Negative Space by Mike Robinson (classic literature list .txt) 📗

“I know,” he said. “It’s been a little bonkers.”

Changes were afoot at the firm. They were seeing higher profile cases, throwing him into redeye hours. Of course, it had its upsides: namely, a built-in excuse when he wanted to grab beers with Joe or Larry, or snag a bag of Mickey D’s or...or....

The Schoolhouse. Yes the fucking Schoolhouse.

She knows, doesn’t she? Everybody knows. Somehow, word will get back.

He gave his hands a quick rinse under the faucet, then sat at the table.

“This looks great, babes,” James said, colorlessly. “Thanks again, wow.”

“The macaroni dish over there is actually a recipe I got from Barbara. Her mother made it for Susie’s shower and it was excellent. I hope I got it at least half-right.”

“I’m sure it’s fine.”

They sat across from one another and began serving themselves, scooping and piling the food onto the china. They sat and ate, James shoveling items into his mouth and happy for the quietness. Teresa fidgeted.

“They keep showing that awful Rodney King beating on the news,” Teresa said. “Man on CNN said it’s become television wallpaper.”

“That’s a good way to put it. It sort of has.”

“I know. I think it’s disgusting. I’m sure those cops will get theirs.” She took a drink of water. “How’d everything go today?”

“He’s not exactly a model scout himself, that King fellow,” said James. “He’s an ex-con. Robbed a convenience store, I think. And I hear he was on PCP when they pulled him over.”

“I don’t know about that. All I saw was a helpless man pummeled by a ton of cops.”

“Bad timing to turn on the video camera, is all I can say.”

“I just wish they’d stop showing it. Everyone talks about how horrible it is, but they keep playing the thing over and over.”

“Do you watch it when they do?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you watch the video when they play it?”

“No, I turn it off, or switch channels.”

The tinkling of glass and porcelain. Kitchen clock chimed. James shifted in his chair.

“So how was everything today?” Teresa asked again.

“All right. Firm got a new client who’s suing PharmAids drugstore for kicking her out for breastfeeding. Larry’s representing.”

“I see. Well, I hope he does all he can. If men can jog almost naked in Speedos I don’t see why women can’t breastfeed.”

“Oh, also, I don’t think I’ll be able to make it to Helen’s party tomorrow.”

“What?”

“I’ve got the closing for the Bendoni trial this week, and....” James waved his hands in the air, hoping the gesture would adequately speak too busy. “It’s going to be madness. I’ll be wiped out. I already am. Maybe sometime this weekend we can make up for it.”

Teresa threw her fork onto the plate. She sighed, sat back in her chair.

“What?” James said.

“It’s not just me, James,” Teresa said. “I hope you realize that. I’m not being selfish here and just thinking about me or our relationship and how all your work is affecting me. I’m also thinking about you.”

“What about me? This is my job—”

“Yes, but it seems to be sucking the life out of you. Talking to you lately...it’s almost like talking to a computer.”

“I haven’t noticed anything.”

“Of course you haven’t.” Teresa calmed, tried to smile. “You’ve got your life sucked out of you, remember?”

Her words wore thin dark garments of humor. James grunted.

“Just look at yourself, James, that’s all I’m asking. Self-reflect once in a while. Are you fulfilled? Or just distracting yourself? You haven’t sold a sculpture in ages....”

“I’ve sold two sculptures in my life and you know it. It was something I did as a hobby, that’s all. It was never a lifeline for me. Plus, I don’t think I was ever very good.”

“I thought you sold more than two.”

“Nope.”

“Okay.” Teresa sighed. “It was never a lifeline, but it was something different. It was a playground for you. It gave you such energy and enthusiasm. I just miss that.”

“I was never sure about myself as an artist,” James said. “Never had many original ideas.”

“What about the gallery? You and my father always loved talking about it but it never happened. And now that he’s leaving me the trust—”

“I can still do that. I still want to. Just a matter of finding the right time.”

“That’s not the only real reason you’re keeping me around, is it, James?” Teresa said, clearly joking.

“What?”

“The trust. Dad’s trust.”

“Shut up,” he said, lightly. “You know I also keep you around for the food. Now where’s my cake, woman?”

She smiled a tight-lipped smile and they continued eating in scattered silence.

After dinner, Teresa busied with the dishes. James wandered upstairs to the bedroom, went to the closet, where under his clothes he found the relics of himself. His sculptures. First realistic, which, if he were honest with himself, were lame attempts, then more a flavorful foray into abstraction. Late high school and early college—and the long, daunting summer in between—had been the most creative stretch of his life.

His “art affair”, as he called it, had earned its name for its secrecy. Pops the Judge was never one for the arts, muttering of their uselessness. And so it was for James: a hidden passion, surfacing only in bouts of inspired free time, respite from hours of study or exams. Way back in the day, in grade school and part of junior high, James had been The Campus Artist, the one solicited by peers to draw new dragons, superheroes, or scantily-clad women.

Then he’d done that one of Pam Gardner naked, being devoured by dogs. That one had done it. Oh man. Teacher. Principal. Mom. Pops the Judge. A cold solar system of eyes.

Unbeknownst to his father, James had applied to two art schools, one of them the locally renowned Rheta Art College. He’d been turned down by both, which brought relief and dejection.

Behind him. “Hey you.”

James turned. Teresa. He flashed a sullen half-grin.

“Hey,” he said. “I’m just going through my old stuff in here.”

“I can see that.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m getting ready for bed, that’s what I’m doing.” Teresa began to disrobe. “Kind of