Page 32 of Caper Crush
He turns onto West End Avenue and drives north toward the Seventy-Ninth-Street exit to the Henry Hudson Parkway. William glances at me. “I thought papers never revealed their sources.”
“You can usually figure it out by the details. Only some people would know them.”
“Who is usually the source?
“Ex-friends,” I say wryly as the car stops for the red light.
He frowns.
“But I think this is telling,” I say. “Because whoever reported this wanted to see it publicized that my painting has been stolen, and so they have a similar motive to the thief.”
“Does the thief want the theft publicized?”
“If they want to hurt me, it definitely hurts that it’s now public that I’m probably not going to participate in this art show. And if they want to sell forgeries, they want it publicly known that the original has been stolen, so they can claim that their forgeries are the stolen original.”
“Any telling details?”
We merge onto the Henry Hudson Parkway.
“No, unfortunately,” I say. “But now I can’t say the exhibit will accept a different painting, not with that quote from the curator that I can’t participate without it.”
The Hudson River is still today. We drive up the highway toward Connecticut. One barge is being pushed up the river by a tugboat. We pass by playgrounds and fields filled with people playing sports. Calypso music, then rap music, interspersed with the shrieks of kids playing—the noises of Riverside Park on a sunny day—filter in through my open car window.
“Thanks again for the paints.”
“Did you paint?”
“I did. And I felt better. Even though I destroyed it after.”
His head turns sharply toward me. “You destroyed the painting?”
“I didn’t like it.”
“Shouldn’t you wait to see if you like it?” he asks. “Maybe it will grow on you.”
“No, it didn’t work.”
He bites his lip, mulling that over. “Isn’t that a little quick to judge?”
“No. If you made a mathematical error, you’d erase it once you realized it, wouldn’t you?”
“I never considered painting to be like math.”
“There is some math in it, some proportionality, especially with the composition.”
“Why didn’t you like this one?”
“Too dark and depressing.”
“It can’t all be happiness.” He switches lanes to exit toward the Cross Bronx Expressway.
“I hope that’s not your life motto,” I say dryly.
“If it was, you couldn’t appreciate the happiness.”
“I’m pretty sure I could still appreciate the happiness. My destroying it seems to bother you. Why?”
He shrugs. “It’s nothing. Just reminded me of a date a while ago where I felt she’d decided before even meeting me that she wasn’t going to like me. But it was a setup by our families, so I understand her point of view. It’s not like I expect those to be successful. But sometimes they are.” He half-smiles.
