Martin Sloane by Michael Redhill Read Free Book Online

long weekends something I was reluctant to share. But now — it was the fall of 1989 — the Bergman, the main gallery on campus, had purchased an artwork from Martin, and it was to be unveiled in a presentation ceremony. It seemed to me I was already sharing him with a crowd for that weekend, and one more wasn’t going to make a difference. Molly was elated and within an hour of the invitation she’d called back to say she’d purchased her bus ticket (Molly shared with Martin a terror of flying). She said she had to work the next day if she wanted to finish a case she was preparing; so it was twelve hours together, full stop. We’ll make it feel like a week, I said, and when I hung up I felt a thrill of anticipation.
    There had been times when we’d been roommates when I felt I’d been holding up an end of a bargain I’d never really signed on to. Outwardly, her sociability made her seem invincible, but privately, I know she burned with worry about herself. I was pressed into duty to keep those fires low, something I only realized after we’d been apart for a while. And yet, without Molly’s example, I doubt I would have had the confidence I needed to connect with Martin. I just used some of her skills differently than she used them. It’s funny, I’ve always found that the thing you admire most about someone is often the thing that gives them the most trouble, although in small, learned doses, it works wonders for you.
    No one would have believed Molly was a lonely girl, but she was. And I, fairly shy by comparison, was filled up by one person. It turned out to be a deep difference between us, one that made me anxious. It is impossible not to harm someone with your good luck if they lack it themselves. But once I’d gotten out into “the world,” I looked back on it and her with some admiration. What I struggled with was external mostly. My mother’s death. My father’s grief. (That I would have thought these things external points to how aware of myself I was in those days.) Molly fought herself and grew. It was a deeply loveable quality in her, and I did love her. So I was excited, although nervous, to see her again. The nerves passed right away, though: when she came off the bus in her long grey coat, her face just as I remembered it — grey-rimmed glasses framing bright green eyes — my heart leapt up. I ran forward and we collided in a hug.
    I pulled her over to where Martin was standing, sheepish and grinning. He offered his hand, and she let go of me to shake it. A mock handshake, like they were businessmen. Then she pulled him to her and she hugged him too. She stepped back and fumbled in her giant shoulder-strap purse and passed us each something still in its bag. I took a light summer dress out of mine. I hope you haven’t changed shape too much, she said. Hold it up. I did, and its diaphanous fabric caught in the wind and wrapped itself to me. It’ll fit, she said, delighted.
    Martin’s bag contained an old watch. The face was partly melted, the glass over it bubbled and frozen in a warped pattern. A raised green crust swirled over the metal band. I found it scuba diving, she said. A couple years ago. I thought of you when I saw it. I thought maybe it was the kind of thing you’d like to have. For your work or something.
    It’s very eerie, he said. It’s wonderful.
    I thought you’d
love
it. I just kept it hoping one day we’d actually meet! Look, she said, touching the melted glass. It’s like it went down on a burning ship and this is the only thing that survived.
    He hugged her again. This is very thoughtful of you, he said.
    We brought Molly back to the house and the three of us sat outside in the afternoon sun. She kept looking at me and shaking her head, like she couldn’t believe it was really me, and we found ourselves laughing excitedly, nervously. Martin went to wheel out a makeshift wetbar, with a bucket of ice and some of what he called cordials. Molly and I tried to