“I was this close to shoving the pointed heels right up Silverman’s ass!”
He nods as if it all makes sense now. “You saw him?”
“Yep.” I stomp around the foyer, delighting in the clacking sound said heels are making on the tile floor. “These shoes would have been perfect if I could have only taken them off and used them as missiles.”
“How did you finagle entry into the prestigious office of Mr. Uninformed Backstabber?”
“I have my ways.” I push my wet hair back from my face. “Anyway, it turned out to be a complete disaster.”
Shannon’s phone rings. “Hold on a sec, this is my sister.”
I nod and make my way to the desk. I don’t really feel like working today, but there’s still so much to do. I try to convince myself that life goes on.
“Yeah?” Shannon’s eyes light up. “You mind if I put you on speaker?”
I sigh. No offense, but I really don’t feel like chit-chatting with your sister right now, I’m tempted to say, but I keep my mouth shut. Erin is a great girl, and under normal circumstances, it would be one of the highlights of my day to catch up.
“Okay, can you hear me?” he says. “Meadow is right here.”
“Hey, Meadow,” Erin says.
“Hey.” I force myself to smile. “Long time, no talk. How are things with our favorite girl in blue?”
“Fine,” she says in her best officer-of-the-law tone.
“Arrest any bad guys yet today?” Shannon makes a show of thumping his wrists together like he’s in the cuffs. I roll my eyes at him.
“What’s the address to the art gallery? I think I just heard an APB about some dipshit drama queen fugitive holing up at Pathways. Meadow, it’s totally okay if you make a citizen’s arrest. Don’t go easy on him. Full cavity search and everything.”
“Very funny.” Shannon shakes his head. “Besides, you know I’ll like it.”
Erin snorts. “Gross. Anyway… I wasn’t really supposed to do this but I sorta kinda stretched the rules for my big brother.”
“Your fabulous big brother,” he corrects, giving me his best hair flip. “Don’t leave out that part.”
“Right.” She chuckles. “My fabulous big brother. So I just got the file on him…”
I walk closer to the phone. “On who?”
“Silverman,” she says. “There’s nothing criminal here.” The sliver of hope that became illuminated with her words goes dark again.
“Damn!” I shake my head.
“But…” Her tone sounds too hopeful to ignore.
“What?”
“I’m seeing a report about a disturbance at an art college twelve years ago involving Greg Silverman. Looks like Silverman got angry because his professor gave his ceramic glazed pottery a harsh critique. Took it out on the studio and did some major property damage.”
“Wait? He used to be an artist?” My mind races. I had no idea. In all the years I’ve known him, it’s not something he’s mentioned. And with his narcissism, I can’t believe he wouldn’t throw that out at every opportunity to brag about himself. Also, why isn’t he still creating his own art?
“Yeah. And it got ugly. After smashing a bunch of work by other artists, he choked out the professor and threatened to kill him, but the professor never filed charges.”
“Yikes!”
“Wait. there’s something else… looks like the police were called back out to the campus a year later. By then he had switched his major to art history and had a fight with another student. So, he’s been arrested at least twice for felony assault. Third strike and he’s out. Take that for what you will. I, for one, wouldn’t be sorry if I had to arrest him.”
“Holy smokes,” I say, wringing my hands. This is classic blackmail material. But I don’t want to stoop to Silverman’s level.
“That’s all I can pull up for now. Hope it helps.”
“Yeah, it does for sure. Thank you so much, Erin.”
Shannon hangs up the phone and shakes his head. “That bastard! I can totally see him doing that. The assault part, not the art part. Can you imagine the ugly shit that would come out of someone like Greg Silverman? He probably made those crappy mugs that look like kids in grade school made them by hand without the benefit of the wheel. Complete with handles shaped like ears.”
I nod. “Exactly. He wanted to be an artist, but he didn’t have any talent. Now, he lashes out at people like Henry who receive all the accolades he wanted. He figures if he deflects, it will make him feel better about himself.”
“It’s called sour grapes. I felt so bad about what happened with Henry… something told me to have Erin look into it. What’s the good of having a baby sister in the vice squad if she can’t help a brother out now and then?”
“I’m so glad she did. Now we know Silverman’s dirty little secret. Only thing now is to decide how best to use it.”
Shannon leans in and says, “I never liked the guy at all. He’s like the worst of the worst when it comes to art critics. A fucking full-blown fraud. It all makes sense now. What are you gonna do?”
“I have a few ideas.”
“What exactly do you have in mind, missy?”
I put my pointer finger to my temple and tap. “Something epic’s brewing inside my really big brain. But I’m gonna need your help.”
Shannon claps his hands together. “You know you can count on me.”
“My fabulous best friend.” And I can count on him. It’s what I love most about him.
He winks. “This is cause to celebrate. Where are we going for drinks tonight? Please don’t make me go back to that dreadful dive bar you frequent. I had an upset stomach off rotgut gin for two days.”
I laugh. “No, you’re way too fabulous for that.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, babycakes. We both are.”
Chapter 20
Henry
I haven’t left my loft for days, ordering takeout and groceries online for sustenance. I don’t want to talk to anyone out of fear of stuttering again. When it comes to stuttering, it’s like the floodgates open, and my brain reverts right back to when it all started. I try, and I try, but I can’t shake it.
It’s morning, but I’m not sure what day of the week it is. I really don’t care. The things that mattered to me, my art and Meadow, have faded away. I never did finish that vase, and I haven’t spoken to her since that day she banged on my door, begging me to let her in. I just couldn’t. How could I? I was so embarrassed. I still am. Every time I think about the Greg Silverman review, his despicable lies, I feel queasy.
What’s worse than being labeled a fraud?
I brew myself a pot of coffee since I didn’t get much sleep, spending another restless night tossing and turning. Sleeping used to be so much easier after making love to Meadow. I can still recall the sensation of her touch, the way she smelled and tasted… how amazing it felt to be deep inside her.
I want to fuck away every horrible thing that’s happened since the supposed triumph of my showing at Pathways.
I stare at Verdi, and she must sense my unease because she saunters over to weave between my legs in a show of feline solidarity. I pet her and think about a time when my life was simpler.
My phone rings. Meadow’s name lights up the screen. She has called a few times since the day I told her to leave, but I never answered the phone. I really don’t want to pick up now. But something inside of me just can’t press the “ignore” button.
I answer but don’t say a word.
“Henry?” she says.
I clear my throat.
“Henry, are you there?”
“Yeah.” Relief flows over me in waves when I spit out the syllable without stuttering over it.
“It’s me.”
“I know.” Another exhale flows from my lungs. An entire sentence. Sure, it was only two words, but I consider it a win just the same.
“How have you been?”
I need her with me as badly as I
ache for distance between us. She’s the cause of my pleasure and my pain. “The same, I guess.”
“I’m really sorry about that Silverman review.”
“Shit happens, right?”
“I’m usually the cynical one. What gives?”
“Is there a reason why you called?”
“Yeah.” She pauses only long enough for me to wonder what she’s thinking. What she’s wearing. Is her hair pulled back or falling down in silky waves around her shoulders? I close my eyes and imagine she’s standing right next to me, close enough that I can inhale her unique scent. “I’ve been thinking about the Silverman review.”
“What about it?”
“He said your work looked commercial.”
“Why are you reminding me?” The moment the words leave my mouth, I regret them.
“Because… well, maybe there’s a way to counter his stupidity.”
“I’m listening.”
“How would you feel about a professional photographer taking some candid shots of you working at the potter’s wheel? Maybe a video or two. For social media?”
I scrub a hand down my face. “I don’t know, Meadow. What’s the point?”
“If we document your process from start to finish, then we can expose Silverman for the liar he is.”
I sigh. Can’t she see this is a train bound to nowhere? “I don’t even care anymore.”
“How can you say that?” Her voice is a plea and a vow at the same time.
“You don’t understand, Meadow. You’re not an artist.”
“No, I’m not but–”
“This sounds like a bad idea.” I’m not sure how to articulate the extreme emotion I’m feeling. The last thing I want is to make the situation worse. “If the trashcan’s already burning, don’t throw any more garbage in there.”
“Please, Henry. Don’t make me beg.”
“The last time you said that I ended up doing the art showing and look how well that turned out.”
“Okay. I won’t force you, I just figured–” Her tone drips with the regret that mirrors mine.
I close my eyes and give myself a moment to think. What she says actually makes sense, and letting people know my work is authentic is important to me. Besides, I’m so fucking tired of being afraid.
“Fine,” I say before I can force my lips shut. “I’ll do it. Just…”
“Just what?”
“I don’t want you here.”
I hear the air rush out of her. “Wh-why not?”
“I ju-just don’t.” I clamp my teeth shut. Damn! I’m doing it again!
“Henry, I would really like to see you.”
“I can’t, Meadow.” Why is she making this so difficult? Hasn’t she done enough?
“I understand. I’ll arrange to have a photographer come over to your loft.”
“Okay.”
“Take care of yourself, Henry.”
I hang up the phone with so many emotions ripping through me, they make me want to crawl back into bed and throw the covers over my head. Hiding seems like the best alternative.
How did she get me to agree to another shenanigan where the art isn’t the intent behind it? I don’t need any more publicity that could have an overarching negative impact on my future. But Meadow has that effect on me. There is no doubt about it.
I didn’t have a lot of hope in her plan of hiring a photographer, but it was better than what I was doing… moping around the loft all alone.
It’s funny how someone like Silverman can tear me down. It takes so much effort and energy to create a work of art, but it takes practically nothing for a critic to render their opinion. I really wish that he worked for some blog nobody ever heard of. But the fucking New York Times! Every paragraph he writes is like a death sentence.
And considering I’ve had zero sales since the column came out… it’s been a death sentence on my career. I’m pissed as hell and I’m going to start taking control.
***
As anger continues to choke me, I really don’t feel much artistic inspiration, but it’s been so long since I’ve been at the potter’s wheel that I’m willing to force myself to create. It’s not a good feeling, but it’s better than sitting around the loft just bitching at Verdi all day. As I shape and mold the clay, it takes shape slowly. This isn’t my best work, but it’s a start. I try to recall happy times like me picking apples or baking the apple pie with Meadow and the beautiful moments that followed.
In my mind, I can see Meadow’s naked body pressed against mine. She calls my name, and I feel so damn happy that if I die at that moment, I wouldn’t care. Her eyes light up as she holds me close. But a darkness of the heart casts shadows of pain over my recollection. The usually vivid memory fades to gray.
I start to think about the day Meadow showed me the Greg Silverman review. I see myself stuttering and kicking her out… the sad look in her eyes as she heads for the door.
“Damn, what were you thinking, Henry?” I mutter to myself.
The classical music plays as I shape the vase. Maybe this one won’t be so bad. Maybe with a little more effort, it can be beautiful. I stay focused until the door buzzes, my hands covered in clay. The last time I got an unexpected visitor, it was Meadow. Part of me hopes that it isn’t her because I’m just not ready. But the other part of me wishes that it is her because I ache from missing her.
I wash my hands and press the button on the intercom. “Hello?”
“It’s the photographer,” a man’s voice says.
“Okay.” I press the door button.
Shit, I forgot that was today. I pace the floor. Meadow sent me a text to confirm, and it completely slipped my mind. I’m seriously thinking about canceling on the guy. I’m really not in the mood. But I might as well get it over with.
A few seconds later, I’m face-to-face with him. He looks really familiar, and I stare at him a long moment, trying to place his face. I must have seen him at the gallery showing. But I talked to hundreds of people that night, and their names and faces all merge together. He extends his hand to me. “Good to see you.”
“Same here. How do I know you?”
He looks affronted. “I’m Shannon Burch.”
“From Pathways, right?”
He nods, dragging his bag of gear inside with his giant frame. He takes up a lot of space within my loft, not just from his physicality but his equally big personality.
“I didn’t know you were a photographer.”
He tosses a jaunty wink my way, and if I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was flirting with me. But my heart still belongs to Meadow, his best friend, and he has to know that. “I’m a man of many talents. You ready to get started?”
“That’s what I was gonna talk to you about…” I scratch at the scruff on my chin.
He wags a finger in my direction. “Wait. You’re not chickening out, are you?”
“I’m not a chicken, I just don’t feel up to it.”
“Hey, Henry. I’m already here, and it won’t take long.” He takes the camera out of his bag. “Let’s just knock it out in a jiffy. And I’ll be incognito.”
My eyes sweep over his height. “I can’t picture you ever being that.”
He smiles. “You catch on fast, Mr. Garrison.”
I walk back into the studio as Shannon follows me.
“The lighting is great in here.”
I glance at the huge windows. I’ve been so despondent, I haven’t even noticed the beautiful sun streaming in through the paned glass. “Thanks. I guess. I had nothing to do with it. Just the sun.”
Shannon gets his gear ready. “Natural light rules. I can sure see why you love this loft for your work and why you want to stay here.”
I sit down at the potter’s wheel and continue to work.
Shannon snaps a few pictures of me. “You’re doing great, Henry.”
“Thanks.”
I keep molding the clay.
As he crouches down, Shannon looks more l
ike a lumbering bear than a photographer. “Just pretend like I’m not even here and go about your artistic process like you normally do.”
I shake my head. “That’s not gonna be easy. I haven’t really been into creating since… since… well, you know.”
He drops his camera to his waist, the lens dangling from the thin strap. “Yeah, unfortunately, assholes are hard to forget. Come on, if Meadow can put up with the world’s most demanding parents, surely you can swing this.”
I look up at him. “What are you talking about?”
“Please don’t look directly at the camera. It’s called breaking the fourth wall.” He takes several pictures. “And yes, Meadow’s parents put impossible demands on her. The poor girl got punished if she got anything less than an ‘A.’”
“Really?” I frown, considering how harsh that sounds. No matter how intelligent and talented a person is, there will always be certain subjects of learning where they’ll struggle. It’s unrealistic and unreasonable to expect perfect marks from your child.
He nods. “That probably has a lot to do with her take no prisoner’s attitude. Why she’s out there kicking ass and taking names. She figures if she gets them first, they’ll never be able to get her later. You catch my drift?”
I keep one eye on Shannon and one eye on the wheel. “I never knew that. She never told me.”
“Meadow isn’t one for opening up.” He takes a few more pictures. “Do you think I can get a few shots of you with those?”
“Sure.” After stopping the wheel and wiping my hands, I nod and make my way over to the shelf of drying vases. “These are headed for the kiln.”
“They look amazing!” Shannon snaps several photos.
“Meadow’s parents were really that tough on her?”
“They didn’t accept anything less than perfection. Even worse, they did it because she was the girl. Her brothers acted like nimrods and got off scot-free. Apparently, her dad didn’t have much use for girls, but Meadow was determined to prove her worth. No child should have to grow up like that.” He waves his hand. “Step over a little bit to the left. You’re in the shadow.”
I follow his direction.
“Okay, that’s it.” He takes the picture and smiles.
“How do you know all of this stuff about Meadow?”
Mansplainer Page 16