by Susan Gloss
The next morning, she went to one of the rare book rooms on campus, where she donned white gloves to pore over sixteenth- and seventeenth-century atlases. In the margins of the yellowed maps, giant serpents coiled around ships, and lions with scaly tails salivated over stranded sailors.
The reference librarian, a middle-aged woman with a round, pleasant face, looked over Paige’s shoulder and said, “Intriguing, aren’t they? ‘Here be dragons.’”
“What?” Paige turned around.
“Cartographers used to draw monsters and mythical creatures on areas of the map that were beyond charted territories,” the librarian said. “‘As if to say, ‘Who knows what’s out there? Venture at your own risk.’”
It was how Paige felt about so many things in her life—about getting too close to someone, about sticking with a single art medium for too long, about graduating in a few weeks. She had no clue what she was going to do for work after the residency ended in June, let alone what she’d do about studio space and equipment.
All the old maps at the library, and in her room back at the Colony, gave Paige the idea for a new series she titled Maps and Monsters, for which she tried out a new technique, woodblock printing. Usually, Paige moved from one medium to something completely different. Now, though, she’d still be doing printmaking, but just adding a different skill to her arsenal. If she got good enough at different types of printing, maybe she could combine several of them into one project.
From the library, Paige went to a used bookstore on State Street, where she purchased some old atlases for next to nothing. Then she went to an art supply store on Gorham Street and bought blocks of tight-grained maple and a graver, or chisel. She planned to carve images into the wood of mythical sea creatures like the ones she’d seen in the rare book room, then stamp those images onto torn-out pages of the atlases.
When Paige got back to the Colony with her new supplies, Nell was in the kitchen, pouring herself a coffee.
“Hey, welcome back,” she said, sliding the carafe back into the coffee maker with a clatter. “Odin said you were staying with a friend?”
“For a few days, yeah,” Paige said. “Where’s Annie? Odin said she was let out.”
“She was, but she had to go back to court today for a status conference. She’s there with Josh right now.” Nell held both hands around her mug and leaned her back against the counter. “It’s been so quiet around here.”
Quiet sounded just fine to Paige, after geek metal. But she had really been hoping that Annie’s case would have been dismissed by now. “I can’t believe they’re actually following through on the charges,” she said. “Have you, like, called the papers or anything to see if they’d want to do a story about Annie’s case?”
Nell shook her head. “Usually Annie is all about drawing attention to her causes, but Josh told me she asked that we not talk to the papers. Something about Caroline’s family not necessarily wanting word to get out about how she died.”
Paige sat down on a counter stool. “Is there anything we can do to help?”
Nell put her mug down on the counter. “Do you remember me mentioning a group show? It’s one of the few requirements for the Colony that Betsy actually wrote out in the trust.”
Paige nodded. “I didn’t think much about it at the time because I didn’t have enough pieces to show. But I do now, with all my screen prints. And I’m starting up a new series, too, of woodblock prints.”
“Madison does a citywide Gallery Night on the first Friday of every month. What if we opened our doors to show some work and raise money for Annie’s case? Josh is handling it right now pro bono, but she might end up needing more help than he can give her. And I guess she’s already racked up court costs, and had to post money for bond. I called the organization that does the planning for Gallery Night. They print up a map ahead of time with a listing of all the places that are participating. The April one already happened, but it’s not too late to get added for May, if you and Odin are willing to do it. And Annie, of course.”
“I love the idea,” Paige said. “But aren’t you worried about, I don’t know, the Colony’s reputation or whatever?”
“I want the Colony’s reputation to be that it stands behind its residents. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I think Betsy would have agreed. She went to Annie’s most recent show in New York. I checked the date of the show and the date on Annie’s application. Annie applied for this residency after her show. I just have this feeling they met. And that Betsy knew at least something about what Annie was doing.”
“But what if she ends up actually getting convicted of something?” Paige asked.
“I thought about that, too,” Nell said. “Because I think we have to be prepared for that possibility. But everyone is entitled to a legal defense. And Annie doesn’t have any family or know many people in town who could help her out.”
“We’re the closest thing she has to family,” Paige said, nodding. “Count me in. What does Odin say about it?”
“I haven’t talked to him yet. But he probably has a few pieces he could show, don’t you think?”
“He’d better,” Paige said. “He’s out in the garage all the time.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Nell
PIECE: Gucci shoulder bag in brown coated canvas, trimmed in iconic green-and-red stripes, with monogram.
The upcoming Gallery Night gave Nell an excuse to follow up with Grady and finally get the wiring finished and the hole in the living room wall repaired. With everything patched and painted, she was finally able to rehang the Krasner and O’Keeffe paintings. They now occupied their rightful spots above the fireplace again, in their bright, contrasting beauty, instead of in the dark recesses of Betsy’s bedroom closet, which was where Nell had placed them for safekeeping.
Venturing back into the cavernous master bedroom closet motivated Nell to accomplish another long overdue task. Betsy’s will made clear that when she died, her home and estate were to be placed in trust and used to establish an artists’ colony—with one exception. The contents of her bedroom closet were supposed to go to a secondhand shop called Hourglass Vintage. According to the address written in the will, the shop was only a few blocks away. Still, Nell had been putting off the task because of the sheer number of items in Betsy’s closet. Inside hung not one but three fur coats—one ankle-length, one calf-length, and one that hit at the hip. Nell tried all of them on, running her hands along the soft hides. She was pretty sure Betsy wouldn’t have minded. There were purses arranged in rows on shelves, each contained in a protective flannel bag stamped with the designer’s logo. Nell had never been much into fashion, but even she recognized the name stamps: Fendi. Tod’s. Balenciaga. The closet contained a sizable fortune in handbags alone, not to mention a range of dresses and separates that from their styles looked like they dated back to at least the sixties.
As an art historian, Nell knew that such a well-curated collection deserved to be packed up properly and transported with care. She folded slacks and sweaters carefully into large plastic bins and hung the coats and dresses in garment bags, making a note of each item. She remembered, back when she first started, that Don had impressed upon her that she needed to keep track of all of the estate’s bequests, for tax purposes.
Nell loaded what she could into her car, knowing she’d have to make more than one trip, and drove the few blocks over to Johnson Street. When she saw the green bungalow with a sign that said Hourglass Vintage affixed to the front porch, she slowed and parked on the street. She hoisted one of the bins out of the trunk and made her way to the shop entrance, being careful not to slip on the slushy sidewalks under the awkward bulk of the container.
She couldn’t see very well over the top of the bin as she pushed open the front door, and she nearly knocked over a toddler with blond pigtails. A man in hospital scrubs scooped the child up and kissed her on the cheek, saying, “Watch where you’re going, big girl.” Then he called over his shoulder
to someone inside the store. “Are you sure it’s okay if I bring her here tomorrow for a couple of hours again? I’ve got lab and April has an exam.”
“Of course,” replied a woman’s voice. “Amithi gets back from India tomorrow. I’m sure she’d love to see little Katie.”
Nell stepped back from the door and let the man and the toddler pass. The little girl looked directly at Nell and waved bye-bye. Her dad set her down on the sidewalk and she splashed her feet in a puddle. Nell felt a pang of longing, but it was quickly followed by a reflexive smile. She said bye-bye back. The fact that she hadn’t dropped the plastic bin or burst into tears felt like a small measure of progress.
Nell went inside, setting off a chime above the door. In the front room, a woman with black hair and tortoiseshell glasses stood bent over the counter, arranging costume jewelry on a rack made from a curly piece of driftwood. Despite the sleet and wind outside, the woman had on a sleeveless black maxi dress and her cheeks were flushed. She had a starfish tattoo on her bicep.
At the sound of the door, the woman at the counter stood up straight. Nell could now see that she was very pregnant. For some reason, the sight didn’t trigger the sharp stab of sadness and jealousy that it usually did. Nell didn’t know if it was because so much had happened in the past couple of weeks or because the woman looked to be about forty or so, and Nell knew all too well that pregnancy didn’t always come easy for women of “advanced maternal age.” Whatever the reason, this too felt like progress.
“That cold air feels good,” the woman said.
Nell paused, resting the bin against one leg. “Do you want me to leave the door open?”
The woman shook her head. “Probably not a good idea, in terms of the heating bill. I’ll just have to sweat it out.”
Nell didn’t think it was hot inside the shop. If anything, it was a little drafty.
“What can I do for you?” the woman asked.
“I’m Nell. I’m the director of the artists’ colony that’s run out of Betsy Barrett’s old home. She left some things to the shop in her will.” Nell made her way to the counter and set the bin down on the floor.
“Oh!” the woman said, obviously delighted, but with a hint of sadness in her voice. “I’m Violet. We miss Betsy around here. Her lawyer told me back when she passed away that she left her clothing to us, but said it might take some time until we got it. Something about the administration of the estate being kind of complicated. I meant to get in touch with him to follow up and ask him about it but”—she looked down at her belly—“I’ve been kind of busy.”
“I see that. Congratulations,” Nell said. And she meant it. “I’ve got more things out in the car. I’ll go get them in a minute. But first, would you mind telling me a little bit about Betsy?”
Chapter Twenty-five
Betsy
PIECE: Miniature globe made from Venetian blown glass, acquired in 1958.
When Betsy was younger, people were nice to her because of her looks. They saw her pink cheeks, honeyed curls, and high cheekbones and projected onto her a bright, kind disposition to match. Her mother noticed, early in Betsy’s adolescence, the way the world laid itself at her daughter’s feet. She warned her not to get used to it.
“This is where pretty gets you,” she’d said once while standing at the stove. She’d gestured then, with a wooden spoon, toward her sagging breasts and thick ankles. “Before I had children, I used to look just like you do now, you know.”
At that moment, Betsy’s younger brother came barreling into the room, along with the three neighbor boys from next door. The boys chased each other noisily around the table, shedding chunks of dirty snow from their hand-me-down boots, until Betsy’s brother slipped and whacked his head on the edge of a chair. He began to wail and reached up to his mother, but at that moment she was removing a hot pot from the stove, so she shooed him away with a swish of her hip in Betsy’s direction.
Betsy scooped up her brother and smoothed her hand over his hair. “There, there, Zaba, you’re all right.”
No one called her brother by his given name, Xavier. Instead he went by the nickname Zaba, or frog, because of the way he was constantly hopping from one activity to the next. Betsy’s father insisted it was a term of endearment back in the old country, but the neighbor boys sometimes used it against him. All they had to do was call him Toad in front of his grammar-school friends if they wanted to get back at him for something.
Older than her brother by eight years, Betsy kept out of that sort of conflict for the most part. Instead she picked up, quite literally, where her mother’s exhaustion left off. She tidied and tended as needed, which was often. Betsy had wiped so many sticky cheeks and played so many hours of monotonous make-believe games in her teenage years that by the time she met Walt at the age of twenty, she already knew that motherhood was not for her. And she told Walt so, the same night he proposed to her.
It had been a magical evening. A magical trip, really—Betsy’s first one abroad—and it had whetted in her an appetite to see so much more. Walt had needed to go for work, and Betsy jumped at his invitation to go along, despite her mother’s very vocal reservations.
At thirty-four, Walt was quite a bit older than Betsy, but still the youngest executive at the Madison plastics manufacturer where he worked. Even so, he was the natural choice to send to Italy to negotiate contracts, having picked up the language when he was stationed there during the war. While Walt toured industrial plants scattered throughout the countryside, Betsy visited the many rural churches along their route.
At the end of a dirt road she found a fourth-century chapel with exquisite floor mosaics depicting scenes from the Stations of the Cross. Gold tiles gleamed from the halos and crowns adorning the saints beneath her feet. Though much of her Catholic upbringing had been lost on her, despite her parents’ best intentions, Betsy found herself kneeling on the floor of the chapel and running her hands over the smooth, timeworn tiles, not out of any sense of piety, but out of humility in the face of peerless human talent and skill.
An elderly priest came out of the sanctuary and, seeing her on her knees, said something in Italian. She caught nothing but “Cristo” from his fast, fluid words, but understood the smile behind his white beard, and the gesture he made toward the ceiling, where a Renaissance fresco stretched over the nave, depicting Mary being assumed into Heaven on a beam of light that seemed almost to glow from inside the plaster, despite the painting’s cracks and faded colors. Later, from talking at dinner with one of the Italian executives who was courting Walt’s business, Betsy learned that the painting was added in the sixteenth century by a student of Tintoretto. Such masterpieces, it seemed, were commonplace in this country.
At night, she and Walt would sit on the patio of the simple but elegant pensione his colleagues had recommended, sipping Barolo from small, stemless glasses and gazing over the tiled roofs of the village. In the mornings, they’d linger over a breakfast of espresso and crescent-shaped cornetto pastries in a nearby café. Betsy felt as if a whole new world had opened up for her. If just one small corner of Italy held so many treasures, how many, then, did the rest of the world contain?
After Walt had finished with his schedule of meetings, they spent a weekend in Venice. On their final day in Italy, Walt proposed to Betsy at twilight on a narrow bridge that arched over a quiet canal. Swept up in the romance of it all, she had pulled him up onto his feet and kissed him, long and slow. But then a church bell rang from a brick tower above them, and the weight of his question sank in.
She had only just discovered this world. He’d shown it to her, really. Never could she have afforded on her own to go to Italy. Walt had given her a glimpse into the possibility of what the world held, but then, with his surprise proposal, he’d yanked it away. Marriage, from what Betsy had seen in her own South Side neighborhood, meant pregnancy and children. It meant women never veering far from the circuit of supermarket and school, drugstore and church. It meant being teth
ered to home by the timer running on a roast in the oven and the pull of tiny hands on her skirt hem.
The lap of a gondolier’s pole underscored the silence that followed Walt’s question. As a boat slipped by beneath them, carrying another set of lovers, Walt squeezed Betsy’s hand.
“You haven’t answered my question,” he said. “Look, I know we haven’t known each other that long, but it’s long enough for me. I know it’s you I want to spend my life with. If you need a little time to make sure you feel the same way . . .”
“I do feel the same way.” She touched his cheek. “It’s not that. It’s just . . .”
Betsy broke his gaze. She studied the red flowers spilling out of a planter box built into the railing of the bridge, and she thumbed a rope of ivy that had wound its way around a lamppost. Suddenly, being here with Walt no longer felt like an adventure. The iconic beauty surrounding her seemed like an elaborate set. If Betsy accepted his proposal and the diamond ring that sparkled from the blue velvet box in his palm, the curtain would soon close on the wanderlust that had only just been awakened in her.
“Okay, forget the ring,” Walt said. “For now.” He stuffed the box back into the pocket of his sport coat. “Let’s go for a walk.”
They climbed down the steps of the pedestrian bridge and onto the sidewalk. The sidewalk was more of a ledge, really, crammed at a precarious slant between the sheer bank of the canal and the cavalry of ancient row houses casting shadows over the water. Walt reached out to take Betsy’s hand but, realizing there was no room, he gestured for her to step in front of him.
Betsy led the way through labyrinthine streets that opened at intervals into piazzas and parks. She didn’t know where she was going, but that was sort of the point. Since she and Walt first arrived in Venice, she’d teased him every time he took out his guidebook to study the map.