This sounds nutty, almost like she’s pranking me.
“We won’t do it today. I have some homework to give you and we’ll use it in the next session.”
“I get a big Unsatisfactory when it comes to homework,” I say.
“Perhaps now that you are a teacher, that has changed,” she answers with a faint smile. Very faint. “Come in on Tuesday with a memory of a time you felt a high degree of compulsion. It can be recent.”
As recent as this morning?
I tell her I can do that, and the rest of the session runs out with more explanation about the ins and outs of EMDR and how it’s sort of like neurologically mucking my brain to get the manure out of there. I consider telling her this analogy because I want her to think I am amusing.
It’s true, a big part of me wants to please her, to make her smile at me, laugh at my jokes.
And a big part wants to run away from anything remotely unvarnished.
25
Lillian has been waiting for this day for months, flipping ahead in her nearly bare planner to see her scrawl marking December 28th, at 10:00, in red, “AS” for Acquisition Subcommittee. Years ago she was tapped to be on the board of the Museum of the City of New York, one of her favorites among the many museum riches of Manhattan, and even though the Whitney (now the Met Breuer) would have been more convenient, being practically right around the corner, her loyalty has not wavered. They have stuck with her through some difficult times. Lillian has attended a several rehabs over the years, both willingly and by force of her children, and those sojourns caused her to miss any number of board meetings, which are, strictly speaking, not optional for members.
The longtime president of the board, Tayloe Preston, has an alcoholic daughter, and is a kindly man in any case. And beyond that, when it comes to furniture of certain periods, Lillian Crowe knows whereof she speaks, more so even than the London-trained younger crew at Sotheby’s. And of course there is the matter of financial support, which it is understood each board member will contribute, and which Gordon has, most years, willingly provided.
In the week leading up to the meeting, Lillian has made a serious attempt to cut down on her drinking, so that on the appointed morning, she wakes after having slept better than usual, her face salvageable with a careful application of makeup. Her clothing has been selected many days in advance, and she’s dressed and ready long before the driver has brought the car around.
“You’re looking tip-top this morning, Mrs. Crowe,” says Ricardo, opening the door with his usual flourish. He tried affectionately calling her “Mrs. C.” until she finally told him to stop. He jumps ahead to open the door of the dark blue Mercedes S-Class and gets Lillian safely tucked inside.
“Nice to see you out, Mrs. Crowe,” says the driver, Robert O’Neil.
“It could be a bit warmer,” says Lillian, “but you know I can’t miss the museum.”
“Yes, Mrs. Crowe.”
Robert cuts over to Madison and turns uptown. There’s traffic, because there’s always traffic. Lillian looks out of the window as the shops and pedestrians glide by, not seeing what is in front of her because she is thinking so hard about a secretary she plans to recommend to the subcommittee, a George III in pristine condition.
She is thirsty, no question about that, but she keeps bringing her thoughts back to the secretary and finds that the pangs subside somewhat.
“Oh jeez,” says Robert. “Sorry Mrs. Crowe, I didn’t know about this.” Just ahead, big signs, workers in orange hard hats, construction.
“I don’t know why the city insists on digging up the street every five minutes,” says Lillian. “I absolutely cannot be late.”
“No worries, we’ve got plenty of time.”
Lillian’s anxiety is kindled; she can feel the sparks catching deep in her belly. She’ll be late and Tayloe will say there is no time to hear her remarks on the secretary. He’ll regretfully add they no longer need her services at all, that she is excused. Or she will be in the middle of her presentation on the secretary and forget what she means to say. Her notes are inadequate, that climby Tabitha Sorenson has always had it in for her, the weather is all wrong, I will be stuck in this traffic jam forever.
The light is green but they are not moving. Only a few cars manage to get around the snarl at a time.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” says Lillian.
“Please don’t worry, Mrs. Crowe. I’ve got it. Plenty of time, like I said.”
The secretary is early nineteenth century, mahogany, with glazed doors on top, and detailing in bird’s-eye maple. She summons it up in her mind and tries to keep her thoughts firmly on the piece, running through its list of attributes and trying to guess what any objections to its acquisition might be.
The car feels dreadfully claustrophobic. Despite the cold, Lillian pushes the button to lower the window and gulps the cold air. Two steps from the car is a bodega, and with sudden certainty of purpose, she tells Robert she will be right back, wrenches open the door, and totters onto the sidewalk and into the store.
The man behind the counter looks at Lillian evenly, having seen enough alcoholics of every social class to recognize what she is after. With great dignity, Lillian hands over her American Express card, takes the bottle of Four Roses in a paper bag, and scurries back to the Mercedes, which has not progressed any farther. Once safely inside, she unscrews the cap and drinks hungrily from the bottle. Robert flicks his eyes to the rear view mirror, looks away, stops himself from shaking his head.
“Onward,” says Lillian, falling back on the seat, relief flooding her body.
Moments later, they nudge past the construction and zip up to 105th Street and turn left, over to Fifth.
“Fifteen minutes to spare,” says Robert with satisfaction as they pull up to the curb in front of the museum. “You need a hand up all those stairs?”
“Heavens no,” says Lillian. “I’m fifty-two years old, Robert, not a hundred and twelve.” She stuffs the bottle under the seat and waits for him to open the door. “Thank you for getting me here in time,” she says, and rests a hand on the railing for a moment while she gets her bearings. She tries valiantly to bring her focus back to the secretary, and begins the slow walk up the many steps to the building, which looks like a university, all Georgian brick with a classical portico with Ionic columns. It’s rather too heavy, Lillian thinks, which is what she thinks every time she ascends the stairs to the museum, preferring an architecturally lighter touch than the pediment outlined in dentils with some Greek figures standing inside.
Immediately upon reaching the entrance, she regrets leaving the Four Roses in the car. She finds a breath mint in her handbag, and pulls out her notes, carefully written on a sheet of heavy stationery. Her anxiety is right on the edge of unbearable; her mind floods with every bad thing that could possibly—or impossibly—happen, now that she is not only out of the apartment and loose in the world, unaccompanied, but also about to have to perform about ten minutes of public speaking.
“My hands are trembling,” she confides to Tayloe Preston when she sees him in the hallway on the way to the conference room.
“I’m sure you will be magnificent,” he says, putting his hand on her thin shoulder. “You know you have my backing one hundred percent. If you say that’s the piece we should buy, then that’s the piece we should buy. No one could ever dispute your taste, Lillian.”
“Thank you, Tayloe, you’re very kind. The secretary is stunning. Took my breath away the first time I saw it. And perhaps it makes me sound like a child, but I especially like the secret drawers. There are five!”
Tayloe opens the conference room door and gestures for Lillian to go through. Already inside are several people who look over and smile in varying degrees of sincerity. They are standing in front of an easel holding an image of the secretary in question Tayloe has had made, the photograph blown up nearly to life size so that the other members of the committee can inspect the piece as closely as possible wit
hout having the piece in the room.
Greetings, meeting formalities, an intern comes in and puts a desultory plate of pastries on the table which no one touches.
“And without further ado, Lillian? The floor is yours. Why don’t you tell us a little about how this particular piece caught your eye and how you first heard of it?”
Lillian puts her palms on her thighs and takes a quick breath in. She looks down at her notes. And then she begins.
26
“It’s completely—it’s bullshit! Beyond comprehension!” says Gordon to Lillian. He has knocked on her bedroom door for the first time in months, causing her much anxiety, though it turns out he only wants someone to shout at.
“Maybe it happened during the move?”
“Absolutely not! I paid those movers a fucking fortune and they’re pros. They know what they’re doing. The painting was installed in the morning—I stayed home to keep an eye on the entire process. And after it was up, I stood in the foyer for quite some time, looking at the painting extremely closely. I have inspected every goddamn brushstroke, Lillian! The canvas was completely intact. If those cuts had been there, I would unquestionably have seen them.”
Lillian sighs. “I don’t know what to tell you then. What time are people coming tonight? I thought I would wear the deep red, do you think that would be all right?”
“It must have been Marecita. She is very conservative, and religious too. Probably makes the sign of the cross every time she goes into the foyer. I bet she decided to take it upon herself to force me to get rid of the naked lesbians. Well, she’s not going to win this one, I’m leaving the painting right where it is, even in its deplorable state.”
“I don’t know whether she hates it or not, Gordon, but I don’t think she would—”
“Then who?” shouts Gordon.
“I don’t know,” says Lillian. She is bent over, leaning her arms on her knees. Suddenly she sits up straight. “The meeting was today,” she says, brightly. “The furniture subcommittee up at the museum.”
Gordon turns and looks at her blankly.
“I had to make a presentation, and oh, was I nervous! But actually? It went very, very well. They voted to acquire the piece I recommended, and Tayloe said—”
“You’re going to have to fire her. Do it tomorrow, we need her help tonight.”
Lillian’s shoulders sag. “What?”
“Do I have to speak slowly? Fire Marecita. I know she’s been with us a long time and it will be an enormous pain to find someone new. But I can’t have this….this outright vandalism in my own house. What’s wrong with you, Lillian? Do you hear what I’m saying? She sliced into a Leslie Dahlquist! Do you have any idea what that painting is worth—not only in dollars, but the goodwill of the person I’m trying to close a deal with? The whole point of the party tonight? Oh, screw it, never mind, I’ll take care of it myself. If she had scratched up one of your precious fucking George III console tables I bet you’d be paying attention. Or does the booze dull you down so much that nothing really matters anymore?”
Lillian stands and goes to her closet door. She has not clapped her hands over her ears but she has tuned Gordon out so that his words are like static, incomprehensible and irritating. “We have people coming…”
“Yes, I know that,” Gordon spits. “And thank God, too. This apartment has felt like a tomb lately.”
Lillian waves a hand in the air. “Go on, Gordon, let me get dressed. When are the caterers due?”
“They’re already here. It’s nearly five. If you aren’t quicker than usual getting ready, you’ll miss the entire thing. Up to you.”
He bangs the door on his way out, missing the death stare Lillian is giving him. She goes into her bathroom and washes her face with a steaming hot washcloth, and stares at herself in the mirror. I’m only fifty-two, she thinks, frowning at her reflection, but I feel ancient.
Her friends have almost all had work done, but Lillian is old-fashioned in many ways and believes plastic surgery to be distastefully New Money. She has the face she has, and will do her best with powder and lipstick, but that’s as far as she is willing to go. It’s not as though I’m in the business of attracting a man anyway, she thinks. And then, as she smooths a coral lipstick over her lips, Lillian imagines coming up behind her husband with a Chinese export porcelain vase and cracking it over his skull.
27
Caroline
In that awkward between-Christmas-and-New-Year’s set of days, Gordon has gotten into the habit of throwing a party at the apartment. I think it is meant to be a homey sort of thing, or as homey as Gordon gets, which is not very. I mean that he invites the people he’s known the longest, instead of his more famous friends or controversial acquaintances. Some distant cousins never miss it. Usually some neighbors show up, and far fewer business associates than usual, though that number is never zero.
Gordon is very much the proverbial shark, obvious as it sounds. He’s always moving, always hungrily searching for the next piece of flesh to devour. And apparently, the world is fascinated by that sort of thing, and flocks to our door.
After showering and doing my makeup, I put on a slinky black dress that Gordon likes. I do a hit of personality before going out to see if there’s anything I can do to help with the party preparations, though I’m sure there isn’t, as Gordon has entertaining down to a science and hires the best people, and Mummy has learned over the years to stay out of the way.
I’m a little off in my timing, because while the party isn’t in full swing, there are guests already crowding the foyer and spilling into the living room. The noise sounds like the chatter of birds, high notes with a low thrumming and the occasional shriek. I’m looking for Gordon, who usually stands in the foyer for the first few hours greeting people as they step off the elevator, but I don’t see him. I go on tiptoe, scanning the crowd.
“Looking for somebody?” says a voice at my elbow. I turn and gasp, because at first I think it is Morton, though in the next second I realize not even close. But this vaguely familiar man has something of the same aura of amused mockery that Morton had, and the same lean, boyish build.
“Gordon,” I say to him with a half-smile, waiting to see if he is going to try to charm me. I want him to. I sniff a little and feel the coke numb the back of my throat, hoping he does not recognize the reflexive twitch of an indulger.
“I saw him and said hello when I got here, but he’s gone off with Mr. Powell, into a back bedroom. I was told not to follow.”
“What? How rude.”
“Eh, not really. I’m Powell’s bodyguard. He often has me wait outside rooms when he’s wheeling and dealing. And between you and me, whatever he’s talking about with Gordon? I don’t want to know.”
“Smart,” I say, nodding my head. “You know Gordon’s my father?”
“Of course, Caroline. I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself. I’m Amory Porter, I was at Dalton, year below you. I think we were at some of the same parties, back in the day. It’s good to see you again.”
“My memories of high school are a bit fuzzy, sorry.”
Amory smiles and shrugs.
“I didn’t know bodyguards had such old-school manners,” I say, moving a little closer.
“Don’t believe the clichés.”
“And don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t look like much of a bodyguard.”
Amory laughs. “That’s my secret weapon. I look like a ninety-eight pound weakling so they’re caught completely off guard when I jiu-jitsu their asses to the ground.”
He’s adorable, this Amory Porter, with a name straight out of Fitzgerald. I look around for Gordon, hoping he stays back in the bedroom with Powell for much longer.
“You’re sort of right though,” he says. “I’m not a full-time bodyguard. I just pick up side gigs for extra dough. Actually, I’m a private investigator.”
Well. Suddenly he is a whole lot less adorable. The last thing I need is to hang aroun
d someone who likes uncovering dirt. I start thinking about my plans and contingencies, suddenly seeing a hundred ways a smart investigator could nail me.
“Hello?” Amory is saying. “You just take a spaceship someplace?”
“Hilarious,” I say, with my best smirk. I should get the hell away from this man. But I don’t want to. “So I bet you’ve got some good stories about cases you’ve worked.”
“Indeed. Unfortunately most of them I’m prohibited from talking about. And even more unfortunately, most of my work is divorces. Stake-outs, getting proof of cheating, that kind of thing.”
“Not catching murderers or corrupt politicians?”
“Nope. The cops handle the murders, mostly, and politicians…I’d rather not get fitted for concrete boots, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, come on.”
He tosses me a skeptical look. “You’re shocked that powerful people have meddlers killed?”
I open my mouth to protest but close it again. “You’re just trying to make your job sound dangerous.” I give him a little push on his belly. He is not flabby.
“Nah,” he says. “The opposite, actually. Those murders tend to go unsolved, because again, if you’re sniffing around asking too many questions…”
“…concrete boots.”
“Exactly.”
I find his point rather comforting. Murder is commonplace, when you think about it. Not merely the province of sociopaths and kooks, but sometimes undertaken purely for practical reasons. I sniff the last remnant of personality down the back of my throat, considering this Amory Porter more closely. I get a little too carried away looking at the way his right eyebrow has a whorl on the end, like a cowlick.
I am not quite sure what to make of him. Not yet, anyway. “Does it hurt your business, filtering so many potential jobs out that way?”
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