“I can’t stand this painting,” Martha said, sniffling from that nasty cold she’d thought had gone away. “With or without that new frame, why does it have to hang in our hallway, for the whole world to see?”
“Ah, come on, honey,” George said, ignoring her sniffles. “This was Uncle Henry’s favorite painting. It’s called ‘The Artist as a Mummy.’ He bought it in Soho back in ’69, right after going to Woodstock.”
“Can’t you put it in your study, where no one will have to see it?”
George stuck his tongue out at Martha. Thank goodness, they’d never had children together. “But darling, the whole point of fine art is to share it with your family and friends. And this was Uncle Henry’s favorite …”
“Your Uncle Henry,” Martha said, blowing her nose and sounding like a trombone, “was married and divorced four times, had six children out of wedlock that are scattered all over Oklahoma somewhere, and he died of cirrhosis of the liver. From drinking all that tequila and smoking all those joints back in the ‘60s.”
“He was a kind man! And very generous to you and me, Martha.” George had a heavy post-nasal drip from the cold. He was sure Martha had given it to him. On purpose.
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