Kay couldn’t resist an opportunity for sarcasm.
“Is this what John D’Orfini thinks?”
“Your detective is leaning on the fixer’s cousin as we speak. He’s back in Brooklyn today. He just finished with the guy a little while ago. He told me to call after I got here to see if he could meet us in the city for a dinner meeting.”
It would be insane to tell Kay that Vinni was alive. Should I have whipped out the photo to show Kay and risked seeing my daughter again? I didn’t believe Vinni was in Canada with Hilda. The background in the photo showed houses with orange tile rooftops. People go home when they’re in trouble. Hilda took Vinni not to Rodenbach, but to someplace else in Germany where she knew she could hide.
KAY AND I met John D’Orfini at Gascoyne’s. The humidity forced his hair to curl more. His face had an extra layer of subway sweat from the steamy night. We were already seated when he walked in. Assuming we’d all order fish, Kay asked for a bottle of sauvignon blanc. The waiter poured John D’Orfini a glass. He gave it a sniff, nodded, and took a sip.
“Well?” Kay said. D’Orfini ignored her.
“Thanks for meeting me, Maddy. I know this is a surprise, but we may have something.”
Thanks? I thought. Thanks? Where did this man come from?
Kay took over. “I’ve already told Maddy about the fixer’s cousin. By the way, he’s also named Kosinki. Not to confuse you,” Kay said, as she looked at me from across the table. The dim lights made all of us look younger. Less hurt.
“I assume the nephew also claims to know nothing about the receipt found in the car?” Kay asked.
“Right. He’s useless,” John D’Orfini said, looking up from the menu. “French, huh? What should I order?” This was a modest Jersey foodie.
“Coq au vin,” I said.
“I told the nephew that kidnapping was a federal offense. That it was simple. He tells us what he knows about his dead uncle and how that receipt got into Hilda’s car, and we keep a world of misery away from him. There’s no question he knows something about what Uncle was involved in—the older Kosinski had to be grooming his cousin to succeed him. All the nephew told us is that the cousin visited five or six times over the years but had difficulty leaving his country for good. The community now trusts him to be the new fixer, replacing his deceased cousin.”
“It’s the Canadian connection that’s got me. Why would Hilda go to Canada? What’s there? Or who?” Kay asked.
“That’s the interesting part. The one thing Kosinski said . . .” John D’Orfini dropped his voice and added an imagined Russian accent. “Nobody from Brooklyn goes to Canada unless they want to hop a plane. I think he thought he was being funny, but he might have given something away.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Kay.
“I don’t,” I said.
“What if someone drove Hilda and Vinni just over the border so they could catch a plane out of the country?” John D’Orfini asked. “If she’d been drugged, Vinni could have slept the whole way to Canada. The right dose could get her through the gate, too tired to talk but able to walk without Hilda carrying her. She’d be a sleepy kid. That’s all.”
I flinched when I heard this. It all seemed real enough to make a movie, but this wasn’t a cinematic adventure. This was the story of my stolen daughter.
The young waiter placed the coq au vin in front of John D’Orfini and two identical entrees of lamb with pumpkin purée in front of Kay and me.
“Bon appétit,” he said.
How am I going to pay for this?
John D’Orfini looked about to say something in response, as if he thought it was required. I touched his arm and said, “Is there an airport near the border?”
He turned to Kay. “I need your help with the answer to that. Can your office do some checking with the border patrol? Find out what kind of records they keep? It’s got to be more secure since 9/11. Lots more paperwork. There might be records of cars crossing. Maybe surveillance cameras.”
“Even if there are, it’s almost five years ago,” Kay said.
“I know, but can you put someone from your office on it?”
Kay nodded. Nothing was official. Both were helping me on their own time. Especially John D’Orfini. He had traveled to Brooklyn on his day off. At least he was having a good dinner.
“Nice chicken dish. I’d like the recipe for this,” he said.
I watched his hands move with the grace of a skilled culinary artist. Deboning the breasts onto his plate. Working the dark meat from the legs and thighs, stewed in a wine sauce. Slicing the cipollini onions.
“You’re awfully quiet, Maddy,” John D’Orfini said. “I thought you’d be . . . I don’t know . . . pumping me, like you usually do.”
I had taken a single Xanax from my wallet and popped it into my mouth when I had gone to the restroom before the entrées were served.
I did have one question.
“Is the new Mr. Kosinski working at the clock-and-timepiece shop his cousin owned? Did he take over the business?” I asked.
“That he did, and more.” John D’Orfini smiled, as if he had just swallowed a joke.
“What?” I asked.
“He restores antique dolls. That’s his specialty. The guy couldn’t stop talking about it. Seems people from all over are bringing him broken dolls to restore. The community is happy to see the shop reopened. The man calls himself a ‘dollologist.’ He changed the name of his cousin’s place to the Doll and Clock Shop.”
“Where is it?” I asked.
“Two blocks north of Mueller’s Bakery.”
Kay and I passed on the selection of soufflés for dessert. John D’Orfini chose chocolate, and for the next twenty-five minutes, he and Kay talked about Hilda’s blue car and the two Mr. Kosinskis—one living and one dead—while we waited for his dessert.
I wanted the night to end so I could visit the Doll and Clock Shop in the morning. I wondered what the new Kosinski’s voice sounded like.
Kay left before the soufflé was served. It was late. The restaurant had emptied.
John D’Orfini scooted the rich, dark dessert in front of me so I could taste. We were in a quiet corner, alone, except for a single man seated at a table for two. After a last bite of the heavenly chocolate, John D’Orfini said, “Let’s go home.”
He ignored my attempt to reach for my purse and paid the bill.
I took a quick look outside as we left the restaurant. We did not hold hands as we walked back to my place. Both of us had silently agreed a long time ago to hide our relationship from the public eye. Although we were more careful about it in Spring Haven, we still followed an understanding on the streets of New York City. When I closed the door to my apartment, John D’Orfini reached for me and slipped his hands, warmed from his pockets, inside my coat, finding their way underneath my sweater. His breath inside my ear, slow and deep, matched my reaching for him as I warmed myself against the insides of his legs. It was about the heat—I had been cold for too long. With Steve, when he had come inside me, I had daydreamed about cycling up a long mountain until I could reach the top and jump. With the detective, I wanted to linger so I could taste all of him. When he stepped back, I took his hand and led him into the bedroom.
Before he fell asleep, all he said was, “Great soufflé. That’s an art. Baking a great soufflé takes real culinary skill.” I leaned my head on his shoulder and mmm-ed in agreement. In the middle of the night, I slipped out of bed and walked into the studio. I searched through the bin of misplaced junk I had been collecting from my walks—screws, pennies, nails, buttons, key chains, hardware of any kind—and began gluing them to the canvas.
THIRTY-TWO
TUBA’S DRIVER PICKED ME UP IN THE CITY AND DROVE me to her estate in Damson. She had arranged for my work to be hung earlier in the week but wanted me to approve it. We had had lengthy discussions by phone, followed by e-mails confirming the placement of the paintings. “Welcome. We’re ready for you,
dear. It’s going to be a wonderful weekend,” she said when she floated out of the house, wearing a floor-length sea-green tunic. As she took my arm, she said, “I’ve invited some special guests to your artist’s reception. Two curators from the Käthe Kollwitz Museum in Cologne. I will be pleased to make the introductions tomorrow.” Her eyes lit up with genuine excitement.
Stunned, I felt inadequate and alone.
The evening before my show, Tuba’s personal chef served a sumptuous dinner on the patio, with seared tuna as the appetizer. To my pleasant surprise, Stanley walked in just as we were about to sit. Tuba lifted a crystal flute and made the toast: “To Maddy and her art.”
Stanley gave an enthusiastic “Here, here!”
I took a sip of the pink champagne.
“To Vinni!” I said, and raised my glass. My eyes glistened and filled.
Silence hung over the table for a few beats, until Tuba said softly, “Yes, of course—to Vinni!” She rearranged the wide sleeve of her tunic so it fell longer over the back side of her shoulder.
The next day, I awoke early to walk on the beach. After a few steps, I had a sudden urge to go faster. I started running, but the sound of my name interrupted me.
“Maddy! Maddy!” Kay jogged from behind and caught up with me. Tuba had invited her to come and enjoy the day. Kay had mentioned it, but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to arrive early. At the last minute, Tuba had arranged a car service. They had met only once, through me, but Tuba never missed an opportunity to lay the foundation for a favor.
“When did you arrive?” I said.
“Just now, but when did you start running? I thought you were a walker.”
“I am. Something came over me and I couldn’t stop.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m nervous about my work—all these people.” I slowed down. Running was still difficult with my left foot.
Kay fell in step with me.
“I peeked at what’s been hung in the gallery. It’s magnificent,” she said. Then she took me by the shoulders. “You’re magnificent. Try to give yourself time off from . . . thinking too much. You know what I mean.”
We walked back to the estate, arms wrapped around each other’s waists like schoolgirls.
JOHN D’ORFINI FOUND me in the gallery.
“Congratulations, Maddy. I’m impressed.”
“Thanks for coming,” I said, as if stones were soaking in my mouth.
“Of course. I wouldn’t miss this. You knew I would come, right?”
“You never called.” I bit my tongue.
“Uh . . .” He stopped and looked away, addressing the air around him. “Aren’t artists supposed to focus on their art before a show?”
This was John D’Orfini’s way of deflecting accusation with a touch of humor. I had known he’d come. It was his voice that I missed. I began to sweat. The silk fabric of my fitted white jacket was unforgiving in warm weather.
Tuba distracted me from John D’Orfini’s attention.
“They’re here,” she said, as she guided me with her arm slipped into mine. “The curators from the Kollwitz Museum in Cologne. They want to meet you.”
“Yes, of course.” I believed it to be a simple introduction.
Two men stood in front of my painting Number Eleven. I had begun it on the last day of December when Vinni had been missing for three years. Babies with mouths open wide showed pink, watery gums. By the time I finished the piece—months later— dozens and dozens of baby heads poked in and among the clouds. The howling mouths startled people as they walked by, stopped, and stared.
Along one wall hung the series Number One through Number Five. In two pieces, I painted a single, oversize eye in the shape of a triangle. A cyclops container. The points of the triangle dripped onto the canvas like a teardrop brushed in black charcoal. Inside the eye lay another eye, distorted and compressed. In the cyclops version, scenes of horror included miniature versions of fragmented fingers, tiny feet, an elbow bent into a sharp rectangle, and a pair of lips.
Number Six through Number Ten moved away from the face. Once, on a walk to Harlem in the heat of July, I came upon a group of half-dressed children, no older than six, running in and out of gushing water sprung from a fire hydrant. Their laughter howled into steamy streets.
I thought about the difference between a howl of pain and one of pleasure. I tried to capture this in the next five paintings—a series of headless torsos. Where was the thinking child? The vital child? The whole child? Where was my child? I knew I disturbed the viewer with expanded ribs of a baby caught inside an internal cage. I scripted one word repeated on the outer edges of this series—“Hosanna”—culled from a hymnbook my father kept in a bookcase in the living room.
Number Twelve and Number Thirteen shifted to the lower legs and feet of a child. Crippled and bowed, the legs swelled around the kneecaps. Paintings titled Number Fourteen through Number Eighteen concentrated on a baby’s plump body drawn curled inside the mother’s womb.
I noticed one woman sobbing quietly with her hand over her mouth as she stood in front of Number Eleven. When she saw me looking in her direction, she nodded, acknowledging me as the artist. I had told Tuba that I didn’t want any introduction. I wanted to mingle with the group in the gallery. Some recognized me from the photo on the poster outside the entrance. People walked by and shook my hand. Some lightly touched my elbow.
“Congratulations, Ms. Stewart!” said one of the men from Cologne.
“Thank you.”
“We look forward to seeing you in Cologne at the festival.”
Tuba smiled and said, “I haven’t talked to her yet about the festival, but I’m sure it will work out.”
I looked at Tuba. “Festival?” I was a freelancer in Manhattan who had lost a child. I had an achy foot and a crush on a detective from Jersey. To go to Germany to exhibit in an international art show was beyond my comprehension.
“Number Eleven for sure, but we’ll leave the others up to our lovely hostess,” said the second curator. He bowed slightly toward Tuba, and she blinked in silent agreement.
“I’ll be happy to take care of things on this end,” she said.
The men smiled at me and said, “Gut. Gut.”
I wondered what Tuba had planned. Was I traveling to Germany with her?
“Excuse me for a moment, Maddy.” I was unsure whether I should follow and ask her what she was talking about, or wait. Instead, I lifted a flute of pink champagne from a waiter’s serving tray and took a sip. The chilled rosé satisfied me. I removed my jacket and slipped it over the back of a chair. As I adjusted the sleeves, I felt someone standing behind me. I turned and looked into the eyes of a tired, pale-faced woman.
I pulled back. “You startled me.” I had not expected to see the baker, although I knew Tuba had invited hundreds to enjoy the show.
Hannah’s face looked about to crumble. She reached for my hand, and I let her hold on to me, but I did not return the grasp. “What is it?” I asked, frightened that she might tell me something I did not want to hear.
“Your work. The paintings of the babies with their mouths open. The wailing.”
“Number Eleven,” I said.
Hannah pushed.
“Secrets . . . they make us do things,” she pleaded.
In the quietest of voices, I asked, “What things?”
Hannah laid her other hand on mine. “You will paint different babies soon. Happy babies,” she said in a low voice. She touched my arm just above the wrist.
I looked into Hannah’s tired eyes. She leaned in and whispered into my ear as her cheek touched mine. “Soon, you will receive a call and life will be good again. You will paint happy babies. You wait.”
My response was to hug her, throw myself into her arms, but all I did was grab her shoulders. “Wait?” I said. “How much longer?”
Hannah placed her hands over mine. Her lips trembled. “Not long. Of this, you can be sure.” Then she moved back into the
crowd.
I stood alone in the middle of the room. Kay caught my eye from a cozy corner where she was engaged in a conversation with two men, each tall and available-looking. I watched as she maneuvered her way toward me.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Kay said, as she brushed a few thin hairs behind my ear. “What’s the matter?”
I shook my head.
“Come on. I saw Hannah talking to you. What did she say?”
“It was nothing.”
John D’Orfini had disappeared. It would have been nice to have him at my side.
Kay leaned in and said, “You’re lying.”
I rolled my response around in my head, weighing my options.
“I love you, Kay. I’ve always loved you.”
Kay looked shocked. “Well, I love you, too, but that’s not going to let you off the hook. What did Hannah tell you?”
“She told me to wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“For Vinni to come home.”
THE SIGN ON the shop window said CLOSED, but lights were on and the outer door was wide open. A locked screen door was the only clue the shop was closed to the public until the following week.
I rang the buzzer and knocked. I could see and hear people talking inside, a few feet away from the storefront. I had no intention of leaving until I heard the dollologist speak. I had known I’d recognize the gruff voice of the man in the black limousine. My foot had healed faster than I’d expected, but my heart thumped wildly when I thought of his promise that Vinni would be mine if I waited.
“We’re closed.” I recognized the brash voice of the fixer’s nephew. I wished John D’Orfini were here. He was late, just as I had known he would be. His plan was to meet me in Brooklyn at the shop.
“You want to drive in to Brooklyn?” I’d asked.
“Why not?” he said.
A Matter of Chance Page 21