Skyscape Read Free Page B

about art. You threaten her.”
    â€œShe’s smart,” said Curtis softly.
    There were a dozen things Margaret could have said to that. He was looking at her as she stood there, before the sliding glass door, before the view of the bay.
    â€œI found it, Curtis. I found the razor. I was getting an eraser—”
    He looked at her, his eyes uncertain, sad. Then he looked away. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
    She had trouble controlling her voice. “I’m afraid.”
    He gave a tired laugh. “I finally gave up, for about the thousandth time. I think about my art on greeting cards and T-shirts, and how people print it on napkins, throw it away. I just can’t paint. I can’t do it.”
    â€œPlease don’t think like that, Curtis—”
    â€œI was out yesterday, walking, and I passed that shop on Columbus, the one that sells cologne for men, fancy brushes … and my hand fell on the razor. I couldn’t help it.”
    â€œI took it, Curtis. I put it away.”
    What troubled her now was the way he nodded. “Sometimes I’m afraid, too,” he said after a long pause.
    She formed the question, but she could not ask him what she could do. She was afraid of the answer: nothing.
    He wasn’t facing her, and for a moment she wondered if she had misunderstood him. “Take off your clothes,” he said.
    It didn’t take much of that sort of thing to encourage her. She was out of her linen blouse, and was shrugging out of the brassiere before she realized that with that look in his eyes she would feel so bare, so naked. Almost as naked as the small, unclad feet of a starling.
    She hesitated. Sometimes she realized she did not know Curtis well. Not yet.
    â€œGo ahead,” he said.

3
    For the first time in an age he was working, the sound of his pencil on the paper the slight rustle of a thing that was alive, alive and gathering, creating.
    The sunlight was heavy, warming her skin, her body. The light was more than radiance—it nearly had a sound, a throbbing bass chord. Her nakedness was a part of this sound.
    He was her husband and lover, but she felt herself aware of how stripped she was, how bare before his eye.
    Lie down, he had said, on that quilt. Spread it over the pillows.
    They were in the studio. The starling in its cage made its liquid, metallic sounds, enjoying their company. She was aware of her body, the rolling weight of the sunlight on her hips, her shoulders. Don’t do anything, she told herself. Do nothing to break this spell.
    â€œWe ought to let him go,” Curtis was saying, after a long silence.
    It took a moment for her to follow his thought. It was essential that she say the right thing. “He couldn’t survive,” she responded.
    There was another long silence. He caught her eye and smiled, a look that made a wonderful emotion sweep her, a mix of feelings—gratitude for her good fortune, love for this dark-haired, quiet man who had been so troubled for so long.
    He did not speak for awhile. Then he said, “He might, though.”
    â€œBut that’s the problem,” said Margaret. “He might meet a cat. He might not. We don’t know.”
    The pencil made its sound, intent, cutting through the blank of the page. She was still, kept unmoving by the thought— he’s drawing .
    And he was drawing her.
    She could never get used to the fact. The most famous artist of his time had married her.
    She tingled with this: his eye over her thigh, her pubic islet, her breasts. She was strangely aroused. She felt herself moisten, soften under his gaze.
    She warned herself, like a woman in the presence of barely tame deer: don’t stir.
    â€œWe knew we couldn’t keep him,” Curtis said.
    â€œWe can. As long as we want.”
    He kept plying the pencil. What a deeply pleasing whisper it made, she thought. “It isn’t natural,” said Curtis.
    â€œNature