The Misfortunes of Others

by Gloria Dank

“I don’t know. Last week sometime. Five days ago, in class. Don’t look at me that way, Snooky, I had to tell them about it. I wasn’t bragging. I’m going to mention their names and maybe try to show some of their work in the article. You know, spread the largesse around. They deserve it … well, at least Alice and Elmo do. They could use the boost to their careers. It’s not often that an artist gets mentioned in a big national magazine like that. They were really excited.”

  “Were they?” Snooky asked dryly.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, come on, Weezy. Don’t be obtuse. Those phone calls started after that first article came out. Now you have a chance for more publicity. I was wondering if maybe somebody doesn’t like your career taking off.”

  “Maybe it’s that gallery owner,” said Maya. “Maybe he didn’t like being turned down for dinner.”

  “Thank you,” said Weezy. “Thank both of you. This is so extremely reassuring. I’m sure if we keep on thinking we can come up with two or three hundred other people who have a good reason to hate me.”

  Maya looked stricken. “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right. Will one of you please throw that thing out?” Weezy sat down on the sofa. “I have to sit down. I feel exhausted all of a sudden. Thank you, Snooky,” she said as he gathered up the bouquet and the white box and carried them into the kitchen. He came back with a paper bag and small broom and began to sweep up the petals.

  “I’ll put everything in your trash can outside. You won’t have to look at it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Shouldn’t we save it to show to the police?” asked Maya.

  “The police?” Weezy gave a snort. “What can they do? Say they’re sorry I got dead flowers?”

  “I’ll save the box with the address and postmark,” said Snooky.

  “I hate the idea of you living here by yourself,” Maya said with a worried frown. “Why don’t you come and stay with us for a while?”

  “No, no, no.” Weezy brushed this suggestion away with a wave of her hand. “Thank you, sweetie, but no. No way. This is my home, after all. I’m not letting some phone calls and a stupid, trashy thing like those flowers chase me away. Anyway, I know how Bernard feels about visitors.”

  “Oh, Weezy, don’t be silly. That doesn’t include you. It includes—you know—Snooky, and everybody else, but not you. You’re different. You could always come stay.”

  Weezy smiled at her affectionately. “Thank you, Maya, but again, no. I’ll be fine. After all, nothing has actually happened, has it? Just some stupid flowers. Just some stupid flowers,” she repeated, half to herself, gazing absently around the room.

  “Do you have a security system?” asked Snooky.

  “No. No, I don’t.”

  “I think you should get one.”

  “I don’t want to get one,” Weezy said fiercely. “I thought I moved away from all of that when I left New York, for God’s sake.”

  Snooky sat down on the couch and took her hands in his. “Listen to me. This isn’t just a question of somebody dialing a long-distance number anymore. Whoever it is knows exactly who you are and where you live. I think you’d feel a lot safer with an alarm system. I know I’d feel better if you had one.”

  “All right, all right,” Weezy said miserably. She looked around her living room as if she had never seen it before; as if the familiar furniture and rugs and paintings on the wall had suddenly become alien and frightening.

  As soon as Maya got home she went upstairs to her husband’s study and told him what had happened. When she was finished, Bernard thrummed on the desk with his fingers.

  “Interesting.”

  Maya crossed her arms and stared at him angrily. “It is not interesting, Bernard. It’s strange. It’s menacing. It’s creepy. It is not interesting.”

  “Oh. Yes. Yes, indeed.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Will she come stay here?”

  “No. She says she knows how you feel about guests.”

  Bernard was surprised by this. “I wouldn’t feel that way about her.”

  “Yes, you would.”

  “Well, maybe, but under the circumstances it would be okay. What did you tell her?”

  “I lied myself blue in the face and said that you wouldn’t mind at all.”

  “And she still refused?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, we can’t force her to move in with us.”

  “So that’s it? We sit back and wait for something else to happen?”

  “Maybe nothing else will happen,” Bernard said soothingly. “Be calm. Think of the color blue. Think of the sky. It’s probably somebody with some kind of grudge, and they’ve gotten it out of their system.”

  “You are a dreadful liar,” Maya said, as she let herself be coaxed into sitting down on his lap and putting an arm around his neck.

  “Be calm. Think of the baby.”

  “I am calm. I am perfectly calm. I’m visualizing the color blue. I don’t know why I’m expected to be calm while all this stuff is happening to my best friend. I’d have to have a heart of stone.”

  Bernard was staring out the window.

  “What are you thinking, sweetheart?”

  “I’m thinking that the phone calls started after that other interview.”

  “Yes. That’s what Snooky said, too.”

  “I suppose this is good for her career?”

  “Well, of course it is, Bernard.”

  “I think you should tell her not to mention it to anybody else.”

  “She knows that already, Bernard.”

  “Still …”

  “Still?”

  “I think you should tell her to be very careful.”

  When Weezy called the next day, she made an effort to sound like her usual cheerful self. She brushed off Snooky’s show of concern.

  “Thank you, thank you so much, but I’m fine. Really, I am. Yes, yes, I’ll get a security system, please stop nagging me. Are you my mother? Would you also call both the police and my seventy-five-year-old Aunt Meglet if I didn’t answer the phone for a day or two? Just curious.”

  Snooky was disconcerted. “You have an aunt named Meglet?”

  “Yes, yes. An accident of fate. Her real name is Margaret, and when she was little everyone called her Meglet. She simply never grew out of it, you know how it is. Sad, don’t you think?”

  “Poignant.”

  “Poignant, yes. Le mot juste. Now listen to me, sweetie, I have a favor I want to ask.”

  “Anything. You know that.”

  “Will you sit for my class again?”

  “No. No way.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, Weezy, I practically had to consult an orthopedic specialist after the last time. It was an excruciating experience.”

  “Oh, come on. You know you loved it. You love being the center of attention.”

  “I don’t know. It’s not like they drew anything remotely resembling me, anyway. Why don’t you just prop up a scarecrow or get yourself a store mannequin? A mannequin, now, that would really do the trick.”

  “Will you sit for my class again on Thursday?”

  “Why don’t you ask Bernard or somebody? Or are my cheekbones irreplaceable?”

  “I can’t ask Bernard, sweetie, he’s all beard. You can’t see his face at all. And can you imagine him sitting still for an hour with people staring at him? It would be torture, poor thing.”

  “But it’s okay for me?”

  “You’re more sociable. You like being the focus of all eyes.”

  “Well … okay. If you insist.”

  On Thursday, Snooky stretched elaborately before sitting down in his chair. There was silence for nearly half an hour, broken only by Weezy’s murmured comments to her students. Just when Snooky thought he would have to either move or scream, Alice let out an audible hiss.

  “Stop looking at my work,” she said to Jennifer.

&nbs
p; “I’m not looking anywhere near you, you paranoid bitch.”

  “Yes, you are! Weezy!”

  “What?”

  “Jennifer’s copying from me again!”

  “Stop it, Alice,” Weezy said dangerously. “Stop it right now.”

  “Stop it? It’s not my fault, it’s Jennifer’s, she keeps looking over and distracting me—”

  “Stop it, Alice.”

  Alice stared, scarlet flooding into her face. “I won’t stop it, I won’t! It’s so unfair! That talentless hack keeps on stealing from me, copying my work, stealing my ideas, and you never do a damned thing about it—!”

  “That’s it,” said Weezy. “I’ve had enough. I want to talk to you in private, young lady, right now.”

  She pushed Alice ahead of her out of the studio. Snooky let out his breath with an explosive sigh and stretched surreptitiously, flexing his muscles. He glanced around the room. Elmo had an arm protectively around Jennifer. Mrs. Castor was holding a paintbrush in the air, paint dripping, while she looked anxiously out the door. Nikki was staring at the floor, scuffling her feet like a child. But it was Jennifer who caught and held Snooky’s interest. She was looking after Alice and Weezy with her dark eyes narrowed and an expression of the purest hatred on her face.

  FOUR

  “WHAT HAPPENED with Alice?” Snooky asked later.

  Weezy shrugged irritably. “I lectured her. She burst into tears. She said I never take her side. I said that was because she was always wrong. She said I was unfair. I told her if she caused a scene again, she was out of my class. Eventually she calmed down and agreed to try to be a little less difficult. I suggested that if she was so sure people were copying from her, she should work in the back of the room, where nobody could see what she was doing. She said that was a good idea.”

  “Why hadn’t she thought of it before?”

  Weezy gave him a pitying look. “Because she wants to be copied from. Because it feeds her ego, helps her feel like she’s a big shot and everyone else is a hack. You see? Elementary psychology, my dear.”

  “She seems to be a big favorite with everybody by now. Jennifer gave her a look that could kill when you left the room with her. It was pretty scary. I assume it was meant for Alice and not for you?”

  “Oh, no, no, that’s for Alice, all right. That’s Jennifer’s stock in trade, looks that could kill. Unfortunately it hasn’t worked so far.” She gave him a weary smile.

  “Takes a lot out of you, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right. You’re off the hook anyway, I can’t use you as a model anymore. To be honest, the class is getting bored with you.”

  “This is the story of my life. Used for whatever I can give, and then tossed aside without a second thought.”

  “Sad, isn’t it? But don’t worry. You were never meant to work for a living, Snooky. You were meant to lie on a rock and soak in the sun, like a marmot.”

  His forehead was furrowed. “This is too bad. The class may be bored with me, but I’m not bored with them. There’s a lot of odd stuff going on in there.”

  “Oh, yes, yes. A regular soap opera,” she said lightly.

  Weezy spent a week worrying over what she would wear for her interview in People magazine. She and Maya spent hours at a time closeted together in Weezy’s bedroom, Maya cross-legged on the bed, watching with a critical eye as Weezy discarded one outfit after another.

  “How about this?” Weezy asked, slipping a black dress over her head. “What do you think? Too plain?”

  “Too somber.”

  “Do I want something livelier?”

  “I think so.”

  A few outfits later, Maya shook her head. “I don’t like that color blue on you. Too artisty. It looks like an artist’s smock.”

  “Oh. How about this one? The heather-brown?”

  “That’s not bad.”

  A little while later Weezy said, “I hate to tell you this, but we’ve just gone through my entire wardrobe. I mean all of it. Every single stitch of clothing I own. I’m panicking, Maya. My stress hormones are on red alert. What do I do now?”

  “Don’t panic. I thought the green suit was really nice.”

  Weezy took it out and looked at it, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. “I guess so. This is what I wore into the city to meet that gallery owner.”

  “It shows off your hair beautifully.”

  “Too businesslike?”

  “No, no. Distinguished. ‘I’m an artist, but I’m not flaky.’ That kind of thing.”

  “Oh. Good. What color shirt should I wear with it?”

  “You have to decide what kind of statement you want to make, Weezy.”

  “You mean like the flaky thing you just said?”

  “You have to say to yourself, ‘How do I want to present myself? What do I want to say?’ Then match the shirt color to that.”

  “I see. Like, crimson for ‘look at me’?”

  “Right. Or red for ‘I get angry easily.’ ”

  “How about green for ‘I hope they pay me a lot of money for doing this’?”

  “No, no, green means ‘I hope everyone who knows me just dies of jealousy when they see me in this magazine.’ ”

  Weezy sighed. “How about blue for ‘my lover just left me for this interviewer and I’m feeling kind of down about it’?”

  Maya looked at her sympathetically. “It’s not an easy situation, is it?”

  “No. Not at all. You know, it still hurts about her and Harold, and I’m still mad as hell about it, but I’ll be damned if I’m not going to give this interview. I mean, this is my one chance at fame; my five minutes of celebrity.”

  “You’ll have more than five minutes, Weeze. You’ll see. You’re a great artist. I’ve always told you that.”

  “All I really want to say is, ‘I’m thrilled to be in the pages of People.’ ”

  “What color would that be, do you think?”

  “Well, what color is their logo?”

  Later, when Snooky asked what they had talked about, Maya looked mysterious. “Things.”

  “I assumed that. What kind of things?”

  “Things.”

  He looked at her inquiringly.

  “Women things. Things you wouldn’t understand. It’s not easy to choose what to wear to become famous in.”

  “I don’t get it, Maya. Do you think my brain is constitutionally incapable of understanding women-type things?”

  “That’s right, little brother.”

  “Because I don’t care what I wear?”

  “That, and other things.”

  “You think a higher testosterone level renders me incapable of understanding what you and Weezy are giggling about for hours in her room?”

  “Right,” said Maya.

  Gabriela Loeser smiled warmly. She was wearing a cream-colored suit which set off her blonde good looks. “Hello, Ms. Kaplan.”

  “Please call me Weezy.”

  “Weezy. This is Vince.”

  Vince was short, with a receding hairline and a face as wrinkled as a prune. He was looking around the living room appraisingly.

  “Vince is our photographer.”

  “Hello, Vince.” Weezy shook hands. She was wearing her moss-green suit and a black silk blouse which she and Maya had decided at the last minute showed off her pale skin to advantage. She adjusted the silk bow at her throat with trembling fingers. “This way, please. I think you wanted to see my studio?”

  “Yes, the photos would be best in there, I think,” said Gabriela.

  Weezy led the way down the hall, exchanging casual banter with the two of them. She was thinking, This is Harold’s girlfriend. His girlfriend. The little mouse that he left me for. That fact, which had seemed so unimportant a few days before, now played itself mindlessly over and over in her brain. Harold’s girlfriend … Harold’s girlfriend … Harold’s girlfriend … Harold’s girlfriend in my house … oh my
God, Harold’s girlfriend in my studio …

  These thoughts droned on in her head while on the outside she was saying brightly, “Oh, yes, lots of light, and I love plants so much, so it really works out nicely.”

  Gabriela seemed nervous, too. Her smile was apologetic, as if she were sorry now for trapping the two of them in such an awkward situation. But she seemed genuinely interested in the studio and in Weezy’s work. “These paintings are yours? They’re beautiful!”

  “Thank you, yes, these are mine. I keep my students’ over there. These are my latest, the ones I’ll be showing at the gallery.”

  “Gallery Genuardi,” said Gabriela. She snapped open her briefcase with a sharp click, took out a tape recorder, slipped in a cassette and pressed a button. “Gallery Genuardi,” she repeated, a little more loudly.

  “That’s right.”

  Gabriela turned off the recorder. “Can we get a shot of you next to the paintings? Vince?”

  “Stand over here,” said Vince. He had taken out his equipment and was setting up lights. “I’ll arrange the paintings behind her.”

  “Okay,” said Weezy. She pressed her hands together nervously. She stood in front of her paintings and smiled when Vince told her to. She was quite sure it was an idiotic smile. She was quite sure this whole thing was a terrible mistake. There was Harold’s girlfriend, doubtless despising her, pitying her … pitying her willingness to prostitute herself for a fleeting moment of fame. Gabriela was standing behind Vince, murmuring occasionally in his ear, pointing to one or the other of the paintings.

  “Turn your head this way and smile,” said Vince.

  Weezy turned and smiled. She felt hot under the lights. She was sweating, and her black silk shirt clung to her under the suit. This was the stupidest thing she had ever done in her entire life. She sighed and passed a hand over her face, then touched one of her paintings protectively.

  “Don’t move, please,” said Vince. “Thanks. Actually, move that way. Turn a bit—that’s right—then look straight at me. Good. Good.”

  It was like having your children examined by a particularly strict headmistress, thought Weezy. Examined, and not passing muster. She remembered a moment from her childhood when the young Weezy, overweight, with unfashionably frizzy hair (why oh why did I have to grow up when the Morticia Addams look was so popular, she moaned to herself), her nose sticking out and her complexion in the throes of early adolescence, was shoved by her parents into a bunk at her new summer camp to be met by the hostile gazes of five or six sleek-haired, smooth-skinned girls her own age. It was a riding camp, and Weezy had enthusiastically gone out and bought riding boots and a Western hat, which she was wearing at the time. After a dumbstruck pause, the other girls had simply laughed.