The Office of Historical Corrections(29)

The Long-Suffering Ex-wife felt vindicated by her suspicion that this had been some kind of publicity stunt and refused to participate. The Daughter was embarrassed by the thought of being in a room with her father and a cloud of women he had treated badly, though she couldn’t say for certain whether she was embarrassed by him or for him. The On-Again Off-Again Ex of His Wayward Youth was on her uncanceled vacation in Paris with her lover’s tongue between her legs. The Short-Suffering Second Ex-wife thought it would be embarrassing to go if the first wife wasn’t going to bother. The Model/Actress intended to show up late and make an entrance. The Former Personal Assistant imagined being forced to hug him in front of a crowd and swore not to go, and then imagined the feeling she’d have hugging him, especially if he looked into her eyes and said he was sorry, and thought she might go after all, and RSVP’d, and then, standing in front of the mirror looking at herself in a cocktail dress the day of, remembered that when he’d left her for the last time—brokenhearted and unemployed!—he had left her curled up sobbing in a ball on her kitchen floor, remembered that whole horrid year after, the year before she clawed her way out of that life and into this one. She took off the dress, and called a friend who also remembered that year, and so sat in the Former Personal Assistant’s living room for hours blocking the front door of her apartment in case she got it in her head to change her mind.



* * *



—

The gallery was three large rooms. In the first, the films played, projected against one wall, while the pop-up bar, complete with drinks and bartenders, was reproduced along the wall opposite. In the second room, the app was available on a touchscreen, and pictures of the billboards in their original context had been framed and mounted. In the bathrooms, in case anyone became overwhelmed by their personal apology and needed a minute, there were thoughtful but generic apologies carved into the mirror glass and printed on the tissues.

The third room contained the mouth of a volcano. It looked to be made of ice but gave off real smoke. There was a short staircase leading to a platform at the volcano’s lip. The artist stood on the platform. The point of the volcano room, said a sign at the entrance, was that if anyone was unsatisfied with his apology, he would keep trying. If anyone came into the room still wanting him inside of a volcano, he would not leave until he got it right. If he made it worse, he should be pushed in.

There were more critics and arts-and-culture writers in the gallery than apology recipients, and those who bothered to show up had mostly made their peace. The artist stood quietly on the platform near the volcano for nearly an hour. Shannon came into the volcano room and yelled at him and he consoled her; it was easy, he had, after all, known her since she was a child. The Model/Actress’s limo circled the block, waiting for the right moment of entrance while her people debated which angle of entry had the best natural light for her to walk in. The Girl Who Was So Stunned by Her Apology It Sent Her to Therapy walked in and out of the gallery several times, trying to find the right words for her question but never did and left without asking it.

The Girl Who Had Wondered All These Years What to Call It watched the artist apologize to Shannon, and when Shannon left, she came up to the platform. It took the artist a moment to recognize her, and when he did he was soft with her, but he could not explain what he had done to her and neither could she, and it felt unfair to her that she should have to find the words. He had apologized already for causing her pain. He had apologized already for ignoring her pain when he knew it was there, because he’d been an ass and his pleasure existed independent of it. But now he fumbled for what was left to be sorry for. He was sorry he hadn’t been kinder the morning after? He was sorry he’d been too kind the night before and made himself seem like a different type of man? He was sorry she didn’t get what she wanted? What had she wanted? She had the same feeling she’d had when he unceremoniously handed her back her underwear. Like it was a technicality that she hadn’t specifically told him she wanted to be treated like a person. She came closer. She pushed. When he fell, everyone waited for his reemergence. It did not come. Security ushered people out of the gallery. An ambulance came. The volcano had a pit of hot liquid. No one but the artist had known exactly what was inside. It was not literally lava, but might as well have been. They tried to pull him out. It was too late. It had been too late immediately.

The On-Again Off-Again Ex of His Wayward Youth thought it was carelessness, that the artist had always been more about vision than details, that, truthfully, some of his art was brilliant but much of it had always been sloppy, and he’d probably been more concerned that the lava look right than that it be safe to fall into or give him time to get out. The Long-Suffering Ex-wife and the Short-Suffering Second Ex-wife both thought he’d planned it this way, to go out on his own terms and still make it someone else’s fault. The Girl Who Had Wondered All These Years What to Call It did not know what to think and did not face charges, but she spent the next few years in and out of hospitals. The High School Sweetheart never thought of him again. The Former Personal Assistant thought maybe he’d been supposed to find a grip or foothold on the inside somewhere, but had slipped. The Daughter thought he might have staged it, that there might have been a trick exit somewhere. Quietly she waited years, well into her adulthood, for him to come back and tell her how it worked.

The Model/Actress knew: the volcano was dangerous because he’d never actually expected to be in it. He had always counted on being good enough in the end. He had counted on absolution. He had counted on love. “Thank you,” he was going to say when everyone was appeased, while he stood on the platform and dramatically revealed the volcano’s violent core. “Your generosity tonight has saved my life again.” He thought the Forgiveness was his to declare. It was right there in the title.