The Whore's Child

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it. In the end, maybe that’s all art is. Solid technique with a dash of style.”
    â€œI don’t much feel like talking about aesthetics, Robert.”
    â€œNo, I don’t suppose you do,” the painter said, running his fingers through his hair. “Joyce told me she sent you that painting. I’d have tried to talk her out of that, had I known.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause Laura wouldn’t have wanted her to. Funny to think of them as sisters, actually. Joyce always seeking vengeance. Laura anxious to forgive.”
    Which was true. Martin had seen photos of them as little girls, when it was hard to tell them apart. But by adolescence Laura was already flowering into the healthy, full-figured, ruddily complected woman she would become, whereas Joyce, pale and thin, had begun to look out at the world through dark, aggrieved eyes. When Martin had seen her yesterday, it was clear that not one of her myriad grievances had ever been addressed to her satisfaction.
    â€œSo, Robert. How long were you and my wife lovers?”
    Trevor paused, deciding how best, or perhaps whether, to answer. “Why would you want to know that, Martin? How will knowing make anything better?”
    â€œHow long?”
    After a beat, the painter said, “We had roughly twenty years’ worth of summers.”
    Right, Martin thought. The worst, then. Odd that he couldn’t remember whether Laura had ever directly deceived him, or whether she’d simply allowed him to deceive himself. He’d assumed that she needed this time with her sister each summer. That she never asked him to come along, given his opinion of Joyce, he’d considered a kindness.
    â€œA month one year. Six weeks the next. I painted her every minute I could, then kept at it when she was gone.”
    Yes. The worst. This was one of the things he’d needed to know, of course. “How many are there?”
    â€œPaintings?” Trevor asked. “A dozen finished oils. More watercolors. Hundreds of studies. The one Joyce sent you might be the best of the lot. You should hang on to it.”
    â€œWhere are they?” he asked, then nodded at the studio. “Here?”
    â€œAt my farm in Indiana.”
    â€œYou never sold any of them?”
    â€œI’ve never
shown
any of them.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œShe wouldn’t allow it when she was alive. Joyce kept the one you have in the guest room Laura used when she visited. Laura made her promise never to show anyone.”
    â€œShe’s been dead for several years now.”
    â€œAlso, there were your feelings to consider.”
    Martin snorted. “Please. You want me to believe you gave that a lot of thought?”
    â€œNot even remotely,” Trevor admitted. “Laura did, though. And . . . after her death . . . I starting thinking of the pictures as private. When I die will be time enough.”
    â€œSo nobody knows about them?”
    â€œYou do. Joyce. My New York agent
suspects,
and I’ve given instructions concerning them to my attorney.” He finished his beer, then peered into the bottle as if, there at the bottom, the names of others who knew about the paintings might be printed. “That’s what you should prepare yourself for, Martin. I’ve never pursued fame, but it appears I’ve become famous anyway, at least in certain circles. When I die, Laura’s going to become a very famous lady. Everybody loves a secret. In fact”—at this he smiled and put the bottle down, turning to look at Martin—“you might want to option the movie rights.”
    â€œDid you know she was dying?”
    â€œShe told me when she was first diagnosed, yes. I painted her that summer, like always.”
    Martin massaged his temples, the tips of his fingers cool from holding the beer bottle.
    â€œShe insisted. And of course I wanted to. I couldn’t not paint her. I would have, right to the end, had that been possible.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWhy paint her disease, you mean?”
    No, that wasn’t what he’d meant, not exactly, though he was ashamed to articulate further. “Why paint her at all, Robert? That’s what I’ve been wondering. She wasn’t what you’d call a beautiful woman.”
    Trevor didn’t hesitate at all. “No, Martin, she wasn’t what
you’d
call a beautiful woman. She was one of