by Hilary Sloin
“It’s true, Phillip,” the smoky woman said. “She’s more of a man than you’ll ever be.”
Phillip doubled over, laughing. Charlotte returned to Diane and Avery, but they had disappeared. Only slightly discouraged, she flitted off to attend to other guests. Phillip curled his right hand around Francesca’s elbow; his left held a glass of champagne. The gold liquid matched his class ring, the jaundiced whites of his eyes, the yellow fading of his hair.
Francesca felt as if she were viewing everything through cheap sunglasses, the kind scratched from bouncing around in a pocket, against keys and a lighter. She stared up at The Lisa Trilogy, the three portraits of her beloved, posted on naked walls, and felt she’d done something unforgivable and obscene, dragging Lisa into the middle of this carnivorous world, splaying her for cheap entertainment. Glasses clinked; perfume made the air itch. The world was lit up and ugly. And the paintings, by association, seemed specious.
Sherry from the pizzeria arrived with a friend of hers, another female who looked nothing like a woman. They stood apart from the rest of the people, drinking club soda and staring at the walls, as if Francesca’s paintings were dangerous animals at a zoo. Francesca waved heartily, comforted by their earthy, familiar presence, but just as she was about to penetrate the crowd to get to the other side of the room, someone tapped her on the shoulder. She turned to the right, flashing past several gawking faces, then stopped abruptly. Lucky Perkins stood before her, dressed in a wine-colored dress, décolletage down to her ribs. The dark color of the fabric against her fair skin made her seem dusted in flour. She waved slowly, one finger at a time. “You look like you just got hit by a stray bullet,” she said, popping a grape into her mouth.
“How are you?” Francesca extended her hand, growing dizzy.
Lucky leaned in intimately and whispered, “Don’t pretend I’m not your worst nightmare.” She made a quick, scary face.
“It’s nothing personal,” said Francesca.
Charlotte hurried over, practically knocking over an elderly couple in her zeal, and placed a hand firmly on Francesca’s elbow. “Oh!” she called. “I forgot to tell you! Lucky has offered to entertain us. Francesca, you never told me you knew Lucky. And that she’d played the Opry.”
“The what?” Francesca asked.
Charlotte touched Francesca’s arm with two fingers and placed her lips less than an inch from Francesca’s ear. “Don’t worry about her,” she whispered, “That bitch. I took care of it. Let her make an ass out of herself if it makes her happy. You’re the main attraction.” She patted Lucky’s shoulder and walked off, into the crowd.
“I didn’t know you sang,” Francesca said casually.
“Yeah.” Lucky pushed some unruly red hair off her face. “I’m trying to get back into it. I figured this is a good place to get my toes wet. I mean, you’ve been painting for like a week. And this gallery—if you want to call it that—” She looked around disparagingly. “This is half a step up from a church fair.” She rolled her eyes and flicked Francesca’s collar. “You look fancy.”
“Thanks.”
“Anyhow. I wish you’d told me you were a squatter. You ate all my candy bars.”
Francesca cleared her throat. “It just happened. I was cold.”
“Poor baby. And did I do something to make you think I was a whore?”
“A whore?”
“Thank God you’re a shitty painter or everyone would be able to recognize me all fat and splayed out like a prostitute. Why isn’t the Chinese girl naked?”
Francesca shook her head. “I don’t know. That’s not how I remember her.”
“So she wasn’t a whore?” Lucky shook her head slowly, incredulous. “You’re lucky Edgar isn’t here. He’d recognize the couch. At least you got the couch right.”
“It’s impressionistic. It’s not supposed to be a portrait.”
“Sure, sure. That’s what he always says.”
“If anyone should feel like a whore, it’s—”
“Oh please. Don’t even try it.”
“I like your dress,” said Francesca.
Lucky spread her arms so Francesca could get a better look. “Anyhow,” she ran her fingers up and down her arms, “I’m not going to press charges.”
“Charges?”
“That’s right, baby. That’s what happens when you break into a mansion and live there. The police put little handcuffs on you and take you off to jail.” Lucky rolled her eyes, half amused. “What balls! Just be grateful you have a shrewd agent. She’s saving your skinny tomboy ass.”
Charlotte struggled to mount a small, wooden chair. The silver discs sewn into the fabric of her dress glistened under the track lights, refracting rainbows on the ceiling. Balancing precariously, she tapped a spoon on a plastic champagne flute, but no one paid any attention. She enlisted Phil Hamil’s assistance. He whistled like a hunter retrieving hounds. “Everyone,” he bellowed. “Feast your eyes on this elegant lady.”
Lucky smiled. “Well, this is my cue,” she said. “Lovely to see you again.” She kissed Francesca’s cheek and walked determinedly through the center of the room toward Charlotte’s office. Charlotte leaned on Phillip Hamil’s shoulder as she addressed the crowd. “Well, this has been a thrilling evening so far, hasn’t it?” She smiled intimately. There was uncertain applause. Charlotte cleared her throat and peered down at an index card positioned away from her face. She read over the tops of her glasses: “Lucky Perkins is a local artist and musician. She performed her hit song, I Ain’t Cheap,’ at the Grand Ole Opry in 1974 and was a featured act at the Fat Cigar in Las Vegas for six years before relocating, with her husband, to the East Coast. In 1978, Johnny Cash declared her a rising star, and Country Club magazine said ‘Perkins sounds like Patsy Kline with an ellipsis at the end of every line.’ (Charlotte looked up, a bit confused; there were good-natured smiles throughout the audience.) “Tonight, not only are we appreciating the exemplary talents of a young, local painter . . .” (Exuberant applause.) “But we are about to be treated to Ms. Perkins’ first performance in . . .” Charlotte looked up. “It says here, five years? Could that be?”
Lucky smiled coyly and waved from the office threshold.
“Looks like we’re the lucky ones! Ladies and gents, please welcome Lucky Perkins!” Charlotte hopped down from the chair with Phillip’s assistance and the audience applauded wildly, convinced now that they recalled that name . . . Lucky Perkins. Lucky emerged, dwarfed by the large guitar strapped around her back. She kissed Charlotte and maneuvered awkwardly through the crowd, trying not to whack anyone with the neck of her instrument, looking like a drag queen in too-high heels. People backed away, allowing her an important semicircle at the front of the room, positioned right before Woman Reclining on a Blue Couch.
“First, congratulations to Francesca.” Lucky extended her hand, inviting applause. She spoke at once, silencing the clapping. “Well, here’s a little tune. Maybe a few of you remember it.” She took a long sip of champagne, then returned her plastic flute to the stool in front of her and perused, one last time, the lyrics to her song, typed out on a small piece of notebook paper. She swung her guitar around to the front and began to tap her foot, peering off through the crowd at a fixed point in the distance, jutting her chin forward and yanking it back in time with the rhythm, and singing in a strange, unidentifiable accent that Francesca had never heard trace of, all of it quite incongruous with the Porsche and the sophisticated gown.
Charlotte arrived beside Francesca. “What she thinks she has to gain from this little stunt I’ll never know.”
“Revenge,” Francesca shrugged; it was all she could think of.
And Lucky sang:
You think because you’re tall and dark
And just a little handsome
That you can hold me like a prisoner of love—
Never paying any ransom.
You set me up just to put me down
Flaunt your wares at every bar in to
wn
But I’m no toy you can take to sleep
Baby, I ain’t cheap.
Lucky grinned at the audience, reliving the glory.
I ain’t cheap and you best remember
If you’re looking for easy tender
Go and find yourself a girl in some red-dirt town
Who don’t mind being treated like a hand-me-down
If you want someone to herd like you was Ms. Bo Peep
Find yourself a sheep ’cause baby I ain’t cheap.
And on it went. Francesca felt sick. The paintings had nothing to do with any of this; they seemed suddenly ridiculous, tainted by pretentious strangers who knew nothing about her. She stepped out into the cool, moist evening, undid her bowtie, and inhaled the sea air in needy gasps, unable to get it far enough into her body. How ridiculous, she thought, renting this tuxedo. Who am I kidding? She kicked at beach sand and cigarette butts along the curb.
The gallery door opened and a young woman stepped out. Shaped round and plush, with verve in her black eyes, she pushed her dark hair off her face and extended her hand. “Hi.”
“Hello,” Francesca said quietly.
“I’m Shanta Wall.”
Francesca shook the woman’s hand, then looked away and lit a cigarette, wishing only to be left alone with her disappointment and angst.
“So, I really love your paintings.”
“Thanks.”
“No, I’m sure everyone says that—”
“Not really,” said Francesca. “A lot of people hate them.”
“Exactly,” Shanta replied. “That’s how you know you’re really good. If you weren’t, why would anyone care?”
Francesca laughed uncertainly.
“Unfortunately, I have ulterior motives.” She held out a folded-up piece of paper. “In case you’re ever in Boston. Or not. I’d travel.” Shanta grinned and shifted her weight from foot to foot. She was Indian, apparent now from her smooth features, her eyes, the thickness of her obsidian hair. She’s beautiful, thought Francesca. And she followed me out here because she wants me. Because I painted those nine pictures. Even though I’m exactly the same fucked-up person I’ve always been, suddenly women like this want me.
The door to the gallery opened and Charlotte leaned out. “Hello? What are you doing out here?” Charlotte looked at Shanta, then back at Francesca.
“I’ll be right in.”
“Wasn’t that something?” Charlotte shrugged and rolled her eyes, looking like a child who’d had too much sugar. “Not as bad as I’d feared.”
“Yeah.”
“Francesca, there are a lot of important people here waiting to speak with you.”
Francesca held up her cigarette. “A few minutes, please,” she said.
Reluctantly, Charlotte left them alone, closing the door, muting the crowd behind her.
“I hate important people.”
“I’m not important at all,” Shanta answered.
Francesca laughed. “I’ll bet someone thinks you’re important.
Shanta shrugged. “Anyhow, it’s your party. Why stay if you’re not having a good time?”
It took little to convince Francesca to bring her bike around from behind the gallery. Shanta climbed onto the back of the banana seat and held on. They drifted between cars parked on both sides of the narrow road until they had reached the quiet highway. Francesca pumped up hills with boundless energy, sped down the other side. The wind wrapped itself around them and, at the same time, kept them warm in a way that only humid sea air can. They took a long route to Shanta’s condominium, along the old and barren Route 6, stopping in the middle of the road to kiss, then share a cigarette. Once again, Francesca felt her life change. She laughed at how crazy it was. First she’d been Francesca number one: hiding in the hut, dirty and reticent and awkward. Then Lisa kissed her and she became Francesca number two: awake, but lost. Now, she was Francesca number three: the artist. Freedom filled her body. She chucked her cigarette far out into the tall reeds and continued pedaling down the empty road.
Chapter Fourteen
In the small house on Longwood Terrace where she’d resided since 1946, Evelyn Horowitz began to forget where things were. Things that had always been in the same place. The broom, for instance. Forks. She put away the milk in the cabinets with the canned goods, left the curling iron on for hours at a time while she went to the Stop ’n Shop, arriving at the store only to discover she could not remember why she’d come. She stood in the parking lot, wearing her housecoat and slippers, metal clips ensconced in her dirty, cement-colored hair, trying to remember whether she’d walked or driven, what she’d meant to purchase, how to get back.
Her driving, too, had become erratic. The Chevy, its engine parched from lack of oil, retched along the middle of busy Whalley Avenue. Evelyn moved her foot from gas to brake, sometimes unable to remember which was which, speeding up when she meant to slow down and vice versa.
Alfonse had broached the subject as though crossing a minefield, touting the merits of the bus, boasting how he’d been a cabbie for a time and wouldn’t mind honing the old skills. Never mentioned were phrases like “license revoked” or “hazard on the road,” or anything minimally inflammatory. Still, she’d pitched a fit, backed him across the carpeted living room, speckling his face in angry spit.
May 10, 1983 was a warm day. Moved by the bright blue sky and gentle spring breeze, Evelyn felt a nostalgic urge to drive to Edgewood Park and feed the ducks. She dialed the DeSilva house, then ran the tap to rinse off some dishes, always preferring to multi-task while talking on the telephone. “Put Franny on,” she said to Vivian.
“What?”
“I said put Franny on,” Evelyn repeated, irritated, slamming dishes around inside the ceramic sink.
“Ma,” Vivian put her hand on her heart and capped her pen. “Francesca is gone.”
“Who is this?”
“Ma, you called me,” said Vivian.
“Wha—?” Evelyn held the receiver away to inspect it, then banged it against the long arm of the faucet and listened again. She hung up, put on her fake beaver coat, slipped her tired, sculpted feet into bedroom scuffs, and stepped outside. At the end of her street she turned left, edged nervously along the sidewalk of the main road, having forgotten why she’d left home. A young couple passed, holding hands, swinging briefcases.
“What’s the date?” she demanded.
They looked at her, then at each other.
“The date. What’s the date?”
“May 10?” the man asked the woman. The woman nodded.
It was Francesca’s birthday! Of course! That’s what she was doing. She checked for her purse but found she’d forgotten it. No problem: Mort had known her for years. He’d let her purchase on credit. Still, she chastised herself for neglecting to order the cake ahead of time, as she used to in the old days, before age corroded her excellent memory.
She walked with greater confidence now, repeatedly whispering the word “bakery” to herself as she made a left at the bottom of the hill. She glanced up at the house where her friend Sylvia had lived before she’d gone to Florida, lost her husband, returned to New Haven, and died in the Home. Everything right on schedule. She shook her head and turned right at the main road, crossed a block, then noticed a family in front of Burger King, eating hamburgers on the hood of a car. She shook her head. “No class,” she muttered, then stepped inside the air-conditioned bakery. The bells on the door rang.
“Hi ya!” she shouted and waved in an exuberant gesture.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Horowitz,” said the baker’s son.
“What about it?” she asked.
The boy looked at her, confused.
“You said ‘afternoon,’ so I said ‘what about it?’” She paused, then made a silly face, pointed her finger at him, and laughed. “Gotcha.”
He forced a laugh. “Yes, you did.”
“I forgot to order in advance,” she announced. She looked at the gl
ass case. The cakes were so fancy. So many colors and shapes. Purple flowers, green vines. She pointed to a caramel-colored square cake with white and yellow roses on top. “That’s nice,” she said. “That’s a German chocolate cake.” He removed it from the case, brought it up onto the counter, inches from her nose. She could smell the sweetness of coconut and butter. “What kind of name is that?” she asked.
“Pardon?” He leaned in closer.
“German? What’s German about it? That’s a stupid thing to call it. Where’s Mort?” She peered into the kitchen.
Another customer entered the shop. He looked at Evelyn, then at the cake.
“What’s in it?” she asked, shifting her shoulder in front of the cake so the new customer couldn’t see it.
“It’s a coconut-chocolate instead of plain chocolate frosting, very creamy, with a caramel filling and chocolate fudge cake.”
“Whew! Busy,” said Evelyn.
“It’s our most popular cake,” added the son, glancing at the new customer.
“Call it something else and I’ll buy it.” She paused a moment, then winked. “I’m pulling your leg,” she said. “I want it personalized. For my granddaughter.”
The son slid the cake off the counter and onto a wood slab behind him. He removed the icer from underneath the shelf, selected a dark, red cream from the refrigerator. “And what’ll it say, Mrs. Horowitz?” he asked.
“How do you know my name?”
The son pointed to himself and tried to look harmless. “I’m Ira. Don’t you remember? I went to school with—” he stopped.
“You own this place now?” she asked, glancing up at the fluorescent lights aiming for the center of her eyes. She turned to look at the other customer—a stranger. More and more, people were strangers. When had so many people arrived in her city? Her face tightened with panic and she began to sweat.
“I’m Mort’s son,” he said gently.
“Oh, of course you are.” Evelyn waved good-naturedly. “Anyone can tell that. Christ.”
“Is the cake for Isabella?” he asked.
“Isabella? What are you, crazy? Franny. For my Franny.”