Martin does not speak. Melinda turns and leaves the doorway. He takes an X-Acto knife and begins scoring the foam.
They are quiet at the dinner table. Melinda forks the salad into bowls with obvious anger, and Claude will not look at his father. At the end of the meal, Martin pushes his chair out from the table and says, “I know what you’re all thinking. That I’m a selfish bastard for trying to finish this damn project.” His voice quavers, and he glances at the grandchildren whose eyes stare back roundly. “But I have a commission, and I’m expected to deliver it. I am a professional.”
He takes his empty plate to the kitchen and rinses it, then strides into the studio. A terrible draining sensation takes hold of his stomach as he stands in the room, surrounded by insects. Slowly, he fills a cardboard box with painted bodies.
The following day, he drives a loaded car to the Gregorys’ house. The draining sensation in his gut has been replaced by something heavy and solid like an iron brick. He drives up to the scene of his wife’s collapse and feels a dull distance, as if he were viewing it through a periscope. He sees, through the periscope’s tunnel, that the scaffolding has been removed. A small group of insects clings to the upper corner of the house’s face like a mole.
Martin goes to the door, clothed in his denim work shirt, and shakes Bill Gregory’s hand. He accepts repeat condolences, and then asks when he might resume work.
The Gregorys cautiously express their appreciation that he intends to finish. They consult briefly, out of earshot. Finally they agree to let the project recommence, with the condition that they hire a crew to install the rest of the piece. Martin, of course, will serve as artistic supervisor.
It feels good to get out of the house. Martin’s family has made no move to decamp, nor have they sought rapprochement. The accusation in the air is oppressive. He goes out into a fine spring day and walks along the side of the road to the site. The iron brick remains lodged in his gut, and the periscope vision persists. Far away, he hears a sound that he identifies as the trill of birds. The scaffolding is in the process of being replaced by men who do not appear to be artist assistants but construction workers.
The Gregorys give Martin a pair of binoculars, with which he can survey the work from a director’s chair on the ground, and for several weeks he enjoys shouting out the names of the insects to the men. Despite their casual manner, the men are prodigious and accurate workers, and Martin watches as, day by day, the house grows a beard of exoskeletons and wings.
At last, Martin’s family takes their leave. He observes their preparations through the periscope and feels little emotion as they load Claude’s car with luggage and some of Philomena’s things. He knows that he should be affected. He should plead with them to stay, ask for more time to grieve, more consolation. Or perhaps he should ask to accompany them, sell the house and live the rest of his days warm and watched over in Nashville. Instead, he bends down to let his granddaughters hug him and waves from the front door as the car reverses out of the driveway.
The men affix the final insect on the last day of May. When they take the tarps and scaffolding down and pack up their equipment, the house looks dazzling in the noon sun. Martin backs away, all the way to the road. Not a glimpse of the original brick is visible. The entire facade is completely shrouded in dark, voluptuous texture. Here and there, dashes of color—fuchsia butterfly, lime-green caterpillar—pop like jewels. It is exactly, incredibly, the way Martin imagined it. The manifestation of the house from his dreams, the improbable pinnacle of his career. As he stands at the end of the driveway, he sobs like a child.
The Gregorys come out to join him. Bill pats him on the back and Coraline holds his hand kindly. They are very pleased with how it has turned out, Bill says. It is a masterpiece, unlike anything they’ve ever encountered.
Martin is unable to speak for a moment. “I just wish Phil were here to see it,” he says.
Within days, the first phone calls come in. The Gregorys field these with aplomb, listening to the neighbors’ grievances and politely asserting their own rights as Old Cranbury property owners. They’ve been preparing for this kind of reaction, they tell Martin. They know that not everyone shares their avant-garde tastes. With a little time, they predict, the calls will taper off. People will grow accustomed to the sight, perhaps begin to appreciate its aesthetic value. Eventually, Swarm might even become a beloved town landmark.