Page 5 of The Art of Vanishing

Everyone remaining in this gallery’s frames froze in their steps.

The rules were unspoken, but we knew what was expected of us.

We were supposed to appear permanent. During the day, we remained in place as our painters, sculptors, creators had staged us.

At night, we took liberties. If we were in the same room as someone on the night shift, we were supposed to pause, to move with caution, to fade into the background, but at each person’s own discretion, of course.

Some of my peers were looser with this than others but, to their credit, the night staff rarely looked at us.

We were only open five days a week, Wednesday through Sunday, but the museum was rarely empty on Monday and Tuesday.

It was quieter, but you’d still catch the occasional VIP group or museum employees using those days to update archival photographs or descriptive text or to take photos or videos for the museum’s promotional platforms. We were free at night.

Claire continued her lap and by the time her measured pace had carried her around to me, I was far too nervous to make eye contact.

I hid my face in my book and felt her eyes crawl all over my body.

I felt hot; a fire had begun inside my stomach that was burning its way along my skin.

I was terrified that this feeling would end and my nerve endings would go back to the temperature they were before.

My sense of time remained completely distorted.

It might have been three minutes, it might have been an hour that she stood there with her gaze on me, setting me aflame.

When she took her first step away, my insides began to cool and I shuddered at the sudden change in temperature.

She slowly continued her circle, completing one full turn about the room like a woman in an Austen novel.

She was Elizabeth Bennet in a janitorial uniform and I, Fitzwilliam Darcy in oil on canvas.

Was it just my delusional brain, or had she lingered in front of me longer than in front of anyone else?

She still had responsibilities to attend to.

She reluctantly pulled the mop from its soapy swamp.

I counted how many seconds would pass before she looked back up at the artwork.

I rarely got past twelve. She relished dusting our frames; the proximity was entrancing.

It was with reluctance that she left the room at the end of the night, forcing herself back to the world she had come from.

A few nights later, Claire entered and crossed straight to me, bucket and all. After she’d moved on, Marguerite, who had chosen to loiter at the piano tonight, much to my chagrin, dropped her jaw in shock.

“Does she always do that?”

“She always comes to stand with me at some point. She normally warms up with a circle around the gallery first.”

Marguerite’s cigarette dangled in her left hand and she tapped her ash off mindlessly. “Do you think she knows something? Have you given us away?”

I was annoyed, unwilling to share this new part of my life with my cynical sister. “What is there to know, Marguerite? I think she likes art and I think she likes us.”

“You think she likes you .”

I was afraid to put those words into the air.

“Some of us are going to hang out in Le Bonheur de vivre tonight. I assume you’re not coming?” She didn’t even wait for my response. “That’s your loss,” she said as she swept out of the room. I could hear her greeting my mother as she walked into the garden.

I looked back into the gallery and was shocked to see that Claire was standing in front of me again, her eyes trailing along the painting as if she had just watched our spat and Marguerite’s departure.

I froze, unsure of how much she had just seen.

She smiled slyly and returned to her work.

I didn’t move for the rest of the night.

A week in, Claire started talking to herself during her shifts.

“I’ve never really been one to just talk, like, out loud when there’s no one else around,” she confessed as she chattered on.

“Except for you all, of course.” My heart thundered at her acknowledgment of us, even if it was in a joke.

“But I also never was the kind of person who felt welcome in places like this.” She giggled shakily.

“This is so weird, just talking into the air. I guess Gracie does it all the time, but she’s kind of batty, God love her.

” She anxiously spun her ring around her finger.

She continued her work, exchanging her mop for a spray bottle and a cloth and moving toward the window. I waited for her to come back in my direction.

After she had finished spraying down the windows, she sat on the bench directly opposite me.

She leaned backward, sinking lower. She sighed.

“This schedule is brutal.” She rubbed the heels of her hands against her eyes.

“Something’s going to have to change if I’m going to keep this up.

Now I really understand that phrase ‘burning the candle at both ends.’?”

She looked right up at me and continued.

“It was so impulsive of me to come work here. I don’t even know what got into me; I’m sure I could have found a day shift somewhere if I tried.

That would probably make more sense. Maybe I can ask them if I can switch to the opening shift.

” She shook her head. “No, but then I wouldn’t have this whole place to myself.

“I just can’t believe I get to be here. Me.

Every day, like it’s no biggie. I wish little me could see me now.

” She looked down at herself, running her hand over her jumpsuit-clad stomach.

“I guess she’d be pretty shocked to see me in this janitor’s uniform.

But I always thought growing up would mean big parties and going to museums whenever I wanted.

I guess I got part of that right. Why am I talking so much? Am I losing it?”

I once heard someone say that people in solitary confinement often lose their voice in the first few days because of how much they talk to themselves—telling stories, singing songs whose lyrics are trapped in the recesses of their memory.

The night shift had some kind of similar effect on Claire; as she worked in solitude, she got chattier and chattier.

More of her life slipped out each night—she thought her grandmother Gracie was a saint whom she didn’t deserve. Gracie was teaching Claire to play poker and Claire sometimes reviewed the rules aloud, describing potential hands and announcing herself the winner.

As I got to know her through these nocturnal monologues, I became even more endeared by her.

I understood at first that it might just have been the novelty of our situation; I had spent decades in the same place with the same cast of characters and here was someone new.

But it couldn’t be that simple. There was something special about Claire.

She was serious, logical, thoughtful, and a committed employee.

Even so, there was something bubbling under the surface that being in this place was unlocking in her, a childlike curiosity about the art and its home that couldn’t help but spill over.

She spent untold minutes just staring at a single painting.

We captivated her the same way she captivated me.

I thought and hoped it was more than just an appreciation for art.

I was pretty sure Claire was flirting with me.

What began with furtive glances grew into sustained eye contact.

She even referred to me once as “a handsome guy like you,” and then quickly turned bright red with embarrassment.

As she dusted our frame, I could practically feel the heat radiating off her blushing cheeks.

When she had finished for the night, she hurried out of the gallery without a backward glance.