by Marge Piercy
‘I don’t know what kind of traveller I am. Susan and I went to Europe the summer we married. But once we had kids, we rarely travelled. New York. My parents a couple of times.’ He had a moment of anxiety as he thought of his daughter. He wondered if he could get Dinah to break the news of his new relationship to Johnny; then he realized Jimmy would already have told Johnny. He could ask Jimmy how she was taking it.
‘Will I meet your parents?’
‘Do you want to?’
‘Of course. Once I’m divorced. Not until then, naturally, it wouldn’t be right.’
‘They’ll like you,’ he said immediately, then thinking about it knew that he was absolutely right. That too would be put back together. That too would be healed. They would go to North Carolina together in the spring. The desire to see it, to smell it again, made him ache with desire that focused him once more on her. He was starting a new growth cycle, like a big oak tree.
Chapter Fifty-Three
LAURIE
Laurie was hungry and cold. They did not have the heat on yet in the gallery, nor had it been needed until today, when the temperature had decided to sink the way the stock market had been doing that week. She had sent Rudi, the kid Sean had hired to assist her, for sushi takeout. She was stuck waiting for a delivery of pedestals promised every day since Monday. It was two already; Rudi had disappeared in transit. She had spent the last three weeks trying to decide if Rudi had been hired so that (1) Sean could fuck him; (2) Sean thought Rudi decorative, which he was; (3) some obscure favour was being done or paid back.
Whatever was going on, Rudi was next to useless. He tied up the phone on personal calls. He chatted with everyone who came in, as if he were the hostess of a floating tea party. The only thing he did well was move heavy objects, for he certainly had the body of a weight lifter, displayed at every opportunity. She had been disarmed at first by his omnivorous flirtatiousness, his puppyish desire to be liked and admired, but his pursuit of attention was interfering with his getting work done. He had to be let go. Sean had hired him and Sean should fire him. She tried to view calmly and equably approaching Sean about that task, but her empty stomach clutched.
The initial supper on the Cape had gone splendidly, although she had been disappointed he did not in fact stay Friday night with them, but left for Provincetown and his friends after supper. Celeste had followed her instructions almost perfectly. The grilled fresh tuna with bitter orange sauce had been smashing. From the clam vol au vents to the fresh fruit sorbets, it had been exactly right. Sean had been charming, full of anecdotes about people she longed to meet, dropping gossip about artists and critics, just as she had imagined.
When Sean had arrived that afternoon, Daddy and he had closeted themselves for a couple of hours, hammering out the last details of the agreement for the gallery. While she was dressing for supper, Tyrone knocked at her door and slipped in to bring her up to date. It was truly going to happen. She had felt giddy with joy all evening, sorry only that Sean was granting them merely his company at supper and not staying that night as had been planned. Oh well, she had consoled herself, she would be seeing plenty of him in New York.
That at least had proved to be true. However, in the gallery that charm evident on the Cape had not been directed toward her. Perhaps Sean was nervous about the gallery succeeding. When she had briefly approached Tyrone about the tension she felt between Sean and herself, he had suggested that as a likely source and urged patience. She did not feel she could complain again. Tyrone had done so much for her, and with the market troubled, he was working long hours and on the phone most of the time he was home. She could not pester him about how Sean treated her, that was clear. She must deal with him on her own. Tyrone had a right to expect such an initiative, such responsibility from her. She had to justify his trust.
She found herself crunching the order for the pedestals to a damp ball in her hand. Carefully she spread it on the desk, rubbing out the wrinkles. She imagined exactly what she would say to Rudi when he finally walked in with her lunch. ‘Well, is that my supper? Or tomorrow’s breakfast? Tell me, were you growing seaweed? How far did you go for that, Tokyo or just San Francisco? Did you pick out the rice grains one at a time?’
It would be a pleasure to fire him. She had friends too, including Evan, who could perfectly well move objects around just as heavy as Rudi could, but who was hardworking and would appreciate her throwing a gallery job his way. She had known Evan since art school. He was someone she would enjoy having around. She had always been kind of interested in him, but in school, he had been living with a woman, and then he had been married; only recently had he become available. He worked in the medium of painted photographs and painted colour slides, but he was built like an old-fashioned moving man. She had run into him at the Whitney, and when they had coffee afterward, she sounded him out. He said he’d love to have a part-time job for the winter. It had been fun to hint around at her situation, to bring up the job possibility as if casually. It had given her a fascinating little taste of power.
She would be moving into her apartment eventually, but in the meantime she was living in her old room at Tyrone’s. He had been out of the country a great deal, in Tokyo twice, in London, in Saudi Arabia, in Bonn. He had returned Saturday and they had had a lovely supper together Sunday night, but he was frenetically busy. Betty had been restored to her position as Tyrone’s usual dinner and theatre partner, when he had visitors to entertain. She got on with Betty, who tended to glaze over as the evening progressed anyhow, but after her rapport with Candida, it was a comedown. She missed Candida. It had been pleasant to have a confidante to share her admiration for Tyrone.
Laurie’s condominium had been supposed to be ready in October. She had thought she’d be moved in by now. Now they were saying January. She would not have minded, really, since she liked having Celeste cook for her, having laundry taken care of, and she’d certainly had the big apartment mostly to herself. The problem was that she still missed Jimmy. She kept getting a strong subliminal message from Tyrone that he did not want her going to the Cape. He was worried, she could tell. Living at Tyrone’s meant not having Jimmy as a guest, that was clear if never stated. She was sensitive enough to know that the whole area of Susan Dewitt’s death was extremely sore and touchy and that Candida was permanently off limits.
She was sure that if she only had the chance she could talk Jimmy into visiting. In the meantime, there was no one with whom she could talk about him, nothing to remind her they had been close. She could not even find the necklace he had given her. She thought she had worn it on the Cape, but then Labor Day weekend she could not find it, and she had not been able to put her hands on it since. She could not have lost it! She would certainly not let Jimmy discover she had, if she had been that careless.
Maybe Rudi’s ineptitude particularly galled her because that was the job she had thought she could throw Jimmy’s way, but there had not been an opportunity to do so. But she did feel that, as she was supposed to be in charge of all the practical and management side of the gallery, that hiring the assistant should be her prerogative. That too she must bring up with Sean. Her demands seemed reasonable when she ran the list over in her mind. She walked to and fro on the newly laid floor, practising feeling in charge. She was in charge. Why did she let Sean intimidate her?
Just then Sean walked in with Rudi and his old friend and former lover Carl, and Carl’s friend Inga. Seeing her across the room at openings, it had taken Laurie a couple of times to realize Inga was female, for she was six feet two, lean, perfectly flat and dressed in tailored black worsted, pants and suit jacket, with a regimental tie. Inga was an ex-model who had moved into catering and was reputed to be doing extremely well. They were giddy and hilarious. They all disappeared into Sean’s office – it had been supposed to be both of theirs, but he had taken it over and she was relegated to a corner of the storage room – without even a nod at her, except for Sean’s query, ‘Order come? Tant pis.’
They re
mained closeted with Sean until four, when the pedestals finally arrived. By the time she was done with the delivery men, Sean was alone in his office. She still had had no lunch. She decided the moment had come to beard him, for Rudi had not even apologized and had instead acted as if he were on intimate terms with Carl and Inga, while she twiddled her thumbs in the empty gallery waiting for the delivery men.
‘Sean, I want to talk to you about Rudi.’
Sean put down the catalogue from a show in Milan. ‘What on earth is there to say about him?’
‘He doesn’t do his job. He’s a nuisance. He was supposed to bring back my lunch today, and he never did. I was stuck here waiting for the delivery men to bring the pedestals –’
‘The phone’s working. Why didn’t you call up and order something? Half the places around here deliver.’
‘But I was waiting for Rudi to bring me sushi.’
‘He was lunching with Carl, who, by the way, has agreed to jump ship from Manning Stanwyck and join us. Quite a coup.’ He preened, visibly.
‘That’s fantastic.’ She was particularly pleased because Manning had never been the least bit nice to her when she had worked for him. She didn’t like Carl either, but he was certainly moving up, and his show would be widely reviewed. The last show at Manning’s gallery had sold out. She was pleased she could remember without getting upset, since the day she had helped hang that show had been the day Tom died. ‘When should we schedule him?’
‘It has to be after the first of the year, for legal reasons. February, I think. That’s what I told him would be best. He’s agreeable. He had a show last November, but he has good output. Oh, Inga’s agreed to cater the opening party for the Steinmesser show.’
How could he inform her about Carl’s show last November, when she had hauled those canvases about when Sean had insisted it be rehung? She could not believe he did not remember. ‘You didn’t even ask me! These are arrangements I’m supposed to be taking care of, and I already got estimates from four caterers –’
‘I want Inga. I don’t want some grubby salmon mousse or last year’s canapés, blackened goldfish or burnt shark, no thank you. I will make those decisions. The taste of the gallery has to be evident in every detail. When I want you to arrange something, I’ll tell you.’
‘Sean, we’re supposed to be partners, but you don’t treat me as a partner. You treat me worse than you treat Rudi. And I want him fired. He doesn’t do anything useful.’
‘He’s pleasant and decorative, which is considerably more than you are, Laurie. We are not partners. I’m in charge here. That’s the way the agreement I signed with the backers states it, and that’s the only terms on which I would come in. I run the whole show. You’re my fifth wheel. I’ve put up with you in good faith and in good spirits, but let’s be very clear about our situation.’
‘My father said I was to manage the practical side of the gallery. That’s what he told me.’
‘I’m sure he put it nicely, but you’re free to read the agreement. I had it all spelled out. Why shouldn’t you take care of the details? You did a fine job having the pedestals delivered. Now you take care of getting somebody in from a temp service to put our mailing list on the computer so we can send out invites to the first opening. Have them here by Monday next. Oh, and find out why the heat isn’t on.’ He picked up the Italian catalogue he had been reading. ‘Arrivederci.’
She shuffled out into the cold and empty gallery and sat on a pedestal that lay on its side preparatory to being sited. Rudi was chuckling on the phone. Her eyes burned, but tears would be too embarrassing. She was in exactly the same position here she had been at Manning Stanwyck’s gallery, the tweeny ignored and pushed around and used for whatever no one more important cared to bother with. She would call Tyrone and tell him she just couldn’t go on this way. She would quit!
And do what? She could not quit. He had poured a huge amount of money into this gallery. She did not doubt Sean had the agreement he had described and that agreement had been part of his price. Tyrone had paid it for her. She must put up with Sean for him. Gradually she would take over. Wasn’t she her father’s daughter? She would show Sean what she could do. She was associated with an up and coming gallery that would start out visible and grow quickly important. That was still true.
Sean did not know her yet. Her being a woman was not the problem, because he obviously took Inga seriously. She had to prove herself. What could she do but try? At least unlike Manning, he did not have a string of overdressed girlfriends parading through the premises. There was room for her to take charge. She blew her nose.
She would have liked to leave early because she felt faint with hunger, but she did not want to seem to retreat after their confrontation. Moreover, she had better get on the phone as soon as Rudi relinquished it and try to deal with the heat problem. She hoped that Celeste would have a nice meal waiting for her. Once she got the phone, she could call the apartment and tell Celeste she wanted to eat on the early side – unless Tyrone was dining at home. She had a sudden image of the navy-and-white dress she had worn to the death party on the beach, Susan’s bizarre funeral. She had not worn that dress since. She must have slipped the necklace in the pocket. Oh dear, had it gone to the cleaners? She must find out from Celeste where the dress was. Celeste would never have sent out a dress without going through the pockets, surely she wouldn’t have. As soon as she got home, she would have Celeste find it and there in the pocket would be the necklace Jimmy had given her. She could feel its weight in her hand. In the meantime, all she could do was balance on the pedestal shivering and wait for the phone to be free.
Chapter Fifty-Four
DINAH
Dinah was to meet Itzak at Logan when he flew in from London. She had a lot of problems to solve with him, but if he wanted her, he was getting her. She danced down the steps that morning, happy to have decided at last. His plane landed at two, so she should get there by two-thirty or so, the earliest he might clear customs. She was not angry with Willie but relieved: they were sorting themselves out. Without Susan, things between them were too thin, and perhaps some such instinct had led him to Candida. Candida was hardly someone to draw Dinah. They would be fine as friends, but first she had to re-create her own life.
There had not yet been a frost, so her garden was rich in dahlias, marigolds and nasturtiums, late phlox and asters. She picked two baskets full while Figaro sang through the screen. Then she wrapped the stems in wet paper towels inside of aluminium foil and loaded them carefully in the trunk, along with an enormous salad, her last tomatoes and peppers and a vermilion kuri squash. She packed for a few days’ stay.
At nine she left, the cats howling in the back seat, and drove to Brookline. All the way in she alternated between thinking how she would tell him and worrying about how they would live. It would demand flexibility on both their parts to make it work, a great deal of attention and effort. Nonetheless, she kept bursting into wordless song, bellowing at full stretch testing the resonances of the car, testing her own voice, whooping and sliding up and down, shifting into falsetto. The cats shut up. They were glad to get to Brookline. They had long ago claimed the house and ran at once to where their food dishes should be. She was thinking she had not worked for voice since she had been in the Wholey Terrors. It was an instrument she had neglected, and that was stupid. After all, people carried their voice boxes around with them at all times.
She set out the flowers, filling every vase and half his glasses till bouquets stood on the diningroom table, in the kitchen, the livingroom, flowers on every available surface in the bedroom. She went shopping and stocked the refrigerator, picked up a bottle of champagne she considered essential for their evening. Then it was time to drive to the airport. Wouldn’t she feel like an utter fool if he had changed his mind? Yet she could hardly blame him, for she had temporized all summer. She had not spoken to him since Scotland, so she had no idea what had been happening, what he was feeling. She did not fear the ex-
wife, although his time in London made her a little uneasy. Who knows what loose ends might tie themselves about him there?
Several overseas flights arrived around the same time in the international terminal, so she bought and read through a TSA Today, searched the terminal without success for reading matter, went to the women’s room twice, combed her hair, stared at her familiar but suddenly dumb face, called Nita and left a banal message on the answering machine. Then she joined the crowd staring at the doors through which travellers exiting customs dribbled. She got up, she sat down, she got up again.
Finally he stumbled out with his flute case and his luggage, looking dishevelled and dazed. She ran to him. He was gripping his flute case tightly, so she embraced him awkwardly and took one of his suitcases. ‘Welcome back,’ she said, ‘I missed you. I love you. Did you make a rapprochement with your ex-wife?’
‘It was a bumpy crossing. There’s a storm between England and here. I hate big planes when it’s rough.’
At first she thought he was putting her off, but he had that glazed look she recognized from her own gigs. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Rapprochement not possible yet.’ In the parking garage he dropped his luggage beside her car and fell upon her, burying his sharp chin in her hair. He held her fiercely, his hands digging into her arms and back.
She got him into the car and back to Brookline without prying much out of him except that the meeting with his ex-wife had been a disaster, he had not felt at home in London, he had once again experienced his life as in shreds and he could not stand that chaos. He thought he had played badly at Albert Hall, and the critics had been unkind about the Telemann. He was not used to bad reviews and took them seriously.
‘You ought to be a composer! People are always calling your music fraudulent or boring or hideous or decadent or whatever they can think of. You get used to being attacked, believe me. It passes. You continue.’