The Black Painting. Neil Olson
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was no one at the station. I figured Ilsa would get me. We spoke two days ago.”
“Ilsa,” Audrey scoffed. “She must be like a hundred years old now.”
“I don’t think she’s more than seventy. Maybe not even.”
“Whatever, at least you were wearing the right shoes.”
Teresa’s boots were low-heeled and comfortable. She never wore anything that was not good for walking. For her grandfather’s interview, she had put on a tasteful gray suit. Audrey was driving barefoot, but a pair of red pumps was jammed half under the seat. She wore tight black jeans and a white V-neck tee to show off her big tanned boobs. Because you never knew when you might meet a hot guy at your decrepit grandfather’s house.
“So qué pasa, Tay-ray? What’s going on in your life?”
The nickname came from her father Ramón’s pronunciation. Not the Anglicized Ta-ree-sa, but the Spanish Tay-ray-sa. For the Saint. James started calling her Tay-ray when they were four years old. She liked the name on his lips. With Audrey, it always sounded like a taunt.
“I’m back in school,” Teresa replied. “Graduate school.”
“I heard. Art appreciation or something?”
“It’s called art history,” she said impatiently. “Art appreciation is what your mother does at the country club.”
“My mother just got plowed there.” Audrey slid the sunglasses down and smirked. “A little defensive, are we?”
“No.”
“Are you painting? Isn’t that what you really wanted to do?”
“Watch the road.”
They had swung up on the rear of a gray Volvo. Its cautious speed annoyed Audrey beyond reason.
“This is ridiculous. Speed up or move over, granny.”
“Don’t,” Teresa said, sensing her cousin’s intention. “Do not try to pass her on this narrow—Audrey!”
The Lexus was already moving around the slower car, simultaneously shaping a very tight—and blind—curve. Teresa closed her eyes and prayed to the God in whom she no longer believed. When she opened them again they were accelerating along what must be the only straightaway in Langford. Audrey was hooting.
“Oh, Tay, you should see your face. Am I going to have to clean that seat?”
“I would punch you in the head if you weren’t driving.”
Audrey laughed even harder.
“I like this feisty you,” she declared. “You were such a drip as a kid. With your pasty skin and your books and your condition. Who knew you would grow up to be such a tough girl? All ninety pounds of you.”
It was a hundred and three, by why argue? Teresa had as much trouble keeping weight on as other women did losing it. It was actually a problem, but not one for which she would get any sympathy, so she learned not to discuss it.
“Is James at the house?” she asked, as much to change the subject as from real curiosity.
“Nope,” Audrey answered. “James and Kenny were yesterday. You and me today.”
“Oh.” Teresa tried to hide her disappointment, though her cousin surely noticed. She used to tease that James and Teresa would get married someday. “Why?”
“Why do you think?” Audrey said, smile gone sour. But her disgust was not with Teresa. “Boys first, then girls. Men have serious stuff to talk about, right? Careers, obligations, all that. Women, we’re just frivolous creatures.”
It probably doesn’t help that you act like a frivolous creature, Teresa wanted to say, but did not.
“I don’t think Grandpa feels that way. I don’t remember—”
“Exactly,” Audrey cut her off. “You don’t remember. You were how old the last time you saw him? Nine, ten?”
“I’m the same age as your brother.”
“So eleven. Both of you off in your own little world. Kenny and me were older, we saw what was going on. This family has always been about the boys.”
“Did James tell you why we’ve been summoned?”
“No,” Audrey said. “Little prick hasn’t returned my call. I’m guessing it’s to pass on some precious wisdom before the old geezer kicks it.”
Teresa recognized the brick pillars wreathed in ivy even as Audrey slowed for the turn. Sixty-Six Long Hill Road. Owl’s Point. The drive dipped down into a marsh with a narrow bridge, barely wide enough for the car. This was where they swam and canoed. Where Kenny caught the sand shark. Where he nearly drowned Audrey after she teased him once too often. It was as Teresa remembered, but also different. Smaller. They ascended again, through a grove of cedars and a huge bank of rhododendron. And there was the house. Three stories of red brick and slate. The blue shutters and door were faded. The steel cross on the lawn—the work of some second-tier sculptor—was rusted and had a branch wedged in the crossbar. There were no cars in sight. Audrey killed the engine, and silence fell over them.
“Huh,” Audrey said, beginning to share Teresa’s unease.
“You think they might be out?”
“Ilsa maybe.” Audrey stepped from the car and slapped her door closed, startling a crow from a pine tree. “The old guy never goes anywhere.”
“Have you seen him?” Teresa asked, getting out and following. “I mean, have you been here since...”
“Since the theft? Maybe twice, but not for years. You?”
“No,” Teresa said. “Never. I’ve spoken to him on the phone. I thought I might see him at your wedding.”
“He was invited,” Audrey said. “I think someone told him not to come. Wow, this place has really gone to hell.”
They stood before the door, which was badly chipped. The whole house had a mournful air about it, though that may have been Teresa’s imagination. And the late September light. Audrey was about to hit the bell when Teresa noticed the door was a few inches ajar.
“Look. It’s open.”
They exchanged a quick glance. Then Audrey pushed the heavy door and marched in.
“Hello? The girls are here—anyone around?”
Teresa followed her into the front hall, papered in a fading green of leafy vines. A wide, carpeted stairway ascended on the right. The look and even the smell of the place—wood polish and dust—was instantly familiar. Yet like the property outside, it was diminished by time and wear. That magical house of Teresa’s childhood no longer existed. Near the stairs, Audrey was looking at the control panel of what must be a fairly new house alarm. The display read: Disarmed.
“They must be home or they would have set the alarm,” Audrey said, tightness creeping into her voice. “You look around here, I’ll check upstairs.”
Teresa started to protest, but could think of no reason why. Then she realized that she did not want to be left alone. Her face flushed with embarrassment, but Audrey was already bounding up the stairs. Get a grip, Teresa said to herself. It’s an old house. Full of sadness and memories, but nothing to be afraid of. You haven’t believed in evil paintings since you were a little girl, and anyway it was stolen. It’s not here anymore.
It took only a glance into the sitting and dining rooms to confirm they were empty. She went slowly down the hall, glancing at old vases and portraits without seeing them. Dread gripped her. She had shed childish superstitions in college. She took pride in her scientific view of art, of the world. Yet some habits stuck. Such as the belief in her own instinct, which was correct more often than she could explain. And which