Page 7 of Going Home in the Dark

“Is that so?”

“I’m open to other words if there’s one more appropriate.”

“I asked for ‘one more question,’ but here I am with others.”

“That’s all right. I just hope I have answers.”

“I’m sure you will, Spencer, and they’ll be fascinating. You’re quite an intriguing specimen.”

“That’s kind of you, ma’am.”

“So there are people who actually purchase your paintings?”

“Yes.”

“Not imaginary people, but real flesh-and-blood people?”

“That’s right.”

“And they pay you with money rather than with bartered items like stolen TVs or illegal drugs?”

“Money. They buy them with money.”

“How much money?”

“In my early days, it wasn’t much.”

“I’m quite sure. Everyone endures salad years at the start.”

“Back then—thirty thousand, forty thousand per canvas.”

“Ah. Are we talking about the currency of the United States, Venezuela, Sri Lanka?”

“US dollars. Recent works bring four hundred to seven hundred thousand, depending on the size and complexity of each piece.”

“Well now. Well, well, well. My oh my. Isn’t that marvelous?”

“I’m amazed, ma’am.”

“I’m sure you are. I am likewise amazed.”

“I never had any formal training.”

“I’m sure you didn’t.”

“You know—Aldous Blomhoff has bought two of my works.”

“The Aldous Blomhoff who is director of the Keppelwhite Institute, who was also mayor of Maple Grove for four years?”

“Yes, ma’am. Hard to believe there would be another Aldous Blomhoff.”

“Oh, there are hordes of Aldous Blomhoffs. The world is crawling with his ilk. They just have other names.”

“He came to the gallery in Chicago. I thought he was nice.”

“Whatever talents you might possess, Spencer, you must never pretend to others or yourself that you are to any extent whatsoever a good judge of character. You are of little importance to me, but because you are a friend of my son, I would prefer that you didn’t embarrass yourself with such a manifestly false claim.”

Spencer transferred his phone from his sweaty right hand to his dry left hand, which immediately began to sweat. The Britta effect. Thinking back to an earlier point in the century when this call had begun, he said, “I forgot whether you phoned with good news or bad news.”

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