At any rate, Francis Taub, the collector who bought “An Early Spring” and so many other Weavers, could not bear to look at the painting for long. He knew far more about oil deposits under the earth than about oil paint spread on a canvas, and he couldn’t even be sure of what he felt when he gazed at that supine naked body, but he knew that his feelings disturbed him. “Early Spring” never hung on a wall in any of the Taub homes or offices.
22
The game was hearts, and no more than four men sat in at one time. Anyone else gathered in Charlie Raven’s shack could stand and watch the cards being played—but keep their damn mouths shut—or they could go outside and jig through one of the holes drilled in the ice of Weasel Lake. They could help themselves to a brandy or a beer—as long as they were as willing to replenish the supply as deplete it. They could tear off a strip of venison jerky, but they were not welcome to any of the chocolates— Charlie Raven had a sweet tooth, and the Russell Stover box was his private supply.
Henry stood alone at the window while the card game chattered on behind his back.
“Whoa! Is he going for it?”
“If he is, he ain’t going far.”
“Make him eat it. Make him eat that black bitch.”
“Should we just get it over with and see if someone’s got the stopper?”
Henry didn’t belong there. He was younger than any other man by at least twenty years. He had a wife and a child and a house with a front and back door. His income was more or less regular. He liked to hunt and fish, but for him it was recreation, not a primary source of food. He had a name and a reputation in the county that stood for something besides poaching and hard drinking. And Henry could not keep up with these men at the card table. They played fast, they talked constantly, and they slapped their cards down as if they wanted to inflict harm.
But Max Sherry was a regular; Charlie Raven, Morgan Sherrill, and Barney Sykes were Max’s friends, and Henry wanted to know if they, along with Ernie Glaser, the man who was supposed to have discovered Sonja, had also watched his wife while she posed for that artist. He wanted to know, but he didn’t want to ask.
Since the day Max Sherry had told him about Sonja, Henry thought of little else, yet he couldn’t make any of those thoughts move from his mind to his tongue. He hadn’t confronted Sonja, and he hadn’t asked any other man if he had ever had such a problem with his own wife, as improbable as that might be. He hadn’t sought advice or consolation, though he could use both. He felt unmoored and unmanned, yet he put himself in the company of these directionless men who no doubt would, if they knew of his dilemma, mock his masculinity.
“Henry,” Barney Sykes said, “we got any flags out there?” He assumed Henry was watching to see if any of the tip-up flags were up, indicating a fish on the line. For what other reason would Henry be staring out the window?
“No, but somebody out there is pulling in a shitload of bluegills.”
“Georgie Bohn,” Charlie Raven said as he shuffled the cards. “He loves those fucking bluegills. Fries ’em up like potato chips.”
“And it’s about as easy to make a meal out of potato chips,” Barney said.
A chair scraped, and Henry heard Max’s voice. “Fuck it. I’ll go drill some new holes. We ain’t got a hit so far with them in close.”
“Stay away from Georgie,” said Charlie, “unless you want bluegills tipping your flag.”
“Henry,” Max said, “you want to sit in here?”
“No, I’ll give you a hand moving the lines.”
The sunlight
reflecting off the ice gave Henry a headache, but he tried not to squint. Ever since he fell from Buck and tore open his forehead, he had trouble with his right eye. If he pinched his facial muscles for long, his eye would begin to twitch so violently it threatened to shut itself, and that was all he needed—to have only one good eye to go with his one good ear. He wished he had a cap like Max’s with a bill he could pull down low.
Henry and Max took turns drilling holes, exertion strenuous enough on that warm February day to allow both of them to break a sweat. They unbuttoned their coats, and while Max put fresh bait on each line, Henry lit a cigarette and kept his gaze fixed on the only available darkness—the hole that peered into the lake’s green-black depths.
“Don’t much care for cards, do you?” Max said as he knelt on the ice and reset the tip-up.
“Not really,” Henry replied.
“Nor ice fishing?”
“I have trouble sitting still.”
“Yeah, well, fishing and cards . . . they don’t allow for much moving around.” Max stood and with the toe of his boot pushed a little slush back into the water. “So what are you doing hanging out with us old farts?”
“I guess I wanted to find out if you’d ever mount an expedition to go off and spy on my wife.”
Max’s laugh was as hard and cold as the ice underfoot. “We sure as hell wouldn’t do it when you’re around, now, would we?”
“I suppose not.”
“You ain’t spoken to her about what she’s been doing?”
“Not yet.”
“Jesus, Henry. If it was my wife . . .”
“You’d what?” The question could have been belligerent, challenging, but coming from Henry’s lips, it sounded like a plea for help.
“I’d let her know what time it is.”
Max’s choice of words struck Henry as so odd that he couldn’t keep from smiling, and that in turn seemed to anger Max.
“This is funny to you? Maybe you’re one of those men who don’t give a shit what his wife does once she’s out of his sight.”
“It’s not that—”
“Or maybe you never did believe me on this. Come over here and stand beside me.”
Henry did as he was told. Max pointed toward shore with one hand and with the other pressed down on Henry’s shoulder to get Henry to hunch down and share Max’s sight line. “See that stand of scrub oak just back of Charlie’s place?”
“I see them.”
“Well, those leaves there are the same color as your wife’s pussy hairs.”
Had he wished, Max Sherry could probably have pushed Henry to his knees by only slightly increasing the pressure on Henry’s shoulder. Instead, Max removed his hand and shoved Henry away.
“You sure as shit believe me now, don’t you?” asked Max.
“Those men in there,” Henry said, still staring in the direction of both the shack and the oak leaves, “how many of them have seen her?”
“Fuck if I know. I told you. Ernie’s the one who found her, and I ain’t too sure who he shared with.”
“Charlie?”
“Why—would that bother you more because Charlie’s part Indian?”
“Morgan?”
“Yeah, Morgan. He don’t get too close though, because he’s too fucking fat to sneak down the hill.”
“Barney?”
“Okay, Barney. The others I don’t know about. I swear to God. Ernie’d be the one to ask.”
“You don’t talk about this among yourselves?”
“We do some. Sure.”
“And what do you talk about?”
“Your wife’s a good-looking woman, Henry—what the hell do you suppose we talk about?”
Growing amid the deep green of those tall pines, the oak tree and its rust-colored leaves looked out of place, like something forgotten and left out in the weather. Henry kept his eyes trained, no matter how the right one twitched, on that tree. “Tell me, Max—you still have that pistol you showed me that day in the orchard? Because if you do, I’d be willing to buy it from you.”
When he accompanied Max out onto the ice, Henry had no idea that he would make this request, yet once it was out of his mouth it altered not only the present moment but those preceding it as well. Yes, this was exactly the reason Henry had walked out of the shack with Max. Henry even felt as though some of that old power of being able to act on the instant was flowing back to him.
Max shook his head slowly and sadly over Henry’s offer. “Henry. That’s not the route you want to go. No sir.”
“You don’t want to part with it,” said Henry, “that’s okay. I can lay my hands on another.”
“I’m sure you can.”
“I’m not going to murder anyone, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’d just like to have it in my pocket. In case I need to show someone how serious I am. Like when you brought it to the orchard.”
Squatting once again by the nearest hole in the ice, Max lifted his line slightly to test if the minnow was still on. Satisfied, he stood and shook the icy water from his fingers. “I’ll make a deal with you,” he said to Henry. “I’ll
loan
it to you. But not today. You need to think on this business. And you need to talk to your woman, goddammit. You do that, and you still want to stick a barrel in that fucking artist’s ear and scare the shit out of him, all right.”
“So you don’t have your pistol with you?” said Henry.
Max ignored Henry’s question. “Today’s Sunday. . . . You meet me next Wednesday at the Top Deck. Seven o’clock? I’ll have it with me then, and if you still want to take a turn with it, it’s all yours.”
“Top Deck, seven o’clock. Wednesday.”
“And in the meantime, find someone else to talk to about this. I sure as hell don’t have any advice for you.” Max rubbed his hands together for warmth. “Now, let’s go inside and break the seal on Charlie’s brandy.”
As they walked back across the creaking ice, Max went back on his word. “When you’re passing to Morgan,” he told Henry, “hold back a high spade or high hearts. He’s always looking to shoot the moon.”
When Henry walked
out of Charlie Raven’s hours later, he paused for a moment beside his truck and stared up at the night sky. Maybe it was a good thing Max didn’t have the gun with him. Henry might have taken it into Charlie’s shack and shot the eyes out of every one of those old bastards.
Henry shuddered at the stupidity and savagery of his thoughts. Perhaps he should go back inside and tell Max to forget about the Wednesday meeting at the Top Deck. No, that would take time, and Henry was suddenly in a hurry. Earlier, in the double glare of ice and sun, he couldn’t see clearly, but now, wrapped in darkness, his way was clear. He would talk to Sonja. That was why he had been so confused about what to do, trying to lay his hands on a pistol, hanging around these old mossbacks, when what he really wanted was to sit next to Sonja, take hold of her hand, and tell her about his dilemma. But he had to remind himself—he wasn’t going to talk with her, he was going to lay down the law: She would stop posing for that artist. That was the first thing. Later, if she wanted to tell him her reasons for posing, maybe he’d listen. Maybe.
The house
was dark, and though Sonja and June were probably sleeping, Henry burst in as if it were mealtime. He stamped the snow from his boots, but he was in too much of a hurry to take them off. Henry had his words and their order locked in tight, and he wanted to deliver them before they got away from him. He would keep his voice level and low and tell her—no argument about it—
Sonja, you’ve been posing for that artist. I
don’t know your reasons, and for now I don’t care to hear them. You’re going to
stop, no ands, ifs, or buts.
As he pounded up the stairs, he scolded himself. A gun—what the hell did he think, that he couldn’t control his wife or handle that little bastard and his paintbrushes without taking up a weapon?
But Sonja was not asleep. She was not even in bed. She was sitting on a chair in the corner of the darkened room, and Henry was so startled to see her there that the thread on which he had strung his little speech snapped.
“What are you doing up?” he asked.
“Waiting for you.”
“I told you I’d be home late.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“You knew I’d be fishing and playing cards at Charlie’s.”
“I should not think you fell through the ice?”
“I haven’t so far.”
“So far.”
“I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”
“A big boy . . .”
Was she crying now? He hoped not—not before he had his say. “Look here, we’re going to have a talk.”
She was wearing one of Henry’s flannel shirts over her nightgown, and she pulled it tighter around herself.
“I know what you’ve been up to,” Henry said, “and it’s got to stop.”
She said nothing, but that wasn’t unusual. Sometimes she could not think of the English word for what she wanted to say, and there was nothing to be done but give her time. Henry thought that as her years in America increased she should need less time to find the right word, but instead it seemed as though her silences had become more frequent and longer-lived. He was never sure how long he should wait, but now Henry felt his anger and frustration mount with each hushed second.
“What made you decide to pose for him, can you answer me that?”
She was looking in his direction, he could see that much.
“Did he flatter you? Tell you how beautiful you are? Did it make you feel important to have this famous artist painting you?”
If only there were more light in the room, enough for Henry to see Sonja’s expression, then he might have been able to imagine what her reactions were and then address them before she could give them voice.
“Whose idea was it for you to undress? Did he suggest it or did you come up with that on your own?”
He was groping, stumbling—what happened to that clarity of purpose, that sense of certainty, that he felt when he entered the house?
“Was that it? Did he tell you how good-looking you are, and then by God you just had to show him he didn’t know the half of it—you had to strip down and show him all your charms.”
When she still didn’t utter a word, Henry began to walk toward her, but slowly, as if floorboards might be missing in his path. Standing over her, he said, “Get up.”
She didn’t move.
“I said, get up!”
Sonja did not obey his command, but neither did she resist him when he grabbed her wrist and pulled her out of the chair. She allowed him to tow her across the bedroom, and only when they reached the doorway did she draw back.
“You think you’re such a goddamn beauty?” Henry was close to shouting. “Is that what you think? Well, I’m going to show you just exactly who you are!”
When Sonja tried to grab the doorframe Henry jerked hard on her arm and her fingernails scraped across the wood. Once they were in the hall, the rag rug bunched and rippled under Henry’s feet as if it too wanted to slow him.
At the end of the hall was a commode that had once been in the home of Henry’s grandparents, but it was the mirror attached to this low chest of drawers toward which Henry hauled Sonja. As he drew closer, Henry slapped on the hall light and shoved Sonja in front of the glass. He stood behind her, held her in place with his hands on her shoulders, and forced her to confront her own image.