The Weight of Nothing Read online

  I went next to locate one of my magic books that I knew had a chapter on making objects disappear, and after scanning references to ancient magicians, sorcerers, and swamis, finally found what I was looking for in a section translated from a Hindu diary written in the thirteenth century. I did as the book instructed, covered the items with a sheet while concentrating my middle eye, raising my arms high overhead as I chanted the lyrical incantation, “In-wa-nee,” on and on for several minutes, so absorbed in the process that I forgot the time and didn’t hear Shannon unlock the door.

  Confused, she glanced quickly between me and the empty space on the wall, then turned and saw her photo missing from the shelf, and flung back the sheet as I continued to chant, “In-wa-nee. In-wa-nee,” my heart pounding as my trick was exposed and Shannon’s face went pale. She gathered up her books, the Diebenkorn print, and a change of clothes and left the apartment without another word. I spent the night packing her belongings, moving all that wasn’t mine into piles near the door, staying out as much as I could the next day so Shannon could pick up her things while I wasn’t there. I didn’t get home until very late, and once in bed dreamed of making love to a faceless woman, to someone who wasn’t Shannon, and woke the next morning alone.

  At five to three, I left the bench and walked inside the School of Art where I decided to try and catch Mel before going up to Dr. Freidrich’s office. Melaine Haflestier was a well-respected scholar with three books published on Mordecai Ardon-Bronstein and the cross-hatched landscape of abstract art, Expressionism, and Cubism. At fifty, she was a plump version of John De Andrea’s Freckled Woman, almost handsome with opaline skin and a thick raven mane of hair, her shoulders and hips somewhat large, her eyes emerald blue, her breasts heavy with the passage of time. Maternal and protective—our relationship dated back to my first days at the university when I took her survey class on European Art Post-1950 and impressed her with my paper on Georges Braque—she came to mentor my perceived ambitions. A woman of great resilience, Mel’s ability to maintain a sense of sanity in situations otherwise rife with disaster a glorious thing to behold, she threw a party the day her divorce became final and danced a jig on a wooden sun deck flecked with children’s play sand. Still, she often found herself at a loss when dealing with me and couldn’t help joining the others now in condemning the delinquent approach I took toward my dissertation.

  “Got a minute?” I caught her just as she was about to leave her office and tried backing her inside, but she cut me off with a quick “I do not,” and stopping me from delivering an excuse for postponing our meeting, grabbed hold of my elbow. “You can’t escape,” she said, and turned me toward the stairs.

  I assured her, “I’m not trying to skip out. I just want to gauge the climate.”

  “Have you brought your chapters?”

  “Actually better,” I replied, not yet sure what I meant by this, and when Mel exclaimed, “Don’t tell me you’ve finished!” I felt almost guilty and could barely bring myself to disappoint her. “No, no. Not that. Something else.”

  Dr. Freidrich’s office was on the fourth floor. Melaine’s was on the third, while my small space was in the basement beside the room where the potters blast their works in the kiln. (During office hours I can feel the heat through the wall.) Mel tightened her grip on my arm and continued moving us along. “If this is another attempt on your part to stall,” she said, but I promised her to the contrary, insisted I had news which would please everyone, and still unclear what I was talking about, added just the same, “Really, something.”

  Melaine frowned, her right shoulder bumping against me as we walked. “No one’s in the mood for games.”

  “Shall I tell you?” I invited her to become a coconspirator in my fiction, the proposition giving Mel pause before she turned me down. “Surprise me,” she said.

  We arrived together at Dr. Freidrich’s office, where Josh Needleman was already seated in front of Jim Freidrich’s desk, and called out as I entered, “Well, well. Look who decided to show after all.”

  “Ye of little faith.”

  “Me? Not for a minute.” I’d known Josh since he was still an adjunct, a plump figure in Brooks Brothers slacks and paisley shirts, a self-professed authority on post-painterly abstraction, his one publication remained a little-read volume printed at a cost covered by his grandfather and titled The Hard Edge of Josef Albers in Abstract Form. In his book, Josh claimed Albers, Barnett Newman, Ad Reinhardt, and Morris Louis all belonged in one homogeneous group despite their varied training, philosophy, and approach to Art, and whenever I pointed out their distinctions, referring to Albers’s Bauhaus-influenced Curious (1963) and the inspiration Morris Louis took from Pollack and Frankenthaler, by way or Clement Greenberg, as in Untitled (1959) for example, Josh shook his fleshy jowls and bellowed at the insignificance of my interpretation.

  I moved toward Dr. Freidrich’s desk and greeted the head of our department with a wary, “Jim.”

  “Finne.”

  “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Although James Freidrich’s specialty was High Renaissance and he’d written two seminal books on Raphael and the frescoes at Perugia, an abstract print of Sam Francis’s Blue on a Point hung on the far wall. An unwilling inductee to late middle age, determined to put up the good fight, he’d replaced his framed copy of Maddalena Doni with newer art, divorced the first Mrs. F. and supplanted her, too, with a younger model, a postmodern nova who favored de Kooning to Da Vinci, Sting to Stravinsky, and Ecstasy to scotch. In order to demonstrate his youth to students and staff, he touched up the grey in his sideburns and let his hair grow slightly long, invited Stephen Westfall to speak at the graduation luncheon, added post-1990s art to the curriculum, and tofu to his diet. Despite these changes, he remained an old-school administrator, a strict adherent to specific rules of performance, loath to casual attitudes or methods in conflict with standard forms of review. He gave me a moment to settle my feet in front of the desk, then said, “You have something for me?”

  Melaine took a seat in the one remaining chair while I stood front and center. From this point forward our meeting became a game of chess in which I was expected to play with only my pawns and a single horse, while Josh—in all his sycophantic glory—teamed with Jim Freidrich and brought extra bishops, rooks, and knights to their side of the board. The others waited for me to make the first move, and knowing it was in my best interest not to seem hesitant, I mounted a calculated offense. “I’ve got good news. If you recall, there are several references in my dissertation to L.C. Timbal.”

  “It’s hard to remember anything from your dissertation, Finne, given how little we’ve seen of it,” Josh grinned at Dr. Freidrich. I weathered the interruption, glanced toward Mel for support, still unsure where I was going, and surprised everyone—including myself—with the claim, “I’ve been in touch with Timbal.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You have?”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Come on now, Finne.”

  “It’s true. I wrote him a letter after his exhibit in London, and contacted him again when his wife died last year.”

  Josh shook his fat head while Jim Freidrich twirled the index finger of his right hand around several times in order to show he wanted me to get to the point. Proceeding then with an absence of caution, I said, “Timbal’s invited me to visit him.”

  “Ha!”

  “He’s agreed to an interview.”

  “Come on, Finne.” Incredulous, Josh snapped, “You and L.C. Timbal? I don’t believe it. Timbal’s dropped off the face of the earth. He hasn’t given an interview in years.”

  “I know where he is.”

  “So what? Everyone knows more or less where he is. That’s hardly news.”

  “But he’s invited me to visit him,” I said again, caught up in my own deception and Josh’s rebuke. “In order to prepare,” I continued then before Josh could say another word, �
�I’ve had to neglect my current chapters in order to concentrate on a full examination of Timbal s career. I want to write an extensive piece and explain what happened in London. I believe I can finish by the end of the summer and incorporate the article into my dissertation. Publishing the piece separately will be a coup for the university and our department, don’t you think?” I expected Josh to burst out laughing any second and denounce my claim once more while demanding proof. (Under the circumstances, I couldn’t blame him.) I no longer looked toward Melaine, certain she was disappointed, and while I assumed she wouldn’t give me away and challenge my story in front of the others, I knew she must suspect I’d lost my mind. (L.C. Timbal after all!) I waited for Dr. Freidrich to reply, and answered when he asked, “When exactly is this visit supposed to take place?”

  “In a few weeks.”

  “And how is it you came by his address in the first place?”

  “I mailed a card to his New York address. It must have been forwarded because he wrote me back.”

  “And he is still overseas?”

  “Yes.”

  “But this is ridiculous,” Josh leaned closer to Dr. Freidrich’s desk. “He wants us to believe he and Timbal are pen pals, that while Timbal’s refused to speak with anyone since what happened in London, he’s suddenly invited a graduate student with no credentials to visit him and write an article.”

  “As I said.”

  “It’s absurd!”

  “Not really,” Melaine surprised everyone then by piping in. “When you stop and think about it, Timbal’s problem is with established critics and the press. Why not Bailey under the circumstance, since he isn’t one of them? If Timbal wants to discuss what happened now, it makes perfect sense he’d choose an unknown. Besides, I’ve seen the letters.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes.”

  “From Timbal?”

  “What did I just say, Josh?”

  “All right,” Dr. Freidrich shot a look toward Mel, no doubt debating whether to demand a review of the letters for himself, and deciding not to call my bluff—in deference to Melaine I was sure—he placed his hands behind his head and passed judgement. “OK, Finne, I’ll give you until the end of the summer to produce this piece on Timbal. And if for some reason our famous friend fails to follow through on his invitation, I’ll expect you to turn in the whole of your dissertation before the start of fall semester. Anything short of this and I’ll assume you no longer wish to be part of our program and I’ll find someone else to fill your slot. Do I make myself clear?”

  I accepted the terms at once, satisfied to have scored a brief reprieve, and wishing everyone a good summer, left the office quickly. I got only a few feet into the hall however, before Melaine again caught hold of my arm and ushered me toward the stairs. The firmness of her grip remained intact as we descended to the third-floor landing where she stopped and turned me around. Her features were pinched, her lips squeezed together, the coloring in her cheeks accenting her choler. I wondered whether I should apologize but sensing she didn’t want any sort of concession, I simply thanked her for helping out. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll get everything together by the end of the summer.”

  Her eyes were like my mother’s, powerful and beautiful and sad. The comparison didn’t surprise me, I had noticed the similarity before, but the timing was curious. If Melaine had become a mother figure, why did I go out of my way to disappoint and expose her to my nonsense, pushing her into corners and forcing her to come to my defense? (“Why, indeed, Bailey?” Emmitt posed the same question in turn.) At such moments I couldn’t help wonder why I didn’t simply finish my dissertation and be done with it, but each time I tried to answer I wound up ambushed by another riddle instead. As a follower of both abstemious and eudaemonistic principles, I assumed contentment came in the absence of ambition, that all joy flowed from narrow expectations, and if I sacrificed security and pension while neglecting traditional forms of progress and transporting myself from point A to point В and so on down the line, I gained in the exchange all my days to do as I pleased without heartache or disappointment, and wasn’t this then the perfect way to get by?

  Melaine dropped my arm, turned and slapped my shoulder before walking me again toward her office. The loose sweater she had on rode up and down as if small animals were trying to escape from beneath. “Why Timbal?” she wanted to know. “Why not Picasso?”

  “Picasso’s dead.”

  “So? Would your story be any more implausible?” she refused to indulge me, her voice exasperated, resentful of the position I had once again put her in. She looked at me then as if the world had never known a bigger fool, and hoping just the same to produce something positive from this latest mess I created, she insisted, “You have to know Freidrich would like nothing better than to see you produce a firsthand piece on Timbal. He’s not the enemy. He’s actually rooting for you to complete your dissertation.”

  “And put me on tenure track, I’m sure.”

  “That isn’t the point. That hasn’t even come up. Since when are you interested in a full professorship anyway?”

  “Bingo,” I gave a nod of my head and reminded her that once my dissertation was done my adjunct position was over.

  Again, Mel chimed, “But that isn’t the point. One thing at a time. You have to finish what you start and move on from there.” She opened the door to her office, turned back around and barred me from coming in, wanting me to consider her words without distilling them in further debate. I granted her this and remained in the hall, adjusting my backpack as it hung off my shoulder. Melaine tried to keep her expression severe, but her overall concern outweighed her anger, her face full and fat and warm. I watched her features soften, saw her make an effort to show that her worry transcended the crisis of my dissertation, and adjusting the neck of her sweater, she asked about Elizabeth.

  The reference caught me unprepared and I answered on reflex, “She’s great.”

  “When does she leave on her tour?”

  “Soon.”

  “And you?”

  “Me?”

  “I thought you were going with her.”

  “But I have Timbal.”

  “Bailey.”

  “What? Now you don’t believe me?” I continued to stall at giving her a straight answer, though in the end I was unable to resist, and added, “It seems we’re in the same boat, old Timbal and me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Our predicament.”

  “Which is?”

  “The way we both lost our girls.”

  “Don’t tell me!”

  “His wife, remember?”

  “Bailey!” Melaine stepped out of her office, her arms flailing like wings, her instinct to extend comfort though she was angry once more, and knowing me well enough she couldn’t help but ask, “What have you done this time? Not Elizabeth. Not her. Jesus, Bailey! What did you do?”

  I gave her a second to look me over, offering with my eyes whatever truth was there to find before backing away and walking toward the stairs where I called out as if insulted, shaking my head while sounding exactly like my father in all his huff and howling, “But I didn’t do a thing. Nothing, really. It wasn’t my fault. Why is everyone so quick to point the finger at me?”

  CHAPTER 6

  SEVERAL VIEWS FROM DIFFERENT PLACES

  “All right, Bailey, let’s try again. What’s the last thing you remember?”

  “That would be your asking me what’s the last thing I remember.”

  “Can you be serious, please?”

  “Sorry. The last thing before what?”

  Emmitt takes a moment to write a few more lines down on his pad, then says, “I have a better idea. Let’s do some free association.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Humor me.”

  “Whatever you say, doctor.”

  “All right. Fear.”

  “And loathing.”

  “Life.”
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  “And death.”

  “Mother.”

  “Teresa.”

  “Father.”

  “Time.”

  “Brother.”

  “Where art thou?”

  “Is that the best you can do?”

  “Am I supposed to answer?”

  “Love.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m asking you to associate.”

  “I understand. If you could just repeat what you said.”

  “Love.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Enough, Bailey.”

  “But Emmitt, I’m only doing what you asked me.”

  Franklin Finne stands on the thirty-fourth floor of the Ryse & Fawl Building, looking down at the street from the window of an office he slipped into earlier that morning. After a while, a girl in a beige spring coat and brown leather bag slung over her shoulder appears below, looking much like Maria as she used to approach the Reedum & Wepe years before. Half drunk and with his head against the glass, hoping to fool himself however briefly, Franklin knows this is the reason he came downtown. He watches the girl move along and disappear inside the building.

  The ritual of his return—once a year on their anniversary—follows a night of such extreme imbibing he wishes now he’d brought a bottle to help clear his head. At Finnigan’s, he pulled three snapshots from his wallet and drank a toast to each. There was Tyler at fourteen, in black T-shirt, black boots, and jeans; Bailey at a similar age photographed by Germaine; and Maria in the garden beside a dogwood tree. He drank to his dead wife, “Dear love. Dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear”; to his first born, “Tyler Finne not seen in ages”; and then to Bailey, “Babe of the brood and wastrel, too, in the family tradition.” Whiskey helped drown all that cleaved. It also cost him his job at Kendrecke Construction. In recent years, he was employed as a general laborer, groundskeeper and mason, cab driver, factory worker, and for the past six months as a security guard assigned to Our Lady of the Sorrows Hospital, where he stood stolid for many long hours each day in his untailored blue uniform, rubber-soled shoes, and stiff-brimmed cap, like St. Camillus de Lellis guarding the halls of the healers, he remained otherwise solitary and unnoticed.