The Art Student's War

by Brad Leithauser

  They were coming up on Jefferson. The sounds of traffic mingled with the rousing wet-soil smells of spring. There was another question that must be asked: “And Aunt Grace. It’s been months and months since I saw her. How is she?”

  The pause extended a little too long.

  “Well of course she’s a trouper. But this time has been hard. They took the first breast, four years ago, she bounced right back. But this time has been hard. And we—well, as you know, we’re not sure of the prognosis.”

  “I pray for her,” Bianca said.

  “And she prays for all of you. These haven’t been easy months.”

  “Easier because of you, though. Uncle Dennis, what would we have done without you? You must have driven up twenty times since—since the day Papa discovered Mamma’s crimes.”

  “Maybe I’m just restless.”

  “Oh stop it.” Uncle Dennis had always liked when she pretended to be hard on him—playing a petulant little girl, stamping her foot in indignation. She would never talk this way to Papa; it was a kind of teasing that was theirs alone. “Edith was refusing to move to Reston Street before you gave her the idea of medical school.”

  Uncle Dennis protested: “Oh but it was her idea. She was just a little shy about expressing it.”

  “And I don’t suppose you deserve any credit for the turnaround in Stevie’s life? You know he loves his job. And where are he and Rita tonight? Out with new friends at a wedding rehearsal. When he was working for Ford, how often did something like that happen?”

  “No, no, no—now that really isn’t a case where I can take credit. They were looking for a young man of Stevie’s qualifications.”

  “That isn’t the impression I got from Mr. Caglayangil.”

  “The Turk? You talked with the Turk?”

  “Maggie and I dropped in to visit Stevie. He wasn’t there but we talked with Mr. Caglayangil. We had tea. In the inner temple. The Gold Room.”

  “Extraordinary, isn’t it? Apparently some of those artifacts belong in a museum. They’re truly that precious.”

  “Yes, he told us they were rare. Actually he went a step further. He informed us that he was a rare man.”

  The two of them laughed. Then Uncle Dennis said, “I told him I would accept no favors.”

  “Yes. He told me that’s what you told him. And you know what else? He told me he told you he was going to do you two favors. One, he was going to hire Stevie. Two, he was going to insist he was doing you no favors.”

  They were just about to turn onto Jefferson. In the darkness of Reston Street, in the spring air, Uncle Dennis began to laugh again, and this time he kept on laughing. Oh he liked being outwitted by a bejeweled little man who spoke broken English. Far away, in an exotic sanctum hidden along an industrial stretch of Fenkell, a rare little gold man in a golden room was laughing to himself, and Uncle Dennis heard, and understood, and joined the laughter.

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  “Didn’t I promise you I’d get you here before it closed?”

  “You did,” Bianca said.

  As Grant had predicted, Pierre was shutting his doors, after twenty-six years of business.

  She went on: “The place is almost as old as I am.”

  “When it opened, Hoover wasn’t yet president.”

  “Now you’re making me feel old.”

  Loyal customers of many years’ standing had turned out today—a crowd large enough to leave you wondering why the place must close at all. But to glance at Pierre, who maintained his pencil-line-thin moustache but who had dyed his hair a darker shade since Bianca was here last summer, was to behold a defeated man.

  “Didn’t I promise you I’d get you here before it closed?” Grant repeated.

  In truth, when Bianca had first heard about the closing, she hadn’t wished to return. She’d enjoyed here such a memorable anniversary lunch, where she’d announced the wispy suspicion of her pregnancy over steaks and a farewell abundance of wine—why overlay other memories upon it? Afterward, they’d walked down Jefferson hand in hand, under a rinsed summer sky in which a white gull was wheeling toward the river. That day had been perfect, in its way.

  But when Grant had proposed lunch today, it had seemed important to acknowledge his thoughtfulness. And here they were.

  She needed to be better toward Grant, who deserved someone better—not that it would ever occur to him to think this way. But she’d been feeling especially tender and solicitous for months now, ever since the night he’d gotten so stinking drunk with Papa and wept on the drive home and confessed his fear of someday coming home to a note on the kitchen table. To look at Grant, seated across this other, very elegant table, you’d never suppose him prey to such fears. He looked so contented, so solid and comfortingly good-looking. It was just that way with the boys, too, who were truly such wonderfully joyful, life-loving children, but who in recent months had constantly drawn her aside to seek reassurances about preposterous terrors: sharks, bears, cobras. Especially Chip. If a toilet’s flush were strong enough, could it pull you down inside it? If a rat got into the house, would it eat your eyes while you slept? Only last summer, watching the backyard from the kitchen window, she’d seen Chip walk blindfolded across a wooden “tightrope” Grant had sunk into the ground. And now? Now Chip was scared of toilet seats.

  “Tell me the kids are all right,” Bianca said.

  “The kids are fine.” They were home with Grandmother Ives, who was doing one of her rare stints of babysitting. “They’re fine and I’m going to have the porterhouse steak.”

  “And I’m going to have the lady’s steak. It’s what I had the first time I was here. With Mrs. Olsson.”

  “She was a beautiful woman.”

  “And she was alive when we lunched here. Isn’t it odd when you phrase it like that? One meal, the woman’s alive. The next meal, she isn’t. Her death was one of the hundred things that happened this winter. Heaven help us, I’m awfully glad it’s finally spring.”

  “Me too,” Grant said. “Me too.”

  “Most of the time, I felt I was falling apart.”

  “I think you handled things quite admirably, under the circumstances.”

  Grant was being lawyerly, though just a little. Still, whenever he got this way—so reasoned and balanced—Bianca felt a wayward impulse to rumple his composure. “Did you know I was smoking for a while? That I took it up again? While pregnant? Because I was feeling so absolutely at wit’s end?”

  But it turned out her composure was about to be rumpled. “Yes,” Grant said softly. “I knew.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes, I did. I picked up your coat one day and a pack of Tareytons fell out.”

  “My coat? But I was always keeping them in my purse.”

  “Your coat,” Grant said firmly.

  Bianca pondered a moment. “I guess I’m not surprised. I couldn’t keep anything organized, for all the lists I drew up. Incidentally, you didn’t say anything.”

  “I thought about it.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “I think I was scared to.”

  “Scared to?” The phrase scared her—sent a little chill skittering into the big dome of her stomach.

  “Scared it would make you even more nervous. You were in a real state.”

  “I was, wasn’t I?” Bianca tried a laugh, which came out sounding brittle. “Not that I’m out of it exactly. I don’t think I’ll be out of it until the baby’s born.”

  “Of course not. That’s only natural,” Grant said. “That’s only natural,” he repeated, drawing comfort from the phrase.

  “Order a glass of wine with your steak,” Bianca suggested.

  “You’re going to have one?”

  “No, but I want to drink vicariously. Hell, have a cigarette.”

  “I think I’ll pass.” It was a point of pride for Grant that he’d never bought a pack of cigarettes.

  “My boyfriend’s still in training,” she said.

&nbs
p; “I suppose.”

  It was one of Grant’s most commendable traits: his athlete’s sense of enlightened self-maintenance. Presumably, this was a notion the boys would inherit from their father: your body is something to take care of.

  The food arrived and it was wonderful. Last time, the French fries had been greasy. But these were the crisp steaming little sticks Bianca recalled from her visits with Mrs. Olsson. The steaks, the green beans, the bread, everything was delicious. Why did Pierre’s need to close?

  “So now it’s Stevie and Rita,” Grant said.

  “Mm?”

  “Thinking of moving.”

  “Yes. They’re thinking of moving.”

  This was the latest revelation from Rita. She and Stevie had been “doing a little house hunting.”

  When Rita, who never could contain her excitement, had dropped the news last weekend, Stevie looked embarrassed—but exultant, too. He and that little Rita Comer, the pregnant seventeen-year-old hillbilly bride with the terrible teeth, were going somewhere.

  Bianca said, “I’m beginning to feel like Edith. When she was saying, Let the rest of them move. Anyway, I’m staying put.” An image of Ira’s house popped into her head. Surely he would finish the renovations soon. “Or not going far,” she amended.

  “Whatever you want,” Grant said. He meant it.

  “Hard to believe my baby brother has already bought one house and is thinking of selling to buy bigger. And all without anybody’s help.”

  “Oh I wouldn’t say that.”

  Though Grant generally hesitated to contradict her, this was one area—the cold male world of large-scale finance—where he was quick to highlight her illusions. “He’d still be at Ford’s if it weren’t for Uncle Dennis.”

  “True enough,” Bianca conceded, and picked up two more French fries. Grant was eyeing them interestedly; he’d already cleared his plate. “Go ahead,” she said.

  “Thanks.” His big hand reached across the table and seized a handful. “And it’s not just the job,” he said. “I was amazed when Rita told me that the total bill for her braces, I mean everything, was only a hundred dollars.”

  “A hundred dollars? You’re sure?”

  Grant grabbed another handful of fries. “Isn’t it obvious what happened? It’s like the Turk. The orthodontist owes your uncle some huge favor. So he agrees to do everything for a hundred dollars.”

  “A hundred dollars. That’s amazing.” This was information to file away and analyze …

  Grant pilfered still another handful, this time looking just a little apologetic. He said, “I think I’m going to start a little diet soon.”

  “You look good,” Bianca said. “I was just thinking how good you looked. Think about me, the weight I’ll have to lose when this is all done. I’ve gained thirty-four pounds as of this morning. I can’t be much fun like this.”

  Grant seemed a little surprised. “Fun?” he said. “You’re all the fun I’ll ever need.”

  Bianca didn’t know what to say. Then she looked deeper into his eyes and saw that she needn’t say anything. She reached across the table and took his hand. Their fingers interlocked.

  Later, over coffee, Bianca said, “Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t mention the cigarettes. You must have been very disapproving. You knew it wasn’t good for the baby.” She wasn’t being exactly logical, but she felt a little resentful. Hadn’t it been Grant’s duty to intercede?

  Grant shrugged. “I knew you were having a very hard time. I didn’t want to add to it.”

  “You were having a very hard time. But you didn’t take up smoking, or talking to yourself, or half a dozen things I fell into.”

  “But you’re an artist, Bianca.”

  “An artist? Some artist I turn out to be. I’ve hardly painted or drawn since we got the news about the baby. And done nothing since Mamma went away for her thorough examination. Good heavens, I’m still working on that still life with all the tarnished silverware. A cynic might say I keep at the painting so I won’t have to polish the silver. Honestly, you give me too much credit, Grant.” Although she pointed this out occasionally, it was a message she could never deliver with conviction—partly because she so depended upon his regard, inflated or not, and partly because he clearly didn’t want his illusions shattered. Still, in deserved self-punishment for having mistreated the baby within her, Bianca went on forcibly: “You do, honey. Way too much credit. It’s like that business with Mr. Bootmaker. Look at it closely. What is it I do? I merely continue milk deliveries. I merely make things convenient for myself. And what do he and his father do? They break into Mr. Bickey’s, they find him shivering in the bath, they haul him out and race to the hospital—they save his life. We’re talking about somebody who saves somebody’s life versus somebody who’s too lazy to go to the store and get her own milk.”

  “But Bianca, you’re not seeing the whole picture.” Grant canted forward and narrowed his eyes. He was about to become lawyerly. “You’re not making the right distinctions. You’re comparing yourself to them, but I’m saying compare yourself to me. And who am I? I’m somebody who tries to fire them—I’m doing my best to ensure that people like them go out of business. And then you go behind my back and restart deliveries. And what happens? Not two months later, they go and save somebody’s life on our very own street. Talk about having your instincts vindicated! Those men are heroes.”

  These days, Grant was never more endearing than when saluting the milkmen, father and son. “Top of the morning, gentlemen!” he’d cry, with a deep, respectful ducking of his head. It was a wonderful, all too rare example of life making perfect sense: of course Grant would come to live in a world with genuine heroes serving as his milkmen.

  Grant would scarcely have suffered a pang if you informed him he could never enter another art museum, and yet he loved being married to an artist. He lived in a world of practical—legal and financial—realities, but he longed to believe in his wife’s second sight. Why had she resumed milk deliveries? Why else but to contrive, through supernatural agencies he could only dimly discern, that the Bootmakers would save Mr. Bickey’s life?

  “You give me too much credit,” Bianca repeated. “Go and call me an artist after I’ve actually been doing some art.” But she said this mildly. It was all right if he couldn’t accept this notion, because she couldn’t either, quite. Sometimes her heart took journeys. Certain rare and remote experiences mustn’t be denied or discounted, and it was their imperishable value—not mere vanity—that rendered her a little insistent now. By claiming to be something of an artist, she wasn’t making a claim solely on her own behalf, was she? Rather, on behalf of art generally—and on behalf of that little man, her nonno, of whom she, pressed so hard by life, too seldom thought, but who had once been celebrated in mythical Liguria … And suddenly, preposterously, her eyes welled up.

  The little man who had painted trompe l’oeil windows? Dead. Like Mrs. Olsson, like Henry Vanden Akker, her nonno was dead. And she would never again step through the front door of her childhood home, and a particular quality of light was disappearing from this city, her own Detroit—it was disappearing unrecorded, for no canvas in the world, for all the potency of her visions, had managed to capture and preserve it. She must go back—go back to her pencils and her charcoals and her oils.

  On the way home, in the passenger seat of Grant’s sporty Mercury, Bianca leaned her head against the window. Ahead, an aging streetcar clattered up Woodward. One of the city’s few remaining streetcars. There were only four lines left and, according to the newspapers, the Jefferson line would vanish in a couple of months, leaving only the Gratiot, the Michigan, and the Woodward. Already gone was the Grand River line she’d taken through the rain that day—the unforgettable day when she’d confessed, Maggie, the very worst thing has happened. It wasn’t their leaving she minded, was it? Only her failure to know what to do with their leaving, only this sensation that no one was trying earnestly to record what was being los
t …

  Mrs. Ives looked relieved to see them. Whenever she babysat, which was seldom, she always suggested that—though she wasn’t about to go telling tales—the twins had been especially difficult. Nonsense, of course. The boys were out in the yard—where they’d probably spent most of the time since their grandmother’s arrival. It was how Mrs. Ives chose to meet the world: I am so put upon.

  Grant went out to join the boys. He’d recently purchased a tether-ball set—a very simple arrangement, just a metal pole with a ball attached to the top by a long cord. Ostensibly, Grant went out to “offer a few pointers.” The real reason was to hit the ball himself.

  Bianca and Mrs. Ives stood in the screened porch. The minute Grant stepped out the backdoor, her litany began.

  “It’s like a child. It’s like taking care of a child that will never grow up. Day after day after day …”

  She was speaking of Mr. Ives, whose recovery had stalled long ago. And who continued to pinch and pat and poke any female—irrespective of age, race, body type—who wandered within reach.

  “I’m so sorry,” Bianca said.

  “Your boys will grow up,” Mrs. Ives went on. “But Mr. Ives won’t. He’s frozen the way he is until he dies.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Bianca said.

  “It could happen to you,” Mrs. Ives went on in a sharpened voice—almost a spiteful voice. “Your husband could have a stroke, and you’re left taking care of this wreck of a man for the rest of your life.”

  Out in the yard, Grant tossed the ball into the air and gave it a solid, resounding whack. He was demonstrating his prowess for his twin boys. Round and round and round, in rapid, ever tightening revolutions, the crimson ball orbited the pole. The soaring ball seemed a more powerful rebuttal to Mrs. Ives’s grim imaginings than anything Bianca might say. Legs spread wide, shoulders thrown back, Grant was indomitable.

  “It’s not that I mind taking care of a child,” Mrs. Ives went on. “Honestly, I like children just fine. It’s that Mr. Ives is really a big nasty child. At bottom, he’s a very big nasty boy.”

  She was twelve minutes early but he was too. They met on the great outside stairs of the museum, side by side before they knew it. “Our minds are synchronized,” she said.