Venus Envy (8 page)

“Sounds to me like you’re coming back to life.”

That sentence ran through Frazier’s head as she walked into the second gallery room. An enormous canvas, ten by fifteen feet, dominated one wall. Painted in the seventeenth century by an unknown artist, it depicted the gods and goddesses on Mount Olympus. Their perfect bodies, except for that of crippled Hephaestus/Vulcan, inspired worship. Zeus/Jupiter, a man at the peak of his powers, forty or fifty perhaps, his body thick with physical might, light shining from his head, gazed over his brood. Their happiness was both earthly and heavenly. Guilt, suffering—well, long-term suffering—and pain had been banished.

His wife, brothers, children, and his wife’s children were positioned around the Thunderbolt God in a mix of personalization and parentage that would send a therapist into transports of analysis. Modern man needs to explain everything in order to feel safe—a dangerous illusion, for there is no safety. The ancients didn’t need to explain; they needed to experience, and this anonymous artist, no doubt a hearty Venetian, must have reveled in his work as he mixed his oils from mounds of dried powder. He, too, must have craved experience, and his sensual nature was reflected in the Olympians.

Zeus/Jupiter sat on his throne in the middle of a semicircle arranged around him. Hera, or Juno, his wife, stood by, statuesque, at his right hand, her hazel eyes trained on her philandering husband. Clearly she didn’t trust him even when he was sitting down.

To her right glowered Poseidon/Neptune. Perhaps he left his mighty ocean kingdom for this family portrait, poised between squabbles for a moment of calm. He
strongly resembled his brother, although his beard was golden whereas Zeus’s was gray. Poseidon leaned on his trident, casting his eyes not at his overlord brother but at Artemis/Diana, who was standing next to him, her silver quiver on her back, her silver bow in her hand.

Fat chance. Not even the god of the sea could turn her chaste head. The only man the youthful, perfect huntress loved, and not physically, was her twin, Apollo. He sat on a rock slightly in front of Artemis. He wore his golden quiver and his golden bow lay at his feet. The two were mirror images of each other, gorgeous, yet somehow rather cold.

Ruddy Ares/Mars made up for their lack of heat. His red hair was shorn, as one would expect of a soldier. His armor further enhanced his virility. His sword, sheathed, hung by his side. He held his helmet in the cradle of his arm; the flaming-red horsehair seemed to sway in the breeze. His gaze smoldered at Aphrodite/Venus, who sat directly opposite him in the semicircle.

She returned his gaze with equal heat. Here the artist broke with convention. No washed-out blond Venus. Rich, dark curly hair fell to her shoulders. Her eyes glowed a dark blue. Everything about her suggested passion, erotic possibilities allied to tender mercy. This Venus was far more than a sex goddess.

Moving back toward Zeus, Hermes/Mercury, laughing, stood next to Venus—perhaps the only woman, apart from his mother, whom he completely trusted. His long-muscled, slender body gleamed. No beard appeared on his sharp jaw. If paintings could move he would have been twirling his caduceus, and the intertwining snakes on the magical rod would have been dancing with laughter.

In sharp contrast to Mercury stood Athena/Minerva. Her impressive helmet covered the blond hair, which
was tucked underneath, a few tendrils escaping. Her gray eyes evidenced no passion but she didn’t seem cold, just preoccupied. Her shield rested on a tree stump behind her. She looked at her father, Zeus, and he returned the gaze. She was his favorite child.

Standing between them but a step back was Hades/Pluto. So enthralled was he by his underworld kingdom that he, too, rarely ventured out of it, much less to Mount Olympus.

Hades/Pluto was as dark as Neptune was light and tremendously handsome. All three brothers were powerfully built men with beautiful mouths and white teeth. The finest cloth covered his body. Unlike Neptune he showed little interest in plotting against their brother. Pluto, although distant and judgmental, was a loyal, honest soul.

In the near distance the artist had placed immensely muscular Hephaestus/Vulcan, still sweating from his work at the forge. Zeus/Jupiter couldn’t stand him, so Hera/Juno tried to make up for this by taking his part at each opportunity. His crippled leg stuck out at an odd angle from his good one.

Another god at a distance from the others was Dionysus/Bacchus. He lounged in the lower right-hand corner of the canvas. In his late twenties or early thirties, the prime of life, he should have cut a splendid figure. He was slovenly attired, however, which detracted from his beauty. A golden goblet was raised in his right hand, raised not to Zeus but to the painter or the viewer, for Dionysus peered out of the painting, away from the circle of gods. A slight smile played on his ruby lips—a jeer or genuine pleasure?

This florid artwork had supposedly hung in the grandest whorehouse in Venice. The sneaking sensuality of it, the subtle assault on Judeo-Christian priggishness,
the sheer grandeur would attract someone, a buyer moved by impulse, an impulse probably not understood.

Frazier especially liked the brushwork, so smooth, so silky, so unobtrusive. The flesh seemed real. She could reach out and caress Mercury’s eternally youthful figure or tweak Jupiter’s majestic beard. The painter believed in art that conceals art, an attitude in keeping with Frazier’s philosophy. She detested artists who wailed about how difficult their work was and then further tried the patience of all the giving saints by telling you how they accomplished their masterpiece.

The front door opened. Frazier’s shoulders stiffened. Was it Mother? Dad? Carter? Was the axe raised ready to grind? The Fed Ex man dropped off a package, offered his congratulations upon her good health, and left with a wink. Frazier was relieved and strangely disappointed.

T
HE METALLIC-COFFEE EXPLORER PURRED DOWN THE TREELINED
drive. Frazier pulled up at her parents’ white brick Federal home. She sat a moment remembering the first time she had driven the Explorer down the brown pebble driveway. Libby had walked out of the house, disappointment etched all over her face.

“You sold the Range Rover?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“But why? A Range Rover has some élan.”

“Because the dealer is eighty miles away.”

“I loved your Range Rover.”

“Then you should have bought it.”

Frazier blinked, tried to focus on today, got out of the car, and slowly walked to the back door. She opened the door, hinges squeaking.

Libby, potting plants in her sink, barely uttered a hello.

“Need any help?”

“No, thank you” came Libby’s clipped reply. “I want these narcissus ready for your dinner party.”

“What dinner party?”

“The dinner party to thank God for the miracle of your recovery,” Libby pronounced.

“This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“I was planning to call you tonight.”

“Momma, did you pick up your mail yesterday or today?”

Libby’s lips stretched tighter across her face. “I did.”

Frazier was losing patience. She hated this trick of Libby’s. Don’t volunteer any information; don’t facilitate a discussion. Force the other party to bring up any unpleasant or volatile subject and declare yourself an unwilling victim of such upset. Upset equaled bad manners. “My letter, Mother? I know you must have gotten my letter.”

“I did.”

“Well?” Frazier’s tone hardened.

“I am putting that right out of my mind because I think you must have been out of yours.”

“I knew you’d say that.” Frazier crossed her arms over her chest. “If it’s not what you want to hear, then there’s something wrong with the person telling you. Right, Mother?”

“I see no reason to continue this discussion. You’ll come to your senses. In the meantime I advise you to be prudent.”

“Prudent? As in shut up?”

“You said it; I didn’t.”

“I wrote other letters.”

“You did?” Alarm invaded every crevice of Libby’s body.

“Carter, Daddy—which you know, since you pick up the mail—Kenny, Ruru. I think I forgot a few.”

Libby gripped the sink. “And did you tell them …” Frazier remained silent, forcing Libby to go on. Nothing like giving your mother a dose of her own medicine. “Did you tell them what you told me?”

“That I was dying? Of course.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I want to hear you say it. That’s probably why I stopped by. I figured you wouldn’t phone me or come to my house.”

“Say what?” But Libby was losing at her own game.

“Not a goddam thing, Mother.”

“Don’t you swear in front of me. That you’re unnatural,” Libby shouted.

Frazier walked away from her and gripped the doorknob. “Nothing is unnatural—just untried.”

“Don’t you get smart with me. Why’d you come over here? To make me more miserable than I already am?”

“You did that all by yourself. I came over here to warn you. I don’t know how the other recipients will take their letters. For all I know it’s all over town that I’m gay. I know it’s all over town that I’m alive. I thought you might like to pull yourself together, to organize your public response.”

Icy fear clawed Libby’s entrails. Her friends. The whispers behind the hand. The seemingly innocent inquiries, the too-firm handshake from the pastor after service. She could see it all. The social embarrassment—that would be loathsome—but the true agony would be the pity, the sickeningly sweet smiles and the solicitous tone of voice. Oh, God. “I don’t understand you. I never understood you and I don’t understand this. Go to a psychiatrist. You don’t have to be this way. I don’t want you to be this way.”

“What do you think I did one day, Momma? Do you think I woke up and said, ‘I’m going to be queer today. I’m going to upset my mother, baffle my father, jeopardize my place in the community, and lose a few friends in the bargain? I’m going to join the most despised group of people in America. Hooray for homosexuals. I can’t wait to embrace these sorrows.’ Do you think I did that? Do you think anyone does that? I regret your hurt, Mother. I regret even more being shoved into a category, being
Untermenschen
, as the Nazis used to say, less than human. But you know what? I am what I am. I can’t see that it’s the end of the world or that I’ve suddenly turned into a monster.”

“Two thousand years of church teaching can’t be wrong,” Libby railed.

“Until the last century, the same church justified slavery, Mother, because it was in the Bible. I am not going to a psychiatrist. I am not going to suddenly marry and produce the grandchildren you blab about day in and day out. Like I said, Momma, I am what I am. And like it or not, I am your daughter.”

“Then I wish you had died!” Libby tossed the pot at Frazier’s head.

Quick reflexes intact, Frazier ducked. The pot smashed against the door. That fast Frazier was out of the house, leaving Libby to bellow, “Look at this mess you made. You come back here and clean it up. Frazier! Mary Frazier Armstrong, look what you made me do!”

F
RANK ARMSTRONG, SILVER-HAIRED AND FIT AT SIXTY-THREE
, fiddled with the back door hinges. A screwdriver and a can of 3-In-One oil were his weapons. Cold night air whooshed into the room along with Libby, who entered from the opposite direction.

“Will you close that door before we catch our death?”

“You’ve been grexing and groaning about the door, so I thought I’d surprise you.” He jiggled the tongue of the lock, inserted a few drops of oil, then swung the door back and forth and drenched the hinges. “Frank, that oil is running down the door.”

“I’ll clean it up. Why don’t you fix me my regular? Better make a double for yourself.” “Why?”

“Because you’re edgy.”

“I am not.” Libby marched out. By the time she returned with their drinks—a scotch on the rocks for
Frank—Usquaebach, his favorite brand—and a double of Absolut with orange juice for her—the back door was fixed. Frank wiped the edge of the door and then put away his tools.

They retreated to the den, a walnut-paneled library filled with books Frank would never read. Libby favored romances, gardening books, and biographies. A few large home-decorating books also squatted on the shelves.

Libby clicked on the television for the evening news but she couldn’t sit still. She rose to get her needlepoint. She sat down. Then she wanted her reading glasses, which were in the kitchen. The news showed a body being fished out of the river, then dumped in a body bag. The camera distance was far enough away so as not to ruin supper for the viewers. Nothing like a blue bloated carcass with the face eaten up to put you off salmon forever. Still, the sight of something abnormally large and squishy being dumped in the bag, to say nothing of the policeman bent over a bush, plucked at Libby’s nerves.

“Why do they have to show something like that? I ask you, Frank, why? I mean, what if that person’s family is watching and they haven’t been notified yet? Can you imagine? Can you imagine how horrible to be told that … that awful mess is your flesh and blood?” She shivered. “People have no respect today. The media.”

“Ants at a picnic.”

“What?” Libby’s darkened eyebrows—she was naturally blond—curved upward toward her very blond hair, a neat trick at fifty-nine.

“Reporters are like ants at a picnic. You step on those that you can and ignore the rest.”

“What business is it of anyone’s? Why show some poor soul’s mortal remains like that? I could see that he hardly
had a shirt on. When I go, put me in the ground as fast as you can.”

“I have heard enough talk about death in this household to last me until mine. I don’t want to hear any more about this. Put your mind off the subject.”

“Look, now they’re showing us a car wreck. Three drunken kids in Buckingham County.” Libby’s voice rose. “And a close-up of a blood-spattered windshield!”

“Honey, you usually go for the gory details.”

“I do not. I most certainly do not.”

“Libby, what in the hell is the matter with you tonight? Did you and Ruru get into it again? You having troubles at the Garden Club?” Frank had fielded a day of decisions, complaints, negotiations, and equipment problems at work but if Libby needed to spew her problems he might as well listen. It was easier than getting his butt chewed off.