Tips for Living(15)
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.
The front room of the exhibition offers the prosaic Self-Portrait with Nora Making Coffee, Self-Portrait with Nora Bathing and other tranquil, domestic scenes. From there, Walker delves into the darker aspects of his personal life. Self-Portrait with Nora in Cell is a frightening, claustrophobic image of his former muse beside the artist in a shadowy, tunnel-like space. In another powerful, untitled work, Nora is depicted, disturbingly, as part mythical beast looming threateningly over the sleeping artist in their marital bed.
The back room of the gallery introduces Walker’s new source of inspiration by way of homage to Ono and Lennon. The jubilant Self-Portrait with Pregnant Helene (interestingly, not for sale) has an entire wall to itself. Hanging opposite is the show’s pièce de résistance: the artist sketching Nora, who lies curled on the floor of his studio, having discovered the fact of his mistress’s pregnancy. Walker titled it Self-Portrait with Nora, Knowing.
Walker manages to capture the deep psychological pain and turmoil that comes when a marriage unravels, as well as the hope new love can inspire, all while pushing the aesthetic boundaries of the self-portrait form. This is a masterful show. Don’t miss it.
Chapter Three
Two dark blue Crown Victorias with county police seals were parked in front of the garage. Alongside them, a white county coroner’s “Crime Scene Section” van. Aunt Lada’s opera glasses provided a fragmented view of the entire spread in a series of close-ups that I could piece together for the bigger picture. Panning from left to right, I came across one of Pequod’s police officers standing guard in the driveway. He looked like Lt. Crawley but it was hard to tell if it was him for sure. He had the hood on his yellow slicker drawn up.
Crawley knew me from my weekly drop-ins to the station. Editing the police reports for the Courier’s Police Blotter was part of my job. When I picked them up at the precinct, I’d usually find him reading the sports pages and resenting the interruption. Besides Crawley, I counted eight county officers in gray Stetsons and black rain gear patrolling the woods that shielded Hugh’s estate from the road. Without a doubt, this was a murder scene.