Dark Exhibit

by Rick Homan

“Look, there’s nothing going on. At least, not yet. Although, I wouldn’t say no. He is cute.”

  “Getting back to Dunkle. I’m going to ask you this once, and I promise you, whatever your answer is, it will not leave this room. After Ella knocked him out, did the two of you string him up?”

  “What? No! Of course not.”

  “I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

  “No. I couldn’t live with myself if I’d done that. I hope the police don’t think of that.”

  “They won’t hear it from me.”

  Abbie got up and started washing the dishes. When I got up to help, she said, “Sit down. You’ve been through the mill. The least I can do in return for dinner is leave you with a clean kitchen.”

  I didn’t argue with her. I finished my beer and said, “As it is, I’m not sure how I’ll live with myself. I wanted to help Edgar build his career. I exhibited his paintings, and now he’s dead.”

  “That story was underway long before you got involved. Why don’t we let Matt Dunkle take responsibility for his own actions. Thanks to you, people will be seeing Edgar’s paintings for a long time to come, and his sister will get her inheritance.”

  “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

  “Yes, I am, and it should make you feel better because it’s true.”

  After a few minutes, she put the last of the dishes away and gave the counter a final wipe. “Are you going to be okay?”

  I nodded.

  “Call me if you need anything, or if a psychology professor shows up at your door.”

  “If one particular psychology professor shows up at my door, I’ll want some privacy.”

  Abbie smiled. “Good night.”

  Later, while I was putting on my pajamas and brushing my teeth, I recalled Abbie’s good-natured teasing about “hitting it off” with Pat. This reminded me of Ella’s remark about the way Adams looked at me, which I hadn’t noticed.

  Had I really gotten out of the habit of picking up signals when a man was showing some interest? I didn’t think so. Probably I had overlooked Adams’s expression because it seemed so unlikely. For one thing, he was older, though only by about ten years. For another thing, we didn’t have much in common, being from different parts of the country and in such different professions. However, I’d never thought potential partners had to be academics. In fact, that sounded pretty boring.

  But there was no point thinking about a relationship with Adams, since I would be living in Edwards County for another five months at most.

  I tucked myself in and rested my eyes on the map on the wall at the foot of my bed. After finding the location of the house I grew up in, I imagined myself walking over to Judah Street to catch the N streetcar downtown. I traced the route to the Civic Center Station from which I could walk to the Asian Art Museum. After remembering a few of my favorite pieces there, I imagined walking on McAllister over to Van Ness to catch the 47 bus up to North Beach, but I must have fallen asleep because I woke up at two in the morning with the light still on.

  On Monday, in class, my students seemed to be holding their breath, perhaps expecting me to spill the grim details of Professor Dunkle’s psychotic meltdown and my heroic, bomb-throwing rescue. I pretended to ignore their attitude and did my best to focus as usual on the many ways visual artists delight and inspire us with the images they create. I stuck to topics I knew well so I could teach as much as possible on autopilot.

  Chapter 40

  When the art department met at midday on Tuesday, I expected to face questions from my colleagues about the events of Saturday afternoon, but I was wrong. Apparently, the deadline for responding to the president’s request for proposals on career-oriented programs weighed so heavily on them they could think of nothing else. I was glad I didn’t have to relive that horrible day and I hoped I could get through the meeting without breaking down.

  Frank convened the meeting by saying, “Irving? Proposal?”

  Irving Zorn, my nemesis, looked like I felt, beaten down, although his watery eyes suggested he was suffering more than fatigue. I suspected alcohol had something to do with his condition. Without raising his eyes from the tabletop, he handed each of us a single sheet of paper with three short paragraphs, double-spaced.

  We were silent for a few moments while Wilma and I read it. When we looked up, Frank said, “Irving? Comments?”

  Again, avoiding everyone’s eyes, Zorn said, “We will propose an animation track within the studio art program and ask for funds for a computer lab and an adjunct to teach a course on digital animation.”

  “Excellent!” said Frank, trying to pump some energy into the room. “Discussion?” Neither Wilma nor I said anything. Obviously, Frank had forced Zorn to adopt my suggestion, but I got no satisfaction from that. This felt like watching a man being sentenced to life in prison.

  Frank broke the silence. “Department’s report complete. Ready to vote? All in favor?”

  I raised my hand. Wilma said, “Aye.” Zorn nodded.

  “Unanimous,” said Frank. “Excellent work all around. Something we can be proud of. Other business? No? Short meeting.”

  We all stood and did our best to ignore one another as we filed out of the room. I went downstairs rather than follow them upstairs. After taking a lap around the first floor and glancing into the gallery, which was due to be opened by one of my student monitors in half an hour, I headed for the north stairwell and woke myself by jogging up to the third floor.

  As I walked the length of the corridor, I hated the thought of leaving this rift between me and Zorn. In a way I had won, but I didn’t want a victory that would invite retaliation. I decided it was worth trying to make peace, if only for the sake of the next five months.

  I found Zorn in his office and stopped in the doorway. He looked like a boxer in his corner between rounds. “I didn’t have a chance to thank you last week for the favor you did Paul Weinert.”

  He looked wary and confused. “Who?”

  “The student who was working as an intern in the gallery.”

  He scowled at me and pursed his lips.

  “You recommended him to the Schaeffer Gallery in Columbus.”

  That rang a bell with him. “Yes. They’re a good outfit,” Zorn said. “They handle some of my work.”

  “You did him a favor. That’s great. I hope we can work together to find opportunities for our students whether they’re painters or historians.”

  Zorn shrugged. “It’s up to him, really, to make of it what he can.” He turned to his computer and started clicking on things.

  I turned away and walked on to my office. When Paul told me last week that he was leaving the college gallery, I assumed Zorn was trying to put a dent in my program by helping Paul move on to something more promising. Now apparently Zorn had forgotten about Paul and had no intention of helping him launch a career. I could forgive Zorn for attacking me, but not for using a student as a pawn. There was no peace to be made with him. In the little time I had left at Fuchs College, I would do my best to avoid him, but that would be difficult in a department of four.

  I called a meeting of the Gallery Advisory Committee on Friday, hoping to put to rest any lingering disputes. When Greta and Millard were seated, I said, “This shouldn’t take long.” I slipped two stapled sheets out of the file folder in front of me and handed them to Greta. “Here, as requested, is the signed copy of our contract with Edgar. Saturday was busy, but I did find time to pick this up from his studio.”

  Millard smiled at me. Greta glanced at the pages, but did not look up.

  I continued. “If the committee is satisfied that the contract for the exhibit is all in order, we can move on to our next order of business. Greta, do you have a report for us?”

  She looked startled. “What are you talking about?”

  “At our last meeting, I asked you to make a list of the legal issues the committee faces and describe your concerns about each.”

  She clasped he
r hands in front of her and hunched her shoulders. “You can’t expect me to come up with that in a week.”

  “I see. When do you expect your report will be ready?”

  “There’s nothing we can do about that. Drop it. Why don’t we talk about something that concerns us, like our spring exhibit? Have you had a chance to look over the websites of those artists I recommended?”

  “No, I haven’t, Greta, and I want to make clear that from now on, as director of the gallery and as an art historian, it is my job to propose which artists we will exhibit. I will submit materials to the committee and you may advise me on any substantive issues you see.”

  Greta inhaled deeply before saying, “I would advise you to find some art that is more uplifting than what we have in the present exhibit. I think everyone could use a little inspiration, something to make them feel good. Art should show us what is beautiful and celebrate our noblest aspirations.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “We’re not here just to rubber-stamp whatever you and your artistic friends want to throw in our faces.”

  “I’ll be sure to mention that to President Taylor when I’m talking to him about a replacement for Matt Dunkle.”

  “I have some names to suggest.”

  “No thanks. I’m sure the president has his own list of names.”

  “Well then, I think we’re done.” With that, Greta picked up her tote bag and marched out.

  Millard gave me his best smile.

  I looked into his eyes and was reminded that he had seen it all many times before and had long ago figured out how little it mattered.

  “Sometimes it’s best to let them think you don’t understand what’s going on,” he said.

  I smiled back.

  He left.

  I went upstairs, bundled up, strapped on my backpack and headed out. I ached all over. Payback was not all it was cracked up to be. Maybe in time I would learn what the alternatives were. I wondered how long that would take.

  I walked across campus carefully and made it to my Rabbit Hutch without falling. There was a little more light in the sky at this hour than there had been in recent weeks. We were a month past the solstice.

  Inside, I turned on lights and played some music—solo piano arrangements of popular songs. I remembered I had one task I was looking forward to. I called Ella and began by asking how she was doing.

  “It’s hard,” she replied. “I still can’t believe he’s gone. I keep thinking we’ll get together for breakfast or lunch; then I remember we can’t do that anymore.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m calling to let you know we have sold one of the paintings.”

  “Oh? Which one?”

  “The one with the group sitting at the café tables in front of the bookstore, with the demolished buildings in the background.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I got an email from a man who had visited the gallery. He’s an investor buying an office building in Youngstown and he loved the idea of an artist celebrating efforts to revitalize the city. He wants to display the painting in the lobby of his building.”

  “That’s wonderful. Edgar would have loved that. That means I could still go see it.”

  “Sure. I’ll let you know what his plans are and we’ll make a trip up there together.”

  “Thank you, Nicole. Thank you for everything.”

  “You’re welcome, Ella. Why don’t you and I get breakfast together. Maybe tomorrow morning at that diner in Chillicothe? Around nine?”

  “I’d like that. See you then.”

  That gave me one thing to look forward to this weekend. Otherwise I had work and not much else. Abbie had offered to take me with her to Pittsburgh. She had even called Sharon and gotten confirmation of the invitation to spend a weekend with them. That sounded wonderful, but I didn’t think I could summon the energy to make good on it. I wanted to accept their invitation when I could contribute to conversations and enjoy what the city had to offer. Maybe next week or a few weeks from now.

  I made dough for almond cookies and put them in the oven. As I was filling the kettle, there came a knock at the door, and a familiar voice called out, “It’s Gillespie.”

  I opened the door and said, “Come in, quick! It’s cold out there.”

  He stepped in and held out a slip of paper.

  The thought of another meeting with Judith made me feel a bit wobbly. I unfolded the paper and read: “Patrick. Chez Michel, Columbus. Saturday, 7:00 p.m.”

  I looked up and saw those green eyes were sparkling as never before.

  “I’d love to,” I replied, and pointed to my café table. “Sit down. I’m just making some cookies.”

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