Catch 26

by Carol Prisant

  Instead, though, she started to think.

  Elizabeth had told her she was boring. Not worth her valuable time.

  So what if Satan had forgotten her now? What if, like a run-over stray on the highway, she’d been left here just to suffer and to die?

  And if that were so, then what if, she mused, keeping an eye out for a bus stop, what if – just hypothetically – she could find a man – any man – before tomorrow night? And marry him? Yes, she’d have to marry him, of course. Because she wouldn’t lose her soul that way. If she could find herself a man. A “green card” soulmate, she thought, and it made her laugh aloud. Because how, after all, would Liz – Satan-Mrs. Andros even know if it was love or not? It might actually be love at first sight. Like it had been with André. (Her heart contracted in her chest.) But why not? Even at the age of eighty-one.

  Don’t be ridiculous, Frannie thought. Senile dementia settling in.

  The bus dropped her off downtown, and she wasn’t particularly good at “downtown,” although as Fernanda she recalled, as she hobbled to a street sign, she had now and then wished she were gutsy enough to live here. Because “downtown” was so cool. And while Fernanda had ultimately been incredibly streetwise in her dealings with men, she wasn’t cool at heart. And, of course, she’d known that about herself. She’d been Frannie, at heart, the whole time.

  But tonight Frannie’s heart had no need of cool. She was going to go to a movie. With a nickel for some candy and a dime for the show. Bliss. Childhood bliss. Do we never get old inside, she wondered?

  Just two films were being shown tonight, however: The Lion in Winter, which she’d seen when it first came out, and Repulsion, which she’d watched on PBS. Standing at the entrance, out of the wind and trying to decide, the Lion felt really apt to her, especially tonight, and she’d already bought her ticket, her soda and popcorn when she flashed on yesterday. She was wrong, she decided. Repulsion would have been perfect, too.

  Frannie chose a seat halfway down and glanced around. Mostly women were here, women like her and one or two single people, but lots of gray heads. Manhattan in a nutshell, she mused. And she was one of the nuts.

  As the trailers ended and the lights went down, Frannie prepared for her enchantment. But when the front credits rolled, saw that Hepburn was in this. Hepburn again. She’d always disliked her.

  On the other hand, Anthony Hopkins was playing a prince. Young Hannibal Lecter, what a surprise! And wasn’t he about her age? Not her current age, of course, but near enough. As was Peter O’Toole. (Or was he dead?) In any case, Peter O’Toole reminded her vaguely of someone. Who? She was halfway through the film, and savoring his beauty, his voice, his ego, and she still couldn’t think. At the end, however, she stayed in her seat to watch it all again. The usher sweeping up let her stay; a very old lady with nowhere to go. He was right.

  But now, this second time around, she watched it for Peter alone.

  Who was he?

  It was on the street outside that it came to her: Clary Howell.

  She’d forgotten Clary Howell. That lovely man. Could he still be alive? Had she grown old enough now for him?

  And what could she possibly do about it? Call and ask him to marry her?

  Frannie needed to think. There was a diner still open and cheery just down the street. She’d take a minute on her way to … wherever, and have a cup of tea. Clary Howell. How could he have slipped her mind? His number.… where was his number? She riffled through the pockets in her purse, her wallet.

  On her desk at Berger’s.

  And so, just after 10:00 the next morning – her last day on earth – Frannie Turner, having spent the night at a sad Midtown hotel. And wearing the same slept-in clothes, she slipped through the front doors of her former place of employment and painfully made her way across the deserted lobby. Her movements were cautious, which made her impatient with herself. But the floors here were worrisome. Marble. She didn’t need to break a hip today. (She wasn’t sure why.)

  And here was Danny, still, his hair gone all white, like her own. He didn’t acknowledge her, nor did the other Berger’s guards, most of them new. So she was invisible once more, and that made her miss the little stir Fernanda invariably caused. Until she passed near Charles Raff, that is, and regrets all fled away. Softly paunchy after fifteen years, Charles was working on some clients near the escalator. His eyes flicked her way as she walked by, and that was all. Stupidly, she felt a tiny bit hurt by that. She felt in her pockets for her gloves.

  Today’s exhibition appeared to be Works on Paper, in which case, what was Charles doing here? Had he switched departments? She saw Richard Sinclair nearby as well. He was leafing through a catalogue. And then she remembered: Old Master Prints.

  On impulse, she approached him.

  “Excuse me, young man.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Can I assist you with something?”

  He bent down to her so helpfully, so courteously, that her heart was thrilled and pained. But her eye, regrettably, was caught by the much-enlarged bald spot on his head. It struck her then that Richard had always been a something of a monk in disguise: so studious and dedicated and kind. She felt lucky to have known him. And she missed him very much right now.

  She’d readied a not-too-silly question: a complicated query about a Rembrandt etching she’d passed on the adjoining wall. It would give him a perfect chance to shine. But now, seeing his expectant face, his glasses refracting all the lights (had Richard always worn glasses?), her playfulness disappeared.

  “I was just wondering if you knew the way to the ladies’ room,” she murmured.

  But he was looking at her too long, long enough that her heart began to thud.

  “I’m so sorry, ma’am. I don’t know. Let me find someone to ask for you.”

  “Oh, no,” she began, “don’t bother.… ”

  But he’d walked away, and she followed his receding figure as he approached the nearest guard. Was he asking if the man had noticed anything odd or familiar about the old lady in the rolled-up jeans who was just now peering – with feigned interest, surely – at a Dürer? Was she in Berger’s to use the bathroom? To steal a print? Was he asking the guard to keep an eye on her?

  He headed back her way, and Frannie shrugged apologetically and mutely pointed in the direction she knew the ladies’ room to be. Richard nodded and with a genuine smile – such a sweet smile – gave her a wave.

  But how to make her way upstairs to the Old Masters floor and its offices; a daunting two flights up.

  Nodding to the guard, Frannie started toward the restrooms but then, rounding the corner, slipped instead through the unmarked door to the utility stairs: the very same stairs, she remembered with a pang, that she’d raced up that exultant day, to see the Botticelli. Today, the staircase was costing her. By the sixth step, in fact, her knees had turned to boulders. At the landing, the hip she’d bumped was aflame. Frannie clutched at the railing as she started the second flight, ultimately using it to pull herself up. Her heart was weakly hammering at its rusted, fragile cage, until, thoroughly out of breath, Frannie eased open the door to the familiar corridor and peered warily around the door. Empty. Although with Charles and Richard at the exhibition downstairs, maybe other members of the staff would be working in the offices today. Even Courtney perhaps? If Courtney was still here.

  But should anyone stop her, she’d made up her mind to be a dotty old lady who’d lost her way. Which – except for the dotty part – she truly was.

  But her chest was really hurting her now, and she was breathing hard as she tapped in the old code. Magically, those numbers still worked.

  She pushed through the door and felt, instantly, at home. She leaned against the inner door and sighed. Because, despite the imperfections – the infighting, maneuvering, the jealousy, the discord, the ploys – it was sacred to her here, and would always feel that way.

  She tiptoed as best she could along the main aisle and passed several open cubicles, n
one of them occupied, none of them Courtney’s, and saw that nothing much had changed. Except for the maddening fluorescent fixtures. Those were gone, and that made the workspace, although still dim, much better lit. And warmer, somehow. She thought she heard far-off voices for a moment, but no, the offices were empty of staff, thank God. Everyone travelling? Enjoying a Sunday off? Searching for Fernanda Turner?

  Of course not. That was years ago.

  Her purposeful detour past Courtney’s old desk revealed a pair of poignant photographs. So she was still here. Beside the one she remembered of Courtney’s daughters holding hands on the old Scarsdale lawn, the new ones depicted each of the girls in a lovely bridal gown. She was happy for her friend – who had, in truth, been her friend. She left the tin of mints on her desk to wish her well.

  And just over there was her own messy desk. Not her desk, naturally: some other lucky soul’s. There was a laptop on it, too. Noiselessly, Frannie flipped it open and typed in Clary’s name. Nothing. She tried once again. Howell, Clarence. And waited. She refreshed the screen. No results.

  So along with her credit cards, her face, her body, her bank account – all her lost, lovely life – he’d been simply wiped away. She lowered herself to the desk chair, dropped her head on her arms and wept.

  Eventually, with her neck and her body stiff with the pain of the climb up those stairs, Frannie dried her eyes on her coat sleeve, pulled herself as together as she was able and got ready to leave. It was then that the dulled silver shine of the filing cabinets caught her eye. Sending a grateful thanks to the executive Luddites who’d insisted the gallery save everything on paper, she found the H drawer and, snatching up a legal pad, scribbled his number in a quavery, foreign scrawl. She looked at her writing in amazement. But she could read it. That’s what mattered. She’d phone him as soon as she got to the street.

  Even more cautiously now, she eased her way back through the narrow aisles to the heavy metal entrance and stepped soundlessly into the hall before allowing the door to click shut behind her. And there … almost right in front of her … was Peregrine Middleditch, deeply absorbed in a catalogue, it appeared, but rapidly heading her way. Her first thought was, somehow, to creep away. But then Frannie remembered who she was and all she’d learned. She realized she had nothing to be afraid of anymore.

  Which was why, stepping unsteadily out of the shadow, she placed herself right in his path.

  “Excuse me.” Her voice came out trembly and high-pitched, an old person’s voice. “I think I got off on the wrong floor. Can you direct me?”

  Peregrine, startled and vexed, pulled up short and regarded her coolly.

  “Well, where did you want to go, madam?” he asked, his impatience barely disguised. He looked her up and down. “You do realize you’re in a part of the building that’s not open to the public?”

  That accent. So BBC-crisp.

  “I didn’t know, actually.” Frannie smiled, flashing her yellowed teeth at him and seeing, to her great satisfaction, that he took a step back. “I wanted to use the ladies’ room. You know how old people are. Every two minutes, it seems.” She grinned. “Of course we have those diaper things now, but …”

  Peregrine’s face slipped through distaste to disgust before settling at last on imperious scorn. He cupped her fragile elbow in a hard, ungentlemanly grip and all but carried her to the nearest bank of elevators.

  “Get off at the lobby, madam,” he said. “There’s a public toilet on the main floor. This floor is only for staff.”

  The elevator doors gaped before them and he hustled her in.

  “Really, I’m so sorry to have bothered you.” Frannie turned to face him as, with one hand, she blocked the closing door. “I’m sure that anyone as natty, as well-turned-out as you are, young man, would find it hard to imagine ever having to deal with incontinence issues.” She smiled an ingratiating smile, appalling him once more with her teeth. “Although now that I look closely, I can see … you’re really not that young. Maybe you even share my, um … shortcoming. Must be why you leave your fly open.”

  The doors glided shut and Frannie disappeared.

  Childishly gleeful, she exited the auction house and scurried into the protection of the nearest doorway, where she groped in her pocket for her gloves. But now they were gone, somehow. Upstairs, probably, she thought. And her fingers – already going numb – looked to her like knobbled white sticks in the cold; like the Queen’s in Snow White. How had she lost those gloves?

  But no time left to wonder or to care. There was today and only today to find him and so, leaning against the marble façade for support and protection from the wind, Frannie rooted out her phone, extracted Clary’s number from the zippered compartment in her purse, and tried to thumb its tiny keys. It took her four tries, but eventually, her face turned into the wall, the phone pressed hard against her ear, she waited for the ring. It only rang once.

  A chirpy female voice: “We’re sorry. You have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try your call again. “

  Frannie did that. Two more times.

  And then – a pool of blackness unfurling at her feet – she teetered and let herself fall.

  Strangely, she didn’t actually feel herself slide down the frigid wall and slump clumsily against it. Her coat splayed around her like an oversize rag and her cell phone hit the cement, but she didn’t know it. She was unaware, as well, of the pedestrians walking by and looking away. Another homeless person: a Monday-morning drunk.

  Clary was dead. Of course. It was fifteen years. And sometime between his Botticelli sale and today – whenever today actually was – he had died. It might not have been Elizabeth: there had been that implant.

  But it was Elizabeth.

  After a while, making an immense effort, she pulled herself to her feet, brushing her hands and buttoning her coat. It had been a foolish idea, in any case. What could she have said to him? I almost loved you once? Marry me?

  So she’d go over to the museum. Visit her favorites there, and after that.…

  After that, she’d go through the splendid Great Hall, pass through the massive front doors, walk down the steep entrance stairs and stop on the Fifth Avenue sidewalk. Then she’d step in front of a bus.

  CHAPTER 28

  When she arrived, the sidewalks fronting the Met were teeming, as usual, with food carts, street vendors, and scores of milling, disoriented tourists: the tourists that all the born-New-Yorkers Fernanda had ever met here, sniffed at. She had never sniffed, however. She’d been the quintessential tourist herself. Several kinds of tourist, actually: the hick in the city; the student of art; the budding feminist, sort of; and the willing apprentice of too many men. As of this moment, however, she was climbing those familiar stairs up and up again, and feeling the elation she always felt at simply being at the Met. How she loved it here! (Although these stairs had never been so punishing, Frannie thought.) But then, at last, short of breath, she slipped gratefully into the warmth and swarm of the magnificent Great Hall, and then paused to pant and clear her head and collect her elderly self. To savor the moment when, unaccountably, but always, the huge museum felt like hers. But the crowd caught her up too soon, and bore her along to the security check, the coat check, and the endless line to the ticket desks, where, because she couldn’t find what was left of her cash, she wrote out a dubious check. In return, she was given the stick-on tag that told the usually observant museum guards that, while she might look like one today, she wasn’t just some moocher come in to get warm.

  She’d forgotten she knew the word.

  On any other day, Frannie might have begun her tour with Ancient and Near Eastern, galleries that were always so much emptier than the distant American Wing or the nearer, and (she’d always thought) droll, Arms and Armor rooms, with their undersize fairy-tale knights. She’d save European for last today. For a kind of splendidly ric
h dessert: Velasquez, Rubens, Holbein, Rembrandt, Bosch (ah, Bosch, that old bogeyman) and of course, the Poussins.

  No, today, she decided to begin with what she hoped would be a quiet visit to the velvet-lined jewel-box of the Lehman Wing – a surprising space that precisely reproduced the townhouse of its late benefactor, Mr. Lehman. She’d need the Renaissance in her mind at the last. But not only that, she thought, passing stiffly and slowly through Medieval, the Lehman’s beautiful reproduction rooms seemed especially well-suited to the pseudo-person she’d recently been.

  Handsome portières framed the relatively modest entrance to the wing, where burgundy velvet, so rich and so threadbare, upholstered the walls; where overhead lights illumined squat Italian cassones, each paired with Savonarola chairs, Limoges enamels and bronze aquamaniles. Uniquely, Persian rugs carpeted the floors here, which made this place a paraphrase of the Italy Frannie had always imagined. The serried rooms were hung with pearls of the rarest art.

  Once, not long ago – two days ago, actually – she’d dreamt a fantasy world of youth, success and perfect love; a world where she and André might have, someday, lived just a little bit like this: totally immersed in beauty and each other.

  (She could almost think about André now. Perhaps because the day was almost done.)

  The Wing turned out to be as empty as she’d hoped. Which meant that she could spend a long, lovely while on her own with that Poussin-like Corot over there, for example, and not fight the crowds before the great “blue satin” Ingres. It was too pretty, too perfect, she’d made up her mind early on. There was an anxious undercurrent in that too-perfect face, as well. Too much like Fernanda.

  No, today, she’d just drift through these rooms full of mantled angels and pious saints, entirely alone. Richly gold-leafed, solemn and constrained by both their eras and their frames, she idly admired all that fraught, yet ageless, serenity until she came upon a guilty-looking Adam and Eve. Such an anomalous pair, she thought, among these sinless Madonnas and martyrs. And while their creator had made a meticulous rendering of an innocent world, how would this solemn couple seem to viewers a hundred years from now, she wondered. Would innocence even exist?