The Fine Art of Truth or Dare (13 page)

• • •

“Honestly, the pair of you” was Edward's response. I brushed cracker crumbs off my homework folder; I'd needed a snack after giving up most of my lunch. “Silly infants. Don't you know the way people see you has absolutely nothing to do with the way you actually look? Beauty is all sleight of hand. Just ask Holbein. Or Bobbi Brown.”

“I thought Beauty was Truth,” I said wearily. I had a headache, and three pages of French to translate.

“
That
is Keats. I am not overly fond of Keats. Had he not died so poetically early, people might have realized he was not quite what they thought he was.”

“The same could be said of you,” I shot back. I was a little annoyed by the “silly infants” comment.

“Oh, so clever. What's the worst-case scenario, should you give the Bainbridge boy a try?”

“Well, gosh. Lemme see.” I ticked off a few possibilities on my fingers. “Humiliation, humiliation, mortification, and humiliation.”

Edward sniffed.
“Qui craint de souffrir, il souffre déjà de ce qu'il craint.”

“And what does that mean?” I recognized it from the second page of my homework.

“Well, gosh, darling Ella. You'll just have to ask your new tutor, won't you?” he said silkily. Right before he went back to emulating a lump of metal.

17

THE LIST

I bought some cotton archival gloves the next day at Blick. They didn't really fit; the only available size was Large. I felt like the Scarecrow in the Oz books, clumsy and dressed in someone else's rejects. I'd drawn the line at another skirt. I was back in jeans. Dr. Rothaus ignored them but gave the gloves an almost-approving nod when she let me into the archive. “I didn't think you would come back.”

I paused, the second glove halfway on. “Why?”

“Most people don't. They spend a few hours being overwhelmed by this”—she flapped a hand at the sagging shelves and motley collection of furniture—“and decide they're not going to find anything valuable.”

I flinched. I'd pretty much decided as much, too. She gave me a thin smile. “You, too?”

“I'm here.” A few hours among Edward's possessions was a good thing in itself. Beyond that, the idea of having to call and explain to Maxine Rothaus that I wasn't coming was infinitely more terrifying than a little disappointment brought on by boring books. She was wearing a textured gray sweater that looked like chain mail, and a necklace made up of opaque glass beads that were strongly reminiscent of human teeth. “I came back.”

“You did.” She leaned against the desk, mail-clad arms crossed over her chest. “Why?”

“Why? To be honest . . . ?”

“Absolutely. Be honest.”

“I'm a little obsessed with Edward Willing and a little desperate to find material for my honors project.”

“Well. I believe both.”

Truth
: Despite the impressive number of lies I tell in my day-to-day life, I'm not particularly good at it.

Dealing with my French teacher is one thing; she wears pants with little whales on them. But I was convinced Dr. Rothaus could smell a lie from ten words away. I found myself feeling sorry for any children she might have. I imagined them as shadowy figures with excellent posture and skill at declamation.

She stared down her long nose at me. “I called the Willing Foundation.”

“Oh.” My stomach sank.

“Funny. They had no idea who you were.”

“No,” I said sadly. “They wouldn't. I'm sorry.”

I waggled one loose fingertip nervously and waited. I figured I deserved whatever was coming. Of course, it would have been sufficiently humiliating for the desk guard to have refused me entrance. Sufficiently humiliating for me, anyway. I wasn't sure about Dr. Rothaus. I looked at the necklace again and decided a little torture might be right up her alley.

She just stared at me through hooded eyes.

“Okay. I should probably leave now,” I said, starting to strip off the gloves. I wasn't about to walk away with my droopy scarecrow hands.

“Probably,” was her bland reply, “although that would completely eliminate any possibility of finding something useful here.”

I stopped, fingers tangled. “You're not throwing me out?”

“I am not. Not yet, anyway. And for the record, I didn't betray your little charade to the Willing People.”

“Why?” I couldn't help but ask.

“I don't like them,” she said crisply. “They think their money makes them important. And a chimpanzee knows more about art. Besides, you completely reorganized 1899.”

I winced. “Sorry.”

“Are you? Why? Every paper was put back right side up, right side out, and staggered, so they weren't all crammed in. They were also in chronological order. Either you're compulsively neat”—she gave my inky jeans and faded turtleneck a quick, brow-raised glance—“or you're reverent.”

Somehow, reverence didn't seem like much of a crime.

“Plus,” Dr. Rothaus added, “you left your notes.” She reached behind her and lifted a sheet of blue paper from the desk. When she held it up, I could see the badly drawn undersea locker of the Fall Ball flyer on the side facing me. She reached into her pants pocket and pulled out a pair of gunmetal-framed reading glasses. She flicked them open, switchblade-style, with a snap of her wrist, and shoved them onto her nose. “‘Lobsters,'” she read. “‘Earrings.
Beach at Trouville
?'” Then, “Roses and Wharton
Summer
?'” She studied me for a long moment. “You actually seem to know your Willing.”

Of all the things I hide, that's not one of them. “I do.”

Now her brows went up. “That sounded like pride. Favorite painting . . . ?”

“Painting?
Odalisque
,” I said.

“Really. His non-nude nude. Interesting.”

It was, to me. Edward's most famous painting of Diana is
Troie,
where he painted her as Helen of Troy: naked except for the diamond bracelet and the occasional tendril of auburn hair. It had caused quite a stir at its exhibition. Apparently, Millicent Carnegie Biddle fainted on seeing it. It wasn't quite what she was used to viewing when she sat across from Mrs. Edward Willing every few weeks, sipping tea from Wedgwood china cups.

Odalisque
was more daring in its way, and infinitely more interesting to me. Most of the Post-Impressionist painters did an odalisque, or harem girl, reclining on a sofa or carpet, promising with their eyes that whatever it was that they did to men, they did it well. An odalisque was almost compulsory material. But unlike any of them, Edward had painted his subject— Diana—covered from neck to ankle in shimmery gauze. Covered, but still the ultimate object of desire.

“Why that one?” Dr. Rothaus asked.

“I don't know—”

“Oh, please. Don't go all stupid teenager on me now. You know exactly why you like the painting. Humor me and articulate it.”

I felt myself beginning the ubiquitous shoulder dip. “Okay. Everyone is covering up something. I guess I think there's an interesting question there.”

“‘What are they hiding?'”

I shook my head. “‘Does it make a difference?'”

“Ah.” One sharp corner of her mouth lifted. I would hesitate to call it a smile. “That is interesting. But your favorite Willing piece isn't a painting.”

“How—”

“You hesitated when I asked. Let me guess . . .
Ravaged Man
?”

“How—”

“You're a young woman. And”—Dr. Rothaus levered herself off the desk—“you went through the 1899 file. I know the archive.”

“But I thought you didn't like being in charge of it.” Her vague approval was making me bold.

“Who says I do?” She flipped a rucked-up corner of the rug into place with the pointed toe of one shoe. “I am the world expert on the influence of Cézanne on early twentieth-century American painters. Edward Willing was just one of many. I wanted this job; he came with it. Of course, the librarians get the interesting papers. Along with all my curatorial duties, I get the kitsch.”

I had to ask. “Are his letters to Diana downstairs?”

She sighed. “What is it about girls and letters? My husband left me messages in soap on the bathroom mirror. Utterly impermanent. Really wonderful—” She broke off and scowled. I would have thought she looked a little embarrassed, but I didn't think embarrassment was in her repertoire. “Anyway. Most of the correspondence between the Willings is in private collections. He had their letters with him in Paris when he died. In a noble but ultimately misguided act, his attorney sent them to his niece. Who put them all in a ghastly book that she illustrated. Her son sold them to finance the publication of six even more ghastly books of poetry. I trust there is a circle of hell for terrible poets who desecrate art.”

“I've seen the poetry books in the library,” I told her. “The ones with Edward's paintings on the covers. I couldn't bring myself to read them.”

“Smart girl. I suppose worse things have been done, but not many. Of course, there was that god-awful children's television show that made one of his landscapes move. They put kangaroos in it.
Kangaroos
. In eastern Pennsylvania.”

“I've seen that, too,” I admitted. I'd hated it. “Hated it. Not quite as much as the still life where Tastykakes replaced one orange with a cupcake, or the portrait of Diana dressed in a Playtex sports bra, but close.”

“Oh, God. I try to forget about the bra.” Dr. Rothaus shuddered. “Well, I suppose they do far worse to the really famous painters. Poor van Gogh. All those hearing-aid ads.”

“Yeah.” We shared a moment of quiet respect for van Gogh's ear. Then, having waited as long as I could, I prompted, “Any suggestions . . . ?”

She shrugged. “Willing didn't keep much after 1899. What we have is fragments, mostly, things that scavenging relatives missed because they were on the flip side of bills or business correspondence. But . . .” She stalked over to one of the cabinets. The bottom file drawer grated and clanged as she pulled it out. “I found this one in the 1902 file, stuck to a receipt for snowshoes. He'd written a critic's home address on the other side. There's a rumor said critic once found a pile of manure on his front step, but I've never seen it verified. Anyway.” She handed me a single sheet of yellowed paper encased in a clear archival sleeve. “This ought to speak to you . . . Not like that! Hold the edges!”

I flushed and held the edges. The writing was familiar: bold and spiky, the ink faded a little to indigo.
Stuyvesant Gumm
, it read.
1966 Spruce Street
. All around the writing were small, raised lines. The
t
of “Street” ran into a tear where a pen had come through the other side of the paper. I turned it over. Edward had scrawled:

 

1. She snored like a bear.

2. She left her shoes in the middle of the floor and right in front of the door.

3. She thought it amusing to put asparagus and beans in the menu when entertaining my parents.

4. She insisted that kale was good for my digestion.

5. She insisted more firmly that solitary walks in the rain were good for my temper.

6. She hid the chocolate.

7. She had feet like a goose.

8. She filled my coat pockets with—

 

The list stopped there, the final word ending in a slash and a smear.

“Wow,” I said.

Dr. Rothaus was clearly less moved. She was picking invisible lint off her sweater. “I've never been able to decide whether it's incredibly romantic or just plain pitiful.”

For me, it was no contest. All I could think was that Edward was so devastated that he was past being comforted by remembering the good stuff, the things about Diana that he'd loved. That, maybe, the only way he could get through this particular day was to make himself focus on the things he hadn't.

I said as much. Dr. Rothaus snorted. “How did I know you would go all rhapsodic over that list? God, youth. Are you in love or just an annoying romantic in general?”

“Neither,” I said. “I just think this is amazing.”

Holding Edward's heartbroken list, I felt weepy. Fine, the time of the month didn't help, but I was feeling pretty sorry for myself. Nonna would say it was a curse; I figured I must have been a three-timing lap dancer named Ginger in a past life to deserve where I was in this one. Adoring a guy without a heartbeat, all in knots over a live one who had absolutely no interest in making my heart beat a little faster.

“Why is it amazing?” Dr. Rothaus's sharp voice yanked me out of my pity party. “To borrow a page from your book, does it make a difference in who Edward Willing was as an artist? Or could it possibly just be sentimental drivel?”

I thought maybe she would have been an okay teacher. If she hadn't been guaranteed to scare the opinions right out of just about anyone at Willing who might possess one. Or maybe I was just pitifully grateful to be able to have a real conversation with anyone about Edward.

“I think he painted the way he did,” I answered, “because he had something perfect with Diana.”

I braced myself for her next scathing insight and nearly fell over when she reached out to pat my hand. Her wedding ring was a heavy, hammered gold band that could probably pound nails.

“Nothing but the occasional espresso is perfect,” she said, not unkindly. “Let me share some wisdom, Willing Girl. Relationships are like Whack-a-Mole. You squash one annoying deformity and another one pops up in no time.”

Not your classic sentiment, there. Or a particularly heartening one. It seemed well meant, though, so I figured it might be a good time to inform her, “Um, my name . . . is Ella. Marino.”

“Oh, I know who you are, Miss Marino,” she shot back. “Shall I mention again that the Willing Foundation doesn't?”

“No, Dr. Rothaus,” I said meekly. “No need.”

“Excellent.” Dr. Rothaus headed for the door. “You may call me Maxine. Good luck finding something I haven't. And don't cry on the materials.”

• • •

Three hours later, I slung my book bag onto my desk chair at home. “Don't say anything,” I told Edward. “Today I waded through another file of deadly minutiae. I do not want to know that you probably smelled like red wine and blue cheese. Ah!” I held up a hand. “Not a word.”

I was tired, hungry, and beginning to understand why every curator I had ever met was grumpy. I took off my jacket and headed for the closet.

It was hanging front and center, a long flow of pale blue cotton sateen. I recognized my parents' pre-toile-redecoration bedsheets even as I took in the fact that this was no longer bedding. It was very clearly a dress. I reached out to touch the intricately draped and pleated top.

“Pretty, eh?”

I jumped a foot. “Nonna!”

She was standing in my doorway, beaming like a demented gnome. “For your underwater dance.”

“It looks like . . . a toga.”

“Toga,” she sniffed as she stalked across the room to lift the dress from its hanger, “is for boys at silly parties. This is for a goddess.” She held it up to me. “You will be Salacia, Roman goddess of water.”