Perfect on Paper (40 page)

“I can’t wait to meet this dog. He’s my hero.”

“Well, your hero just cost me twenty-two hundred dollars in surgical fees, but I think maybe it was worth it.”

“I bet that’s cheaper than a shrink would have been.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself. Besides, all that exercise was giving me shin splints.”

We led a charmed life that weekend. On Saturday morning, Elinor Ann and I rose at dawn to go scour the outdoor markets and antique shops of Adamstown.

I’d already picked up three portraits when we spotted an aging biker-type leaning against his run-down truck in the parking lot of the Clock Tower Antique Mall. Propped against a tire was an oval-framed photograph of an exceedingly prim, white-haired matriarch with a neck like a giraffe—perfect for adorning with necklaces.

“How much?” I asked.

“Twenty-five.”

“Is that your best price?”

“What the hell. Make it fifteen.”

As I opened my wallet, the man said, “Got a lot more like her in the truck if you’re interested in that sort of thing.”

Did he ever. More than a dozen portraits were stacked inside, and most of them met my needs perfectly.

“To tell you the god’s honest truth, I can’t hardly get rid of these things,” he confided. “I clean out houses for a living, and damn near every one of ’em’s got a bunch of dead relatives hanging on the walls. Ugly dead relatives.”

We quickly exchanged cash and email addresses before loading up the trunk of Elinor Ann’s car.

“You know, Angus is always looking to make a few extra dollars,” she said on the way back home. “I’m sure he’d be willing to come out here every month or so to make pickups for you.”

“That sounds great. Now, how much is it going to run me to have you ship them out from the plant?”

“Don’t be silly.”

That night, Lurch, who was as adorable as promised—even with a huge plastic cone on his head to prevent him from chewing on his stitches—slept at the foot of my bed. Which was no substitute for Hank sleeping next to me, but it was probably the best action I was going to get for a while.

All weekend, I checked my cell incessantly for messages, but none of consequence appeared.

“Aunt Dana?” Eddie said while we were at Willy Joe’s, having a late lunch before Elinor Ann took me to the bus. “How come you keep messing around with your phone?”

“Oh, I’m just hoping to hear from a friend of mine. We had a fight.”

“About what?”

But how to answer the question? “My loose morals,” was concise, but obviously age-inappropriate. “I… did something that made him mad.”

Angus let out a grunt.
“Men.”
I smiled, wishing he weren’t at that age where a hug in public from one’s aunt constituted a severe breach of etiquette.

“Don’t worry, Aunt Dana,” Eddie said. “You’re too nice to stay mad at.”

“Eddie’s right,” Elinor Ann said while we waited in her car for the bus to appear. “I’m sure Hank will get over this. You just have to give him time.”

“How much time?”

“I’m not Nostradamus, in case you haven’t noticed. But when Cal and I came to the city and I saw you two together, it was obvious he cares about you. Four good months shouldn’t be undone by one unfortunate… lapse in judgment.”

But Hank not only knew about my lapse in judgment; I’d spent Tuesday afternoon showing him exactly what had transpired for the duration of it. “I guess all I can do is… nothing. And hope he eventually comes around.”

“Or not,” Elinor Ann said.

I raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Maybe it’s time to move on from Hank and meet someone new.”

“What are you talking about? Didn’t you tell me it was time for me to be sharing my life with someone when I was here at Thanksgiving?”

“I was, but then I realized something. Maybe you’re just not ready yet. People mature at different speeds. I got married and had kids—I had to do it faster than you. And I hate to admit this, but maybe I’m a little… jealous of you.”

“Elinor Ann,
nobody
should be jealous of me. Especially lately.”

“Well, you never got panic disorder.”

“True.”

“And you get to paint for a living. And you don’t have to pay for two college educations. And for all you know, you might meet the man of your dreams next Thursday.” She shrugged. “You can’t force yourself to settle down. Maybe being a grown-up is overrated.”

I smiled, shaking my head. “That’s exactly what Billy Moody said to me a couple of weeks ago.”

“Well, maybe he’s right.”

I peered at her suspiciously. “Who are you? And what have you done with Elinor Ann?”

“Oh, stop. Listen, Dana—I hope things work out with Hank. I really do. But if that doesn’t happen—well, I have a feeling you’re going to be okay.”

“God, I hope so.” The bus rounded the corner, and I reached for my overnight bag and two portraits—enough to keep me occupied until the shipment arrived from the plant—and hugged her goodbye.

“Think positive,” she said. “And for god’s sake—eat something once in a while.”

By the time I returned home to discover an unblinking red light on the answering machine, despair forced me to take action.

I was going to go over to the brownstone first thing in the morning
and plead with Hank to forgive me. He hadn’t been unfaithful. If one of us was going to have to throw him- or herself on the mercy of the other, he was the obvious choice for throwee.

I noticed with satisfaction that the ancestor painting was no longer displayed in the window of Vivian’s shop when I went out the following day. Good—my initial attempt to live an honest life had apparently been a success. Now all I had to do was hope my luck would hold.

Hank’s truck was nowhere to be found on Seventh Street, but that was hardly unusual. He could just as easily be parked on Sixth, or Avenue A. Besides, even if he wasn’t home, I refused to be dissuaded. I’d brought my key, and I was prepared to go inside and wait for as long as it took for him to return. At least Dinner would be happy to see me.

But instead of the familiar padlock, I discovered a pair of ornate brass doorknobs had been installed in my absence.

I rang the bell, my heart pounding despite my determination.

After a few minutes, an elderly, elegant blond woman dressed in a red velveteen pantsuit opened the door.

“Can I help you?”

“Oh—uh, is Hank around?”

“You mean the contractor? He cleared the last of his things out of here over the weekend. I’m the decorator.”

“The… decorator?” I stood there like some sort of jilted fish, my mouth opening and closing in wordless disbelief.

“Yes, dear. He went off to—I forget where he said he was going, but if you’ve got a minute, I’m sure I have one of his business cards around here somewhere.”

“That’s okay.” I slowly turned and began to navigate the front stoop, praying my legs would hold out until I made it back to the safety of home.

“I’m sure you can track him down on the Internet,” she called after me. “It’s Wheeler. W—H—E—E…”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A SIGHT FOR SORE EYES

A
couple of weeks passed, the time feeling like both an eternity and an instant, marked by working, musing, self-recrimination, and sad, sad music. I became a nocturnal creature, sleeping late into the afternoon after painting until dawn. It was a good way to stay out of sight, where I belonged.

“You’re really starting to worry me, Dana,” Elinor Ann said. “Maybe you should just call the guy.”

“Hank has both my numbers. Obviously he doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“Maybe he just needs a little push.”

“All evidence points to the contrary.” Just the memory of walking down the brownstone’s steps under the watchful eye of the decorator was enough to make my stomach hurt.

“Are you eating?”

“Trying.” All I could manage was tea and English muffins, like a sick person—which was exactly what I was. Not to mention heartbroken. And guilt-ridden. I’d lost almost ten pounds by now, but Elinor Ann didn’t need to know that.

“Well,” she said, “at least the paintings are selling.”

That they were. One afternoon I was awakened by Vivian’s broomstick, followed by a phone call when I failed to materialize.

“You
have
to come downstairs.”

“I don’t have to do anything.”

“Come on—it’s good news. Incredible news.”

“We’re a Best Bet!” she announced, brandishing a copy of
New York Magazine
, when curiosity lured me into the shop an hour later.

Oh, “we” are, are we?
I silently responded.

Even so, my mood did lift a bit when I saw the picture of my long-necked matriarch next to an enthusiastic blurb with the headline,
FASHION VICTIMS.

“That is somewhat exciting,” I conceded.

And the perfect offering to take with me on my trip to Florida at the end of the month. Dad had made it clear he didn’t want birthday presents, but he’d be delighted if I were to present him with proof of my productivity. Perhaps I’d go on down to Gem Spa on Saint Mark’s and buy him a copy—along with one for myself.

When I got to the newsstand, I hesitated. I’d come this far. Maybe it would be a good idea to continue on to Fred and Ethyl’s and eat a proper lunch for once.

“There she is,” Ethyl said when I walked in. “Where’s Ol’ Blue Eyes?”

“I was just about to ask if you’d seen him.”

She laid a hand over her heart when the meaning of my words registered. “Aw, that’s tough. Sorry, girlie. I thought you two kids were a match.”

“So did I.” I dropped into a seat at the communal table.

“Lunch is on me today.” She sized me up, adding, “and you’d better finish it or you’re gonna disappear into thin air.”

It was one of those freakishly warm days that sometimes arrive out of nowhere in mid-March, exposing the pasty limbs of the locals and inspiring way too much kissing on the street. By the time I returned home, I just wanted to draw the shades and crawl into bed.

The phone began to ring as soon as I opened the door.

“Hello?”

Click.

This time I knew better than to hurl the receiver against the wall. I’d only just replaced it.

When the unseasonable weather held, I determined I should take advantage of it. The sunlight would be good for me. So would some physical activity. I resolved to take daily walks on all the side streets between Second and Avenue B, starting with Fourteenth. By the end of the week, I’d wrap it up down on Houston.

Maybe I’d see Hank’s truck.

But it was nowhere to be found along the sidewalks of the East Village. By now his work could have taken him anywhere. I might never find him.

I did, however, find Ray Devine. A scrap from one of his old billboards—ironically, just the “Healthy” panel from the “Healthy, Wealthy, and Wise” campaign—still fluttered at the corner of Eleventh Street and First Avenue.

I leaned against a wall and took him in.
God, Ray,
I silently addressed the picture.
If only you
were
healthy.

That was when I realized I hadn’t even begun to mourn the loss of Hank. I was still mourning Ray.

Tears formed in my eyes and rolled down my cheeks. An ancient bag man pushing an overloaded grocery cart approached me for a handout, but he begged my pardon and continued down the street as soon as he saw my face.

Then I got even crazier, if such a thing was possible. I began to make daily pilgrimages to see Ray, even though the temperatures had plummeted back into the twenties and some punk band, posting handbills for its upcoming gig, usurped the billboard and obscured half his image.

The handbills were what finally snapped me out of it. This was ridiculous. And self-destructive. And no matter how much Ray’s death might have affected me, I still knew I’d been right to end the relationship, no matter how hard it had been at the time. I could never have wound up the way Lark would be soon enough, married to a man who was decades my senior; wondering every day if he would cheat on me the way he’d cheated on the previous wife.