place for a jar in which to transport the spider, she took the mail back
up to her studio and settled down in the old armchair in the corner with
a fresh mug of coffee and Arts American.
She spotted the article about herself as soon as she glanced at the
table of contents. She was surprised. The magazine had covered her
work before, but she had always known in advance that articles were
forthcoming. Usually the writer had at least a few questions for her,
even if he was not doing a straight interview.
Then she saw the byline and winced. S. Steven Honell. She knee before
reading the first word that she was the target of a hatchet job.
Honell was a well-reviewed writer of fiction who, from time to time,
also wrote about art. He was in his sixties and had never married. A
phlegmatic fellow, he had decided as a young man to forego the comforts
of a wife and family in the interest of his writing. To write well, he
said, one ought to possess a monk’s preference for solitude. In
isolation, one was forced to confront oneself more directly and honestly
than possible in the hustle bustle of the peopled world, and through
oneself also confront the nature of every human heart. He had lived in
splendid isolation first in northern California, then in New Mexico.
Most recently he had settled at the eastern edge of the developed part
of Orange County at the end of Silverado Canyon, which was part of a
series of brush-covered hills and ravines spotted with numerous
California live oaks and less numerous rustic cabins.
In September of the previous year, Lindsey and Hatch had gone to a
restaurant at the civilized end of Silverado Canyon, which served strong
drinks and good steaks. They had eaten at one of the tables in the
taproom, which was paneled in knotty pine with limestone columns
supporting the roof. An inebriated white-haired man, sitting at the
bar, was holding forth on literature, art, and politics. His opinions
were strongly held and expressed in caustic language. From the
affectionate tolerance the curmudgeon received from the bartender and
patrons on the other bar stools, Lindsey guessed he was a regular
customer and a local character who told only half as many tales as were
told about him.
Then Lindsey recognized him. 5. Steven Honell. She had read and liked
some of his writing. She’d admired his selfless devotion to his art;
for she could not have sacrificed love, marriage, and children for her
painting, even though the exploration of her creative talent was as
important to her as having enough look to eat and water to drink.
Listening to HoneIl, she wished that she and Hatch had gone somewhere
else for dinner because she would never again be able to read the
author’s work without remembering some of the vicious statements he made
about the writings and personalities of his contemporaries in letters.
With each drink, he grew more bitter, more scathing, more indulgent of
his own darkest instincts, and markedly more garrulous.
Liquor revealed the gabby fool hidden inside the legend of taciturnity;
anyone wanting to shut him up would have needed a horse veterinarian’s
hypodermic full of Demerol or a .357 Magnum. Lindsey ate faster,
deciding to skip dessert and depart Honell’s company as swiftly as
possible.
Then he recognized her. He kept glancing over his shoulder at her,
blinking his rheumy eyes. Finally he unsteadily approached their table.
“Excuse me, are you Lindsey Sparling, the artist?” She had known that he
sometimes wrote about American art, but she had not imagined he would
know her work or her face. “Yes, I am,” she said, hoping he would not
say that he liked her work and that he would not tell her who he was. “I
like your work very much,” he said. “I won’t bother you to say more.”
But just as she relaxed and thanked him, he told her his name, and she
was obligated to say that she liked his work, too, which she did, though
now she saw it in a light different from that in which it had previously