The Kind of People Who Look at Art

Russell didn’t want to go to the gallery. He hated Syd’s parties. Franca did too, a little. Not the idea of them. Just the events themselves. “We play at being swanky,” Russell said. He lay sprawled across the bed. Franca sat against the headboard, her arms around her legs. “A bunch of bohemians wearing black. It gives me flu-like symptoms.”

Franca was wearing black skinny jeans and a tank top. Edie, Russell’s wife, was wearing a black dress. Well, so what? Edie, especially, looked good in black, everyone said so, and the dress was old. Vintage. Franca’s clothes were new, a nod to this semi-famous artist, a man Edie had described as talented and handsome. David Diamond was the kind of man who might or might not be at his own party.

“You’re going to like him, darling,” Edie said to Franca. “If he’s there, I mean. Well, even if he isn’t, I guess he’d still be likeable. Just not knowable, obviously. But certainly when he does show up, say next month for his show, well, then you’ll see.”

“We’ll both see,” Franca said. Russell scowled. Part of Edie’s statement, she understood, was penitential. I forgive you, Franca thought. I wish it wasn’t always so easy.

The whole world was either lonely or happy and carrying around an inexplicable sense of guilt. Why should Franca or Edie be any different?

“Syd has been trying to woo Diamond to his gallery for months and finally, who knows why, he agrees. Supposedly, he’s dropped some stuff off and now we get to preview.” Edie used a pore-counting hand mirror. When Franca attempted to use it, it sent back a Cyclopean eyeball.

Edie had met Diamond a year ago when Syd had first lured (Russell’s verb) him to town to see the gallery space. Franca and Russell, however, had missed the occasion. They’d been installing bookshelves at a very posh place on Elm Street, a grand old promenade of stately Victorians festooned with curlicues and widows’ walks. (Russell refused to snoop around, but Franca, just once, slid down the banister.) Russell built furniture for people who summered in Watch Hill, or for doctors and lawyers whose houses lined streets like Elm. Franca was his assistant, sanding, staining, arranging pieces to be advertised on the internet. Syd had so far ignored any hints Franca dropped to have Russell’s furniture exhibited in the gallery.

According to Edie, it had been a big party. A cast of freaks and beach bums, Russell guessed, but they had turned out to meet a real artist at last. Despite Russell’s teasing, Edie had been very serious in her description of Diamond.

“He seems very decent,” she had said. Russell and Franca had sat on the patio’s rusted chairs toasting their completed job with a locally brewed beer Russell poured out of a growler. Conrad, Russell and Edie’s older son, juggled a soccer ball barefoot in the yard before them despite the darkness. “Humble,” Edie continued. “Even though his stuff—well, what Syd has shown me on the internet at any rate—is quite good.”

Then she had grown quiet. The ball thunked and tapped, Conrad’s white T-shirt flashing amidst the shadows. Was Edie disappointed in their response? Had they been too distracted from something she needed them to hear? Edie had turned in early, kissing them both goodnight, walking, also barefoot, out into the yard to kiss Conrad, too. Franca and Russell had sat feeling scolded before they stood together, she making an excuse to get home to her dog, Russell pretending that, as soon as she left, he wouldn’t bolt up the stairs to see what was going on.

Tonight would be nothing like that first party, because Syd couldn’t say, could he?, that Diamond would definitely be there. So it would be a smaller crowd, and Franca could support Edie by going, by looking forward to a meeting with an artist who had impressed...