The Black Painting. Neil Olson

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       4

      In a fever dream she rose and fell. Surfacing, she was in the bedroom at Owl’s Point. It was day, but the light through the curtains was weak. Rain spattered the window. Her skin was hot and damp. James stood next to the bed, watching her with a clinical concern. He was a boy again, or still, or always.

      Is she going to die?

      She better not, said another voice. Or we’ll get the blame.

      We didn’t make her sick.

      We’re in charge of her until they get back from burying Grandma.

      Why isn’t Ilsa in charge?

      Don’t be stupid, Audrey said. Ilsa’s the help. We’re family.

      James leaned in and touched her burning neck with his cool finger. His touch was soothing.

      I don’t want her to die.

      Then get your hands off her, Audrey said.

      Why? he asked, pulling away.

      Because you’re the Angel of Death. Everyone you touch dies.

      I am not, he screamed. James rarely raised his voice, and the pained cry was awful to hear. That’s not true. That’s not true.

      All right, Audrey groaned. Shut up, I’m sorry. She slumped down in the window seat. God, this is boring. Tell me if she stops breathing.

      James leaned close again, careful not to touch her. There were angry tears in his eyes. Don’t die, Tay. Please. I’m going to help you, Tay.

      She was pulled under, into a black and suffocating silence. She struggled, not seeing, not breathing, a red flashing behind her eyes. Suddenly the darkness released her, and she shot upward.

      The same room. But empty and nighttime. Teresa was sitting up in a small bed. The same that she had slept in when visiting this house as a child. The same bed in which she had thrashed in a fever on the day of her grandmother’s funeral. Miranda had not understood how sick her daughter was, and in any case it was her mother they were burying. She had to be there. Audrey was assigned to watch Teresa, and James stayed with them. Which meant they were all in the house when the theft occurred.

      Teresa reached for the water glass and took a sip. It was a different dream than usual. She knew dreams were not memory, and that even memory lied. But the standard nightmare featured James’ faraway scream of terror. Audrey waking from her nap in the window seat to rush out and find him. Teresa desperately trying to rise from the bed, only to collapse again. Something like those things had happened. This new dream took place earlier that day, and must be an anxiety-fueled construction of her unconscious. Surely Audrey never said those cruel things. Surely James’ words to Teresa the previous evening—that he would be blamed—had simply worked their way into her sleep.

      She drank more water and put the glass down. Where had he gotten the idea? How could he be blamed? She had learned no more; they were not left alone the rest of the evening. James receded into himself while everyone else talked manically and to no purpose. Teresa fell asleep in her chair, then finally dragged herself to bed. She waited for James to tap on her door, but if he ever did she was long gone to dreamland.

      As the room slowly brightened she realized there would be no more sleep. She rolled out of bed and unzipped the travel bag her mother had brought, with spare clothes. The ugly green corduroys and extra-large Yale sweatshirt. Good old Mom. Teresa dressed, pulled on her sensible boots and went down the back stairs to the kitchen. Then out the mudroom door. A heavy mist rolled in from the sea. The pines were shadows and the ocean invisible. The house might have been sitting in the clouds. It was cold. She needed a jacket, but was not willing to go back for it. She drew her hands into the sleeves of the sweatshirt and wrapped her arms around herself, then made her way toward the sound of surf. The gazebo materialized out of the mist. It needed paint, and the floorboards were rotting. How long since anyone had sat here, drinking a cocktail and watching the sunset over the Sound? What a bleak and barren place this had become in her time away. She could not have imagined it. Maybe she would come out here this evening. Wrapped in blankets, with a whisky.

      The lawn ended abruptly and there was the ocean. Or a murky stretch of it. Just beyond where she stood, a rocky slope fell thirty feet to the phosphorescing СКАЧАТЬ