Al was married to Sinead, one of my Pilates classmates—Sinead O’Halloran-Rudinsky. Their Irish-Polish union produced four kids, and Al was always low on money. In fact, he was months behind on payments for his ads. Ben had reluctantly put him on notice. No more credit. This was the last day to buy space in the Summer Lawn and Garden insert, an important advertising platform for Al’s Tidy Pools, Irrigation and Landscaping Service.
“The ad department is gone for the day,” I said, indicating the closed door to the back office where our accounting and advertising staff work. “Everyone is. But I’ll make sure Ben gets your money. He might be okay with extending the deadline since you brought in your payment today.” I smiled at him. “In fact, I’ll lobby for it.”
Al crossed the floor in his bowlegged stride and handed me a manila envelope with his big, dirty hand. He looked down at the mud he’d tracked in, chagrined.
“Sorry, I tried to get it all off.”
“It’s all right, Al. No big deal. I’ll sweep it up later.”
He bent down and began to scoop up the clumps of wet earth with his bare hands.
“Can you tell Ben I’m sorry, I really meant to get here earlier? I had a rush job out at Pequod Point,” he said, straightening up.
I drew back. My antennae went up. Could he mean Hugh and Helene’s house?
“Oh? What job was that?”
He shoved the dirt into his coverall pocket and wiped his hands on his thighs. “Biggest property I handle. New owners moved in today, and they want everything done yesterday. Had to get the pool cleaned, replace the filter motor and dig out a busted sprinkler line. Four thirty came around, I told them I had to make an important delivery and I’d come back to finish,” he said, indicating the envelope, “but the lady of the house insisted I stay or not come back at all.”
I sat up in my chair and frowned, unable to hold my tongue. “That wasn’t very nice.”
Al nodded in agreement. “Summer People. But the husband is an interesting guy. An artist. I’ve done jobs for some artists out here in the summers before. They like the light.” He spotted another clump of mud on the floor, snatched it up and pocketed it. “Saw him unwrapping paintings in his studio while I worked on the pool. He’s painted lots of pictures of himself with his wife. One of them was pretty wild—with him naked, curled around her when she was pregnant.” He shrugged. “Guess she inspires him.”
“Sounds like it,” I snapped.
Fortunately, Al didn’t seem to notice.
“You know, I used to do some drawing. I drove in at night to take classes at the Brooklyn Museum. This is before Sinead and the kids. No time now,” he said wistfully. “Well, I’d better get home. Thanks for putting in a word with Ben.” He headed out, stopped at the door and turned back for a second. “Really sorry about the floor, Nora.”
A kind of compulsion came over me. It grew worse by the hour. I had to see what Hugh’s $2.5 million life with Helene was like. I waited until eleven o’clock. Then I drove to the Dune Golf Club and parked.
I wasn’t frightened of running into anyone. The club closed after sunset. Even trespassing hunters didn’t start stalking deer until October. I trekked under a full moon so bright there was no need for a flashlight.
The turnoff to the duck blind was easy to locate, marked on either side by large, gray rocks. I knew the spot would have at least a partial view of Pequod Point. The last time Grace and I hiked to the blind, we could see a house under construction across the water. I tramped down there, pushed open the door and sat on the wooden bench inside.
The house on the opposite shore was less than seventy-five yards ahead as the duck flies. Probably a five-minute slog through the seagrass along the inlet’s shaggy coastline, or on higher ground, a two-minute run. The view was even better than I expected—an almost-clear sight line over the top of the grass. I could only make out the parts that were lit, but with Aunt Lada’s glasses, they were visible in detail. On two sides, towering walls made of glass revealed an open-plan kitchen, dining and living room area with a mammoth stone fireplace. A de Kooning hung over the mantel, a Rauschenberg on the adjacent wall. Even with moving boxes all over the room, it was easy to see this was a spectacular home.
It was cool that May night. Hugh reclined on the couch in jeans and a sweatshirt. Helene came out of the kitchen carrying two glasses of wine. She wore shorts and what I recognized as one of Hugh’s flannel plaid shirts. She sat down and snuggled against him as they sipped their wine in front of the fire. Watching him wrap his leg around hers, I felt a tug in my chest. I knew the warmth and firmness of his thigh. For the first time in years, I let myself miss Hugh’s touch. He rolled over and kissed her, and I remembered his salty taste. The light flick of his tongue. The way he liked to blow softly on the back of my neck. My heart ached so badly, I thought I might be having a heart attack. He fondled Helene’s breast, and I couldn’t look away. Was I that masochistic? Would I actually stay and watch them make love?
Their daughter saved me from myself. Callie staggered into the living room in her pink pajamas, rubbing her eyes, apparently unable to sleep. Built long and lean like her father, she had Hugh’s dark curls. I couldn’t distinguish her features under her mass of hair, but I was sure she must be beautiful because both her parents were. Helene pulled her close. I watched her stroke Callie’s head and comfort her, and as I did, I wept. I dropped Aunt Lada’s glasses and doubled over, hugging myself, wailing, rolling on the blind’s dirty floor like I was possessed.
“How could you give her my child?” I gasped.
I cried so much I was sure there was no feeling left.
At last I’m done, I thought. I’m cured.
From the New York Journal
Picks of the Week: Hugh Walker’s
Scenes from a Marriage
By Davis Kimmerle
Hugh Walker’s show at the Abbas Masout Gallery is nothing short of a revelation. Walker has taken artistic risks before, for better and worse. His early self-portraits, works like Self-Portrait with Monkeys, an homage to Frida Kahlo, were bold but essentially derivative. His New York Portraits delivered both originality and a distinctive style. With The Nora Series—self-portraits that included his ex-wife, Nora Glasser—we saw a major American artist heading into his prime. But in Scenes from a Marriage, his first show since last year’s very public divorce, Walker has succeeded in securing his place in the pantheon as a mature artist capable of depth and pathos.