The Art of Vanishing, page 18
“Let’s hope the rest of the city feels that way,” Jamie cautioned as she led the group out of the gallery. “I’ll see what can be done about moving that dresser into the restoration facilities before tomorrow…” Her voice became too faint to hear as they descended the stairs.
“What do you think they’re putting in there?” Pierre asked.
“I have no idea,” Marguerite and I said in near unison. “They never move things in this room. Or in this museum,” she added.
“Do you think this has to do with why it’s been empty for months?” Pierre said.
“It’s hard to say—maybe that, or maybe they’re using this time as an excuse to make a change,” I thought aloud.
“It can’t be a painting,” Marguerite said with her typical certainty, “or they wouldn’t be looking at that space. I can’t imagine they’d ever hang another painting in here. It must be like…a thing.”
“A thing,” I joked back at her. “Of course, how astute of you.”
“Oh, pffffft,” she said. “You know what I mean. It’s an object, maybe of some historical importance to the collector. Or to the art in here in some way. I doubt it’s art itself.”
“I guess we’ll all see, seemingly soon.”
“Lucky us,” Marguerite said. “It’s all going to unfold right before our eyes.” She had the glint of gossip that was hers to trade in as she sashayed out of the room with a wave of her hand.
Jean
Our world burst to life the next day with the sound of a drill as two men in unremarkable uniforms assembled a wood plinth. The wood was a warm brown color, almost an exact match to the dresser they’d moved into the elevator earlier that morning. The new plinth was now standing in three dimensions and had inspired an argument among the four decision-makers of yesterday, who had returned alongside the construction crew.
“Do you think it would be better centered in this room, so viewers could walk all the way around it?” Lisa asked.
“Absolutely not, it would be far less protected that way,” Henry said.
“Not if we encased it in glass,” Lisa countered.
“Wait,” Christie piped up. “We weren’t planning to encase it in glass? How on earth will we keep it secure?”
“Hardly anything in this museum is in glass,” Henry argued. “Only the objects in those little curio cabinets. Glass would go against the entire aesthetic.”
“But most everything of value in here is glued to the walls, it’s not going anywhere. The things in those cabinets and out on the shelves, those are just glorified knickknacks compared to the rest of the collection.”
“Is glass how the collector would have wanted it displayed?” Christie asked.
“This is the only thing we’ve ever added to the collection that the collector didn’t bring in here himself,” Henry said.
“I can’t believe we’re even considering no glass.” Christie shook her head at their collective naïveté. “What if someone trips and spills coffee on it!”
“No food or drink will be allowed in the museum, because of the…” Henry gestured to the covering on his face. “We won’t even have the concessions stand open.”
“What if people try to turn the pages?” Lisa asked. “Maybe we can find a cabinet for it that matches the aesthetic of the others.”
“If we put it against the wall, we’ll be able to put a low bar with an alarm sensor in it around the perimeter. It will let out a warning sound to alert both the patron and the nearby associate that someone has gotten too close. And if the journal was ever lifted, the museum would go into full lockdown mode, same as any other security alert.”
“Okay,” Christie said. “I believe you that you’ve thought about this every way you can imagine, but why? Why take this kind of risk with something so newly discovered that we don’t even know what the value of it is?”
“Because these are the donor’s demands,” Jamie answered, breaking her silence. “They required that it be placed in a location that is accessible to all guests, that it must be unobscured by glass or covering, and that one page must be turned each day. If we can’t meet all these requirements, we will not get to display it. Maybe no one ever will.”
“But you’ll at least put it in a secure location each day after closing, of course,” Christie said.
“No.” Jamie shook her head. “The donor was very clear—this is for the people who work the night shift too.”
Christie let out a low whistle. “You must really trust the janitorial staff.”
“Don’t”—her voice grew unexpectedly sharp—“insult the janitorial staff. They are trustworthy.”
Certain this was a bad idea but positive her concerns would be considered no further, Christie apologized and stood to the side as the two men in uniform secured the wood plinth to the floor.
There was another round of discussion about how far from the stand the low-lying bar on the floor should be placed. The consensus was just out of fingertip reach, but close enough for those with good eyesight, natural or corrected, to read. The four members of the group took turns standing at different angles and reaching out their arms, backing up inch by inch until they could no longer reach the platform.
Linda arrived soon after, and the group directed her to their new piece of construction. Still there was no sign of Claire. Linda swept up the sawdust. She wiped down the surface, cleaning it thoughtfully of any debris. The group thanked her profusely, and she dropped to the back of their cluster. I could see from the way she checked over each shoulder that she was hopeful no one would complain if she stuck around. She took a seat on the bench nearest to me, tucking herself out of the way of the immediate action, but granting herself a ringside view for whatever was about to unfold.
A large black storage chest was rolled in from the elevator and wheeled right up to the display stand. Jamie stepped forward and lifted the two large metal buckles on its exterior. From within the case, she pulled out a smaller suitcase that looked like something I might have carried in my previous life—vintage, I’m sure they’d call it now.
Jamie lowered the suitcase, resting it on the lid of the black trunk. The gallery was silent; every pair of eyes, even those on the walls, was focused on the suitcase. Linda and I simultaneously shifted forward in our seats, surreptitiously angling to get a better view. Jamie was charged with this concentrated energy, the knowledge that all eyes were on her, her understanding of the weight of the moment.
She lifted the clasps one at a time, right first, then left. She cracked open the suitcase and pulled out a small notebook. It was hard to see from our vantage point, but it appeared unremarkable. It had a worn brown cover, notably distressed but not tattered.
“That’s it?” Marguerite said under her breath. Pierre and I both shushed her, but we were all thinking it. We were in a room full of masterpieces; a journal was what they had to offer in addition? All this fanfare for that?
“We’ll be attaching a protective slipcover over the jacket, so we can secure that down to the display surface,” Jamie narrated as she pulled a thick piece of plastic out of a cardboard sleeve. She took care in adhering it to the journal, and then the journal to the stand beneath it. After a few minutes, the job was done.
“We’ll start at page one tomorrow. For each day after that when the museum is open to the public, we’ll turn one page. When we reach the end, we’ll return the object to the donor.”
“I can’t believe we get to be a part of this,” Christie said. “What a year this is.”
“It’s not just once in a lifetime,” Lisa said. “It’s once in their lifetime.” She gestured to us on the walls.
“I wonder,” Marguerite whispered, “if we can read it if we stand in that painting right above it. What makes this little journal so important?”
“It’s probably in English,” I said. “Can you even read in English?” I was mocking her, but I too was curious why this diary was special and was eager to find out for myself.
“A little bit,” she retorted. “I’m sure someone in here can.” Pierre shushed us both, not wanting to miss what was unfolding in front of us.
“I can’t believe people will finally be back in here tomorrow,” Lisa said.
“I can’t believe they haven’t been here in over four months. Is that the longest we’ve ever been closed to the public?” Henry wondered.
“I had that same question,” Christa said. “And the answer is quite interesting…” Their voices trailed off as they wound their way out of the gallery. The men who had constructed the installation packed up their tools and followed the larger group out.
That left just us and Linda, who busied herself with making sure everything in the gallery looked as spotless as it had before the day’s commotion. I caught myself thinking the new addition was quite the eyesore, though I was unsure if I was just unused to seeing anything new in these galleries and knew it might be less “ugly” and more “unexpected.”
After she was content with the state of the room, Linda put her equipment aside and came to stand directly in front of the journal. There was an air of ceremony to the moment; she was the first to have this experience.
“I wish Linda shared Claire’s tendency to narrate all her thoughts out loud,” Marguerite said.
Pierre said, “Me too.” I silently agreed. But that wasn’t Linda’s way. She took in whatever it was she was privy to over there, shrugged with a small hmm sound, and began to pack her things up to head out of the gallery. As she was nearly at the exit, something struck her. She turned and pointed her phone back at the new podium, a synthetic camera shutter sound implying that she had captured a photograph.
“Aw,” Marguerite cooed in a whisper. “Even Linda missed the art.” Linda pocketed her phone and left the room.
As soon as we were alone, Marguerite was on her feet. She was practically vibrating from the many revelations of the day, mixed with the excitement of that which was yet to come. I had expected her to race from the room, but she paused before doing so and turned to me.
“People are coming back tomorrow,” Marguerite said. I nodded; the knowledge of that had struck me as well. “I wonder if that means Claire will return?”
“It could mean that,” I responded. I felt a bubbling in my stomach, an unstable solution of excitement and anxiety. Would Claire actually come back? Jamie had said that patrons might not even return. Would the museum have filled the staff back up right away? I resigned myself to the fact that it was probably best to just expect the worst.
“Hard to know,” Marguerite continued, “as everything has been so unknowable lately.”
“Right,” I said.
“I know you won’t get your hopes up, but mine are up on your behalf.” She smiled and gave me a single pat on the shoulder on her way out of the room. Pierre followed, a bounce in his step.
I pictured Claire, standing in front of my frame. It was a Claire of old times, when she used to pass by just to say hello, before we ever knew what she was capable of. My vision of her was so clear. I got up to stand at the edge of her world and mine. At some point in our isolation, I’d given up this memory game; it had been too painful. But as I extended my hand as far as it could go, I felt myself come out of emotional hibernation, my skin tingling. For the first time in a very long time, against my better judgment, I allowed myself to hope.
Claire
The first park date had gone shockingly well. If anything, it was underwhelming. I’d arrived early, nervous about any upcoming disappointment that might be heading in Luna’s direction. I had convinced myself that there was no way he was going to show.
Jeremy arrived at the agreed-upon time, wearing a mask. He made a show of sanitizing his hands before he reached out to fist-bump with Luna.
“Hi, Luna. I’m Jeremy,” he said gently.
“I know,” she replied in her confident way.
“I brought you something,” he said.
“Okay.” Luna wasn’t used to getting gifts when it wasn’t her birthday or Christmas, as we didn’t often have anything extra to go around. Jeremy looked at me as if to check what her answer really meant. I gestured for him to continue.
He pulled a stuffed animal out from behind his back. Well, I’m not sure “stuffed animal” is the right term. It was actually a fluffy white stuffed crescent moon with a kind face and legs that dangled down. It was beautiful.
“Get it?” he asked. “It’s a moon, like your name. It’s a Jellycat, I heard they’re the special ones.” Luna took it and tucked it under her arm, heading off with determination toward the swing set. She knew I wouldn’t let her stay here long after dark and that her minutes were numbered.
“A Jellycat?” I hissed at him when he stood back up to his full height. “Aren’t those things stupid expensive? Jeez, next time just pay for our groceries or something.” He shrugged and I knew I wasn’t being entirely fair. It was a gift for Luna, not for me, and it was actually pretty thoughtful.
As if she’d remembered what the purpose of this trip was, she came wandering back over. “Would you like to swing too?” she asked in her most polite voice. He nodded and she thrust the moon up at me before she led her father off with her.
I took a seat on the bench, petting the moon in irritation. Damn, I admitted to myself, it is really soft.
We’d had a handful of additional successful outings after that one, the three of us. We’d shared a box of pizza in the park, packing our plates and Luna’s plastic silverware from home so I could cut hers up into manageable bites. We’d visited all the playgrounds within walking distance. I was sure in normal circumstances I would have resented anything to do with Jeremy taking up so much of my time. But right now, I had nothing but time. It was as fine as any way to spend these many unspoken-for hours.
The jury was still out on what Luna thought of him. She treated him with more familiarity than your average stranger, but no more affection than she had for, say, one of her teachers. She was cautious with her heart. I was nervous I had taught her that.
When she was off in her own little world, conquering yet another slide, Jeremy feigned interest in my life. I knew it was fake because he’d never indicated a smidge of care about my life since we’d moved in together all those years ago, but today, he asked about the museum, how I liked it, what I did there. He asked after Gracie’s health and even dared to ask if I’d heard anything from my mother. He asked if I was seeing anyone. At that point, I told him we didn’t have to talk anymore. So, we didn’t.
Today was a big day. Last week, Luna had told me politely that I didn’t need to go along with them anymore. I clarified with her—did that mean she didn’t want me there? No, she’d told me, I could go if I wanted to, but it was okay for me to not go. As always, I wanted to respect her growing independence. It was amazing how much older she seemed to me after these few months. I was watching her become her own little person.
I’d called Jeremy to tell him what Luna had said, and he was just as stunned as I was. I found myself assuring him it would be fine and that he could call or text if he needed anything. We’d agreed he’d pick her up at the usual time and take her to the playground near our house.
Luna had asked me to braid her hair today, and I wrestled her boisterous curls into plaits. She had definitely inherited my hair. We sat on the porch with her stuffed moon, which had been named Moona, and we waited. And waited. And waited. When he was twenty minutes late, I started calling him. They all went straight to voicemail. Of course they freaking did.
The sun slipped lower in the sky. In the normal times, I would already be on my way out the door, heading off to the museum. I was grateful I was here now to hold her hand. I didn’t want to freak Luna out, so I sealed up my anger inside my body and suggested we go upstairs and watch Cars. Even that classic hit did nothing to brighten her spirits as she headed sluggishly inside. I got her snuggled under our coziest blanket and allowed Lightning McQueen’s voice to take over our living room. I watched out of the corner of my eye as she undid her braids with her tiny fingers. If I ever saw that man again, I was going to punch him square in the face.
Unless, of course, something was wrong. Oh my god, was I a terrible person? What if something had happened to him?
My phone rang, an unknown Philadelphia number. If this was Jeremy calling from some bar, I was going to let him have it. I got off the couch and walked into the bedroom, shutting the door behind me.
“Jeremy, I swear to god,” I answered.
“Erm, no, Claire? Sorry to interrupt. It’s Jamie, not Jeremy, from the museum?” A voice cut through my tirade from the other end of the line. It was like time stopped, my heart pausing its beating in my chest.
“Oh, hi, yes, sorry for that confusion!” I said, my tone newly polite. “How are you? How have things been?”
“You know,” she replied, and I did know. “We’ve been keeping on as best we can. But I’m calling with good news—great news, actually. We’re reopening the museum to the public next week and I was wondering if you’d be interested in taking your job back?”
Jean
I should not have been as surprised as I was to hear a familiar voice first thing the next morning. In hindsight, of course it made sense that a special group would be the first to experience the new installation. Jamie had silently slipped into the gallery in the early hours of the morning. Ever so gently, she turned a single page. She’d read what was there before leaving just as silently as she’d come.
In cacophonous contrast, the recognizable peal of Susie’s voice came bouncing in from down the hall. “Now,” she commanded, “please make sure your mask covers both your nose and your mouth the entire time you are inside the museum.” Ironically, I would later notice that Susie’s own mask slid beneath her nose every time she opened her mouth a bit too animatedly, which was nearly every time she spoke.
