The Fear Artist

35

By ten-thirty the next morning, Rafferty has seen Vladimir and given him an envelope with fifteen thousand of Murphy’s dollars in it, and Vladimir has told him about Janos’s death.

“He had wife,” Vladimir said.

“I’d like to give her something.”

“I will give her,” Vladimir said, extending a hand.

“Don’t take this wrong, Vladimir,” Rafferty said, “but I’d rather hand it to her personally. That way I can tell her how sorry I am.”

“Two hours,” Vladimir said, pocketing his envelope. “Philadelphia place. Good hamburger, yes?”

So around eleven, when Rafferty returns to the apartment, he finds Hwa and Neeni sitting in the living room wondering about food and the door to Miaow’s room still locked. He runs down to Silom and grabs noodles and pork from the best of the street vendors. Once they’re eating, he pulls his desk out of the pile of furniture and takes a clean envelope from the drawer, wondering briefly what had happened to the box Ming Li had bought. On the way out, he says to Hwa, “Go look at apartments,” and goes down to flag a taxi.

At twelve-thirty on the dot, Vladimir comes into the Philadelphia Hamburger Pub towing a plump little woman of indeterminate age and national origin, although Rafferty guesses it’s somewhere in the Balkans. She wears a sensible old-lady dress, navy with tiny white dots, in a style that hasn’t been sold in America in decades. She doesn’t seem particularly heartbroken, but perhaps, he thinks, her culture finds displays of emotion vulgar.

“Is Mrs. Janos,” Vladimir says, sliding into the booth. To her, he says, “Here is real Philadelphia hamburger.”

Mrs. Janos says something like “Ach.”

“Not too much English,” Vladimir said. “They-she and Janos-they spoke Hungarian.” He waves theatrically for the waitress.

“I’m very sorry about your husband,” Rafferty says to Mrs. Janos. “He was-” He stops, having launched himself on a verbal journey with no destination. What had Janos been? “He was good company,” he says. “And good at his job.”

Mrs. Janos looks at Vladimir, who nods. She says to Rafferty, “Koszi.”

Vladimir says, “Is thank you. In Hungarian.”

“I guessed that,” Rafferty says. The entire situation seems almost ostentatiously bogus. “How long,” he says, pronouncing the words slowly and carefully and feeling like someone on his first trip abroad, “were you two together?”

Mrs. Janos shakes her head sharply and says something that’s mostly consonants and resentment.

“She shakes head for yes,” Vladimir says. “Where she comes from, shake head is yes, nod is no.” Mrs. Janos shakes her head again, and Vladimir says, “You see? She agree wery much.”

“Well, I am sorry about him. I didn’t know him that well.” He’s talking directly to her, 90 percent certain that he’s being swindled, but what’s the alternative? Even if it’s only 10 percent likely that the woman is who Vladimir said she is, he should do this.

Anyway, it’s Murphy’s money.

“I know that money can’t replace someone you love,” he says, taking a very fat envelope from his pocket, “but I hope this … um … this gesture will make things easier for you.”

Mrs. Janos is looking at the envelope. So is Vladimir. Rafferty hands it to her and gets up, saying to Vladimir, “It’s thirty thousand dollars.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a twenty, which he drops on the table. “For the burgers.” To Mrs. Janos he says, “Good-bye, and I really am sorry.”

She startles him by taking his hand in both of hers and bowing until her cheek is touching the back of his hand and saying, “Koszi, koszi, koszi.”

Rafferty looks over at Vladimir, whose big cleft chin is puckering. “Please,” Rafferty says, “Please.”

And he turns and flees.

By four o’clock that afternoon, Hwa is out looking for an apartment and Neeni is curled up on the side of the bed Rose sleeps in, drinking a weak whiskey-soda. Ming Li, with four aspirins and a quart of coffee in her system, is running a roller over the wall that ends at the entrance to the kitchen while Poke turns the longest wall a nice uniform shade of Apricot Cream. The short walls-the one between the living room and the bedroom and the one with the sliding glass door in it-are glowing with new color, and even Rafferty has to admit it’s nice.

“Warms up the room,” he says as paint runs down the underside of his forearm.

With her eyes on the wall she is painting, Ming Li says, “What that man was doing, what he was doing to Treasure.”

Rafferty keeps painting. He doesn’t think she really wants him to look at her.

“It’s sort of like, I mean, what you said about me and-It’s a little like, it’s kind of like …”

“No, it isn’t. Nothing like it.”

“How? I mean, why do you say-”

“Murphy destroyed Treasure. He turned her into a mirror, someone he could see his reflection in, someone who would be him when he was gone. He didn’t love her. Well, maybe he did. Maybe he loved her when he ran into that house, but I don’t know, maybe he was chasing himself. Anyway, he’s not Frank and you’re not Treasure. What Frank was doing was protecting you, in a dangerous place, the best way he knew how. By teaching you what he knew. He did it because he knew he might not always be there to take care of you, and he wanted to give you gifts you could use when he was gone. He did it because he loved you.”

Ming Li says, “Oh.”

“And he turned out a really amazing young woman.”

He hears a long sniff. Then she says, “I shouldn’t drink. I get soft when I’ve drunk too much.”

“Frank and I both love you,” Rafferty says.

She sniffs again and says, “I need some more paint.”

“I’ll bring it over.”

He gets up, can in hand, and there’s a knock at the door.

“It’s probably not the police,” he says, pouring paint into Ming Li’s roller pan. He puts the can down and goes to the door.

Andrew has put gel on his hair and spiked it up in twenty directions. He wears a painfully white, painfully new T-shirt with two handprints on it, one in blue and one in pink, and a pair of jeans so stiff they look like he stole them from the mannequin in the store window. He leans back to look up at Rafferty and says, “They’re coming. They’re coming. Miaow called me to say they’re coming.” He blinks a couple of times, centers his glasses, and tries it again. “They’re coming.” As he did all those days ago, he leans to one side to look around Poke, and his face falls, and he says, “Aren’t they?”

“Great shirt,” Rafferty says.

Andrew’s cheeks turn bright red, and he looks at his feet. “The pink hand is Miaow’s,” he says. “The blue one is mine. We sneaked into the craft room at school to make it.”

“Well, I’ve got something you can put on over it.” He steps aside, and as Andrew comes in, he says, “Do you know how to paint trim?”

By six o’clock that evening, Miaow’s room looks like the inside of an old bruise, and Andrew has pronounced the color cool. The pigments on the walls are even and flat, and the trim has a certain youthful flash and abandon, nothing Rafferty can’t paint over later. He is washing the rollers in the sink when Andrew comes in, back in his two-hand T-shirt, and says, “What time will they be here?”

“About ten tonight.”

Andrew’s eyes widen and his mouth drops open, and the look he gives Rafferty is rich in betrayed promise.

“Trains,” Rafferty says, feeling guilty. “They can’t get here ahead of the train. Anyway, that gives me time to put everything back, get it all pretty again.”

Dolefully, Andrew says, “I guess.”

From the living room come the sounds of Ming Li herding Hwa and Neeni out the door, taking them to a hotel to free up some beds.

Rafferty says, “You’ll get to see her tomorrow. Tell you what. I’ll keep her out of school tomorrow. You guys can spend the whole day together.”

“Mr. Rafferty,” Andrew says, “tomorrow is Saturday.”

“Why, so it is,” Rafferty says. “You lose track of time when you get old. Don’t worry, you’ll see her tomorrow, and trust me, you have no idea how happy she’s going to be. Excuse me for a minute, would you?” And he goes into the living room and forces himself to make the call he least wants to make.