We Are Water (22 page)

Then why hadn’t Annie called? I asked. I had spoken to her just the day before; she’d called concerned about Ariane, whose boyfriend had broken up with her. That poor kid: she’d had so much heartbreak when it came to men. “And how are
you
doing?” Annie had asked me. I’d told her about Seamus’s suicide but not about the Jasmine mess. I complained about my insomnia. Melatonin and Sleepytime tea, she’d advised. As if
that
was going to let me off the hook.

“Oh, you know how unassuming Anna can be,” Viveca said. “She didn’t want to put you on the spot if it wasn’t a good time. We’re stopped at one of those awful turnpike places. I’m out in the car and she’s run in to use the ladies’. If it’s not convenient, Orion, I understand.”

It had been six or seven months since San Gennaro. I told her it would be nice to see them, by which I meant that it would be nice to see Annie. “Wonderful!” Viveca said. Now I wasn’t to fuss. They would only stop by for half an hour or so. No, no, they wouldn’t stay for lunch. They’d probably be there sometime around eleven.

By the time they pulled into the driveway in Viveca’s Escalade, it was a little after noon. Between the call and their arrival, I had run the vacuum, run out and bought scones, some pricey coffee, and a dozen daffodils. Daffodils were Annie’s springtime favorite.

“Orion, your home is charming,” Viveca said, after Annie had walked her through. I told her it was all Annie’s doing; she had done the decorating, chosen the colors for the walls, refinished the antiques she’d picked up on the cheap at auction sales and secondhand shops. I’d changed nothing since she left, telling myself it would be a comfort to the kids when they came home for visits—something which happened a lot less frequently now that Andrew and Ariane had dispersed to different parts of the country. Marissa worked most weekends at that place where she waitresses and tends bar. When she did come home, it was usually a peck on the cheek and a quick conversation before dashing off to some local watering hole to meet up with her hometown friends.

“Well, it’s just lovely, Anna,” Viveca continued. “I adore the accent pieces, the way you’ve offset the neutral shades with splashes of color. Blended traditional New England with ‘shabby chic.’ ” (Until she said that, I’d assumed “shabby chic” was an expression that Annie had coined.) “It’s all very homey, very welcoming. And it’s a
perfect
complement to the architecture.” She turned from Annie to me. “Now who did you say the builder was, Orion?”

I hadn’t said. “His name was Angus Skloot. He built a number of homes in this area during the 1920s and 1930s. This is the one he and his family lived in.”

“Well, you were wise to invest in a builder’s home, I’ll tell you that much. Has your Mr. Skloot ever been written up in any of the architectural magazines?”
My
Mr. Skloot? I said I doubted it. “Well, he certainly
should
have been. His use of stone and brick, the inside finish work: it’s masterful! And the upstairs and downstairs fireplaces are to die for! You don’t often see this level of fine craftsmanship from regional builders. It’s a gem—quintessential Colonial New England.”

Annie and I exchanged bemused smiles. When we’d bought the place from Skloot’s daughter back in 1984, we’d been more attracted to the brook out back and the acreage behind it than we were to the house itself. We’d always liked the house but had never thought of it as a “quintessential gem.”

“The masonry was done by a couple of guys who worked for Skloot,” I said. “They were—”

“Let me guess. Southern Italian immigrants, right?”

I shook my head. “I was going to say brothers. The Jones brothers. They lived right here on the property, in a little house out back. Until their big falling-out, that is.”

“Over what?” Viveca asked.

“A woman.” I turned to Annie. “Sweetie, you probably remember the details better than I do. You’re the one who talked to that gal from the historical society who had the scoop.” After the fact, I realized I’d just called her what we had called each other during most of our married life. Sweetie: it had come out of my mouth as if the last three years had never happened.

“They were black,” Annie said. “When one of the brothers married a white woman—she was foreign born; European, I think—the three of them lived together in the house out back. The falling-out happened when whichever brother was the husband found the other brother in bed with his wife.”

“Oh, my. Miscegenation
and
a love triangle.” Viveca chuckled. “Quite the small town scandal, I imagine.”

I nodded. “Especially after one of the brothers drowned in the well behind their house. They found him stuck in there head first. The coroner ruled it an accident, but apparently there was some speculation that he’d been murdered. If you saw how shallow that well is, you’d know why. He would have had to try pretty hard to ‘fall into’ it.”

“Do they think he was murdered by the other brother?” Viveca asked.

“Or the people in town who didn’t like blacks mixing with whites,” Annie said. “From what Miss Galligan at the historical society told me, there was a KKK chapter in Three Rivers back then, and the Grand Dragon or whatever he was called lived just up the road.”

“And now we have an African-American family living in the White House!” Viveca noted. What was she implying? That Obama’s election had eradicated racism? Ordinarily, I would have challenged her on that assumption, but I didn’t have the energy. It was still a mystery to me what Annie saw in this woman. Was it money? Prestige? For as long as I’d known her, neither of those things had ever mattered that much to her. But maybe they did now.

Annie told Viveca she used to be a nervous wreck when the kids played in the woods out back. “They knew they weren’t supposed to go inside that dilapidated old house, but they’d sneak in there anyway. Their ‘clubhouse,’ they used to call it. One day I caught Andrew and his friends running across the roof, and all I could think of was that it was going to collapse under them. That, and the old well where the brother had died: that scared me, too. I was always afraid one of them was going to fall in and drown. It still gives me the creeps, thinking about that thing out there,” she said.

“The well wasn’t really a hazard,” I reminded her. I turned back to Viveca. “For one thing, it wasn’t very deep. And for another, Annie’s brother, Don, and I had lugged a heavy stone slab over the opening. No kid was going to budge that thing.”

“But still,” Annie said. A shiver passed through her. “Okay, that’s enough about that creepy well. Let’s talk about something else.”

It was a beautiful spring afternoon: blue skies, seventy-five-degree sunshine. We sat out on the back deck, having our coffee and scones. It had rained steadily the day before, and so the grass glistened and the stream made its music. In the middle of Annie’s updating me about Ariane, Viveca let out a quiet gasp. I followed her gaze. A doe and her freckle-backed fawn had wandered from the woods into the clearing. We three sat there in silence, watching them.

Shortly before they left, Viveca reminded Annie that she’d said she wanted to show her something. “Oh, that’s right,” Annie said. “It’s in the basement. Orion, do you mind if I go down there and get it?”

Her asking permission seemed strange. “Of course not.”

“Should I go with you?” Viveca asked. Annie said no, she’d bring it up. She’d be right back. Find
what
? I wondered but didn’t ask.

Viveca and I gathered up the plates and coffee cups and went inside to the kitchen. “Anna doesn’t know anything about this yet,” she said, her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “But I have an ulterior motive in driving up to the Gardner today.”

I looked over at her. “Do you?”

She said she was meeting informally with one of the museum’s board members about seeing if Annie and she might exchange their vows in the museum’s courtyard. “They have a ‘no weddings’ policy, but they may make an exception for two women from the art world and their guests, some of whom have recognizable names and deep pockets. Wouldn’t Anna just love that? Being married at the Gardner?”

Looking away from her, I said yes, she probably would, then changed the subject. Asked her if they had ever recovered the paintings stolen from the Gardner several years back. “No, not yet,” she said. “From what I understand, it’s still an open case with the FBI.”

“Wasn’t that one of the biggest art thefts on record?”

“Indeed. They made away with a Vermeer, some Degas drawings, a Rembrandt self-portrait.”

“Then it’s probably just a matter of time before they crack the case, I imagine. I mean, it can’t be easy to unload works that are that valuable.”

“Oh, there are ways,” she said. “Art theft is a very lucrative business, Orion. But I hope you’re right. It’s heartbreaking to go there and see the empty frames where those priceless works used to hang—placeholders waiting for their eventual return.”

“What kind of ways?” I asked her.

“Excuse me?”

“You just said there were ways that even famous works can be fenced. I’m just curious about how they’d—”

“Well, they could change hands a few times until they ended up with an unscrupulous dealer who’d make sure they disappeared into someone’s private collection. Or they could be disbursed and resold on the international market. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were hanging somewhere in Saudi Arabia or Dubai, one of the oil-rich countries. Or in the palace of some dictator who decries Western values but craves Western art. It’s a big world, Orion, with a multitude of hiding places.”

“Huh. Poor Isabella Gardner must be turning in her grave.”

“Indeed she must be. Her philanthropy was genuine. She meant for her collection to be enjoyed by the public after she died. It’s tragic, really.”

When Annie rejoined us, she was holding that strange painting I’d forgotten was even down there. “Found it,” she said. “One of those brothers we were talking about earlier had been an amateur painter. Obviously, he hadn’t had any training. But this picture has always intrigued me. It was up in the attic when we moved in—left behind by the Skloot family, I guess. Look at the colors, the composition.”

Viveca took it from her and held it at arm’s length. In the painting, a woman, her head and body strangely disproportionate, leers at the viewer. Outfitted in a risqué bikinilike costume, she sprawls lasciviously against the head of an elephant whose trunk snakes out from between her legs. The background is bucolic—a white picket fence, a grove of trees with painstakingly painted leaves, each leaf rendered so distinctly that the trees compete for attention with the figures in the foreground. Strangest of all is the malevolent, midget-size circus clown who peeks out from behind the trunk of a tree on the painting’s right side. He’s holding a spearlike pointer which he seems to be aiming at the woman’s crotch.

I was standing behind Viveca, looking over her shoulder. “The Freudians would have a ball with all the psychosexual goings-on in
this
thing,” I joked. Annie smiled. Viveca seemed not to have heard me.

“It’s unsigned,” she said. “But my god, it looks an awful lot like—”

Annie interrupted her. “Look at the back.”

When she did, Viveca read aloud what was written there.
This painting is a gift to Mr. and Mrs. Skloot. I call it ‘The Cercus People.’ I hope you like it. Joe J. November 1957.
Annie noted that he must have meant
circus
people.

Apparently, the Skloots hadn’t liked their gift.
The Cercus People
, painted on cardboard, not canvas, was unframed, and there was neither wire nor hook on the back. My guess was that they’d exiled it to their attic as soon as they received it.

Viveca looked from the painting to me. “What did you say the brothers’ name was?” she asked.

“Jones,” I said.

“Oh, my word, I thought so!” she said. “Do you know what I think you have here? An original Josephus Jones!”

She had been interested in Josephus Jones for years, she told us—had researched him but had never been able to track down or acquire any of his works. Still, despite the odds, it all fit. She knew that Jones had lived in rural Connecticut, that he had died under questionable circumstances, that he had been employed as a laborer. He had created his art using whatever was available to him: oil-based house paint, particleboard, shirt cardboard. “One source I talked to several years ago, an elderly man who knew him, said he had been prolific—had painted obsessively. But very few of his works have ever resurfaced. A collector in Santa Fe owns two, I know, and the American Museum of Folk Art in New York has three. And now, apparently, we’ve discovered another. Orion? Do you own this painting?”

I said I guessed so. I didn’t go into it with Viveca, but Annie, during our divorce mediation, had relinquished the contents of the house to me. And as far as I knew, the Skloots’ daughter was their only heir, and she had died a spinster several years back. I remembered reading her obituary.

“Check with your attorney,” Viveca said. It came out more like an order than a request. She had shifted gears and was all-business. “And if you do own it, which I imagine you do, if it was left behind, I’d like to buy it.” I held up my hand like a traffic cop. “No, no. You’re right. Take your time deciding. I’m just very excited about this find.” She must have been. For the rest of their visit, she looked mostly at the painting instead of Annie or me.

As I walked them out to her car, Viveca handed me her business card. She said she’d call me midweek to see what my lawyer had said and what my thoughts were about selling
The Cercus People
. She advised me that, whatever my decision, I should have the painting appraised and insured. I shouldn’t hesitate to e-mail her with any questions, and if I needed a referral to a top-notch appraiser, she could certainly provide me with that. I nodded. Closed their car doors for them and waved them off.

I was struck by what had happened in the last fifteen or twenty minutes. Viveca had gone on the hunt and Annie had gone silent—had become almost opaque. I wandered out to the backyard, wondering why, when I suddenly recalled something she’d said in that once-upon-a-time
Connecticut
magazine article. How, when she’d just started making her art, she’d seen something mysterious out here. Some
one
: a black man in overalls who, a second or two later, was gone. Was that why she’d gotten so quiet just now? Was she remembering that she’d told that reporter she might have seen a ghost? . . .