Tell the Wolves I'm Home (10 page)

“Just letting you know, that's all. What you're putting Mom through and that everybody knows.”

“Which everybody?” I asked, though I hadn't meant to say a word.

“Well, if you think that Mrs. Alphonse wouldn't talk about it with Kimmy, you'd be wrong. And if you think Kimmy wouldn't tell, like, everybody she knew, then, well, whatever.”

Kimmy Alphonse was a girl in my class who seemed pretty average. I'd never even thought about her until now.

“So go on and meet up with your precious uncle Finn. Enjoy yourself.”

I couldn't let Greta get away with all that. Let her yank every bit of joy from my Sunday without saying anything.

“There's nothing gross, because Finn is gay and everyone knows that.” I turned to see if I'd gotten Greta, if her smile would fade. But it didn't. It got wider.

She waited a second and then said, “I said
you
were in love with Finn. I didn't say Finn was in love with you, did I?”

And what could I say to that? Nothing. As usual.

That day I did go out with Finn. I took the train down and met him in Grand Central, and then we went to the Cloisters, which was our
favorite place. Ever. Usually we went when there was hardly anyone around—really early or really near the end of the day, when they were about to close. At those times the Cloisters were better than any gallery or that movie theater in the Village that shows all those old movies. Even better than the Horn & Hardart cafeteria, where you can put money in a machine and get a real plate of hot food like on
The Jetsons
.

The Cloisters are the best because they're like a piece of another time right at the top of Manhattan. And I'm not just saying that. They're actually made of huge chunks of French medieval monasteries that were shipped to New York and stuck together. Even the view from the Cloisters is perfect, because Rockefeller bought all the land on the other side of the river in New Jersey just so nothing could be built there. Maybe even Rockefeller needed to leave his time once in a while.

I tried hard to forget everything Greta had said, but it was there anyway, polluting the whole day. I tried not to stand too close to Finn, tried not to smile too much. But it didn't work. Maybe Greta was right. Maybe I was gross.

We didn't say much that day. Finn or me. We walked through the stone passageways without really seeing anything. I thought that it would have been good to be a monk. The kind who isn't allowed to speak. I thought of sitting with Finn in a great stone room filled with other monks, all silent, all busy illuminating manuscripts with the thinnest flakes of gold leaf. Finn and I would look at each other all the way across that room without saying a single word. And we'd hear each other. That's the kind of love I imagined with Finn. That's what I told myself. The kind that's not gross, because it's in another time and I'm not really me.

But being a monk is just one more impossible thing, like traveling to the past or having Finn here forever, because to be a monk you'd have to be a man and you'd also have to believe in God, neither of which was ever going to happen. I don't think God would create a disease just to kill people like Finn, and if he did, then there's no way I'd ever even consider worshipping him.

That day at the Cloisters, Finn and I sat on a stone bench in a dark stone corner, and he asked me what I thought happened to people
after they died. I shook my head and pretended I hadn't heard him. I did that with Finn sometimes. Pretended my hearing was fuzzy so he would move closer to me. And he did. That day he slid right up next to me on that bench and put his arm around my shoulder and asked me again.

“What happens to all this?” he said, looking right into my eyes.

I shrugged and said I thought nothing happened. I said I thought everything just ended and went black.

Finn nodded and said, “Me too.”

If I knew he was talking about himself, I would have made something up. I would have dreamed up a perfect Finn heaven right there on the spot.

I took Toby's note to the woods that Saturday morning. Old snow clung to every tree branch, making the whole woods seem precarious, like things might topple any second. I followed the thin icy line of the brook, listening for the wolves. I cupped my hand around my ear and closed my eyes, listening and listening, but there was nothing. Nothing at all.

I read the note again and again. It was becoming impossible to slip away from the present. Even with Finn's boots on my feet. Even with the thought of falcons. It felt like the very idea of Toby had the power to keep my thoughts in the here and now.

I'd been sure I wasn't going to meet him, absolutely sure, but I was starting to reconsider. What if he knew things? What if I'd been a secret too? What if I could turn up at the train station and be anyone I wanted?

Sixteen

Section D, page 26!

That's what Mrs. Jansky wrote on the envelope she stuck in our mailbox that Sunday morning. Inside was
The New York Times
from the day before. My parents don't read the
Times
. They read the
New York Post
and only on Sundays, so if it wasn't for nosy Mrs. Jansky the whole portrait article would have gone completely unnoticed by the Elbus family. The painting would have stayed above our fireplace, where it belonged.

It was Greta who found the envelope and Greta who read the article out to the whole family. She called us all into the living room. I was upstairs getting dressed, because Beans and a whole bunch of her friends were going to the mall and she'd called to see if I wanted to go with them. I was pretty sure my mother had talked to her mother about me. Of course I didn't want to go, but my mom kept bringing it up, saying it'd be good for me and that you can't keep friends if you always say no to things. So I called back and said I'd do it, thinking otherwise she'd nag me about it for weeks. And there was something else. The movie theater there had an Oscar season special on Sundays. They did special showings of movies that had won over the past few years. That week they were showing
Amadeus
, which I'd already seen twice with Finn. That was the reason I said yes.

Greta had been keeping to herself even more than usual since the night at rehearsal. I wanted to ask her what Mr. Nebowitz had said to her in his office, but I knew there was no point. If she wanted to talk about it she'd do it when she was ready, which would probably be never. Not to me anyway.

That Saturday morning, Greta stood in front of the portrait, facing us on the couch. It turned out she was right. The portrait did creep out the whole living room. For the most part we all kept out of there as much as possible. Nobody wanted to sit with that portrait. We sat at the kitchen table, or Greta and I went to our rooms. My dad mostly sat in the little home office off the kitchen. As for my mother, she wasn't much of a sitter, before or after the portrait.

But on that morning, Greta called us all in there and we sat facing it. Greta stood with her weight shifted all the way to the left and one hand on her hip. In the other hand she held the paper.

“Okay, Greta, we're all here. Get on with it. I've got paperwork piling up like crazy,” my dad said.

“Okay. Settle down,” Greta said in an exasperated voice. “It's no big deal. We're just … famous.”

“Come on, Greta, show us what you have there.” My mom sat with her legs crossed and tapped one foot impatiently.

“Okay.” Greta turned the page around so we could all see. There it was. Finn's portrait. Our portrait. Us. It was in color and took up half the page. Then Greta read.

“When you haven't shown a painting in ten years and your name is Finn Weiss, the public is bound to get a little bit curious to catch a glimpse of your latest work. Weiss, who died earlier this month (unconfirmed reports cite the cause of death as AIDS-related)”
—Greta's voice snagged on the word
AIDS
, but then she read on—
“had apparently developed a taste for portraiture, if this recent find is anything to go by. The painting, titled ‘Tell the Wolves I'm Home,' shows two teenage girls, one light, one dark, with expressions of such startling intimacy it feels as though they can see right into the viewer's own heart. As though they know the viewer's own darkest secrets
.

“According to Harriet Barr, editor of
Art
magazine, Weiss was known for
the diversity of his work. ‘Finn Weiss was remarkable in his ability to adapt to any medium. He truly was a renaissance artist in the sense that he produced brilliantly original work in not only oil and acrylic but also in stone, wood, and through more conceptual installation pieces.'

“What's baffled critics and fellow artists alike is why, almost ten years ago, Weiss went underground, becoming so reclusive that only his closest friends and family knew where he lived. Some applauded his move out of the limelight, calling it bold. The more cynical opinion is that Weiss's adoption of the hermit lifestyle was nothing more than an attempt to inflate the value of his own work. Lending credence to this theory is the fact that several older works from the artist's own collection have fetched high prices when they've occasionally appeared at auction.”

“Okay, Greta, enough now.” My mother reached for the paper. Greta quickly whipped it behind her back.

I was perched as close to the edge of the couch as I could be, waiting to hear the rest of the story.

“Let her read it,” I said. “I want to hear.”

“Go on, Danielle, it's okay.” My father put a hand on my mother's knee.

“It's not okay,” she said, twisting her leg away. She stood up and walked out of the room. When she was gone, my father nodded at Greta, letting her know it was all right to go on. Greta cleared her throat and tapped her chest. Then she read again.

“Despite the disagreement about his motives, all can agree that the emergence of this recent portrait offers a glimpse of the kind of work Weiss could have been producing over those ‘missing' years. Indeed, Barr sees this work as perhaps the greatest piece of his career
.

“A work like this shows an artist fully intellectually and, perhaps more importantly, fully emotionally engaged with his subject. Looking at this painting, there's a sense that touching the surface could burn your fingertips. That those girls are alive. That they might just bite your hand off if you come too close.”

The door slammed in the kitchen and I knew my mother had gone out. Greta glanced up, losing her place in the article. She moved her finger around on the page until she found it again.

“At the moment, the location of the painting is unknown. The slide was
submitted anonymously to the
Times,
and no information other than the artist's name and the title of the painting was included.…”

Greta's arm dropped and the paper hung at her side.

“I don't like this,” she said.

“What?” I said.

“This whole thing. Us, me, in an article about somebody dying of AIDS.”

“Somebody? It's Uncle Finn, Greta,” I said.

“I don't care who it is. I don't want a big picture of me hovering over the word
AIDS
, okay? Is that okay with you?” She chucked the paper onto the coffee table. “I never even wanted anything to do with that portrait, but everyone was all ‘your uncle Finn this, your uncle Finn that.' Ugh. I could kill him if he weren't already dead. And he's famous? Like big-time famous? He never bothered to mention that to us.”

“Settle down. It's just an article.” My father picked the paper up and folded it smaller and smaller. “Not even a real article. It's way in the back of the Arts section of
The New York Times
. Who reads that, huh? People don't remember stuff like this.”

“It's only the biggest newspaper in the country.”

“It's not like it says
you
have AIDS,” I said.

“Okay. Enough's enough.” My father tossed the paper into the fireplace and pulled out a lighter. “This thing's upsetting everyone in the house, and so”—he bent down, flicked the lighter on, and touched the flame to the edge of the paper—“away it goes.”

Above the tiny fire hung the real portrait. The painted Greta and me watching the real Greta and me watching another copy of ourselves burn away.

There was nothing I could do. I wasn't done looking at that article. I hadn't even read the whole thing yet. I wanted to read more about Finn. About how good he was. About why he stopped doing art. I knew Finn was kind of famous. The way people looked at us when we went into a gallery. The way they'd smile at him, reach out to shake his hand. I understood it, but it wasn't important to me. He didn't act famous around me, and I guess I never really thought about how famous he might be.