by J. J. Murray
Ebony’s shoulders slump. “I’m in trouble now.”
I hug her tightly. “No, you’re not. Look around you. The place is packed. People are smiling, pointing, discussing, talking, and laughing. You’re moving them, Ebony. I mean, Robert De Niro is here! He was standing right next to me!”
“He’s come to several of my shows, and he always buys something with a boat in it.”
“He does?”
“He has a boat, too, you know. But I was so rude to Mr. Papp.”
“As you should have been.” I hold her away from me at arm’s length. “Look, everyone here is having a good time, and I’m glad Mr. Papp left. Your mama is here having a ball. Destiny is networking. Sir John is here. I’m here.”
“I know, but—”
“So what if Mr. Papp writes some pap for tomorrow’s paper? This show is a hit, and deep down inside, you know it.”
She bites her lips and rolls her eyes. “Okay, it’s a hit, but it isn’t a home run yet, Peter. There’s one more piece of art to reveal. Get a good spot in front of the tapestry.” She kisses me tenderly. “It’s time for the unveiling.”
I don’t have to fight to get a good spot, but within minutes, I’m surrounded by the curious in front of the tapestry, Sir John on one side, Candace on the other.
“This will be glorious,” Sir John tells me.
“You really don’t know what’s under there?” Candace asks.
“No.”
“She’s keeping secrets from you, Peter. Better watch out.” She grabs my hand. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”
“I’m fine.”
“You want me to talk to her?”
“About what?”
“About keeping you up at night. She’s wearing you out, boy.”
“That’s all right.”
Because I don’t think it’s Ebony keeping me up nights.
While Destiny stands at one end of the tapestry, her golden hands holding a golden cord, Ebony stands behind a podium and taps the microphone three times until the crowd settles down. “Thank you all so much for coming, especially on such a dark and stormy night. I hope you’ve enjoyed yourselves as much as I have. And now I’d like to show you my last piece.” She nods at Destiny, and Destiny pulls the cord. “I call it Original Love.”
And there we are, Ebony and I when we were young, drifting along in a small wooden boat as two medieval lovers holding hands, golden waves around us, nothing but the infinite horizon in front of us. It reminds me of The Lady of Shallott, a painting I had my students analyze whenever we studied Tennyson, but that painting definitely didn’t have a young black girl and a freckled white boy holding hands. Her lacy headdress frames her face perfectly, and her burgundy flowing robe conforms to her body so seductively. And I look like the knight I’ve always wanted to be, my chain mail armor gleaming bright silver, a sword resting by my side.
“Remarkable,” Sir John says.
“She got your freckles right,” Candace says. “And she even gave you a chin.”
Tears escape my eyes. She got everything right. Everything, right down to the delirious smile I have on my face. She gave me the words to write, and I gave her the pictures to draw. Words and pictures—that’s us.
Then Ebony motions to me, and while flashbulbs blind me, I pose in front of Original Love, one arm around Ebony, my original love, and the other around Destiny, the precious product of that original love.
22
After a fairly busy night of sighs, sweat, and smiles, I watch Ebony sleep until morning. Like her art, I can’t take my eyes off her, even though my eyes feel as if they’re rotting out of my head. I have to get some serious rest or I’m liable to start hallucinating.
When Destiny brings the newspaper to us the next morning, Morton Papp’s column on top, Ebony tenses up, especially when Destiny announces, “I don’t understand a word that man said, but I know he isn’t being very nice.”
After Destiny leaves, Ebony and I stare at the headline: “‘Neo-Expressionism’ Meets Local Black Art.” It doesn’t sound too bad to me, but Ebony pulls a pillow over her head and groans, “I’m doomed. He used the ‘L-word.’”
“And local is bad?”
She doesn’t stir.
“You want me to read it out loud to you?”
“No, I’ll read it,” Ebony groans. She throws the pillow across the room and snatches the paper, shaking it out. I watch her lips move and occasionally hear bursts of Morton Papp’s drivel: “‘…incomprehensible narrative function of her work is a cross between Abstract Expressionism and Pop Art in the rightly neglected field of landscape…somewhat creative, somewhat moving portraits without movement…too grayed and tonal, leaving the viewer with spiritual alienation…primitive Cubist sterility…nontraditional linearity.’”
From what I’ve just heard, I don’t understand a word either.
She balls up the paper and throws it toward her vanity. “I’m doomed,” she says again. “I’ve just been branded ‘local,’ and I only do ‘black art.’”
“He’s just one critic, Ebony.”
“Yeah, but other critics follow his lead. Just two years ago, the critics were gushing about me after a show at Matthew Marks, but now their tastes will change.”
“He can’t be that powerful.”
“He is.”
“Well, maybe people haven’t forgotten all those glowing reviews from before.”
She hits me with my own pillow. “People only care about the last thing you say or do anymore, Peter. They don’t care where you’ve been. We live in the ‘What have you done for me lately?’ century, Peter. They’ve already forgotten.”
“What about Sir John?” She wouldn’t let me see the catalogue he left with her last night, but I didn’t push it. She was more wired than I’ve ever seen her before.
“Sir John,” she whispers. “He wants the landscapes, the tapestry, and every watercolor except for one.”
“Which one?”
“One I did of your daddy’s boat, but the fact is, I want to keep the landscapes and the tapestry or have them put up permanently in a museum somewhere. Who’s going to see them if they’re on some wall in Sir John’s castle?”
“He owns a castle?”
“No, I was just trying to make a point. The only ‘museum’ on this planet exhibiting my work is over in some barrister’s house in England, an audience of one, Peter. How would you like it if all your books were bought by one person?”
Good point.
“This review pretty much tells other galleries, who may have been interested in acquiring my works for their collections before, that unless you want someone local and black, don’t give Ebony Mills a second thought.”
The phone rings.
“Want me to get it?”
“No,” Ebony says. “Destiny will get it.”
A few moments later, Destiny rips up the stairs and breathlessly hands the phone to Ebony.
Ebony takes the phone. “Who is it?”
For the first time since I’ve met my daughter, she can’t speak, her eyes wider than wide.
“This is Ebony.” She listens for several moments, and even her eyes widen. “Thank you.” She motions for me to get a pen and paper. I find an envelope and a pen on her dresser, handing them to her. “Uh-huh.” She scribbles rapidly, and when I try to see what she’s written, she covers it with her hand. “I’ll make sure DC Moore has it delivered directly to you when the show ends in December.” She smiles. “No, thank you, Mr. De Niro.” She clicks off the phone, tosses it to the end of the bed, and lies back. “That was Robert De Niro, and he wants several of the watercolors.”
My heart sinks a little. “He wants the Argo watercolor, doesn’t he?”
Ebony squints. “How do you know that?”
“We were, uh, looking at it together last night.”
Destiny grabs me. “You talked to Robert De Niro?”
> “Not exactly. I just happened to be standing there, and—”
“What did he say?” Destiny interrupts.
“Just that, uh, that ‘Argo’ was a good name for a boat.”
Destiny grabs the phone, says, “I have to tell everybody this,” and dashes out of the room.
“It wasn’t much of a conversation,” I say.
Ebony blinks. “Robert De Niro wants a piece of me.” She giggles. “And no offense to Sir John, but having Robert De Niro want my work means so much more. You know he’s been feeding rescue workers at his restaurant for free? He should be mayor.”
“Giuliani seems to be doing a good job.”
“Yeah.”
Destiny rushes back to us, phone extended to Ebony. “Someone from Bill Maynes Gallery.”
Ebony sits up straighter. “Hello?” She scribbles furiously on the envelope. “Get me more paper! No, get me a catalogue from last night!”
The phone rings nonstop all morning, and from what I can gather from Ebony’s side of the conversations, a number of notable New York galleries had sent representatives to her show last night, and now her works are being parceled out all over New York. By lunchtime, every piece in the catalogue has been marked to go somewhere else. Every single piece!
“I don’t believe it,” she says. “I thought that review would kill me.”
“Maybe just having a review by Morton Papp is the key, almost as if having a negative review from him has the opposite effect. I’ve seen that happen to books, too. A decent book gets read and trashed by a prominent reviewer, and then sales go up from the controversy.”
“You might be right.”
I give her my best De Niro squint. “What about Sir John?”
She waves a hand in the air. “Oh, he’ll be the happiest man on earth now.”
“Huh?”
“He’s been waiting for this moment, Peter. He owns most of what I’ve done to this point, right?”
“Right.”
“So now all of that has just skyrocketed in value. His investment in me is finally paying off.”
“Oh, yeah.” A man is about to be happy because he can’t have what he wants, which makes sense in the strangest way.
She rises from the bed and goes to the window, feeling the windowpane with her hand. “It’s warmer today, isn’t it?”
“I guess. I haven’t been outside.”
“Let’s go out on the Argo, maybe take her for a sail to celebrate.”
“Well, um, I haven’t ever sailed her solo, so—”
She shakes her head. “Your daughter will sail us, Peter.” She picks up the phone. “And I want Mama to come, too.” She dials. “Mama? Get Gladys to take you down to the yacht club.” She listens a bit, her eyes narrowing, a quick glance to me. “I guess so, but…No, I understand.” She turns away from me. “It makes sense, Mama. I told you that I understood. In an hour, okay? Bye.” She turns to me. “Well, get dressed, Peter. We’re going sailing.”
And what else? I want to ask, but I’m learning never to question the connivings of the Mills women. Something is definitely up, and it involves me.
Destiny, Ebony, and I arrive at the yacht club just in time to hear an argument between Candace and Gladys beside Gladys’s van. I wave at Aunt Wee Wee, who’s strapped into the front passenger seat.
“I’m advising strongly against this, Mrs. Mills,” Gladys says. “What if something happens?”
“Oh, pooh, Gladys,” Candace says. “If you’re so worried, you can come with us, but I am getting on that boat, one way or another.”
I mentally measure Candace’s chair, and there’s no way it would make it into the Argo’s galley. Will I have to strap her to a bench?
“But what if, God forbid, the boat should…” Gladys doesn’t finish her sentence, and I see the reason why. Destiny is staring daggers at her. “Okay, okay, I just want everyone here to know that I, as Mrs. Mills’s caretaker, think this is a very bad idea.”
“Can I go, too?” Aunt Wee Wee calls out.
“No!” Gladys shouts. “Most definitely not!”
Candace looks up at me. “What do you think, Peter? Think it could hold all of us?”
“Sure,” I say. I turn to Gladys. “And I’ll put life vests on Aunt Wee Wee and Candace the second we get on board.” I turn to Destiny. “What’s the weather supposed to be like?”
“Steady winds at eight to ten, no rain in sight,” she says, sounding so much—too much—like my father.
I turn to Gladys. “We’ll be fine, and you can always go with us. We’ll have plenty of room.”
“I don’t know,” Gladys says. “I’ve never been on a boat like that. Are we going to go far?”
“Just to Connecticut and back,” Destiny says. “Though if the winds are right, we might end up in Boston or something.”
“Or Africa,” Candace says.
“Oh, I’m definitely not going now,” Gladys says. “When should I come back to collect you?”
Candace smiles. “We’ll call you.”
Ebony motions to Destiny, and Destiny helps Aunt Wee Wee out of the van. “We need to get this show on the road.”
I squat in front of Candace. “The chair can’t go, so I’ll have to carry you.”
Candace smiles. “I was hoping you’d say that.” She looks at her hands. “You’ll have to, um, put the bag up in my lap first.” She searches my eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I say.
“I’m such a bother.”
“You’re not a bother, Candace.” I extricate the colostomy bag from under her seat, taking care not to pull on the tube attached to her stomach, resting it on her lap, then smoothing her blanket on top. “Is that okay?”
“Yes.”
Then I collect Candace in my arms, feeling the weight of her frailty in my heart as I carry her to a Zodiac that Destiny has warming up. She can’t weigh more than eighty pounds. “What have you been eating?” I ask.
“The same old shit Gladys keeps making.”
“You need to go on a diet, Mama.”
She rests her head on my shoulder. “Tell me anything.”
The cruise to the Argo draws a few stares from other boaters on Huntington Bay, but I don’t care. I have my entire family in one boat for the first time in my life, the sun shining, the breezes light, the clouds looking like, well, candy floss topped with double cream. Sir John was right. The clouds around here are delicious.
Once everyone is on board and safely vested, Candace and Aunt Wee Wee refuse to go belowdecks.
“I want to see everything,” Candace says. “Ain’t nothing to see down there.”
“And I want to smoke,” Aunt Wee Wee says.
Destiny goes below and returns with a small harness rigged up with bungee cord, looping it over Aunt Wee Wee’s shoulders and attaching hooks at the ends of the bungee cords to a rail. “The Captain used to do this to me when I was little, Aunt Wee Wee,” Destiny says. “And I’m still here, right?”
“I look a fool, girl,” Aunt Wee Wee cackles.
“You can still move around,” Destiny says, “but if the seas get rough, you just sit down and hold on to the rail, okay?”
“You the captain,” Aunt Wee Wee says. “Can I smoke now?”
Ebony sits behind Candace on a bench seat built into the stern, leaving Destiny and me to sail the boat. “Um, let’s run a check first,” I say.
Destiny salutes me. “Yes, Cap’n.”
“You’re the real captain, Destiny. I’ll be your hand on this trip.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Cool.”
After checking all the gauges on the Volvo and turning her over, we walk the deck checking lines and sails.
“C’mon, y’all,” Candace says. “Pull up the anchor or something.”
“Everything looks okay,” Destiny says to me at the bow. “But you already know everything’s okay, because the Captain wouldn’t have it any other way.”
> And then it dawns on me. The Argo hasn’t sailed since the day before my father died. He no doubt had it shipshape and ready for a sail the following day.
“Where should I steer her once we get past Eaton’s Neck?” Destiny asks.
Let the boat go where it wants to go, Pete. “Just let her run,” I say, echoing the Captain.
“Cool. Maybe we can race the New London ferry.”
“Maybe.”
After disengaging from our mooring and pulling up anchor, Destiny steers us through Huntington Bay following the channel markers. Aunt Wee Wee sits and dangles her legs over the edge, one hand gripping the rail, the other holding a cigarette. Ebony holds Candace, occasionally pointing to shore, while I walk around trying to remember what to do to “properly sail a boat.” It’s frustrating, because I simply can’t remember a thing. I know it will come back to me, but I feel so clumsy. Well, don’t try so hard. It’ll get us there. It’s seen more days at sea than you.
Once out into the open water past Eaton’s Neck Point, Destiny cuts the engines, and we work the sails. I watch my hands doing things, things I had thought I had forgotten, and I’m doing them without thinking, Destiny smiling, Ebony holding her mama, Aunt Wee Wee holding on for dear life, and me pulling lines and turning winches watching the mainsail billow out like a crescent moon and we’re here, we’re out here, we’re sailing again on Long Island Sound. I can’t help but whoop a bit, like the kid I used to be.
I even go to the bowsprit and yawp a little, for Walt’s sake, while sprays of the waves freckle my face with cold water.
I slide back to the stern. “Is anyone cold? There are more blankets below.”
“We’re fine,” Ebony says. She looks all around her. “On such a beautiful day, why aren’t there more boats out here with us?”
I shrug. “Their loss.”
I smile at Candace. “Having fun?”
“Yes, but where’s your daughter taking us?”
“Wherever the boat wants to go.”
I spell Destiny at the helm so she can get our lunch ready in the galley, and I let the wind dictate my course, keeping the bowline taut, the mainsail steady. We might be cutting through the waves at ten, maybe fifteen knots, I don’t know. The Captain always kept up with that sort of thing. And the Argo performs magnificently. You’d never know it has been over ten years since her last sail. I’m only beginning to get my sea legs, but the Argo is stretching hers out for a good long run.