He’d held the Fragonard Room back for last. By now, the space had filled up with Europeans taking a tour. The guide’s voice, obnoxious with an Oxford-like smear of knowledge, annoyed Pickle. He didn’t want this blowhard distracting them from what he felt was the pure intent of Fragonard’s art.
Junie stopped a few feet into the room and grabbed Pickle’s hand. He looked down, and noticed the direction of her gaze. The Pursuit. Pulling her toward it, they stood before the enormous oil painting and all sound seemed to recede. He felt like Tony with Maria at the gym in West Side Story—the room all echo and blur—dancing a tentative rumba between naive lovers. Minutes must have passed. Then Junie allowed him to pull her away. They left the building, his arm draped lightly across her shoulders.
They began their walk north to Eighty-Sixth Street. The warm noon hour made them both perspire and Junie swept her hair up with a clip at the top of her head. Pickle, at least a foot taller, had a bird’seye view. He wanted to touch her hair, rub the strands back and forth between his thumb and forefinger to gauge its tensile strength. But he resisted. Instead he wiped sweat from his brow with his palm and rubbed “Bobbi Brown Nude” onto the back of his pants leg.
They entered an empty Café Sabarsky, where a waiter ushered them to a corner table, and Pickle immediately ordered strong Viennese coffees and two Sachertorten. Junie took in a shuddering breath, her eyes wet and vulnerable.
She began, hesitantly, to explain. “I’d only seen graphite drawings in the Brooklyn Museum. Fragonard. Jacob and I went there a lot to see them. And when you said we’d go to the Frick, I’d forgotten about the Fragonard Room.”
They’d spoken almost no words to each other since meeting at the Frick—and that felt just fine. Now, the quality of her voice brought Pickle back to the night at the precinct, when her emotions had splattered all over the small room, one second a howling anguish, the next as banal as spaghetti and meatballs.
“Those drawings were important to us. There was something tender about each stroke of red chalk and the intention of each line. But it wasn’t just about the lines, because there were thousands. It was more that you could follow each one and see exactly where it ended. It’s hard to explain but I see now, with just a bit of distance, that sometimes depression allows you to see only one small thing at a time. Minute by minute. And with the Fragonard, line by line. You focus in and sweep everything else aside. Because you simply can’t take in any more. Those Fragonard drawings helped us.”
He wasn’t expecting this and was at a loss, out of his league. Pickle looked down and stared at the grey marble tabletop, tracing a black vein until it reached the edge of the table and died. Junie reached up, and let her hair fall; some tendrils dropped in front of her eyes.
“Tell me about the Fragonard at the Frick. How do you reconcile all of that in your mind now?” Pickle asked.
“No. I want to hear what you think.”
The waiter came with their order and they set about fixing the coffees to their liking. Junie dug into her torte and he took a few deep gulps of his coffee. The café began to fill up with the sounds of chair legs scraping the stone floor, and waiters crashing through the swinging doors to the kitchen.
“Another lecture? You sure?” Pickle asked, skeptical.
She nodded after a few seconds. “I think so … yeah.”
Pickle leaned in so she could hear him over the din. “Well, this is off the top of my head, and based on what you’ve told me just now. But I’m also thinking of your statement at the precinct. So, putting the two bits together—”
Junie interrupted, exasperated. “Just tell me, already. Stop with the caveats. Plus, you’re sounding like Stan.” She immediately saw the wound in his eyes. “Sorry.”
“Okay. It’s actually pretty simple. I see your experience with the two Fragonards—the graphite and the oil—as a metaphor for change. Or maybe transformation. Now you’re able to see a fully fleshed-out work of art. Not a monotone line drawing, however detailed and intricate it might be. But a textured oil painting with color, whose edges are blurred and ill-defined. That’s the way of life—it’s messy.”
Pickle splayed his hands out in a “voilà” gesture. She clapped.
“And I’d like to thank the Academy and my agent … blah blah blah,” Pickle joked.
His stomach was empty, the bagel now long gone, so he took a bite of his torte and immediately felt a rush of sugar stack on top of caffeine. Junie reached forward and rubbed some chocolate from his chin. He was happy for the touch.
She looked at her finger and frowned. “Pickle. Are you wearing makeup?”
“What’s that?” Pickle pulled back from her, their easy intimacy broken.
“There’s some beige stuff on your face!”
“Oh. I can explain. I had a bit of a scrape last night … on the job.”
“What!?”
Pickle waved it off. “No, no. Nothing like that. I got a scratch, and shaving stung this morning. So, I ran out to the drugstore and got some of this makeup. Obviously, the wrong shade.”
“I forget what you do. How awful.”
“Well I’m usually not in danger, at least not anymore.” He cocked his head to one side. “No big deal. Okay?”
She put her fork down and licked her lips of chocolate. “Pickle, I have to ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
“What happened to Jacob? Did you find him?”
“Oh, Junie … Now?”
Her chin quivered. “I’ve got to know. See, I’ve got to get the thought of him in the Hudson out of my mind. I need a new picture.”
Ouch. She missed him. Of course, she wasn’t over him. It seemed that every single woman in his life was glued to a man, but he was never that man. His mother and Stan—that unholy alliance. Karen and Stan and the fact of fucking his twin brother’s wife—with pleasure. And now Junie with this loser Jacob. How could he get rid of this annoying gnat with one swat?
“Well, only if you’re really sure.”
“I’m sure.”
Pickle scooted his chair back, creating the distance that would bring authority to his voice. He became a cop: calculating, cynical. The finest badass in New York City, as Karen liked to call him.
“We decided to keep it from you—Lance and me. And you have to understand, you weren’t his next of kin, so we weren’t legally obligated to inform you of anything. I probably would have told you sooner if it wasn’t for the fact that my brother and Karen took you in. You were in good hands, so I figured there was no rush. But if you say you’re ready, then okay.”
“Tell me.”
Pickle hid his hands underneath the table. They were trembling, so he stuck them between his knees and squeezed. “The good news is that he was found the next day—which was a blessing for all the obvious reasons. He was intact. And his wallet was still in his pocket, so we didn’t need any other identification. Understand?”
“Go on.”
“Lance contacted Jacob’s family in New Jersey. They said he’d been out of touch—estranged—for some time. So, they came in and took him—his body. Lance asked them about you, wondering if they wanted to get in touch about services and stuff. But they told him they didn’t know anything about you.”
Junie’s head snapped to the side; she frowned and eyed him suspiciously. Pickle noticed, but rushed to continue. “Lance handled all of that part. I never met them or talked to them.”
“No. Wait—that’s not right. Jacob told me they knew about me. Even though things were bad between him and his family, they’d been in touch.”
Pickle cleared his throat. He stared at her and counted three seconds.
“Well, according to Lance, I don’t think that was the case. He said the family had not known of his whereabouts for years. Junie, people are strange—you know—especially when there’s a mental illness involved.”
“What do you mean? What are you talking about?”
Pickle put his hand on Junie’s forearm
. She jerked it from him, as if withdrawing from a scorching burn. Slowly, he dragged his hand back. “Well, his family said that Jacob had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. And that he’d dropped out of sight many times.”
Junie put her hands over her eyes, rocked back and forth and began to whimper. Pickle pulled his chair next to hers and pried her hands off her face, enveloping them in his palms. He threaded his fingers into hers.
“You didn’t know that, did you? That he was bipolar?”
She shook her head, once each way.
“We see this kind of thing a lot with suicides. Secrets can’t be hidden anymore. And it’s toughest on the living, those they leave behind.”
“Poor, poor Jacob. I’m trying to see it now … maybe … in a way … yes …”
Pickle let her work it out. She’d get there—believe him—in no time at all. It was the type of information that made an awful situation, a suicide, go down easier. The guy was off his fucking rocker. Simple. But Pickle wanted to make sure. “Junie. There’s one more thing you should know. And I hesitate, but I think it’ll be best in the long run for you to know everything now.”
“What? Yes. Yes. Just tell me.” Her voice went from alto to soprano.
He had her—all soft in his fists—and he squeezed. “Jacob didn’t work, right? Lance found no source of income for him.”
She stared at him with her mouth open—confused.
“Why not? What did he tell you?” Pickle asked.
“Just that his grandparents had given him a lump sum when they passed away. Around the time he’d met me. I had a few different jobs at first, but he convinced me to quit. He said that he could support us on the money from his grandparents.”
“Well, part of that is true. He did have money from his grandparents. But they aren’t dead. They’re still alive. Jacob stole that money. He’d embezzled about a hundred thousand dollars from them. That’s what you were living on.”
She shook her head, her eyes wild with disbelief, or perhaps the reality of a painful truth.
Pickle reached up and tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear. “I’m very, very sorry. This can’t be easy.”
They stayed in that position, like figures frozen in a midstream gesture at Pompeii. Suddenly Junie shoved her chair back and stood up. “Pickle, let’s go … No, wait. I have to go home—I mean to the brownstone.”
“Sure. I’ll take you in a cab.”
“No. I want to go by myself. I can’t be with anyone. Please understand.”
“Okay, of course. Let me pay the check and I’ll get you into a cab.”
Pickle looked around for the waiter, spotted him, and then gestured for the check. When he turned back she was gone. He spied Junie outside on the sidewalk, frantically flapping her arms, attempting to hail a cab. Pickle stayed back and watched until a taxi pulled up. She lowered her orange head and dipped into the backseat, just like a perp. The cab made a U-turn and headed toward Fifth Avenue.
Pickle sat back down and finished his torte. Reaching over to Junie’s plate, he scraped off the remnants of her half-eaten slice, dumped it onto his plate, and licked his fork. The noise from the restaurant surged to a cymbal crash. Pickle tried to single out one conversation that he might grab and follow, but it remained a saturation of sound—all the voices mashed together by a noise compactor. He yelled for the waiter and ordered another torte and a triple espresso.
20
WITH DAY THREE OF THE RENOVATION COMPLETED, most of the large debris from demolition had been dragged down and dumped into the bin in front of the brownstone. But silt was insidious and even though the workers swept at the end of each day, they’d return the next morning only to refill the space with airborne detritus.
Karen stood on the top step of the brownstone and shoved three Fresh Direct boxes to the side. Stan, she saw, was preoccupied on the other side of a zippered plastic shield, trying to arrange the bottom edge to his liking with his toes. He deftly grabbed the plastic by scrunching his digits and pulling. Karen observed with admiration; his dexterity was impressive.
“Don’t get too crazy with that,” she called to him. “I need to get in, and there’re some boxes out here.”
Stan, startled, noticed her through the film of the shield. “Thank God. It’s you. This filth is just too awful. Boxes?”
“Groceries. They must have left them out here because of the plastic thing.”
“Okay, I’m going to count to three. Or maybe five. And then I’m going to unzip. Get yourself and all that shit in here in under ten … no, eight seconds.”
“Eight seconds, ten seconds. Five minutes. It doesn’t matter. Just go to the back of the house. Don’t watch. I’ll get in. I’ll mop. You’ll never know the difference.”
“Well that’s just not true. I will know. But you’re right, I can’t watch.”
As Karen waited for Stan to sequester himself in the bedroom, she heard music coming from Junie’s floor below—that damned Mahler 5th again. This morning she’d been playing Beethoven’s 6th—The Spring Symphony—a musical depiction of rebirth. Something must have happened to Junie.
When she heard Stan slam the bedroom door, Karen unzipped and stepped inside, kicking the boxes in with her. She saw that all was, in fact, immaculate. They’d hired their cleaning woman, Gloria, to come at the end of each day to make sure their living area was habitable—in the way that suited Stan—pristine.
Disgusted, she yelled toward the back, “There’s nothing amiss, Stan. Perfectly clean. Come out!”
He poked his head out of the bedroom, looking doubtful, then scuffed through the hall in his slippers with The Doodles bringing up the rear. Karen dragged her finger across the entrance console table and displayed the pad of her index finger for emphasis. “Nothing.”
Stan’s eyes narrowed, still not convinced. “Well, not really,” he said, pointing to the boxes. “Now those beastly things have to be dealt with.”
Karen gawked at his arm. “Ohhhhh no. No. No. No. Get that sling off right now. The doctor told you to keep your arm moving. You’re not to coddle yourself. Otherwise, recovery will be slower, and we can’t have that.”
“But I’m afraid. I feel vulnerable. Someone’s going to hit my arm. I just know it.”
“I get that, but you have to try. And get out of that robe, for Christ’s sake. It’s beginning to creep me out. Let’s go, I want to have Junie up for dinner.”
She jogged around the boxes, turned Stan about-face with her hands on his shoulders, and walked him into the bedroom. Stan sat on the bed and let Karen take over. She gently removed the sling and pulled him out of the robe, one arm at a time. Selecting an orange cotton sweater from his chest of drawers, she began to consider how best to get his arms into the pullover and commit the least amount of pain.
“Wait, Karen. The color’s not right.”
“Why not? Orange was at the top of the stack. I thought that’s how you and Gloria had color coded for use.”
“We’re in the middle of changing my concept.”
“Why? I love the way this drawer looks.” Karen stifled a yawn.
“It’s too Sister Parish. You know, the Howard Johnson colors?”
“You lost me.”
“You should know this, Karen. The Howard Johnson restaurant was her first job. Blue and orange. Then she went to the Kennedy White House, but that was years later. Didn’t they teach you this shit in design school?”
“Shut up.”
“Anyway, when I see this particular orange, I think of pancakes or some other foul food.”
Karen covered her mouth in mock disgust. “Oh, my God.”
“Get the dusty lavender sweater out—I think it’s third down—right after the cerulean blue and the lemony citrine. And make sure you fix them so they’re perfectly lined up. And put this orange one back … um … seventh down. I think. No, wait a minute. If I take the lavender out that means—”
She swatted the sweater to the floor and sunk onto the b
ed next to Stan. “Dear God. Deliver me.”
“Oh please, Karen. It’s colors, not the atom bomb. Jesus. Get a grip.”
“I’m trying. But between you, the office, the clients, the vendors, the trades …” Karen’s tirade diminished to a whisper. Stan draped his bad arm around her shoulders and began to massage her neck.
She looked at him suspiciously. “See? Your arm’s fine, you little faker.”
“What the hell’s wrong with you? Just quiet down and help me with the sweater.”
Karen repositioned herself in front of Stan and got him into his clothes. She picked up the orange sweater and began to fold it carefully, then balled it up and stuffed it at the bottom of the stack when Stan wasn’t looking—whatever. As Stan struggled to get his shoes on, she went into the kitchen to put away the groceries.
Once dinner was under way, Karen went downstairs to rouse Junie for the meal. The music had gone silent, and Karen assumed she was reading or napping. Oddly, as she turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs, a cold draft blew at her feet. Junie’s entrance door to the street was ajar, and a few birds had stationed themselves at the threshold to take a dust bath. Karen shooed them away, closed the door, and locked it. Then she peeked through the open crack of the bedroom door, almost afraid of what she might find. Junie was in bed, but awake and staring at the ceiling. Her hair, saturating the pillow, resembled a medusa.
Karen gingerly sat at the bottom of the bed. She laid her hand on Junie’s leg, which felt unusually bulky. Junie turned toward Karen. “What’s happening?”
“Dinner. Are you hungry?”
“I think so.”
“Okay, wanna come up?”
Karen suddenly felt wary, not only because Junie didn’t move a muscle and her facial expression didn’t add up, but also the open front door. It might have been an oversight but now she was in doubt. On an impulse, she pulled the covers halfway back to discover that Junie was still dressed in her outdoor coat. After tugging again, Karen saw that her boots were on, as well. The bedsheets were soiled from street grime. Clearly Junie had returned to the brownstone, not bothered to even close the door, and simply crawled into bed. All after her date with Pickle.
Pickle’s Progress Page 14