The painting arrived on a bright autumn day. He still drove the old beat-up car that rattled and needed a new muffler. He unpacked the painting alone, loosening the nails from the crate with the claw of a hammer. The crate was better made than most of his furniture.
He hung the picture in the rented house, drilling a hole for a Molly bolt. Celeste told him the frame had been purchased at a flea market by Matisse himself and had been overpainted by the artist.
But this purchase—made from a singular act of love—did not make Owens happy.
The first disaster occurred when a housekeeper cleaned the frame with Lemon Pledge. He ranted all night at his girlfriend at the time, the clarinetist, tormenting her until dawn. Then he paced the empty house until nine o’clock, when Celeste told him what to do. He spent the next hour buying soft toothbrushes. Celeste Federal Expressed some restorative wax.
“Are you insured?” she asked, when Owens insisted on having her home number to spare himself another night of misery.
He wasn’t and could not be, because he lived in an old unlocked house and refused to put in alarms.
After he’d moved into the Copper King’s mansion, he woke up one morning hearing sounds in the living room, raced downstairs and saw it was still there, the house quiet, in long laps of light. As he fell asleep that night, he told Olivia he felt frightened because there was only one.
“It’s more important than we are,” she said. “That’s kind of comforting.”
“Well, it sure is more durable.”
In the end, he could not stand to live with something that would outlast him. It was too much custodial responsibility, he decided. He gave the painting away and did not love it any less for his inability to tend to it; if anything, his respect for it grew. Celeste had assisted with the bequest. And later on, she called him when the Cincinnati family visited California. They were delighted to have their treasure settled into a museum. Friends of theirs had given a dinner party to introduce Owens, and it was there that he’d met Celeste’s daughter, Albertine.
After that, he bought things to enjoy. He bought the first of the beautiful fast cars. Though perfect, it could be replaced. “There is a mold, and the Italians aren’t breaking it,” he liked to say. Eventually, he wanted to buy art again but this time as a collector. He bought photographs and Japanese prints. He didn’t want to own anything there was only one of.
Noah did not find Owens’ invitation to the Matisse show simple. He too had a strange relationship to art. His close sister was a photographer, and at the age of forty, after years of working in a bank, his mother had begun to paint landscapes in the garage. During the early sixties, she had been able to supplement the family income by designing paint-by-numbers kits. It was an unremarked disappointment in Noah’s life that he hadn’t turned out to be “artistic.” He had liked to draw, and his mother often took both her children out sketching. He understood, even as a fourteen-year-old boy, that he didn’t have the energy to sustain two pursuits. It was a calculated choice, and what swung him was that science seemed easier. He figured if he succeeded at whatever he did, he’d have a better chance of getting married. “Hmph,” he said, remembering and feeling cheated. Science wasn’t so easy.
Noah’s work was not going well. The way he saw it, he was now failing with both fish and flies, and he felt reluctant to leave the lab. He was generally nervous. When Rachel came for some of his hair, she told him the immunologist upstairs would have to quit her project because someone at Harvard stole her knockout. Noah’s mutation had been published for four years now. It was only a matter of time before someone got the gene.
“Some evening maybe,” he told Owens. “We’d have to wait in line to get tickets now. The crowds are huge.” Noah thought that should do it. Owens wouldn’t put up with crowds, unless they’d come to listen to him. And for some illogical reason, Noah could stand missing the show if Owens didn’t go either.
Owens called back an hour later to say that an art dealer friend could get them in on Wednesday at noon, when the museum was closed.
To be with the paintings alone in an empty museum was something Noah had always wanted to do. In his chair, his view blocked by crowds, he hardly ever could see anything. But somehow Owens’ offer put him in a cranky mood. In fact, no gift from Owens ever seemed whole. Was it Owens’ inability to give right, or his own to receive? Or was it only that Owens had so much that all his generosity seemed easy and slight? And should the weight of a gift be judged by the giver or the receiver?
Noah really wanted to be in the museum alone. Then he figured out what it was that bothered him. Noon. Had the art dealer said noon on Wednesday, or was that the time Owens wanted and demanded, without considering Noah’s schedule? Take it or leave it: that was the offer.
Still, Noah didn’t know anyone else who could get him into the museum alone. There was no way he was going to say no. At least he’d drive up in his van by himself.
When Noah arrived at the museum, it was apparent that Owens had made a mistake. The museum was indeed open to the public, and the public was here in full color.
“I’m Celeste,” a woman said, bending down to touch his wrist. “And you’re the scientist.” Owens must have told her he was in a chair. She had blunt blond hair that tapped her chin and bright-orange stockings, striking on a woman of fifty. Noah had noted from his window that good legs didn’t age. She had on a gorgeous raincoat, loose, with folds.
Owens arrived fifteen minutes late. By then, Celeste had run into three people she knew.
Noah decided, uncharacteristically, to rent the headset tour.
A classful of parochial school children in brown-and-white uniforms filled the first room of the exhibition.
“Not bad,” Owens said, looking at an early still life.
“I’d buy it if I saw it in a flea market,” Celeste said, laughing.
Noah went slowly, listening to the tape’s long explanations and reading the paragraphs stenciled on the wall.
“I don’t really like this Fauvist stuff,” Celeste said, drifting to the center.
Owens loped back to Noah. “I don’t think it’s his best work, but he’s pretty great.”
“I can’t stand seeing pictures with so many people around,” Celeste said.
“You know that Matisse I bought that’s in the museum now?” Owens said. “For example, I think that’s much more beautiful than these.” Owens often went to see his painting. Twice, he’d been there when groups of schoolchildren like this one trooped through. “I should set up a little fund for buses to take underprivileged kids to see it.” Sometimes, when everyone seemed mad at him and his life was crossed with complication and dismay, he remembered the painting in the museum. That was at least one thing he had done in his life. He thought, for a moment, it was how a woman might feel when she left behind a child; he hoped his mother had felt this way about him. He wished she could have known that he would be all right. I’ll ask Eliot about her again sometime, he told himself.
Celeste met them at the threshold of the next gallery, fingering her scarf. “I’m going. I’m getting frazzled. Too many people.”
Noah half expected Owens to defect too, but he stayed. He ranged ahead and then fell back, and the two men found each other in the final room, with paper cutouts. It had taken stamina to finish, but before leaving the galleries they lingered before huge photographs of Matisse as an old man in beach hotels, drawing from his bed, with a charcoal pencil attached to the tip of a pointer.
“That’s probably when it gets really happy,” Noah said.
They waited in line for their coats, behind the uniformed children. The teacher used a whistle to get their attention.
“This make you think of Jane?” Noah said.
Owens smiled. “I sure hate uniforms. And that whistle. As if they’re circus animals.”
Moist winds skirted up outside, and it felt good to sit amidst the taller, milling crowd.
“I’m glad we saw that,” Noah s
aid. “I’m glad we stayed.” All his impatience with Owens was rinsed away by the lifetime of a man’s work. Noah felt that he would never regret this life of trying, whether he succeeded or failed, because there was no other life.
“I am too,” Owens said.
“People and all.”
“People and all.”
They were middle-class kids, Noah thought, for whom the public parks and museums were built. Maybe the Celestes of the world lost out when private collections were ceded to museums, but for Noah and Owens it was all gain. He’d read articles about the decline of quality, articles with titles like “The Cost of Progress,” which pitted poor workmanship against the proliferation of state colleges and penicillin. Noah generally hated the rich on principle. But today he exempted Owens. Even if his work at the lab amounted to nothing, Owens respected him and shared his awe and reverence for biology. In a way they’d never talked about, Owens seemed to comprehend his bravery. No matter what, Noah still would have had afternoons like this, when he felt he knew how to live.
“She’s pretty East Coast, Celeste, even though she’s here,” Owens said, standing in the rain. Noah handed up his umbrella, and Owens held it over them both.
“Do you ever doubt what you do?” Noah asked.
“You mean, do I wish I were an artist?” That wasn’t what Noah meant, but Owens continued after a brief pause. “I feel like what I do is the place where art and science intersect. Maybe we are artists, Noah, but we’re expressing our art in different ways.”
“I think it’s a one-way analogy. Artists aren’t comparing themselves to us.”
“You never know,” Owens said.
Noah was thinking about what could be owned. What mattered most—knowledge, paintings, children—should never be owned. Could only be destroyed by owning.
“Do you know a really good restaurant around here that would make steamed vegetables?”
“No, on both counts,” Noah said.
“Let’s just go to Stars.”
“We can take the van.”
Owens lifted his hand for a taxi. “It’s raining.”
Noah hefted himself into the cab’s back seat, folding his chair for Owens to put in front. He had something to talk about, and he didn’t know how to start. Jane wanted to go to school. She was sick of the tutors and wanted to be with other kids. How hard could that be to understand? But a lot of things that seemed totally normal in any other context were difficult to talk about with Owens. He kept his own rules, irrelevant to the general referendum. Weird, Noah thought again to himself, that the guy thinks of politics. For Jane, Noah had gone to see the old ladies. He’d expected a delicate conversation, but halfway in, Ruby said, “We couldn’t agree with you more. A girl her age needs society.” He decided to wait until they arrived at the restaurant to bring up the subject. It took them a good ten minutes to be settled at a table; in the rain, Noah had to get into his chair again, then there were four steps and no one to help Owens carry him. Once inside, the restaurant table banged Noah’s knees. Many people were afraid to eat meat in front of Owens, but Noah ordered a two-pound steak and a Scotch. Owens just raised his eyebrows.
“How’s your schools program going?” Noah asked.
“Well, the dairy lobby’s calmed down some. I really have to make the time and look into it. I’ve been pretty busy with Exodus.”
“You should take Jane,” Noah said.
“What, for a consumer’s perspective?”
“She wants to go to school. I’m sure it’s really just kids she misses. Parties and all that.”
Their food came, and Owens was silent. Noah started sawing his steak.
“You really like that stuff?” Owens said.
“Mmhmm.”
“Why?”
“Tastes good,” Noah said. When you disagreed with Owens, he’d sort of leave you where you were and go off. He was still sitting with Noah, but his eyes weren’t there. They followed different women as they treaded vertically through the room.
“I know Jane’d like to attend school,” he finally said. “There’s no question there. And she will, eventually. But”—he paused—“you’ll find if you’re ever a parent—and I think you probably will be, Noah—there’s a lot of things kids want that aren’t good for them.”
“But school? You went. I went.”
“Yeah, that’s her argument too. But we went because we didn’t have a choice. It wasn’t necessarily the best thing for us.”
“She doesn’t have a choice either. And she’s isolated. She needs other kids.”
“I agree that Jane should have friends. And I’ve actually been giving that a lot of thought. An old friend of mine has a daughter. And I’m going to take Jane over to their house for dinner.”
“You really won’t send her to school?”
“I will when I find the right school. But for now, she’s doing great with the tutors. She’s a great kid.” He shrugged. “It’s not broken.”
“Well, you’re her dad,” Noah said, understanding that this time he’d failed.
“I don’t know. I guess I’m beginning to think I’m different from other people.”
“We all do.”
“But I really am.”
“No, that’s what I mean. You are.”
“Much as I love Olivia—and I love her a lot—I feel I have a responsibility to people at Exodus.” He sounded tired. “My parents, when they began to understand I was different, they never tried to stop me. And I guess that’s what family means to me. Do you ever feel like that? That you sacrifice for what you do, and you might even have to ask a loved one to sacrifice too?”
“I think you’re more confident than I am.”
“But you know you’re a good scientist.”
“I know I have something inside, but I’m not sure I can get it out.” There, he’d admitted it. It was so hard to say those things to Owens. “I’ll never have the kind of confidence you do. I didn’t have the life for it.”
Owens looked down, perplexed. “Have you met anyone?”
“Not really.”
“Come on, Noah. I tell you everything. Do you like somebody?”
“It’s unrequited.”
“So who is it? Come on, I’ll never meet her anyway.”
“Well, you have met her. It’s Louise.”
“Really? With the …” His hand moved near his head, then he yanked it down. “Oh, I bet she really likes you.”
Because of her hair, he meant. Owens figured she couldn’t do better. Better than me. “She doesn’t. I’m quite sure.” Noah cut one last piece of steak and began to chew it.
The waiter came and lifted Owens’ plate away. Noah motioned with his knife to indicate he was still eating. Then he looked at Owens. “Have you ever fallen in love with a woman who didn’t go for you?”
The question was a little mean, but Owens didn’t seem to get it. “Let me see,” he said, sincerely scanning the ranks. “No, I don’t think so. I’ve been … fortunate with women.”
“You’ve been fortunate in general,” Noah said.
“Well, we need some luck for Exodus now.”
That was true, and Noah knew it. Everyone knew Exodus was in trouble.
Owens loped to his car, the jangly colored lights of Chinatown smearing on the dark rain-slicked street. He’d had Noah’s taxi leave him off, and the wind was riling his hair. He’s probably wondering how I can be in love with a woman who has gray hair, and thinking he could never be, Noah imagined, watching the meter, as the taxi sped to the van. Owens, typical of a rich person, had paid for dinner and was letting him pick up the cab. Noah was sure, in Owens’ mind, the generosity was all his. But the meter showed eighteen dollars already, and if Noah’d had his way they would have gone for pizza and eighteen dollars would have covered them both…. And she was not gray, she was silver. Her skin was a pale white with pink in it. Her teeth were perfect, like even white corn.
Back in Alta, Owens drove directly to the bungalo
w. When he’d called for his messages from the restaurant, there were two from Mary, both urgent.
It was about Jane. Some social worker in a pink suit and purse had come knocking on the bungalow door in the rain. Apparently, Jane had cried to the old-lady tutors. They’d called the Social Services Department and had a long and spirited discussion with the caseworker who’d answered the phone. “We’re right in the middle,” they kept saying. And so maybe it was time for Jane to go to school.
Mary had been glad to have an emergency to call him about.
Jane was already asleep. On her bedroom door, she had a drawing with the caption Jane’s DNA. In a balloon, it said, “I hate pictures of myself.”
“Aw,” Owens said. “That’s really nice.”
“It is.” Mary sighed. “He gave her a microscope set too.”
Owens thought it was good that Jane knew someone like Noah. How many kids knew a scientist?
Mary made tea, and for once things seemed easy between them. A candle was burning, and she’d washed her hair. Something in his manner gave her permission to laugh.
She was thirty now, he was thinking to himself, and had pretty much lost her looks. Women seemed to him to have a half-life of about twenty-eight years. After that, they became something else. Mothers maybe.
“I saw Noah today. You know, I get the feeling he’s a virgin.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“No, but it’s the kind of thing men can tell with each other.” He lifted his eyebrows the way he always did when he was asking for something, and he looked straight at her for the first time in years.
She glanced down and giggled. It felt good to be seen.
“Some woman could do a really great thing just sleeping with him once. Just think what you’d be giving him.”
Then the upper lip that had so pliantly spread in laughter became tight and uneven. “Stop trying to pimp me, you monster,” she snarled. “Fuck him yourself”—words so ugly that Owens stood up, lifting his palms, backing off, saying, “Okay, okay. I just thought you could do a really good turn, that’s all.”