SLOW REVEAL - excerpt
The flood gates opened and in poured the crowd anxious to witness Postmodern Post Mortem, the name Katharine had chosen for the retrospective against Hattie’s wishes. Throngs of people were trapped behind the twin stanchions strung with golden, velvet ropes. They couldn’t wait to fill the ample space that had on its soaring white walls large works that had not seen the light of day in nearly two decades.
Naomi raced to the restroom to stave off the nausea. How selfish she’d been those last few weeks feeling nothing more for Jonathan than for a horse with a broken leg—the kind of senseless death, the unforeseen circumstances which demanded a certain kind of detachment for the sake of self preservation. Like the lame horse to which she imparted her empathy she now imagined herself hitched to a post in the sweltering heat with no trough to drink from, or worse falling beneath the stolid, four-legged creature about to be crushed.
“Excuse me!” Brigitte’s hand shot up from beneath the stall door. “No toilet paper, could you help me out?” Naomi couldn’t pretend to ignore this so she slipped a wad of toilet paper under the door and Brigitte responded by clutching Naomi’s wrist without any intention of releasing it. Naomi faltered, supporting herself with her free hand, her eyes caught in the narrow opening with a view of Brigitte’s red stockinged ankles, draped with crinolines. For a moment she thought she would faint but Brigitte let go just in time. Fearing no escape Naomi opened the restroom door, looked both ways then tore through the crowd out into the street without looking back hoping she wouldn't see Katharine who had seen her streak through the gallery like a comet and disappear, leaving behind that familiar distress, the feeling that never again would one witness such a spectacle. She could not go after her, incapable of negotiating the complexities of their relationship at a time like this. This whole affair with Hattie, her daughters, Jonathan’s groupies and those ravenous vultures who preyed on the dead for morsels of speculative opportunities had finally and summarily made her ill. When the first flash from a camera went off, she grabbed Andrew’s hand and bolted, leaving behind her daughters to fend for themselves. She hadn’t intended to do that but they were back in the bathroom taking another blind hit. Like starbursts behind the eyes, for them everything was scatter shot. Sparking, frenetic, filled with a stultifying electricity. When they emerged from their hollow pursuit, which they mistook for their sanctuary, they, too, beat a hasty retreat over to the bar next door.
Naomi raced to the restroom to stave off the nausea. How selfish she’d been those last few weeks feeling nothing more for Jonathan than for a horse with a broken leg—the kind of senseless death, the unforeseen circumstances which demanded a certain kind of detachment for the sake of self preservation. Like the lame horse to which she imparted her empathy she now imagined herself hitched to a post in the sweltering heat with no trough to drink from, or worse falling beneath the stolid, four-legged creature about to be crushed.
“Excuse me!” Brigitte’s hand shot up from beneath the stall door. “No toilet paper, could you help me out?” Naomi couldn’t pretend to ignore this so she slipped a wad of toilet paper under the door and Brigitte responded by clutching Naomi’s wrist without any intention of releasing it. Naomi faltered, supporting herself with her free hand, her eyes caught in the narrow opening with a view of Brigitte’s red stockinged ankles, draped with crinolines. For a moment she thought she would faint but Brigitte let go just in time. Fearing no escape Naomi opened the restroom door, looked both ways then tore through the crowd out into the street without looking back hoping she wouldn't see Katharine who had seen her streak through the gallery like a comet and disappear, leaving behind that familiar distress, the feeling that never again would one witness such a spectacle. She could not go after her, incapable of negotiating the complexities of their relationship at a time like this. This whole affair with Hattie, her daughters, Jonathan’s groupies and those ravenous vultures who preyed on the dead for morsels of speculative opportunities had finally and summarily made her ill. When the first flash from a camera went off, she grabbed Andrew’s hand and bolted, leaving behind her daughters to fend for themselves. She hadn’t intended to do that but they were back in the bathroom taking another blind hit. Like starbursts behind the eyes, for them everything was scatter shot. Sparking, frenetic, filled with a stultifying electricity. When they emerged from their hollow pursuit, which they mistook for their sanctuary, they, too, beat a hasty retreat over to the bar next door.
