Warren Adler 2008 Short Story Contest Finalists

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In the rarified social milieu of the Mount Royal enclave there was a prevailing opinion that one of the most prominent couples in their midst, Veronica Alden and Fred McDorque, were sadly mismatched.

She was the brilliant, marginally beautiful, ultra-sophisticated daughter of a multi-millionaire. He was the talented but rather dull university professor of economics. She had graduated with honors in art history from an exclusive eastern women's college. His degrees were from a land-grant university in the Midwest.

Qualified by wealth, social standing, and education, Veronica Alden-McDorque was on the governing boards of several of the city's major cultural institutions. She was also one of the chosen few who had the authority to decide what works of art were suitable to be installed in public for the edification of the masses.

For his part, Dr. Frederick McDorque occupied a prominent position on the national scene. By virtue of his advanced degrees in the dismal science and his convoluted economic theories, most of which left Washington politicos as baffled as his university students, he had achieved tenure, an endowed chair, and membership on the President's Council of Economic Advisors.
Their presence at the numerous social galas held throughout the year always provided colorful items for the city's society columnists. Veronica Alden-McDorque, charming, witty, and voluble after several champagne cocktails, was good for at least one trenchant quote regarding the state of fine art and/or personal relationships within her community. Her husband, on the other hand, while charming and civil in an off-hand way early in the evening, had a tendency to become sullen and uncommunicative after a number of double scotches. At this stage, his standard response to questions posed by inquiring minds was, "Fuck you."

All of which left their social circle puzzling about what these two could possibly see in each other, and what in the world had kept them together over so many years. This enigma at least provided something different to ponder over fashionable brunches.

There was, however, a behavior in this unusual relationship that further defied explanation. To the consternation of their friends, it was noticed that Frederick McDorque, Ph.D., was an habitué of garage sales. Whether it was out of some lingering resentment of his wife's expertise in the fine arts, or simply a personality quirk, the professor would take off every week and prowl the outer suburbs for yard sales. He was not looking for bargains per se, just pieces that particularly appealed to his own aesthetic standards.

He took great delight in finding and identifying objets d'art that, in his estimation, had been overlooked by those less gifted in the finer points of appreciation. He had thus become the proud possessor of, among other things, the alabaster Venus de Milo table lamp, a beautifully framed Maxfield Parrish print depicting chastely nude nymphs on a classical portico, a green pillow with the legend "New York World's Fair - 1939" embroidered in gold thread, the beautifully sculpted ceramic Rhine Maiden with the small clock imbedded in her abdomen, and a faded reproduction of a sad large-eyed street urchin, an image calculated to tug at the heartstrings.

Dr. McDorque enjoyed haggling over prices with the owners of these treasures before buying them, then would take his acquisitions home where he would proudly set them out for display. The best part of the day for him was when he could pour himself a single-malt scotch, relax in his favorite chair, and admire his latest purchases. His spouse was usually out at this time of day, and the quiet of the house enhanced his aesthetic experience, as did the whiskey.

The spell was often broken, however, when Veronica, exhilarated from administering her upscale art gallery, would whirl into the house, see his newest acquisitions, and dissolve into disdain and hysterical laughter.

"Fred!" she would exclaim, wiping tears from her eyes. "Oh, my dear Fred, what in the name of God possessed you to buy that?"

"I like it," was his simple reply.

*****

Some years ago, they had come to a mutual understanding. They agreed that he could keep these items as long as their display was restricted to his private study. Under no circumstances were they to appear anywhere else in the house where the eyes of her peers might encounter them. This arrangement lasted amicably until one memorable day when Fred brought home a large framed print he particularly admired.

His own vehicle happened to be in the shop, so he borrowed his wife's SUV in order to get his prize home. He had his treasure carefully padded and wrapped before loading it in the car's cargo area which also contained several other packages, all destined for Veronica's gallery.

When he got home and pulled into the driveway, he saw his wife's BMW parked on the apron. "Oh, hell," he thought. The ritual he so enjoyed was going to be screwed up. No sooner had he cut the engine when Veronica bolted out of the house.

"Fred!" she shouted. "I'm glad you're finally home. I've got to take the SUV right now and get to the gallery. Germaine and Christie are waiting for me to get prepared for tonight's opening. Here." She tossed him the keys to the Beemer. "I'm sure you can go out and get supper for yourself. See you later. 'Bye!" And with that, she hopped into the driver's seat, backed out of the drive, and roared off, leaving Fred standing there, frustrated and somewhat apprehensive.

*****

The evening at La Chambre Gallery was going wonderfully well. The three hostesses, Veronica, Christie, and Germaine were elegantly dressed and gracious, the champagne was flowing, the catered hors d'oeuvres delicious. The guests were enjoying their evening studying the huge collection of avant-garde art and debating the relative merits of minimalism, installation, and performance art forms.
The climactic moment for this momentous evening came when the intercom invited everyone to refill their drinks and gather in Gallery Room Three for a special presentation. Chatting and laughing, the crowd followed directions to a large display space. It was dramatically lighted, a soft spot illuminating an easel in the center of the room upon which rested a wrapped package which, by its dimensions, was obviously a large two-dimensional work. Aware of the gallery owners' devotion to the cutting edge, the audience anticipated something out of the ordinary.
Veronica, her makeup perfect, her ash-blond hair in an elegant French roll, made a suitably dramatic entrance and strode to the easel. The crowd applauded politely and grew quiet as she rested her hand on the mysterious rectangle. She turned and smiled.

"My friends, colleagues, and true devotees of art, I'm so happy you could be here tonight. As most of you know, I have long sought to acquire a work by the renowned German Expressionist, Albert von Schmeer. Tonight, my fondest wish has been fulfilled. Due to the incredible generosity of our city's Mrs. Oscar Bier, La Chambre is now the proud and grateful owner of a von Schmeer masterwork. Behold!"

With Germaine's assistance she began tearing away the paper and plastic covering the work. When the final wrapping dropped to the floor, revealing the work of art underneath, the room grew deathly still except for a small titter from the back of the room.

Veronica's face went deathly white.

Germaine collapsed in a dramatic faint.

Christie fled through a back door.

There, exposed to the eyes of all in attendance was a reproduction, a print of a group of canines dressed as humans playing poker. A Saint Bernard was holding five aces.

*****

"I hope you understand, Dr. McDorque, that for our patient's well-being we have to be very careful about what we say around her. Her state of mind is very fragile."

"I understand, Doctor." Fred McDorque surveyed the figure in front of him with sympathetic eyes. His wife sat in a wheelchair staring straight ahead, her face expressionless, her hands motionless on the arms of the chair. "What did you say her condition was?"

"Although we're not entirely sure yet, we believe she is suffering from a mental disruption called 'schizoaffective disorder.' It's a kind of catatonic state. She responds to little stimulation and isn't concerned with personal appearance."

Fred could see that for himself. She wore no makeup, and her hair resembled a tumbleweed.

"May I speak to her?" he asked.

"Yes," the doctor said, "but please be careful what you say. And say it quietly, in a non-threatening tone of voice."

"I will."

He knelt by her side, took her hand in his own, and whispered in her ear. "Darling, I know you must be disappointed. I know you probably feel your world has come to an end. You probably think you'll never be able to hold your head up again in the presence of our friends. But, sweetheart, I wish you could see how marvelous my picture looks hanging over our fireplace."

Veronica Alden-McDorque's eyes widened. Her body went rigid. Her fingers became claw-like. She shook. A slight froth formed at the corners of her mouth.

******

Dr. Frederick McDorque, Ph.D., eminent economist, sat enveloped in his soft leather recliner in front of the fireplace with a tumbler of scotch in his right hand. He gazed with approval at the large print above the mantel. He found it so well done, so humorous. The idea of dogs playing poker appealed to his limited sense of humor. He savored the moment.

It was quiet in the house and he had to admit that in some ways he missed the activity that always seemed to swirl around Veronica, but thought he could, with not too much effort, cope.
The fire cast a warm light across the living room. It even enhanced the painting of Elvis on black velvet he had brought in from his study. With the assistance of Glenlivet, his environment was warm, comforting. The dancing flames, he noted with approval, were incinerating an indecipherable painting by a misogynist German named von Schmeer. He was immensely pleased and raised his glass toward the poker- playing dogs.

"To fine art!" he said.