“OK, OK, look, it’s not for sure. OK.” Anna channeled high school Spanish whenever she really wanted to be understood. “No está confirmado.”
“Sí, sí, entiendo,” Josefina said. “Thank you.” She squeezed Anna’s hand, wiped her tears, and they both got back to work. For one second, Anna felt a great weight lift off her shoulders. They may not have been curing cancer in that office, but here was something important.
On her way back to the office, Cristina went Psssst as Anna passed the laundry room. Anna stopped—had she misheard? But Cristina waved her into the laundry room and slid the door closed behind her.
“Something wrong with Mr. Von Bizmark?” she whispered.
“What do you mean?”
“He didn’t sleep here last night,” Cristina said. “He took a bag too. And they came back from vacation early. There’s a problem?” she said.
“Geez, Cristina, I don’t really know,” Anna admitted. Maybe Phil was right? Maybe they were headed for a split? Cristina’s frosted blue eyes studied Anna for more information.
“I need this job,” Cristina whispered. She was overpaid, with four weeks’ vacation, holiday bonuses, and health insurance. It occurred to Anna that Cristina, in her midfifties, would never find a position as good as the Von Bizmarks’, and her wide eyes said as much.
“Whoa, hold on,” Anna said. “No one’s losing their job,” she whispered loudly. “Don’t be so dramatic!” But when she slid the laundry room door back into its pocket, Josefina and Alicia were standing outside, wringing their hands and listening. “Oh my God, you guys, relax! Come on, she was in a great mood today!” Anna said, while internally feeling shaken by the generalized anxiety that had taken hold of the staff regarding the stability of the household.
That evening, Anna sped to the exhibition, where her intern chatted up a hipster couple in expensive sneakers. She introduced herself and happily explained her methods for incorporating the plastic sheeting into the oils, how she pressed her found materials and plastic shapes into the wet, rich oil paint. They listened attentively, but they did not even ask for a price list. She kept the gallery open until ten, though no one came after nine. The next night was a virtual repeat: many well-heeled lookers but no serious interest. With the lease up the next day, she had rented a van to cart her work back to the studio. She collapsed into bed around two a.m., Adrian snoring soundly already.
The next day, Anna told Mrs. Von Bizmark she had a migraine and raced through her tasks bleary eyed. But without the exhibition to go to, she arrived home early, only to remember Adrian would probably work late, like every other night. Unable to relax, Anna grabbed a broom to sweep their tiny apartment, already pretty dirty again after Adrian’s prejob cleaning. She attacked the floor with the dollar-store broom, sending more dust into the air than into a careful pile. Anna snagged a glue trap from under the couch on the plastic bristles, and after struggling to remove such, only succeeded in separating most of the brush from the broom itself. She threw the whole mess in the garbage downstairs, poured herself a glass of wine, and sat on the couch.
Over an hour later, the wine untouched on the coffee table, Anna did not stir from the fetal position on the couch when Adrian came home. She heard him put his bag at his desk chair. He leaned over the side of the couch and kissed her cheek. She tried to smile at him, but instead a tear slipped from her eye. She wanted Adrian to make her feel better, but how?
“Aw, babe, it just kills me to see you so upset when the show went great!”
“Adrian, you really let me down!” Anna said, wanting to tell him so many things about how she was feeling. Inadequate as an artist and at work and as a partner and a human. But she couldn’t put the words together for anything other than the ways he had not been there.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and he sat on the couch next to Anna. “I just feel like maybe . . .” He had a strange expression. Was he being sarcastic? “You have a teensy, eensy . . .” Definitely sarcasm. “Weensy . . .” Dramatic pause. “Entitlement problem.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Anna said, the wind knocked out of her sails; she’d never expected him to turn the tables on her like this. She sat up suddenly, the blanket falling off her, ready to fight.
“I mean, careers are not made in a single two-day show, Anna! It’s one thing to have high hopes, but, like, you’re sulking because you didn’t get picked by a gallery on your first try.” It was like it didn’t even matter to him that he had been late to the opening, not helped her as much as he’d said he would.
“This is not my first try,” Anna insisted, indignation building. She knew he had a point, but she was having a hard time making it out through the haze of failure. And anger. “Have you forgotten about all my student showcases? My MFA thesis?”
“Well, no, it’s just that . . .”
“What? They don’t count? People got signed at those shows. My classmates got galleries years ago.”
Adrian was silent. He only shrugged, a sardonic grin on his face, which to Anna meant, Maybe those people were the most talented. Maybe they deserved a gallery where she herself did not. Maybe her ship had already sailed. Was that what Adrian was thinking? Anna could feel herself losing control of her mouth as her rationales unraveled. “The point is I’m not some newbie kid. I’ve been at it awhile.” Adrian cocked his head at her. He was definitely smirking. Like he was thinking, See what I mean? But Anna didn’t want to see. And suddenly, she understood what was meant by the term blind rage.
“Sometimes I think you’ll never understand me,” Anna said, certain Adrian would disagree with her. Take her hand. Calm her down.
“You know, you may have a point there,” Adrian conceded, and it was like the ground shifted under Anna’s feet. He had always been so solid, so ready. So there. And now, out of the blue, there was this other possibility: that Adrian could go away.
Insecurity shocked Anna like a glass of water thrown in her face. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she sputtered.
“It’s just . . . Anna, it’s hard to think about building a life with you when you get all down in the mouth about one pop-up show that failed to accomplish all of your professional goals. Like, perspective?” he said.
Oh, it was so easy for him now, in his sellout luxury-goods job with the big paycheck and the implied glamour to talk this way, like he had all the answers. Anna inhaled sharply. “I’m not sure I understand you either anymore,” she tossed off, vaguely, feeling terrifically wronged. She wanted to scare him straight. Maybe she would be the one to leave! And the mere thought of this would make him embrace her and say, “Baby, let’s stop all this foolishness.”
But instead, he grabbed his coat off the chair, opened the front door of their apartment, and walked out.
EIGHT
January 18
He just walked out? Without saying a word?”
Anna nodded.
“Did he come home?”
“Really late. I don’t even know when. And then . . . he’s always at work! We talked on the phone yesterday, and I apologized. But . . .” Anna struggled to express her hesitation to Julie. “It just feels like Adrian doesn’t take me seriously.”