The Girl in the Face of the Clock

by Charles Mathes

  Jane found herself drinking more than she was used to and tuning out. It wasn’t until dessert and Sauternes that Elinore finally brought the conversation to what she really wanted: Aaron Sailor’s paintings.

  “So, Janie, honey,” she said, sticking her spoon into Jane’s crème brûlée and helping herself to a taste. “You don’t mind if I try a little of this, do you?”

  “I’m not going to ask for it back,” said Jane wearily.

  “I think I know what’s bothering you. It’s the percentage, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You know,” said Elinore. “The seventy percent I’m getting from Aaron. That’s what a dealer gets, it’s totally standard, believe me. Isn’t it totally standard, Greg?”

  “I …” Greg agreed before she cut him off.

  “I’m the one who has all the expenses,” said Elinore. “I’m the one who does all the work, but I understand how you feel. We can split sixty-forty if that’s what you want. That’s incredibly fair. I don’t care about the money. It’s not the money I’m doing this for, it’s your father.”

  “I’m glad you’ve brought this up, Elinore,” said Jane, happy that she could finally put her cards on the table. “I’ve tried to tell you how I feel about this before, but I haven’t been able to get through to you. Please listen to me. I’m not ready to sell my father’s paintings. They’re all I have left of him. Maybe I’ll want to do something in the future, but not now. I’m just not going to do anything right now. Okay?”

  “You’re right to take your time,” said Elinore. “You’re very smart. I mean, I don’t want to say this, Janie, this is the last thing I would ever say in a million years, but if Aaron dies, everything is going to be even more valuable, that’s all I’m saying. Just think about it, that’s all I ask. I know you need the money. You can’t imagine the work I’ve had to do to get everything to this point. Remember, you owe me.”

  “Look, Elinore,” said Jane evenly, “I’m trying to be nice about this, but I don’t owe you anything. The Fyfe decided to include my father in their show on their own, not because of anything you’ve done. I haven’t heard from you for eight years. Now all of a sudden it’s like you’re all over me, and it isn’t because you like me so much or respect my father’s work, it’s just about money. Let’s be honest.”

  Elinore brought her hand to her bosom.

  “Janie, Janie. You’re really hurting me, you know that? Here we’re having this beautiful dinner, and you’re making me sound like I’m some kind of monster. I mean, if I were this big monster, why would so many artists come to me? They love me, they owe their careers to me, their entire careers. Don’t they, Greg? I’m not such a monster, Greg? Am I?”

  “No, no,” said Greg, “of course not.”

  “Of course not,” agreed Elinore, whacking the table with her spoon for emphasis. “You know, Janie, just because I’m a successful art dealer doesn’t mean that I’m not still a woman with a heart and feelings and all that.”

  Jane didn’t say anything, damned if she was going to let Elinore manipulate her into feeling guilty.

  “Just think about it, don’t say yes or no, just think about it, that’s all I ask,” said Elinore. “That article is going to be in the what-do-you-call-it magazine tomorrow. The Times. There’s going to be big new interest in Aaron’s paintings and we’ve got to take advantage of it. That’s why Perry Mannerback is doing all of this for your father, you’ll see. It’s just like I said—he has that one painting and he wants another. That’s what this is all about.”

  “Fine, let’s talk about Perry’s painting,” said Jane. The evening wouldn’t be a total waste if Elinore could just answer a few questions. “Do you know who the model for it was?”

  “The naked girl, you mean? I met her at some party your father brought her to. Creepy-looking, if you ask me. And she didn’t have a good body at all, not at all.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “Don’t have a clue,” said Elinore dismissively, trying to scrape a last bit of chocolate from her empty dessert plate. “She wasn’t even pretty. She was nothing.”

  “Did Perry Mannerback know her?” asked Jane.

  Elinore shrugged.

  “I have no idea,” she said. “I suppose Aaron could have introduced them. Why? Don’t tell me Perry wants another painting with that same girl in it? What an idiot! Aaron only used her in that one painting.”

  The table fell silent. Jane tried not to feel disappointed. Elinore looked over to her husband, who hadn’t touched the kiwi tart in front of him and was staring into his Sauternes.

  “Why are you so quiet all of a sudden?” she demanded.

  “Oh, I’m just thinking about poor Aaron,” he said with a sigh.

  “Hey,” said Elinore, brightening. “I got an idea. Janie, why don’t you bring Perry over to the gallery this week? Then we can find out for sure what he’s looking for.”

  “I told you, Elinore. He’s not interested in art.”

  “Just take five minutes. Five minutes won’t hurt you. Can’t you do that much for me after all I’ve done for you?”

  Jane couldn’t stand it any longer. She had controlled herself the entire evening, but now she could actually see herself in choreographic detail grabbing Elinore by the hair, banging her head a dozen times on the table, and then stuffing a napkin down her throat. It was time to bail out.

  “This really has been fun,” Jane said, standing up, looking at her watch. “But look at the time. I’m afraid I have to be going. Thank you for a lovely dinner.”

  “But it’s still early,” screeched Elinore. “I thought we’d go out for an after-dinner drink. You’re not going to desert us so soon, are you? We’re having such a good time.”

  “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

  “So nice to have met you, Janie,” said Greg with a big smile, reaching over and shaking Jane’s hand. He had stood up the moment she had risen from the table. “Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll look in on Aaron. I’m sure they’ll take good care of him.”

  “Wait a second, Janie, here’s another thought,” said Elinore, waving her napkin for attention. “If you don’t want to come by the gallery, why don’t I stop by Perry’s office next week? That way you can reintroduce us in an informal kind of way. We could talk about art.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” said Jane curtly. “We’re going to be out of town. We’re leaving Monday morning for Seattle.”

  “That’s fantastic,” said Elinore, grabbing Jane’s sleeve. “My daughter lives in Seattle. She’s a fantastic girl. Isn’t she, Greg?”

  “Great girl. Fabulous.”

  “Everybody is crazy about her,” Elinore rattled on, “works for this nonprofit, with the environment and all. What time’s your flight?”

  “Ten-thirty,” said Jane, removing Elinore’s hand from her sleeve and resisting the urge to break the woman’s wrist in the process. Other diners were looking up from their food in annoyance with looks that said, “Go, already.”

  “You’re going to think about what I said, aren’t you?” said Elinore as Jane began walking away. “Aren’t you?”

  Jane shot a frozen smile over her shoulder and practically knocked over a table as she made her way to the door.

  “Call me when you get back,” shouted Elinore across the room as Jane escaped into the night.

  She promised herself that it would be a long, long time before she saw Elinore King again.

  Seven

  “The captain has turned off the ‘fasten your seat belt’ sign,” said the soft voice of the stewardess over the loudspeaker. “You are now free to move around the cabin if you like.”

  “It’s what’s called a lighthouse clock,” said Perry Mannerback happily. “The dial is rather like that of an old-fashioned alarm clock, but it sits under this high glass dome atop a cylindrical mahogany base. The whole affair is a few feet tall and looks like a lighthouse, he
nce the name.”

  Jane smiled. Perry had been talking nonstop about the clock they were flying out to see since he had picked her up this morning. This was the third time he had described it for her, but it was impossible not to get drawn into his excitement. Judging from the beatific look in his eyes right now, Jane was willing to bet that he was getting ready to tell her again about the clock’s maker, Simon Willard, who had belonged to a family of clockmakers in early nineteenth-century Massachusetts.

  Jane was dressed in comfortable clothes for the long flight, jeans and a long-sleeve cotton rugby shirt. Perry had on his usual dapper outfit: black blazer, gray slacks, robin’s egg blue vest. His only concession to comfort was the ascot he wore in lieu of a tie. Jane had never seen anyone in real life wear an ascot. On Perry it somehow looked natural.

  They were seated at the front of the first-class cabin. Perry had taken the window seat and made “vroom-vroom” noises during takeoff. Jane had sipped her complimentary orange juice and enjoyed the wide reclining seat, about as far from the cramped contraptions in coach as a La-Z-Boy was from a bicycle seat. Two paperback Shaw plays were stashed in a carry-on bag under the seat in front of her, but Jane had the feeling that between Perry Mannerback’s clock lectures and the in-flight movie, she wasn’t going to have much chance to read. Maybe she’d try after the layover that the plane was scheduled to make in St. Louis.

  “The lighthouse clock was Simon Willard’s last invention and is quite rare,” said Perry excitedly. “It was a terrible flop actually, the Edsel of clocks, but now everyone wants one. There’s even one in the White House. Did I tell you about the Willards? There were plenty of great British clockmakers running around during Georgian times, you see, but in America such artisans were rare and the Willards were the absolute tops. They were a whole family of clockmakers. There was Simon—who also invented the banjo clock, of course—Benjamin, Ephraim …”

  “Well, hello there, what a coincidence, what a surprise,” shrieked a voice like fingernails on a blackboard.

  Jane looked up in amazement to see the bloated form of Elinore King standing in the aisle beside her, smiling like a hyena.

  “What are you doing here, Elinore?” Jane demanded, unable to believe her eyes.

  “Perry Mannerback, isn’t it?” said Elinore, ignoring Jane, reaching her hand over to Perry, who had stood up politely. He might be an eccentric screwball, but his manners were impeccable.

  “Remember me, Elinore King? I was Janie’s dad’s art dealer. I sold you that painting, remember? The big one with the naked girl and the clock?”

  “Oh yes, indeed,” said Perry, shaking her hand. “I remember very well. We talked about the fleeting nature of existence. Most interesting. And then you gave me that special thingamajig. What was it called? Oh, yes. The discount.”

  “What are you doing here, Elinore?” asked Jane again, through clenched teeth.

  “Well, Janie, after we talked about my daughter in Seattle the other night, I got so lonesome I decided to fly out and see her,” said Elinore breezily. “It’s been ages since we’ve had a visit, and I just love her to pieces. This was the only flight I could get at the last minute. All the direct flights were sold out weeks ago. Of course, I always fly first class, it’s the only way to go. But I want to talk to Perry. Perry, it’s so amazing to run into you like this. I was just thinking about you. You saw this, didn’t you?”

  Elinore passed over a copy of Sunday’s New York Times Magazine, which she had been holding behind her back. It was opened to a half-page reproduction of his painting, the seated nude on the staircase with Grandmother Sylvie’s handless clock between her legs.

  “No, I didn’t,” Perry said, taking the magazine, and pulling out a pair of half-moon reading glasses from his inside pocket with which to study it better. “Why, that’s my painting. This is fabulous!”

  “It’s a story all about Aaron and his art, and the big show they’re having at the what-do-you-call-it museum in San Francisco,” screeched Elinore cheerfully. “And about me, of course.”

  Jane rolled her eyes. This was too much, even for Elinore.

  “You see? Here’s a picture of me, standing right next to Aaron during my show,” said Elinore, turning the page to a large black-and-white photo of Jane’s father and the Elinore of eight years ago, with a dazed-looking Gregory King in the background (in the caption he was identified only as Mrs. King’s husband). “Of course, this is when I was young and beautiful, but I hope I’m not completely so terrible now.”

  “No, not at all,” said Perry, leafing through the rest of the article with evident delight. “I didn’t realize that your father was such an important artist, Jane. Did you read this?”

  “I read it,” said Jane evenly. The way Elinore had managed to get herself quoted throughout the piece, it sounded as if she had found Aaron Sailor one morning in a melon patch and then taught him how to paint.

  “It’s an incredible story, isn’t it, Janie?” said Elinore. “The same critics who were spitting on Aaron’s work when I had my show are now going crazy. I’d love to tell you all about it, Perry, about why your painting was such a great investment. That is, if you don’t mind, Janie.”

  “I really don’t think Perry is very interested in art,” said Jane.

  “No, no, that’s all right, Jane,” said Perry. “I wouldn’t mind hearing.”

  “Hey, here’s an idea,” said Elinore. “Janie, why don’t you and I trade seats for a little while, so Perry and I can talk? That way I can tell him the whole story.”

  “Elinore …”

  “Oh, look how protective she is of you, Perry. You know, you’re so smart to hire Janie. She’s a great girl, a fantastic girl. So can I sit down? I don’t want to impose or anything.”

  “Not at all,” said Perry Mannerback. “That is, course, if it’s all right with you, Jane?”

  “That’s right, Janie,” said Elinore. “If you don’t want to move, if it’s too much trouble or something, you just say the word. I’ll just go right back to my seat. No problem. I’ll be okay, really I will.”

  Jane opened her mouth to protest, but realized instantly how petty and childish it would seem. Elinore had completely outmaneuvered her.

  “Fine,” said Jane in a quiet voice, standing up. There was no shame in walking away from a fight that you could not win. She would gain nothing by throwing a temper tantrum in front of Perry.

  “I’m just back over there,” said Elinore, pointing at an empty seat several rows behind them in the spacious first-class cabin. “Next to that handsome young man with this divine British accent. He’s very nice, some kind of stockbroker or something. Maybe I can get him to ask you out on a date when you’re in Seattle.”

  “Isn’t Janie such a doll?” Elinore was saying as Jane grabbed the bag from under her seat and stomped away. “You should have seen her when she used to come home from college on the holidays. She was so cute with the stories of her little boyfriends and her drama club stuff …”

  Jane plopped down into Elinore’s seat several rows back. She reached into her bag for the paperback copy of Candida. She opened the book, closed it just as quickly, and stuffed it back into the bag. Then she sat with her arms crossed in front of her, seething.

  “I could simply kiss you,” said a bright British voice at her side.

  “What?” snapped Jane, looking over angrily into a pair of large blue eyes. The man in the seat next to her was a gangly, slightly goofy-looking fellow in his mid-thirties. He had a thick mop of reddish hair that was long overdue for a trim, about a million freckles, and a twinkle in his eye.

  “I said, I could simply kiss you,” he repeated. “Or kiss you in a more complicated fashion if you prefer. I certainly owe you something for rescuing me from that horrible woman. She’s been talking at me since I sat down, and I have no idea what she was saying. I think she wanted to sell me a subscription to the New York Times.”

  Jane’s new seat companion pointed to the floor bet
ween them. In a Bergdorf Goodman shopping bag were at least twenty copies of the same New York Times Sunday Magazine that Elinore had brought over to show Perry. Jane felt some of the venom run out of her.

  “I hope you didn’t buy anything,” she said.

  “Certainly not,” he replied with a lopsided grin. “I have pretty good instincts about people. My instincts in this case wanted to give her a whack with a cricket bat on the old brainpan. Is she a friend of yours?”

  “I know Elinore, but she’s no friend.”

  “I’m Valentine Treves. It’s nice to meet a fellow redhead.”

  “Jane Sailor,” Jane said, looking around, then blushing crimson when she realized he was talking about her. He was dressed in gray slacks and a sweater. An expensive leather briefcase was on the floor in front of him.

  “How did you happen to get tangled up with such a character?” he asked with an easy laugh.

  “She’s something I inherited from my father.”

  “I understand perfectly. I got a hammertoe from mine.”

  Jane glanced at his big blue eyes, his unruly hair, his goofy smile. He was not her type at all. But pretty adorable. It was a good thing she had sworn off men.

  “Elinore said you were a stockbroker?”

  “Not really,” he said. “I’m with a financial services company. My actual title is Vice President of Special Acquisitions, but I do a bit of everything. Strategic planning. Finance. Poetry.”

  “Poetry?”

  He wasn’t going to recite, was he? Was he an actor, too?

  “Tell me three words. Any words you like.”

  “Ambushed,” said Jane, craning her neck and trying to see what was happening between Perry and Elinore. “Witch. Murder.”

  “Give me just a minute,” said Valentine, taking a small notebook out of his pocket and a silver pen. He began scribbling furiously, then tore out the page and gave it to Jane. She had to read it three times before she could believe it.

  A SONNET FOR JANE SAILOR

  Ambushed by the puzzle of her face