She wrenched herself away and stumbled down the hall. As she turned on the living-room light she realized her hands were shaking. She stood swaying in the middle of the room, her arms cradling her elbows. She heard him come up behind her. She could feel his breath in her hair.

  “I want you to go now,” she said. “We’ll forget this ever happened.”

  “We’ll never forget. And it’s not over.”

  “Yes, it most definitely is.”

  “I’m not sure we have that kind of say in the matter.”

  5

  “Ethan said he wasn’t there.”

  The voice on the phone woke Meg up abruptly. For a disoriented moment she thought Lark was telling her Ethan had denied being at Meg’s the night before.

  “Who?” Meg raised up on one elbow, then slid back down, cradling the phone against her ear and chin. Her mouth was so dry she could hardly speak. And when she moved, she felt a listing nausea. She’d fallen asleep on her living-room couch and now the morning sun shone full
-force into the room. She closed her eyes.

  “What’s the matter with you? Paul Stokes, that’s who. I asked Ethan for a full report when he got back this morning, and he told me he wasn’t even there.”

  “Paul… Oh, yes. No. I was going to explain, but… How’s Fern? Is everything okay?”

  “I could ask the same about you. What the hell happened last night? Ethan has been uncharacteristically closemouthed about everything. He’s in bed asleep now, so I thought I’d see if I could get anything out of you.”

  “The show was a big success,” Meg tried to keep very still and concentrate on forming simple sentences.

  “Well that, of course, I did get to hear about. Tell me about Hannah. Is she as brilliant and beautiful as Ethan says?”

  “Is that what Ethan said?”

  “Also cold and calculating and thoroughly ambitious.”

  “Yes, all those things. Very chic and cool in a downtown kind of way. But no spring chicken.”

  “And speaking of which, older sister—just what the hell happened to Mr. Stokes?”

  “He went sour. Very fast I’m afraid.”

  “Permanently?”

  “I’d say so. He called me a cunt.”

  “Oh, then he’s a dead man for sure.”

  Lark talked on about Fern, who was much improved but still congested… about Brook who was asking if she could start shaving her legs, though Lark could see no discernible signs of body hair … about the ever troubled and troubling Lucinda, a constant source of worry for Lark… about the long Columbus Day weekend coming up and what Lark had planned for them all. It seemed to Meg that Lark would go on forever while she slowly died on her own couch of a combination of dehydration and an all-encompassing sense of guilt and shame.

  But what had she done? It was Ethan’s fault. What had he been thinking? He must have had too much drink—they both had—and she was so out of it herself she didn’t notice until it was too late. She hadn’t seen Ethan really loaded before, though she knew from experience that men could turn into total Neanderthals when under the influence. Ethan’s musky aroma clung to the blouse she still wore from the night before. As Lark chatted on, Meg thought about how he’d pressed his penis against her, as though it were some prize he was offering. She felt sick to her stomach. She strained to concentrate on what Lark was saying.