Chapter 3 – Tactile Art

There: Matt

Matt spent most of the week after his arrival learning about this world's Wilson Fisk and planning the approach to his wife. He spent his days at the offices of Nelson & Page, researching, and the evenings meeting with other-Matt, other-Karen, and other-Foggy at the apartment Rand had provided for him in the Rand Enterprises building, working out how to bring Vanessa on board with their plan. Other-Matt and other-Karen immediately agreed to help in the effort, but other-Foggy balked, protesting that Fisk was too powerful and reminding them of what happened to people who went up against him. Other-Karen finally convinced him, arguing that Matt had proved Fisk could be brought down. Once that was settled, they agreed that Matt should make the approach to Vanessa at her gallery, as suggested by Rand.

For his visit to the art gallery, Matt selected a lightweight suit (they were all lightweight) from a closet full of new clothes. The day after his first meeting with Rand, a petite middle-aged woman had appeared at the door of his apartment. She introduced herself as "Angela King, Executive Assistant to Dr. Rand," and announced she was taking him clothes shopping. Matt started to protest but thought better of it. Aside from the clean underwear and socks he'd found in a dresser drawer that morning, the only clothes he had were those he arrived in. If he was going to make an impression on Vanessa, he needed the right clothes. His old gray suit wasn't going to cut it.

Rand's driver delivered Matt to Vanessa's gallery, "Galerie Marianna," in Chelsea. He found the gallery entrance and rang the bell next to the door. He smiled to himself as he ran his fingertips over the raised dots on the sign to the right of the door; they read, "Please Touch the Artworks: An Exhibition of Tactile Art."

He had discovered the secret to reading this world's version of braille totally by accident, when exploring his apartment. Rand – or, more likely, someone working for him – had thought to label the fronts of the drawers and cupboards in the kitchen with descriptions of their contents. The young man who showed him around the apartment seemed so pleased about this that Matt thought he must be the one who came up with the idea. Matt decided not tell him that he couldn't read them. Then, after the young man left, Matt explored the apartment on his own. As he walked out of the kitchen, his hand trailed across the label of one of the drawers. Surprisingly, the letters made sense: "U-T-E-N . . . Utensils." Then it dawned on him: he was reading the label from right to left. The letters were mirror images of the braille alphabet, intended to be read from right to left.

A buzzer sounded, and Matt pushed open the door to step into the gallery. He paused just inside the door. A large, armed man stood to his left. He didn't approach or speak to Matt, and his heartbeat and breathing remained steady. Apparently Matt wasn't a threat. Before he could stop himself, Matt's mouth twisted into a little smirk. He wiped the smirk from his face and took a breath of scented air. It probably was supposed to mimic fresh outdoor air, but Matt smelled only chemicals. A woman's footsteps approached, preceded by a different scent – floral, probably an expensive perfume. Then she spoke: "Good afternoon." It was Vanessa's voice, her distinctive accent. "Are you here for the tactile art exhibition?"

"Good guess," Matt quipped, giving her his best smile. He reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a business card, identifying him as "Michael Murdock," a "consultant" at Rand Enterprises, in print and in this world's mirror-braille. The group had decided Matt should use his middle name to avoid confusion with other-Matt, who had prosecuted and won several high-profile cases.

Vanessa took the business card, then shook Matt's hand. "Vanessa Marianna," she said.

Interesting. She didn't use the Fisk name, either for herself or for her gallery. Matt wondered why. Was it to distance herself from her husband? Or merely a business decision? He couldn't ask her those questions, so he simply asked, "This is your gallery?"

"It is. And I'll be happy to show you the tactile art."

"Thank you," Matt replied, "but you should know my interest isn't only personal. Dr. Rand felt it would be appropriate to have some examples of tactile art in the offices of Rand Enterprises – you know, for visually impaired visitors and employees. He sent me to select some for him to purchase."

"Admirable," Vanessa commented. "Any of our artists would be thrilled to have their works in Dr. Rand's collection. Come with me, please."

Matt took hold of her arm and let her guide him into a large open space to the right of the entry hall. As they walked, Vanessa commented, "Michael Murdock, you said?" Matt nodded. "Are you related to Matthew Murdock, the Assistant District Attorney?"

"A distant cousin." Very distant.

"I thought I saw a family resemblance. You could almost be twins."

"So I've been told."

Her curiosity on that point apparently satisfied, Vanessa stopped. They turned toward the wall on the right. Vanessa started to speak, but Matt held up a hand to silence her.

"You don't need to describe the art," he told her. "What it looks like is, well, irrelevant."

"Oh, uh, yes, of course," she stammered.

"Damn," Matt swore to himself. He'd rattled her, which was the last thing he wanted to do. Then he reconsidered. Maybe he could use that to his advantage. "I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to embarrass you."

"It's all right. You're absolutely right." She took two steps forward, then grasped Matt's hand and placed it on the artwork hanging on the wall in front of him.

Matt used both hands to examine the work. It was made of some sort of fabric, in sinuous folds that extended in parallel lines, diagonally across the canvas. The fabric was stiff, held in place by some sort of shellac or lacquer. The next piece of art was an assortment of found objects, seemingly placed haphazardly on the surface: a teacup cut in half, a pair of scissors, a padlock, a spoon, and a key, among other things. Matt wasn't sure of the significance of the objects chosen, or if they even had any significance. After that came a patchwork of fabrics in different shapes and textures. Another work's raised surface seemed to be made of thick layers of paint, in spirals scattered around the canvas. Next to it, sitting on a shelf, was a piece of wood polished to a silky smoothness and carved in the shape of a hand. It stood upright on a base of the same polished wood. Matt explored it with his fingertips, marveling at the fine details, down to the ridges of the fingerprints.

In the center of the room was a group of three-dimensional artworks. Some were sculptures, mostly abstract forms, carved from stone or wood. Matt ran his hands over one of them and recognized the shape of a cat. Even in cold stone, the artist had captured the animal's supple grace and the sleekness of its coat. There were also two metal sculptures, a highly polished Mobius strip on a wooden base, and a long-beaked bird fashioned from an assortment of scrap metal and machine parts.

When they reached the last piece in the exhibition, Matt spent more time examining it than he had with the other works. Its raised surface consisted of flat, round metallic objects, placed close together. Matt's sensitive fingertips identified them: Phillips head screws. He traced the outlines and varying heights of the raised surfaces before he realized what they depicted. He turned to Vanessa and said, "It's a portrait . . . of a man."

She nodded. "Yes."

"Amazing."

"You seem particularly interested in this work," Vanessa observed. "Would you like to meet the artist?"

Bingo. This might be his way in, a reason to keep coming back to the gallery. "I would."

"His studio is only a few blocks away. I'd be happy to arrange a meeting."

"I'd like that. Thank you."

Vanessa seemed to be looking at him and considering her next words. "He'll probably want to do a portrait of you," she finally said.

Matt chuckled. "I don't exactly have the money to commission an original artwork," he said.

"But Dr. Rand does."

"That's true," Matt admitted, "but I doubt he'd be interested in a portrait of me." Then something occurred to him. "This artist, is he blind?"

"Yes," Vanessa said, sounding surprised. "Legally blind, that is. He has some vision. How did you know?"

Matt thought for a moment. It was hard to explain. Finally, he said, "He just seemed to . . . to understand."

"Understand?" Vanessa asked, sounding puzzled.

"What touch can tell you . . . and how."

"Oh. I see."

Matt nodded encouragingly. She didn't get it, not really. She couldn't. But now was not the time for that conversation. It was time for him to go. He'd been here long enough for the first visit. "I'll talk to Dr. Rand and let you know which pieces he's interested in."

Vanessa guided him to the door but didn't open it. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Michael."

Matt held out his hand. "Likewise."

Instead of shaking Matt's hand, she placed a booklet in his hand. It had raised dots on the cover. "It's a catalog of the show."

"Thank you."

"I'll be in touch about the meeting with the artist. And I hope to see you here again."

Matt smiled. "I'm sure you will." He added, but only to himself, "Count on it." He unfolded his cane and walked out the door.

Here: Foggy

Foggy groaned and leaned back in his chair, massaging his temples. After more than a week of carrying both his and Matt's caseload, plus going out at night to look for his missing friend, he was too exhausted to concentrate on the motion to dismiss he was trying to write. Not for the first time, he wondered how Matt did what he did. He was about to head to the kitchen in search of aspirin for the headache he felt coming on when his phone rang. He glanced at the display before answering the call: Brett Mahoney. His heart gave a little frisson of dread mixed with hope.

"Hey, Brett. Any news?"

"Not about Murdock," Mahoney replied. "Sorry."

Foggy's heart fell.

"But something you said got me thinking," Mahoney continued, "you know, about 'unusual' events."

"OK."

"So I checked the Missing Persons reports and found something . . . interesting. About a month ago, a man reported his wife missing. Nothing unusual about that, of course. It was how she went missing that got my attention."

Foggy's heart rate ticked up.

"He said they were both at home, in their apartment, one morning, getting ready to go to work. He was in the living room, drinking coffee, and she was in the bedroom, getting dressed. When he was ready to leave, he realized she hadn't come out of the bedroom. He checked, and she wasn't in the bedroom, or in the bathroom that opens off of the bedroom. Her purse and her phone were still there, on the dresser, but she was just . . . gone."

"She couldn't have left without him noticing?" Foggy asked.

"Not likely," Mahoney replied. "According to the husband, it's a small apartment with an open floor plan. She would've had to go through the living room, where he was, to get to the front door. He's sure he would've seen and heard her if she left. And it wouldn't have been like her to leave without saying good-by."

"Maybe she went out the bedroom window and down the fire escape."

"Nope. It's a newer building, no fire escape. And their apartment is on the tenth floor."

"OK," Foggy said, "you've got my attention."

"Missing Persons took a report, but there was no follow-up. They wrote off the husband as some kind of nut, and decided the wife took off to get away from his craziness. I talked to the husband earlier today, and he confirmed his wife hadn't returned. And for what it's worth, he didn't sound like a nut job; he sounded like a man who was worried about his missing wife. He also gave me the names and numbers of family members, friends, co-workers, anyone he could think of who might know her whereabouts. He claimed to have talked to all of them, but no one had seen or heard from her. I called all of them myself. Same result. And they all said the guy is not a flake."

"Soooo," Foggy said slowly, "you think this has something to do with what happened to Matt."

"Maybe," Mahoney said. "I don't know. But a man doesn't disappear right in front of you, and a woman doesn't disappear from a tenth-floor apartment with her husband in the next room, without something hinky going on."

"You got that right," Foggy muttered. Then he raised his voice and asked, "So what now?"

"I'll keep looking, see if I can find any other cases. Maybe something will pop."

"OK. And thanks for reaching out."

"You got it." Mahoney ended the call.

Foggy stared at the screen for a moment, before he sighed wearily and let his phone drop to the desktop. The he raised his head and called out, "Karen!"

Within seconds, she appeared in the doorway to his office. "What is it?" she asked breathlessly. "It is . . . Matt?"

"No." Foggy shook his head, then explained what Mahoney had told him.

Karen took a seat in one of the client chairs and sat silently, studying her clasped hands. Then she raised her head and said, "Well, at least you don't have to go out at night looking for Matt anymore."

"What're you saying?"

"Wherever Matt is, he's not anyplace where you're going to find him."

"What d'you mean?"

Karen pressed her lips together and shook her head. "I'm not sure, exactly. But I have a feeling he's not . . . here. He's . . . someplace else."

"OK," Foggy declared, "now you're really weirding me out. And you just have a feeling?"

"Yeah. And in case you've forgotten, my feeling was right before, when Matt was missing."

Oh. Right. She was right, after Midland Circle, when Foggy was sure Matt was dead. "So what else does this feeling tell you?"

"Not a feeling," Karen replied. "But the only logical explanation is gonna sound crazy. It has to be aliens."

"Aliens?" Foggy exclaimed. "But they're gone."

"As far as we know," Karen pointed out.

"You gotta be kidding me."

Karen shook her head. "Think about it. We know what we saw. We know aliens exist and can do things we can't. Maybe teleportation is one of them. Besides, is that any crazier than some of the other stuff we've seen?"

"Point taken. But assuming you're right, why would aliens kidnap Matt?"

Karen threw up her hands. "Who knows? They're aliens."

"Jesus, listen to us," Foggy said. "I'm beginning to think we're the nut jobs." He covered his face with his hands. "This is all too much."

"I know. Why don't you go home, get some sleep for a change?"

"You don't have to ask me twice." He grabbed the papers on his desk, shoved them into his briefcase, and left.

There: Matt

The evening after his visit to the art gallery, Matt opened the door to his apartment to find only other-Matt standing there. Franklin and Karen were skipping their usual brainstorming session, other Matt explained. They were working late, preparing to argue a case on appeal in the morning.

"Please, come in," Matt said, stepping back to admit his counterpart. "Can I get you a drink?"

"Maybe later, thanks."

Other-Matt settled into his usual seat in one of the armchairs, while Matt took a seat, as usual, on the couch. They had been meeting often enough that they already had their own places.

"So . . . how'd it go with Vanessa today?" other-Matt asked.

"OK, I think." Matt pursed his lips and thought for a moment. "I mean, it was just the first approach, but I think it went well. She offered to introduce me to one of the artists, so that will give me another reason to see her again – in addition to buying some art for Dr. Rand."

"Sounds like you made a good first impression."

"I hope so."

"What's Vanessa like? I've never met her."

"It was hard to get a sense of her. She's very . . . self-contained." Matt frowned.

"I hope you don't mind me saying this, but it must be hard to read people when you can't see them."

"No, I don't mind," Matt assured him. "And it's not that hard. There are other ways." His counterpart didn't need to know about most of them.

"Like – ?"

"You can hear things in people's voices, tension, fear, anger, stuff like that. Also in their breathing. And stress sweat is definitely a 'tell'."

Other-Matt chuckled. "You got that right." He fell silent for a minute, then said, "I think I'll take that drink now." He got to his feet and followed Matt into the kitchen.

When both men were back in their places, other-Matt took a long drink from his bottle of beer, then set it down on the table next to his chair. "I'm glad Franklin and Karen aren't here tonight," he said. "I was hoping for a chance for us to talk, you know, one-on-one."

Matt raised his eyebrows quizzically.

"It's this whole . . . situation," other Matt explained. "It's not the same for them. The other Franklin and Karen, they aren't here. You are. I look at you, it's like looking in a mirror. I talk to you, it's like talking to myself. It's hard to wrap my mind around it. It's just . . . weird."

"I know," Matt said quietly.

"And then I think we're the same, but we ended up in such different places, you know, in our lives. I don't mean you ending up here, I mean where you ended up in your real life, the one over there. And I wonder. Was I supposed to save that old man and be blinded like you? Did Sister Ellen save me, or did she prevent what was supposed to happen?"

Matt shook his head. "I don't think it works like that. You were already on a different path. You had both your parents, your dad had quit boxing, things were just . . . different for you. And who's to say what would've happened if you got there in time to save that old man? Maybe the truck wouldn't have rolled over. Or spilled its load. Or maybe, in this world, the truck wasn't carrying chemicals. Or maybe you were injured, but in some other way, not blinded. There are all sorts of possibilities. And free will plays a part, too."

"I guess." Other-Matt picked up his beer bottle and rolled it around in his hands before taking a drink. "But doesn't it bother you, knowing things could've been different, that you didn't have to be blind?"

"Not really. I did what I did."

"And you'd do it again, even knowing?"

"Yes." Matt leaned back and thought for a moment. "You're assuming losing my sight was the most important thing that has happened in my life. It wasn't."

Other-Matt sat up straight and leaned forward. "What was?"

"Meeting Foggy Nelson."

"Foggy? That's what you call him?"

Matt nodded.

"Foggy? Really?" other-Matt cried incredulously. Then he let loose with a belly laugh that shook his whole body. When he finally caught his breath and wiped his eyes with his handkerchief, he said, "Oh, my God. That is too rich. Foggy!"

"No one here calls him Foggy?" Matt asked.

"No way. He insists he doesn't have a nickname, won't even let people call him 'Frank.' There's gotta be a story there. And I'm gonna find out what it is." Other-Matt took a drink of beer, then turned serious. "You said meeting him was the most important thing?"

Matt nodded. "Yeah."

"How come?"

"He was the first real friend I ever had."

"Really?"

"Yeah." Matt took a drink of beer, trying to collect his thoughts. He didn't want to say too much. Talking to other-Matt might feel like talking to himself, but there were things the other man could never know. Like what Stick had taught him. He had to be careful not to slip up. "Growing up in an orphanage, you learn it's not worth it, making friends. Kids get adopted, their parents regain custody, whatever." He waved a hand. "And they leave."

"That sucks, man."

"Foggy showed me what it was like, to have a friend . . . and how to be a friend. I'm still working on that last part." He gave a pained half-smile. "And he didn't leave." He started to add "even when I gave him good reasons to," but stopped himself just in time. "Like I told Franklin and Karen, Foggy's the best. Karen, too."

"I wish I could meet them," other-Matt commented. "And I hope you get back to them soon."

"Yeah, me too." Matt finished his beer and raised the bottle in other-Matt's direction. "Another one?"

"No, thanks, I should be going." Other-Matt got to his feet, and Matt walked him to the door.

After other-Matt's footsteps faded and he heard the "ding" of the elevator and its doors opening and closing, Matt got another beer for himself and resumed his place on the couch. He leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head, and stretched his legs out in front of himself, replaying the conversation with other-Matt in his head.

Was it really true, what he'd told Maggie after Father Lantom's service? Had his life turned out exactly as it had to be? It didn't have to turn out the way it did; other-Matt was living proof of that. How his life turned out was the result of choices, his and other people's, some good, some bad. If even one of them had been different, he might not have lost his sight or become Daredevil. Would he have done it again, saved that old man, knowing the consequences? Or did he just say that to make himself look good to his counterpart? He frowned and shook his head. No, his answer was still the same as the one he'd given Maggie: his life had been exactly as it had to be. There might be other paths, for other Matt Murdocks, but this one was his.

Author's Note: Tactile art made with Phillips head screws is a real thing. For anyone who might be interested, here's a link to an article in the Smithsonian magazine about the artist who creates these works: travel/artist-making-tactile-art-blind-using-screws-180959716/