He must know I’m keeping things from him. But he chooses not to ask, not to press about my increased absence from our building. Our safe space. At first I felt the need to construct a mythical purpose, explaining that I needed to learn to navigate the city on my own if I was to conquer Stuy in the fall. Stephen accepted my words at face value, despite their emptiness. I’m certain he’s filling that hole with his own narrative of what I’m actually doing. Why I’m spending more time away from him.
But we don’t discuss it further. Sometimes I wonder if he’s afraid to ask. If he knows that tapping the thin veneer between truth and fiction I’ve constructed will make it shatter and we’ll lose all we’ve built together. But I don’t ask either. It seems almost impossible that we can be so entwined and still hold back.
So we continue our dance of new love, at a close distance.
* * *
The morning the pattern breaks, I’m asking myself the same questions I ask every day: Am I getting better at this? Have I built up a resistance? Should I try to draw a stronger curse?
I’ve developed a regular rotation of curse-spotting locales. The angel fountain. The Apple Store that faces the Plaza. The balloon vendor near the Central Park Zoo. I even return semi-frequently to the 1 train that I took with Millie and Saul, though doing so never fails to give me goose bumps and a stomachache.
I’m at the Frick, which means I’m feeling uneasy. I hunker down in museums when I need a bit of a break. I’m not exactly avoiding curses, because I’ve spotted a few here, but among these cultural monoliths the Frick is a rather quiet place and I end up here when I don’t feel strong enough to encounter a wide range of curses.
Within the halls of the Frick, I don’t spend much time looking at the collections. I prefer to gawk at the structure for its original purpose. It was someone’s house. Even though I’ve read that Mr. Frick built the house with the intention that its collections would one day be open to the public, I can’t help but feel that the building is seeking redemption for its opulence. That the staircases and walls are self-conscious, aware that so few on this earth will touch the gilt splendor afforded to its founder. I consider the mansion’s rebirth as a museum some kind of penance for its previous life as a steel baron’s abode: a palace of the Progressive Era that stood a few miles from the withering, over-packed tenements of the Lower East Side.
The Frick, like so many places, reminds me that New York has, and will always have, an identity built on contradictions. It is the perfect reflection of life’s imbalances. Maybe that’s why I’ve begun to feel so at home here.
Maybe I come to the Frick because I’m hoping for redemption too. Good deeds of the future to erase my current deceptions.
It so happens that when time begins to speed up, I’m gazing at a clock. Like so many of the clocks at the Frick, this one is gold, but it’s a favorite of mine because of the angel swooping across its base. Her arms scoop up a man, and I’m not sure if she’s meant to be saving him or if he’s running away from the soldier of a vengeful god.
Angels are everywhere in the city. While peering at this one, I wonder if the city’s angels whisper to each other about what they see. When they trade their tales, do they laugh at us or weep for us? Probably both.
Since my life has been overtaken by spells and curses, I’ve been having a lot of thoughts about other supernatural possibilities. It’s not a big leap to go from cursecasting to telepathic angels in artwork.
When I start to hear whispers, though, I think my imagination needs reining in. I step back from the clock, but the sound of quiet, urgent voices still slips into my ears. Prickles, sharp and cold, move up my arms. A steady, clear snapping sound joins the murmurs. It must be the clock. What I think are whispers are actually the whir of gears and the snaps it’s rendering of the classic ticktock.
I lean in, startled that I can hear the mechanical noises of the clock so clearly. I don’t remember having noticed them in any previous visit. With my nose close enough to the clock’s face that the security guard clears his throat, making me jump back, it’s apparent that the sounds aren’t coming from there.
My mouth has gone dry and I can feel my pulse drumming. I force myself to move slowly. I don’t know what I’m looking for as I continue to listen. But instinct is commanding me not to make any sudden moves.
Besides the security guard, who continues to eye me with suspicion, there are four people in the Living Hall. A woman and her small child, a boy of three or four; a man in a business suit who looks like he’s taking in the museum while he’s waiting for a deal to close; and an elderly woman dressed in Chanel whose silver hair shines as if it was just polished by her butler. Nothing about this group strikes me as out of the ordinary.
Then the sudden flicker of a shadow draws my eye. A man is standing in the Garden Court, but he’s facing the Living Hall. His focus is on the mother and child. She’s crouched down beneath Bellini’s St. Francis in the Desert, chatting to her son. I guess he’s getting an art lesson or the promise of ice cream provided he behaves in the museum.
I quickly look back to the man at the edge of the hall. Something about his skin, or rather the outline of his frame, is off. I can see him against the light of the garden so starkly. When he moves a few steps closer, he leaves an imprint in the air—a shape that looks like a police-chalk body outline drawn in charcoal. Only the image isn’t still. The charcoal impression pulses as if it’s an electric current. Keeping my eyes averted, I start to make my way closer. Though having my suspicions confirmed makes my skin go even colder, I’m rewarded when the sounds grow more distinct as I approach him. I pretend to examine the vase that flanks the Garden Court door while sneaking glances at the man. Looking at him is hard, and not just because I’m trying to not draw his attention. My eyes slide over him, unable to find a focal point. It’s as though I can’t look at him, at least not closely. I draw a quick breath and focus, and as I concentrate, I have the sensation that I’ve pushed through something in order to really examine him. Frightened that whatever I just did might trigger a response, I stare at the vase until its floral facade swims before me. Finally I risk a glance. The man hasn’t moved, nor is he paying me notice. His attention remains fixed on the woman and child. The mother has taken up playing a subdued game of patty-cake with her son. The man smiles, but it’s a smile full of malice.