that.”
Again, he waited; again, she clammed up.
“Why didn’t Oscar leave Teddy any of his paintings, or any money?” he asked.
Maxine finished her tea. “I guess because she had no claim to any of it.”
“I’m sorry to keep you,” said Henry. “I’m just trying to—”
“Was there anything else?”
“Why do you ignore Oscar’s daughters?”
“You mean Teddy’s daughters,” she said before she could stop herself.
“Why do I mean Teddy’s daughters?”
“You’ll have to ask them that.”
“But how do you know what they’d say if you never see them?”
“I pick things up through the air, like a radio.”
With a victorious expression Maxine didn’t care for at all, Henry said, “I will ask Ruby and Samantha. But I’m very interested to know why you chose not to recognize them as your nieces.”
“Chalk it up to a complete lack of interest,” said Maxine. “In children, you could say.”
“And in Teddy’s children especially.”
“It’s no secret,” said Maxine, “what I’ve always thought of her.”
“You’ve only said you don’t like her. You haven’t said why.”
Maxine declined to respond to this.
“Oscar was a complicated man,” said Henry. “A very different kind of man from me. I don’t judge him; in fact, I wish I were more like him. It’s an honor, writing his life, talking to his family.”
“I’m happy for you,” she said, standing up.
“Before I go,” said Henry without making a move to leave, “let me just say that I love your work. It makes me think of Franz Kline crossed with sumei painting—something about the powerful tension between control and wildness, your fluid and subtle but rigorous and tough-minded brushwork. Nothing sentimental, nothing extraneous, but what’s there feels both unerringly and passionately executed.” He took a hasty sip of tea. “I hope it’s all right that I said that.”
“Of course the Franz Kline comparison is music to my ears,” said Maxine. She was suddenly feeling a little more alert. “He was a great painter, an amazing painter. He influenced me in definite ways. And sumei painting, well, yes, of course sumei painting…I use Japanese brushes and techniques. But you wouldn’t tell a man his work was tough-minded. That’s something men say to women as a compliment, and it really means ‘masculine.’”
“You seem to have it in for men,” said Henry with a smile. “I’m used to it by now. My wife does, too.”
“I have nothing against men,” she replied. “I like men. Actually, I can’t stand most women, except the ones I’m attracted to. But I’ll be ninety in six years. I’ve had plenty of time to observe a few things.”
“I meant that your work is tough-minded,” said Henry, “like Kline’s. There is a similar achievement of absolute beauty without wishful thinking.”
Maxine cleared her throat. “Thank you,” she said against the upswell of words in her throat: I was always a much better painter than my brother; it was just that I was quiet. I didn’t make waves. I was never comfortable with interviews, publicity, all that. I just painted. Oscar was a showman, a charmer, an attentionmongerer, a flirt, even as a little boy, and I was a good girl, and look where it got me…. I never learned to play the game; I just waited on the sidelines for someone to notice me and see me for what I was, like the peasant girl in the fairy tale.
“Thank you so much for your time today,” said Henry. He bounced Chester a little in his arms, preparing to wrap him up and carry him back down to the car.
“The truth is, I’ve always felt like the peasant girl in the fairy tale,” said Maxine. It came out sounding strangled.
Henry closed his notebook and put it into his shoulder bag. “What do you mean?”
“Oh,” she said. “Just kvetching.”
“Why would you feel like a peasant girl?”
Maxine warmed to the surprise in his voice and felt her opposition to his questions soften
Again, he waited; again, she clammed up.
“Why didn’t Oscar leave Teddy any of his paintings, or any money?” he asked.
Maxine finished her tea. “I guess because she had no claim to any of it.”
“I’m sorry to keep you,” said Henry. “I’m just trying to—”
“Was there anything else?”
“Why do you ignore Oscar’s daughters?”
“You mean Teddy’s daughters,” she said before she could stop herself.
“Why do I mean Teddy’s daughters?”
“You’ll have to ask them that.”
“But how do you know what they’d say if you never see them?”
“I pick things up through the air, like a radio.”
With a victorious expression Maxine didn’t care for at all, Henry said, “I will ask Ruby and Samantha. But I’m very interested to know why you chose not to recognize them as your nieces.”
“Chalk it up to a complete lack of interest,” said Maxine. “In children, you could say.”
“And in Teddy’s children especially.”
“It’s no secret,” said Maxine, “what I’ve always thought of her.”
“You’ve only said you don’t like her. You haven’t said why.”
Maxine declined to respond to this.
“Oscar was a complicated man,” said Henry. “A very different kind of man from me. I don’t judge him; in fact, I wish I were more like him. It’s an honor, writing his life, talking to his family.”
“I’m happy for you,” she said, standing up.
“Before I go,” said Henry without making a move to leave, “let me just say that I love your work. It makes me think of Franz Kline crossed with sumei painting—something about the powerful tension between control and wildness, your fluid and subtle but rigorous and tough-minded brushwork. Nothing sentimental, nothing extraneous, but what’s there feels both unerringly and passionately executed.” He took a hasty sip of tea. “I hope it’s all right that I said that.”
“Of course the Franz Kline comparison is music to my ears,” said Maxine. She was suddenly feeling a little more alert. “He was a great painter, an amazing painter. He influenced me in definite ways. And sumei painting, well, yes, of course sumei painting…I use Japanese brushes and techniques. But you wouldn’t tell a man his work was tough-minded. That’s something men say to women as a compliment, and it really means ‘masculine.’”
“You seem to have it in for men,” said Henry with a smile. “I’m used to it by now. My wife does, too.”
“I have nothing against men,” she replied. “I like men. Actually, I can’t stand most women, except the ones I’m attracted to. But I’ll be ninety in six years. I’ve had plenty of time to observe a few things.”
“I meant that your work is tough-minded,” said Henry, “like Kline’s. There is a similar achievement of absolute beauty without wishful thinking.”
Maxine cleared her throat. “Thank you,” she said against the upswell of words in her throat: I was always a much better painter than my brother; it was just that I was quiet. I didn’t make waves. I was never comfortable with interviews, publicity, all that. I just painted. Oscar was a showman, a charmer, an attentionmongerer, a flirt, even as a little boy, and I was a good girl, and look where it got me…. I never learned to play the game; I just waited on the sidelines for someone to notice me and see me for what I was, like the peasant girl in the fairy tale.
“Thank you so much for your time today,” said Henry. He bounced Chester a little in his arms, preparing to wrap him up and carry him back down to the car.
“The truth is, I’ve always felt like the peasant girl in the fairy tale,” said Maxine. It came out sounding strangled.
Henry closed his notebook and put it into his shoulder bag. “What do you mean?”
“Oh,” she said. “Just kvetching.”
“Why would you feel like a peasant girl?”
Maxine warmed to the surprise in his voice and felt her opposition to his questions soften
Similar Books
