Page 23 of The Art of Vanishing

Jean

The sun rose on another Friday morning. The day began as it typically does: a handful of school groups, teachers with nervous energy, kids bouncing off the walls as if they’d been shot out of a cannon.

I wondered if it was just me or if everyone was truly a bit more frantic than usual today. Maybe it was both.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the way Claire and I had left things the night before.

Was I selfish for pushing her the way I had?

I knew these were her secrets to reveal when she was ready.

And I meant it when I told her that nothing she said would change my mind about her.

So why did I even want to know? I would apologize to her tonight.

I would tell her she could take her time.

I would be patient. I would ask her to forgive me.

After the tour groups left around lunchtime, the gallery emptied out almost completely.

Every so often, a young person or two would pass through, maybe alone, maybe with a friend in tow.

But it was a small showing compared to what a spring Friday would normally bring.

I noticed people going more than a few steps out of their way to avoid other strangers in their path.

That struck me as odd, but what came next was even more worrisome.

In the afternoon, a few hours before our usual closing time, Jamie appeared, a small radio in her hand that crackled with indistinguishable conversation.

She was informing patrons that the museum would be closing early, and they’d need to make their way swiftly to the exit.

“This is really happening?” a teenage-looking patron asked. Jamie bore a grave look on her face.

“I don’t know much more, but this is what’s happening today.”

“I can’t believe it,” the only elderly patron I’d seen in the museum today said as she clutched her gallery guidebook to her chest. “I’ve never seen something like this.” She stood still for a moment, as if saving a memory of us as we existed right then and there.

“I don’t think any of us have,” said Jamie. “I don’t know if anyone ever has.”

I watched as the handful of visitors hurried toward the stairs.

After the last patron had left, Jamie stood between the two benches, directly in the center of the room.

She spun in a circle, slowly, with the same level of attention to detail Claire showed in those first few nights.

She gave us a small wave, then she followed behind the others.

We could hear the staff picking up their belongings on the floors below.

After a few minutes of commotion, the doors were shut.

The ceiling lights went out, though the sun still shone through the windows.

It was eerily quiet. We held our places for a few additional minutes, but it was clear we were completely alone.

Marguerite was, of course, the first to speak. “Well, I am truly interested to hear what your friend has to say tonight.”

That was a first. She had adopted an air of complete uninterest when it came to Claire, and I was not eager for the two of them to meet.

My whole existence had become about making Claire feel welcome, about minimizing the differences between us.

Something told me that introducing her to Marguerite would undo the work I’d put in.

“I am as well. I will, of course, ask her and report back.”

She pulled out a cigarette. We were all a bit unsure if we were free to go about our evenings. It seemed there was a collective decision to hold tight for a moment to see if anything changed. “Have you met Jean’s special friend?” Marguerite asked Pierre.

“Marguerite,” I warned.

“What?” she asked, exhaling a plume of smoke. “It was just a question.”

Pierre shook his head. “No,” he said. “But Maman has. I saw them with her one night, in the garden.” He looked at me and shrugged. I didn’t fault him. It wasn’t a secret. But I hated being reminded that everyone’s eyes were on me—ironic, I know, given my day job.

After enough time passed to assure everyone that the coast was clear, Marguerite and Pierre stood up from their bench.

“Well, have a lovely evening,” Marguerite called out as she glided away, her words lasting longer in the room than she did.

Pierre also pulled on a cap and ran along after her.

My mother rose from her rocker, and once again, I was alone. Waiting.

I wondered what Claire would have to say about the weird behavior of the museum director today.

I wondered if there wasn’t something grimmer going on outside these walls; it could even be something as serious as a war.

I worried for Claire’s safety. I tried to ground myself.

I was taking this too far. Claire would, of course, be fine.

She would have mentioned if a war was imminent, wouldn’t she?

The issue must have been something more benign; maybe they were worried about a possible theft. Now that would make things interesting.

Each year they upgraded the security in our museum, the anti-theft technology getting more and more sophisticated.

It wasn’t as easy to steal things as it had been before.

But if they kept upgrading the systems, theft must still be possible.

I myself had never witnessed it, but that didn’t mean the threat wasn’t real.

I spent a bit of time lost in my fantasy about being a bystander to an extremely elaborate museum heist. In my mind, the thieves wore three-piece suits and smoked cigars as they carried the artwork out to where an old-fashioned getaway car—a horse, maybe—was waiting.

There was even a musical score, something jaunty and suspenseful. Maybe something string-heavy.

I woke myself from my daydream. I wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but I knew it had been quite a while.

Claire still wasn’t there. On the other hand, we’d closed early, so it would make sense that I had lost perspective on how long it had been.

Maybe it was still early. I had no way to mark time except for the sky through the windows, which had been dark for at least some time now.

My shoulders were hunched together with stress.

I unclenched them and massaged my jaw. I wasn’t tired, I didn’t get tired, but I was feeling quite stiff.

I switched my position and took a seat on the floor.

I lay on my side, propping myself up on my elbow.

What if she never came back? What if the bad taste in my mouth from last night was how things ended between us? What if this was all over?

I rolled to my back. It must have been many hours by now.

I was the patient one. I could handle this.

Maybe Claire had a larger assignment now, maybe she needed to clean additional rooms along with ours.

Maybe Linda had caught her up in conversation in the break room.

Maybe they were receiving new instructions tonight and would be up later.

Later came and went. There was still no sign of her.

There was no sign of anyone. Maybe there had been an emergency at home, something with her family, and she couldn’t make it to work today.

Remembering how distressed she had been the night I was meeting with Antoinette and she came in to find our frame empty, I resolved to maintain my post all night in case she showed up.

It’s not like I had anywhere else to be.

It was funny how quickly my brain and body forgot that I used to spend every night like this.

I had become so accustomed to Claire’s presence, I didn’t know how to be alone anymore.

The sun rose, flooding the gallery with cool morning light, illuminating tiny dust particles floating in the air. Marguerite and Pierre returned; they could see it written on my face.

“She never showed?” Marguerite asked. I shook my head.

“Neither did Linda.” My composure collapsed with relief.

It wasn’t just us; Claire had not left me.

It was everyone who had not come. But relief was quickly replaced again with concern.

What if something larger was afoot? What if there was a war out there?

“Wow,” Pierre said quietly. “I guess last night we were really and truly alone.”

“I guess so,” Marguerite said. “How strange.” Her fingers traced her black ribbon. “Well, it’s nearly time.” Out of habit, we all took up our usual positions, waiting to hear the reception hall come to life.

It never did. After a few hours, I noticed figures in paintings around us begin to drop their poses.

“What the devil is going on out there?” Marguerite asked.

“Maybe it’s a massive snowstorm?” I posited. We looked through the windows to the sunny day outside. It was doubtful, even to the most na?ve of forecasters.

“Well, I’m sure they’ll be back in a few days,” Marguerite said through her third cigarette of the morning. Sensing my heightened anxiety, she added, “I’m sure everyone will be back.”

“What if…” I could hardly get the sentence out. “What if something’s really wrong out there?”

Marguerite thought about my question before responding. “Jean, if something really is wrong out there, what are you going to do about it?” With that, she walked away.

She was right. There was absolutely nothing I could do.

Pierre put a small hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure everything is okay, Jean. I bet she’ll be back tonight!” I patted his hand with my own. I couldn’t summon the same optimism, so I said nothing.