Neil Olson - The Black Painting

“There is absolutely no need to go there,” she heard her mother say, an echo of last night’s argument.

“He’s asked all the grandchildren,” Teresa had replied, though Miranda knew that. “Kenny and Audrey and James have agreed.”

“That’s their choice. You can make a different one.”

“Mother.”

“Whatever he wants to say he can put in a letter or a telephone call.”

“Do you know what he wants to say?”

“For goodness’ sake, how would I know that?”

“Because he’s your father.”

Miranda treated the fact as an accusation, and the conversation went downhill fast. Trudging up the steep and tree-shrouded lane, Teresa pictured her mother in the West Village apartment, bought when there was still family money. Tending her exotic roses or painting in her studio. Flitting about in those bright Indian shawls with her artsy friends. Clueless about the real world.

“Stop,” Teresa said aloud. Only the trees as witnesses. Just stop. Stop being angry with your mother, with everyone.

A car was rushing up the hill behind her. She could hear the high performance motor straining through the steep turn. They all drove too fast around here, and of course there was no sidewalk. Who would walk anywhere in Langford? She stepped off the road into a mass of saplings and early fallen leaves. Praying not to be hit. Or that at least it should be a quick death from a very expensive car.

It was a red Lexus convertible, which missed her by several feet. She saw a blur of blond hair and sunglasses, then the car slowed immediately, pulling onto the scant margin forty yards ahead. The driver jumped up in the seat and turned, calling out merrily.

“Tay-ray!”

Dear God in Heaven. Audrey.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” her cousin shouted.

At least she would not have to walk the rest of the way. Dutifully, Teresa marched toward the vehicle. Like a condemned man. To her horror, Audrey leaped out and swept her into a hug. She smelled musky. Some combination including sandalwood, vodka and sweat. She carried a few extra pounds, though in all the right places. Audrey stepped back to survey her younger, skinny, dark-haired cousin.

“Look at you all grown-up,” she gushed.

“I was twenty years old at your wedding,” said Teresa.

“Yeah,” Audrey conceded. “But there were, like, four hundred people there. And I was completely wasted.” Teresa had to laugh at the admission, and Audrey flashed a peroxide smile. “Get in. I guess we’re going the same way.”

Teresa climbed in and buckled up as Audrey gunned the engine. With hardly a glance either way, she shot back onto the road.

“When did you get this car?” Teresa shouted over the wind and motor.

“In the divorce,” said Audrey, matter-of-fact. “Piece of crap, but I’m broke right now, so I’m stuck with it. What do you drive?”

“Nothing.”

“Seriously?”

“New York has excellent public transportation.”

“Socialist,” Audrey jeered. “This ain’t New York. Why were you walking?”

“Because you were late?” Teresa guessed. Audrey did a double take.

“Wait, what? Nobody told me to pick you up. I didn’t even know you were coming.”

Teresa’s anxiety, briefly quelled, rose up again.

“There was no one at the station. I figured Ilsa would get me. We spoke two days ago.”

“Ilsa,” Audrey scoffed. “She must be like a hundred years old now.”

“I don’t think she’s more than seventy. Maybe not even.”

“Whatever, at least you were wearing the right shoes.”

Teresa’s boots were low-heeled and comfortable. She never wore anything that was not good for walking. For her grandfather’s interview, she had put on a tasteful gray suit. Audrey was driving barefoot, but a pair of red pumps was jammed half under the seat. She wore tight black jeans and a white V-neck tee to show off her big tanned boobs. Because you never knew when you might meet a hot guy at your decrepit grandfather’s house.

“So qué pasa, Tay-ray? What’s going on in your life?”

The nickname came from her father Ramón’s pronunciation. Not the Anglicized Ta-ree-sa, but the Spanish Tay-ray-sa. For the Saint. James started calling her Tay-ray when they were four years old. She liked the name on his lips. With Audrey, it always sounded like a taunt.

“I’m back in school,” Teresa replied. “Graduate school.”

“I heard. Art appreciation or something?”

“It’s called art history,” she said impatiently. “Art appreciation is what your mother does at the country club.”

“My mother just got plowed there.” Audrey slid the sunglasses down and smirked. “A little defensive, are we?”

“No.”

“Are you painting? Isn’t that what you really wanted to do?”

“Watch the road.”

They had swung up on the rear of a gray Volvo. Its cautious speed annoyed Audrey beyond reason.

“This is ridiculous. Speed up or move over, granny.”

“Don’t,” Teresa said, sensing her cousin’s intention. “Do not try to pass her on this narrow—Audrey!”

The Lexus was already moving around the slower car, simultaneously shaping a very tight—and blind—curve. Teresa closed her eyes and prayed to the God in whom she no longer believed. When she opened them again they were accelerating along what must be the only straightaway in Langford. Audrey was hooting.

“Oh, Tay, you should see your face. Am I going to have to clean that seat?”

“I would punch you in the head if you weren’t driving.”

Audrey laughed even harder.

“I like this feisty you,” she declared. “You were such a drip as a kid. With your pasty skin and your books and your condition. Who knew you would grow up to be such a tough girl? All ninety pounds of you.”

It was a hundred and three, by why argue? Teresa had as much trouble keeping weight on as other women did losing it. It was actually a problem, but not one for which she would get any sympathy, so she learned not to discuss it.

“Is James at the house?” she asked, as much to change the subject as from real curiosity.

“Nope,” Audrey answered. “James and Kenny were yesterday. You and me today.”

“Oh.” Teresa tried to hide her disappointment, though her cousin surely noticed. She used to tease that James and Teresa would get married someday. “Why?”

“Why do you think?” Audrey said, smile gone sour. But her disgust was not with Teresa. “Boys first, then girls. Men have serious stuff to talk about, right? Careers, obligations, all that. Women, we’re just frivolous creatures.”

It probably doesn’t help that you act like a frivolous creature, Teresa wanted to say, but did not.

“I don’t think Grandpa feels that way. I don’t remember—”

“Exactly,” Audrey cut her off. “You don’t remember. You were how old the last time you saw him? Nine, ten?”

“I’m the same age as your brother.”

“So eleven. Both of you off in your own little world. Kenny and me were older, we saw what was going on. This family has always been about the boys.”

“Did James tell you why we’ve been summoned?”

“No,” Audrey said. “Little prick hasn’t returned my call. I’m guessing it’s to pass on some precious wisdom before the old geezer kicks it.”

Teresa recognized the brick pillars wreathed in ivy even as Audrey slowed for the turn. Sixty-Six Long Hill Road. Owl’s Point. The drive dipped down into a marsh with a narrow bridge, barely wide enough for the car. This was where they swam and canoed. Where Kenny caught the sand shark. Where he nearly drowned Audrey after she teased him once too often. It was as Teresa remembered, but also different. Smaller. They ascended again, through a grove of cedars and a huge bank of rhododendron. And there was the house. Three stories of red brick and slate. The blue shutters and door were faded. The steel cross on the lawn—the work of some second-tier sculptor—was rusted and had a branch wedged in the crossbar. There were no cars in sight. Audrey killed the engine, and silence fell over them.