The Caterpillar King (21 page)

Force a smile back at her.

“Let’s get on with it then,” she says.
Starts walking inside.

“Wait,” I say. Overcome by a mad thought.
The portrait. She needs to see the portrait.

“What do you mean?” she says.

“Just wait,” I say.

“Can I go for a pee or not?” she says.

“Yes, yes, of course. Meet back here in a
minute. Now go!”

Must sound frantic, because she hurries off
in a jog. In a bit of a daze, but I’m off to the cabinet. The
portrait. Could talk to her for hours, try to convince her, but if
she sees the portrait, she won’t leave me. Rational side of me
protests:
How’s a painting of a girl supposed to change
anything?
Simple enough- my soul’s in it. Could write sonnets
and odes to Galla’s toenails, but none of it’s worth a damn. The
picture’s the thing.

Take it from its spot. Still looks fantastic
in the light of day. No surprise. Bring it out, hide it behind my
body. Galla returns an instant later.

“So…” she says.

Big reveal. Pull out the portrait in a
moment of triumph. She studies it for a few beats, her features
scrunching up in deep thought. Or confusion. Hard to tell. But
then, the light goes off, she sees what I see! But before I can
celebrate, recognition turns to deep sadness. Don’t quite know what
to make of that.

“Arboss…” she says.

“Yes,” I say.

“Your show. In all this,” she motions to the
tree, “it completely slipped my mind. I’m so sorry.”

Can only be described as a gross
misinterpretation. Not good.

“No, no,” I say. “The show’s been…it’s been
postponed. I’d rather be here with you. Just thought you’d like to
see my work.”

She pauses, looks it over once more.

“It’s…good,” she says. And that’s all. Feel
like throwing myself into a firepit. Of all the words in the
English language- good? Has there ever been a more meaningless four
letters? Hate it, love it, fear it. For God’s sake, feel
something
.

Realize my miscalculation. I’ve shown her a
dream. It moves me, but perhaps no one else. Put the painting down
in despair.

“You’re sure Sabonne doesn’t mind?” asks
Galla. “Postponing your gallery?”

“Sabonne…” I say. On the verge of turning
myself in. Oh, why not? Nothing else to lose. “You have to
realize…this is difficult for me to say, but…but I’m not having an
affair with her. Swear it. Would swear it on my parents grave, but
you know they don’t really matter to me. There was never anything
like that, though. I never did it.”

Galla laughs. Actually
laughs
.

“Of course you didn’t,” she says.

Don’t quite know what to say to that. Was
expecting a fight, an accusation. Have to admit, pride’s a bit
hurt. “I mean, I
could’ve
,” I say.

“Not likely,” she says. “When you’re having
an affair, you generally sleep with your spouse
less
often,
not more.”

Says that with a confidence that’s a bit
disconcerting. Calls a few other things into question. No time to
go into that now, though.

“But when we were together, it was always,
“Sabonne this, Sabonne that.” You must’ve thought something was
there,” I say. “I just don’t understand.”

“You should’ve seen yourself before that
first meeting. Chattering on, bouncing around the house like a
schoolboy. You were so
happy
for once.” Takes a slight
pause. “After I saw that look in your eyes, I wanted to be more
like her. Because…you know.” She smiles. “I was trying to be
someone you wanted, that’s all.”

Oh
. Should tell her that she never
needed to pretend. But the words get caught in my throat. She’s
already past me, picking up Tate, and then there’s nothing I can
do. If I’ve missed my chance once, I’ve missed it a thousand
times.

She climbs up on the table, Tate in her lap.
He’s just starting to come to.

“There now,” says Galla. Boy’s not making
any noise, but he’s moving a bit spastically. Imagine he’s not
thrilled to be back at the scene of the crime.

“Expect he’s traumatized,” I say.

“He’ll survive,” says Galla.

“That’s the hope, isn’t it?” I say.

Approach the pair of them. Galla’s crossed
her legs, Tate’s resting on her knee. Table’s low and sturdy, white
cloth spread across the surface. Take an end of it, hold up the
thin fabric.

“Think you can manage two minutes a day?”
says Galla.

“What?” I say. No idea what she’s on about.
She sees it in my eyes, and she nods towards the birthmark.

“Two minutes a day. One for him and one for
me.”

“Right,” I say.

Try to stay focused on the task, but still
waiting for her to call me off. Take two opposite corners of cloth
in my hands. Bring them together over their heads. Tell Galla to do
the same with the other two. She grabs the first corner. Then Tate
starts speaking.

“L-O,” he says. “L-O.”

“Never quite learned the alphabet,” I say.
“But not a bad attempt.”

Tate looks me straight on. “L-O.”

Galla bursts into laughter. “Those aren’t
letters. He’s saying a
word
.”

Finally dawns on me. “
Hello,
” I
say.

“Ello. Ello.” Smacks his hand against his
thigh with each repetition. Almost like he’s waving.

Galla smiles, draws the other end of cloth
up. “Good. That’s very good.” She looks up at me through a crack in
the fabric. “Remember- two minutes a day.” As if it’s just another
errand. Cook dinner, clean the house, keep us alive.

Pull the four corners together. Can still
hear Tate parroting and smacking his leg. “Ello ello ello.” Corners
bond, tighten, and the excess fabric turns into the tail. Listen
for any sign of them inside, but there’s nothing. All’s gone
silent.

Swing the tail up over the tree. It attaches
to the branch. Get ready to pull the table out from underneath
them, but isn’t even necessary. Bag starts rising on its own, the
tail pulling it up. Rises up and up and up, coiling around the
branch like a snake. Must be some kind of mechanical lift in it.
Fancy that.

Drag the table away in the end. Figure
they’d rather fall on grass, if it comes to that. Go back to the
patio and finally stop moving. Have to escape for perspective’s
sake. Can’t make sense of a picture with one’s nose pressed up
against it.

Tree looks somehow older now, its bark
coming in rough, its branch sinking under new weight. Or perhaps
I’m just imagining it. The birthmark shines a bright blue, stands
out against the dullness surrounding it. And the bag…the bag hangs
in the air, a suspended white mass. Haven’t seen a heartbeat
yet.

Can’t bear to keep looking. Head to the
patio, notice the painting. Think about smashing it on the ground.
No, I’ve got a better fate for this one. Bring it inside, into the
bathroom. Handful of Vaseline’ll do the trick. Dip my hand in the
jar, take one final look at the girl. Then destroy it all. Slide my
hand from corner to corner, erase every line, every stroke. My art:
my greatest failure, on display for no one to see.

Leave the blank glass, go back outside. It’s
almost peaceful knowing nothing can be taken from you. Walk up to
the tree. Don’t know if they’re alive or dead. Bag decides to
answer my question. A faint glow comes from the center. Glow gets
stronger, starts pulsing. Know without a doubt it’s Galla. Another
pulse appears, a smaller one. The two beat in syncopation,
approaching each other, till finally they line up. Glowing
brightly, they beat together.

Reach out, touch the birthmark. Close my
eyes. Swear I can feel their heartbeats through the tree. A minute
goes by, then two. Hold on for just a little longer. Can’t quite
bring myself to let go.