Antenna Syndrome Read Online Free PDF Page A

showed him the back stairs,” Jack said.
    I circled the studio. A table was scattered with
brushes, paints, palettes, rags and thinners. More than a dozen
canvases were in various stages of completion, half lacquered and
wall-mounted, the rest on easels with outlines and tones blocked
in. The subjects were all insects.
    A ladybug nestled on a leaf from whose tip hung a
dewdrop. Body hair fuzzy with pollen, a honeybee crawled across a
sunflower. A praying mantis, fore-claws cradling the headless body
of its mate, stared out from a large canvas.
    “Aren’t they amazing?” Vivien said.
    “Is this hers?” I rested my hand on what I’d first
taken for a laundry trolley. A leather seat was slung hammock-style
from a sturdy aluminum frame. A gearbox connected a battery-powered
motor to four wheels.
    “One of Mr. Jordan’s engineering friends built her
this work chair.”
    An overhead rail on a beam crossed the ceiling.
Gymnast rings on ropes hung from brackets that could be positioned
anywhere along that rail.
    “She worked out on them for exercise,” Vivien said.
“And used them to change from one chair to another.” She indicated
another motorized chair nearby, a conventional one with padded
seat, armrests and control stick.
    In the lounge was a sectional sofa, an entertainment
system, a desk with a computer and a musical keyboard. The bedroom
had a double bed and a large collection of dolls. A drive-in closet
contained a few clothes and more dolls.
    In the kitchenette I opened the fridge, finding
cartons of juice, some fruit in the crisper, a few cheeses and a
bottle of white wine.
    “Did she eat by herself, with her father or you
folks?”
    “Most of the time she ate alone. Each day I’d tell
her what I was making, or solicit requests. Usually I’d bring it to
her, or send it up by elevator if she preferred. Sometimes she came
down to eat with me, and we’d chat, but then she’d go back
upstairs. Sometimes I served her and Mr. Jordan dinner in the
dining room, but those were rare occasions.”
    “Sounds isolated. She got a problem with people, or
what?”
    “She was never interested in people. But insects,
that was something that got her excited.”
    I saw no sign of a struggle, but maybe she hadn’t
offered any resistance. Despite the amenities, the place had the
feel of a minimum security prison.
    “Was she happy here?” I asked Vivien.
    “Her art occupied her. And when she wasn’t working,
she had music, movies, books, online art exhibits…”
    “Didn’t she ever leave the house?”
    “Only in the summer. She liked to go out in the
garden, where she’d sit for hours with her camera and digital
recorder, taking pictures of bugs and recording her ideas.”
    “No social life?”
    “She was very self-conscious from an early age. It
was strange, because most kids with disabilities don’t see
themselves that way. She didn’t want to go out in public – with the norms , she called them. She treasured her privacy.”
    “Her father didn’t try to influence her?”
    “When she was young, he’d wanted her to attend a
school for the gifted. But she insisted on being home-schooled. It
was difficult, because she went through tutors like a clever child
through simple games. Mr. Jordan had her tested and found she had a
genius-level IQ. Nobody was smart or complex enough to sustain her
interest. It’s hard to understand, but she just wanted to be left
alone with her art.”
    “An all-consuming hobby.”
    “Oh, she’s no amateur,” Vivien said. “She’s been
selling for the past five years and making very good money. In the
past year, well over a million.”
    I’d always suspected I might be in the wrong
business, but this was a shock. “How many paintings did she have to
sell to make that?”
    “Four or five.”
    Obviously I was no judge of art, but I could do
basic math. If four or five paintings sold for a million, there was
enough finished work here for another million or two, and as