The Reporter by Kelly Lange Page B

gigantic paintings on the walls, dark, frightening
     pieces of Expressionism, bloody, gory scenes portraying people cut in half, phantoms, ghouls, the devil in many forms, human
     and animal freaks of nature. Most of the work was by noted artists, Beckmann, Kandinsky, all superbly done, and all of it
     expensive. He even had a Corot, but the darkest, most dour example of that brilliant French Impressionist, a bleak forest
     of gnarled and decaying trees. Glancing at it on her
own
living room wall back then, Maxi would chuckle—she’d always figuredthat Corot must’ve been having a really bad day when he knocked that one out.
    And it was voluminous, his art collection—Jack had been accumulating it with fervor since he’d scored with his first big movie
     and Sam Bloom had turned him on to the joy and prudence of investing in art. Jack never did anything halfway. Maxi could guess
     how Janet must have felt as she’d attempted to incorporate these grotesqueries into a tasteful, inviting home—a daunting task,
     Maxi knew, because she’d tried to do the same.
    Two men in dark suits were wending their way through the clutter. “Anything with a red sticker is going,” Janet said to them.
     And by way of explanation to Maxi, “They’re the appraisers from Sotheby’s. It’s all going to auction.”
    Janet didn’t seem at all bereaved, but Maxi knew that the shock of violent loss often left loved ones in denial for a time.
     Still, it was just a week to the day after Jack’s funeral. Soon, it seemed, for his wife to be efficiently and matter-of-factly
     clearing out his things.
    “You’ll find those stickers on most of what’s in the house,” Janet went on to the appraisers. “There’s more in my late husband’s
     office, and the dining room, the den, bedrooms—”
    “We’ll go around and make notes, Ms. Orson,” said one of the men, with the deference due a recent widow.
    Maxi felt an odd sensation, being in the midst of Jack’s belongings again. Big, heavy, dark, dreary furniture, Chippendale
     and Louis-the-Something, oversized, overstuffed, overwrought, cracked here, broken there, shabby in her view, and loads of
     it, most of the pieces undeniably ugly. Undeniable by everyone except Jack. He’d loved these things. Maxi remembered the day
     Wendy Harris had looked around their house in horror when they were moving Jack’s belongings in. “What the hell are you going
     to
do
with all this shit?” Wendy had asked her. “What
can
I do?” Maxi had countered. “He loves it, and I love him. And in the scheme of things that really count, a few sticks and
     bones areunimportant, don’t you think?” Wendy, a confirmed minimalist when it came to furnishings, had just rolled her eyes.
    “Are you okay?” Janet asked now, sensing Maxi’s discomfort.
    “I… Yes, it’s just… It’s been a while since I’ve seen all this….”
    The two women were quiet for several moments. Memories. They both had them. Janet broke the silence. “Come with me,” she said.
    She led Maxi across the broad expanse of the crammed living room to four sets of French doors that looked out on a beautifully
     landscaped pool area. “Let’s sit for a minute,” she said to Maxi, indicating a pair of small, tasteful loveseats that seemed
     overpowered by the rest of the furnishings in the room.
    “I don’t remember these—” Maxi started, as they sat down opposite each other.
    “No, these were mine,” Janet said, running a hand gently over the ivory silk upholstery. The two women looked at each other
     then, and in that moment both realized that they had a lot in common.
    “You know, Maxi,” Janet said softly, “I was tempted to call you several times, when Jack seemed his most perplexing. To see
     what light you could shed on his behavior. But I never did.”
    Déjà vu,
Maxi thought, remembering the day when she herself had first called Debra Angelo, sorely needing the same kind of enlightenment.
     There’d been