The Italian Teacher(74)

Marsden, pulling the old man back, says: “Come on. You’re upset. But don’t go to extremes. You two are close. Don’t wreck that.”

“Close?” Bear says, shaking off the word.

“It’s true,” Marsden asserts. “It is.”

“Not fucking ‘close.’ He’s just the one I picked. Of all my kids, I picked that one.”

“For good reason,” Marsden says.

“Sure,” Bear concurs. “Ever wonder why, Charlie? Look at me. You can’t look at me?”

“I know why.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Same reason you chose my mother. Because nobody was as weak as us.”

“Untrue, Charlie. Untrue. Not because you’re weakest. Not for that. Reason I chose you, Charlie, is you were the genuine number. You know what I mean?”

Pinch shakes his head.

“Natty knew it too,” Bear continues. “That Charlie’s got something.” He mimes the act of drawing.

Marsden asks what they’re talking about. But it’s father and son now, nobody else present.

“Know how many letters Natty wrote me? How talented you were, how you were really something else? Typical mother stuff, I figured. Then you bring that picture to Larchmont.”

“Which you barely looked at.”

“I saw it all right. When you and Carol were out, I go in the guest room, open your suitcase—almost the first day you were with us. I take out that rolled-up canvas, spread it out. And, well well well!” he says, fixing on Pinch. “Natty wasn’t wrong. You had plenty to learn technically. But shit—you had something, Charlie: a style. Nobody can teach that. Gave me chills.” He points. “You had something, Charlie boy. Something special. And that is why I chose you.”

Perplexed, Pinch grabs his sideburns. “You told me I was terrible.”

“Let’s be clear, son. I said you’d never be an artist. And take a gander at yourself. Was I wrong? You honestly think I’d be tagging along to gallery openings of my own kid? Listen to me. Hear this. You work for me. Get it? You always worked for me.” He claps his hand on Pinch’s bicep, pinching hard. “And you dare steal? Get this: I win. You hear? I fucking win.” He taps his pipe onto the grass, a tiny heap of smoldering tobacco, stamps it out. “Call the police, Marsden.”

“I’m not calling anyone.”

“Hell you aren’t.”

“I’m bigger than you. Forget it.”

Bear lunges at Marsden, who easily holds him back. The old man loses his balance, then pushes back, shouting as he walks up the grass: “Off my property! Both of you! Now!”

“He’s had too much to drink,” Marsden tells Pinch. “Get out of here for a while. This’ll be okay. We’ll fix this. Just go for a while.”

Pinch finds himself driving, heartbeat thudding in his ears, leaning into a bend in the road, sick drunk, out of sync, foot on the clutch, gearing down. At the nearest town, he jerks to a halt in a supermarket parking lot. On the steering wheel, his fingers tremble. He hears his own breaths and Bear’s voice, shards of that man lodged in him.





59


Bear, who left his glasses back in the cottage, is stumbling toward the woods, barely staying upright on the uneven turf.

“Where are you going?” Marsden calls after him once Pinch has driven away. “Bear?”

“Where I goddamn please.” His shoe hits a stump and he falls to his knees, swearing. Marsden hastens over, takes the old man’s arm.

“Get offa me!” Bear snaps. “In my studio? Him? Looking at my work?”

It’s not only Pinch who has lost control of this situation, Marsden realizes. Because Bear cares about this son. At the very least, he needs him. But he’s gone too far. Marsden refuses to let it end like this—his own father rejected him years before and remains trapped by pride, unable to find a way back.

“Let’s just take a breath here,” Marsden says, helping the man to his feet. “Charles made a huge mistake. I’m not disputing that. He shouldn’t have gone in there, or sold anything. But he regrets it, Bear. And he’s your son.”

Bear grunts, shakes his head, walking onward into the woods, each footfall unsteady. Marsden hastens along, a step behind. “This isn’t safe, Bear. There’s nobody to help you that way.”

But Bear trudges on, grasping for the rope handrail of Marsden’s stairs, pulling himself up, one step at a time. Marsden stabilizes the old man until they reach the top, where the hiking paths begin. Bear takes the ascending trail, past a disused mine and mouths of caves. Beams of sunlight thrust through swaying leaves, sprinkling coins over the undergrowth. “Get,” he says breathlessly, “get the hell, the hell away from me!”

“We need to go back to the cottage. I’m serious. Bear, it was only one painting.”

“You don’t have a clue. ‘Just one painting’? That’s years of my life. Years!” Bear leans against a tree trunk, squinting, pained. “You don’t have a clue. But my son, on the other hand? He, of all people—he knows. For him to . . .”

Marsden takes a half step forward, reaches for the old man’s shoulder. He isn’t shucked off. “Don’t let this get out of control, Bear. You can’t backtrack from a huge blowup.”