Haunted Worlds Page 6

  Later, one of the other artists in the show, a friend of Jeannie’s, had reluctantly shared more of Segler-Frost’s impressions of Jeannie’s drawings, from an overheard conversation. Segler-Frost had said, “Despite their obsessive surface detail, they lack life .”

  Lack life, Jeannie thought, remembering Segler-Frost’s comments now . . . as she had countless times in the years since the show. Which had been the last art show she had cared to participate in. But Jorge Nada’s gigantic faces, as crudely drawn as anything Jeannie’s five-year-old nephew might render, were no doubt overflowing with life. And all the muddy brown streaks across those enormous flat faces, to give them an appropriately gritty and edgy look . . . Jeannie’s dog that had once rolled in an animal carcass had had a habit of dragging its rear across the living room carpet when inconvenienced by a cling-on, leaving nasty brown smears. She could imagine Nada slapping paint on his own dog’s posterior and encouraging it to go to work on his giant faces, in a human/canine collaboration.

  She hadn’t drawn anything new for a few years after the show, and Bobert hadn’t fared much better with his writing, receiving rejection slips that were the equivalent of Segler-Frost’s dismissal. Both of them had concentrated mainly on their day jobs. But eventually Bobert started selling his short stories—horror tales as subtly shaded as those of the masters he admired: M. R. James, E. F. Benson, and their ilk—to small-press publications, and he gently goaded Jeannie into illustrating several of these. The editors of the publications were impressed with her work, which encouraged her, so that when Bobert finally sold his first collection he convinced the small-press publisher to allow Jeannie to provide the color cover art as well as illustrations to accompany each of the stories within. Because Bobert worked the natural world into so many of his stories—taking his cue from another master he worshipped, Thomas Hardy—Jeannie’s cover art and interiors were both lovely and spooky at the same time.

  The book hadn’t sold an abundance of copies, which surprised neither of them, but both author and artist had received numerous favorable comments from the horror fiction community Bobert was active in. They were currently at work on his second book, to be released from the same publisher next year. But of course, quitting their day jobs wasn’t even a step closer. They held no more youthful illusions about such things. Only professional artists achieved those heights.

  Work on the new book was coming along slowly. Jeannie’s hands were too occupied wiping aged bottoms to spend much time holding a pencil.

  She didn’t tell her husband—and they went on to discuss other matters when they sat down to eat—but since tomorrow was also her day off and Bobert would be working, she had already decided to return to the Fine Arts Museum.

  *

  Entering the Contemporary Art wing, Jeannie wondered if Mr. Faun would find her again, so to speak, before she could locate him. She imagined she could do that simply by following his scent. Before she had a chance to really begin the hunt, she chanced upon that same guard in the black suit of a Secret Service agent she had spoken with yesterday, and once again approached him. Once again his expectantly raised eyebrow.

  “Mr. Faun,” she began.

  “You’re intrigued, huh?”

  “I guess that’s the word.”

  “Word’s begun to get around. You’re not the only one who’s intrigued.”

  “So is he a new ‘exhibit’?” She might as well have made the quotation marks in the air with her fingers.

  “He’s been living here a few weeks.”

  “He lives here?”

  “Like I say, he’s an exhibit.” The guard half turned to point toward the doorway at the far end of the gallery they were in. “He usually sets up in Gallery C.”

  Jeannie glanced that way. “So he’s like a performance artist?”

  “I honestly don’t know that much about him,” the guard said. “And we’re really not supposed to talk about it anyway.”

  “Why is that?”

  He shrugged his sharply angled shoulders. “Not to spoil the effect, I guess.”

  “Wouldn’t want to do that,” Jeannie mumbled, starting toward the doorway to Gallery C. “Thanks,” she said over her shoulder.

  In Gallery C, huge comic book exclamations were painted directly upon various areas of the white walls, in garish primary colors. There was: AARRGGHH!! And: RATATATATAT! And: SCREEEE!! These were the work of artist Charles Stokley, who had recently entered a daring new phase, which was also represented on the gallery’s walls: exclamations reproduced from Japanese manga.

  In one corner of the room, humped on the floor like an art display in itself, stood a camouflage pop-up tent such as a camper or hunter might use. Its positioning blocked closer inspection of a piece hanging on the wall behind it: a giant smiley face, framed under glass, composed of another artist’s used sanitary pads.

  The man’s shoes stood outside the tent opening, accounting for a considerable portion of the reek in themselves. Beside them lay an empty potato chip bag, an empty soda can, and several balled-up tissues.

  A cluster of people formed a crescent around the tent, some of them bending a little lower in an attempt to peek through the crack between its hanging entrance flaps. They kept at a bit of distance, either out of deference toward the tent’s owner or revulsion for the stench emanating from it. One woman had her hand clamped over her nose and mouth. Jeannie heard another woman whisper to her male companion, “So is he in there or not?”

  A man standing beside them said quietly, “I saw him in the men’s room earlier; he had his shirt off and was washing up at the sink.”

  A sudden phlegmy coughing erupted inside the tent, sounding as if someone was trying to start up an infirm car in there. Startled, the ring of people closest to the tent jerked back a little in unison. Behind them, Jeannie snorted in amusement. What were they waiting for this performance artist to do next—vomit up a bellyful of cheap wine? Would they then applaud? Maybe he could vomit on a canvas, and Diane Segler-Frost could frame it.

  Disgusted as much with these spectators—more with them—as the artist himself, not to mention the foul air, Jeannie turned away. She needed the fresh air to be found in great abundance in the museum’s galleries of older art, where she had never failed to find inspiration for her own work. She started winding her way out of the Contemporary Art wing, though she did pause here and there to revisit some of the works she admired, which to her mind displayed the true ability that so much of their neighboring pieces lacked.

  She was gazing at one such painting when she heard a scuffed footstep behind her and perceived a wafting cloud of stink. A wet and raspy voice croaked, “Sparafhudullahs?”

  Hardly surprised at what she’d find, Jeannie whirled around sharply. “I gave you five dollars yesterday!” she snapped.

  The man they were calling Mr. Faun stood before her, his grubby hand extended, palm up, its creases like lines drawn in black marker. Those unblinking blue eyes again burned as if through eyeholes in a mask fashioned from grime and hair.

  “You like to scare people by sneaking up on them, huh?” Jeannie went on. “When all else fails, go for the easy shock value, right?”

  Mr. Faun’s hand wavered, as if he were uncertain, and he weaved a little in place. But he still stood expectantly.

  “I’m not giving you any more money,” Jeannie said. “I’m sure you’re already making plenty with this gig, one way or another. Congratulations, Rembrandt—I wish I could be as talented as you.” And with that, she stormed away, leaving Mr. Faun standing there watching after her, his hand still extended.

  *

  Jeannie didn’t return to the Fine Arts Museum until the end of the following week, when her day off fell on a Saturday and Bobert could go with her. By that time he seemed to have lost interest, but Jeannie insisted. “I want you to see this travesty for yourself.”

  However, when they arrived at the entrance to Gallery C (which Bobert joked stood for “Christo”), in the Contempora
ry Art wing, they found the sizable room so filled with people it was almost difficult to enter. Bobert said, “Huh . . . is there some new show opening today?”

  “It’s him, ” Jeannie said, seeing how the people in the room faced toward the corner where she had seen the pop-up tent last time, though at the moment all those bodies blocked it from view. “As the guard told me, word has gotten around. Everybody wants to see the brilliant Mr. Faun: artist and artwork in one.”

  “Come on, honey,” Bobert said, gently taking her arm. “Too crowded in there. I really don’t care to see this clown anyway. If I want to see method acting, I’ll stay home and watch an old Robert DeNiro movie—with no stink involved.”

  “But you should see this fake!” Jeannie was craning her neck in an attempt to peer over the tops of the other people’s heads, or between their milling bodies. What was Mr. Faun currently up to that had them so riveted? Making a campfire out of a Renoir canvas, so he could cook a hot dog on a stick?

  “Come on, honey, don’t let yourself get obsessed over this poser. Let’s go have some lunch, huh? This is our day off—let’s enjoy it.”

  Reluctantly, Jeannie allowed her husband to steer her away.

  The museum featured a café in an atrium-like courtyard, the atmosphere exceedingly pleasant. The prices were a bit steep for the couple, but they treated themselves. They’d been coming here on dates since before they were married. Bobert ordered a glass of beer, Jeannie some wine. They began talking about Bobert’s unfinished second book, an idea he had for one of the stories that would complete it, and Jeannie forgot her sour mood, began suggesting concepts for the illustration that would complement her husband’s ghost story. Her ideas in turn caused Bobert to build upon his own, and it went back and forth this way while they dug into their lunch.

  With her love of drawing both animals and faces, she was describing a picture that Bobert’s proposed story had conjured in her mind—the image of a sparrow standing atop the head of a beautiful ghost child—when she noticed Bobert wasn’t looking directly at her anymore, nor apparently listening to her enthusiastic description. He had the look of a man stealing a peek at an attractive woman behind his wife’s back . . . when the man forgets himself and the peek drags out into something more. Jeannie started turning around in her chair to follow his gaze. This motion caused Bobert to come out of his trance, and he said, “That’s him, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, God,” she said. “Yes, that’s him.”

  Mr. Faun stood over the table of a couple on the far side of the courtyard, with all the splendor of a freshly exhumed, but far from fresh, corpse. Was he waiting for money?

  “How can they stand the smell while they’re eating?” Jeannie exclaimed. “I swear, if he comes over to our table I am going to stab him to death with my fork.”

  Bobert chuckled, shaking his head. “He is pretty convincing, I’ll give him that.”

  Jeannie realized that it was food Mr. Faun was waiting for. He held out a plastic bag from the museum’s gift shop, and the couple at the table placed a few items into it, wrapped in napkins. All the while they were grinning, as delighted as adults placing candy into the sack of a clever trick-or-treater.

  “Let’s finish up and get out of here before I lose my lunch,” Jeannie grumbled.

  “I thought he’s the reason we came, so you could show me.”

  “Now you’ve seen him. I’ve had enough of this place.”

  “Honey, calm down,” Bobert said, touching her arm. “Come on, ignore him. I have another beer coming. Don’t let this joker spoil our date.”

  Even then the young waitress approached with Bobert’s second beer, and Jeannie shifted in her seat to face her. “Excuse me, can I ask you: do you know anything about that guy over there? That Mr. Faun?”

  “Oh, him,” the waitress laughed. “He’s something, huh? He’s become like the museum’s biggest draw.”

  “Biggest freak, you mean,” Jeannie said. “When does the supposedly starving artist bite the head off a chicken?”

  “Well, I feel sorry for him, myself,” the waitress said, pouting cutely.

  “Why?”

  “Well,” the young woman said, as if hesitant to elaborate, “I really shouldn’t be saying this, but I’ve heard a few things . . . not that I know for sure they’re true. Maybe just talk that gets passed along, you know?”

  “Please,” Jeannie encouraged her.

  “Well,” she said again, glancing over her shoulder guiltily as Mr. Faun planted himself in front of another couple’s table, holding out his gift bag. A hacking cough came over him again, but the grins of the couple didn’t falter. “What I heard is that . . . um, do you remember that bad snow storm we had last month? Right. So that morning Mrs. Segler-Frost was coming into the museum early and she found this homeless guy huddled by the front doors, with just this ratty blanket over him, all shaking and blue. So she felt sorry for him and let him in, and she took him to the employees’ cafeteria and bought some coffee and snacks for him until she could figure out what to do—you know, call around for a shelter that could come pick him up or something. But I guess she took a call on her cell phone and then she had to do something in her office, and she told the guy—he said his name was something Faun—that she’d be back to see to him. But you know, she got distracted by a couple things and forgot all about him, until like two hours later it suddenly hit her. Then she got nervous and went looking for him, but he wasn’t in the cafeteria anymore. Finally she found him in the Contemporary Art wing. He was lying curled up on the floor under his blanket, asleep, pretty much where his tent is now. By this time the museum was open, and a few people were standing around Mr. Faun, staring at him. And Mrs. Segler-Frost heard them talking about him. See, they thought he was some kind of new art installation—and they liked it. They said he looked so real. I don’t know . . . maybe they thought he was a realistic sculpture. Or maybe they just meant he looked like a real homeless person.” The waitress shrugged. She added in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning in closer, “Either way, I think the gears in Mrs. Segler-Frost’s head started to turn.”

  “So Mr. Faun isn’t his own piece of artwork after all,” Jeannie said, her expression one of awe. “He’s really Segler-Frost’s artwork.”

  “I guess so—in a sense. Yeah, I suppose you could say that, huh?” The waitress straightened, ready to return to her duties. She held a finger to her lips. “Shh, okay? Just stories I’ve heard.” Then she was moving toward the next table.

  “Oh my God,” Jeannie whispered to her husband, while glancing around for Mr. Faun—but he had stolen away at some point. Gone back to his camp with his spoils? “Bobert, could that really be true? Would Diane Segler-Frost really exploit some poor homeless guy like that?”

  Bobert chuckled again. “Honey, come on! Don’t you get it? They probably coached her to say all that stuff—to keep up with the illusion that the guy’s for real. I have to say, though, I’m starting to admire this whole Mr. Faun thing. You have to admit it is kind of clever.”

  “I don’t know, Bobert,” Jeannie said, still twisting this way and that in her chair to cast about the café for Mr. Faun. “I don’t know.”

  *

  Jeannie was too self-conscious to tell Bobert of her intention to visit the Fine Arts Museum again so soon after her three recent trips, but on the following week when her days off once more fell on weekdays, she embarked in her car as soon as she knew the museum would be open.

  She bypassed the other wings and floors, for so long her favorite sections of the museum, as if they didn’t exist, heading straight for the Contemporary Art wing like a woman rushing on a clandestine mission to meet a lover.

  What she wanted most to do was confront Diane Segler-Frost and demand that she admit to the truth, but Jeannie didn’t know if the woman would see her, or if she’d even have the courage to go through with it if she had Segler-Frost in front of her. Who was she, after all? A woman who worked in a nursing home, whose only gig as an art
ist was as the illustrator of her husband’s stories for an obscure publisher. She knew Bobert hadn’t given her this work out of pity, and she didn’t mean to think of his stories in belittling terms, but it was simply that she knew she was in too humble a position to expect Segler-Frost to owe her any answers.

  So what she had decided to do, instead, was ask for answers from Mr. Faun himself. Maybe the offer of a little extra money would engage him. Maybe all it would take was someone who sincerely wanted to talk to him as a human being, instead of simply gawking at him as a half-willing objet d’art. And Jeannie wanted to apologize to him for the way she had talked to him before—before she had known.

  She wondered, though, if he were capable of holding a coherent conversation. In hindsight, he gave the impression of being addled; maybe on drugs. Maybe, Jeannie thought with growing outrage, Segler-Frost even supplied him drugs to keep him under her thumb. Jeannie now viewed their two brief interactions in another light. Mr. Faun was no longer a charlatan to her, but something almost pure, like the proverbial noble savage. A mythical Wildman, perhaps, or the feral Nebuchadnezzar, driven mad by God.

  All these thoughts, twirling faster and faster like brittle leaves in a whirlwind, settled to earth when Jeannie approached Gallery C and saw even before she entered it that the room was just as full as it had been during her visit with Bobert. But that had been a Saturday afternoon; this was a weekday morning. Mr. Faun had obviously proved an even larger draw in a week’s time.

  Jeannie noticed something else as she strode with purpose toward the entrance to Gallery C. It was hard not to notice it: a smell so potent that most of the people gathered in the room had a hand or both hands pressed over the lower part of their faces. The reek was far worse than what she had experienced in Mr. Faun’s vicinity before. Once she had cooked a whole chicken for herself and Bobert, and left the carcass in the oven until later when she could pick through the bones for scraps of meat to use in a soup. She’d entirely forgotten the carcass until a week later, when she needed to use the oven again. Bending over to open it, she was struck full in the face with an odor of decomposition so profound that it was all she could do to swallow back the bile rushing instantly to the top of her throat.