with no heat, no running water, and no electricity. And before you bother with some clever retort, remember you’ll have a hard time holding a brush when your fingers go numb from the cold. Besides, what if someone’s trying to get ahold of you? Is there even a telephone here?’
Thomas had only smiled and asked, ‘Who would possibly want to get ahold of me?’
Finch made a sweeping gesture at the floor. ‘I’m guessing these people, for starters.’
Thomas shrugged and went back to painting. ‘You could keep track of it for me.’
‘I’m not your secretary, Thomas.’
Thomas put down his brush and stared at Finch, studying his face in a thoughtful manner Finch imagined was normally reserved for his models.
‘I didn’t mean to insult you, Denny. I only thought you might find it useful, while doing the catalogue, to have access to my papers. You must know I wouldn’t trust anyone else with my personal correspondence.’
In the end, Finch had made arrangements for an assistant, an endearingly patient middle-aged mother of four with salt-and-pepper hair, whose familiarity with chaos made her the ideal candidate for the job. She visited Thomas’s studio two days a week in an effort to bring forth order from anarchy. She seemed to take a great deal of delight in sorting, and before long Thomas’s affairs were more settled than they had been in years, with the assistant, Mrs. Blankenship, leaving his letters and personal correspondence in a file for Finch, and the due notices wrapped and taped around various bottles of liquor like paper insulator jackets.
‘It’s the only place he’ll notice them,’ she’d explained to Finch, when he questioned her slightly unorthodox methods. ‘And they’re getting paid now, aren’t they?’
It was true, and at some point Mrs. Blankenship had attempted to make inroads in Thomas’s apartment as well, coming over a few times a week to collect the glasses deposited on various flat surfaces in various rooms and move them all to the sink.
‘Why can’t you leave him be?’ Claire had asked.
‘He’s a friend. He doesn’t have anyone else.’
‘He uses you. And you let him. I don’t understand why.’
How to explain it to her when he couldn’t explain it to himself? He’d reached the age when his possibilities were no longer infinite; what he had now was all he was going to have. He could detach his personal satisfaction from his professional … what? Disappointment? Too strong a word. Averageness, perhaps? To his mind, the personal and professional were separate; one did not diminish the other. But Claire would see any discontent in him as some partial failure on her part, as if she could will him to greatness. Within these rooms, he was blessed to be the most important man in the world. Outside of them, his success had been limited. He was not destined for accolades; there would be no superlatives conjoined to his name.
‘If not for Thomas and the notoriety he’s achieved, we might well be eating beans from a can, my dear, instead of …’ He’d waved his fork over their meal, a beef tenderloin in marrow sauce, chanterelles with chestnuts, and the ruby sheen of a fine pinot noir coloring his wineglass.
‘I suppose your books wrote themselves, then? That your accomplishments count for nothing?’ Claire hid her face behind her napkin for a moment, and when she put the napkin back in her lap her cheeks were wet.
‘What is it?’ His mind entertained a score of disastrous scenarios.
‘Do you feel you settled? With marriage and a child, I mean. For less than what you imagined you’d have?’
His response had been immediate. He’d shaken his head vehemently, attempting to interrupt her. He might have wished for greater success, but never at the expense of his family. If he had to choose, no choice would have been easier. She’d squeezed his arm tight and he’d let her continue.
‘It’s the way you are when you come home after being with him. Anxious. At odds with yourself. You look around these rooms as though something’s changed in the time since you left and came back. As though everything’s become smaller. More drab.’
He was stunned. ‘I didn’t realize I did that.’
‘That makes it worse. More true.’ She stared at the tines of her fork.
He brought her hands to his mouth and kissed the insides of her wrists, first one, then the other, stricken by the idea that he’d planted any doubt in her mind as to how much she meant to him. ‘I didn’t settle, Claire.’
‘I don’t believe you did. I think you are exactly what you were intended to be. A man of great value. I’m just not sure you recognize it in yourself.’ She closed her eyes, then looked at him carefully. ‘And Bayber? What would you say of him?’
‘I would say he, too, is exactly what he was intended to be. A man of great talent.’
‘He’s the one who’s settled, Denny. For only his talent. And when his time comes, he’ll find himself wanting what you have more than anything else.’
He’d loved her all the more for saying it, though he doubted Thomas would be thinking of him at the end. Yet there was still a small particle in Finch, an uncontrollable element that coveted what Thomas had, not at the expense of his own bounty, but in addition to it. Thomas’s talent was the cover that kept him warm at night, the meal that sustained him, the air he breathed. His talent would outlive him for generations. Finch was honest enough to admit, at least to himself, a legacy of that sort was worthy of envy. Was it so great a crime to let some of Thomas’s sun fall on him? To feel just the outer rim of that warmth?
The rest, he had no desire for. The queue of women waiting for Thomas was as long as the span of time each lasted was short. When Thomas tired of an admirer’s company, it was expected that the woman in question would decamp gracefully, minus the drama of a scene or hysterics, to be quickly replaced. In Thomas’s opinion, no explanation was required.
But for years to go by without having the companionship of anyone of consequence? Finch tried to imagine a different life for himself, but could not. The loss of his wife had been devastating. Even now he woke in the middle of the night to find his arms stretched out to her side of the bed, encircling her missing form. Painful as this was, a life she had never been part of would have been worse. The same held true for Lydia. The lilt of her voice, the sway of her arms when she walked, the way she nibbled at the cuticle of her index finger when faced with a serious decision. All these had been imprinted on his core. Erasing them was impossible.
Sleep was also impossible. He tossed and turned for most of the night, finally giving in and getting up before sunrise. He needed to talk to Thomas alone before things went any further. He may have given his word, but he hadn’t signed up to be part of a traveling sideshow. At some point in the wee hours of the morning, he decided he wasn’t going anywhere with Stephen until he found out exactly what Thomas knew, and what he really wanted.
I married a wise man. Claire’s voice was all the sun he needed.
‘Sarcasm is wasted on those who haven’t had a decent night’s sleep, my darling. Be honest. You’re wondering why I didn’t show this much backbone years ago.’
I’m wondering what he’s up to, Denny. Same as you.
