It's Not About Sex

by David Kalergis

  “Bradley, this isn’t your fault,” she said.

  “Nonsense,” said Lennie, “you’re an important part of the plan.”

  “What plan?” I asked. Neither of them had discussed a plan with me.

  “Ray is going to need help on the business side, isn’t he?” Lennie asked.

  Of course!

  I studied Ray’s profile. He was gazing out the window again but obviously listening. There was no doubt that, especially after this evening, his paintings would be quite salable. I was as impressed as everyone else by the power and originality of the dark vision expressed in his work. I also found it hard to imagine a more oppositional style to that of Lennie’s post-abstract expressionism.

  “Definitely,” I said. “But what about Edison’s Electric? I know it’s a co-operative space, not commercial, but . . .”

  The car was getting chilly, and Lennie rapped on the glass divider, told Mr. Muhammad to adjust the air conditioner, then said, “Representation of the artist isn’t part of the agreement with Artist’s Expressions. Their connection is with AFTAR, not Ray, and it’s only to provide gallery space. You’d be doing everyone a favor to take this on. I was waiting for you and Ray to meet before bringing it up.”

  He looked at Nora. “I need to get back to my own work, Bradley. With the right representation, Ray could have a decent income fairly quickly.”

  I knew Lennie himself certainly didn’t need any more money. Two years ago there had been back-to-back exhibitions of his work, first at the Tate in London and then at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. Last year, one of his paintings had brought $9,042,500 at auction at Sotheby’s.

  I had more than once calculated the commission on $9,042,500, and thought about what my father would say if I were to be involved in such a transaction. Would it give him any satisfaction to be able to casually mention that his son was the exclusive representative of the great Leonard Hirsh? Not that my father approved of my chosen career or was interested in Lennie’s work. He would have preferred to see me in law or finance, like my older brothers.

  My daydream about someday representing Lennie had a basis in fact. There was talk within the art world of a serious falling out between him and his long-time agent, Danielle Crockett, owner of the prestigious Crockett Gallery in Soho. She had been conspicuously absent at tonight’s opening. But I still had a long way to go in building a business relationship with Lennie. Despite making his acquaintance when I had first moved to New York eight years ago, we hadn’t spoken for ages until I ran into him at the bar at Mortimer’s.

  Before my marital problems hit so hard, much of my time had been spent thinking of a way to break out of my rut and take my career to a higher level. Now, if I was successful in the exclusive representation of a living artist—Ray—other opportunities would follow. Maybe even with Lennie.

  “Please consider it, Bradley,” said Nora. “I apologize for my rudeness earlier. My only excuse is that I get so upset when I see Leonard distracted from his work.”

  After I accepted Nora’s apology, she regained her composure and resumed her best attitude; she looked beautifully bored. Then the lights of a passing car reflected in her eyes, and I saw in them that trace of wildness that made her so exciting.

  Lennie’s an extraordinarily lucky man, I thought.

  “The question is, what does Ray think?” I asked. “I assume this has been discussed with him?”

  “It’s been discussed,” Ray said, still staring out the window. “On the plane. It’s up to you and Lennie.”

  “Well, I believe I could do something,” I said.

  “Excellent,” said Lennie. “Ray, you’ll find that Bradley’s a genius at getting people to talk about themselves and closing the sale.” Lennie was guessing. He’d never seen me work.

  “Oh, please,” I said. “Any talent I may have is entirely commercial, not artistic.”

  Despite my protestations, I knew that I was very good at my job. After college and some travel, I’d moved to London in the reverse of my family’s long-ago migration—a youngest son seeking his fortune in the Old World rather than the New. A family friend had arranged an interview for me with Alistair Sloan, Managing Director of the venerable art and antiques auction house Weatherby’s. The job offer came surprisingly quickly. I’d accepted and begun work within two weeks, demonstrating, yet again, that it’s all about “who you know.”

  But Sloan’s instinct had been good. As an American, I didn’t have the inbred English distaste for all things commercial. Despite an appalling initial lack of knowledge about art and antiques, I applied myself and soon was making a lot of money for the firm. I’d started out as a jack-of-all-trades, immersing myself in the intricacies of silver, furniture, china, porcelain, and crystal. Over the years I had cultivated a specialty in modern and contemporary art, which is a particularly tricky but lucrative part of the business. I loved my work, most of which involves helping wealthy clients locate, buy, and sell art as they build world-class collections.

  Within three years Weatherby’s had sent me to their new offices in New York. Four years after that—having established a reputation and built a U.S. clientele—I left the firm and, with the encouragement and support of several of my clients, had been independent for the last four years.

  “So you’ll do it?” Ray asked.

  I’d wondered if I would ever learn the real story behind Ray’s imprisonment, the improbable nurturing of his great talent, and what jail had been like. And I had wondered if I would ever get to know him and understand him as an artist. Now, we were going to share a house together, and I would be representing him.

  “Yes, of course,” I answered. “I’ll be glad to.”

  “Now that that’s settled,” said Ray, “someone tell me what a teaser pony is.”

  “Let’s discuss it when we get home,” I said.

  Ray and I were left standing on the walkway that led to our exquisitely remodeled white-shingled house. The red glow of the limousine’s taillights was already out of sight. For some reason, everyone on Schoolcross referred to this solid little two-bedroom structure as the Quaker Cottage. Moonlight flooded the front yard and I watched for a reaction, but he was dispassionate as he stared at his new home.

  “Where am I going to stay?” he asked.

  “Right here,” I answered. Hadn’t he understood we’d be sharing a house?

  “Where’s my bed?” he said. “I’m tired. I want to lie down.”

  “Come on. I’ll show you.” I took the lead up the porch steps, then waited in the doorway for him to follow. He set down his bag and remained in the walk, apparently overwhelmed. Finally he took a deep breath.

  “I’ve dreamed of this, Bradley.” It was the first time he’d spoken my name.

  “Dreamed of what, Ray?”

  “Of the moment I’d be able to step into life—to stop seeing it through bars or glass. Is it real?”

  “You’re not dreaming, Ray. I’ll show you your room when you’re ready.”

  When I came back a few minutes later he was still standing where I’d left him, so I picked up his duffel bag.

  “Come with me.”

  He looked at me blankly, and I led him through the front door and up the stairs to his bedroom. Without saying a word, he undressed to his undershorts, got into bed, and was asleep by the time his head touched the pillow.

  CHAPTER III

  ◊

  My morning coffee is a ritual performed without thought. Habit brings me to the kitchen early, and the range is lit and kettle filled in an unconscious routine. Even after I’ve prepared my customary cup of plebeian instant, I usually remain groggy until I’ve drunk at least half of it.

  This morning was different. At the first sip, my glance fell on a back issue of Art World, which made me recall Lennie’s quarrel with Arnold Tingley last evening, and all the other events of the night came rushing back. Suddenly I was alert. I wanted to see if Ray was awake yet, but first I had an important phone call
to make.

  My wife Linda and I had agreed that I would call the apartment at seven-thirty every other morning, as their day was beginning, and that Mary, now almost five years old, would answer.

  I’d met Linda at Weatherby’s in London eleven years ago. She was working there in provenance—the authentication of works of art. She was an art historian by training, with a master’s degree from the University of Chicago, and had already established a reputation, even at her young age, for being able to spot a phony from a mile away. I took her interest in me as the most validating event of my life. We fell hard for each other, no doubt fueled at least in part by the fact that we were the only Americans working at Weatherby’s.

  Linda came from a family—the Hudsons—that was firmly ensconced within the upper strata of the Maryland Eastern Shore, which is considered a charming social niche by those who are aware of it. Her father, like mine, was a successful lawyer, and her mother, also like mine, had stayed home to raise three children.

  As soon as I had met Linda, my many relationships with other women were politely but abruptly terminated. At the time, she’d been decidedly single—by choice, obviously, as she’d always attracted more than her fair share of male attention. Fortunately for me, she never noticed the effect she had on men. Monogamous by inclination, she told me that I was her first true love. I was twenty-five and she was twenty-three.

  We had some blissfully happy early years after marrying in a ceremony on the spacious green lawn of her family’s place on the Eastern Shore, then moving to New York. I thought she was beautiful then, tall and slender, with a gorgeous head of wavy auburn hair. And she was still beautiful today, despite the years of stress and confusion since Mary’s illness.

  The day of the wedding, her mother had said we were the most beautiful couple she had ever seen, although she also called me “a real Golden Retriever of a man.” Later that day, worried, I asked Linda if her mother was referring to my perhaps sometimes overly earnest manner, but she said, “No, silly. She was complimenting you on how handsome you are. She told me she thinks you look like Robert Redford.” After that I was crazy about Linda’s mother.

  I placed my call that morning from the telephone that sat on a little desk in the corner of the guesthouse kitchen. Mary picked up on the second ring.

  “Hello! Daddy!” Her voice was charged with excitement, as it was every morning when I called.

  “Hi, honey. How you doing?”

  “Fine.” There was a long pause, and I pictured her in the living room, sitting on the sofa holding the phone to her ear.

  “How you doing?” I asked again. “Did you have a playdate with Chloe yesterday?” Chloe was her best friend—the only other person under ten who lived in our building.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you have fun?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Played.”

  “Did you go to the park?”

  “Yes.” She giggled. “I mean, no, we played in her room, and Luzia and Roberta drank.”

  Luzia, who is Portuguese, is technically our housekeeper, but she considers herself Mary’s nanny. Roberta is Chloe’s nanny.

  “Do you mean they drank tea, honey?”

  “Yes.”

  This was not an atypical conversation between a child and an adult, but frustration at the separation overwhelmed me, and this lack of depth in our communication added to the evidence that she was slipping away from me. I struggled to think of something to say that would engage her, but she spoke first. “Where are you, Daddy?”

  “I’m visiting some friends in the country, sweetheart.” I heard footsteps from the floor above me, followed by the sound of flowing water. Ray was awake and stirring.

  “When are you coming home?” she asked. “I want to see you. I want you to take me to the horses.”

  “The horses” is what she called the carousel in Central Park. It was our favorite place to go when the weather allowed.

  “Is Mommy there? Can you put her on?”

  “She’s in the bathroom.”

  Linda always retreated to the bathroom during my morning calls to the apartment.

  I heard boards squeak as Ray descended the stairs.

  “I need to go now. You know I love you, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you love me too?”

  “Yes.”

  God, I hate this separation, I thought, as Ray entered the kitchen. He saw that I was talking on the telephone and retreated back into the hall, then stepped outside onto the front porch. After I had yet again evaded Mary’s question about when I was coming home, we said good-bye. Hanging up the phone, I shook off my sadness and went out to welcome Ray to his first morning at Schoolcross.

  As I stepped out onto the porch I could see that he was fresh from the shower, his hair wet and slicked back. He was wearing blue jeans, which he must have brought with him from prison, and the white polo shirt that Lennie had bought for him. Except for his pallor, he looked more like an aging thirty-five-year-old preppie than an ex-con, even without his wire-rim spectacles.

  “How do you like your coffee?” I asked.

  “Strong, black, no sugar.”

  He followed me into the kitchen and stood near the doorway while I made the coffee. At my suggestion, we took our cups back out to the porch, where we sat in wicker chairs and drank in silence.

  Finally Ray asked, “Can I walk anywhere?”

  “Of course.”

  “Would you take me around, show me the place? I want to see it.”

  “Sure.”

  He rose, drained his coffee, set the cup down on the wicker side table, and stepped off the porch into the yard.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Give me a minute. Let me wash up and put on some shoes. We’ll walk to the Big House and see if Nora and Lennie are awake. Maybe they’ll want to take a hike around the farm with us.”

  “Lennie’s house is called the Big House?”

  “Not after the old movie, don’t worry. When you see it you’ll know why. Everything on Schoolcross has a name.”

  We set out fifteen minutes later. As a now-seasoned veteran of estate life, I avoided the long gravel driveway known as the Inner Circle and instead took a shorter walking trail directly up the hill toward the Big House. We passed through the semicircle of pines that shielded the Quaker Cottage and, as we gained elevation, our path wound beneath ancient oaks whose roots grew up under the walkway.

  The house itself sat in a five-acre expanse of green lawn at the peak of a natural rise, the highest point on the estate, surrounded by more towering oaks. The sight caused Ray’s eyes to widen, and I was heartened that something had finally impressed him.

  “This place has been in Nora’s family for a long time,” I said. “They tell me that before she and Lennie fixed it up, everything was falling to pieces.”

  “It’s a fucking mansion,” said Ray.

  “Yeah. But Nora would say, ‘It’s not a mansion; it’s a big house.’ The word mansion was one of her grandmother’s pet peeves.”

  “Look at the size of the columns!”

  “This is the back, the west side of the house. There’s an identical set in the front, facing east.”

  The signature of the Big House was the two sets of four white columns, one in the front and one in the back, rising from elevated brick porches that were reached by wide stone steps. The columns probably had a structural purpose, to support the width of the enormous central reception hall turned artist’s studio, but they also demonstrated social status and power, as a personal pyramid would for a pharaoh. No ordinary man could build or live in a house with such columns.

  As a Van Leuyden and a much-loved only granddaughter, Nora had inherited Schoolcross at the age of twenty-two, upon the death of her maternal grandmother, Victoria. Although rich in land and possessions, Grandmother Van Leuyden’s estate had barely enough cash to pay death duties. When Nora took possession, her legacy w
as in disrepair, the upkeep impossible. Subdivision and sale of the property loomed. This history was common knowledge to those of us living here and eventually Ray would learn it, but I didn’t go into the details with him yet.

  The gossip in the community had been irresistible. Victoria Van Leuyden’s twenty-four-year-old granddaughter, a graduate of Foxcroft School and nearby Vassar College, had taken up residence on Schoolcross in holy matrimony with a notoriously divorced forty-three-year-old Jewish painter. The delicious scandal was discussed frequently and always in whispers.

  In the seven years she had been married to Lennie, the Big House and most of its surrounding cottages and small buildings had been restored, even beyond their former grandeur, by a massive infusion of Lennie’s new money. Over past generations the land holdings had been reduced from two thousand acres to about four hundred, but the piecemeal sale of land had stopped with Lennie’s arrival. The remaining land had been placed in a conservation easement, prohibiting development in perpetuity. Lennie and Nora had gotten a sizeable tax credit for donating the easement to the Land Conservancy Trust.

  The whole Millbrook area was considered quite smart, and both the old and new families who lived on the neighboring estates were relieved that the threat of the seemingly inevitable—not death, but the subdivision of Schoolcross—had been forestalled. The fabric of the social community was woven around foxhunting on horseback, and permission to pass through thousands of acres of contiguous property was vital for the continuation of the sport. With Nora securely in residence in the Big House, it was clear that the permission would continue indefinitely.

  “It’s the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen,” said Ray.

  As we walked further up the path and onto the west lawn, we encountered Will Fox, the estate manager. He had left his green pickup truck in the driveway and walked across the carefully tended grass to pick up a few stray pieces of wind-blown paper at the base of the ancient stone sundial on the west lawn.

  When we reached him I said, “Good morning, Will.”