Robin Black - Life Drawing

“I’m sorry.” I couldn’t keep the phrase in. “I fucked up. I really did. I understand that. But it wasn’t … There was nothing, Owen. Nothing.”

He looked at me, not acknowledging my words. “At first, I didn’t believe her. But there were details. Little things. I thought she was lying. At first. Because I’d really discounted this possibility. The lies. I really thought we had gotten past that part. The deceit. As humiliating as that is. How gullible I was.”

I wanted to say that we had gotten past that part. But we hadn’t. I wanted it to be true. But it wasn’t.

“I don’t expect you to believe this,” I said. “But that’s everything. What she told you. That I got upset when I heard he was remarrying. Because it opened up old wounds. That’s all. Not because I … not because I want him anymore. I don’t. And then he wrote me and I wrote back. Once. But there was nothing more. In years. All these years. I don’t expect you to believe me,” I said again.

Owen looked away, shaking his head. “The stupid part is that I do believe you. Mostly. I’m just not sure it matters. How much or how little you lied about. I suppose it does. But … not really.”

“I don’t know. It matters some. It has to matter some.”

“She begged me, you know. Begged me to admit that we have something real, me and her. Something real. That was the phrase. Just, Jesus, just this afternoon. She begged me to admit what we had. And I looked at her, Gus, and I realized what I had done to this girl. How I’ve been using her. All along. It hasn’t mattered what I’ve said to her, she’s just been assuming. Assuming and hoping. She was staring at me as if it was obvious what would happen next. And I saw this girl, this young girl I have been using, with her deer-in-the-headlights look.”

“Don’t say that. Not that.”

“But it’s true. And I was the car that was barreling toward her.”

“Jesus, Owen. You didn’t kill her.”

“I’ve had a lot of time to think today,” he repeated. “And I have no fucking clue where this leaves us.”

“You aren’t going to … you don’t want to be with her?”

“Have you been listening, Gus? Have you even heard a word I just said?”

“Yes. Sort of. I don’t know. You’re worried about hurting her.”

“Well, what would any young girl think? No matter what I said to her? I played her.”

“That’s not my point.”

“What is your point?”

“Just … does it matter at all that you hurt me? Or have I forfeited that?”

He shrugged. “I was desperate. Hurt. Wanting to …”

“Be adored? Because I adore you. I adore you, Owen.”

“I was going to say, have it all. But yes. Be adored. Be adored and have that rush. That thing that happens. You know, it killed me, afterward, back then, after you told me, the big confession, and I realized how much painting you had done. All those months. For him. It was … it was almost as bad as the rest of it. All that work you did for him. It’s why I’ve always loved that one.” He turned toward the doorway, toward the living room. “It was the first painting you did after that. I knew it wasn’t for him. All the others from the time with him …” He shook his head. “I fucking hate those paintings.”

“I always knew you would even the score,” I said. “Or the universe would.”

“I wasn’t doing that. Not consciously.”

“I don’t know, Owen. Maybe not. But I always knew I couldn’t get away with what I’d done to you. Not without paying up.”

“The universe doesn’t work that way, Gus. Evening scores. Making life fair. I thought we agreed on that long ago.”

I frowned. “Maybe. Maybe it doesn’t. But … we’re our own kind of universe. And I always knew there’d be some kind of reckoning.”

We sat silent for a long time after that.

“I don’t trust you, Gus,” he finally said. “And I’m torn.”

“Okay. But torn is a start. Right?”

“I can’t imagine life without you. Not at this point. But I am so fucking angry at you. Do you understand that? Do you get it that I’m too angry even to sound angry? I am weary with it all. Wearier than I have ever been. Too weary to think about what it’s going to take to glue this back together again.”

I started to cry.

“This isn’t going to be fun,” he said. “I need that to be clear. This isn’t me forgiving you. Or saying you’ll ever earn back my trust. This is … this is something else. I thought for hours today.”

“Eleven hours,” I said.

“I tried to figure out why I didn’t just walk out on you back then. Because that was the one upside of not having kids, wasn’t it? That we could just call it quits. Nothing holding us together. Except us. And I thought today, maybe I should have.”

“No. You shouldn’t have.” I wiped my nose on my sleeve.

He pulled a paper napkin out from the holder. “Here,” he said. “Use this. I don’t know, Gus. Maybe I should have,” he said. “But I didn’t. And that’s a mystery to me. That’s the mystery at the center of it all. And that’s what’s keeping me here still. That mystery. I just couldn’t have been so wrong. And there’s something else.” He paused, as if I might guess. “Back then,” he said, “you didn’t have to come back to me. Even if what’s his name didn’t want you. You didn’t have to come back. But you did. You did even though … even though it meant no children, not mine anyway. You … you had to love me. And that’s the thing, Gus. We both stayed. Really. I just don’t understand all this. Why we’re still us, unless we’re truly meant to be. But I am so, so …” He closed his eyes. “… So, so unbelievably sick of not being able to believe the things you say.”

“I know.”

He opened his eyes. “And I owe that girl an apology.”

“Oh, Owen, I really don’t think you do. She isn’t a child. She tried … she almost succeeded.”

“I used her,” he said. “And I owe her an apology. I just don’t know if it makes it better. Or worse.”

“I yelled at her, Owen. After you left.” I didn’t want to tell him, but I wasn’t going to start anew with another cover-up. “I pretty much called her a cunt and told her to go fuck herself. Alison too.”

He frowned a bit, then nodded. “Yeah. I should have guessed that.” He put his hands on the table and stood. “I’m going to sleep, Gus. Out in the barn. I don’t know about tomorrow. I’m not making some kind of policy decision, so don’t freak out. I just need a little space tonight. It’s like … it’s like all of a sudden today I realized there’s this giant overwhelming task that belongs to me. To us.”

“You make it sound pretty joyless.”

“Do I?” He frowned. “I don’t mean to. It isn’t joyless. You aren’t joyless. For me. We aren’t. But we are a life’s work, aren’t we? We are, like you said, we are a universe. You and me. Our own fucked-up, beautiful, inexplicable universe.” He walked toward the door, as if to leave on that note.

“Good night,” I said.

He turned back around. “You are my family, Gus,” he said. “That’s all. Now, go get some sleep.”

Ididn’t sleep much that night. I went to my studio to paint. It was the only answer I could give. To try to let Owen’s love be the source of more art. Good, bad, or indifferent. That was all I could think to do. Maybe I was tired — I was surely tired — and incoherent in my thinking, but I wanted to make up for the work I had done for Bill.

I had been given another chance. Again. We had been altered. Again. And we would go on. Again. Somehow.

“We are a life’s work, aren’t we?” Owen had asked.