To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Fifty: A Widow's Poppies

"Rue Saint-Honoré, dans l'après-midi. Effet de pluie" (Rue Saint-Honoré, in the afternoon. Effect of rain) by Camille Pissarro (1897), desperately yet involuntarily traded by Lily Cassirer in exchange for $360 and safety as her family fled Nazi Germany, after she was told the possibility of getting exit visas was entirely contingent on her giving up the painting—but she did not receive the money nor her family's safety. After the war, Cassirer filed with a tribunal organized by Allied forces for its return, but the painting was presumably auctioned off and missing; she received $13,000 for its loss by the German government. Yet, the painting was found in 2000 by a descendant visiting a museum in Madrid, the museum claims current ownership; her descendants now wage a decades-long battle in court for the painting's return to the family - value $30 million

Chapter Fifty

The knock on the door was hesitant.

It was different this time. June had bled into August.

June had seen my parents withdrawing, removing their scraps at my door to focus on their other daughter. It wasn't surprising; Carrie had been accepted into a prestigious PhD program that flaunted lauded scientists like class rings. She was taking academic strides my family hadn't achieved before. Of course, it'd worked out for her. Of course, my parents were thrilled. Of course, they were. God, it was painfully familiar. It was a wound I found comfort in again, purely because of its consistency; it was a loss more reliable than my parents themselves. It wasn't surprising. No, not at all.

June saw less visitors outside my apartment. The once-daily knocks had slowed to a stop; June had brought quiet.

So these knocks now weren't what they used to be. They were different, because I'd asked for these. I'd requested their return, to restart what'd died weeks before; I'd asked for their resurgence.

The sound of rapping knuckles was crisp and forceful as they announced their reappearance. Even in their hesitation, loud.

But that hesitation wasn't surprising, either. I could imagine how the arm had perhaps hovered over my door, frozen, while the required courage was summoned. I could imagine how his hand had perhaps fisted tight, then relaxed, because he didn't know bloody knuckles or crescent marks on palms. Sure, he'd known storms before—but lightning only ever flashed for some people; it didn't strike. I didn't think it would ever truly strike for him. Not like it did for me, not like I knew lightning, not like how I brushed fingertips on the slices it left on my world. No, I could imagine how his back had straightened and his chin had rose, like it always had and always would.

When I didn't answer the door, brooding in thought, the second knock was stronger. More frustrated. More desperate. More annoyed.

"Eleanor?" he called.

I should've flinched, or started forward, or done something, but I didn't. I didn't move. I stood on the other side, brow furrowed and mind clouded. I was alone, which was why I'd sent a message to the man on the other side of the door, telling him it was time.

End it. End it, and maybe you won't have to tell Simon everything. Maybe it will fade. Let him say what he needs to say, whatever it is, and be done.

Even so, my hand was still carved stone on the waiting knob. This reminded me of a game played by children: where one was a museum security guard, patrolling at night, and the other kids were 'sculptures'. It was a game where exhibits came to life, but only behind the turned back of the patrolling guard—because if the guard saw a sculpture move, it was game over.

Maybe I was frozen because I was afraid to get caught.

Get it over with. As quickly as you can.