“And I told you I quit. I got the job at MOLTCATO starting September first.”
“I know, I know, but could you, just for tonight, be fired? And act kind of destitute and tragic. It may help soften Solange up.”
“Soften her up? Who are you kidding? A blow torch wouldn’t soften her up.”
“You don’t know Solange like I know Solange.”
“Just one of the many things I’m eternally grateful for,” said Amanda.
Amanda had instructed Heath to bring a woman—a beautiful woman—to the opening as his date. He decided to ask Tammi, his waitress friend from the Wisteria. They arrived at six-thirty in the car Amanda had sent for them. Heath looked through the tinted glass into the gallery window. A lot of people he had never seen before were standing around inside, drinking. No one seemed to be looking at the photographs.
“I can’t do it,” he said. “I can’t go in there.”
“Unfortunately you have to,” said Tammi, a practical woman. “Maybe you should have another drink.”
“I don’t know,” said Heath. “I already feel a little schlitzed.”
“Well, maybe a smoke then,” said Tammi. “Just to relax us.” She opened the rhinestone-studded clutch she had borrowed from the lost-and-found box at the Wisteria for this occasion and fished out a joint. She lit it and handed it to Heath. “Relax,” she said.
They sat there smoking, watching the crowd in the gallery. Who are all those people? Heath wondered. He thought he saw the salesman from Barney’s go in, but then realized that all the men looked like Barney’s salesmen.
“I feel ugly,” he said.
“You’re gorgeous,” said Tammi. “Everybody in there wants to fuck you.” She laughed. “A friend of mine worked as a dresser for some summer stock theater—you know the kind where all the alcoholic has-been actresses play Blanche DuBois or Maria Von Trapp? Anyway, she’d have to get them out on the stage, you know, but every night they’d choke. So she’d tell them, ‘You’re gorgeous. Every man in that audience wants to fuck you,’ over and over again and then push them out into the lights.”
“That’s a real encouraging story,” said Heath. “Thanks.”
“Here he is!” exclaimed Amanda, when Heath finally made his entrance. “Darling,” she said, kissing both his cheeks, “congratulations! There are so many people I want you to meet.”
“This is Tammi Bullota, a friend of mine,” said Heath.
“Hello there, Pammy,” said Amanda.
“Tammi,” corrected Heath, but Amanda took no notice. She slunk her arm through Heath’s and maneuvered him away.
“Anton,” she said, “you remember Mr. Jackson?”
“Of course,” said Anton, and shook Heath’s hand.
“And this is Anton’s lovely wife, Solange,” said Amanda. “The two of them jetted back from France just for the opening.”
“Oh,” said Heath, “that was very kind of you.”
“Kindness had nothing to do with it,” said Solange, smiling brightly.
“Will you excuse us?” said Amanda. “I want to introduce Heath to our friends from the media. Listen,” she whispered to Heath, as she steered him away from the Shawangunks, “let me do the talking. And stop smiling like that. Try to look a little bored. Relax.”
“Okay,” said Heath.
“Let’s schmooze,” said Amanda. “Jon, darling,” she said to the man who looked most like a salesman from Barney’s. “I’d like you to meet Heath Jackson. Heath, this is Jon Cadogan. Jon’s with ARTnews.”
“Hi,” said Heath.
“Greetings,” said Mr. Cadogan.
“And Heath, this is Leonora Trumpet. And where are you now, Leonora? It’s always someplace new!”
“I’m the Tuscan correspondent for OM.”
“OM?” said Amanda. “I’ve not heard of it.”
“It’s the new magazine for old money,” explained Leonora. “It’s the magazine for people who didn’t make their money yesterday.”
“Speaking of which, any sales yet?” asked Jon.
“Just a tremendous amount of interest so far,” said Amanda. “Heath’s vision is new. We don’t expect it to be immediately embraced.”
“I beg to differ,” said Leonora. “I find Mr. Jackson’s vision extremely embraceable. If you know what I mean.”
This debate was interrupted by the arrival of Solange. “Amanda, my dear,” she said. “Are you ready for the little talk you wanted?”
“Later,” said Amanda. “I hardly think these good people are interested in our affairs.”
“I’m all ears,” said Leonora.
“Moi aussi,” said Jon.
Solange smiled. “Perhaps you’re right,” she said. “There’s a time and place for everything. And it is time, I think, that I become better acquainted with our artist. Will you allow me to steal Mr. Jackson from your clutches? I promise I’ll return him.”
“He’s all yours,” Leonora said.
“Go for it,” said Jon.
Heath followed Solange through the crowd into the gallery office. She closed the door and lowered the shade over the window. “There,” she said. “Alone at last.”
Heath was feeling nervous, and he wished now he hadn’t smoked that joint with Tammi. He decided to sit down.
“Yes, make yourself at home,” said Solange. “Would you like a cigarette?”
“No thanks,” said Heath.
“Do you mind if I…”
“Uh, no,” said Heath. “Go ahead.”
Solange extracted a pack of Galoise from her purse and lit one. She inhaled, exhaled, and then looked at the cigarette, as if it were malfunctioning. “So,” she said. “You haven’t said much. Do you know what’s going on?”
“Going on? What do you mean?” asked Heath.
“Poor boy,” Solange murmured. “Amanda”—and she gestured with her cigarette toward the gallery proper—“is not a nice woman. I hope you have at least figured that much out.”
“She’s been nice to me,” said Heath, although ‘nice’ didn’t seem to be the best word to describe Amanda’s behavior.
“In fact she hasn’t,” said Solange. “Just because people do nice things for you doesn’t mean they are being nice to you.”
“Oh,” said Heath.
“Amanda is using you. She is making a fool out of herself, but she is also making a fool out of you.”
“Oh,” said Heath. He was finding it difficult to concentrate. He wished this woman would go away. “How so?” he managed to say.
“Did you not find it surprising that Amanda was willing to show your work in this gallery, given the fact you have not shown elsewhere, given the fact that you are incredibly young, unknown, and given the fact that your talent is, shall we say, unproved?”
“Well, sure I was surprised,” said Heath. “But…”
“Why look a gilt horse in the mouth?”
“Gift horse,” said Heath. He felt himself sweating.
“Whatever,” said Solange. “Here is my point: Amanda has been using you. She has purposefully mounted a laughable show to embarrass the gallery, Anton, and myself. Not to mention Heath Jackson.”
“Laughable?” said Heath. “I don’t hear anybody laughing.”
They were quiet for a second, and, as if on cue, a gale of laughter arose from behind the wall. Oh, God, thought Heath. I hate you, God. I hate myself too. I hate photography. I hate art. “I hate art,” he said aloud. He stood up.
“It’s Amanda, not art, you should hate.”
“I hate them both,” said Heath.
“Hate is a powerful emotion,” said Solange. “It is a creative emotion. It is, personally, my favorite.”
“Why would Amanda want to embarrass the gallery? And us?”
“For an artist, you are curiously unintuitive. But then perhaps you are not an artist. We shall see.”
“I am an artist,” said Heath. He had to sit down after saying that, because he had never uttered those words, not even t
o himself, before. I am, he thought. I am an artist.
“Why do people misbehave?” asked Solange. “Why are people petty? Why are they vindictive?”
Heath knew the answer to that one. “Because of love,” he said.
Solange smiled. “Because of love gone wrong,” she corrected.
There was a knock on the door.
“Entrez,” said Solange. It was Anton and Amanda. They came in and closed the door behind them.
“Excuse us,” said Amanda. “But we needed something in here.”
She went over to the desk and opened the top drawer. She was wearing a pair of gloves. “Ah,” she said, removing an object from the drawer, “here it is.” She turned around. She was holding a gun. She pointed it at Solange and fired it once. It made no noise. Solange looked surprised for an instant, crumpled up, and fell to the floor.
“Hey, Tiger, think fast,” said Amanda, throwing the gun to Heath.
Your natural instinct, when something is thrown at you, is to catch it. There was so little time to think. Heath caught the gun, and when he looked up, Amanda and Anton had disappeared.
CHAPTER 17
DEAR LEONARD,
Since I haven’t heard from you in such a long time, I’m not sure where to address this letter. I’ll send it to the address I have, with the assumption that you’re still there. I assume that if you’ve moved on, you would have let me know.
The first thing I have to tell you is that Kate is safe and sound. Loren and David are with her now in Los Angeles, and they say she is fine. Unfortunately, Loren was in an accident involving a glass wall. She was in the hospital for several days with 74 stitches but she’s out now. She says it sounds worse than it actually is—I wanted to fly out but she told me it wasn’t necessary. So I’ll be glad to see her—they come back to New York after a quick trip to Disneyland.
To tell you the truth, I’m worried about her. She is usually so tough, you know, but this ordeal—Kate being kidnapped and then this accident—well, I don’t know how she’s stood it all. And things with Gregory do not seem to be going well. Although she doesn’t talk about it (at least not to me). I just hope this doesn’t drive her and David back together. Sometimes I think they will never learn.
I suppose the same could be said of me. Oh, darling, I wish you were here, so I could talk to you! Anyway, this next bit I’ve debated telling you, and I’ve decided I should. You see, I’ve fallen in love, I think. Or I have fallen into something like love. I don’t know. It all happened rather oddly and unexpectedly (as you well know, I am hardly a candidate for this sort of thing). It seems pointless to burden you with a detailed description of him—suffice it to say he is hardly the lover you would imagine for me, if you can imagine such a thing. I certainly couldn’t, and that’s why I didn’t resist—because I never thought it would develop. You see, I never thought I was capable of this. But I’ve discovered, to both my fear and my delight, that I am capable. I’ve surprised myself, and I’m sure I’ve surprised you, too. So far it is all very innocent. I don’t know what, if anything, will come next.
It may be wrong of me to write and alarm you, to spoil your precious (and I mean that sincerely) solitude. So I suppose I am writing for my sake, for I can’t continue without this confession to you. It was all your idea, this year apart. I know I agreed to it, but I realize now I feel betrayed by it—by your need for it. I should have told you that sooner but I have only just realized how I feel. I tried so hard to embrace the idea that I was dishonest with myself. You may think this liaison I mentioned is motivated by that feeling of betrayal, but I don’t think it is. Who knows what’s motivated me to behave in this very uncharacteristic fashion? Whatever it is I’m experiencing, I think it’s separate from what I feel for you. All those feelings are intact. They wait for you.
Darling, if you receive this letter, will you write me? Please. Just to let me know it found you, and more if you would. Do you still plan to return at Christmas? Perhaps this is all about missing you. I feel it very keenly now, at this moment: missing you. I feel confused and lonely. Please write to me.
With love,
Judith
OUT OF CONTROL:
PHOTOGRAPHS BY HEATH JACKSON
The Gallery Shawangunk, New York
What at first seems to be yet another portfolio of standard New York City images, evolves, upon closer inspection, into something considerably more exciting. Although the subject of these photographs may be clichéd, Jackson’s rendering of each image is very much his own. His vision is menacing, yet narrative: Objects within the frame, seemingly unrelated, conspire to tell us something, and if the scenarios here are not clear, the mood, at least, is. A snarling dog watches a woman nurse a baby on a park bench; a flock of stilleto-heeled shoes seem to hover above a rabbi’s head; and in the signature image, a cat delicately sucks a noodle off a man’s face. Within a single photograph, there are several fields of focus, as if each object is moving at its own select speed. If some of these images seem too artfully posed, the best of them transcend artfulness and announce a vision that bears continued attention. —Jon Cadogan
Dear Loren,
I’m going to call you to talk about this but I decided to write this letter because all afternoon, as I’ve been packing, I’ve been thinking about—well, about us and what happened, and I know if I don’t write it down I’ll forget it. You know me.
I’ve decided to move out to L.A. early. There doesn’t seem much point in hanging around here. Anyway, when I get settled and everything, I’ll give you a call. I just thought it might be good if I’m gone when you get back. It will be one less thing you have to deal with, right?
One of the things I’ve been thinking about was why this happened—why it didn’t work out. Things seemed so great about a month ago, when we decided to move to L.A. together.
That seems so long ago now, and almost impossible. But I’m glad I had that moment with you—when I believed it would all happen for us. I wonder what you thought then. In retrospect I have this feeling that you were never very convinced by the idea. I think it was lousy timing on my part—I wanted everything to happen very quickly for us. It was because I was so happy with you that I fucked up. I see now that if I had just chilled out we’d probably still be together. Or at least I like to think that.
Loren, the other thing I want to say is about what you said in the hospital. About your being punished. If you meant it then (and I hope you didn’t), I hope by now you know it’s not true. I’m not sure what you meant by ‘behaving badly’ but please know that I don’t think you’ve behaved badly as far as I or anybody else is concerned. I think that under the awful circumstances of the last few weeks you’ve behaved very well. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m not bitter about any of this. I’m sad, but I’m not bitter. This had been the best year of my life.
Of course I’ll be thinking about you all the time. I hope you can forget this mess and be happy. I want you to be happy. You’re so great when you’re happy. I’ll call you like I said, okay? I know that after all this shit you probably never want to set foot in L.A. again, but if you do, know that you have a good friend nearby. Okay?
Love,
Gregory
SOHO SLAUGHTER: OUT OF CONTROL AT ART GALLERY
A Post Exclusive—Brooklyn photographer Heath Jackson was charged with the attempted murder of Solange Shawangunk, the owner of the Gallery Shawangunk on Broome Street. The incident took place last night at an opening reception for the SoHo show “Out of Control: Photographs by Heath Jackson.”
Witnesses told police Jackson and Shawangunk were alone in an office at the gallery when the shooting occurred. Moments later, Shawangunk was discovered shot once through the stomach. She remains in a coma and is listed in critical condition at St. Vincent’s Hospital.
Jackson, 27, who has no police record, pleaded not guilty and has been released from custody on his own recognizance. No motive was given for the attempted murder, although
it appears that Jackson and Shawangunk may have been romantically involved. Amanda Paine, the gallery’s director, told the Post that Jackson and Shawangunk disappeared into the office halfway through the reception. “There was obviously some sort of emotional tension between them,” she said.
Margot Geiger, a spokesperson for the gallery, informed the Post that Jackson’s photographs were selling “incredibly.” “We’ve sold out the show and are taking orders for new work,” she said.
Mr. Jackson could not be reached for comment.
(Dictated to Loren)
Dear Lyle,
Thank you for taking care of me while I was kidnapped and for catching me before I crashed. It was fun. I swum at the hotel without a mask. I closed my eyes. I like it better with a mask. We were in an earthquake and Mom threw up. Were you in an earthquake? It was fun but I was sleeping.
It’s hot in New York. At daycare I can drink soda, but not Coke. Only the kind with fruit in it. And I get Frozade on the way home. Do you like Frozade? Ms. Mouse lives with Mom now. So does Dad. No one lives at Dad’s. He said some night we can go sleep there if I want.
Love,
Kate
Fertility Association of New York, Inc.
660 Broadway
New York, NY 10012
Meeting Your Fertility Needs Since 1987
Dear Mr. Jackson:
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To discuss these programs, or to schedule a follow-up screening, please call Gudrun Skalo at NYC-BABY. We look forward to hearing from you and welcoming you back to the FANY family.
Sincerely yours,
Ursula Tabor-Schwicker,
President and Founder
CHAPTER 18
“DID YOU HAVE TO GO TO JAIL?” David asked. Before Heath could answer the waiter appeared. They both ordered salade nicoise and iced tea. It was a hot day, and they had met for lunch in the garden of a restaurant.
Leap Year Page 10
