The Curiosities

by Susan Gloss

  “This is the first time I’ve shown his work,” Sloane said. “I think it’s fantastic, but I was a little nervous about it, truth be told. Metal isn’t for everyone. I’m so glad to see his stuff is selling. It will be a huge boost of confidence for him. He’s insanely talented, but I think the whole art scene intimidates him. He grew up on a farm, where the nearest town had like three hundred people.”

  “He’s lucky to have you,” Betsy said.

  “No, I’m lucky to have him.” Sloane pulled at her necklace, a gold tassel on a long chain.

  Betsy recognized the mutual admiration that flowed between the young gallerist and the artist across the room. A warm memory stirred in her chest as she remembered how she and Walt used to look at one another through the crowd at a cocktail fête, or from opposite ends of their dining room table during a dinner party. Despite all their differences, Betsy and her husband shared a spark of understanding, a history, and a similar sense of humor. These connections bound them without the need for words. She could see something similar going on with Sloane and Odin, and suddenly Betsy missed her husband desperately.

  She’d gotten along fine without him in the years since he’d passed. She sometimes felt guilty, even, at the sense of freedom she now had. She could be vocal about her ideals in a way she never could be when Walt was alive, still running his manufacturing business and worried about public perception. But not a day went by that Betsy didn’t miss him. She envied Sloane, now, for all she had still ahead of her.

  THAT WAS THE last time Betsy purchased a work of art in person. She’d planned to have the piece installed somewhere on the main floor of her house. But by the time the delivery truck arrived six weeks later and the movers carried it into the house, Betsy was spending her days in bed, drifting in and out of drugged sleep. The hospice nurse who’d been tending to her tapped her on the shoulder just as she was waking up from a dream in which she was a young woman again, walking down Mitchell Street to Goldmann’s with her mother to buy fabric.

  She was confused, then, when she opened her eyes and she was not on Mitchell Street and it was not, in fact, the forties. Instead, she was in her room in Madison, in the house she’d lived in for five decades. She was not wearing stockings and pumps but, instead, shivered in flannel pajamas underneath a thick duvet.

  “The art movers are here,” said the nurse. She was young, this one. But everyone seemed young, now. It was such a strange part of growing old. At some point, nearly every face Betsy encountered was younger than her own.

  “They want to know where you want to put it,” the nurse said. Betsy tried to remember her name. Sally? Cindy? She couldn’t keep up with the shift changes.

  “Tell them to bring it up here,” Betsy said.

  “I think it’s pretty big,” the nurse said. “Are you sure it will fit?”

  Betsy pushed off the covers and inched her legs over to the side of the bed. With enormous effort, she rose to a sitting position. A wave of dizziness crashed over her and she had to close her eyes.

  “Please, Mrs. Barrett.” The nurse grabbed Betsy’s arm and put the other hand on her back to hold her steady. “If you just tell me where you want it, I can . . .”

  But Betsy pushed the nurse’s hands away and got to her feet. She wobbled over to her low dresser and braced herself against its shiny surface for a second, catching her breath. She caught sight of herself in the mirror. Betsy barely recognized the pale, thin face that stared back at her. She’d looked into that same gilt mirror while she dressed for hundreds of dinners, dozens of charity events. She remembered, distinctly, putting on her favorite necklace and looking at her reflection on the morning of her husband’s funeral. How heavy the familiar pearls had felt in her fingers that day, how difficult the clasp had been to close.

  Now, in a swift movement that surprised her, she reached out and grabbed the mirror, pulling it off the wall and knocking over the perfume bottles that had been arranged in a tray on the top of the dresser.

  The nurse rushed over and grabbed the mirror before it toppled Betsy over.

  Betsy sat back down on the side of the bed and looked at the now-blank space above the dresser. The wallpaper was dark and unfaded where the mirror had hung for so many years.

  “There,” she said, pointing. “I want the new artwork there.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Odin

  PIECE: Copper weather vane sculpture by unknown artist, reminiscent of the work of Isamu Noguchi.

  Odin turned off the welding machine, pushed up the visor on his helmet, and took a big swallow of black coffee from the thermos he’d brought out to the garage. What he loved most about metal sculpting was that it involved fire. As a kid, he’d always pictured artists as guys sitting around in berets, dabbing bits of paint on canvases, or else madmen having fits and cutting people’s ears off.

  What he had not expected was that many artists worked with tools and machines—something he had always liked. In high school, his shop instructor had showed him how to use an arc welder his sophomore year and, from then on, Odin was pretty much hooked. He made all kinds of items for his parents that year, ranging from the practical (a wall rack for his parents’ mudroom, with hooks that looked like deer antlers) to the whimsical (a two-foot-tall statue of a robot made from old gears and cogs).

  Even now, Odin still loved the glow of the arc and the sparks it threw as it made contact with whatever medium he was working with. He loved the way that even the seemingly strongest metals melted into submission with enough power and persistence.

  The only downside to his chosen art was that he couldn’t really do it indoors. Someday maybe he’d have a proper shop, with heat and worktables and storage for the materials he compiled. His life was a constant search for materials. The cast iron, aluminum, and bronze he liked to use in his sculpting were too costly to purchase raw, so he got them for cheap from junkyards and salvage shops.

  For now, though, he was relegated to the garage, which was a step up from the barn at his parents’ place. It had a roof that didn’t leak, for starters. A beautiful, slate roof topped with a shining copper weather vane that was a work of art in itself, with spheres and ovals that rotated on an asymmetrical axis. On windy days, like today, Odin could hear the weather vane creak as it spun.

  The garage also had windows in the back that looked out to the lake, which was still frozen in early April, though starting to thaw. Odin had never lived on a body of water, and it made him notice some things he’d never thought about before. Like how the ice didn’t break up in chunks, like he imagined it would, but instead thinned out, became softer. Freestanding water pooled in some places. He noticed, too, the migratory birds that stopped to swim and eat and sing. Just that morning, he had thought he heard the raucous laughter of children out in the yard. He got out of bed and looked out one of the back windows, only to see a raft of loons. He had never seen them this far south before, and realized that they must be on their way back north after spending the summer somewhere with more hospitable weather. The Gulf, maybe. There were no birds out now, though. Rain and ice fell from the sky—a godforsaken combination that local meteorologists referred to as “a wintry mix.”

  He knew his fixation on the birds and the weather was just a way of distracting himself from the fact that he didn’t know what the hell he was doing. He’d been trying to get back into the groove of making the sort of small-scale sculpture work that he’d been so successful with in Minneapolis. He figured the best way to break his creative block was to ease into something he already knew. But he found himself getting bored and frustrated, and abandoning projects at an even faster rate than he had when he’d been working in his parents’ barn. He worried that the problem wasn’t what he was working on. He worried that all his artistic inspiration had died along with Sloane.

  Just as Odin was about to turn the machine on and try to return to work, he felt a burst of cold air. The garage door rose slowly, revealing a pair of feet in red rubber boots. A mo
ment later, Nell ducked under the door. She held up a mittened hand and waved. Odin couldn’t help but notice how her dark hair stuck out adorably from the bottom of her wool beanie. Her lips were moving, but he couldn’t hear her.

  Odin pulled off his helmet and took out his earplugs. “Hi,” he said. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

  She’d caught him off guard. No one ever came out here. Not that he was complaining. After he’d stared out the window at birds all morning, a good-looking woman was a welcome sight. Even if Nell was his boss . . . sort of. Not really. But whatever their relationship was, it was a working one. As if to remind himself of that, Odin cleared his throat.

  Nell looked around. “You know, there are plenty of rooms in the house nobody uses, yet you’re out here in the garage and Annie is holed up in the basement with space heaters.”

  “My work is loud.” Odin shrugged. “Paige works up in her room sometimes, doesn’t she?”

  “Who knows? I’m not good at getting information out of her. Or Annie, for that matter.” Nell looked at the bench Odin was sitting on. “Mind if I sit down?”

  “Please.” Odin moved over to make room. Nell sat next to him, and he caught the smell of something floral and soapy.

  One of the things that always got him, even months after Sloane died, was the smell of rosemary. She used a rosemary-mint shampoo, one that cost a small fortune at the salon she went to. She insisted it was worth it, and he tended to agree. He used to bury his nose in her blond hair when they lay in bed. For weeks after she died, he didn’t wash her pillowcase. Now, even the smallest whiff of rosemary, wafting from a fancy candle or even a loaf of bakery bread, would set a lump in his throat.

  Nell’s scent was different, though. Less woodsy. Clean, simple, and sweet. If she smelled this good even with a down jacket on, Odin couldn’t help but wonder what she smelled like with less on . . . or nothing. He quickly turned his face to the window and the shitty weather outside. He really needed to rein in his imagination.

  “Has Annie talked to you much about what she’s doing?” Nell asked.

  Odin turned back toward her and shook his head, his thoughts diverted for the moment. “I have a Y chromosome,” he said. “I think that automatically puts me at the bottom of the list of people Annie wants to talk to.”

  Nell crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Just because someone is a feminist doesn’t mean they hate men.” She gave him a scolding look, but the corners of her mouth turned upward. If she weren’t married, Odin might have guessed she was flirting with him.

  “I just think Annie’s kinda secretive,” Odin said. “Don’t take it personally. A lot of artists don’t like to talk about their work.”

  Nell nodded. “I got the same vibe from Paige. But she doesn’t hide out in the basement and invite all sorts of strangers into the house, coming and going at odd hours.”

  “For the record, I don’t mind talking about my work,” he said. “I’m just not very good at it.”

  “Your application did a great job of it,” Nell said. “Otherwise Betsy never would have chosen you.”

  Odin wanted to know what Nell thought about his application, and about him. But instead he said, “I’m not sure if I should admit this, but I never actually saw my application. My girlfriend sent it in for me.”

  A crease appeared on her forehead. “I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”

  Was she disappointed? he wondered. Then he thought, Don’t be ridiculous. He really needed to get out more.

  “I don’t have a girlfriend,” he said. “Anymore, anyway. She died. It’s been almost a year now.” The words came out before Odin really had a chance to think about them. There was something about Nell that made her easy to talk to. “Her name was Sloane. She had her own gallery.”

  Nell put a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I actually don’t mind talking about her. I mean, her death—I don’t like talking about that part. It was terrible. But I do like to talk about her. The person she was. I like to remember, you know? I just don’t bring her up very much because it makes other people feel uncomfortable.”

  Nell nodded—an emphatic gesture that sent her bangs, which had been pushed to the side, flopping down into her eyes. She brushed them away. “I know what you mean,” she said. “For the person who’s grieving, the grief is everything. It’s all you can think about. You feel like it’s written on your forehead. But everyone else keeps interacting with you like nothing’s wrong. And that’s what’s so hard. Because you want to scream, ‘I’m not okay. Things are not okay.’” Now her face was flushed, her eyes glassy. She looked down at her mittens and took a deep breath.

  “I think people mean well, but they don’t know what to say,” Odin said. “God, if I had a dollar for every time someone told me time heals all wounds or how everything happens for a reason or some bullshit.”

  “‘Everything happens for a reason’ is the worst,” Nell said, her voice heated. “Really? There’s a reason my daughter died? Because if you know what it is, then I’d really like to know, too.”

  Odin blinked. His mouth fell open. “I didn’t know.”

  “Of course not,” Nell said. “I actually can’t believe I just told you.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  Nell pulled off her mittens and played with them in her lap.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Odin asked.

  “You don’t want to hear my sob story.”

  “I just told you mine.”

  She tilted her head and looked at him, as if trying to assess whether telling him would be crossing some sort of line. Odin wondered what the line was. Was it a professional one, since she was the director and not an artist, like he was? Or perhaps the line was a personal one. Maybe she felt hesitant to open up to a man who wasn’t her husband.

  Regardless, Nell set her jaw and started talking. She told him about her baby. How much she missed her. How her husband seemed to be able to move on, but she was stuck.

  “Every time I see a baby, I think about all the moments and milestones that were ripped out from under me,” she said. “And it’s not just babies. Kids, too. I’m afraid that for the rest of my life, I’m going to walk around looking at kids who are the age she would have been and wonder what she’d be like, what she’d be doing.”

  “You might,” Odin said. “But what’s wrong with that? Losing a kid goes against the way things are supposed to be, you know? There’s nothing wrong with thinking about her.”

  “People make me feel like there is. I can see it in their faces.”

  “That’s because they’re uncomfortable,” Odin said. “I know that look. But guess what? It’s not your job to make them feel comfortable. This happened to you, and it’s what you have to deal with. If people can’t handle hearing about it, that’s their problem, not yours.”

  Nell nodded, as if considering this.

  “And anyway, everything happens for a reason.” Odin glanced at her sidelong.

  Nell cracked a smile and gave him a shove. Due to his size, though, Odin didn’t budge. Instead, the impact sent Nell toppling backward. He reached out and righted her, grabbing hold of her arm through her puffy coat. Even through all the layers, the physical contact sent an electric buzz of attraction through his body.

  Nell looked down at his hand, then up at his eyes. Odin became acutely aware of how close their faces were. If she weren’t the director of the program, and if she were single, he would kiss her right now. Tension hummed between them and, for a moment, he could have sworn she was going to kiss him. But he realized it was probably wishful thinking, and he pulled back his hand.

  “I should let you get back to work,” Nell said. She got up and pulled her mittens on. “Thanks for listening. There aren’t many people I can talk to about this—Josh is the only one, really. It’s good to have a friend.”

  “Yeah,” Odin said. “Anytime.”

  He needed friends, too, he thought.
But as he watched her go, he noticed the way her hips curved underneath her jeans and how her body swayed slightly when she walked. He fired up his torch, letting the flame distract him from going any further in his thoughts.

  His current project was one he’d been struggling with for a couple of weeks—a sculpture of a blue heron, inspired by one he’d seen perched on the retaining wall down by the water. His goal with this piece was to capture the way the bird looked just as it was taking off for flight. He used repurposed steel rebar for the trailing legs and hammered sheets of stainless steel for the wings. But the wings were tripping him up. He really wanted to make the sculpture life-size, but the wingspan of the real bird he’d seen had to be five, maybe six feet. Perhaps if he folded the wings in a certain way, the sculpture wouldn’t take up so much space.

  He worked through dinner, pausing only to eat a granola bar he’d stuffed in his pocket. By the time he finished for the day, it was almost midnight. When he went inside, a slant of light glowed under the basement door. Annie must be working late, too. He considered going down to say hello, but remembered Nell saying earlier how difficult it had been lately to get Annie to talk about much of anything. He was too tired for that sort of effort tonight, so he hung up his jacket and made his way toward the main stairs.

  Odin stopped near the open office door because something inside the room caught his eye—a dark figure balled up on the couch. He took a few cautious steps closer and saw that it was Nell. She’d fallen asleep there with a scattered stack of papers and an open shoebox on the cushion beside her, and her boots kicked off on the floor next to the couch. The end table lamp was on. Odin switched it off, then went upstairs to his room and grabbed a blanket from his own bed. He brought it back down and covered Nell with it, tucking the ends around her wool-stockinged feet. She stirred slightly, then snuggled the blanket to her face, buried her nose in it, and let out a contented sigh. Odin wished he were under the blanket with her, curled around her, but he turned away and walked toward the door.