The Family Fang - Kevin Wilson [101]
“Is this A or B?” the voice asked, a voice so old that Buster was unsure of whether it was a man or a woman. Buster knew immediately that it was another gallery. This was the language that they used, A and B Fang, and Buster answered, as Annie had taught him years ago when someone other than their parents tried to call them by their stage names, “This is Buster.”
“I saw the paintings,” the person said. “I thought I’d better give you a call.”
“Who is this?” Buster said. He thought it might be Annie, trying to lighten Buster’s mood. All morning, Buster had been digging even deeper into the novel, having finally given it a name, The Child Pit. The twins, now captured, were kept underground, hidden within rooms connected by tunnels built underneath the structure, steel-reinforced doors, the sound of murder-ballads played over the loudspeakers. Micah and Rachel, the twins, had quickly established themselves as fierce fighters, earning the respect of the other kids. Escape was constantly plotted, without any real hope of coming to fruition. Even as he increased the inherent danger among the children, wild and dirty and struggling to keep their anger focused on the adults, not each other, Buster could not help but feel an affection for the pit, the idea that, even if their lives would not escape ruination, they would at least suffer together. And now, light-headed like a swimmer quickly surfacing after minutes underwater, Buster was finding himself overmatched by the insistent, scratchy voice on the phone. “Dad?” he asked, confused. “Mom?”
“What? No, this is Betsy Pringle. My husband and I ran the Anchor Gallery here in San Francisco for many years. We’re a rather experimental gallery space. Now I run the gallery with my son.”
Buster did not remember this gallery, had not sent them any e-mail. This fact, and the randomness of the call, began to steady Buster’s mind, forced him to focus.
“What are you calling about?” Buster asked, drawing this person out, hoping to gain some clarity.
“The paintings. I’m calling about your mother’s paintings, of course. Are you okay? Is Child A there, perhaps? Could I talk to her?”
“She’s not in. I can handle this, however,” Buster replied.
“Good. That’s good to hear. Now, we were, I’m sure you know, the first gallery to ever show a Fang piece. Your father had done a bit of work on his own, but we showcased the first work created jointly by your mother and father. This was before you and A were born. We’d like to take some credit for having discovered them. My husband was always a big supporter of your parents’ work. And now, we’d like to be able to show the final Fang work, to bring things full circle, if you will.”
“The Anchor Gallery?” Buster asked, still trying to make sense of things. “I don’t remember contacting you.”
“Hobart talked to me,” the woman replied. “He’s an old friend, a genius. I guess your sister sent him an e-mail, asking for help, and he got in touch with me, smart man that he is. I’m looking at the paintings right now. Wonderful, wonderful work. I remember your mother had started as a painter, had won all kinds of scholarships based on her more traditional artistic pursuits. So it wasn’t as shocking as you might think to see these paintings. And, I don’t know what your situation is, but you seem eager to showcase your mother’s work, and we happen to have a slot coming up very soon. I think this would be a good thing for everyone involved.”
Buster wished Annie was here. He had no pen or paper. He could not even remember the woman’s name. He kept repeating, in his head, the word Anchor, so he would not forget. If this was true, he reminded himself, this would set into motion the thing he had been hoping for, the initial finger-flick that sent the marble rolling