Gail Bowen - The Glass Coffin

Taylor rewarded him with a smile. “Our gallery has a bronze sculpture that Jacques Lipchitz made. It’s called Mother and Child II . During the war, Jacques Lipchitz saw a Russian lady with no legs. She was singing so he made this sculpture of her. You can see it two ways: as a mother with her child or as the head of a bull.”

“Love or war,” Gabe said.

“That’s right,” Taylor said approvingly. “Anyway, the sculpture is sort of the trademark of the MacKenzie Gallery, so that’s why we made a snow one for the end of the maze. Neat, eh?”

Gabriel moved closer to the piece. “Yeah,” he said. “It really is neat.”

“I wish Bryn had come out here with us,” Jill said. “Speaking of… we should get back. They must be wondering where we are.”

“I know the way,” Taylor said. She hiked up her swooshy dress and headed back through the maze. Jill and Gabe were not far behind. I started after them, then I realized Evan wasn’t with us. When I turned I saw that he was still gazing at Mother and Child II. His head was slightly bowed and his hands were crossed in front of him, like a man worshipping or paying his respects at a funeral. His face was unguarded, suffused with a look that I could only describe as longing.

When he saw me watching him, he stiffened. “My mother says this is my natural habitat,” he said.

“A maze?” I said.

“No,” he said. “Snow. She calls me the snowman. She says I have a mind of winter. It’s a line from Wallace Stevens. I assume Jill told you my mother is a scholar of sorts.”

“She didn’t mention it,” I said.

Pain flashed across Evan’s face, but the moment was brief, quickly replaced by an ironic smile. “There’s not much about me that Jill believes is worthy of mention.”

My mind was reeling, but I didn’t want the connection between us to break. “What does your mother mean by saying you have ‘a mind of winter’?”

“That I’m detached from humanity, unable to love.”

“Are you?”

Two words, but they were a body blow. Evan slumped. “You’ve seen my life. Judge for yourself.” He reached out a gloved hand and caressed the icy contours of Mother and Child. “Time to go inside,” he said. “The others will be waiting.”

Numbed by this insight into the battles Evan MacLeish was fighting, I followed him out of the maze. As we trudged between the hard-packed walls, my thoughts drifted from Evan to Caroline MacLeish. Evan had described her as a scholar, and I wondered if, in the course of her studies, she’d come upon Philip Larkin’s poem “This Be the Verse” with its astringent opening lines: “They fuck you up, your mum and dad,/They may not mean to, but they do.”

During the rehearsal, Evan was composed. Not surprisingly, his delivery of the familiar words of the marriage ceremony was flawless. The mask had slipped back into place, and I was left trying to imagine what kind of catalyzing trauma could sever a man from his emotions. But if Evan’s mention of his mother raised one question, it answered another. As Jill lifted her face to be kissed, I sensed for the first time why she had been drawn to this painfully detached man. She was a good person who, despite a lifetime of evidence to the contrary, still believed that a human being could be salvaged by love.

And, of course, there was Bryn. As I looked at the wedding party, I realized that with the exception of Gabe Leventhal and me, everyone was shooting anxious glances her way. She didn’t seem in imminent danger. The judge, a silvery-haired, preening gnome of a man who worked his hands together when he spoke, was explaining the ceremony, and Bryn’s face showed nothing. She was a spectacularly self-possessed adolescent, and the possibility crossed my mind that her outburst at dinner had been strategic, a way of stirring the pot.

It seemed that Gabe’s reading of the scene and mine had been the same. When the judge finally wound up his instructions, Gabe put his lips next to my ear. “If she’s that powerful at seventeen, she’ll be causing wars by the time she’s twenty-one,” he whispered.

“Mothers, lock up your sons,” I said. “Mine is certainly no match for her. Until tonight, he’s bounced through life on charm, a good throwing arm, and the philosophy of John Madden.”

Gabe raised an eyebrow. “Hard to imagine a life situation not covered by John Madden’s wit and wisdom. I met him once, you know. We were in the green room of a TV show. He let me try on his Super Bowl ring.” Gabe flexed his fingers. “It was massive and it was cheesy, but the memory of seeing it on my hand still gives me goosebumps.”

“If you told Angus that story, he’d build a shrine for you,” I said.

“I’ll hold that information in reserve. Some day I may just need your son’s approval.” Gabe glanced around the gallery. “We seem to be just about finished here. Can I buy you a drink?”

“I’d love one, but I’ll have to take a rain check,” I said. “I left a serious mess at the house.”

Angus was at my elbow. “I’ll clean up,” he said.

“Out of the goodness of your heart?”

“I’ve been thinking it might be nice if I got Bryn something – kind of an early Christmas present. They’ve got some cool stuff downstairs at the gallery shop.”

“Cool… and pricey,” I said.

“That’s where you come in,” he said.

“It always is.” I handed him my credit card. “Be prudent.” I turned to Gabe. “We could have that drink at my house. Since Angus has volunteered for scullery duty, all I have to do is put Taylor to bed.”

The family room was relatively untouched, so I led Gabe in there and took his order: tea – nothing fancy, just plain hot tea with lots of sugar and milk. When I came in with the tray, he held out the videos of Leap of Faith and Black Spikes and Slow Waves and looked at me quizzically. “Homage to our friend Evan?”

I put the tray on the coffee table. “Less homage than homework,” I said. “I was trying to get acquainted with Jill’s beloved.”

“Bad call,” he said. “The movies are brilliant – not many filmmakers can convey human loneliness with that kind of intensity – but there’s no doubt that they’re troubling.”

“Evan MacLeish is a troubling man,” I said. “There are moments when I understand why Jill is drawn to him, but I can’t get past his history. And that scene we walked in on in the kitchen didn’t help.”

Gabe was silent, absorbed in his private thoughts. When finally he spoke, his words seemed a non sequitur. “Would you mind if we watched the ending of Black Spikes?”

“Your turn for an homage?” I said.

Gabe poured the tea. “Nope. Same as you, just doing my homework.”

I put the tape in the VCR and fast-forwarded to the party scene. The screen was filled with dazzling disjointed images: Annie in a fuchsia halter top, caught like a bird in flight against the brilliant frolic of a Joan Miro painting; Annie slithering playfully through a nightmare melee of women with too thin bodies and too tight faces; Annie throwing her arms around a man whose back was to the camera and kissing him passionately, eyes wide open, watching the camera watching her.

Finally, she broke from the embrace, exposing the man she’d been kissing. When I saw his face, the breath caught in my throat. It was Felix Schiff.

“I missed this part this morning,” I said. “Willie was barking to be let out.”

“I imagine Felix wishes everyone had missed it,” Gabe said dryly. “This footage was shot at the Toronto Film Festival the year everyone discovered ecstasy. Most of us just dabbled, but Felix was convinced he’d found the Holy Grail. That night, he was deep into his journey towards chemical enlightenment.”