The Portrait in Green

“I don’t want it.”

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“Well, it’s been bequeathed to you, so you’ll have to deal with it.” Adam smirked. “Grandma wanted you to have it.”

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“But it’s ugly.” Samantha tilted her head, as though hoping to appreciate the painting from a different angle. “Honestly, it freaks me out. I don’t have a clue where I’d put it.”

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“Then sell it. You know how much it’s worth.”

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“But Grandma left it to me because I complimented it that one time. And she wanted to keep it in the family.”

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The two siblings stood in silence for a moment, staring up at the portrait. It featured an unsmiling young boy in a drab green suit. He was less than four years old, judging by his short, pudgy limbs and round face. A game of jacks was scattered on the ground next to him, and he clutched a toy soldier in his right hand, yet despite the accoutrements of childhood something in his painted face seemed too old for the subject matter. His cheeks were dimpled and pink, his chin a round button, so it must have been something in his eyes, or the straight line of his nose. Maybe his posture was too erect and posed, or his hair too perfectly combed. It was impossible to say, but Samantha was sure this uncanny discrepancy lent the painting its unappealing overtones. 

According to their grandmother, it was the work of an early American artist of middling fame. Someone Samantha and Adam never had cause to care about, but a recognizable name to a student of art history, or someone familiar with the period. Probably. 

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“You take it, then,” Samantha said. “You can deal with explaining to the family where it’s gone.”

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“Is that really better for your conscience? Making me sell it for you?”

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Samantha started biting her nails. “No, I suppose that isn’t better. You don’t…like it, do you?”

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“God, no. Remember when we were kids? We used to be terrified of that thing. I can’t have it lurking around my 1-year-old child. Maisie is still an innocent,” Adam joked.

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“Ha, ha, very funny. But seriously, have you shown it to Steven? Maybe he’ll like it.”

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“Absolutely not. Have you met Steven? He hates anything that didn’t originate in the twenty-first century, preferably from an assembly line or a department store.”

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“Well. I suppose I can consider selling it. 500 grand is a lot of money, right?”

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“I mean, not in comparison to the amount we both just inherited, but yeah.”

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“Kevin and I could throw our dream wedding with 500K. We could throw two dream weddings.”

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“Sure, but I would point you once again toward the funds that have recently appeared in your bank account.”

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“What, you suddenly don’t want me to sell it?”

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“That’s not what I said,” Adam protested.

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“Then what would you do, in my shoes?”

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“I have no idea.”

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Samantha glared at her brother. “Two minutes ago you explicitly told me to sell. You just agreed that it’s ugly.”

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“Yes, and I stand by that. It’s what I’m advising you to do. But I’m not sure if it’s what I’d do, if I was in your place.”

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“Those mean the same thing!”

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“Not at all.”

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“Jesus, Adam. Explain to me how those two concepts are not the same thing.”

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“I’m your big brother, I love you, I’m here to give you moral support. Obviously selling is the best option for you, since you like money—you like money a normal amount, don’t look at me like that—and you don’t like the painting. So, I’m trying to help you feel less guilty, and I’m being practical. But if I try to put myself in your shoes, then yeah, I see how it’s difficult.”

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“Why?”

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“Christ, Sammy. For all the reasons you just mentioned.”

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Samantha looked up at the painting again. It occurred to her that the boy’s eyebrows had a judgmental lift to them, and that could be the source of his strangely mannish appearance. His forehead was too big for his face, and his eyebrows floated ponderously in the middle of it, like dead leaves carried by a stiff breeze. “Do you think we were good grandchildren?” she asked. 

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“Okay. You’ve gotten way too intense about this. Maybe I should just take the painting.”

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Samantha looked over sharply. “What?”

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“I said, maybe I should just take the painting, if you’re getting so worked up about it.”

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“Has then been your plan all along, then? You used to do that all the time when we were kids. Manipulate me into thinking I didn’t want something that was mine, just so you could take it away from me.”

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“I haven’t done that since you were ten, Sammy. Can you please grow up? You’re almost thirty, for God’s sakes.” Adam rolled his eyes.

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“I’m twenty-eight!”

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“Yes. Like I said, almost thirty.” 

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“You know what, go ahead and take it,” Samantha said. “Sell it and enjoy trashing your grandmother’s legacy while you’re at it.”

“Her legacy? God, now you sound just like her.”

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“What’s that supposed to mean?”

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“Don’t play dumb. You keep going on and on about hurting her feelings, acting like she was this gentle, benevolent fairy godmother.”

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“She was our grandmother. She loved us!”

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“Yeah, and she was also kind of a snob. Don’t look at me like that, you know it’s true! When you told her you were going to Georgetown, she called it a safety school. She refused to admit that Steven was my boyfriend until we were married. Yes, I know, she was from an earlier generation, but it was still fucking annoying.”

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“I guess that’s all true.”

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Adam just exhaled slowly through his nose.

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“She still left you a lot of money. You have to be grateful for that, Adam.”

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“Yeah, well, money isn’t everything.”

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“Right. That’s why you were recommending I sell off a precious family heirloom, right?” 

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Adam narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know why I ever try to help you with anything. You always turn the smallest things into an emotional mess.”

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“The smallest things? It’s a painting worth half a million dollars!”

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“You know what I mean.” 

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“No, I don’t. Why don’t you enlighten me, Adam? Why don’t you tell me exactly what you meant when you called me an emotional mess?”

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“I never said that! You know what, I am going to take the painting.” Adam reached up towards the wall and snatched the portrait off the hook. “I’ve decided that I love it. I think it’s absolutely charming, don’t you?”

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“Cut that out. Put it back where it belongs.”

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“No, no, really, I want to keep it.” Adam smiled as he backed away from his sister, wiggling the painting in a way that made the little boy’s face look even more absurd than it already was. “What, are you suddenly interested?”

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With a laugh that made him seem a decade younger than he was, Adam turned and fled with the painting in hand. Samantha chased her brother down the stairs of their grandmother’s house, past piles of old junk, used appliances, the accumulation of a life. There were a few other semi-valuable items scattered around—two old clocks, a gilded wall sconce, a few more paintings—but nothing to rival the portrait of the boy in green.

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“Give it to me!” Samantha called out as they rounded the banister into the living room.

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“Come and get it!” Adam, with the imperiousness of a boy who had always been taller than his sister by at least eight inches, waved the painting above his head. 

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“Cut it out! Stop being such a dickhead, Adam. Give. It. Back!” 

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On the final syllable, Samantha finally succeeded in gripping a corner of the frame and pulling it towards herself. As the painting traveled between Adam’s grip and Samantha’s outstretched hand, it swung past a pile of worthless items—a couple chairs, a toaster, a stack of crumpled paperbacks—and landed on the exposed arm of a wooden coat rack. Both Samantha and Adam watched, their hands resolutely attached to the black frame, as the portrait swung down on a coat hook and impaled itself in the middle of the little boy’s smug, pale, aged face.