“Well, you don’t have to worry about that,” she says, and heaves herself up from the couch.
After that, Martin works alone. He becomes bogged down with a monarch butterfly whose colors are coming out muddy. It is important, he knows, to create a few really vibrant pieces. Among the monochromes of the insect world, there is always an occasional peacock—a spirit-lifting splash of color. He repaints the butterfly’s wings, then puts them aside to dry before setting to the delicate task of adding the black veins and spots. As he holds the fine-tipped brush, Martin’s fingers tremble. He commands them to steady, but they shake until he is forced to put the brush down.
After breakfast each morning, he goes into the studio and sits alone. All around him, arthropods stare with vacant eyes. Their bodies appear flimsy and childish to him now, the work of a deluded fool. To begin work on a new creature would be to waste another scrap of his life. Whether he’d be better off wasting the same time in Nashville, cramped in his son’s frilly guest room, he doesn’t know. He picks up Time magazine and stares at the cover: a soldier poised on a hill in Afghanistan. The world is a mess. Here is a young man, younger than Claude, forsaken upon a barren land in the sights of hidden riflescopes. Martin, with his ladybugs, might be on another planet.
When Philomena startles him awake, he sees that the sun has gone down. He comes groggily to the dinner table and looks at his wife. Perhaps she sees the entreaty in his look, because the next day she comes wordlessly to the studio and helps him again.
They do not go to Nashville. Martin hasn’t needed to argue the issue. He heard Philomena on the phone one evening. You know your father, she was saying quietly. That’s true, but still, it means a lot to him. And finally, wearily, Next year, I promise. But you’ll still come up for Easter, I hope?
They decorate the tree to the songs of Bing Crosby, as is their tradition. Philomena, in an act of clemency that warms Martin’s heart, eschews the usual angel and ties his monarch butterfly to the top.
The day before Christmas, the Gregorys surprise them at the front door with a ginger cake.
“Will you come in for tea? A cocktail?” Philomena asks, while Martin scrambles to hide insects in the broom closet.
“No, no, we’re on our way to the city,” Bill says. “We just wanted to spread some cheer.” He shades his eyes and peers into the house. “The project going well?”
Yes, of course, Martin assures him. He’ll be done by New Year’s. Philomena glances at him.
“Wonderful,” Bill booms. “Well, don’t be strangers,” he calls as they go back out into the snow and climb into their carriage, a Mercedes SUV.
By the time they finish the last insect, in April, the house is overrun. Together, Martin and Philomena joyfully hack the last lonely pink slab apart where it lies. A flattened yellow patch of grass remains while the rest turns green and Philomena’s marigolds sprout their first leaves.
Martin goes on foot down Minuteman Road to report the good news. Although he’s been forced to avoid the Gregorys all winter, his embarrassment evaporates as he inhales the spring air. He feels almost young as he trots up their driveway and rings the musical doorbell. And yet he finds himself out of breath when Coraline answers. He gasps, “It’s finished.”
She wears a look of concern. “What’s finished?”
He laughs, bending to catch his breath. “The project is ready to go. When can we start installation?”
“Come in,” she says, smiling, and calls for her husband.
They are set to begin work the week before Easter. The timing is bad, Martin admits. He wants to see the kids as much as his wife does, but the project can’t be delayed any longer. He doesn’t want to lose credibility. To his surprise, Philomena smiles. She calmly goes to the phone, asks Claude and Melinda if they can postpone their visits until summer. It will be better this way, Martin assures her after she hangs up the receiver. When the project is finished, they’ll have time to relax together, to grill outside and go to the beach as a family.
“It’s all right,” she tells him, putting a hand to his shoulder. “We’re almost there.”
She is, at that moment, the woman he unveiled at the altar forty years ago, the flash of her jet eyes like a stomp to the chest.