He doesn't know if this will lower Neal's opinion of him.
Of course it will, but that's fine. You don't need a boy with a weak stomach, Malcolm.
He picks at the blanket on his own bed, not realizing he's mirroring Neal a bit, and takes a deep breath.
"After I got out of the hospital and came back to school... he was in gym class when I got there. I went into his locker and stole his asthma inhaler. I emptied it out and then stuck it in my pocket not sure if I was really going to follow through and when I saw him... When I saw him he goes 'have a good weekend, Whitly?' like it had rained on my vacation or something and I punched him in the solar plexus. I knew it would trigger an asthma attack. He'd fumble in his pockets for his inhaler. And he did. And so I gave it to him. And it was empty. And he fell to the floor and flopped around like a fish on land and I... just... watched. But I couldn't go through with it, so I called for help. There was no evidence that I did it on purpose, but the headmaster knew my real name by then, too. I was expelled."
Neal feels a little queasy as Malcolm goes on. Not at Malcolm's actions, exactly. He was a teenager. The things you learn not to act on in adulthood make perfect sense as a kid. But the violence of it, the premeditated nature of it--
It reminds him of Keller, almost. Except that Keller would have gone through with it.
And the scare of it was more than deserved.
He's also trying to wrap his head around the fact that Malcolm was expelled. "Was the other kid?"
"No. His father was an important Wall Street investor. My father was in prison for serial murder. Only one person could reasonably be expelled in that scenario," Malcolm says with a hollow little laugh.
You heard it, though, right? The pause. The faint change in his tone. He's good at hiding his emotions, but you're better at noticing them.
Malcolm puts his hand over the phone's mic (effective as that is) and hisses "Stop it!" at the corner of the room before bringing the phone back to his face.
"Anyway, that was a long time ago. I passed all the exams that summer. Went to Harvard. Then Quantico. I did fine."
Neal nods, realizes Malcolm can’t see it, breathes out a little laugh at himself. “I never actually finished high school. Dropped out my senior year. Is one of your roommates hovering?”
“Who…?” For one bewildered moment Neal wonders if Malcolm has Someone Else there, but he hardly would have called if that were the case. Neal is a good judge of people, and Malcolm isn’t the kind of person to get off on that sort of adrenaline.
“Well… I guess I realized school wasn’t for me. It wouldn’t get me where I wanted to be.”
He falters a moment, glad Malcolm can't see his face. He should have expected that question. He did expect that question, but he opened the way to it anyway.
"Ah... I found out my inspiration wasn't as inspiring as I thought."
“I always loved art.” He goes to the window, the whiteout view. “The beauty, at first, and then more and more the history. The… bizarre magic in the fact that we get to lay eyes on these expressions of moment and emotion from a whole different world.”
"People have always been people. I've never been very... into the art world. Though I did purchase some art. It fit my aesthetic. I told my partner once that nobody captures the desolation of the soul like Goya," he says with a hint of a chuckle.
“Yeah. Two of them. Christ on the Mound of Olives and the Last Communion of St Joseph of Calasantz.” He smiles a little. “You’re familiar with his work?”
He feels like there are cosmic nails being dragged across the chalkboard of his mind. Neal’s voice is slightly faint. “Typically they do, yes. Was… was the sale private? Or did people write about it?”
He’s mentally floundering, and after a moment the nerd knowledge spills out in a rush. “That painting is iconic. A precursor to his Black Paintings, a series of fourteen pieces painted directly onto the walls of a home he bought outside of Madrid, called La Quinta del Sordo, during the final years of his life. The Black Paintings themselves were done on the plaster of his home and were severely damaged in the attempt to transfer them to canvas, so the brushwork and dark backgrounds of Christ on the Mount of Olives were some of the cues used in their attempted restoration. It was nearly contemporary and anticipated a lot of the techniques he applied. That painting… without it we might have lost any trace of Goya's final days. His last works.”
Another flabbergasted moment. “How much did it cost?”
“Uhhh somewhere around three and a half million, I think? It wasn’t one of his most expensive ones,” he clarifies. “I wish I could invite you to see it, though. You know a lot about it.”
“Suerte de Varas went for around 7.4 million in ‘92,” Neal says, voice still faint. “It’s true that it’s not his best known, but I can’t believe you got it for anything less than 5.”
He needs to sit. So he does, this time at the room’s tiny desk. “I… Goya is one of the Old Masters. One of the few Romantic painters to get the designation.”
His thoughts keep bouncing and the next question comes out startled and almost unintentional. “How wealthy is your family?”
Malcolm said “three million” the way some people would say “ten bucks.”
“My mother’s a Milton,” Malcolm tells him. Neal is from New York. He pays attention to money. He knows what that means. “He really painted murals all over his house? That’s one way to get lead poisoning; no wonder he went crazy.”
Neal knows who the Miltons are. Holy fuck, does he know who they are. The fact that he does gives him a little squeeze of hope that maybe they’re from the same place. Malcolm doesn’t pay attention to the art scene, Neal has no interest in serial killers—it’s very possible they never came across mention of each other, and even if they had, would either of them taken real notice?
He’s recovering himself a little now, at least, even though the name drop means a seismic reorientation of how he categorizes Malcolm in his head. “The broken spirit and vocal political ideology making him a target of people in power probably didn’t help. That and the fact that his eyesight was failing.”
“You know… paintings are a lot more interesting when you talk about them. Maybe when you get tired of being Robin Hood you could teach art history or work in a gallery or something,” Malcolm notes.
Good save. That’s why you don’t know much about your own paintings: you needed a handsomer teacher.
He puts his hand over the phone again. “Shut up! Shut up!”
He puts the phone back to his ear, adding shakily, but trying to sound upbeat “You could even have a television show.”
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Of course it will, but that's fine. You don't need a boy with a weak stomach, Malcolm.
He picks at the blanket on his own bed, not realizing he's mirroring Neal a bit, and takes a deep breath.
"After I got out of the hospital and came back to school... he was in gym class when I got there. I went into his locker and stole his asthma inhaler. I emptied it out and then stuck it in my pocket not sure if I was really going to follow through and when I saw him... When I saw him he goes 'have a good weekend, Whitly?' like it had rained on my vacation or something and I punched him in the solar plexus. I knew it would trigger an asthma attack. He'd fumble in his pockets for his inhaler. And he did. And so I gave it to him. And it was empty. And he fell to the floor and flopped around like a fish on land and I... just... watched. But I couldn't go through with it, so I called for help. There was no evidence that I did it on purpose, but the headmaster knew my real name by then, too. I was expelled."
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It reminds him of Keller, almost. Except that Keller would have gone through with it.
And the scare of it was more than deserved.
He's also trying to wrap his head around the fact that Malcolm was expelled. "Was the other kid?"
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You heard it, though, right? The pause. The faint change in his tone. He's good at hiding his emotions, but you're better at noticing them.
Malcolm puts his hand over the phone's mic (effective as that is) and hisses "Stop it!" at the corner of the room before bringing the phone back to his face.
"Anyway, that was a long time ago. I passed all the exams that summer. Went to Harvard. Then Quantico. I did fine."
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"No. I'm in my room." Maybe Neal wants to elaborate and doesn't feel comfortable if someone might overhear. "What made you decide to quit school?"
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“Well… I guess I realized school wasn’t for me. It wouldn’t get me where I wanted to be.”
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Smooth, son. You're definitely not going to be single again any time soon.
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"Believe it or not, I wanted to be a cop when I was a kid."
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"Ah... I found out my inspiration wasn't as inspiring as I thought."
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“Wait, we’re those statements connected? You have Goyas?”
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“I’m sorry, did you just say you own Christ on the Mount of Olives? Was it authenticated? Did they use a spectrograph?”
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Yes, you’re looking brilliant right now; he’s going to be very impressed. Tell him how highly you regard kindergarten finger painters next.
Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut.
“I just liked how it was going to look on my living room wall; I wasn’t making an investment or anything.”
Martin laughs. Even better! You’re on FIRE. Really, son. Good job.
Malcolm winces.
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He’s mentally floundering, and after a moment the nerd knowledge spills out in a rush. “That painting is iconic. A precursor to his Black Paintings, a series of fourteen pieces painted directly onto the walls of a home he bought outside of Madrid, called La Quinta del Sordo, during the final years of his life. The Black Paintings themselves were done on the plaster of his home and were severely damaged in the attempt to transfer them to canvas, so the brushwork and dark backgrounds of Christ on the Mount of Olives were some of the cues used in their attempted restoration. It was nearly contemporary and anticipated a lot of the techniques he applied. That painting… without it we might have lost any trace of Goya's final days. His last works.”
Another flabbergasted moment. “How much did it cost?”
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He needs to sit. So he does, this time at the room’s tiny desk. “I… Goya is one of the Old Masters. One of the few Romantic painters to get the designation.”
His thoughts keep bouncing and the next question comes out startled and almost unintentional. “How wealthy is your family?”
Malcolm said “three million” the way some people would say “ten bucks.”
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He’s recovering himself a little now, at least, even though the name drop means a seismic reorientation of how he categorizes Malcolm in his head. “The broken spirit and vocal political ideology making him a target of people in power probably didn’t help. That and the fact that his eyesight was failing.”
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Good save. That’s why you don’t know much about your own paintings: you needed a handsomer teacher.
He puts his hand over the phone again. “Shut up! Shut up!”
He puts the phone back to his ear, adding shakily, but trying to sound upbeat “You could even have a television show.”
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