Page 34 of Trailer Park Billionaire
“I’m a conservator,” I say flatly. My grandpa was the actual artist.
“Oh, I’m sure you’re a fine conservator,” he agrees, “but from the looks of it, you’re also a great painter.”
I try to take a deep breath. Being here makes my chest feel tight. “Anyway,” I say, mostly to myself, “where should I start?”
Where would I find information about a debt he owes?
I walk over to his desk and pull out drawer after drawer. Official documents are tossed in with paintbrushes, spatulas, newspaper clippings, glue, and plenty more junk he collected over time.
Ben watches as I get more and more exasperated. I can feel his eyes on me. When I’ve skimmed every letter and document I can find, I kick the last drawer shut.Of course guys like them don’t send last notices.
Ben’s new friend looks toward me but is quickly lured back to sleep by some cooing and gentle strokes. In a bold move, Ben uses the small disturbance to get up and to carry the gray furball over to the bed, where he puts it down onto the blanket, continuing the massage treatment a little longer while I check the shelves in the living room area for… something. Any clues.
After a while, Ben tiptoes over to me, his eyes remaining fixed on his furry friend. “Alright, I think we’re in the clear,” he whispers. “Let’s get to work then. Here’s what we’re going to do.” His gaze shifts to me. “You’ll make three piles: discard, donate, keep. I’ll pack everything up into boxes and bags and bring them down to the RV.” He nods decisively. “And try not to wake our baby. I just put him to sleep and he’s been cranky all week.” He cocks his head with a smirk.
“Our baby?”
“Psst.” Ben puts a finger on my lips. “I know this is a big adjustment for all of us, but let’s not fight in front of him.”
I swat his hand away. “You sure it’s a him?”
“No teats. It’s a boy.”
I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not ready to be a mother.”
“Too late.” Ben glances fondly at the snoring ball of fluff and puts his hand around my shoulder. “We’re in this together now.”
I take a deep breath. And, to my surprise, it actually fills my lungs properly. The first one all evening. It’s a small relief. A second breath follows. “Well, I hope you know I’m not changing any raccoon diapers,” I say, and get back to work. Following his instructions, I start forming three piles by the door while Ben is looking at all the paintings adorning my grandpa’s walls, taking them in with a slow sweep of his gaze.
There are a lot of them. I’m not sure I can even store them all in my apartment. Maybe if I stopped using my shower and stacked them in there. Maybe I could even sell a few. They wouldn’t add up to a hundred grand, but possibly a few thousand. It might buy me some time—though my extortionists didn’t strike me like the type of gangster willing to negotiate either.
The sorting is slow, mostly because every other item feels like a memory grenade waiting to go off by a mere touch or even just a closer look. After some deliberation, the painting I did of his corpse goes into the trash pile. Luckily, Ben keeps me from sinking too deep into sentimentality with his steady stream of unsolicited commentary.
“Oh, look at this,” he says at one point, holding up an old, half-torn T-shirt that was likely used to wipe paintbrushes. “Now,thisis a statement piece. You think I can pull this off?”
“Without a face tattoo? Doubtful.” I shake my head, unable to suppress the small grin tugging at my lips as we keep packing.
Ben moves with efficiency, gathering canvases, old sketchbooks, and an assortment of things my grandpa hoarded over the years. I focus on sorting while scanning every singlescrap of paper for clues about the debt. After a while, I notice Ben lingering over one painting.
“Something catch your eye?” I ask, watching him study a piece I’d placed in the keep stack.
I follow his gaze. It’s a copy ofthatpainting. The one my grandpa got arrested for forging. It had been all over the news back then, which is probably why Ben recognizes it.
I sigh. “That’s the one that got him incarcerated. He made several versions. They didn’t find all of them.”
Ben hums, something unreadable passing over his face. “A Gentileschi. I remember when it happened. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“That it’s coming back to the museum in the exhibition? Yep.” I nod. “The irony wasn’t lost on me. I was looking forward to smuggling my grandpa in after hours to take a look at it.”
Even more careful than before, he wraps it in a piece of bed sheet and carries it downstairs along with about a dozen other paintings, while I go back to sorting.
My last glimmer of hope that my grandpa had hidden away some secret fortune, or at least something to make all of this make sense, vanishes as we load the final box of folders and books into the RV.It would have been too easy.
I toss one last trash bag into the big dumpster behind the building when something catches my eye. The corner of a frame is peeking out from under torn-up cardboard boxes. I hesitate for only a second before climbing up onto the dumpster rim, curiosity winning over my sense of hygiene.
“Helena?” Ben calls from behind me.
“One second,” I grunt, stretching further, my fingers grazing the edge…
