We haven’t even sat down. We’re hovering by the door.
“Even if I don’t know what I’m doing,” she says, “I still know more about it than anyone else.”
“But Millie’s been doing this much, much longer than you have. And even if she seems like a shut-in now, she’s been out in the world. If she says you’re in danger, you have to believe her. Arbus destroyed my family. I have to carry that. It’s as much a part of my life as any other part. So I do get it, at least a little bit, because I have been living with it for my whole life. I may not see what you see or feel what you feel, but I’m the one who’s hostage to his cruelty here, and it doesn’t help me any if you get taken hostage too. There’s no reason for you to be in danger. Not for me.”
“What do you mean, not for you?”
“I mean, I’m the reason we want to find Arbus. I’m the reason all this started. You’re out there because I can’t be. And I don’t want you getting hurt because of that. Ever.”
I put my hand on her shoulder. I will my hand to be there, for her to feel it.
She pulls away.
“This isn’t all about you, Stephen,” she says. “Not anymore.”
Chapter 22
AFTER YOU’VE SPENT ENOUGH time drawing people, especially their faces, you learn the trick of creating your own mask. I’ve constructed mine with the utmost care this evening. I wear it without doubt or regret.
Mom has insisted that we have a more “engaged” family night, so our movie has been usurped by Scrabble. I’m surprised she picked this game, and even more surprised that Laurie agreed to play it. Our family history would witness that I’m a champion at Scrabble. Mom and Laurie—and, once upon a time, my dad—live in fear of my triple word scores. Tonight I don’t have it, though. That spark, that clarity of linguistic architecture through which I dominate the board, is absent.
Mom plays with a furrowed brow. Placing her wooden squares, but casting inquisitive glances my way. She’s sensed something is off tonight. Even before we began the game. I realize that’s why she offered up Scrabble, hoping triumph would fix whatever ails me. But her plan is failing, and now she’s searching for answers in my face. Hence the mask.
Laurie takes a different tack, filling the board with bawdiness that makes our mother cover her mouth and giggle as her cheeks flush like cherry ChapStick. Mom tried to soothe whatever hidden wound pains me. Laurie’s plan of attack: provocation by humor, or shock, into the revelation of real emotion. Once the mask is cracked, Laurie knows it’s only a matter of time till it all falls away. He’s working hard to speed up that process. The look he’s giving me might as well be a chisel, chipping away at the plaster cast with which I’ve covered my true face.
I excuse myself while Mom and Laurie are arguing about whether French can serve as a verb rather than a proper adjective when used in certain contexts. In the sanctuary of my room I pull out my sketch pad. Drawing helps me think, and what I need now is a plan.
* * *
The sketch taking shape on the white page puzzles me. It’s a map, and I’m not usually a cartographer. I prefer figures and action. Yet I can see why my fingers create these lines and shadows. The Frick is immediately recognizable. Soon hazy shapes form around it. Fifth Avenue. The eastern edge of the park. My other nearby haunts.
I’m musing as I draw, feeling that my brain somehow remains disconnected from the action of my hands. Familiar places are still materializing under my gaze. The usual suspects that I visit, all within walking distance of our apartment. Squinting at the hazy building outlines, smudged streets, and park pathways, I can see what my fingers wanted me to comprehend.
I haven’t drawn a map. What lies on the page is a perimeter—a perimeter born of the question that I’ve been ignoring but hasn’t stopped catching me off guard when it springs into my thoughts.
What if it was a setup? What if Arbus was hunting, not only for Stephen but also for me?
Even if the cursecaster only had a suspicion of me, throwing myself onto him mid-curse definitely confirmed those suspicions. Pursuing this line of thought is a challenge. It makes me feel like a narcissist. Stephen is still the one who’s invisible. Who has to make an enormous effort to engage even in the slightest physical contact with the material world.
Stephen is who I’m supposed to be helping.
But even though I was angry with him when I said it, my words didn’t lack conviction. What’s happening is no longer just about him. And I didn’t just mean it’s also about me. The invisible world that Stephen lives within, the world of curses and magic, is just beginning to reveal itself. I refuse to let it remain a mystery.
I continue to sketch. Muddled shapes become concrete. My eyes fly over the pages, searching for patterns, clues. I stare at what I’ve drawn for so long my eyes begin to blur. I rub my weary eyes and return to the hunt.
Had Arbus cast a wide net, hoping to snare me? Was the Frick his first stop, or were his curses plaguing others he’d chosen before he drew me out?
What if he’d purposefully targeted that mother and her young son, guessing that anyone who knew about Stephen wouldn’t be able to let harm come to a similar pair of innocents?
Or am I overthinking this encounter? Is Stephen’s grandfather so twisted that randomly casting curses on people is a way for him to pass the time?
Grinding my teeth, I dismiss the last question because my gut tells me to. Not that I don’t believe Arbus is capable of such a loathsome habit but because somehow I know he was looking for me. Not me specifically, but a spellseeker.
I wonder what that means. What this potential trap should be telling me. Remembering Millie’s anger, her warning, I also recall the way her face paled. The trembling of her hands. How angry she became—a kind of fury only unleashed by panic, by the unraveling of one’s carefully constructed existence. Knowing that Maxwell Arbus had returned to New York frightened her more than anything else. I can tell that she’s afraid for herself. But she’s more afraid for me.
There’s a knock, but without waiting for an answer, Laurie comes into my room and shuts the door behind him. When he sees my face, he grimaces.
“I know kohl worked wonders for Cleopatra, but I think you overdid it. Next time, visualize smoky, not raccoon.”
“Shut up and hand me a Kleenex.” I lift my hand until he deposits one in my palm.