Glass Shatters (8 page)

C
harles approaches the art room as one might approach a military reconnaissance operation, with equal parts caution, trepidation, and excitement. The school yard looks like foreign terrain in the moonlight, and Charles goes through a circuitous routine of loosening his tie, licking his lips, and checking to make sure that the flowers in the bouquet are still fresh. His hand quivers on the doorknob. It sounds like a hive of bees inside. His tie is so loose now that it’s hanging in a wide loop around his neck.

He expected a small gathering for the senior exhibition, a handful of art students and their parents, a single bottle of grape juice, and some stale crackers from last year. Instead, the school has transformed the art room into a gallery capable of competing with the very best of Los Angeles and New York. The students have cleared away the clutter, the benches and tables and art supplies. The walls are the clean, blank-slate white of museums, and caterers weave back and forth through the crowd with hors d’oeuvres and sparkling apple cider. Reporters from the local paper snap photographs of artists and their work. One of the artists walks by with an entire armful of roses. Charles looks down at his lilies and tries to spruce them up a bit.

“Hey Charles, over here!” a voice calls out, and Charles looks over to see Steve’s curly hair bobbing up and down in the crowd. Charles makes his way to Steve, trying not to get elbowed in the process. Steve is wearing a full tuxedo with a ruffled pink shirt and a matching bow tie. Charles feels a bit sheepish in his jeans and brown corduroy jacket, but then again, it’s not like he owns any clothes fancier than that.

“This place is a madhouse,” Charles says. “I didn’t realize this was such a big deal.”

“Dude, our high school has the top-rated art program in all of Washington. This is the future generation right here.”

“Where’s Julie?”

“They’re still setting up her installation in the back—she should be ready in about five minutes.” Steve eyes the flowers in Charles’s hand. “So you gonna ask her?”

“Ask her what?”

“Are you going to ask Julie to prom tonight?”

Charles swallows, a baseball-sized lump in his throat. His cheeks grow warm. “What are you talking about? I thought we were going as a group.”

“Don’t be an idiot. You have to ask her out.”

“Steve—”

Steve takes Charles by the shoulders. “Charles, listen to me. Julie is the most beautiful girl at this school, both inside and out, right? So why hasn’t she had a boyfriend yet? Because she’s been waiting for you. And if you keep waiting, someone else is going to ask her out, and she’s going to say yes.”

Charles looks down at his lilies. He’s afraid he’s going to squeeze the life right out of them. “But what if she doesn’t like me in that way? What if I ruin the friendship?”

Steve pops a stuffed olive into his mouth, downing it with a plastic cup of cider. “Trust me, Charles. You have to trust me on this.”

“Has she said anything to you?”

Steve ignores Charles’s question and points. “Come on, I haven’t seen the piece in that corner yet.”

Steve stops in front of a video installation, black-and-white footage of a man in pajamas sitting in a small cement cubicle. After a few seconds, the man begins screaming, pulling off his clothes, and throwing himself against the wall. Several orderlies rush in, trying to sedate him. The camera zooms in on his bulging eyes, his salivating mouth. Charles reads the plaque beside the streaming video: “Schizophrenia Untouched.” He can feel his chest tighten. He ducks under several people’s arms, determined to escape the horde, to get out. He plunges through the door and sinks down against the brick wall outside. Steve follows after him.

“Hey, hey, that’s it. You’re okay. Just breathe.”

Charles feels the cold night air in his lungs. He closes his eyes. He pictures Julie. He pictures Julie smiling at him. His breaths slow down.

Steve sits next to Charles, his legs sticking out in front of him, his tuxedo pants getting dirty from the gravel and dust. “You know, I had a great uncle who was schizophrenic. He was diagnosed in the early 1950s and was locked up in mental hospitals for over ten years. Finally they got him on Thorazine and the hallucinations and delusions stopped. And he was more or less himself again. Except that he never forgot those years being locked up. It destroyed him.”

“Yeah? So what if that’s me, Steve? What if that’s me in ten or twenty years? It has a genetic component, you know.”

“It’s not going to be you, Charles. You’re not your father.”

“And if, you know, if I do …”

“Look, I’m always here for you. What I was trying to say earlier is that I would never let anybody send you away and lock you up. I know better than to let that happen. I promise, okay?”

Steve extends a hand to Charles. Charles hesitates, then takes Steve’s hand in his, returning his gesture with a firm shake. He notices that the stars above have stopped spinning. He stands up, brushing off his jeans.

“C’mon, let’s go see Julie’s exhibit,” Steve says. He acts as a buffer for Charles against the crowd, nudging people out of the way and creating a clear path. A group has gathered in the back, presumably around Julie’s installation. Steve pushes their way to the front. Charles looks down. He was sure he’d dropped the lilies but no, he’s held onto them, and as he sees Julie, he grins at the fact that they will go perfectly with her dress, a deep blue dress as rich as the sky at twilight. Her hair is done up, whirling above her head, and a single string of pearls lies against her collarbone. She curls through the crowd, creating a riptide, as people swell back toward her, eager for handshakes and discussions of aesthetics.

“Look,” Steve whispers, gesturing toward the walls around them, and Charles turns away from Julie. The walls are covered with photographs, candid photographs of Charles, at the lake, in the woods, at school, at his house. In some, the lens is so zoomed in that he can see the very pores in his skin. In others, he’s merely a speck in the distance. There is nothing idealized about these photographs—in all of them, Charles is honest. Charles is himself.

Charles reads the placard beside the exhibit:

Portraits of a Real Boy
Julie Hollingberry, 1996, Oil on Canvas

These paintings draw inspiration from the earlier photo-realists such as Robert Bechtle and Chuck Close, and for many, they will seem indistinguishable from photographs. I seek to demonstrate the transcendent beauty of representational veri-similitude to the highest degree. Rather than requiring one to veer into the realm of abstraction and fantasy to discover truth, I hope to show that mimetic art, art that acknowledges the banalities, the grittiness of everyday life, is capable of the great-est emotional resonance and psychological realism.

Charles feels a tap on his shoulder and turns to discover Julie behind him, in all of her magnificent splendor. He has never seen her with her hair up before, and it only serves to accentuate the outline of her cheekbones. He hands Julie the lilies. She blushes as she takes them.

“I’m glad you came tonight, Charles.” Julie plants a small peck on his cheek.

“I’m glad I came too,” Charles says. His face feels so warm, especially in the spot of the kiss, he is sure he is about to spontaneously combust.

I
KNOCK LIGHTLY ON THE DOOR TO
I
RIS AND
A
VA’S
house, a white door with a stained-glass window. The rain has stopped but thunderclouds still swirl overhead. Their mailbox is full and one of the letters has floated down to the ground. I pick up the damp envelope and read the address:

Iris Brenner
157 Maple Rd.
Hillston, WA 98409

Iris Brenner. Maple Road. Washington. The words roll off my tongue as I say them to myself. I hope I’ve cleaned up well enough. I took a shower—the water so hot it practically singed my skin—shaved the stubble, cleaned under my fingernails. I’m wearing a light blue dress shirt, gray slacks, a navy blazer, and a black trilby hat I found in the back of the bedroom closet. I check my jacket pocket, making sure that the photograph of Julie is still tucked in there. I couldn’t leave it behind. She’s so real in the memories, I feel like I’m standing right next to her.

I knock again. I’m still worried about Ava. I’m worried that I’ve done something irreparably wrong, that Iris will never let me speak to her daughter again. I considered giving her one of Jess’s dolls as a peace offering, an olive branch of sorts, but then I remembered that the marionettes were probably what scared Ava off in the first place. Instead, I hold the brand-new turquoise leotard from Jess’s room in one hand and a bottle of red wine in the other, Ava’s umbrella sticking out of my back pocket.

“Charles.” Iris finally opens the door, warm yellow light
spilling out from the house. She stands on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around me, a hug that lasts for several moments.

“It’s good to see you, Charles. Come in and make yourself at home. I’m just finishing up the risotto,” Iris says. I follow her into the house, hanging up my coat but leaving on my hat. The interior is simple and cozy, a well-worn couch sitting in front of the fireplace, a kitchen that smells like garlic and Parmesan cheese. I hand Iris the wine and she pours out two glasses. I stand by the counter and watch her cook.

“I checked at the hospital but I didn’t find any medical records for you. I’ll keep looking, though,” Iris says. She tastes the risotto and then adds more salt and basil to the pan.

“And what happens if you don’t find them?”

“Well, there are a couple options for next steps. I would recommend seeing a neurologist, getting an MRI. But first we would want to make sure you have health insurance coverage because otherwise that’s going to be very expensive. If you don’t have insurance, there are some clinics I can look into.”

I think about my father, about the exhibition of the schizophrenic man. “Iris, if they do find something wrong, or if they find that I have some sort of psychological condition as opposed to a physical one … could they keep me there?”

Iris scoops the risotto into bowls, steam billowing up into her face. She shakes her head. “Against your will? No, they can’t do that unless you pose an imminent danger to yourself or others.”

I pause for a moment, still feeling unsettled. “Iris, were you surprised when I disappeared?”

“Surprised? I guess yes and no. I was worried, of course, worried that something had happened to you …”

“But?”

“But you’ve always been a bit unpredictable, a bit spontaneous.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing too significant. Just that you weren’t necessarily the type to tell us if you were going out of town, and sometimes you would be at home but wouldn’t answer the door for a couple days. Geniuses are eccentric. Everybody says that.”

“I’m sorry.” I feel myself blushing, the blood pooling into my cheeks. “I hope I haven’t been too inconsiderate.”

“No, you’ve been just fine. We both love you, Charles.”

“Six months, though.”

“That’s a long time,” Iris agrees. “I don’t know where you were, Charles, but something happened. I can’t exactly put a finger on it. You seem different.”

I hear music playing from the other room, Tchaikovsky’s
Swan Lake
. Ava must be practicing for her dance class.

“Ava, dinner’s ready! Come say hi to Charles!” Iris calls out over her shoulder.

“No!” Ava yells from the other room, slamming the door, and I can tell that I’m still not in her good graces.

“I brought this for Ava.” I gesture to the leotard. “I didn’t mean to, but I think I must have said something to upset her.”

Iris stirs some fresh thyme into the risotto. “That’s sweet of you, Charles. She’ll love it. Did you know that turquoise is her favorite color? She used to have a turquoise leotard, but then she left it at the studio one day and we haven’t been able to find one since.”

“Well, I certainly hope she likes it … do you have any
idea what might have upset her? I really didn’t mean to say anything wrong.”

Iris sits down at the table. She gestures for me to sit across from her. We tap our wine glasses together, and then she gives a short sigh. “Look, Charles, I know we’ve all been through a lot and that Ava means the world to you, and that sometimes it’s easy to accidentally let things slip out that you don’t mean.”

“That I don’t mean?”

“That aren’t true.” Iris bites her lower lip in a way I can tell is habitual. “Charles, when you first were getting to know us, and Ava told you about Rory and what happened to him, you told her that your father had died too, that your parents had died in a car crash when you were eighteen.”

It takes a moment to sink in, and then it hits me why Ava is so upset.