04 - The Painting
Funny Games We Used to Play, a serial novel
This is Chapter Four of the serial novel, Funny Games We Used to Play. To start at chapter one, head HERE.
The humming from the box in the back of the truck was so dim, so muted, that Lloyd couldn’t figure out why it bothered him so much. He came to realize it was the constancy of it, the eternal nature of it, along with a kind of personal intimacy, making it feel like the tiniest worm had crept into his inner ear and began a subtle boring towards his brain, all while whispering the world’s darkest secrets.
He wondered if it might be calling to him, whatever was in that box, and for a moment he thought it might not be darkness but pure light, an invitation to something better, a lighthouse directing him to a safe harbor.
But he couldn’t decide, because he couldn’t focus, because Stanley wouldn’t shut up. If he could only think for one goddamn minute, if he could just gather his thoughts, he was sure he could will that sound away. Expel that tiny worm. Or get to the heart of its message. He reached up and itched his ear.
He might be losing his mind.
“Maybe you guys should just let it go, you know?” Stanley’s voice was like a watered-down drink. “Probably would be best, to be honest. You know your brain only has a certain amount of space, right? You can’t hold onto all these old grudges. If she treated Moll poorly, that’s all in the past isn’t it? Can’t make what was wrong, right, at least not now, can you?”
“What do you know about it?”
“Me?” Stanley replied. “I’ve been working hard to let things go. Freeing up space for what matters. You should try it. Might help lower your blood pressure.”
Lloyd shook his head, exasperated. “What do you know about my blood pressure?” Mol must have been talking.
“Nothing,” Stanley muttered, his voice fading. “I don’t know nothing about your blood pressure. Freeing up space though, emptying your mind of some stuff, it helps you to let go.”
“You’ve let go alright.” Lloyd laughed, and it surprised him, how mean his own voice sounded. “Of reality.”
But as the light turned and the long row of city traffic began creeping forward, something loosened up in Lloyd, and the old familiar guilt returned: guilt at how he had treated Mol that morning, his dear Mol who he did love no matter how much she whined and complained about life, no matter how vacant her eyes were becoming or what stories she made up. And Stanley, here in the truck with him—Stanley didn’t deserve his meanness. He had come along like a sheep, only wanting to help, maybe make a few bucks.
“What have you been up to, anyway, Stanley?” Lloyd asked, trying to make things better between them.
For the next ten minutes, Stanley went on about his attic full of collectible license plates, how he’d been taking them down into his empty dining room one box at a time, organizing them by color, by state. How he had some real doozies, yes indeed, and he figured there was one hidden in there that would make all of this—he motioned around the cab of the truck—unnecessary.
“Wouldn’t you be better off buying a lottery ticket?” Lloyd asked.
Stanley shrugged. “I like license plates.”
“Aren’t you collecting social security by now?” Lloyd asked. “Surely you don’t have to work. You can say no, you know. You don’t have to keep doing this just for me.”
Stanley shrugged again, he was always doing that, shrugging, and he looked out his window. Lloyd had thrown those words out there without a thought, You don’t have to keep doing this just for me, but he wondered if that was it. Was that why Stanley kept working, for him?
He could be a real jerk sometimes.
“Listen, Stanley.” He hesitated.
“Yeah,” Stanley looked at him, eager, like a dog being petted by someone who usually shoves them aside.
“You know how bad they treated Mol, at this place where she used to work? This Old Woman?” The truck wheezed to a stop as they paused at a red light. Lloyd glanced at Stanley, then back at the road. The truck idled, sputtered as if it might die, then resumed its normal complaints. And there was always the sound of the box, just under every other city sound.
“Yeah, yeah, I remember. She was sick and they kicked her to the curb.”
“Well, look, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but you know your sister, how she could use some help, medication we can’t really afford. And maybe a shrink. You know. That kind of stuff.”
Stanley nodded but didn’t say anything. One of his hands ran restlessly over the seatbelt where it crossed his heart while the other hand latched and unlatched the seatbelt.
Click. Click. Click.
The nervous sound of it was almost enough to keep Lloyd from continuing. The light turned green and he drove the truck forward gingerly, not wanting to tip over the box in the back. They had strapped it in, but still. That was a lot of weight.
“Look. This Old Woman, this house, has more valuable stuff in it than you can even imagine. I mean famous paintings. Ugly vases probably worth a fortune. That kind of thing. Fact is, Mol and I could use some cash.” He paused and glanced at Stanley to see if he had guess where Lloyd was headed with all this, but his face was blank, as usual.
Click. Click. Click.
“Dammit, Stanley, can you stop that clicking for one second?” He blew out an exasperated exhale. Stanley froze in place.
“Sorry.“
Lloyd sighed, and his voice softened again. “Anyway, we need some cash. Pretty bad. This job isn’t exactly a high-paying gig. You know how it is.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know how it is.”
He sounded like a goddamn parrot. “So here’s the deal.” Lloyd grimaced. The traffic was thinning as they merged into the suburbs, nearly to the highway. “There’s a painting in the house. They say it’s a genuine Winslow Homer.”
“Who says?”
Lloyd paused. “This friend of mine at the warehouse. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Ever heard of Winslow Homer?”
“Heard of him? Sure. I think so.”
“You never heard of him. Doesn’t matter. He painted this famous picture. Called The Gulf Stream. Turns out he painted something for the family way back when, last century, and this Old Woman ended up with the painting. Molly showed me a copy.”
“What’s it of?” Stanley asked.
“What do you mean?”
“The painting. What is it?”
“It’s a painting of the ocean, and a big boat off in the distance. One of those old man-o-war type ships with cannons and three masts and sails out to here. Anyway, guess how much that painting is worth?”
“Ten thousand?” Stanley asked, his eyes wide.
Lloyd laughed. It struck him funny, and he laughed and laughed, so that by the time he stopped Stanley was grinning stupidly.
“That painting is worth maybe a million, Stanley. Maybe $10 million.”
“And they have it in their house?”
“Yeah.”
“You believe this guy from the warehouse?” Stanley asked.
“It’s not just him who says it. Moll saw it when she worked there. It was hidden away in some basement room. That’s the beauty. Once it’s gone, they won’t even know it’s missing.”
Again, he glanced at Stanley, and again Stanley looked suitably clueless.
“You know what I mean?”
Stanley nodded.
“Stanley, you don’t know what I’m trying to say, do you?”
Disappointment on his face, Stanley shook his head. No. He did not.
“Okay, here’s the deal. If you get a chance, wander down to the basement, okay? Look for this painting. ”
A sound squeaked out of Stanley, and Lloyd couldn’t tell if it was fear or the sudden realization about the nature of the conversation.
“Look, if you don’t see anything, don’t worry about it. But this painting, we could maybe sell it for a lot. A lot.” He looked over at Stanley. “It would really help out your sister.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure, Lloyd. I know how it is. I’ll keep my eyes open.”
He was so suddenly eager, and so happy to be in on it, that Lloyd had an immediate change of heart. Stupid. How could he be so stupid. Stanley was anything but subtle, anything but devious. The man collected license plates, for God’s sake.
Lloyd had really gone and done it. Now Stanley would ruin it.
“Just forget it, Stanley,” he said, trying to sound light. “Don’t worry about it. Forget I said anything.”
But when he glanced over at Stanley, he could see a new light in his eyes, and the wheels in his mind turning.
They made their way out of the city onto the highway, and traffic melted, and soon the two of them were cruising at 65, their open windows letting in the smell of summer, leaving that cement jungle behind them. The storm clouds had drifted off to the north, where they now sat, waiting, just sitting there. Lloyd rubbed his aching shoulder and cursed his lack of pills.
Stanley, meanwhile, hummed to himself and tapped his fingers on the window sill. He even smiled over at Lloyd and punched him on the shoulder with his bony hand, then laughed out loud.
Lloyd just shook his head. He sure had gone and done it.
Oh dear, Lloyd, what have you started?
Itched his ear? I know what you meant.