An End by Paul Hughes Page B

emotionally detached from them. I feel that the early influence of Whistler’s mother created within him a general distrust or indifference toward women that resulted in his objectification of them.”
    Sip of water.
    “ The White Girl is not Jo Hiffernan. The White Girl is a study of white on white. I feel that Whistler would agree that an artist does not have to explain his or her intentions or actions when creating a work. An artist creates art for themselves, not for critics or the public. Whistler created The White Girl to study the tonal changes of white on white, and in the process revealed quite a bit about his feelings toward women that perhaps he had not intended to reveal. If this painting displays any narrative at all, I believe it is the sad and bitter tale of an artist who cannot find love, and to whom women or relationships of any meaning at all for that matter are nothing but trivialities, an artist whose showmanship and extraordinary personality are perhaps a defense mechanism against an internal strife brought about by overpowering or meaningless relationships in his youth. I must say that Whistler is not the only artist whose art tells a sad tale.”
    Clear throat.
    “ The White Girl is a study of white on white, that is all.”
    They clapped, although he knew they didn’t want to be there, didn’t care about what he had written, didn’t watch the slides as they were projected. Nine artsy souls in a sweltering room meant for storage but converted into a “conference room” by a stingy university, used by upperclass menandwomen in special topics seminars heralded by big numbers in the four-hundred range on registration slips and add/drop slips and all of the other fun fun bureaucracy of college life.
    Betsy had that grin on her face from behind the dreaded bound green gradebook in which she was keeping notes on each presentation.
    “Paul, that was marvelous! It really felt like you could relate to your research topic. Don’t you think?”
    “Well, I—”
    “I knew you’d love Whistler. You have so much in common.”
    He blushed, grinned. “Well, that’s what Jo tells me.”
    Betsy’s smile faltered. She leaned forward, almost imperceptibly. “What do you mean?”
    “Didn’t you realize, Doctor?”
    “What?”
    “I contain multitudes.”
    “What do you mean?”
     
     
    “Perpetual autumn. It’s coming. A world of gray, silence, nothing. I can hear it.”
    “Jean—”
    “She’s down there right now, planning it all. Planning the extinction. She’ll need both of us for this to work.”
    “Who?”
    “She’ll need me for the arrival, and you for the discovery. The pursuit.”
    “Jean, who?”
    “Notre Mère , mon amie. Elle est prête pour le divinity .”
    “Oui, commandant.”
    Reynald looked up at the young man who was not his son, but who was the closest thing he had ever had to family. He tenderly reached out and took Windham’s left hand, regarding the silver ring.
    “Your Helen?”
    “My Helen.”
    Reynald smiled, patted Windham’s hand and let go.
    “Get out of here. Go home, son.”
    “Jean, I—”
    “ Vont , mon fils.”
    “I’ll be back. As soon as I can.”
    Reynald smiled.
     
     
    Gray streets. Windham pulled the collar of his overcoat up, protecting his neck from the bitter lick of the wind. His heart was beating in his throat, not from the pace of the walk, but from that distant look in Jean’s eyes... Reynald was looking beyond this world, seeing a time and place that Windham couldn’t begin to comprehend. He was seeing a world through eyes that became more clouded with the silver each time that Windham visited. The old man would be possessed entirely, soon. What then? What information could the creature at the center of the planet reap from his soul upon his total dissolution that she had not yet been able to take already?
    Dead leaves on weathered sidewalks, scritching and scratching wing-man trajectories on either side of Windham’s feet, some