The Black Painting. Neil Olson
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“Fuck you. You call me a fake and I don’t get to answer?”
“Hey, we’re just talking.”
“It’s not just talk,” Teresa insisted. “Words can do damage. You don’t say whatever you like to someone.”
“Why not?” Audrey replied evenly. “You can say whatever you like to me.”
“Can I? So if I called you a talentless, overweight drunk with a mean streak, that would be okay?”
The flicker of shock moved over her cousin’s face so swiftly that Teresa nearly missed it.
“Whoa,” said Audrey, fixing her cracked smile back in place. She took another hit off the joint and immediately began coughing.
“I’m sorry,” Teresa sighed.
“No, no,” Audrey said between coughs. “I asked for it. Forgot how well you read people’s weakness. Know exactly where to stick the knife.”
“It’s not a skill I cultivate.”
“Guess you’re a natural, then.”
Teresa slid down until she was sitting on the cold concrete floor. A few moments later, Audrey slid down alongside her and passed the joint. Teresa held it for too long, sniffing the pungent smoke. Tempted. Then she handed it back.
“I can’t, my brain’s too messed up.”
“This will smooth you out,” Audrey replied. “But suit yourself.”
“I’m sorry I said that.”
“Let it go. It’s all... Do I really look overweight?”
Teresa laughed.
“What?” Audrey asked, but she wore a sly smirk.
“That would be the one word you focused on,” said Teresa. She had remembered how Audrey always hurt her feelings, but forgotten how she could make you laugh at anything. Not a bad talent to possess in the current circumstances. “You look gorgeous. You always look gorgeous, I’m just jealous.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute,” Audrey quipped.
“Go ahead, let me have it,” said Teresa. “I’m too short, I’m too skinny. I’m either too shy or all snotty and superior. I have a blank expression on my face because I’m always stuck in my own brain. What else?”
“That’s pretty good. I think that about covers it.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Well.” Audrey considered. “You have kind of a martyr complex. And your clothes are pretty awful. You do have a nice face. Your dad’s face.”
“Certainly not my mom’s.”
“Your dad was hot.”
“Please, Audrey.”
“What? He was. You can’t help being short, and being skinny isn’t against the law.” She took another hit on the almost vanished joint. “It should be, but it’s not.”
“I’m glad we got that straight,” Teresa said, feeling calmer. “We should go back up.”
“Nah, let’s hide down here. You and James used to do that, remember?”
“I do. There was a crawl space. Like an alcove they walled up partway and forgot. It was a tight squeeze.”
“Too tight for me,” Audrey recalled. “James showed me once, but my hips wouldn’t fit. You’re shocked, I know.”
“It was bigger inside. Not much.” Enough for two nine-year-olds to sit side by side, Teresa thought. Holding hands, whispering. All the space we needed.
“Where was it?”
“I think,” Teresa said, starting to crawl on her hands and knees, “back along this wall somewhere.”
“Back here?” Audrey came shuffling after her. “There’s a rack in the way.”
“I know, but that’s new. They’ve moved things around. It was near a corner, I’m pretty sure it was this one.”
They both peered through wooden slats and over dusty bottles. There was nothing to see but wall.
“Wrong place,” Audrey decided.
“No, it was here. They’ve plastered it over.”
“What?” Audrey seemed outraged. “Your kiddie hideaway—how could they do that?”
“Might have even filled it in.” Teresa stood, bracing herself against a momentary dizziness. “It was strange that it was there at all.”
“Huh.” Audrey remained crouched by the rack, biting her thumbnail. Then she stood also. “Let’s drink more of Grandpa’s wine. Though I guess it’s not really his anymore.”
“Whose is it?”
“That’s what we all want to know, right?” Audrey said with a wicked laugh. “First we have to get through the fake expressions of grief. Then stick him in the ground.”
“Jesus, Audie, do you have to be so...”
“What? Okay, you were shocked, that was a rough thing to see. But are you really upset that he’s dead? Couldn’t you use a few bucks for school, or whatever?”
“I didn’t think there was any money,” Teresa said, which was the wrong response. Yes, I am upset that he is dead. I seem to be the only one who is. But Audrey would not believe her, nor believe that Teresa didn’t care about the money one way or another. “He couldn’t even pay his help, and the house is a wreck.”
“Dad thinks he was just cheap. He’s sure the old guy was sitting on a pile of cash.”
“He told you that?”
“Of course not,” Audrey snorted. “I hear things. But I’m with you. He never paid the help enough, that’s why Jenny and Pete stole from him. But he wouldn’t be selling paintings or letting the place fall down if he had the money to fix it.”
“He was selling paintings?”
“You don’t keep track of any family stuff, do you?” Audrey seemed half appalled and half impressed. “Don’t worry, there are plenty left, and the property is worth millions. He was cash poor, but there’s money in the estate. Question is, who gets it?”
That was not Teresa’s question.
“What do you think happened to him?”
“Heart attack,” Audrey guessed, wandering down a dim aisle between racks. “These are the Rhônes.”
“Then why did you mention the Goya, and the appraiser?”
“I was trying to see it like the cops would, that’s all. Did you like that Châteauneuf we just drank?”
“You saw his face,” Teresa said pointedly.
The other woman was quiet for a moment. “Yes.”
“Something scared him to death.”
Sounds came through the ceiling. Heavy footsteps followed by voices raised in greeting.
“The boys are here,” said Audrey, her voice brightening. “Better grab an extra bottle.”
Audrey was always cheered by the arrival of men. Apparently even her brother and cousin did the trick. Teresa was also pleased. She was eager to see James, and their presence would liven up the gloomy house. Yet she was uneasy. Why? Because too many Morses in one place meant trouble? Perhaps it was only the echo of those last words she had spoken, and the memory they conjured.
While Audrey slid bottles out, blowing off dust and mumbling to herself, Teresa went to the stairs.