I look for that memory imprinted in my brain somewhere: the clatter of paint cans on the linoleum floor, the clang against the metal shelves, Dad’s calm reaction.
But I don’t remember.
I want Fareed to keep talking. To tell me more stories. To give me the information I need.
“You be like your dad,” Fareed says. “Be the peace. As an artist, and a person.”
If only it were so easy.
I nod. “Hey, Fareed, you know my dad’s asterism paintings?”
“Of course, yes, those are spectacular.”
“Did he buy the paints for them here?”
“I don’t think so. We only carry basic acrylics. I don’t think he used acrylics for those. Probably used oils from one of the paint stores downtown.”
“Well, thanks, anyway.” I’m about to leave, not sure what else to ask him, when Fareed clears his throat to speak again. I turn back, hoping for more about Dad, or the asterisms. Instead, he holds out a thin envelope.
“Just one favor, since I haven’t seen your mom in a while. Can you give her this?”
“Sure.” I take the envelope, which is sealed shut, with Mom’s name, Sally Rosenbloom, handwritten on the outside. It has a security lining so I can’t see what’s inside. But something flat, like a letter. Or a receipt. Or a bill.
The twine handles of the shopping bags, heavy with the wood panels, dig into my wrists, cutting off my circulation as I wonder what it is.
Fareed senses my hesitation. “Don’t worry about a thing. Your dad, he was good to me. Just give that to your mom.”
The envelope weighs nothing, but my curiosity about what’s in it grows heavier and heavier as I walk home. I put it on top of my backpack so I’ll remember to bring it with me when I meet Mom for lunch at the Met.
In my room, I clear a space on the desk for my art projects.
First I decide to try playing with the glitter. Moondust.
I set down one of the wood panels and use a silver Sharpie to draw my face in simple lines. Then I squeeze glue along the lines. And sprinkle on the glitter.
But the glue spreads and distorts the lines, and it doesn’t look like a portrait of a girl in dust at all. It just looks like curving lines of glitter on wood. The problem is that the glitter has no contour or shading.
Okay, what about another way? I take a second panel and cover the whole thing in glue and glitter. And then use my finger to trace my portrait. I like that idea conceptually—making my mark in the lunar dust—but again, it turns into a mess. I don’t even try the third and fourth panels, because my fingers are sticky with gluey glitter.
As I scrub my hands clean in the sink, I’m grateful that at least I have the Valentine’s card designs to work on. I know exactly what I need to do for those.
Back at my desk, my hand relaxes and my mind drifts as I work on the letters and patterns for the cards. This is a different kind of art. It doesn’t make my brain and heart ache in the same way. I’m not trying to capture some big truth; I’m just trying to make it look pretty.
I sketch the ideas the Mermaids and I planned out. The one that’s hardest to get right is the figures of the girl and boy drawn from behind holding hands. I have to think of a specific person when I draw a figure, and the only girl and boy who come to mind are me and Theo.
I decide to change some details, because I don’t mean for them to actually be us. So I give Theo black hair, and I give me bronze-brown hair, kind of like Harper’s. How much easier to draw myself when I don’t have to show my face, when I can change my hair to make it look like someone else’s.
Time passes so quickly working on the cards that before I know it, I need to leave to meet Mom for lunch. I finish up my work and take my folder of card sketches with me in case I get inspired to work on them at the Met.
The envelope from Fareed stares up at me from on top of my backpack. He gave it to me, so it can’t be that private. I should give it straight to Mom, but I need to know what it is. Maybe something about Dad. What if Dad gave Fareed a drawing—an asterism sketch? I slide my finger beneath the flap, trying to open it as neatly as possible.
Inside, there’s one of Fareed’s handwritten bills. The ones that Mom is supposed to pay monthly. This one shows November, December, and January. Three whole months. Stamped in red with a big fat “UNPAID.”
Could things be that bad? Mom said something the other night about how she’s hoping the exhibit will drive up the prices for Dad’s art. If it’s so bad that she can’t even pay the bill for Golden Leaf Stationers, then what?
I put the bill back into the envelope and seal it with a piece of tape.
My heart jitters with everything on my mind—Theo and Harper, NYC ART, Royal, the sketch for the last asterism—and now the Golden Leaf bill, burning in my backpack, like a meteor whizzing within inches of Earth’s orbit.
In the lobby, the fake cheerful voices of the TV news echo from inside Mrs. Velandry’s apartment. She could use some extra love now. I look through my card design sketches and choose the one that’s a dog holding a heart. It looks like a Shih Tzu. Like Royal. I slip it under her door and hope it makes her feel better—like it made me when I drew it—not sadder.
Chapter
Fourteen
The Metropolitan Museum of Art overshadows everything around it, with its gigantic columns and welcoming wide steps. Tourists bundled in puffy coats and winter boots mill along Fifth Avenue, salty smells waft from the pretzel and hot dog carts. The bustle of people continues in the Great Hall. Voices echo off the vaulted ceilings. Arrangements of red-berry branches burst from the giant vases in the wall niches.
I weave through the crowds and flash my membership card to get an admission sticker. Some of the familiar-looking guards nod at me.
The Met was my indoor play space when I was little. We’d go almost every weekend as a family. In Arms and Armor, Dad pretended we were knights and princesses. In the period rooms, I imagined I was exploring a life-sized dollhouse. In the modern art galleries, Dad explained the art and told me stories about the artists.
Now I pass through the medieval galleries, the French period rooms, and into the Petrie Court. The Petrie Court, which sounds kind of gross, like petri dish, is actually a glass atrium full of sculptures, overlooking the park. I’m greeted by the sculpture of Perseus, sword out, dangling the head of Medusa. When I was little, I liked to pretend Perseus and all the other sculptures were real people who were temporarily frozen. This makes the whole place kind of creepy.
I slip past the line at the café to find Mom seated at a table by the window, talking on her phone. She ends her call when she sees me.
“That was Harriet. She told me you called last night. She was worried about you. Remember, you can call me, too.”
I roll my eyes. Of course Theo’s mom told her. They tell each other everything. “You were busy.”
“Not too busy to talk to you. I’m always here for you. In fact, Harriet and I decided that what we need is a pizza-and-movie night.”
“We just had dinner on Sunday,” I say. “Wasn’t that enough for this week?”
“Well, Harriet and I want to.”
“What about what I want?”
“Why don’t you want to, anyway?”
“Because—Theo’s angry at me.”
“Why?” Mom’s all alarmed. The possibilities of what I might’ve done running through her head.
“Because, I told you. I’m becoming better friends with Harper Willis, and I don’t think he gets it.”
Mom’s face goes from alarmed to understanding. “That’s all normal at your age. Friendships change; people grow. But like I said, you and Theo, we as families, have something special that will never change.”
What about, what if, we can’t afford to live in our apartment anymore? If Mom can’t even pay our Golden Leaf Stationers account, how can she pay our rent, and for school? Maybe I’ll have to switch schools, move apartments. What then—would that change how The
o and Harriet feel about us?
I’m about to hand her Fareed’s envelope when the server comes over to take our orders. I get my usual, tomato soup with extra cheese sticks. And a Sprite, which Mom doesn’t keep at home but I’m allowed to have in restaurants. But then, as the server leaves, I think about the cost of paying extra for a drink.
I hand Mom the envelope. She opens it. Her eyebrows knit together as she looks at it. She sighs and slides it into her bag. “You looked at it, didn’t you?”
I’m about to deny it, but instead I nod. I want to know, anyway. What it means for us.
“This isn’t as bad as it looks,” she says. “Sometimes I just forget. Things slip my mind these days. So much to take care of, to organize, to stay on top of. But once the exhibit opens, it’ll get better. I promise.”
I wonder what she means by “get better”—that she’ll be able to sell Dad’s art for more money? Even, maybe, a drawing like G, age 10? Because selling that sounds a whole lot worse to me.
“Sally!” a voice calls as we’re finishing up our lunch. A deep, rumbling voice that boomerangs around the gallery and that perfectly fits the tall woman striding toward us. Gray hair cut sharp at her chin, black pants and a fuchsia blouse, and a neck that sticks forward like she’s spent too many years examining art.
“Evelyn Capstone?” I whisper to Mom. She nods. Evelyn Capstone is the head curator for the modern art department. Kind of like Mom’s boss for the Hank Rosenbloom exhibit. I haven’t seen her in a few years. But she’s the kind of person who leaves a lasting impression, and Mom talks about her all the time at home. “Evelyn this, and Evelyn that . . .” Mom sees her as a mentor.
I hurry to finish chewing my food and wipe at the crumbs around my mouth.
“Evelyn, so nice for you to come by. You remember Georgia.”
“It’s been too long. Thrilled to see you.” Evelyn extends her red finger-nailed hand to me. Her rings dig into my hand and I try to remember to make eye contact with her as we shake, but I worry that she’s noticing the crumbs I missed in the corners of my mouth.
“I’m so enjoying working with your mother on preparing the show. She always says such wonderful things about you. That you’re becoming quite the talented artist.”
“I guess.”
“She might’ve told you that part of my job is to judge NYC ART, and I hear you’re finally old enough to enter.” She looks at me expectantly, as if I should be jumping for joy at this news.
I raise my eyebrows at Mom.
Evelyn tilts her head in confusion. “Didn’t you tell me, Sally?”
Mom looks torn, like she doesn’t want to admit that the daughter of Hank Rosenbloom isn’t bothering to enter.
So I say it for her: “I’m not entering.”
Evelyn doesn’t hide her surprise. “That’s a shame. I bet your mom would’ve liked to have your first art show at the Met at the same time as your dad’s. But artists follow many different paths to success. There isn’t just one way.”
Now I beam up at her. Someone who understands. I feel a sense of relief for the first time since I’ve made my decision.
“That’s definitely true, but . . .” Mom takes a sip of her water. “Will you join us for coffee or tea?”
“No time today—there are some catalogue pages I want to review with you. But I’d love to have lunch with you both one day soon—to get to know you better, Georgia.”
“Sure.” I try to catch Mom’s eye. Why would Evelyn want to get to know me better? But Mom’s clearly pleased that Evelyn is being so kind, so I figure it’s one of those things adults say that they don’t really mean.
Evelyn waits while Mom pays the check, and we get up from the table. As we walk toward the modern galleries, the ornate marble and fancy details of the sculpture court give way to plain white box rooms.
On the ground floor, we see Georgia O’Keeffe’s Cow Skull: Red, White, and Blue.
“Really,” I whisper to Mom. “This is who you chose to name me after? She painted cows’ skulls for fun!”
Evelyn overhears me and laughs. “Would you prefer to be called Jasper or Jackson?” she asks as we pass by Jasper Johns’s White Flag and Jackson Pollock’s Autumn Rhythm. I love Jackson’s enormous canvas spattered and dripped with black, brown, and white paint. And Jasper’s idea of draining an American flag of its familiar color. I get something like a steady drumbeat in my chest when I look at those paintings that I don’t get with Georgia’s.
We reach the wall where Dad’s painting of Mom as an asterism, Sally in the Stars, usually hangs.
But it’s gone.
There’s an empty space and a handwritten slip of paper taped next to the wall label.
“The painting is already down in preparation for the exhibition,” Evelyn explains. “It’s in my office.”
At the door of the modern art department offices, Mom asks if I want to come in for a minute to see it.
I say yes, jumping at the chance.
“I bet it’s been a while since you’ve gotten to look at it without all these other people around,” Evelyn says, gesturing at the visitors who watch us curiously as Mom swipes her badge on the card reader. It beeps and lights up green, and the door clicks to let us in. The first room is a large open space, with a round table in the center, the walls covered in bookshelves holding the department’s reference books.
Mom sets her workbag on the table and starts pulling out folders and papers. Evelyn leads me down a long corridor of offices and cubicles to the office at the very end. The largest one, with a huge window overlooking Central Park. But I don’t care about the view, because my eye is drawn directly to Sally in the Stars. It’s like coming face-to-face with Dad’s spirit. The darkness of the background glows, like outer space, and the flecks of white—the stars—flicker on the surface.
I stand before it and realize how different the asterism paintings look depending on where they hang. Bird in the Tree looked so stiff and formal hanging on the wall of Mr. Willis’s office, in a private place that very few people ever get to see. Here, Sally in the Stars seems cozier, propped up on the floor against the wall. Maybe also because it’s familiar—I’ve seen it so many times before, whenever I go to the Met—and because it’s a portrait of Mom. All those things make it more personal.
So personal, that it’s okay for me to touch.
While Evelyn is busy at her desk, checking e-mails on her computer, I reach out and curl my fingers behind the rough canvas, gently pulling it away from the wall toward me.
I know better than this. I know I shouldn’t touch it. But I need to. I need to see if there’s anything there. This painting is finished—there’s a better chance that Dad might’ve actually drawn asterism points on the back. Evelyn seems too caught up in her e-mails to notice what I’m doing.
I get a quick peek at the back just as Evelyn shouts, “Georgia!”
I snap to attention.
“No touching the art! Not even in my office,” she says.
“Oops, sorry.” I carefully lean the canvas back into place.
But I got what I needed. There were marks on the back! All I had time to take in was that they were more than pencil marks—darker, like charcoal. Charcoal is denser and would leave a stronger mark. So it makes sense that Dad would’ve used it, not pencil, to sketch on the back of a canvas.
“Can I take a picture of the painting on my phone?” I ask.
“Sure. Same rules as for the public—no flash.”
I snap a few because now I have an idea. I can hold up the photo of the painting next to that drawing of Mom on the mantel, at least to see if the points Dad painted would correspond to the lines of the drawing.
I give Mom an unexpected kiss as I let myself out of the offices, one step closer to proving that my drawing is Dad’s sketch for the last asterism.
On my way out of the museum, I decide to pay a visit to one particular painting. I push through the doors into the galleries of European paintings. These painting
s are calm and soothing compared to the modern paintings, where the artists are trying to break through the canvas—tear things apart to make a statement.
The old master portraits gaze down on me, like they’re full of reassurance: “Don’t worry,” they’d say. “It’ll all be okay in the end. Everything works out for the best,” or something like that. I’d like to go up to each one and have a conversation, listen to their stories, hear how they came to have their portraits painted.
And there he is.
Rembrandt.
His forehead is wrinkled, and he looks at me with an expression of truth on his face. Like Mr. B pointed out to us, his hat slants on his head, casting one eye more in shadow. That’s the eye that looks hazier, less direct. The other eye is brighter, more focused.
I let my vision blur and try to transpose Dad’s face onto Rembrandt’s. Dad, before he was sick.
I try to picture what color I’d use to paint him. But all I can see is black and white. It’s like Jasper Johns’s American flag—every last trace of color has drained from my memories of Dad.
Chapter
Fifteen
At home I hold up the image of Sally in the Stars on my phone next to the drawing of Mom on the mantel, but any which way I turn it, I can’t make the points line up. Which double confirms that Dad didn’t use this drawing of Mom as a sketch for the painting.
But I did see marks on the back of the canvas; maybe he just made the painting directly from those marks.
And then I think about all those other drawings of her I saw this morning. The ones that made Mom blush, that I didn’t finish looking through because I did not want to see Mom nude.
I’d make myself finish looking through those drawings of her now, if I could. But the portfolio is gone. I search through the piles on the table twice, but I’m pretty sure Mom stuffed it in her workbag along with other papers she brought to the Met today.
Many Points of Me Page 9