Art on Fire

by Hilary Sloin

  Over the next few weeks Francesca sent cards to Lucky thanking her for something unspecified. She confided in Snak-Shak Wendy the details of her adventure; Wendy confided back that while she appreciated Francesca’s well-placed trust, there were no secrets to be had at the flea market: Everyone knew she’d left with the rich chick. And no one was scratching his head trying to put together a blow-by-blow of what had happened next.

  “Do you mean she used me for sex?”

  Wendy hugged her little friend maternally and teased, “No flies on you. Anyhow,” she added, “it shouldn’t come as a surprise, you gorgeous androgyne.”

  “A what? What am I?”

  “Androgyne, lovey. Half-boy, half-girl. Or half-girl, half-boy. In your case, it’s pretty much divided down the line. Women go for it. They’re gonna be pulling each other’s hair and scratching each other’s eyes to have you as their plaything. You’ll see.”

  All day Francesca repeated the word to herself: androgyne. It reminded her of android, and thus seemed fitting since she’d always felt she’d been erroneously deposited from some isolated sphere of the universe. Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt much, the idea that she’d been used for her body. In fact, it seemed fitting since her mind, almost without exception, couldn’t be detained. She looked forward to the possibility that others might try and use her this way as well. She’d fared just fine in the bargain: three orgasms and lessons in cunnilingus that, she hoped, would be stored in the body, like riding a bike.

  What she wanted from Lucky, even more than another go at her fleshy form and salty, insistent lips, was the opportunity to transfer from brain to canvas the deep, bluish vision of her body against the flash orange of her hair, the long, alternately flaccid/firm breasts (salmon-colored nipples) and the slim legs that extended forever, spotted by freckles the color of pale lips. So, she’d been used by a married woman. Tossed out in the morning like hired help. Still, she’d do it again in a second, without hesitation, if only for another chance to stare at Lucky’s naked body, to memorize its peculiarities, the softly chiseled spaces that separated the ribs, the ditches between the collarbones, dark shadows behind the ankles, red coils of pubic hair.

  The flea market ended in late November. To get through the long winter, Francesca secured snow-shoveling jobs with several neighbors. As Christmas neared, she sank under the weight of the dark days, lying on the top bunk and pining over the strange gifts that would surely be sent from Alfonse’s distant Italian relatives—unnecessary things like Italian books on tomatoes, pressed butterfly wings in onion skin pages, socks knit from Shetland wool—always arriving in a big carton with Italian airmail stickers plastered across the top. There would be eggnog on New Year’s (though never with rum because of Isabella). On Hanukkah, Evelyn would make brisket and latkes. They’d watch Tom Jones’ Christmas special or Julie Andrews’—whoever had a show that year. Evelyn would gasp: “Isn’t he handsome!” and “Look at the figure on her. Gorgeous!”

  Evelyn had instilled in Francesca an antipathy for gaudy Christmas decorations. Still, she was comforted to see that here, where the ocean surrounded the world like quicksand, people succumbed to the season’s spell. She was further relieved when the snow finally came, even as it silenced what had all summer been a bustling, often vociferous world. She headed out on her bicycle, shovel tucked into the space between her backpack and her body. First, she dug the pizza restaurant out from under the heavy, wet snow, had a cigarette on the stoop, her pants growing heavy with the cold melt, and watched trees struggle against the wind. Her face stung. Nor were her gloves made for true cold; she’d chosen them because they had no fingers, thus permitting her to smoke. She headed down the block to a white Cape owned by Charlotte Wallace, a gray-haired lady who lived alone. The driveway was gravel, which made for more difficult shoveling, but Mrs. Wallace had agreed to pay a substantial $30 each time Francesca shoveled; spent correctly and with enough snow, this would last through the season.

  Mrs. Wallace opened the door. She wore a light blue robe, pulled tight around her body, the pale color reflecting the silver tones in her hair. Her pewter colored glasses were attached by a silver chain, parked low on her nose. “Hi, dear,” she said. “Come inside and I’ll make you a cocoa.”

  A trellis with thick brown vines strangled the siding; the brick steps, protected from snow by an overhang, were stained greenish from a light coating of moss. Francesca thought it was the most beautiful little house she’d ever seen. She kicked her feet together to loosen the snow, tapped each foot against a step, slapped her hands against her bulky jacket and shook the snow from her cap, until Mrs. Wallace said, rather impatiently, “Oh, just come in already or we’ll let all the heat out.”

  Francesca stepped inside. Sunlight bore through the clean, wide windows, warming her face and hands, making her shiver. A wood stove in the center of the room ran so hot, the air above trembled. “This is a lovely house,” she said, reaching for a new refinement in her choice of adjectives.

  Mrs. Wallace smiled. She put on a pot of water and busied herself at the counter, removing a container of cocoa from a cabinet, then filling a pitcher with milk, selecting a blue mug, taking out a teaspoon. She seemed not to want to talk, so Francesca gazed from object to object—the shiny silver stove, the fresh white paint, the wood trim and oiled cabinets. Two paintings hung on one wall, both small, both depicting the same lady in the same pose; yet they were inexplicably different. She squinted for a closer look, then walked to them.

  “Do you like those?” asked Mrs. Wallace.

  “They’re the same, aren’t they? Oh, wait. No, they’re different. And they’re the same.”

  “That’s exactly right. You can see their difference?”

  “No.” She looked more closely. In one painting, the subject’s head tilted to the right and the background was darker. “This one is sadder,” she said.

  “That one is expressionistic,” Charlotte corrected. “The other is realistic. Which is a fancy way of saying what you just said.” She smiled.

  “Are you an artist?” Francesca asked.

  “Me? Heavens, no. I just run a small gallery.”

  “What a coincidence. I’m a painter!” She pointed to herself and laughed. Confidence rushed through her body. Fate, at long last, was cooperating. How else to explain it? She was here, just shoveling the walk, minding her own business; the woman invited her inside for cocoa—what were the odds of that? And then, she just happened to own an art gallery!

  “Where have you exhibited?” asked Charlotte.

  Francesca turned. “Exhibited? Oh, I’m only in high school. Well, I was in high school. But I attended a special school for the gifted. Only seven students from the entire district were chosen to go.”

  “How exceptional!” Charlotte said. “Well, the Cape is filled with painters. You’re in good company.” The kettle began to whistle, then scream. Mrs. Wallace turned off the flame. She prepared the cocoa, put the mug on the tray with the pitcher of milk, the spoon, and a napkin, and carried the tray to the table. Ceremoniously, she placed the cup in front of Francesca. “This cocoa is imported from Holland. I have it sent all the way from Zabar’s.”

  Francesca presumed Zabar’s was an African country, though how the cocoa arrived in Africa by way of Holland was puzzling. “It’s delicious. Thanks,” she said. It tasted like all the other cocoa she’d had in her life; whipped cream would have made it festive, but undressed, it was hot and sweet.

  By the time Francesca had finished shoveling Charlotte Wallace’s driveway, sweat was trickling inside her heavy jacket and down the sides of her head. She’d taken her cap off early on, stuffed it in her pocket, seeking out the cold air on her sweaty head. She needed soap and steam. Until two weeks before, she’d have biked over to the YMCA where a young, attractive woman always let her in, even provided one of the towels reserved for the members. But in the off-season, a new woman, who was immune to Francesca’s charms, worked the desk, and she required proof of mem
bership. These days Francesca resorted to the cold spigot behind her cabin, a bar of Ivory soap, and a large towel to warm her the moment she was clean enough—i.e., armpits, genitals, face, ears—to turn off the water and run inside.

  Spongy palettes of snow continued to fall from the sky, thickening the beachside air, hitting the pavement like dollops. She considered asking Charlotte Wallace whether she might borrow the shower in her guest bathroom. But she couldn’t bear the idea of asking for something so essential, something that people were supposed to just have.

  What happened next did not spring into her head fully formed, the way, say, a painting might. It gained momentum gradually, compelling her to push harder on the pedals of her bicycle, and harder still, until she found herself climbing the steep hill that led to Lucky Perkins’ seaside mansion. The structure was as ugly and ostentatious as ever (some might say it looked nearly identical to the other homes in the neighborhood; Francesca would have disagreed).

  She rested her bike against the garage, broke a trail through the fresh snow up to the porch, and rapped on the solid oak door.

  As she expected, no one answered. She spanned the house for an entrance, examining windows, the back door, even the dryer vent. An unfastened hatchway looked promising. She pried apart the two frozen doors, only to find herself in a sub-basement. She could smell the turpentine of the husband’s studio, but there was no entry into the house. Once again, she followed around the exterior of the house, sliding her fingertips along the smooth siding. She checked underneath a pot of expired geraniums—her mother always kept a key under a planter of dead chrysanthemums on the porch—but there was nothing. She lifted, with some effort, a series of slate slabs forming a wall by the sprinkler. On the back porch, she tipped back the lid of an old tin milk-box with her boot. Finally! In the bottom of the box sat one key, the hole in its center filled with ice. She grabbed at it with frozen fingers until it came loose, then made her way around the side of the house where she attempted to force it into the notch on the side door. It didn’t fit.

  On her way back to the milk box, she spotted a red door at the bottom of a small, dark stairway, covered in cobwebs and fastened with a rusted padlock. Carefully, Francesca descended the icy steps into the small cave at the bottom and slipped the key into the lock. Reluctantly the arc loosened and she pushed open the door. Inside was a tiny room with a twin bed and a painted dresser. A baby’s room perhaps, or servants’ quarters. This room led to a long hallway, carpeted in soft blue. The house was musty and dark, but the moment she flicked a switch along the wall, the corridor lit up like a Broadway stage. Track lights made yellow pools across the floor, spilling light into rooms in both directions. She crossed a large vestibule and found herself in the kitchen, though it seemed impossible that she’d have gotten here from there, almost as though she’d traveled a secret passage.

  The pantry was cool and empty but for several six-packs of beer, a bag of onions, a box of Oreo cookies, and some soup. Inside the refrigerator was an unopened jar of fancy mustard, milk, peanut butter, and a Tupperware filled with rotted crudités. A magnet held a list of reminders against the refrigerator door:

  (1) water houseplants (3, including the cactus)

  (2) dust

  (3) turn on the alarm when you go out (obviously unheeded)

  (4) switcharoo the lights to fake out intruders.

  (5) Miss me. (A little smiley face and a line of X’s followed.)

  “Yuck,” said Francesca.

  On the magnet was printed The Wallace Gallery, followed by an address. It took her a moment to recognize Charlotte’s name. She made her way into the living room where the thermostat was located. She turned the heat high, as Lucky had done, then stepped back and stared at Edgar’s painting. Was there genius in that? she wondered. In the choice of colors or the images evoked? She saw none of it. Perhaps, she thought, I wouldn’t know genius if it stabbed me in the eyeballs.

  Francesca climbed the stairs, past the bedroom where she’d spent one night less than two months before, then kicked open the door to the bathroom. The room was large and clean. A terrycloth robe hung on the back of the door—green, but not unlike Isabella’s. She turned on the hot water, and climbed into the clean stall, held her face under the needling stream. She soaped every inch of her cold skin, scrubbed her head, her ears, and the back of her neck; lifted her leg and let the water squirm deep inside of her, then bent over and did the same. Until she was certain every area of her body had been flushed.

  By the time she shut the water, the room was opaque with steam. Heat honeyed through the pipes. She wiped clear a spot of the mirror and splashed after-shave onto her face and neck, then opened a bottle of perfume and smelled Lucky. She wore the robe downstairs and made a cup of coffee, then perched in front of the bay window just in time to watch mothers gather at the bus stop to retrieve their children. Clustered like birds around breadcrumbs, they shifted in one large unit toward the paused bus. From a distance they were perfect—protective palms pressed to their sons’ backs or caught in the clinging static of their daughters’ hair. She imagined the even weight of their hands, their afternoon smell—cigarettes, coffee, faded perfume. Though she knew that up close, none of it really existed.

  Snow accumulated quickly. By late afternoon a power line was sprawled across the road. The lights went out; the television was useless. Wind forced the screen door to open and slam shut against the side of the house. Francesca sat at the breakfast bar, eating a plate of Oreos. Through the kitchen window she studied the darkened sky; an eerie brightness passed behind it, swift clouds the color of baby aspirin.

  She pushed away the plate of cookies and felt sick. As though she’d been punched in the gut. What was she doing here, wearing the bathrobe of a man whose wife she’d fucked? Where were her parents? Why didn’t it frighten her to be here, illegally? She could be arrested, wind up in jail. She might never see anyone again. Would she miss anyone? She thought of Lisa. And Evelyn. She missed them a little, if she allowed herself. They had loved her in their stingy, unreliable way.

  Francesca knew she never wanted to return to New Haven. She couldn’t stay here, of course, in Lucky’s mansion, but she could remain on the Cape forever, work for Gus, finagle free pizza from Sherry, free burgers and coffee from Snak-Shak Wendy, eventually venture into Provincetown and find other girls like her. Still—she glanced at the wall phone—it would be nice to talk to someone who knew her. Someone who loved her, no matter how ineffably. The wall phone could give her a swig of humanity. She could hear her grandmother’s voice, learn she was forgiven. Evelyn might beg her to return. Her parents surely would. Their indifference would have fermented into contrition and guilt. “Thank God you’re all right,” they would say.

  But what if no one cared much to hear from her? What if they’d hardly noticed her absence, except to be relieved? What if Evelyn hadn’t forgiven her? What if Evelyn hated Francesca so much for what she was, she could never love her again?

  Still, she had to talk to someone. She grabbed the receiver of the wall phone and dialed Lisa Sinsong’s number. She remembered every digit.

  “Hello,” barked Mr. Sinsong.

  “Is Lisa there?”

  “Lisa gone.”

  “Gone?” Francesca repeated. “Well . . . when is she coming back?”

  “She not coming back,” he said and hung up the phone.

  Francesca walked numbly, determinedly, toward the basement as if she’d been there many times before.

  “Lisa gone,” she said aloud.

  The door was covered in plastic and taped closed to keep out the cold air. She yanked at a loose end and tore off a Texas-shaped piece of paint along with the tape, then lit a candle that sat on the telephone table and used it to guide her way down into the decisive darkness. Immediately, her eyes watered from turpentine and mold. She stepped onto the cool floor and held the candle out, spilling a spooky warm light across the cement. Three votive candles sat on a small table; she lit them
as well.

  At the center of the low room two wooden easels faced the same point. Stretched canvases lined the wall like record albums, forming a ledge beneath a series of cubbies that were built into the walls and stuffed with hundreds of paints. On an old, rickety table, the tops of brushes peeked over the lips of mason jars, grouped by size, thickness, material. Rectangular cans of turpentine formed a pyramid in the corner; before them was a laundry basket filled with rags. Francesca felt she’d stumbled into a Tolkienesque paradise, a subworld stocked with the supplies to her soul. Here, in a rich lady’s basement, where she ought not to be, was everything she needed. She stroked a virgin tube of white, then pushed her finger down hard and dented the metal. The canvases were rough and scratchy as the shell of her snorkel jacket. She lifted one and placed it on the easel before her, then lit a cigarette and stepped back to examine it. The blanched color reminded her of Isabella. She remembered her sister dressed as Anne Frank, walking around the house with a yellow star sewn into her clothes, speaking in a German accent. What a weirdo, Francesca laughed. Why would anyone adulate a girl who spent her life in an attic, then died of typhoid and lice? Where was the glamour in that—in premature death and posthumous appreciation, public scrutiny of your diary? She would never understand Isabella. And it could not simply be genius that separated them: her own mediocrity, Isabella’s superiority. How then to explain Lisa’s preference for her, when Lisa, Francesca knew instinctually, was the more intelligent of the two? She wondered whether her sister was even alive, but she had the sense it would take a nuclear explosion or a car falling from a skyscraper directly onto her head to decimate Isabella. There was something iron cast about her, something impermeable. Still, it was suddenly apparent to Francesca how isolated she was: No Evelyn, no Lisa, no mother or father. No crazy sister—irritating, but at least there. No one loved her anymore and in turn she felt no love swishing about in her heart. She wished she had a dog. Or even a turtle. Something she could look at in the evenings. Something she could touch.