The Caterpillar King (15 page)

By the time I hobble to the car, the sun’s
setting. Another day well wasted. Can hardly put pressure on my
right foot, so I drive with my left. Almost crash a few dozen
times, but make it home unscathed. Walking with such a limp, it
wouldn’t surprise me if Galla thought I was pissed. Find her
waiting on the couch.

“Tate’s asleep,” she says.

“Is he now?” I say. “What’s the
occasion?”

“Maybe he thought Mum and Dad should have
some fun.”

Glance again. Galla’s wearing a pink
negligee that can only be described as obscene. Have to admit, I
find it strangely attractive.

“A few less clothes than usual, I see.”

“All I’ve got left. Tate chundered on
everything else.”

“How romantic.”

Follow her into the bedroom. A bit stunned,
to be honest. Thought we were done for good, and with reason- this
would mark the first time in two years. Tate’s sleeping in his box
next to the bed. Careful not to step on him. Galla tears off her
negligee and then strips me down. Obviously in no mood to wait. And
soon enough, we’re in the throes of passion once more. Just like
riding a bicycle- decent exercise and a bit too repetitive for my
liking. No, no, in all seriousness…it’s nice. Don’t mean to turn
sappy, but it half-reminds me why we paired in the first place.

Afterwards, she lies in my arms, fading
towards ever-elusive sleep.

“Good, wasn’t it?” she mumbles.

“Don’t get a big head,” I say.

“Wish I could,” she says. “But I’m stuck
with yours.”

“Aren’t you a doll?” I say. Stroke her
hair.

“Better than that filthy blonde,” she
mutters. Then she sinks into her dreams.

Sad to say, I’m not so fortunate. Lying
here, listening to her snores, I’m completely unable to rest. Mind
spins in circles, backtracks over our conversation. What was that
last biting comment all about?
Better than that filthy
blonde.
Clearly Sabonne is troubling her. Does she think I’ve
started an affair with the woman? If so, why on earth is she
suddenly treating me so much more generously? Would’ve expected
threats, ultimatums, etc., but not this. Recently, Galla’s just
been so….different. I come home from one Sabonne meeting to a
lovely meal, the next Sabonne meeting’s followed by dessert. No
doubt about it, Sabonne’s triggered
something
...some primal
instinct. Dawns on me in a moment of thrilling clarity. Not only
does Galla believe I’m having an affair, she’s
jealous
of
it. My art is selling, other women want me, and now Galla does,
too. Not surprising- she’s never had an original thought in her
life. All my success is false. But even false success can be a
catalyst for reality.

Could use a few more decent meals. Looks
like Sabonne’ll be a part of my life for the foreseeable future-
whether she knows it or not.

18.

Tate’s gone missing yet again. Must be the
fourth time this week.

“Taaaate,” drones Galla. “TAAAAATE.”

To him, it’s a twisted game. The moment
Galla relaxes her watch, he wanders off to hide. Behind the
counter, under the bed- the more obscure, the better. Can just see
the evil smirk on his face. When Galla or I find him (usually me,
to be frank) he laughs and claps like a baboon. The boy thinks he’s
clever, but he’s not. Just follow the trail of urine, and one can
locate him in no time.

“Care to help?” asks Galla. She’s towering
above me. I’ve found the absolute perfect spot on the sofa, so no,
I do not in fact care to help.

“He’s crawled in the cabinet,” I say.

Galla gives me a look.

“Oh, all right.”

Get up to search, but mind lingers on Galla.
Past week has thrown us into a bit of an uncertain state. After
initial burst of passion, we’ve only gone back to bed once more.
Galla’s exhausted, can’t blame her. But are we friends or lovers?
Or neither? Intimate relationships are too fragile to remain
undefined. My view: we’re best off as lovers. Not that I’m lusting
after her again. I’m merely…intrigued. Tate’s drained her of her
energy, true. But she’s also taken on an inexplicable vibrancy
since he’s been around. When he’s around, that is.

“Taaaate,” she says. Surprise of all
surprises, there’s no answer.

“Why don’t you take this half of the house,
and I’ll take the other?” I say. She agrees, we split up. Ten
minutes later, return to the midpoint. House fully searched, but no
Tate.

“He’s really done it this time,” says
Galla.

“Not bad,” I say. Feel a smidge of pride for
the little devil.

Hear something from the front of the house.
Sounds like a knock at the door. Exchange horrified looks with
Galla. Open the door, half-expecting the cops to be there, ready to
cuff us. But no, it’s Tate, a wide grin on his face. Both of us
scan the surroundings to see if anyone’s watching. Doesn’t look
like it.

“Christ,” I say.

“Kites,” says Tate. He claps his hands
wildly.

Galla nearly faints at the sounds of his
voice. Scoop him up, get him inside quick. Lock all the doors.

***

So he speaks. Not entirely shocking. He’d
shown signs of intelligence before, after all. But now we have
reason to fear him. He can escape, and he can talk. Whole thing
nearly causes Galla to go mad. She decides it’s best to put him
under strict observation, and traps the two of them in the bedroom
together for the foreseeable future. Just so happens to give me the
perfect opportunity to carry out the next stage in my plan: The
Non-Affair.

Of course, it started with Sabonne. She’s
the key to Galla’s interest. Didn’t take long to isolate that
variable. But information by itself is worthless. If one doesn’t
take advantage of knowledge, why bother having it? My plan was
devilishly simple. Step one, I’d carried out unknowingly: Introduce
the threat.

Step two: Plant the seeds. Even after
Sabonne made it clear that she had no interest in my art (or
person) I continued to arrange “meetings” with her. In the past
week, I had three such rendezvous. I’d be heading for the door,
waiting for the inevitable, “Where are you off to?” from Galla.

“More business,” I’d say. I’d never say with
who
, though, and Galla was too proud to ask. Still, the
mystery of it was maddening. I’d dangled the carrot in front of
her, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before she charged after it,
helpless.

Step 3: Slip up. This one required a bit of
ingenuity. Figured the best course of action would be to leave my
phone for the taking. Galla’d go through it, see incriminating
messages, and all would be well. Sadly, I had no one to send me
such messages. Took a bit of cleverness on my part, but I came up
with a brilliant solution. Simply bought another phone and used it
to message myself. Realized that subtlety would be key. Almost all
messages were utilitarian- a meeting time, a place, etc., with just
a handful of mistakes. Things like, “See you there, darling” worked
wonders. A few affectionate terms aren’t enough to convict, but
deeply incriminating nonetheless. Before my most recent meeting, I
left the phone on the counter. No doubt Galla read through the
whole log, while I spent the better part of two hours in a parking
lot.

After that particular meeting, her
suspicions were aroused, among other things. Ended up in bed
together, and stayed there for as long as Tate would sleep. She
tried to be coy, but her curiosity got the best of her. Never came
out and asked about it straightaway, but she wondered where my
supposed earnings were. After all, I’d sold a boatload of
paintings, hadn’t I? Fair enough. Had to admit that I hadn’t sold a
thing. Look in her eyes was vicious. She had me cornered.

“So,” she said. “Sabonne
hasn’t
done
all that much for your career.”

Wrong, I informed her. Sabonne was my
inroads to the art world. She didn’t want to buy my paintings so
much as “expose me to the higher classes.” We’d been negotiating
all this time about much more than a single painting- Sabonne
wanted to give me my own gallery show.

“And you kept this a secret?!” said
Galla.

“Thought it might’ve fallen through,” I
lied. “I wanted to be sure.”

Galla congratulated me, a shower of kisses
rained down. I lay there, stunned by my own genius. Almost too much
to bear at times.

But now, I’ve given myself quite a burden. A
gallery show needs a minimum of fifteen paintings; Galla knows I
only have five decent ones (all done by Tate, no less). With every
free moment, I’ve dedicated myself to preparing for my nonexistent
show. Partially to keep up appearances, true. But moreso, because
I’d feel like a fraud if I didn’t. I am an artist, after all. It’d
be nice to create
something
of value, whether it’s seen or
not.

Head to my new workroom: the closet. For
some reason, hot water seems to have run out, so I’ve been forced
to look for alternatives. Closet space is smaller, so the kettle
and pot prove much more effective. Get the conditions right, and
then prepare my
mise en place.
Been using the actual frosted
panes as sketchpads. A bit reckless, I’ll admit, but why not live
on the edge? I’ve got about a hundred of ‘em stored up, and they’re
not doing anyone else much good.

Closet had been for cleaning supplies, but
those were hardly necessary. Didn’t take long to repurpose it. Had
to drag in a lamp for light and clear off a shelf or two. Nice
sitting area right on the floor. Now, settle in, pull out a plate,
and prepare to create a masterpiece. Oh, who am I kidding? I need
Tate.

Break into the bedroom, see Galla sleeping.
Tate’s wide-eyed and ready to go. Scoop him up, begin to hurry
away. Feel like I should leave a note for Galla first. Scribble
down a few words:

Galla-

Tate’s in closet. So am I. Don’t worry.

-A

Seconds later, our first time in the closet
together. Soon becomes apparent that the space is a bit more
restricted than the bathroom. Can barely even shut the door. Tate
makes his feelings clear. He flaps his arms, splashing away at the
air.

“Sorry, no hot water,” I say. “Don’t blame
me.”

Boy lets out a throaty scream.

“OK, OK, for God’s sake. The bathroom it
is.”

Sarcastic applause from the child. He’s won
again.

Transfer all necessary materials. Set him in
the tub, and within a minute he’s got the hot water going.
Unbelievable. Only two knobs, and I’m sure I’d turned them every
possible direction. The boy’s making a habit of besting me. Quite
obnoxious, really.

Disregard wounded pride and get to work on
new obsession. It’s a very basic portrait of a girl. I’ve scrapped
the caterpillar tableau. Follow the inspiration, follow the heat.
Always.

Shower’s steaming, and I start the kettles,
too. Figure I’ll go back to the large mirror for a bit- no point in
wasting a dozen more plates if I don’t have to. Draw a quick sketch
on the mirror, but it’s not right. None of the sketches have been
right. Can only say
something’s missing
, but no idea what.
Endlessly frustrating. All answers come in due time, though. When
in doubt, simply wait.

As if to prove my point, Tate fires a
dart-like object at my head. Nearly decapitates me, but I manage to
dodge. Always had excellent reflexes. Whatever it is tings off the
mirror. Bend down, see it’s a toothbrush. Fine, decapitate might’ve
been an exaggeration (though he did throw rather hard).

“What?” I say. “I brushed today.” Feel like
the boy’s teasing me. Teeth are somewhat less than pristine.

But Tate doesn’t seem all that interested in
me- he’s pointing at the mirror. Image of the girl is already
fading, but on one of her cheeks, there’re dozens of
impressionistic spots. Must’ve been where the brush hit.

“She has freckles,” I say. “You genius, she
has freckles!” A major breakthough. Can’t believe I didn’t see it
before. My vision had been loose, undefined. With one slight
change, it’s transformed, and stunningly clear. Toothbrush turns
out to be the perfect tool for the job. The boy’s a good luck
charm. There’s no denying it.

Considered brushes before, of course, but
never bit. If one works with the same objects as everyone else, one
will get the same results. Can’t have that. Besides, I prefer
painting to be a tactile art. However, I’m willing to admit when an
exception is necessary. Try out the toothbrush in a couple more
techniques, and find it’s quite useful. Swipe it across the
background to give the portrait a sense of motion. Stillness of the
girl contrasts with horizontal movement quite nicely.
Yes
, I
think,
yes yes yes
. This will be spectacular. Must capture
this girl with the utmost accuracy. Doesn’t have to be overly
detailed, though. The key is emotional accuracy. I want others to
feel
exactly
what I feel. That’s the highest aim.

Finish a draft that’s halfway decent and
call it a day. No reason to overexert myself. Never eat to the
point of fullness. Hunger’s more valuable than satisfaction. Just
about to leave the bathroom when someone knocks.

“Be out in a minute,” I say.

“Saw your note,” says Galla. “Can I come
in?”

She’s never entered during one of my
sessions before. Always deemed them immature, etc. But I suppose
there’s no harm in it.

Open the door and let her in. She’s changed
into a flowing top and jeans. Her hair’s a bit ruffled, but I must
say, it all makes me smile. She takes a seat on the old throne.
Curious to hear what all this is about.

“You can turn the shower back on,” she
says.

“You actually want to watch me work?”

For a moment, concerned I’ll be exposed, and
she’ll realize it was all Tate’s brilliance. The fraud will come to
light; I’ll be revealed as the fake I am. And yet, maybe that
wouldn’t be so bad. Can’t say I want it to happen, but if it
does…so be it.