“I don’t believe it. This is—?”
“Yes. The Angry Woman Suite.”
“My god! Matthew Waterston’s Angry Woman paintings—seven, anyway …”
“As I’m sure you know, there’s an Angry Woman at the Metropolitan, sold years ago. A sale handled by your firm, Mr. LaFitte, and very discreetly. And another Angry Woman is at the National Gallery—that one sold to the gallery just a few years back. Again handled by your firm, Mr. LaFitte.”
“But I’d no idea there were still others—”
“No matter,” I said crisply. “My wife is in possession of a third Angry Woman. A gift from Waterston himself. That painting is not available for auction. But these seven are.”
LaFitte examined each in turn, Jess Jefferson over his shoulder, both shaking their heads.
“Incredible! But these haven’t been seen in eons … a fire …” Lafitte faced me, brow furrowed. “If I recall correctly, Matthew Waterston sold all but one of the original ten Angry Women.”
“That’s right. As I said, he gave an Angry Woman to my wife.”
“Leaving nine then, and of nine, two since sold again. As I understand it, Waterston regretted—”
“You recall correctly. Waterston liked these paintings and would’ve kept them all had he not committed to selling them on completion. He thought the suite his finest work. He particularly liked the subject: his marriage to Sahar Witherspoon.”
“Yes—many believed Sahar bought back the nine paintings from the original buyer and had them shipped home, where they were destroyed in the fire that killed her and Waterston.” Everything showed on LaFitte’s face. “Sahar Witherspoon was an artist in her own right. Folk, mostly. Tragic so few of her pieces survive.”
LaFitte went on, “But there were just as many who believed the suite had not been repurchased and thus couldn’t have been lost in the fire. And then when that first Angry Woman resurfaced at the Metropolitan … well, to think my firm was behind that acquisition! Extraordinary!” LaFitte turned to his colleague. “Did you know of it, Jefferson, that our firm was involved with the Angry Women?”
“I’d heard rumbles.”
I said, “The Waterston mill house once stood across the road from this house—as you know, this is the Washington’s Headquarters house.”
“Yes, of course,” Lafitte said. He peered at me. “You were a part of the colony? But what am I saying? Aidan Madsen! The Aidan Madsen!”
“Hardly a cog in the wheel, I’m afraid.”
“I’m new to these parts, never been to Festival.”
I told LaFitte I was no longer a very large part.
“Big corporate-run thing now, I hear.”
I returned to the suite. “The paintings were in the Waterston studio at the time of the fire, not the mill house. They’d been placed in the studio, a separate structure, for security reasons.”
“You say that like there’d been an actual threat—”
“There’s always a threat where there are things of value.”
“The studio—it still stands? I didn’t notice on our way in.”
“Demolished after the fire.”
“I see. May I ask, then, how you came to acquire these seven paintings?”
“I manage the Waterston estate. I moved the paintings to Washington’s Headquarters after the fire.”
“Secretly?”
The man was a dolt. “Secretly from the public, yes. And here is where they’ve been since, in safekeeping for the Waterston heirs. Except for the three previously mentioned.”
“Kept on instructions left by the Waterstons themselves, then?” LaFitte probed.
“Waterston’s son appointed me custodian of the estate.”
Gordon LaFitte remembered Matthew’s famous son. A musician. James Witherspoon had been his name, wasn’t that correct? By the way, what had happened to him, did I know? His disappearance remained one of the great mysteries of the entertainment world. And about Sahar Witherspoon—again, a pity so many of her works had been lost, presumably in the same mill house fire. Great Americana. They had been lost, hadn’t they? LaFitte said this last as if half expecting me to pull a few of Sahar’s watercolors out of my coat pocket.
I sidestepped all other questions, assuring LaFitte I was obliged to dispose of and/or bequeath all Waterston assets for reasons and at such time or times as I saw fit. Now was one of those times, if LaFitte’s appraisal met my approval—and if my wife concurred.
Magdalene stepped up into the attic.
LaFitte’s eyes darted to an Angry Woman, then back to Magdalene. “The real angry woman!” he exclaimed.
I said drolly, “My wife, Mr. LaFitte.”
“And I’m not particularly angry,” Magdalene said. “But, yes, I did sit for Waterston’s view of a marriage, Mr. LaFitte.”
Lafitte looked back at the paintings, then over at Magdalene again. They shook hands. “Curious,” he said. “The suite’s intended representation, marriage—yet there’s nothing the least loving in these paintings. Don’t you think it curious?”
“Yes, curious,” Magdalene agreed, “that one can fear or despise what is also so deeply loved.”
LaFitte mentioned an enormous sum of money, and it was decided that auction would be held posthaste. Anonymity was guaranteed.
Regarding my personal collection of Revolutionary War memorabilia, Jess Jefferson was instructed to put everything on the block, save for one letter. It was a John Adams letter, written three days before the signing of the Declaration of Independence. In it, John Adams had predicted “a great expense of blood” to secure freedom. Lear Grayson had given it to me in 1917 as he’d boarded the train to go to war: a gift for my museum. I’d put it away in 1929, the year after Lear Grayson died, the dumb shit—dumb shit because he could’ve fixed things. He could’ve left Stella out of it. He could’ve made it right. Or more right. But, you see, here’s what else I’ve since discovered about life: there are no neat answers for much of it. And I do know about Lear’s torture. I know, because the mill house fire distorted so much that I remained tortured as well—so it worked for me that Magdalene understood our silence on the subject of who set the fire was less a lie than a tool to avoid the awful truth about her father and me.
Besides, Magdalene already knew so much, primarily because she’d been born with that innate awareness of the dark underbelly of life, which she didn’t deny. She skirted that darkness, drawn to the perverse, and equally repelled, but she was never a part of it, because for Magdalene it was simple: either her father had set the fire, or her sister had. Either way was hell. So what, I asked myself, would it have helped, knowing more about how and why her father died, or if I’d played a part in that, too?
I put the Samuel Adams letter in a safe deposit box. I meant to one day give it to another who chafed at the bonds of guilt.
I meant to give it to Elyse Grayson.
Auction was held in May, and an impressive amount of money changed hands, so much so that the event was written up in papers and magazines across the country. Exactly what was required to flush Lothian out. And although I was not mentioned by name, Gordon LaFitte was, and so was Magdalene as Matthew’s model for the Angry Women—the mention of Magdalene I didn’t like as much.
I paid for two months of Jamie’s care in advance, hired a caretaker for Grayson House, bought a new Cadillac, and purchased and furnished an immense Airstream trailer. I turned the key to Washington’s Headquarters over to the Chadds Ford Historical Society and walked away from my old home and one-time museum without so much as a backward glance.
***
Jamie died the morning we were to leave.
Magdalene had just said, “When it happens it won’t be a surprise.” I was cradling her head in the crook of my arm, playing with her hair, a milky drape of silk that she let down at night. I loved holding her like this: my dream, my life, my history.
She asked, “You did it for me? Selling everything?” And then she turned away. As
if she couldn’t believe she’d asked, as if she knew I’d lie, as if she couldn’t bear the lie or the truth. Still turned against me, she whispered, “I’ve always wanted to love you more, Aidan. Unreservedly. Do you know that? But there was so much … and I was afraid. You know why.”
“Look at me.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.” I turned her to face me. “You can. Look, you’ve never been afraid of anything.” I kissed her tears; then fingers over her lips, kissed every part of her, burying myself in her, past and hope entwined.
“Tell me what happened,” she urged in a voice that broke. “Let me know you, Aidan. Let me really know you, too.”
It was a long moment before I answered.
“For us. That’s all I can say, Magdalene—and I know that’s all you’ve ever wanted me to say. Everything I’ve ever done, it’s been for us. For you and for me—and for Jamie. And now for Francis and the girls, too.”
ELYSE
1967
It was June, the end of the school year and the Santa Ana winds bore down on Pacific Gardens and sucked all the moisture from the ground, air, skin, hair, lips, everything. I felt shrunken, half dead, walking home from school—the last day. I turned onto Morningstar Street and faced a mirage: tall, in a gray suit, tie and vest, even in the searing heat.
“Aidan? I thought you’d be here last week.” The words felt wrung from me. “It’s mean here, Aidan. You don’t know …”
His arm went around me and even as he murmured comfort words, he pointed down the street. A slender silhouette stood beside a silver bullet parked outside my house. Closer, the bullet was a trailer nearly thirty feet long, hitched to a Cadillac, and the silhouette was Magdalene. Framed by sun, her pale hair radiated light onto her fine skin, and I ducked my head, self-conscious: she was breathtaking, luminous, more beautiful even than my mother. I slid from Aidan’s safe embrace into hers, this one smelling of jasmine, reminding me of those warm nights in Sacramento when Papa had opened up the whole house, in that time of music and comfort when contentment had been my birthright.
“Grandmother Magdalene.”
Her voice was soft, melodious. “Just Magdalene, dear … I appreciate the sentiment, but it’s … wordy, don’t you think? And look how you’ve grown—and you’ve been crying. Come in,” and I followed her, stepping up into the silver trailer. Eyes adjusting to the dim light, I saw Bean’s head at the far end of the trailer, bobbing up and down, excited. The rest of Bean was obscured by a curtain. And that was my second surprise: my tight-lipped sister was talking a mile a minute.
Bean turned, her eyes wide, alive. “Elyse, look!” She stood and tugged on something behind the curtain and her little hand produced one of the largest I’d ever seen, like a baseball glove. And then a long, humpbacked form emerged, white hair first, followed by narrow, sloping shoulders, and then, even in that faded light, a remarkably hideous face. The corners of the misshapen mouth softened, seeing me.
“Elyse, look,” Bean cried. “It’s Stella!”
Daddy roused himself from his somnolence and declared he was stopping his medications.
“Withdrawal,” Mother explained when Daddy’s limbs began jumping again and his lower lip quivered. “Normal.” She opened the drapes for the first time in weeks, and Aunt Rose made apple fritters, and while Bean steered clear of Daddy, she chatted up a storm with everybody else. Stella’s doing, I concluded. But how? A miracle, Mother explained, which I couldn’t buy in a thousand years, and so I investigated, asking Bean what she and Stella did on those evenings they closeted themselves in the Airstream alone. Bean answered they drew pictures.
“You draw pictures,” I repeated.
“Portraits,” Bean said loftily. “But Stella points out things I miss. I draw better portraits because of Stella, Elyse.”
“I see,”—although I didn’t.
Bean reflected. “Elyse, we do art.”
“I see,”—although again I didn’t. But if Bean was happy, so was I—and so I ran to the fields, free at last, hair flying in the breeze, sun hot on my cheeks.
But I didn’t run to solitude, that one thing I’d always craved.
I ran to Michael, the boy I loved.
We’d met at the downtown library. He was in college, majoring in philosophy. Daddy hated college boys, ranking them up there with smartmouths and Masons and hypocrites, and so Michael was my splendid secret. We spoke of history, the Revolutionary War mostly, because George Washington was the topic of the paper I was working on when Michael pulled his chair up next to mine. His was a wide, inviting smile. He leaned over the library table. “You’re beautiful.”
I’d never paid much attention to my appearance. My dark blonde hair was long and straight, parted in the middle, like most girls wore their hair in the last half of the sixties. And I was tall and gangly, and my clothes were not trendy, plus I was studious. Only Aunt Rose and my grandparents had ever called me beautiful.
But the idea of someone trying to snare my sudden beauty suggested all the trappings of a very interesting, interactive game.
I smiled back at Michael.
Every Saturday afternoon, Michael and I met at the library, then he drove me to a house he shared with some other students. We’d stretch out on the floor of his room and drink sloe gin and smoke joints, listening to Procol Harum, Moody Blues, Steppenwolf, and the Stones; and we spoke of the conflict in Vietnam, professing our hatred of politicians, liars, and profiteers, sounding, I rather suspect all these years later, much like Daddy did then. “Nights In White Satin” had just rolled off the hifi when Michael rolled over onto me, and our first kiss was unsure—but I arched my neck and opened my mouth, and Michael’s tongue went around mine, and my legs folded over his, like a mantis clamping onto its prey for survival, and we rocked in time to the Stones.
Aidan eventually parked the Airstream at a recreation park by the bay, twelve miles away, and while he and Stella and Magdalene drove over in the Cadillac every night for dinner, they drove back to the Airstream shortly after, cutting short Bean’s special times with Stella. Bean got sullen, and Daddy took to calling her “Sadsack.”
Things escalated.
“Miss Highandmighty,” Daddy said one night at dinner, looking at me. The look was particularly vicious, and my stomach plummeted.
“Why can’t you entertain your sister?” Daddy demanded. “Her chin’s down to her knees. What, she’s not good enough for you?”
Daddy hadn’t talked mean in ages. And it wasn’t wine making him talk mean now; he hadn’t been drinking. His mouth drooped weirdly on one side. I glanced around the table. Everybody was staring at Daddy. Bean’s eyes were terrified. Even Papa had stirred.
Daddy’s eyes blazed. “Cat got your tongue?” he shot at me.
“Francis,” Mother said, in her warning voice.
“Daddy,” I whimpered.
“Piss!” Daddy exploded.
“Daddy, no—”
Papa struggled to his feet—but Daddy was already on his, weaving over the table. Papa’s voice quavered from non-use: “Francis, I will not have—”
“Shut up!” Daddy bellowed. “Sit, old man!”
He pushed Papa back into his chair, and Papa, so sad and brittle, cried out, and Stella cried along with Papa, whining, “Stop it, please stop it …” I jumped to my feet.
“You sit down!” I shouted at Daddy—and it was astounding: Daddy actually sat. And gazed up at me meekly. “And don’t you ever,” I railed, “ever talk that way to Papa again! Do you hear me? Do you?” Daddy hung his head, a posturing so over the top it might’ve been funny except we were talking Daddy here, and nothing about Daddy had ever been funny.
Aunt Rose ducked her head and grimaced as if she’d just been told a terrible thing, and Magdalene reached for my hand. “We’re going for a walk,” she said. It wasn’t a request.
We stood without speaking, watching the orange ball of a sun sink behind a red hill in the distance far beyond the field
s. Magdalene broke the silence.
“That was a hard thing you did, going up against my son. In my day it would’ve been considered disrespectful. Children never talked back to their elders. Even when their elders were dead wrong. We had so-called standards.” Her arm went around my shoulders. The orange ball was three-quarters gone. “Maybe I can shed some light, Elyse.” But she sounded suddenly doubtful. “How old are you now?”
“Almost eighteen.”
“Old enough. I have a book for you. Aidan wrote it for your daddy. Your daddy left it at Grayson House many years ago. He never asked for it back.”
Anything to do with books had my attention. “What’s it about?”
Magdalene hesitated. “Two people who died in a fire. But their story may help you understand about your daddy, Elyse … though it will still be hard. It’s frequently hard understanding people. It’s easier to avoid, to exert less effort. Look.” She pointed. “See how the sun is almost gone now?” Her fingers tightened on my arm. “But it will rise tomorrow. And tomorrow, if you’re lucky, you’ll get the chance to do another hard thing.”
Daddy was waiting for us on the front porch when we returned. Magdalene walked by him without saying anything, but Daddy put his hand out, stopping me.
“Elyse, I don’t know what happened … my nerves. I’m sorry—and I’ve apologized to your grandfather.” Suddenly Daddy hugged me so tight my nose felt squished against the crook of his neck. I let him squish me, what choice did I have? He was so terribly sorry.
“Elyse, my dear Elyse,” he murmured. His arms quaked. He smelled like soap and cigarettes, like my scared childhood. I examined the crevices that lined the back of his neck, the way the nape of his dark hair was shorn into a perfect upside down horseshoe. Daddy always had perfect haircuts. Daddy always wanted everything perfect.
The Angry Woman Suite Page 30