by Susan Gloss
“That would be great.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow, then.” Grady picked up his toolbox, tipped his baseball cap, and went out the front door, leaving Nell to contemplate the hole in the wall where artwork had once hung.
She picked up the stack of books she’d placed on top of the mantel and looked for a place to put them on the bookshelves. She paused when she saw a title she recognized in the pile, Crossing to Safety by Wallace Stegner. Out of curiosity, she opened its cover and saw that it was signed by the author and inscribed to Betsy, “From one Madisonian to another.” Nell slid the book onto a shelf and followed suit with the others. She recognized the names of these books, too, by Joyce Carol Oates, Kurt Vonnegut, and Lorrie Moore. All of them were signed and inscribed with some sort of reference to Madison or to Betsy. Her bookshelves were like a hardbound literary cocktail party.
But one thin, tattered book that had been shelved with the others didn’t seem to belong. The title, A Child’s Garden of Verses, was one Nell had owned as a little girl, though in a later edition with a different cover. This book, too, had writing inside its cover—a handwritten note that said, “Happy Birthday, Elizabeth. 5 already! Love, Mother.”
With those simple words, fresh pain welled in Nell’s chest. One of the things she’d most looked forward to doing with her own baby was reading aloud. She remembered browsing the children’s section of a local bookstore shortly after she found out she was pregnant. There were so many characters and places there she’d completely forgotten about. The Hundred Acre Wood, Madeline and Miss Clavel, Harold and his magical purple crayon.
She swept her palm across the faded cover, removing a layer of dust. Then she traced her finger along the outline of a drawing of a young girl in a white dress, standing in a windswept field of flowers. The girl’s fine, tousled hair was tied up with a ribbon. A pink satin ribbon.
Nell had a white box tied with just such a pink ribbon. She knew its contents by heart: a soft flannel blanket, a hospital bracelet, and a silver envelope. As far as she was aware, Josh had never opened the box.
Chapter Five
Betsy
PIECE: Bill Blass gown, from the fall 1981 collection. Black silk taffeta with puffed sleeves.
Betsy, there you are.”
Ingrid Alber, the only person in the room Betsy knew in the sea of tuxedos and winking diamonds, waved at her with a white-gloved hand. Of course, Betsy recognized many of the guests at the inaugural reception. Barbara Walters was there, as was an Italian baron. But, other than her husband Walt and a few of his lawyers, Betsy knew the other guests in attendance only from television and the society pages.
Ingrid, though, was a dear friend, and married to one of the partners in the silk-stocking New York law firm that handled all of Walt’s business affairs. Betsy saw her only a few times a year, when Walt’s business brought him to the city and Betsy would come along for what she called her “tune-ups.” On those trips, she would visit museums and galleries, getting her fix for both the old masters and the up-and-coming names in the art world. And she would shop, both for clothing and for art. Ingrid often joined Betsy on these excursions. She’d show up at the hotel at nine thirty with coffee and croissants and say, “Wanna go bummin’?”
“Bummin’” was a term from Betsy’s childhood on Milwaukee’s South Side. Then, it had meant running errands with her mother. Sometimes it meant dropping shoes off at the cobbler or picking up a meat order at the butcher’s. Other times they would board the city bus and go bargain hunting in the basement at Gimbels department store. Where they went or what they did was less important than the chatter and easy laughter that accompanied the errands. Betsy remembered those hours as the rare times she had her mother’s attention all to herself. Usually, her mother’s focus was fixed on Betsy’s brother, younger by eight years, and the three neighbor boys she took care of for extra money.
Ingrid, a lifelong New Yorker, loved the idea of bummin’ as soon as she heard it, and began to use the word to describe her and Betsy’s few days a year of browsing, lunching, and catching up on one another’s lives.
The two women had met through their husbands’ orchestrations. The men felt less guilty about being in meetings all day if they knew Betsy wasn’t sitting around alone in her hotel room—not that she ever was. Between Jasper Johns at MOMA, Gauguin at the Guggenheim, and Vermeer and Velázquez at the Met, Betsy never felt lonely in New York. Nonetheless, she was grateful for Ingrid’s loud, lively company, and the women developed a fast friendship.
Now, Ingrid made her way through the crowd and embraced her friend. “Bets, look at you! Your dress turned out lovely.”
Betsy pulled at the tight bodice of her floor-length black gown. “I’m not used to wearing something quite so unforgiving,” she said. “I feel a bit like a ballpark bratwurst bulging out of its casing.”
Ingrid laughed. “Now that’s an image I don’t want to think too hard about.”
“You can take the girl out of Wisconsin, but you can’t take the Wisconsin out of the girl, I suppose,” Betsy said.
Ingrid plucked a Champagne glass from the tray of a passing waiter. “Want one?”
Betsy shook her head. “No thanks. I already had too many canapés. If I consume anything else, I’m afraid I’ll split my ruched seams.”
“Well, in any event, you look fabulous.”
“So do you,” Betsy said. She recognized the long, voluminous gold skirt and trim velvet jacket Ingrid had on as something she’d bought at Saks on their most recent bummin’ expedition. Betsy wondered what her late mother would say if she could see them now. She’d come a long way from bargain-basement shopping.
“Did you see the protesters on your way over here?” Ingrid asked. “I read some artist got arrested this morning for lighting a TV on fire in Lafayette Square. The article said she’d made models of Ronald and Nancy and stuck them inside the TV in compromising positions.”
“Annie Beck.” Betsy rolled her eyes. “It was a performance art thing. I read about it, too.”
“Do you know her?”
Betsy shook her head. “I used to follow her career early on, when she was with the Feminist Art Collective. Her work seemed really avant-garde back then, but it hasn’t evolved at all. Seems like she cares more about the publicity than the art itself.”
“I’m no expert, but these days it seems like it’s hard to separate the two.” Ingrid dropped her voice. “That reminds me. Did you know Andy Warhol is here, too?”
“Really?” Betsy swiveled her neck, scanning the crowd. “Where?”
Ingrid gave an almost imperceptible nod of her head toward the corner of the room. Betsy spotted the artist standing next to a potted palm, holding a Polaroid camera and conversing with two women in sequined gowns.
“I’m surprised they let him bring in his camera,” Betsy said.
“He’s been snapping pictures of people all night.”
“Security made me check mine. ‘No press pass, no camera, ma’am.’” Betsy imitated the stern voice of the Secret Service officer who’d greeted her at the door. “I guess they don’t want people taking unattractive pictures of the Reagans and then selling them to the National Enquirer or something.”
“Well, Andy doesn’t seem like much of a rules guy,” Ingrid said. “Speaking of the Reagans, have they made an appearance here yet? My husband will be absolutely fuming if they don’t at least pop in, after what he and his partners spent on this shindig.”
“I don’t think so. But who cares about the Reagans? Andy Warhol is here. That’s far more exciting, at least for me.”
“Shhh.” Ingrid put a gloved finger to her lips. “Don’t let Walt hear you say that.”
“My husband is all too familiar with my political leanings. I told him that when he dies I’m backing only Democratic candidates, to cancel out all the support he gives to Republicans,” Betsy said. She wished she could be more vocal about her political views now, but she was realistic enough to know that a
s the head of a major plastics manufacturer, Walt had business interests that aligned more closely with the politics of conservative candidates. She was smart enough not to bite the hand that fed her affinity for art and travel.
Ingrid laughed. “And what does he say about that?”
“He says he’ll outlive me just to keep it from happening.” Betsy stood on her toes to see over a tall, tuxedoed man now blocking her view of Andy. In doing so, she nearly toppled over in her high-heeled pumps.
Ingrid caught her arm. “Careful there.”
“Do you think he’d let me have a picture with him?” Betsy asked.
“On his Polaroid?” Ingrid asked. “I don’t know. He seems pretty possessive of it. He hasn’t put it down since he got here.”
“No, no. I’m not that presumptuous. But maybe we could get one of the photographers to take it. They’re all over the place.”
Ingrid shrugged and took a sip of Champagne. “Can’t hurt to ask. You work on Andy and I’ll round up one of the photographers.”
“I guess I’ll have some Champagne after all.” Betsy grabbed her friend’s glass, took a long swig, and then handed it back. She squared her shoulders and set off in Andy’s direction.
He was still engaged in conversation with the sequined ladies, so Betsy hovered nearby, pretending to be absorbed in a painting hanging on the wall. It was an anonymous, hideous attempt at an impressionist landscape. The antique gilded frame encasing it was more interesting than the painting itself. But just when she felt as if her eyes would start bleeding, the two women walked away, leaving Andy momentarily free.
Betsy strode over as casually as she could manage. She was glad, after all, that Ingrid had talked her into buying the Bill Blass gown. It was much flashier and fashion forward than the tailored sheaths she usually wore, and it seemed more fitting, somehow, for meeting one of the most famous artists of her time.
“Pardon me,” she said.
Andy looked up from fiddling with his camera. His expression was curious, but not annoyed.
“This is going to sound like an utter cliché, but I love your work,” Betsy said. “Of course, I can’t afford it—”
“And that’s saying a lot,” said Ingrid, appearing with a photographer in tow.
“Thank you,” said Andy. His voice sounded the same as it did in interviews, soft in volume and long on vowels.
Andy looked from one woman to the other, before settling his gaze back on Betsy. “You like art?”
“‘Like’ is not the word,” Betsy said. “I’m a bit obsessed.”
“A collector, then?” he asked.
“The woman is an absolute art hoarder,” Ingrid said. “And she’s also a dear friend who would love it so much if you’d be willing to let us get a picture of the two of you.”
Andy tilted his head slightly to one side, causing his white hair to fall over his eyes. “Do I know you?”
“I’m nobody.” Ingrid gave a dismissive wave. “But this is Betsy Barrett.”
Betsy held out her hand, and he shook it.
“I’m Andy.”
“Delighted to meet you,” Betsy said. “It’s a true honor.”
“As long as we’re doing introductions, you should also meet my wife, Sony,” Andy said.
“I didn’t know you were—” Betsy stopped herself. She was about to say “married,” but laughed when Andy held up a tape recorder.
“You haven’t answered my question about the picture,” Ingrid said. “Is it all right if the photographer here snaps one, pretty please? Then we promise to leave you alone.”
“Why not?” Andy said. “But let’s use my camera. Then you can have the picture right away.”
“Oh no,” Betsy said. “We don’t want to waste your film.”
“I take dozens of pictures every day. What’s one more?”
“But you need to be in the picture,” Ingrid insisted. “None of her midwestern housewife friends will believe she met Andy Warhol unless she has photographic evidence.”
“Okay, then.” Andy handed his camera to Ingrid. “You take it.”
Ingrid raised the viewfinder to her eye. “Smile!”
“For the midwestern housewives,” Andy said.
Betsy smiled big, feeling starstruck and flash-blinded.
Andy took back his camera just as it was spitting out the undeveloped photo. He removed it and handed the photo to Betsy.
“Thank you so much,” she said. “Really. It means a lot to me. I’ve followed your work since you first started out.”
“Thank you,” Andy said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go say hello to Happy.”
“Let me guess, Happy is a record player,” Betsy said.
Andy shook his head. “No. She’s a Rockefeller.”
Chapter Six
Annie
PIECE: Oriental rug with medallion pattern. Constructed of hand-knotted wool, 10 x 12 feet.
Annie Beck chained her rental bike to a porch spindle and climbed the mansion’s front steps. She rang the bell next to the red door and waited, watching snow swirl around her battered boots.
Annie had been to Madison before, but never in January. Her first visit had been decades earlier, for a protest against the Vietnam War. She remembered the vigorous green of the Capitol lawn in early spring and a humid wind that curled her hair, still long and auburn in those days. In hindsight, maybe it was the hot energy of the crowd that she remembered, and not so much the weather. Today, Madison felt like a place that had never been warm or green, and never would be again.
When no one answered the doorbell, Annie rapped the brass knocker.
A woman opened the door wearing jeans and a University of Chicago sweatshirt speckled with dust. She looked startled at first, but then her brown eyes lit up with recognition. “You must be Annie,” she said. “I’m Nell Parker.”
“Nice to meet you,” Annie said, extending her hand.
Nell wiped her palms on her jeans before shaking Annie’s hand. “I hope you weren’t waiting long. I was upstairs with a contractor.” A mechanical whir sounded from inside. “I’m sorry about the noise. He said he should be done with the sander by tomorrow.”
“It’s no problem,” Annie said. “Did you get my email?”
Nell shook her head. “Maybe you sent it to the former director? I was just hired to take her place. I called the number that was written on your application. Did you get my message?”
“That was the number at my old apartment. Maybe you left the message after I moved out?” Annie shifted her backpack from one shoulder to the other. “So this is probably a bit of a surprise, then.”
Nell waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about it. Come in, it’s freezing out there.”
Annie stepped into the front hall. She was about to wipe her boots on the throw rug, but stopped when she looked down at the bold bands of orange, blue, and gold running along its borders, framing an intricate design that looked handwoven.
Nell must have caught her looking at it because she said, “It’s gorgeous, isn’t it? The estate lawyer said Betsy, the Colony’s benefactor, bought it in Turkey. That’s her, up there.” She pointed to an oil portrait on the wall above the grand staircase, which curved toward the second floor like a fiddlehead fern. “I like to try to picture her, just like that, navigating a Turkish bazaar and bargaining with merchants.”
The woman in the painting had gray hair, like Annie, but that was where the similarities ended. Where the portrait subject posed in a suit jacket and diamonds, Annie wore a thermal shirt under faded overalls, paired with dangly turquoise earrings she’d bought at an art fair in Sedona.
“Seems almost a shame to wipe my shoes on,” Annie said. She stepped out of them and set them onto the tile, which could at least be cleaned. She wasn’t sure as much could be said for the rug.
“Do you have any other bags?” Nell nodded toward the backpack Annie was carrying. She had to yell to be heard above the construction noise coming from up
stairs.
Annie shook her head as she shrugged off her winter jacket. “They’re coming later,” she shouted. “I had to leave New York in kind of a hurry. It’s a long story.”
Nell took Annie’s coat and hung it in a closet. “I would take you up to see your room, but it’s pretty dusty up there. The contractor is taking out the carpet and refinishing the wood floors.”
“No problem,” Annie said. “I’m pretty sure I can find a way to be comfortable in a lakefront mansion, regardless of what my bedroom looks like. You wouldn’t believe some of the places I’ve lived. Back in the seventies, I shared an apartment with seven other women. And I’m sure you know how small Manhattan apartments are.”
Nell nodded. “The Feminist Art Collective, right?”
“Yes,” Annie said, surprised. “For a second there, I was about to be flattered that you knew about me. But then I remembered you probably read my application.”
“I did,” Nell said. “But I also studied your work when I was in grad school.”
Annie felt her cheeks flush with pride. “Well, don’t believe everything you read. Some of the press made it seem like the Collective was this urban utopia, all flower power and Indian tapestries on the walls. The truth is that it was teeming with roaches, and I don’t just mean the kind leftover when you’ve smoked down a joint. Our landlord was a total pig, always making lesbian jokes and staring at our chests when he came to collect the rent.”
“Well, we won’t be charging the residents any rent here,” Nell said. “And even if we did, you can be sure you wouldn’t get that sort of treatment.”
“Oh, I know. And, anyway, anybody staring at my chest these days is likely to be disappointed. Gravity has not been my friend, and I suppose all those years of going braless didn’t help.” Just as Annie finished her sentence, the sander upstairs switched off, so that she was yelling the part about going braless in an otherwise silent house. She put a hand over her mouth and stifled a chuckle, then let it out when she saw that Nell was laughing, too.