Work of Art ~ the Collection

by Ruth Clampett

  I can't believe that bitch has the nerve to say this shit in front of the lawyers. Why did I neglect to see that she was always a total nutcase? Was I so desperate to connect with someone that I refused to see who she really was?

  With my resolve strengthening, my mood lightens, and my voice lifts.

  "Oh Chloe, my beautiful Ava makes me incredibly happy in every way. No one has ever made me feel the way she does."

  Jackson makes the wrap motion and I'm relieved.

  "Look, I've got to run, I'm meeting Ava soon. Jackson will sum things up now as we won't be talking again."

  I don't even say goodbye, just silently fume while the lawyer serves up the threats. Every time she tries to argue, they simply cut her off. It's an astounding relief when Jackson finally presses the button that disconnects the call, every trace of her fading from the room like a rancid smell once the fans come on.

  Cas

  "So what now?" Max asks as we wait for the valet to bring my car around.

  “We're going to your place. You need to pack."

  "Pack?"

  "Yes, we're taking a short trip. Oh, and you'll need your passport. You'll be heading straight to Paris after our trip."

  "Where are we going?" he asks, looking suspicious.

  "There's something I need to show you in New York."

  "New York?' he mumbles, distracted as we get in the car. "But what about Ava? She'll have to fly to Paris alone. That's just wrong."

  "She's a big girl, I'm sure she can handle it," I respond.

  He suddenly starts patting his pockets and then reaches in the back to grab his jacket to search the pockets there as well.

  "Where's my damn phone?" he grumbles.

  He isn't going to like this. "I have it," I confirm.

  "Well, let me have it back. I need to call Ava."

  "I've already called her and told her that you won't be talking until Paris."

  "What the fuck are you talking about? Give me my damn phone. I need to talk to her."

  "No, we have work to do, and I want you focused, not calling Ava every ten minutes."

  "Fuck you, old man. I can't believe this. You kidnap me, and then take my phone away. If you think this is going to bring us closer, some tough-love-bonding bullshit then your head is farther up your ass than I thought."

  "Tough talk from a boy who was hiding out at his aunt's—all because he was afraid of a slutty ex-girlfriend . . . really tough talk . . .”

  "You're a mother-fucker. And you always totally sucked as a dad."

  I grit my teeth hard.

  "And you still suck . . .”

  I glare at him, the ungrateful bastard. "You're a pussy, a certified momma's boy."

  "Pull over, asshole. I'm getting out of the car."

  I'm tempted . . . he's such a spoiled, entitled ass. But then I think about Liz. I can't forget what I promised her earlier.

  No regrets. I turn back toward him.

  "Like hell you are. No more running away and hiding this time, Max. We're going to fight this out until we can get past it."

  His grip tightens over the armrest, and he turns toward the window. The silence is deafening the whole way to Malibu.

  Max

  As I walk to my front door I notice the old man linger in the garden near the koi pond.

  "What?" I ask, not masking the irritation from my voice.

  "This looks great. I'm impressed you've kept it up. Liz would be happy."

  I'm shocked he's noticed. It feels strangely good to hear, as much as I don't want to admit it. The garden has many admirers, but it's more satisfying because it's from him. After all, this was once his house too and he knows what the garden meant to Mom.

  "So I'm packing for New York and Paris?" I ask as we pass through the front door, heading upstairs.

  "Yes, I've arranged for Walter to be dropped off here with my bag at eight forty-five. He'll drive us to the airport in my car. I've also arranged dinner to be delivered at seven."

  "You've thought of everything," I grumble as I head upstairs.

  I make a lot of noise getting my bags out of the hall closet, but as soon as I'm safely in my room I pick up the phone by my bed. As I lift the receiver I hear a monotone chanting.

  "At the tone the time will be six-twelve and forty seconds, at the tone the time will be . . .”

  He has dialed the number for 'time' and left it running so I can't dial out. I slam the phone down. Fuck. If he weren't my father, I'd kick his ass.

  I hurl the suitcase up on the bed and rip it open. He better know what he's doing. If he messes this up, I'll never forgive him.

  Cas

  Over thirty minutes have passed and he still hasn't come down. I remember he used to be a fast packer so I finally decide to go see what's up. When I crack open his door he’s sitting on the edge of the bed staring out the window. There’s shit all over the place but nothing in the suitcase yet. He looks completely lost.

  "Max," I call out.

  He jumps and whips his head around. He must not have even heard me coming.

  "Come on, let's go take a walk on the beach."

  He pauses, then acquiesces, and rises off the bed to follow me out of the room. At the edge of the yard we remove our shoes and socks and roll up our pants before heading across the sand towards the water's edge. The sun and breeze skimming off the water are soothing. I'd forgotten how much I love the beach.

  We're a distance away from the house before I turn to him.

  "So what was that about? You looked lost when I came upstairs."

  He picks up a small stone and tosses it into the ocean.

  "Don't get me wrong. I still hate you for keeping me from talking to Ava, but I do appreciate your help getting rid of Chloe. That's a huge weight off of me right now."

  "And . . .” I coax him.

  "But it doesn't change the fact that Ava is leaving. I'm going to wait for her, and she intends to wait for me, but that doesn't change the simple truth that I'm not sure how I'm going to get through this next year without her by my side."

  His whole body curls forward as if he's fighting a physical pain, a twisting of his insides, that tightens with each breath. I recognize all the signs because I've felt that kind of loss—I've lived it.

  "The problem is that I can't stop thinking about everything I will miss . . . all the nights we fell asleep in each other's arms. You know the small moments: making lunch together, sitting on the balcony, and talking about our day. That's what I will miss the most. A year sounds like forever right about now."

  I nod and turn toward the ocean. "It is forever," I agree, my tone serious. "You need to open you eyes and consider what you can do to make this work for both of you. I don't want to see you lose her, Max. Just like Liz was for me, Ava is the best thing that's ever happened to you. Believe me, you may never have a chance for this kind of love again."

  "I know," he agrees, as he looks out over the horizon.

  "Well then quit fucking around. You need to fight for her with everything you have."

  He turns to me and finally . . . finally, I see a fire ignite in his eyes.

  Max

  JFK early in the morning is jarring after spending the night being hurled through the air stuffed in a cylindrical steel tube. It’s so unnatural to wake up on a plane being offered tiny glasses of orange juice by women in polyester suits. Then you’re forced to tumble out into the pool of humanity in the terminal. The walkway is full of people from places as forgettable as Des Moines and Salt Lake City anxious to leave or arrive in the 'big apple.' As we shuffle with the masses toward the baggage claim we pass under a large sign.

  Welcome to New York, the sign says. Well fuck me. Why am I in New York again? As I recall my baby just left New York to head home, so I don't really see how this can be relevant.

  I turn toward the father figure and notice how worn out he looks, worry etched across his face. Fashion-wise he doesn't look so hot either. His very expensive Tom Ford slacks and shi
rt are wrinkled so dramatically that he looks like a human Sharpei.

  "So where are we staying?" I ask as he checks his phone.

  "My place."

  "You have a place in New York? Since when?"

  “For a few years. I bought it when we were shooting a series here. It was during that time you weren't talking to me.” He smirks.

  “Wow . . . you're full of surprises.” I shake my head and continue along.

  “Do we have a meeting here or something?”

  "Just wait . . . you'll see."

  This man of mystery stuff is getting on my nerves but I keep my mouth shut knowing I can't possibly have a logical argument until I've had at least one decent cup of coffee.

  We hook up with the limo driver and head toward the city. I fall back into the leather seat and close my eyes to try and calm my nerves.

  But instead, my stillness allows a surreal dream, from my stilted sleep on the plane, to resurface. It's haunting in that it's still so vivid in my mind.

  In the dream I’m high enough to be in the clouds, the City of New York a juggernaut of steel and glass below me. My search for Ava has led me to a landing of the most unlikely of locations, near the top of the Chrysler Building.

  The moment I see her I realize that nothing is how I'd hoped, for although I've found her, she's not the same. This is not my Ava.

  She's wrapped around a soaring gargoyle, right on the edge of the sky. She appears frozen in place and has become part of the façade. Every part of her, even her gorgeous mane of hair is a burnished silver as she holds onto the beast while they watch over the city.

  I'm so stunned to finally find her that I fearlessly crawl across the building's ledge until I can touch her metallized skin. She’s cool and rigid, her patina smooth to my touch. My heart’s pounding as I realize that she’s trapped in the metal, lost to me. My Ava of flesh and bones, heart and soul is gone. Stunned with grief, I waver and suddenly become aware of the staggering height. The cars and people below are moving dots in a concrete landscape.

  I realize that I must separate myself from her and crawl to safety or risk plummeting to my death. Just when I’m about to pull away in despair, I feel a warmth spreading under my hand. I quickly realize that the more I touch her surface, the more the metal fades, melting away until her soft skin is exposed. My hands frantically work, stroking, and rubbing every curve and plane of her as the movements free her body from her architectural prison. My mood shifts from hope, to euphoric the more progress I make. When she's finally free enough to slowly flex her stiff limbs, I'm able to pull her into my arms.

  "Max," she whispers, her naked body clinging to me as I scoot us off the ledge and onto the flat part of the landing. I pull off my jacket and wrap it around her.

  "I've waited so long. I never thought you'd come," she cries.

  "I'm here, Ava, I'm here," I chant as I gather her into my arms. Our kiss is frantic and searching. I'm overcome just to hold her again.

  "I've missed you, Ava," I whisper as her lips move across my cheek.

  I lift her up and carry her to the exit where the stairs begin. She buries her face in the crook of my neck as I begin our descent. I have no idea how many stairs we’ve gone down before we come upon another landing so densely shrouded with clouds that I can barely make out the four poster bed just feet away. As I approach the edge of the mattress, I lower her gently onto the white sheets.

  Despite my tender attention, she pulls me down on top of her, frantic and wanting. She reaches down and undoes my pants until her fingers tighten around my cock. We work together pushing away clothes, whispering words full of want and desire.

  "Hurry," she gasps. "There's so little time."

  Her fingers rake across my back until I sink down into her. She’s wild at first, writhing and moaning, begging me over and over to fuck her hard, harder, harder still. I fear I will break her in half, but I give her what she wants . . . always.

  "Max," she cries as she peaks, and I feel every moment acutely as she completely surrenders.

  I keep moving in sync with her, deeply stroking through her climax, until her thighs are trembling. Just as I think she’s going to still, she rolls me to my back, and sinks down over me. Her movements become slower as she makes love to me, her hands pressed over my heart. Her voice is so real in my head that I can still hear her final words—spoken like a sonnet, her voice strong and clear.

  "We cannot wait for the clouds to lift, or the sea to calm. We must love each other as if each breath will be our last. Your heart knows the answer, Max. Step carefully, purposefully . . . our story is already written and each moment that passes carries us closer . . . either to our beginning, or to our end."

  Those are the last words I hear before her skin begins to turn silver and harden again and I wake, gasping for air.

  My eyes snap open to the harsh glare of morning light and the sounds of the city. We’ve already crossed the bridge and Lexington Avenue, heading West. We must be close to our destination. I shake my head and rub my hands over my eyes as scenes from the dream replay in my mind.

  Closer to our beginning, or to our end? What the fuck did that mean?

  It was just a dream . . . not the end of the world . . . just a fucking dream, Max. Get a grip.

  That damn dream will haunt me all day as I ache for her, counting each moment until I see her again.

  Cas

  He's wary, a tentative animal pacing the apartment, watching the clock as if he’s late for an uncertain meeting without a destination. To distract him, I lure him to my favorite café for a late breakfast.

  After he follows me to a large art supply store on Fifty-Seventh where I insist I need refills for my Montblanc. As I'd suspected, he soon wanders off to play with the paintbrushes and study the book selection. He’s still just the boy who wants to make art, and I'm hoping this place inspires him.

  I finally drag him out over an hour later. Other than a book he intends to read on the way to Paris, he arranges everything to be delivered.

  On the way down Fifty-Fourth he insists on stopping at MOMA for the strange Tim Burton show. I grit my teeth and follow him into the exhibit of baffling art. Since when do film directors get major museum shows for their doodles? Perhaps I should throw some paint at some canvases and have a thing at the Met. That would be a sure fire way to meet some interesting women.

  I’m reminded however, that I find museums very irritating: the crowds, the obnoxious apparent art critics who comment loudly, and the poor excuses for art. But despite this fact, I soldier on. I have an agenda so I follow him from room to room and nod as he softly comments on what he finds inspiring. By the time we leave he’s itching to get home and create.

  "Where’s Ava going to live? I ask as we step back out onto Fifty-Fourth Street, pretending I don't know. "Isn't it near here?"

  “Yeah, she said Fifty-Second and Madison."

  "Well, let's go check it out."

  I smirk as we approach her new address. It's not that there’s anything wrong with it. The neighborhood is good. It's clean and well kept. It's just completely lacking in any kind of personality or appeal. It looks like the last place someone as special as Ava should live.

  We get the doorman to let us in but by the time we pass through the lobby and start down a hallway that reminds me of a hospital corridor, Max begins to come unglued.

  "I need to get out of here . . . now," he gasps.

  "Of course," I murmur as we head out. Mission accomplished. It’s time to turn it up a notch.

  Max

  Even though Ava had told me about the place and described it in detail, I still wasn't prepared for the feeling that crashed into me as we walked through the soulless vacuum of a residence. Residence . . . the word alone sounds as lifeless as a parking garage or storage facility. I had to get out of there immediately, before the walls fell down over me.

  I can't see Ava there, saying hello to the doorman after a long day of shooting; gathering her mail and wait
ing patiently for the elevator to take her to her empty box where she lives—the empty box where she lives . . . without me.

  I don't remember anything but my father taking my arm and leading me back to his place. He parks me on the couch and brings me a bottle of water. I look up at him. Can't you see I'm heartbroken, not dehydrated? But I twist off the cap and down it anyway.

  "Let's talk some business, Max," he says with a firm tone.

  "Business?" I ask. What the fuck? "In case you haven't noticed, I'm not up for talking business right now."

  "I mean life business, emotional business . . . survival business. That's why we're here."

  "Really?" I murmur as he opens the balcony door and steps outside. He motions for me to join him. I tentatively get up and follow him outside.

  He turns toward me. "You know, just like in business, sometimes you can lose perspective and miss that the solutions are right in front of you. I’ve learned that there really is an answer to every problem."

  "It may not be the answer you want though," I respond quietly.

  "Or maybe it is. Here's an example. Will you work with me on this?"

  I nod. It's difficult to not give him something when he's trying so hard.

  "Look down there, Max," he says pointing to the busy street far below. "Now imagine you see Ava down there. What's she doing?"

  I feel a brief flash of excitement to even think of Ava being here now, so close to where I am. But the surge is followed by a letdown when I remind myself that this is a game. I force myself to play and throw out the first thing that comes into my head.

  "She's getting into a cab."

  "Yes, a cab." He nods his head. "Now I want you to close your eyes and imagine that you are back in Malibu alone, while she is here getting into a cab, going somewhere and moving forward in her new life."

  Fuck. I reach out and grip the railing hard to steady myself. I want to rip these images out of my head. Where the fuck is she going? Who is she going to see? The bile rises up into my throat.

  I've yet to figure out how I can have a life in Malibu without her. I know I'm supposed to try to figure it out, but I'm not sure how to . . . and I'm running out of time.