“Let’s say something newsworthy is happening at the hospital, hypothetically.”
“Hypothetically?”
“Yes. And still off the record. Just for the hell of it, let’s say something was happening there that was important. Hypothetically again, of course.”
“Of course,” he said.
“There’s a good chance that medical science would be better served by a certain amount of space. I’m not talking secrecy. Just a limit on the number of people who were involved. Think of the distractions if, as you were treating a patient or making some kind of a breakthrough, you had to deal with the media and all their denizens. Such a spotlight is not a very conducive atmosphere from which to heal. Now I’m speaking totally hypothetically here. You understand that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he said. “That does me no good.”
“Then let me put it to you this way. I’m asking you now, completely off the record, and I’ll deny I ever said it, but I’m asking you to back off. Just for now. Because I’m not saying anything’s going on at the hospital, but if there was, and if it wasn’t time to go public with it, then full-court media press at this time could be bad medicine.”
“That still leaves me with nothing,” he said, drinking his beer.
“Still off the record here?”
“Yes,” he said in a resigned, pissed-off voice. “Off the damned record.”
“Then let me suggest that I might be in a position to reward patience at this point.”
“Sounds like you’re offering me a deal,” he said.
“I might be,” I said, then quickly added, “Hypothetically, of course.”
“Quit with the hypothetical shit,” he said. “Just go on.”
“Well, if and when something is ready, then you’d be in a position to be the first to get the story.”
“Is that a contract?” he asked.
“Contract?”
“A promise. Are you ready to say right now that when you’re ready to go public on this you’ll give me an exclusive?”
I took a drink and nodded. “Yes.”
“When?”
“When what?”
“When would you go public with this?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Soon I think. Maybe a few days.”
“You’ve got seven. A week. After that, and now this is on the record, Sidney, I’ll do whatever it takes to find out what’s going on. If you think that will endanger your patient, well, that’s not my problem. There’s something not being said here, and I want to know what it is. This is my story. I’m not going to let anyone take it from me.”
“Seven days?”
He finished his beer and stood up. “That’s unprecedented,” he said. “I’m giving you a grace period. Not that it will stop me from digging. Just a seven-day period during which I promise not to print a story. After that, though, don’t mess with me.”
10: Neil Lavery
I sold my first painting this morning.
Irv Hilliard, one of my father’s most distinguished longtime collectors, came by just after I opened the doors. He wore gray slacks, a white shirt, and a light blue cardigan sweater that was buttoned all the way up.
“It’s warm in here,” he said, talking to himself before he saw me. “I’ve been coming here for twenty-five years and it’s always like a swamp in here.”
I had known Irv for a long time. One of my father’s best customers and confidants, he was also a friend of the family. He’d been a frequent guest at holiday parties, and I recognized him from the many gallery shows my father had staged over the years. I believe he also served on the city’s Arts Advisory Council, helping make decisions about public art.
I left him alone as he walked around. Not until he passed by me did I catch his eye and smile. “How are you, Mr. Hilliard,” I said, taking a step toward him and offering my hand. “Welcome to the gallery. Let me know if you have any questions.”
He seemed happy to have been recognized. “You’re Howard’s kid, aren’t you? Neil.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How is he? I heard he’s been ill.”
“He’s doing better,” I said.
“When will he be back?” he asked pointedly. “I need to speak with him.”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Probably not for a very long time.”
“It’s that serious, huh?”
“I’m sure he’d be happy to know of your concern. I’m running the gallery now.”
“You are?” he said with a tone of disbelief that I could have taken as demeaning.
“Yes, sir. Anything you wanted to talk with my father about I hope you’ll feel comfortable discussing with me.”
“I see,” he said, looking me over, perhaps deciding whether to leave or not. “Howard is a good friend. I trust his art sense.”
“He has a good eye for talent,” I said.
“A good eye? Oh, much more than that. He has a good head, and that goes much further than being able to gauge what will be in and what will be out. Your father can tell quality, and he pays attention to detail. Stays away from fads. He has a way of being able to tell which artists are on their way up and which ones are already overexposed. Art’s an investment, and he has never steered me wrong. He is a good listener. And a good friend.”
“That’s because he’s always chosen artists he personally likes,” I said. “At home growing up, we had a canvas or two from every artist he represented on our walls. Not for any other reason than because he liked the work. And they weren’t gifts. He bought each one.”
Irv looked at me hard, studying me as if I were on exhibit. “You’re definitely your father’s son,” he said. “Still, your father has years of experience that I rely upon. It’ll be some time before you get to his level.”
“Yes,” I said, humoring him. “That’s why I hope I can rely on people like you to steer me in the right direction and let me know if I’m off course.”
“And you’re a politician, too,” he said, nodding in what I took as an approving manner. “That’s nice. What did you do before you took over the gallery?”
“I was a graphic designer at an architectural firm.”
“A graphic designer? That’s sort of an art form, wouldn’t you say?”
“I wouldn’t argue with that,” I said.
“Well, anyway, I’d like to know where your father is. I’d like to visit him.”
“He’s not seeing anyone, I’m sorry.”
“Can I send him a card? Is he at a hospital? Which one?”
“You can give it to me, and I’ll see that he gets it. I promise.”
“I see,” he sighed. “You mind if I look around?”
“Mind?” I asked, puzzled. “Don’t be silly.”
Irv smiled warmly at me, then turned and disappeared behind a wall. I wanted to follow him but thought better of it. I’m sure the last thing he wanted was to be escorted by someone he thought of as a novice. But would my lack of attention be thought of as a snub? No matter. I leaned against the counter and listened to him move through the gallery, his shuffling footsteps echoing faintly, ghostly. I could tell when he came to the end of the hallway and turned left or right. I tried to figure out which canvas he might be standing in front of at any particular moment.
Is this what my father did all those years? Wait for someone to walk around? Join them after a while and admire the painting they were considering? Did he ask their name? How did he begin to question them about their tastes in art and what they were shopping for and where such a canvas would hang?
I considered how purchasing a piece of art, no matter how cheap or expensive, is a fascinating psychological exercise. What moves one person might make someone else grimace. I think you can tell quite a lot about a person by the art they hang on their walls. Every painting tells a story, and it’s always one that appeals to the owner. A dark, mysterious canvas reveals volumes about a person’s inner demons, past, emotions, and outlook on life. Similarly, a bri
ght, optimistic work of art sheds the same cast on those who appreciate it.
Without my realizing it, Irv appeared at my right, startling me.
“Hi,” I said. “I hope you found everything okay?”
“You’ve changed things,” he said, sounding accusatory.
“A little bit.”
“No, quite a lot. Just as I’d heard.”
“Heard? What do you mean?”
“Do you know who I am? I’m not just a bumpkin tourist off the street, you know.”
“Of course I know who you are, Mr. Hilliard. I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“Some close friends have been in here in recent days. They’ve reported back to me.”
“I’ve rearranged things a little. That’s all,” I said, suddenly feeling like telling him to get out. It was my gallery now. I didn’t need to be interrogated or judged. Who did he think he was?
“A little? I don’t think so. You’re taking a totally different tack. I see some works here that Howard would never have allowed.”
“I’m sorry you don’t like them.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like them,” he said, shaking a skinny finger at me. “I just mean Howard wouldn’t have hung them. Actually, I like them quite a lot. Refreshing, to be honest with you. And I was prepared not to like them.”
“Well, thanks, I—”
“Now tell me about your father. What’s happened to him?”
“I told you. He’s been ill.”
“When’s he coming back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Never,” he said pointedly. “He’s never returning, is he? Just come out and say it. Otherwise you’d never have changed things. If he was coming back you’d have behaved like a good caretaker and just dusted things off. Moved in the same direction. But that’s clearly not what you’re doing. You’re changing things permanently. Aren’t you?”
“I don’t think you—”
“Don’t toy with me, sonny. I wasn’t born yesterday. I want to know. And so do a few of your father’s other customers. There’s quite a ruckus going on out there about this. I want to know what’s happened to him, and I want to know now. You won’t tell me where he is, and I can’t contact him. It’s like he’s fallen off the edge of the earth. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“He’s very sick, Mr. Hilliard,” I said solemnly. “I wish I could tell you more.”
He took a step closer to me. I could smell his aftershave. He spoke slowly now. “Neil, your father wasn’t just another gallery owner. For many of us, art and culture in our community began and ended with him. I’m not being melodramatic here.” He looked straight at me in a scary, focused kind of way that drew me nearer. “I’m here because I care. Because someone important to us, to me, has disappeared without an explanation. We don’t even know what’s wrong with him. His heart? Cancer? Some rare disease that no one’s ever heard of? We’re left out in the cold with nothing. Nothing! It’s like someone snapped their fingers and, whoosh, just like that, a good man named Howard Lavery vanished into thin air. I can’t accept that. I just can’t. He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“No. He’s not. I swear.” I struggled with what I could tell him. I settled on something close to the truth. “He’s sick. So very sick. The best doctors are treating him. He’s not able to have any visitors. I know it sounds mysterious, and I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t believe me. But that’s all I can say. I’m being straight with you.”
“He won’t be back, will he? Just tell me that.”
“I don’t know,” I said, wishing I had the answer to that question myself. “He may very well not be.”
Irv looked down at the floor and ran his tongue over his lips. He seemed sad and worn out. I put my arm around his shoulder.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s take a look around. Did you see the pieces by Kolari over here?”
We walked through the gallery without talking about Dad again, as if we’d come to some sort of mutual, unstated agreement that nothing more need be said. He uttered only, “Interesting,” when we passed the large Schelzhammer painting I’d commissioned and which had disturbed my mother. Thank goodness he didn’t notice the painting’s title. Then I showed him some of the new canvases and explained how I had only taken my father’s vision and tweaked it a little. He admitted that the gallery had been fairly static in recent years.
At my urging and assurance, he purchased a small painting by Bill Fascotte, a lithe pastoral scene with a stand of aspen touching the sky. I helped him out to his car and made sure it was safely stowed in his back seat.
“I’ll be in touch,” I said as he sat behind the wheel. “When there’s news, I’ll call you. I promise. You can count on me.”
But that didn’t seem to comfort him. All the bravado had gone out of him, and I think he knew he’d never see his friend again. “I know you will,” he said in a way that really meant he was getting older and his friends were falling away from him.
Then he drove off. I stood there in front of the gallery and watched his car turn a corner. A large bank of swollen clouds moved in front of the sun as I thought about Irv and his art cronies and just how much my father meant to them. I wondered if we should have devised a story to better explain Dad’s absence. We could have told people that he’d gone on an extended art buying tour in Europe. Something like that. Anything would have been better than having to keep parrying questions. On the other hand, I supposed that sticking close to the truth was the best way to go, a more ethical avenue. But that didn’t make it any easier. I lowered my shoulders, went back inside and walked the gallery as if it wasn’t mine, my hands spread deep in my front pockets.
Was I deluding myself that I could make the gallery work? Was it something I really wanted to do, or a task I felt obligated to perform in order to exorcise my guilt? More important, how could I answer those questions without probing the foundations that grounded me and kept me sane?
Sanity was something I had become something of an expert in over the past several weeks. Actually, it was something I missed. I longed for the blissful, blind days of ordinary mundane life. I wanted to go to bed at night with nothing more on my mind than the lingering taste of Emily on my lips.
I wanted a return to ordinariness. To work and play and repair things around the house. To bask in the love of my children. To regain the ability to simply enjoy every moment, no matter how trivial, without this grotesque event overshadowing everything. As it was, my every waking moment was occupied under an insidious, creeping affliction. What was perhaps most disturbing was that when I thought of my father I was barely able to picture the man who raised me and with whom I’d done occasional battle. Instead, all I could see was the alien, that person near my age whose body he occupied. I truly felt I’d lost my father and, in a very real way, lost my way in the world.
Strangely, though, my father vanished during that one moment when Irv Hilliard bought the Fascotte. As I was writing up the ticket and taking his money nothing else intruded in my mind. It was just me. I rejoiced inside and felt alive. But then, as I looked up at Irv and remembered why he’d come to the gallery that day, everything faded again.
Now Irv and the painting were gone. The gallery was silent. All that remained was an empty spot on the wall where the Fascotte had hung. I hadn’t the nerve to hang anything in its place.
11: Howard Lavery
I didn’t know this morning’s routine massage by my nurse Evelyn Meadows would be my last. If I had, I’d have taken the time to thank her for everything she’d done for me.
But time was something I didn’t have, and that’s a shame because Evelyn had been everything to me.
Except for my ability to hear and communicate, I am totally dependent on her. I know that I’m a slab of meat. I could be a steel I-beam and it wouldn’t make a difference as far as I’m concerned. For my part, I lie here all day and try not to make trouble or be too demanding. I don’t break a sweat.
; Evelyn has attended to all my physical needs, which I’m barely aware of. She spends a good deal of time moving me from side to side to prevent bedsores. She administers medications, checks my sutures, changes my dressings, disposes of my bodily fluids.
She is also attentive to my emotional desires. If Catherine isn’t around, Evelyn is. Whether I want my CD changed or something read to me, she’s always there. She seems to enjoy reading the comics to me. She comes in countless times a day to ask how I’m doing or if I need anything. She calls me Mr. Howie or Mr. Howard. She keeps me great company.
“How is everything this morning?” she asked, seeming in her usual good mood.
I told her I was fine, though that wasn’t the whole truth. Now that she was with me, talking to me and engaging me in the real world, I was better. But the hours before she came in were among my most troublesome since I began my new life inside Frank.
It was a dream. I know that now. But it didn’t have the feeling of a typical dream. There were no fantastic leaps of time. No winged creatures. I wasn’t flying or doing anything supernatural. I wish that were the case.
Instead, I had died. An aneurysm in my brain had burst during the night and I was found without brain activity in the morning. They pulled a sheet over my head. Only I wasn’t dead. I could hear everything and had the feeling of movement as they wheeled me down into the morgue and slid me into a wall freezer. Suddenly I couldn’t hear anything. My only sensation was one of sinking into a darkness even more harrowing than the one I’d grown used to. It was a suffocating blackness I was falling into. I kept telling myself to relax. Get a grip. Hold your breath. Conserve oxygen until someone comes back to show me off or conduct an autopsy. After a while everything closed in, and I started fading. I felt the glacial breath of death and hands reaching for me, pulling at my flesh. How could they have made this mistake? Somehow, inside the dream, I considered whether it was a dream or not. No. This was real. I was collapsing and suffering, aware of my last moments.
This suffocating nightmare ended just a few moments before Evelyn came in. But my nightmares weren’t her burden.
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