When You Don't See Me

by Timothy James Beck

  “Don’t expect much,” Gwendy said, as if she needed to let us down gently. “Except for vagrants, the building hasn’t been used for fifteen years.”

  The sun, muted by filthy windows, provided the only light. But it was enough to see the grime and debris of years of neglect. Some rooms were empty. Others were piled high with broken or scarred children’s desks.

  While Adam and Gwendy talked, using phrases like “adaptive reuse” and “smart growth,” I listened in mystified silence. Blythe wandered in and out of sight as she looked around, sometimes nodding or talking to herself.

  “Fortunately, it’s not really a Superfund or Brownfield site,” Gwendy commented as she began leading us down a hallway. “It took me over a year to negotiate a price and establish a timeline that included tax deferrals. Now we’re finally ready to start. Beginning with the removal of the asbestos and lead paint. Some of the rooms will have to be gutted down to—”

  “You’re restoring the building?” Roberto asked.

  “Restoring, reclaiming,” Gwendy said with a nod.

  “What are you going to do with it?” I asked.

  Gwendy stopped and turned back to us. “Do you remember a school project you two did with Melanie? You had to design a Manhattan-themed mural for a fictitious hotel lobby.” Roberto and I nodded. “You were working on it at Blaine’s one night when Gretchen was there with Emily. When she came home, she told me she’d figured something out while she was watching you.”

  “What was that?” Jeremy asked. The sadness in his dark eyes reminded me that like Daniel and Martin, he’d been friends with Gretchen long before the rest of us met her.

  “She said there are always organizations to try to meet the physical needs of kids. Immunization and school lunch programs. New mentoring groups are developed all the time to fill in educational gaps. Churches take care of kids’ spiritual needs. But that night made her think there was something she called a soul hunger that went neglected. A child’s need for a creative outlet. Whether it was painting, acting, dancing, writing, culinary arts—which was Gretchen’s hobby—she thought directing kids’ energy that way would keep more of them from falling through the cracks.”

  “I’m proof of that,” Roberto said.

  “It’s the basis for my work,” Jeremy said.

  Gwendy looked at him and said, “I think what you do for gay and lesbian teens is great. A huge percentage of the homeless kids and runaways I’ve helped through legal aid are kicked out by their families because of their sexual orientation. Unfortunately, they’re not the only marginalized children. Even little kids are victims of poverty, language barriers, or racism.”

  “And disease,” I said. “I remember when I used to go with Gretchen to rock babies who had AIDS.”

  “She had a genius for making money, but children were her passion,” Gwendy said. She waved her arms. “This is the future Gretchen Schmidt Center. It’s going to feed that soul hunger she saw in children. Much like your high school, it’s going to be a place where creativity is encouraged and developed. At low or no cost, because it will be fully funded by the Gretchen Schmidt Foundation.”

  “How long can that last?” Roberto asked. He seemed to think his question sounded bad and hastily added, “Your intentions are good, but it sounds like something that will take a lot of money.”

  “I understand why you’d ask,” Gwendy said. “I’m not depending on only Gretchen’s money for this. I’ve got donations and sponsorships from individuals and corporations. I’ve been working on this for two years.”

  “A center like this wouldn’t just serve children,” Adam mused. “It could help revitalize the neighborhood.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping,” Gwendy said. She looked at me. “It was great hearing you talk about how much you like living in East Harlem. I stopped thinking I could save the world a long time ago. But I look at you and your friends, and it makes me believe that you’ve got what it takes to make things better.”

  “I think anyone who knew Gretchen will want to help with this,” Blythe said. “I know I do. I’ll be glad to paint or teach. Anything.”

  I saw Adam and Jeremy exchange a glance, and Adam said, “I wonder if it’s safe to check out the second floor.”

  When he nudged Blythe toward a set of stairs, Gwendy motioned for Roberto and me to stay back with her. After the others were out of earshot, she said, “I had a reason for wanting you two here today. I have a good legal mind and a great team of experts advising me. But I don’t have an artistic bone in my body. I need the two of you. It can be as long as two years before the building is toxic-free and ready. Nick, I know you have contacts through Wamsley & Wilkes who could manage this project correctly. But I want to start connecting with the surrounding community, too. I want the highest possible number of neighborhood people helping get this off the ground. That’s where you come in,” she said to Roberto.

  “What can I do?” he asked.

  “Can I be completely honest?” Gwendy asked.

  She made me nervous. I wondered if she was going to say something about the Gretchen mural we’d found. I felt like I should have talked to Roberto about it first.

  When he nodded, she said, “I don’t want people in the neighborhood to think this is just a bunch of guilty white liberals coming in and trying to dictate things. This is primarily a Latino community. I want a hands-on liaison. From the time the construction fence goes up around the site, I want someone to engage kids, teens, old people, or anyone else in painting it. Considering your talent, your love for street art—”

  “My rap sheet,” Roberto said.

  Gwendy laughed and said, “When the building’s ready for cosmetic work, I want every hall, every wall painted in murals. Somebody will need to plan and manage that. To provide creative input. To figure out ways to make it reflect and involve the community. I think you’re that person.”

  “I have a job,” Roberto said. He gave Gwendy an intense stare and said, “With benefits. I can’t give up benefits like my health insurance.”

  The expression that crossed her face—a mixture of comprehension and sadness—disappeared so fast that I wondered if I’d imagined it.

  “I can more than match whatever Drayden’s package is,” Gwendy said.

  Roberto stared at the floor a minute and said, “I’m interested. I need to think about things. Also, there’s somebody I’d want to bring with me. An illustrator who could help with the art design now and probably work with kids later.”

  “I knew you’d be perfect,” Gwendy said. “You’re already out-negotiating me. Right now, it’s me, my board, and an assistant. Trust me, if either of you knows good people for me to interview and hire, I want to talk to them. Or Violet does.”

  “I don’t know why I didn’t guess that Blaine and Violet would be involved in this,” I said.

  “It’ll be a wonderful memorial to Emily’s mother,” Gwendy said. “I wouldn’t dream of doing it without Blaine and Daniel’s input and help.” She looked around with a bemused expression, as if she were trying to imagine Daniel and Blaine in such a dump. “Let’s go find the others before Blythe burns the place down with her chain-smoking.”

  As she walked toward the stairs, I held Roberto back to whisper, “Who were you talking about? What illustrator?”

  “Morgan, of course.” He laughed at my dumbfounded expression. “All these months, and you still know almost nothing about her.”

  “I know enough to question whether she should work with children. I’ve always figured she probably eats them.”

  “Then maybe you shouldn’t have been stealing food from her, mijo,” he said, laughing again as he followed Gwendy.

  18

  Here

  I’d gotten a call from Uncle Blaine the day after Christmas. He’d decided at the last minute to throw a New Year’s Eve party and invited me to come with as many guests as I wanted to bring. I didn’t have firm plans, so I gave him a noncommittal answer. When a few of my frie
nds were at Cutter’s trying to make plans for the holiday, I tentatively mentioned Blaine’s invitation. I didn’t think anyone would want to attend a party thrown by an advertising executive who was in his “thirty-something” era. But other than Adalla, who would be in Texas on New Year’s Eve, they surprised me by agreeing wholeheartedly.

  When I mentioned my surprise on the way to the party, Morgan cynically stated, “They’re all hoping to rub against models and famous people.”

  “And you’re going because why?” Roberto teased.

  “Someone has to keep you kids in line,” she answered.

  “You borrowed Red Kitty’s riding crop?” I asked.

  “Very funny,” Morgan replied. She turned the cab’s rearview mirror toward her and reapplied her lipstick.

  Our driver turned the mirror back into place and loudly said, “Don’t touch the mirror. Don’t touch anything. Do not make me put you out of my cab.”

  “Do not pass ‘Go.’ Do not collect two hundred dollars,” I mumbled. I wondered how Samir Singh was celebrating the new year.

  “Sorry! Gosh,” Morgan muttered. “You don’t have to be such an asswipe about it.”

  “I freely admit I’m going to this party so I can meet famous people,” Kendra said. “If I’m going to be a producer someday, I need to start networking.”

  “Don’t producers usually have money?” Roberto whispered in my ear. I elbowed him in the ribs.

  “I’ve never met anyone famous before,” Kendra continued. “Unless you count Ellie Waltham from Trenton.”

  “What about that party for Hugh Jackman?” I asked.

  “Who’s Ellie Waltham?” Roberto asked.

  “She did the weather report back in Trenton,” Kendra explained. “But that’s not all she did!”

  Roberto, Morgan, and I watched the cabdriver. He was glancing expectantly at Kendra’s reflection in the rearview mirror, obviously waiting to hear what else Ellie had done. I finally added to his misery by pointing at the corner of Broadway and Twenty-third Street and saying, “You can let us out here.”

  Uncle Blaine’s party was in the loft he’d purchased for his ad agency. It took up the entire floor of a converted warehouse. We stepped off the elevator into a cavernous and raw space. Christmas lights had been wound around a balcony that ran the perimeter of the space. They provided just enough light for me to see that the place was packed with people. The only person I immediately recognized was a DJ from Club Chaos, who was spinning from a makeshift stage made out of packing crates.

  “Do you see Melanie? Blythe?” I shouted to the others, trying to be heard above the music and noise. “Isaiah and Luis?”

  Kendra and Morgan both shook their heads and shrugged. Roberto snapped his cell phone shut and said, “I can’t get a signal. Let me try yours.”

  I handed him my phone. He motioned to a window across the room and wandered toward it while dialing.

  “We’re going to find the bar,” Kendra said.

  “There’s no bar, baby,” a woman next to us said. She pointed with her beer bottle and said, “There’s trash cans filled with beer on ice by the DJ booth, and a table with the hard stuff next to that. Mix your own.”

  “Thanks,” Morgan said. She looked at me. “Do you want anything?”

  “Not yet,” I answered.

  I went in search of Roberto and overheard someone saying, “I can’t stand this shit!”

  “That’s exactly why I want to sell the club,” a familiar voice answered. I pushed forward through the crowd and saw Andy Vanedesen talking to a gigantic drag queen who was dressed in a kimono.

  “What? You smell a shrub?” the drag queen asked. “This place could use some greenery. You’d think Daniel would’ve—”

  “No!” Andy interrupted. “The club! I’m selling the club.”

  “You’re selling Club Chaos?”

  “Keep it down!” Andy shouted. “It’s not public knowledge yet.”

  “What’s not, honey?”

  “That I’m selling the club!” Andy screamed. “Honestly, Brenda Li, you’ve got to stop huffing the Aqua Net.”

  Brenda Li patted her wig. Then she spotted me. Suddenly I was surrounded by folds of printed silk and my cheeks were being pinched. “What a shayna punim! Look at the doll face on this one.”

  Andy pulled me free and hugged me. Brenda Li pouted before gliding into the crowd. I leaned toward Andy’s ear and asked, “Why are you selling Club Chaos?”

  Andy’s mouth fell open. “Who told you?”

  “I overheard you yelling at what’shername. Brenda Li.”

  “Oh. Don’t repeat this to anyone, but I’m getting up in years. It’s time to try something new. Something quieter. Running a club is such an aggravation. The drama, the payoffs, the noise—I’ve had it. Let someone else deal with it. What about you? What’s new with you?”

  “Nothing much,” I answered. “Have you seen my uncle? Or Daniel?”

  “They’re somewhere in this sea of filth. I don’t know. Do you know what time it is?”

  “Another hour until midnight.”

  Andy groaned and said, “Oh, dear Lord. I need another drink.”

  After Andy walked away, Roberto materialized out of the crowd and handed my phone to me. “Here. Melanie got stuck in traffic. On the plus side, I got some choice photos of that drag queen kissing your forehead.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Is there lipstick on my face?”

  Roberto spat on his thumb and wiped it above my eyebrow. “Not anymore.”

  “Gross,” I said, batting at his hand.

  We avoided the center of the loft, where everyone was dancing, and wound through the crowds, looking for Kendra and Morgan, as well as anyone else we knew.

  “I see your uncle invited a thousand of his closest friends,” Roberto said.

  “I’ve never seen half these people before in my life,” I replied. “But I guess if everyone you invite brings a friend, then—” I broke off when I saw Blythe and Daniel huddled in a dark corner of the loft. Blythe was passing her cigarette to Daniel, who took furtive puffs from it every so often. I snuck up behind him and said, “Busted!”

  He jumped and dropped the lit cigarette on Blythe’s hair. She screamed and swatted at her head, causing the cigarette to bounce off a nearby woman’s ass and onto the floor. Daniel stamped it out and brushed off the woman’s butt. When she turned around, he said, “Honey, your ass is smokin’!”

  She wasn’t amused, but Roberto and I were. We laughed openly at Daniel.

  “If you tell Blaine I was smoking, I’ll tell him about that time I walked in on you and—”

  “Okay!” I yelped.

  “Is my hair on fire?” Blythe asked. “I don’t do performance art.”

  “You’re fine,” Daniel said.

  “I heard a rumor that Andy’s selling Club Chaos,” I said, hoping to change the subject.

  “Oh, please,” Daniel said. “At the start of every year, it’s the same tired story from him.”

  “Maybe this year, that dinosaur will actually retire,” Martin said, wrapping his arms around my chest from behind. When I turned to look back at him, he said, “Hi.”

  “Hi,” I said and grinned.

  “Stop molesting my…nephew, son, or whatever he is,” Daniel said.

  “We’re not related,” I said.

  “Oh. In that case.” Daniel stepped forward with a lascivious grin and outstretched arms, then turned away and said, “Ew. No. Can’t do it. So wrong.”

  “Where’s Blaine?” I asked.

  “Speaking of so wrong,” Martin said.

  “He’s over there,” Daniel said, pointing to the center of the room. I saw my uncle in a deep discussion with his assistant, Violet Medina, who was nodding at whatever he was saying while taking notes on her BlackBerry. “The life of the party, as usual.”

  “How do you feel about all this?” I asked, gesturing to the loft.

  “It’s going to be great for him,” Daniel an
swered. “Whatever he wants, I’m behind him all the way.”

  “That’s not what I heard,” Martin said.

  Daniel said, “Just because he looks like a top—”

  I put my hands over my ears and loudly sang “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” Roberto pulled my hands down and said, “I’m getting a beer. You want?”

  “I want,” Martin said, linking his arm in Roberto’s. As they walked away, I heard Martin say, “You look just like a roommate I had once.”

  “When are you going to L.A.?” I asked Daniel.

  He gave me a blank look and said, “To see Sheila?”

  “No. I heard you’re going to be a resident in The See-List House.”

  He smiled and said, “I already did that. Last fall. It airs in a couple of months.”

  “Oh. I didn’t realize. Did you really slap Alison Arngrim?”

  “Wouldn’t you slap Nellie Oleson, if you had the chance?” he asked.

  “Who’s Nellie Oleson?” Blythe asked.

  “You,” he said, pointing at Blythe, “leave this party. Now.”

  “I can’t believe you slapped someone,” I said.

  “It was scripted,” he explained. “It was the producers’ idea. Alison and I pretended to get into a fight. I slapped her, which caused major drama and got me kicked out of the house. It’ll get good ratings. In return, the producers agreed to let Alison and me do a series of specials for their network about AIDS. Everyone wins.”

  He had to move closer to me to let three drag queens get by us. He took in every detail of their appearance as they walked away; then his expression turned to one of approval.

  I watched them, too, and finally said, “How does anyone know what’s real?”

  “Sweetie, they are people,” he said with a frown.

  “Not them. You didn’t seriously slap Alison Arngrim. Blaine didn’t actually get fired. Andy won’t really sell his club.” I thought about my roommates and then, in a sudden moment of sadness, about Fred. “Sometimes you think you know people, but they’re carrying around all these secrets. How does anyone know what’s real?” I repeated.