Page 41 - WTP Vol. X #2

whole body, twisting from her torso, and the release felt grand. Her fierceness had sucked away her sad- ness. Vic would not share this work with Alfred.
Sated and tired, she sank into an old wicker chair and gulped water.
Alfred, Christian, male collectors and artists, galleries that rarely showed women painters, museums that never bought their work. Blue Hell stirred up the frayed circles of connection that had defined her life. Through it all, she had been Vilma, the strong pro- tector. That’s what her hateful Russian name meant. A curse. She, who had promoted Christian, who
had covered his mistakes and cushioned his nasti- ness, had defended his reputation at the expense of herself. Only she mattered at this precise moment. With a brush, filled with black paint, Vic signed her name on the wall. The letters pointed up to the rafter window that let in the Northern light. She claimed her husband’s favorite corner in the barn as hers.
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A week after Alfred’s visit, Vic found a white cake in a Pyrex container on her porch. A note was tucked be- neath it. We’re thinking of you. Call us. Alfred. Surely, Ellen, with her side-swept bangs and bright smile, had dropped it off. Vic didn’t like sweets. A carton
of cigarettes or a pound of coffee would have been better. Vic jabbed her finger into one side and licked it. Sugary stuff. She wiped the froth off the roof of her mouth and brought the lid back down.
As Vic held a fork later, ready to stab her baked beans and franks, Alfred called. “Listen, I’ve written you
and Christian into the Sterling’s books for this fall. Two separate shows.”
Vic hesitated. What was going on here? How smooth he sounded. “Why?”
“Because we want you both. Your show will be in September, Christian’s in November till the end of the year.”
“November till the end of the year,” she mimicked. “Just in time for holiday sales. How nice.”
She had heard from Grace that the Sterlings were in debt. Alfred needed to generate cash fast. Christian’s paintings would be a bonanza for them all. Not hers.
Alfred’s exhale was jagged. “You can show what you please in your exhibit.”
“You don’t like what I’m doing, Alfred.”
“That doesn’t matter. I admire you.”
“Yes, it does matter. You can’t give me a show if you can’t champion it. As you well know, you must feed the reviewers with the words to love me. If you don’t, they’ll resort to the tired prattle about the “art widow” who paints in her dead husband’s barn. I won’t have that.”
Little drumbeats stirred in Vic’s head. The gallery would feature Christian with Vic as an add-on, a cu- riosity in the back room. She didn’t want that. Alfred tapped the phone receiver. She knew him; he was pausing and thinking coolly. “You need a solo show in the city, Vic. I can’t control what people write.”
“But you do all the time.”
He cleared his throat. She could feel him choosing his words carefully, summoning a manly bravado in
his voice. “You and I are both strategists, Vic. Might you consider it? It would be a shame to cancel both shows.”
“I don’t think so, Alfred.”
“Vilma, we go way back. I’m sure that we can reach an understanding.”
He had no right to call her Vilma—those two harsh syllables that made her lips smack together. Only Grace and Christian could. Early in their relationship, in one stroke of brilliance, Christian strode into her New York studio, grabbed a brush and scrawled “VIC” in black paint on her canvas. “There you go,” he said. “Viewers will think you’re a man.”
Vic smiled, pleased. “Then I’ll get more respect.”
Her jaw jutted into the phone receiver. In the past, she might have said yes to Alfred because they were hungry for money and recognition. Compromises were made. Vic could wait now and by so doing drive up the value of Christian’s paintings.
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