Negative Space

Max said to Dwayne.
With a single chuckle, Dwayne said, “No. I’m not. You search this van, you won’t find any of that stuff, no moon-landing theories, no Masonry, no JFK. Some UFOs, sure. But my targets go beyond conspiracy. I love the monsters because they’re untouched by us. There’s peace in that. They’re in a world outside the petty noisy one we cooked up. What does Bigfoot care if Oswald really pulled the trigger? Peace. That’s peace.”
“Or you could just light up,” Karen said, mock-holding a joint, dragging air.
“You’re on your own there,” said Max.
“What do you mean by that?” Karen asked.
“Nothing, never mind.”
“No. What’s up, Maximo?”
“Well, I’ve never done any drug, and don’t plan to.”
“You smoke.”
“Used to. But you know what I mean.”
“Nothing wrong with that, Max,” Karen said. “It’s all overrated anyway. I wish I could remember my junior and senior years. They’re supposedly the best of high school.”
“Yeah,” said Max. “And as long as we’re at it I might as well spill the fact that I’m a virgin, too.”
“A virgin?” Dwayne said. “Don’t you work at a sex shop?”
“And...?”
“Just uh...find that a little ironic, is all. And funny—no offense.”
“None taken.”
“It’s strange, Max...” Karen said.
“What is?”
“You and me, our reactions to our mothers.”
“Our mothers?”
“Yeah. We both had very religious mothers, and we both let them influence our lives in extremes. Your mother’s shield stunted your willingness to try anything outside the realm of her permission, like she had some sort of permanent guilt machine installed in you that beeped and went nuts anytime you were tempted.
“Me, on the other hand...I went all out rebelling against my mom. Snuck out to parties, had sex, did drugs, all sorts of shit. I think I was doing it as sort of a punishment to her. Maybe I blamed her for dad’s disappearance, I don’t know. But when I got in trouble, I spat it in her face. Then she sent me away to school and I ran away and haven’t looked back since.”
“Goddamn,” Dwayne said. “There a happy story to tell in either of your lives?”
“Sure,” Karen answered. “Just hasn’t really been told yet.”
“I remember I always questioned my mom, sort of,” Max said. “I was shy about saying a lot of it out loud, so a lot of it I just thought. I felt so much of what she spouted was wrong. But I didn’t know why. I was so young. I’m surprised I even felt as strongly as I did.”
“You an atheist, Maximo?”
“No. Atheism is a copout, too.”
“Okay.”
“I never understood the big heehaw over evolution versus creationism, either,” Max said. “To me it’s simple. Evolution proves God.”
“How’s that?” Dwayne asked.
“Creating anything is a long and arduous process of trial and error. You never know where a piece is truly going to end up. Question is, was all this a surprise to God? And was it a good surprise? And if it wasn’t, I doubt it turned out as well as it looked in God’s head. Perfection is always shackled inside your skull. Think of all the Earth’s mass extinctions, wiping out everything to start anew. Going back to the drawing board. Just reminds me of myself when I crumple up a crappy sketch, and start again.”
“So I take it the whole God-is-perfect idea doesn’t factor in?”
“No. He isn’t perfect. He’s made some good stuff, but He isn’t perfect. Still taking lessons.”
For a long period thereafter, no one said anything. After several miles of self-conscious fidgeting, Karen asked if they could pull over so she could smoke.
***
II
A new energy here. One he’d never felt before.
For years, Twilight Falls had been a bold point on the art-world map. Although Norman Ritter had been here several times, there was something different about the place today. It sat on the edge of its seat, prickly and aware, as though anticipating a grand event. Ritter was not a very spiritual person—he left belief in such things as auras and spirits to his wife Angelica and the likes of artists he covered. But something in the air of this town pressed on him, and, when later describing the sensation, he would be left with reluctant use of the term Weird Vibes.
The Feldman Naturalism show had been going on for a while but had not been widely publicized. He would be getting in late on the action, which was what he preferred, what proved the most interesting to him. Expectations were always high at a show’s beginning, stories and speculation abounding in the enticing newness of it all.
This late into the game, however, after weeks of circulating discussion, true opinions tended to emerge, a consensus more definable. Ritter liked to capture that. A glimpse into the work’s true resonance. But who really knew anything. Prediction in art was a fool’s errand.
He had arrived in Twilight Falls in the early evening and checked into the Morning Light Bed & Breakfast. Gotta love the sign: We Make Your Stay Shine! over a cartoon sun sporting large hokey sunglasses. Darkly amusing, too, given this had been the scene of that schoolteacher’s double homicide in the seventies. Ritter was amazed it was even still in business, but figured perhaps they’d gotten by on local, residential loyalty and, frankly, outsiders like himself who sought a little morbidly curious comfort.
His room was polished and pristine. Queen-sized bed. Nice. A crisp floral design motif. Unexpectedly large bathroom. Comfortable-looking lounge chairs by the window.
After unpacking, he called Angelica. The phone rang and rang. The answering machine picked up.
Where is she? Sleeping? Bathroom?
“Hey, angel,” he said. “Hope you’re keeping off your feet. Just letting you know I’m safe and settled in. Love you.”
Lately, Angie had been feeling tight twinges, pains in her lower abdomen. With little more than a month left in her pregnancy, the situation worried him. Worried him more when she was out of reach. When they were out of reach.
He hung up, then headed out for some exploration and possibly an early dinner.
The air was cold, colder still when the ocean-scented breeze