Chapter 53
I stood attempting to metabolize the news, comfort myself that at least Tom had not discovered the purchase; maybe it hadn’t gone through after all.
Even if it had, I still believed I could undo it and, in a more amorphous way, everything, all that I’d impulsively set in motion—although it would have to wait, I reminded myself.
Tomorrow was Sunday; the gallery was closed.
As I made these calculations, Tom continued to relate the details of the call he’d just ended.
Several investors had pulled out in the wake of Bill’s death.
Fearing others would follow, it had been decided he would fly back to Minneapolis and spend Monday trying to assuage the gathering panic, meeting with investors, the firm’s lawyer, a representative for the bank.
And so, on the evening of our return, Tom repacked his suitcase, now with a warm jacket, a shirt and tie.
I sat on our bed distractedly, making occasional comments: Don’t forget your toothbrush.
Did you remember something to read on the plane?
Sundays were María’s day off. With no one to watch the children, we again loaded them into the car so I could drive Tom to the airport.
We’d kept the reason for Tom’s departure secret from them—why trouble them unnecessarily?
—turning the radio on in an attempt to gain privacy.
As Tom and I spoke in half whispers, it occurred to me that our decision not to tell them that someone they barely knew had died was evidence of a misstep on our parts, that we’d erred in our duty by buffering them too completely from the harsh realities of life.
“Do you think there’s a chance we’ll have to leave San Miguel?” I said under my breath.
“I don’t know.”
“But if you had to guess.”
“It’s possible, I suppose. Yes.”
“Tom, no!”
He glanced a warning—whether because it was callous to be considering my own happiness when someone had died, or simply that I’d been too loud and could be overheard, I wasn’t sure. “This is wasted energy,” he said. “Let’s wait and see what transpires in the meetings.”
“Even if the worst did happen,” I said, “and you lost your job and the project fell apart, would it really be so bad?”
“What are you saying? Of course it would be.”
“Maybe it doesn’t have to be.” I paused. Ever since hearing the news, I’d been pondering how we could stay. “What if we took it as an opportunity to rethink things, restructure our lives, like what we talked about on the beach?”
“Come on, that was a fantasy. Even if I wanted to, we don’t have the money.”
“Just hear me out.” I began to speak eagerly, saying that there were other neighborhoods where we could live, mentioning how little Louise had paid for the house in Montes.
“And it’s a really nice house, Tom, it’s nicer than our house at home.
” When he didn’t respond, I threw out figures, what we currently had in savings, what we owed on our mortgage and what I thought we could sell it for.
“Hold on,” he said. “We’re not selling our house.
” I heard by his tone, how he’d lifted his hand from the steering wheel as if to hold me back, that I’d gone too quickly.
Absently he said, as ever hewing to facts, “We have considerably more than what you said in our bank account. It’s actually closer to twenty-five thousand. ”
It was the difference of the cost of the Navarro. I made a half gesture with my arm, an equivocating sound, hmm, feeling my stomach lurch. “The thing is, Tom, yes. Technically, yes, you’re right. I mean, we will have it.”
“Will?” he said, laughing strangely.
“It’s just, I spent some money. But I’m going to get it back!” I smiled in an attempt at confidence.
“I don’t understand.”
“Tom, okay, I want to tell you something. I was impulsive. I fucked up. But I can fix it.”
“You’re freaking me out right now, Sally. What are we talking about here? Like, you gambled, you loaned someone money?” A pause. “Does this have to do with Louise somehow?”
“No, not at all! It’s that I bought something. A work of art. It’s an amazing piece, Tom. It was supposed to be a surprise.”
I sat in the wake of silence, thinking with absolute clarity, I am a fucked-up person.
I am not a person that a healthy person should love.
In the back, the kids were quiet also. In the mirror, Henry was making the superhero figure we’d given him for Christmas talk and move his legs jerkily, a white bead of spit on his lower lip.
Ida was staring ahead in her contained way, her mouth pursed into a small O, and I suddenly thought she had heard and was reading the silence, a tiny witness to my disgrace.
“I don’t even know what to say.”
“It doesn’t matter, I can undo it. I can get it all back, the piece hasn’t shipped yet.”
“Shipped? This is insane. How much are we even talking about?”
“Fifteen.” There, I’d said it.
The impact was instantaneous. “Oh my God. Fifteen thousand?” His face had contorted in disbelief.
There was a silence. “Just to get this straight, I’m losing my job, and you’re talking to me about selling our house and moving to Mexico and spending fifteen thousand dollars on a—on a fucking painting. ”
“It’s a lithograph.”
“You’re actually correcting me.”
“No—I’m sorry!” I saw myself then as Tom must: not merely deceitful but selfish. This whole year had been an elaborate gift, and still I’d wanted more. “I can fix it. Look—I can get our money back. Tom, please.” I glanced at him. “I love you.”
“Yeah,” he said, as though the fact was a burden. Or a lie.
We were by now entering the airport. I followed the signs reading SALIDA, the traffic slowing, one lane only for taxis.
Tom glanced over his shoulder several times to the children, his mouth tight.
We pulled behind a black BMW sedan with DF plates.
I sat speechless while he patted Ida’s and Henry’s knees and reached back and tousled their hair and told them he would miss them.
Then we both stepped outside and briefly stood facing one another at the back of the car with the trunk open.
“I’m completely floored.” He shook his head. “I’m just—I’m not even sure I recognize you anymore.”
“I know.”
“I mean, what the actual fuck, Sally?”
“I know, Tom,” I repeated. “I’m so sorry. I love you.”
His eyes had filled with tears. People were moving around us, speaking animatedly, waving goodbye. He lifted his suitcase from the trunk, set it down, pulled up the handle. “Look, I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “We can talk about it then.”