Leap Year

by Peter Cameron

  It was signed with an X and O and a splotch of red currant preserve.

  “The bastard,” said Amanda.

  “Who?” said Margot.

  “Nothing,” said Amanda. “Listen, what do you think of the Heath Jackson photographs?”

  “I love them,” said Margot. “I think they project this wonderfully paranoiac quality, while raising important questions about focus and meaning.”

  Perfect, thought Amanda. If some Sarah Lawrence princess liked Heath’s photographs, they must be truly awful.

  “This is from Mr. Shawangunk,” Amanda said. “There’s been a change of plans.”

  “What?” asked Margot.

  “We’re canceling the Arnot show. We’ll replace it with Heath Jackson.”

  “But I thought you did an Arnot show every summer,” said Margot. “You said that’s where you make all your money.”

  The little bitch, thought Amanda. Who does she think she is? Mary Boone? “Not this year. The Japanese are the only ones buying, and they don’t like Arnot. We’ll put up the Heath Jackson. Call Arnot and tell him. Or better yet, send him a telegram. Sign it from Anton. Then get Mr. Jackson on the phone for me, and make a reservation: two, smoking, one o’clock, Barocco.”

  “Is this yours?” David asked. He was looking through Loren’s bookshelves. He had been released from the hospital on Monday and had spent most of the time since then at Loren’s, waiting for news of Kate. So far there had been none.

  “What?” asked Loren. She was lying on the couch, the phone on her stomach, staring at the ceiling. She was trying to will the phone to ring.

  David held up Love in the Time of Cholera. “Gregory’s,” said Loren.

  “Have you read it?” asked David.

  Loren seemed to think for a moment. “No,” she said. She didn’t want to talk. Talking seemed a luxury; a decadence. How could she talk about anything with Kate gone?

  Judith was scouring the bottoms of Loren’s copper pans. She had been cleaning odd things all morning. She had even cleaned the coils in the back of Loren’s refrigerator. A counter separated her from the living room.

  For a few minutes no one said anything. David started reading the book, but he couldn’t pay attention to it. The words kept swimming.

  The phone rang. Loren was so tense the ringing hurt her stomach. She turned the recorder on, as the police had instructed her, and picked up the receiver. “Hello,” she said.

  “Hello,” said a woman’s voice. “This is Sonia Sanchez-Wheeler. I’m with the law firm of Agon, Mix, Broadhill, and Sanchez-Wheeler here in Los Angeles. I’m representing Mr. Lyle Theodore Wallace. Could I speak with Mrs. Parish?”

  “This is Mrs. Parish,” said Loren. “Where’s Kate?”

  “Your daughter is fine, Mrs. Parish. I’m calling to arrange her safe return to you. That’s all my client wants.”

  “Well, what’s the problem? Why hasn’t she been returned already? What’s taking so long?”

  “We have just one problem,” said Ms. Sanchez-Wallace. “But it’s a small problem, and we’re sure that with your cooperation—”

  “Listen,” Loren began, but her rage prevented her from continuing.

  “First, I’d like to explain to you my client’s position. We don’t know what his ex-wife has told you. Were you aware, for instance, that Charlotte Wallace was denying Mr. Wallace legal custody of his child?”

  “No,” said Loren. “And I don’t care. All I want is my daughter!”

  “I know,” said Ms. Sanchez-Wheeler. “Please just listen to me.”

  But Loren couldn’t listen anymore. She threw the receiver down on the couch and started to sob. Judith went over and held her.

  David picked up the phone. “Hello,” he said. “This is Mr. Parish.”

  “Mr. Parish, hello. This is Ms. Sanchez-Wheeler. I’m contacting you to arrange the safe return of your daughter. As I was explaining to your wife, there’s just one small problem.”

  “What’s that?” David asked.

  “It concerns Mr. Wallace’s culpability and your intentions therewith. Let me explain: Mr. Wallace was entitled by law to regain custody of his child on May the first. He did not. He proceeded to hire a company known to me as Children Finders, Children Keepers, Inc. to regain said custody. On Saturday afternoon, May twenty-first, members of that company, armed with a warrant, proceeded to reclaim Kate Wallace from within the Hayden Planetarium while she was watching the Sesame Street Muppets in space. They, as you know, made a mistake. Now my question to you is, do you hold my client responsible for their incompetence, and if so, what would you propose to do?”

  “In other words, do I intend to sue the bastard?”

  “That’s my client’s concern. He hopes that you, as an anguished parent, will sympathize with his plight—you are now in his shoes, so to speak—and agree not to hold him responsible for your or your child’s anguish and to direct any lawsuit toward the truly responsible party in this matter, namely, Children Finders, Children Keepers, Inc. If you are willing to sign an affidavit to this effect, your child will be released to you forthwith.”

  “And what if I don’t?” David asked.

  “To be perfectly honest with you, Mr. Parish, I don’t know how Mr. Wallace would then proceed. I just hope you will have the good sense to conclude this matter as quickly and simply as possible.”

  “I’ll have to discuss this with my wife and my lawyer,” said David.

  “Of course,” said Ms. Sanchez-Wheeler. “Please do that. Let me give you my number, so you can call me when you’ve made a decision.” She supplied the number.

  “What about Kate?” asked David. “I want to talk to Kate.”

  “I’ll arrange with Mr. Wallace for that to happen. Stay near your phone.”

  When Heath arrived at Barocco, he was shown to a table occupied by a bottle of champagne stuck in a bucket of ice. This confused him—he didn’t know if it was a good or a bad omen. When Amanda had called him and demanded his presence at lunch, he had assumed she had changed her mind about his show. Heath had been expecting this, and on the subway he had tried to look on the bright side: He had worked hard the last month in preparation for this show, so his portfolio would be in better shape than ever. It was time to start schlepping it around again.

  Amanda made her entrance, and Heath stood up as she approached.

  “Please, please, sit down,” she said, extending her hand so that it was parallel with the floor, as if she expected him to kiss it. Heath shook it awkwardly, and they both sat.

  “It’s so nice to see you again,” said Amanda. “You’re looking swell.”

  “It’s nice to see you,” said Heath.

  “Let me apologize for the short notice,” said Amanda. “I’m so glad you were free. But I have good news, and I believe good news should always be delivered promptly and personally. Don’t you?”

  Heath smiled and shook his head. It was all he could manage.

  “Well, let’s get one of these stevedores to open this bottle, and then we can toast your imminent success.” She signaled to a waiter, who did as he was bid.

  “So,” Amanda continued, when they were both equipped with fizzing flutes. “News flash: There’s been a change of plans chez Shawangunk; all, I might add, to your great good favor. As you may or may not know, we usually present a Gilberto Arnot show every July. Well, for reasons too complicated—not to mention boring—to divulge, Monsieur Arnot’s work will not grace our walls this summer.” Amanda raised her glass. “Instead, we’ll be introducing a brilliant new photographer—Heath Edward Jackson.”

  Heath’s combined relief and sudden joy incapacitated him. He sat there, smiling stupidly. Amanda raised her glass higher, anticipating his, which he finally supplied. “Cheers,” she said. “May this be the beginning of a richly rewarding career.”

  They both took a sip of champagne, but Amanda had trouble swallowing hers. She was suddenly giggling. She put her glass on the table and covered her face wit
h her hands.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said through them, snorting a little in an effort to regain her composure. “This is all rather emotional for me, you see. As I’m sure it is for you.”

  “Yes,” agreed Heath.

  “Oh, my, oh, my,” sighed Amanda, uncovering her face. “You see, Heath, this—your show—is a swan song of sorts for me. After lo, these many years, I am leaving the Gallery Shawangunk, and your first show will be my last.”

  “Really?” said Heath.

  “Yes, I am afraid it is so. The time has come for me to move on. But I am not moving far. I have accepted a curatorial position at MOLTCATO.”

  “Mulatto?” said Heath.

  Amanda laughed, a bit hysterically. “No, no, no, my darling: MOLTCATO. Museum of Late Twentieth Century Art, Toronto. You’ve not heard of it?”

  “No,” admitted Heath. “I haven’t.”

  “They have the Schwickers’ collection and money. It’s an extraordinary collection. I’ll be buying for them in New York.”

  “That sounds great,” said Heath.

  “I’m very excited,” said Amanda. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to devote myself to your show. I hereby pledge you my heart and soul.”

  CHAPTER 12

  LYLE WALLACE, IN PREPARING to receive custody of his daughter, had purchased a new bedroom set. It was, in fact, the same bedroom set Loren had bought for her Kate’s room on Greene Street, matching Kate’s original bedroom set, which remained at David’s. It consisted of a small white bed carved with flowers, above which floated a star-scalloped canopy, a white bureau with knobs the shape and color of violets, and a white rocking chair.

  This felicitous coincidence was lost on Kate, who by now assumed that every girl’s bedroom across the country was furnished uniformly. A few nights after her plane ride, she sat up in bed, fingering the familiar flowers carved into the tiny headboard, perfectly at home in the room intended for Kate Wallace.

  Lyle Wallace was sitting in the rocking chair, although he was much too big for it. He appeared to be all legs. “What are you thinking?” he asked Kate.

  Kate liked Lyle, but thought that he asked odd questions. “What?” she said.

  “What are you thinking?” repeated Lyle, who believed children had a keen sense of the abstract, if properly coached. “What are you telling yourself inside your head?”

  “Ms. Mouse has six toes,” Kate offered.

  “Who is Miss Mouse?” asked Lyle.

  “She’s my dad’s cat,” said Kate.

  “Do you miss him?” asked Lyle.

  “Yes,” said Kate. “He sleeps with me. But not under the covers. If Ms. Mouse goes under the covers, he won’t breathe and die. He’ll smother.”

  “I meant your dad,” said Lyle. “Do you miss him?”

  Kate traced a tulip with her finger and considered Lyle’s question. “No,” she decided.

  “You’ll see him soon,” Lyle said. “Your mom, too. In a couple of days, probably.”

  “Okay,” said Kate. “Is the light in the pool still on?”

  “No,” said Lyle. “We turned it off. Remember?”

  “We could turn it back on,” suggested Kate.

  “Tomorrow night,” said Lyle.

  “Can I watch Lady tomorrow?” asked Kate.

  “Don’t you want to watch something else? How about Dumbo?”

  “No,” said Kate. “I want to watch Lady. I like dogs.”

  “Okay,” said Lyle. “Whatever you want. But now it’s time to go to bed. Do you want a drink?”

  “No thank you,” said Kate.

  Lyle extricated himself from the chair.

  “Turn the duck on,” said Kate.

  “It’s a goose,” said Lyle. He turned on a plastic goose-shaped lantern that sat on the floor, and then killed the overhead light. “Good night,” he said.

  “Good night,” said Kate.

  “Sleep tight,” said Lyle. He shut the door.

  Sleep tight, thought Kate. What did that mean? She snuggled down in bed and pulled the covers tightly around her. She screwed up into a tight little ball and looked at the goose. It looked back at her. Kate lay there in bed, waiting for the goose to speak.

  Gregory lay in bed, watching Loren pack. She had received a call at about ten o’clock from Sonia Sanchez-Wheeler, informing her that the Lyle Wallace impunity papers had been finalized. She and David were flying out to L.A. first thing in the morning to sign them and reclaim Kate.

  Loren seemed to be packing for an extended trip. As she lay her clothes on the bed, Gregory could feel their weight accumulate across his legs. “Why are you taking so much?” he asked.

  “I don’t know what the weather will be like,” Loren said.

  “It will be hot,” said Gregory. “Sunny and hot.”

  Loren was unconvinced. She continued to pack.

  “It’s funny that it’s you packing to go to L.A.,” Gregory offered.

  “How is it funny?”

  “Well, maybe not funny,” said Gregory. “I mean ironic. It’s usually me packing late at night for a quick trip to L.A.”

  Loren didn’t answer.

  “Just think,” said Gregory. “This time tomorrow, you’ll be with Kate.”

  Loren closed her eyes. She wished Gregory would stop talking. Talking might jinx it. She didn’t want anyone to say anything until Kate was safe.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” asked Gregory.

  “Oh,” said Loren. “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “I just thought you might want me there,” said Gregory. I hoped you might need me, he said to himself.

  “David will be there,” said Loren.

  “I know,” said Gregory. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Loren. She put down her espadrilles and sat on the bed. She lay her large hand on the center of Gregory’s warm chest. She felt his heart beat. “I think it would be better for Kate if it were just me and David. We want to make things as normal as possible.”

  Gregory put his hand on top of hers. “I could stay at the hotel,” he said.

  “No,” said Loren. She withdrew her hand and stood up. “I think it’s best if I go alone.”

  Gregory looked up at her. She had been so distant these past few days, and he understood that. He had felt a little of her horror and had some idea of what she must have been going through. But something else had been happening all week—this slow, cautious withdrawal from him, this refusal of any comfort he offered. “Okay,” he said, “whatever you want.”

  Loren closed her suitcase and put it on the floor. “I’ll be right back,” she said. She disappeared into the bathroom. Gregory sat up and waited for her. He could feel his plan coming undone. Loren wasn’t going to move to L.A. with him. They would never live together in the shadow of a palm tree, in a house with a veranda in a valley or a canyon… it was all unraveling, all impossible, this sunny, pacific life he had so fervently imagined.

  Henry Fank and Judith were rowing on Central Park Lake. Actually, Henry was trying, not too successfully, to row.

  “I am not so very good at this,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re getting better,” said Judith. “But don’t pull so much, I think. You’re trying too hard.”

  “Do you know, at breakfast this morning, who was there?” Henry asked. He was a breakfast chef at the Parker Meridien Hotel.

  “No, who?”

  “Lee Iacocca,” said Henry. “He had some blueberry pancakes.”

  “I like blueberry pancakes,” said Judith. “Sometime I’ll come for breakfast.”

  “Yes, you must,” said Henry. He seemed exhausted from his rowing.

  “Why don’t we just drift for a while,” suggested Judith.

  “Drift?”

  “Yes,” said Judith. “Stop rowing, and we’ll just float. Here,” she said, showing him how to rest the oars across the top of the boat. “Now relax,” she said.

  Henry removed
a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. “I sweat,” he said, “I’m sorry.” He carefully folded and replaced the handkerchief. “So your husband is in India,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Judith.

  “Why don’t you go with him?”

  Judith put her hand in the water, but then removed it when she remembered where she was. Not Lake Arthur. “Well,” she said. “For many reasons, I suppose.”

  “You did not want to visit India?”

  “No,” said Judith. “I would have liked to go to India. It’s just that, well, you see, we’ve been married a long time, and we wanted to spend some time apart. So Leonard went to India, which was something he wanted to do, and I came to New York, so I could do some public health work, which I wanted to do.”

  “And how long will you spend this way?”

  “About a year,” said Judith.

  “A long time,” said Henry. “Don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” said Judith. “I guess it is.”

  “Myself, I cannot imagine such a thing. It is very odd to me. To spend time away from someone you love, when there is so little time. That is what I realized when my wife died: How little time is.”

  “When was that?” Judith asked.

  “She died two years ago, when I came here. We travel on a boat that was not a good boat, and too many people on it. She got sick and there was no way to make her better. There was no doctor such as you. Many people die. Her sister, she die, too.”

  “That’s very sad,” said Judith.

  “I think so,” said Henry. They drifted for a moment and listened to the shushing noise of the water. “I’m sorry,” he said. “This talk makes you sad, and that is not…it is too bad. Not my intention. Shall I row some more?”

  “No,” said Judith. “Let me.”

  “You can row?”

  “Of course,” said Judith. She stood up. “We must do this very carefully, or we’ll tip the boat over.”

  “Oh, please,” said Henry. “I am not good swimming, I think.”

  “We won’t tip,” said Judith. “Stand up. Give me your hand.”