by Fiona Davis
“You can take off your dress.”
“What?” Virginia wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly.
“Take it off. I want to paint you.”
“No. I couldn’t.”
“You asked a question. I’m answering it. Take everything off, place the stool on top of the model’s stand, and sit on it.”
“You want me to be naked?”
“Stop being a ninny. Do you know how many people took off their clothes and posed in this studio over the years? Hundreds. Now do it.”
They locked eyes. Clara stood warrior tall, the palette like a shield in one hand, the brush a spear. After everything that had happened, it was the least Virginia could do. She untied her wrap dress and let it drop on the floor as Clara began organizing the supplies. After taking a deep breath, Virginia took off her bra, the air cold on her skin but not on the thick scar tissue, where she had no feeling, only numbness.
“Sit down.”
“I’m really not sure about this.” She covered her chest with both arms.
“You want me to paint? Well, I’ve found my subject. If you want to make it up to me, sit yourself in that chair and uncross your arms.”
Virginia placed the stool on the model stand, checking to make sure its legs weren’t near the edge.
“Stop stalling.”
Clara had put down the palette and was sharpening one of the pencils, her nose scrunched up like a bunny. The thought made Virginia smile.
“Stay like that.” Clara’s commands grew less severe as she became engrossed in the work. When she looked up, she didn’t look into Virginia’s eyes, but everywhere else. Her thighs, her feet, her hairline. But not in the way that Chester or Dennis had. Nothing ravenous. More an intellectual examination of her muscles and skin, hair and bones.
To her surprise, Virginia fell into a quiet meditation. Free of all clothing, she was like a child again. Pure and open. The minutes ticked by, but she didn’t care. The only sounds were the pencil scraping the canvas and the quiet whir of the terminal, as if it were breathing in tandem with her own lungs. She closed her eyes and let her thoughts roam.
“What the hell is going on in here?”
Three men in suits stood in the doorway. Virginia dashed to her clothes, clutching them to her, the stool sliding off the model stand with a loud bang. She ran behind one of the easels and tried desperately to get back into her bra and dress, her hands shaking with shame.
“We’re making art,” Clara thundered. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re doing an inspection for Marcel Breuer. For the new building.”
“Inspect away. We won’t stop you.”
The taller man stepped forward. “Who are you?”
“We work for Grand Central. We’re on break.”
“This area is off-limits. I won’t tell the stationmaster that you were here, but you better get out.”
By then, Virginia had pulled everything on but her underwear, which she stuffed into her handbag.
“All right. We’re going.” Clara waved to her, and Virginia scooted over, keeping her eyes on the floor in front of her.
“Wait a minute. How did you get in? If you have a key, hand it over, now.” The man held out his palm.
Clara did so without saying a word and began shoving the supplies into the storage case. Virginia’s hands trembled; her face burned at the thought that these men had seen her disfigurement. Clara put a protective arm around her shoulders, and together they walked out. The sound of the men chuckling to one another echoed down the school’s hallway.
“Bastards.” Clara slammed the door on their way out and headed to the left, away from the elevator.
“Where are you going?” Virginia yanked her dress closed at the bosom and stared after her, shell-shocked. Her worst nightmare had come true, and Clara couldn’t care less.
“Follow me. It’s quicker this way.” Clara opened a door at the very end of the hallway and went down a stairway, the pad tucked under one arm and the painting kit in the other.
Virginia stopped, her shoulders heaving with sobs, her humiliation complete. “They saw me.”
Clara turned to her with a sad half laugh. “Do you really care, though? What does it mean to you that they saw you?”
Virginia considered the question. “They know I’m not a whole woman.”
“And?” She shrugged her shoulders. “Look at me. No one knows what I am. But I don’t care, because I love the way I move in the world. I love my perspective on the world. I’ve earned it, and anyone else can go to hell. I wouldn’t have wanted to paint you if I didn’t think you were a fascinating subject: a woman of a certain age, with the wounds to prove it. That’s what interests me. Desperate to cover those wounds but still carrying them capably. A woman who is just learning her own strength.
“Besides, it’s a great big world out there. Living in the West, surrounded by ancient mountains and a huge sky, shows you how inconsequential you really are, in the grand scheme of things. I find that reassuring.” She pointed to the right. “Look.”
They were standing at the edge of a frosted-glass catwalk sandwiched between the double-paned east windows. Virginia stepped onto it. Below her, the entire concourse spread out. People darted in all directions, one man running, another strolling, a woman herding three small children. All were miniature figures of themselves; the clock above the information booth glowed like a lighthouse beacon.
Virginia’s tears had dried. “It’s magnificent.”
“If you wanted to see magnificent, you should have seen it in the 1920s. Like a European cathedral.”
“That’s what they said at the press conference.”
A dull roar thundered through the passageway.
“What was that? The subway?” asked Virginia.
“No. It came from Forty-Second Street. Let’s see.” Clara walked away, leaving Virginia to hurry after her retreating back. They turned another corner, back up the stairs, and into a tiny room where a ladder rose up through the ceiling. “Leave all your things here. We’re going up.”
“Leave them?”
“Yes. This way. Levon and I used to sneak up here on breaks, to get away from the students.”
After ducking under a low beam, Virginia followed Clara up a narrow metal ladder, then another, until she finally stepped out onto a tiny platform. Looming above them was the reverse side of the massive Tiffany clock that adorned the very top of the terminal’s south face. Clara clicked a latch at the base of the clock, and the oval containing the roman numeral VI opened inward. Another roar. They poked their heads out.
Below, on the elevated roadway that encircled Grand Central like a belt, stood a rabid crowd. Normally, taxis would careen by in a yellow blur, but today the street had been blocked off.
“I’d completely forgotten. It’s one of the protests to stop Penn Central.” Virginia pointed to a man with a bullhorn. “That’s the mayor. Look, right beside him is Jackie O.”
“Impressive crowd. Too bad they can’t do anything about it.”
“Do you really think so? You think that the collective voice of all these people doesn’t count?” Virginia stuck her head out farther. “There must be hundreds, thousands. If enough of us protest, then they have to do something about it. It’s our city, after all.”
“Then you ought to be out there protesting.”
Virginia withdrew her head just as the clouds cleared and sunlight hit the clock full on, beaming jewel-colored rays into the chamber, turning it into a giant kaleidoscope. Both she and Clara stood still, looking about, transfixed by the glorious show.
The words Jackie had used in the press conference came back to Virginia: Even if it seemed too late, maybe it wasn’t. That with great effort, you can succeed, even at the eleventh hour. Jackie O really believed it, and that made the rest of the city beli
eve it, too.
But what if this wasn’t just a fight to save the terminal? Maybe everything Jackie said in the press conference applied to artists like Clara, and possibly dozens of others, who’d been lost in time. Artists whose works had been cannibalized by the greed of others.
As the light swirled around Virginia, a plan clicked into place.
The art auction was still a month away, so maybe the fight wasn’t over quite yet.
She could save Clara, save Clyde.
And she knew exactly how.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
April 1975
On Clara’s last night in New York City, Virginia insisted she join her for dinner.
The invitation had come out of the blue. In the weeks since they’d been caught in the art school, Clara had made plans to pack up and head back to Arizona. The clerks at the info booth had thrown a small going-away celebration party for her that afternoon, with Doris passing around homemade cupcakes that tasted like glue, and Clara had accepted their kind words and good wishes. Virginia showed up late. Not a surprise, as she’d pulled away recently, disappearing during lunch hours, coming in late and leaving early. No longer harassing Clara. Which at first was a relief—the woman was a nutjob, after all—but then hurt more than she would care to admit.
Clara had told Virginia she couldn’t possibly go out to dinner, that she had far too much to do before leaving, but Virginia had refused to take no for an answer. In truth, all Clara had to do was put the suits hanging in the small closet into her suitcase and pack up her art gear. She’d been painting, up in her hotel room, but hadn’t told Virginia about that.
Something about being forced to paint again opened the floodgates. Her mind whirled with thoughts of the work at hand: how to shape the shoulders, what colors would capture the intense whiteness of the scar. She’d been painting, from her memory, Virginia. Remembering the sad, faraway look in her eyes as she stared up, trying not to cry, so exposed. If anything, Virginia’s bravery in that moment had made Clara feel closer to her than ever. She’d been proud of the woman, of the shocking display of her vulnerability.
But then the men had come barging in, and after that, Virginia had completely withdrawn.
Virginia wasn’t alone at the table when Clara entered the restaurant, an Italian place with checkered tablecloths and candles stuck in wine bottles, wax dripping down the sides like white lava.
“I’m so glad you came.” Virginia was breathless. She put her arm around the girl next to her. “This is my daughter, Ruby.”
“The one who took your boyfriend?”
Virginia turned red. Clara should have held her tongue, but she was peevish about Virginia’s cold shoulder over the past few weeks. Now she thought she could make it up to her by taking her out to dinner right before she left?
“Mom?” Ruby turned to her mother, confused.
A bit contrite, Clara shook her hand. “I’m just kidding. Your mother mentioned that you’d found a new beau. She said he was delightful.”
Ruby gave a shy smile. “He is.”
They sat and ordered wine, which helped melt some of Clara’s bitterness. That and the way Virginia looked at her daughter as Ruby spoke about her photography and the bar where she worked—like she couldn’t believe this stunning child was her offspring. Sweet, really.
The wine was making Clara loopy. They ordered pasta, and that helped steady her.
“Your daughter is lovely,” she said to Virginia.
“Isn’t she? The two of us have been through a lot these past several months.” Virginia looked over at Clara. “But then again, haven’t we all?”
Virginia carried on, telling Ruby about the going-away party. How Clara had returned from her lunch break to find her seat decorated with ribbons and balloons—a ridiculous idea in that small space, in Clara’s opinion—and how excited they’d been to surprise her. As if Virginia was there the entire time and hadn’t blown in late, gasping her apologies.
When dinner was over, Virginia insisted that Clara join them in a taxi.
“I’m not going your way. I’m downtown; you’re up.”
Ruby and Virginia exchanged a strange look. Ruby spoke up. “We insist. Come on, it’s your last cab in New York. We want to treat you.”
The girl’s sweet smile was hard to turn down.
Once in, with Clara squashed between Ruby and Virginia, the cab headed north. “Where are you taking me?”
“Just one stop and then we’ll drop you off.” Virginia stared straight ahead. In fact, all during dinner, Virginia had seemed out of sorts. Usually she reminded Clara of a sparrow, hopping aimlessly about. Tonight, her energy was more like that of a woodpecker. Noisy, yet focused.
Never mind. It wasn’t as if Clara had something important to get back to.
The cab pulled up in front of a low gray building on Madison Avenue. The home of Sotheby Parke Bernet auction house. Clara’s stomach flipped when she remembered what day it was.
April third.
The day the Clyde painting was going to auction.
“No. I’m not going in there.” She braced one hand against the front seat of the cab, as if expecting them to yank her out.
“Please,” Virginia pleaded. “We’ve come this far.” She and her daughter held both doors open.
Clara got out only because she was worried Ruby would be run down by a passing bus, standing in the middle of the street like that.
She’d catch another cab home, and silently cursed Virginia for the additional expense.
“Now that we’re all here, why don’t we pop inside?” Ruby took Clara’s arm.
Clara resisted. “Unless you have the money saved up to buy the painting, what’s the point?”
Virginia stepped close, her face serious. “I know you don’t trust me and that I’ve disappointed you at every turn. But I sat for you when you asked. You know how hard that was for me. I’m asking you to do something that’s just as hard for you.”
Clara looked over at Ruby, who was biting her lip. God only knew what was really going on. “Fine.”
Inside, they took the elevator up to a cavernous room, at the front of which stood a dais and a large easel. Smartly dressed men and women filled most of the seats, but Virginia nabbed three near the back. Clara began to leaf through the auction catalog that had been placed on her seat as a prim-looking man with a mustache spoke out from the lectern.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us today for Sotheby Parke Bernet’s American Art Spring Auction. Our first artwork is Edward Hopper’s remarkable watercolor House on the Shore, signed by Hopper, dated 1924, and inscribed Gloucester. I’m going to start the bidding at sixty-five thousand dollars.”
The auctioneer spoke with an English accent. As he motioned with his hands, he kept his fingers together, so they resembled fins. He indicated to each bidder as they raised their paddles, left fin, then right.
“He looks like a robot,” said Clara under her breath.
But the man’s mastery of the room impressed her. When the bidding paused, he didn’t rush to fill in the space but left them all hanging until another potential buyer jumped in to relieve the tension.
A de Kooning pastel went for $40,000. Seeing it was like seeing an old friend again. She remembered drinking and laughing with him around Levon’s fireplace. Next up was a Stuart Davis gouache. He’d been working on that for ages, complaining to Levon that he couldn’t find the right perspective. The memories brought tears to her eyes, and she wiped them away. This was torture.
She started to rise.
“No. Not yet.”
Virginia’s words were a command, not a request. Clara sat back down.
Only then did she notice that Virginia was quietly communicating with the other people seated nearby. She exchanged a whisper with a woman with long braids sitting in the row in front
of them, while Ruby nodded to the man on her right. In between auction items, the people in the rows behind murmured to one another, leaning forward to check in with Virginia.
“How do you know all these people?” Clara asked Virginia.
“What people?”
Two art handlers wearing white gloves lifted the next work onto the easel.
The Siren.
Clara sucked in her breath. She hadn’t laid eyes on it in forty-six years, and analyzed it with a fresh perspective. Even from this distance, the strength of the composition was evident. As was the power of the colors, the blues and the blacks. It had been her best work. Now a packed room of strangers ogled her painting as if it were just another item on the auction block, not an open wound. She suddenly understood, viscerally, Virginia’s reaction to those men barging in on their session together. She wanted to snatch it off the easel and run off into the night.
The auctioneer piped up. “Next we have an untitled painting attributed to Levon Zakarian, signed as ‘Clyde,’ the only such work to survive. Bidding will begin at seventy thousand dollars.”
Clara tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone dry.
Virginia stood and held something up above her head.
The auctioneer blinked a couple of times and opened his mouth to speak, but Virginia cut in. “My name is Virginia Clay, and I am here to protest the sale of this painting. First off, it has a name. It’s called The Siren. I believe The Siren was stolen from the painter by the anonymous seller.”
What on earth was she thinking? This was mad. No one interrupted an auction. Already, the auctioneer was waving to the security guards in the back.
Virginia continued, her voice loud. “I believe the sellers, Irving and Hazel Lorette, stole this painting from the artist.”
Clara stared up at Virginia. She was taking a huge chance here. No one had confirmed that the Lorettes were the sellers. Stupid girl.
“How dare you?”
A man in the very front row stood. Mr. Lorette. The auctioneer asked for everyone to please take their seats, as Mr. Lorette and Virginia glared at each other across the crowd. Clara made out Mrs. Lorette next to him, straining her neck to look back.