Chimera (16 page)

Dinner with Sera tonight is no different than any other night. It always thrills me to listen to her stories about things she does during the week. Every elephant in her project has a name and a unique characteristic to tell them apart. She had lunch with some girlfriends this week—that’s new, she never talks about other women outside of the art world.

“Whatcha smilin’ at, Sunshine?”

“Just listening to you. Sounds like you’ve had a good week.”

“I have, but next week is going to be outstanding! New York City baby!” Her laughter is infectious. Lifting her wine glass, she offers a toast. “To NYC and Le Musee.”

Mirroring her actions, I repeat, “To NYC and Le Musee.” The clinking of the glasses is like music to my ears. It’s been so long since I’ve celebrated anything with another woman. It doesn’t bring pain remembering Sylvie isn’t here—a tinge of sadness, but it goes as quickly as it appears. Time slows for the briefest of moments before returning to its normal speed and I’m in the present again.

T
he weekend fills
with preparations for travel. Sera helps me choose nine additional paintings to pair with the lady in red, which she promptly names,
Black Clutch
. She says the other is a song title and didn’t bring the right tone. Further explaining the clutch is seemingly insignificant to the picture as a whole, just like each of the shapes, until you get close enough to see all of the infinite details.

I’m really horrible at these sorts of details; I never catalog or name anything. I don’t take pictures as I paint for galleries, or final images for that matter. It’s one of my nuances local galleries are well aware of and make concessions for, typically sending someone to me to make it happen, but Le Musee isn’t going to send shit to me. They expect me to provide what’s necessary. Thank God Sera seems to enjoy doing it, but with that, she gets some freedom to rename paintings, select canvases she thinks go well together, and overall comment on things most people never see because they don’t involve themselves in the backend process.

“You better be glad I like you,” I tease her. She turns to me.

“Sunshine, you better be glad you’ve got me. Otherwise, you’d be screwed. You suck at this part.”

“I think you secretly enjoy my neediness.”

Her laughter subsides as she nods her head. “Yeah, I guess a part of me does enjoy feeling needed.” Her eyes meet mine. There’s a connection there. I know she feels it holding my gaze just a second longer than necessary. Her eyes are screaming with emotion, but she won’t verbally acknowledge it. There’s a longing there, too; her submissive side needs to serve. She needs to feel appreciated for her effort. It’s her nature and that need isn’t currently met. The answer is there in her eyes—unfortunately, I’m not the person she’s asking the question of.

Diverting the conversation to a happier topic, I ask, “What did you and Nate decide to do about New York?”

“I talked him into flying out on Thursday afternoon, coming home Sunday. That gives me Friday in the city to shop and flit around, fantastic dinner with a hot guy on Friday night, and yes, Nate is buying. Recovering from my hot date Friday with a massage and mani-pedi at the hotel before the gallery on Saturday. I figure I can break the bank in two days.”

“Does Nate know your plans for him?” I can’t help but laugh. I know Nate; he’ll escort her through the city as if she belongs to him, take her to dinner, wine and dine her like a perfect gentleman. He’ll hate doing it, but she’ll never know it. He’ll do it because he knows I would want him to, and because he will keep her safe for me.

“Of course! Said he’s happy to do it. He’s a liar, but I’ll take it however I can get it.” She winks at me. She’s developing an affinity, albeit platonic, thank God, for Nate, which makes me ecstatic. She couldn’t ask for a better friend.

“No resistance from your guy about you going out of town with another man?” Calculated risk. Sometimes you have to take them in order to get where you want to go, or in this case, the information you want to have. I’m hoping one day I’ll pose a question about this guy and she’ll respond that he is no longer in her life. Today isn’t that day.

“A little. He wasn’t thrilled with the idea.” She shrugs me off like it’s unimportant.

“How’d you talk him into it?”

“I wouldn’t say I talked to him into so much as he basically told me he didn’t care what I did. If I want to spend several days in a hotel in New York City with another man and look like a whore that’s up to me.” Inhaling deeply, her chest rises noticeably before she releases the air trapped in her lungs. “I reminded him no one knew I was in a relationship anyhow, so I hardly look like a tramp to anyone other than him, and if he knows me at all, he knows I’m loyal, even when he hasn’t been.” She refusing to make eye contact with me, I know that was hard for her to admit. I decide not to continue to force her to relive the situation.

“Well, I’m glad you’re coming, and I’m sure you’ll have a blast with Nate. I assure you, he’ll be on his best behavior and no one will think anything other than you’re with a nice man.” I kiss her softly on the cheek as she attempts to provide me with a fake smile to placate me. “I wish I was going to be available to take you out, but it’s unlikely.”

“No worries. Nate promised to entertain me.”

“Oh, I’m sure he will.”

W
e spend
Sunday creating shipping frames for my odd size pieces to protect them during the travel. I’m not really sure how we’re going to get
Black Clutch
in the car, but Ferry assures me he will take care of packing the SUV. I just have to get them protected. It doesn’t sound like packing ten paintings would be that time consuming, but each one has to have a wooden frame built to house it with cardboard and protective padding inside the crate, not to mention careful wrapping of each piece in bubble wrap. I admit, popping bubbles sidetracks me. No matter how old I get, I can’t resist the urge. Sera pops me on the arm frequently to realign my focus.

Nate has run back and forth to different stores repeatedly getting supplies to continue this process. By the time midnight rolls around, Sera’s asleep on the couch and Nate’s bitching about having a real job that requires him to get up in the morning. He’s such a little girl when tired. I send him home before waking Sera. I’d be thrilled if she stayed here, waking up with her in the same place, but I don’t think that would go well for her later.

As I study her face, I capture more images of her to store her features and her beauty in my mind to recall at any point in time. She’s so tranquil, her face quiet with no movement. I wonder if this is the only time she’s ever truly at peace. For so many years, the only time I was remotely happy was when I was asleep, when Sylvie would still visit me. Reality was too harsh to handle. Sleep was euphoric. Her hell is very different than mine, but hell all the same.

Not wanting to contribute to her problems, I rock her arm, carefully waking her. “Come on, sleepy head. I’ll drive you home.”

Sitting up, she rubs the sleep from her eyes. “You don’t need to do that. Give me a minute to wake up and I’ll head home.”

Back to this. Not one time has she ever let me in her home. It’s not like I don’t know she’s in a relationship. I can’t imagine why everything is so secretive, but there’s no point in pushing. It will only cause an argument between the two of us and she’ll still do exactly what she set out to do. I’ve gotten into a routine of following her home at night to ensure she not only arrives home safely, but there’s no one there that might cause her harm. Albeit, she isn’t aware of this security detail and would be irate if she found out.

Most nights, her house is dark except for the one or two lights she turns on as she moves through the space with no other cars in the driveway. A couple of times, what appears to be the same dark-colored SUV or van has been there in the same spot, shadows of the night cast upon it making it almost invisible. I’ve yet to get a clear visual on the car, and I’ve been following her home a lot more than I care to admit. The times the other car has been there, I’ve circled the block, parking far enough away from her house that she won’t see my car looking out the window but close enough I can see her front door and make out images in the windows. I stay until the lights go out. The car never leaves prior, but is never there when I come back by in the morning.

If anyone knew the amount of time I’ve been spending tracking her, sitting outside her house, it might be borderline stalking, but I can’t bear the thought of something happening. If I knew he was there hurting her and I did nothing, it would destroy me. I’m foolish to think there’s anything I’m going to see or be able to do from down the street. It’s a false sense of security, but the truth is she’s more likely to text me if she needs help than I am to be able to detect it in the car on a dark street. I’m probably lucky none of her neighbors have noticed me on my self-imposed stakeouts and called the cops.

I wait until I see her pull off before I go to my car, and I arrive as she goes in the door. The lights are already on, the usual car parked in the darkness under the trees shielding it from view. The curtains are shut on the front windows, but I can make out the shadows behind them. Sera’s frame is easy to pick out from the two. The other is a large man, tall and broad, but other than that, there’s nothing identifiable—just an undistinguishable form. Upon seeing them embrace, I take my leave, unable to stand the thought of anyone touching her, much less someone who abuses his place in her life.

Monday brings more frantic preparations, ensuring I have sufficient supplies to touch anything up damaged in transport, but not taking everything I own is a more difficult task than it sounds. My enormous paintings consume most of the limited space in the SUV. They double in size when transporting from the wooden casings. Luckily, most of Ferry’s things are nowhere near the size mine are. He carries prints in a huge leather portfolio, only framing one of each. He should be here around seven tonight to load everything. I repeatedly go through the checklist Sera left for me in an attempt to make sure I have everything I need. Once there, it’s not like I can run back to my house to pick something up I forgot.

I’ve texted her several times today with no response. Starting to worry, I stop what I’m doing to drive by her house. It’s unlike her to ignore my messages, even if just to say she’s busy and will chat later. Her house is empty, no cars in the driveway. I go to the front door anyhow, knocking with no response. I peek in the windows, a glimpse into her private world. Nothing seems out of place. Her home is beautiful on the inside. I’m suddenly jealous I’ve never been invited in to spend any time there. I can’t help but wonder why she’s so closed off about this part of her. She shares intimate details with me, but the most intimate place in her life, her home, is totally off limits.

She pulls up as I’m walking down the sidewalk back to my car. The irritation is evident in her voice when she says, “What are you doing here, Bastian?” Her face blistered in anger.

“I was worried about you. You haven’t answered any of texts and it’s unlike you.”

“You need to go.” Her terse tone takes me by surprise.

I don’t argue with her and just do as she requests. With wounded pride, I make the walk of shame to my car. It stings. Her scorn. My brain tells me she’s protecting herself; my heart just hurts. As I turn, going away from her house, I see a dark-colored SUV turn into her driveway out of the corner of my eye. Now would be the time to find out who she’s hiding. I debate making a U-turn and confronting the asshole in her front yard, but fear it will do more damage than good and quite possibly ruin our friendship permanently.

I pound my fists on the steering wheel and scream at nothing and everything. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Why in the fuck does she put up with this shit?” Continuing to curse into the oblivion the entire ride home, my eyes burn from fighting tears, my voice hoarse from screaming at nothing. I swallow the lump forming in my throat, swallow hard, and force it back down. I refuse to allow myself to break down over her choices, those she made long before I ever met her. Hopefully, she’ll be back to herself by the time I see her in New York.

Ferry arrives promptly at seven—typical. For an artist, he’s way too punctual. He’s pulling a small, enclosed trailer behind his black Escalade. The moment he opens his mouth, I know not to cross him. He’s in one hell of a shitty mood. What the hell is with people today? I’m sure it’s the stress. This has been difficult to pull together on my end and I’m sure it has been equally as hard for him. I’ve never tried to prepare for a showing in a matter of days. Add the magnitude of Le Musee to the equation and it’s a task of monumental proportion. Treading lightly, I wait for him to tell me what he wants me to do, which doesn’t take long. He’s in a hurry and not interested in spending all night loading. In no time, he’s barking out orders.

His stuff is already in the trailer; together, we gather my pieces, starting with
Black Clutch
since it’s the largest. It’s like playing Tetris to get both of our works in the metal box behind his SUV and feel confident it’s not going to shift in transit, movement being the cause of damage. Two hours later, he pulls back off. He never admitted what his fury is about, and I wasn’t courageous enough to ask.

Ferry and I have become friends, but I wouldn’t say we exchange heartfelt stories or look to the other for advice on anything outside of the art realm. Our friendship absolutely centers on our ability to use the other for artistic gain, but we’re both aware of that. It’s mutually beneficial and works for us. I will never reassign Ferry to Nate’s position in my life, and I have no expectation of garnering one of equal proportion in his. I’d like to say I know who his friends are, but honestly, I’ve never heard him mention anyone outside of an acquaintance we are both aware of. The closest thing to a friend he’s ever acknowledged is the random women he sleeps with in different cities when he’s traveling. Surely, he has true friends, but if he does, I have no clue who they are.