The Devil in Silver

Pepper lay with his right arm out and her head on his bicep. He closed his arm around her chest.

“I guess I was just imagining …”

“Tell me.”

“I was just picturing us out in the woods somewhere. And it’s the middle of winter and no one else is anywhere around.”

“That’s nice,” she whispered.

“And a tree snaps,” Pepper said. “A big one. Maybe under the weight of too much snow. And the tree comes down right on top of you. And you’re pinned underneath it. You can’t get out. I have to find a way to lift it so you’ll be okay.”

Sue wriggled free from his forearm. “You’re daydreaming about me getting killed?”

Pepper rolled over, confused. “I’m dreaming about saving you.”

The first morning’s light seeped into the room. Pepper saw Sue’s face. She was watching him. Studying him.

“You actually think what you just told me is romantic,” she said.

“It is romantic. If you think about it.”

“If you think about it, your romantic dream includes the possibility that I will be paralyzed from the neck down.”

“That’s not how I meant it,” he said.

Sue grabbed Pepper’s arm, a mix of aggravation and affection. Her fingernails pressed into his skin.

“Your dream is about what you want to do, not what I need.”

Pepper threw his hands up. “Well, what do you need? You want me to break you out of here? I’ll do it. We can go on the run. I don’t care.”

Sue turned her back to Pepper and lay down. She reached back with one arm and pulled at him. He moved beside her, put his left arm around her chest, and pulled her closer. He squeezed Sue’s ribs tight, just like she wanted. They faced the room’s door. Eventually it would open but not yet. Behind them the sky had become a lighter gray. Sue said, “Did you ever finish the book about the painter?”

“Van Gogh,” Pepper said. “Yes, I did.”

“Okay, then, let me hear about that. We’ll lie still and I’ll listen to your voice. That’s what I need. Tell me.”

30

VINCENT VAN GOGH (pronounced “Van-GOCK” by the Dutch, and sundry pretentious American twits) was born in Groot-Zundert, Holland, in 1853 to Theodorus and Anna Van Gogh. The pair had three boys and three girls, and Vincent was the oldest. Their father, Theodoras, was a well liked, respected, but not terribly gifted preacher. Anna cared for the family and was also greatly loved.

In 1869, at sixteen, Vincent went to work at an art dealership, Goupil & Cie., which had ties to his uncle, and namesake, Vincent. Young Vincent was being groomed to join the trade. He worked with them in the Hague. In 1873 he moved to their offices in London. There, he roomed with a mother and daughter. He fell hard for the daughter, Ursula.

Ursula bumped him back, though. She was already engaged to another man. But Vincent was a sensitive dude and he took the news hard. Went into a depression and found solace in a deeper sense of religious faith. He also stopped rooming with Ursula and her mother. Considering the general trajectory of Vincent’s adult life, this is about the most sensible thing he ever did.

He left Ursula’s home but she hadn’t left his heart. The man was depressed! So much so that his family worried and had him transferred to the Paris branch of the art dealership. But this only compounded his pain and Vincent worked less and less well. Instead, he spent all his free time holed up reading the Bible with a friend. And in 1876, twenty-three-year-old Vincent was fired from the art dealer’s. His family had suggestions for what he should do next (they were a close bunch)—he could open his own shop, become a painter (his closest sibling and greatest friend, Theo, suggested this)—but Vincent decided to return to London to become a teacher.

Vincent got work at two different schools as a kind of curate, assisting the head of each institution. But he didn’t last long there. Pretty quickly his uncle lined up a job at a bookshop. Vincent was a terrific reader his entire life, but wasn’t enthusiastic about the bookstore. At twenty-four, Vincent switched gears again and decided to study theology. Some family members supported him in this plan, but others, like Uncle Vincent, were sick of his shit. The theology degree demanded seven years of study. There was some question as to whether Vincent had the seriousness, the fortitude, to concentrate on the subject for so long. Did he?

Nope!

Vincent stayed for only a year. He hated studying grammar and doing writing exercises. He didn’t want to be an academic. He wanted to bring good cheer through the Gospels. That’s it. Pretty soon his tutor agreed that Vincent was not cut out for theology school.

Instead, Vincent decided to become an evangelist in Belgium. This only required a certificate of study, no Latin or Greek, only three months of work at the School of Evangelization in Brussels. Around this time Vincent’s parents wrote, in a letter, “that he deliberately chooses the most difficult path.”