The Center of the World (20 page)

Susan called just after Eddy left, and I told her what he’d said. She sounded cold and angry, more interested in talking about how things were going in Cleveland. She didn’t seem to care one way or the other about our house. She asked me if I enjoyed being alone in a way that suggested I had better get used to it. Then she told me to drive safely; I told her to have a good flight.

My whole life, I saw, was coming apart. Susan and I had been married for over twenty years. We had had our ups and downs, but for the most part we’d always been happy to come home to each other. I suddenly felt myself about to take a step, or be pushed out, into the void.

I took refuge in the painting. For most of the morning I just looked at Helen; every moment seemed to reveal some new beauty. Soon I no longer saw her image. She was simply present to me, while the itchy bundle of anxieties that was me disappeared. From Helen it was a smooth transition to the heroes on the battlefield beyond. I could feel the carnage of the battle in my bones; the suffering of the soldiers seemed my own. I could also feel, however, the presence of the gods who walked among them. They were there, just beyond the limits of my perception. I couldn’t see them delineated in paint on canvas, but I knew that divine fingers guided the flight of each arrow and
divine hands protected each hero’s breast. As the afternoon passed, the battle’s chaos and confusion resolved itself. Soldiers cried, horses reared, and the great war chariots rumbled across the plain, but eventually I could see as the father of the gods sees and the pattern of the action was revealed.

I left the painting in the mountains again. If Susan found out about it she would surely do the sensible thing and run off with her share of thirty million dollars. And although I was tempted by the prospect of all that money, I could not imagine parting from it when it was in front of me. Only when I was away from it did the thought that I might be able to repair the life I was living stand a chance against the images in my mind. We could both retire, the kids would be set up for life, the repair bill would be trivial, and Mossbacher’s offer laughable.

As I drove back to New Jersey, things seemed to make less and less sense. I was quite literally putting distance between myself and what mattered. I tried to distract myself with NPR and the Yankees, but I couldn’t concentrate. I tried to think about the painting, but the farther south I got, the more the thought of Susan’s infidelity took up whatever space there was in my brain.

I got home a little before nine and wandered around the house where I had raised my children and lived out fifteen years of married life, wondering how long I could go on living in it.

The car service dropped Susan off just before one. I heard her move about in the kitchen and then come quietly upstairs. I pretended to be asleep as she took a shower. I imagined that
she was washing off the residue of her lover’s caresses, scrubbing the traces of his saliva from her breasts. She set the alarm and got into bed, taking care not to disturb me. If I had reached over and put my hand inside her it would have come out coated with another man’s sperm. I listened to her settle into sleep.

I stared into the darkness, knowing I was on the edge of something. If I fell, there was only darkness and an endless plunge on either side. Or light. I thought about Helen’s eyes. “The face that launched a thousand ships” was half hidden from the viewer, and only revealed in the mirror at the foot of the bed. Helen was like the sun, so dangerous that she could not be looked at directly. The source of her power, of her ability to move men and launch ships, was not her face but her body. But her eyes showed her soul and were the window into her intentions. I remembered the way she seemed to look at me. Her eyes met mine in the darkness. What message or command could she have for the likes of me?

When I awoke my wife was gone.

The financier, industrialist and noted art collector Cornelius Rhinebeck died yesterday when the car in which he was traveling with three others plunged off the road into the cold waters of a small pond just outside of Saranac Lake, New York.

All the passengers in the vehicle perished.

Mr. Rhinebeck was traveling from his camp, Birch Lodge, to Lake Placid in order to catch the train back to New York City. Interviews with staff members at Birch Lodge reveal that Mr. Rhinebeck had left slightly later than planned. Police speculate that the driver of the car may have been going too fast for the weather conditions.

A light rain had fallen the night before and temperatures were near the freezing mark. The place where the car left the road was particularly exposed, and it is not uncommon for ice to form there, according to local police.

Mr. Rhinebeck’s holdings and interests were large and varied, being primarily in steel, shipping and banking. After the war Mr. Rhinebeck traveled extensively in Europe, pursuing both business interests and his passion for art. He is known to have purchased works by Rembrandt, Titian and other old masters. He also took a strong interest in the French school, buying works by Degas, Renoir and Sisley.

The other passengers in the car were Mr. Rhinebeck’s wife, Charlotte; Mrs. Maria Overstreet, a family friend; and Mr. William Kircum, the driver. Mrs. Rhinebeck was born Charlotte St. Clair in Boston, Massachusetts. Her father was active in banking and philanthropy. Mrs. Rhinebeck continued his philanthropic work, being active in various charities in the city. Two years ago she was a member of the Ladies’ Committee for the New York Hospital Ball.

Mrs. Overstreet was a graduate of Mt. Holyoke College and an expert on English art who had published monographs on Constable, Stubbs and Turner. A resident of New York, she was employed by the Oswald T. Mitchell Gallery. She is survived by her husband, Colonel William Overstreet, of Hoboken, New Jersey.

Mr. Kircum was a longtime employee of Mr. Rhinebeck’s and served as the manager of Birch Lodge. Mr.
Kircum served with distinction in the Great War and received a Purple Heart as well as a number of decorations for valor. He is survived by his wife, Constance.

Mr. Rhinebeck is survived by his two sons, Thomas, age 19, and Herman, age 15. He is also survived by a brother, Rupert, who will take over management of the family enterprises.

 
IT IS ALL MIXED
up now, my life in the painting, those days at Petworth, my time with Grant and Turner. Hannah brings my tea and then for a moment I know myself to be here in London: my skin is covered with wrinkles, the flesh of my arm sags downward when I lift the teacup. The sound of the omnibus comes to ears that feel as if they were stuffed with cotton. And when Hannah leaves I open the cabinet door, and there is Helen, and I see him approaching me as he never did, though there were many others who did so. How many were there? It doesn’t matter now.

He was the most beautiful man I ever saw. Turner said so too. More of a boy really. When he first sat down at the dining table I felt like a schoolgirl. I was afraid he would see me staring, but he was too nervous to look up toward the head of the table. He was chatting with one of Egremont’s painters and looking about him shyly. I could tell that he had never been in a room like this before. I don’t think he saw me staring. He wasn’t
sure which fork to use. I saw him wait to see what others did, but noticed he had the sense not to follow Turner’s lead.

He was sweet-tempered and well-spoken. I offered him my hand after dinner. I still remember how cool and soft his was the first time I touched him. His eyes met mine and held them; they did not stray to my bosom as so many men’s did in those days. I could see kindness in his eyes, and sweetness, and passion, but not lust. Later, when I got to know him better, we walked through the grounds of the park. Sometimes I wanted to cover his face with kisses. Sometimes I wanted him to throw me to the grass and take me, the way that Egremont did when I was first at Petworth, the way Spencer did, the way that Frenchman did when I was at Königsberg. How many were there?

But he never did. He was too kind. It was not in his nature. At first, before I got to know him, I almost felt it an insult that he made no effort to seduce me. I took great pleasure when I saw desire in the eyes of Egremont’s guests. I took pleasure in their lust, watching them weigh the consequences of making love to me. There were only a few—the artists mostly—who had the courage to risk Egremont’s wrath, although, if they had understood Egremont better, they would not have been afraid.

He was old, but in those first days that I was with him he could still perform like a younger man. We understood each other. I could smell the other women on him, taste them sometimes; I knew they had sapped his ability. He said he was tired, but I knew. When he went away I was free. And although there were handsome boys about the stables, I never touched
them, even though Egremont took his liberties with every pretty chambermaid and farmer’s daughter. But he was the lord of Petworth and I was only his mistress. Once, when Egremont had gone up to London, he had left some young cousin of his behind—he was a pretty boy too, but nothing like Grant. He had no conversation in him. Richard was his name, I think. I invited him up to my boudoir for tea and we passed a pleasant afternoon together. He was not good for much else. I intimated that it would be best if he never visited again. He never did.

When Egremont returned I think we both fancied the thought of our sinning, because there was an extra relish to our exertions that first night. He was wonderful for an old man that way, but it was not to last. I had been at Petworth for three years, I had posed for
Jessica
, when Egremont’s preternatural abilities began to fail. On some days it became difficult for him to pass water as well. Oh, how he raged. He was a man of temper and unused to being disappointed, particularly in himself. He raged at his physician, he raged at me. He was a terror to anyone who came near him for a time. He was most cruel, and said things to me that I shudder to remember. He said my looks were gone, that the problem was that I was no longer young and pretty. He went up to London to see a renowned physician, but neither the physician nor the young girls at Mrs. Bolcolm’s establishment could cure what ailed him. Indeed, when he came back, he acknowledged that if he could perform at all, which was rarely, it was only on account of my patience and coaxing. I think it was only then that he abjured all others.

Such was his temper when young Grant arrived. He told me as we went to bed that he had taken a liking to our new guest because he knew that I would not be able win him over with my whorish ways. He could be most cruel. I had given up protesting his usage because I knew the cause was in him and not me. And I knew that he was fond of me despite his words.

One afternoon he came into the White Room after the shooting party had returned from culling the herd as I was having tea with Turner. He threw his gloves down on the sideboard. He poured a cup of tea and sat down without greeting us. I could tell he was in a vile humor and that he wished I would inquire as to the cause. I resolved to let him stir his tea for a few minutes before gratifying him.

“So, Mr. Turner,” I said, “are you content to be idle for so long and to partake of Petworth’s poor country pleasures? Don’t you miss the excitements of your work and the city?”

It was, I suppose, my evil angel that prompted me to speak thus. Why else would I contrive to have two angry men in the room when I already had one?

Turner responded as I knew he would. He almost spat out his tea as he assured me that he was up at dawn every day, that he had filled ever so many sketchbooks, that he had laid the foundation for ever so many paintings and that he had nearly completed an oil landscape. He began one of his tiresome tirades about the sacrifices he made for his Art and how he had once had himself tied to the mast so as to observe the waves break over the bow. When I interrupted him to ask His
Lordship how the shooting had gone, I took, I will confess, some pleasure in observing Turner splutter to a halt.

Egremont looked at me sternly for a moment to let me know he was displeased, but he was so keen to inform me of his hurts that he could not keep silent very long. He told a tedious tale of the day’s events—his memory was wonderful for a man his age—and I was treated to every sight they saw on the way to the shooting grounds and how he had showed the younger men how to clear a hedge. As the tale was nearing its end, Egremont grew more and more angry, working himself up into a spitting fury as he recalled how poor Grant had cried out and saved the life of some poor stag that Egremont was about to murder.

“I let him know my opinion of him, the damned pederast,” Egremont said. “If it had not done me so much good, I would be half ashamed of the language I used. But at least we will be rid of him: if he is a gentleman he will not be able to remain here after hearing what he heard.”