“Really?” Amanda said.
“Yeah.” Celia came back to stand next to Amanda, eyes still on the painting. “It’s well over a hundred years old. It’s in the original frame, I think, which on its own is worth something.” She looked at Amanda. “If you don’t like it, and if your children are scared of it—” She shrugged, smiling. “If I were you, I would call Christie’s or Sotheby’s and have one of their appraisers look at it. You never know, you might get enough money to buy a painting that you like, instead of what your grandfather liked.”
“That’s an idea,” Amanda said, crossing her arms and reconsidering the painting. “It is rather good, isn’t it?”
“I think so. I mean, I don’t really know for sure. I like old things and this is sort of jazzing me. It gives me a kind of a humming feeling, which makes me think it’s valuable.”
“A humming feeling?” Amanda repeated, fascinated. She looked at the painting again. “It does absolutely nothing for me.” She looked back at Celia. “Tell me more about this humming.”
Celia laughed, embarrassed. “It’s the quality of it,” she explained. “Everything feels real about it to me. There doesn’t seem to be any restoration needed. I can check online for you about the artist, to at least give you an idea if he’s listed.”
“That would be wonderful,” Amanda said, looking back at the painting. “And would you be willing to call one of the auction houses for me, as well? Get somebody to look at it?”
“Oh, it’s very easy,” Celia assured her. “I’ll help you call, if you like.”
“No,” Amanda said, shaking her head, “I’ve got too much to do as it is. What I want is for you to take over now. I was only going to stick it into storage the way it is and probably ruin it. So please take it, Celia, find out if it’s worth anything and if it is, sell it. You can be our agent. And take, I don’t know, ten percent of gross? Is that fair?”
“But you don’t have to pay me anything!” Celia sputtered. “It would be a great learning experience for me.” She was also thinking how it might make up for the Victorian glass globe being destroyed. When Mrs. DiSantos’ friends got hit in the cab, Celia had put the box down and somebody ran over it.
“My husband’s a literary agent,” Amanda said, “and I can assure you since he receives a percentage of the author’s work he tries a great deal harder to sell things than he might otherwise. I’m not that generous. My guess is it will provide motivation.”
Celia didn’t know what to say. This was a real piece of art; this wasn’t something she found in a Dumpster. “If they took it, there would also be the auction house commission—”
“Understand, my young friend,” Amanda said, touching her arm, “this was practically going into the bin so whatever you can get is going to be a great deal more than nothing. So, it’s all yours, take it away. Hallelujah, I don’t have to go out after all!”
Celia tried one more time, although she did agree with Amanda; it would do nobody any good if the painting just got stuck away.
40
Emma
“NO, IT’S FINE, really,” Cassy assured the nurse’s aide in the kitchen. “I’ll wait in the living room until the others leave. She has enough company right now.”
“Yes, she does,” the nurse’s aide agreed. She smiled broadly. “It is a very cute little baby. Mrs. Goldblum’s eyes lit up when she saw him.”
“He’s only a couple of weeks old.”
The nurse’s aide nodded and proceeded to set up some medications on a small tray.
Cassy lingered a moment, wanting to ask but not wanting to ask. She already sensed it, but wanted confirmation. “She’s not very far away from it now, Virginia, is she?”
The aide waited a moment before looking at her. In a low voice she said, “But Rosanne does not see it. She won’t allow herself to see it.”
“She doesn’t want to let her go.”
“That makes it hard for Mrs. Goldblum,” Virginia said solemnly. “Because she wants to go.”
Cassy nodded. “Thank you for telling me.”
Cassy went into the living room and sat down on the couch. She slid her glasses on and picked up the photo album Amanda and Rosanne had put together for Emma to look at. There were pictures of Emma as a girl, her parents, her dog. There was her wedding, Mr. Goldblum, Daniel as a baby, and the park. Those were the most amazing pictures, of Riverside Park over the decades, the glory years, the bad years, and then the glory of the past fifteen years or so when The Riverside Park Fund caught the hearts and imagination of the neighborhood residents. There were pictures from block parties that made Cassy laugh out loud. And then there was a photo of the day Rosanne and little Jason had moved into this apartment, standing with Mrs. Goldblum in this very living room, the DiSantoses looking almost like Ellis Island refugees.
What would Cassy’s own scrapbook contain when she was old? She knew Henry would put in the picture of Cassy, at around age six, sitting in her father’s lap with her arms around his neck. Cassy and her father had been very happy that day. It was before he couldn’t hold a job. Henry would put at least one picture of Cassy’s mother in it, but which one would he choose? Surely not the one where Cassy stood in her cap and gown at Northwestern and her mother, still stylishly attractive then, was giving such a poisonous look to the camera that anyone who saw the photograph burst out laughing. It so succinctly summarized her mother’s feelings about the world! No, Cassy knew the picture Henry would put in. Of her mother holding Henry when he was a baby, because it was such a nice picture of her and it was clear that while she might hate the rest of the world, those feelings did not apply to her grandson.
Henry would put some pictures of Michael in, she supposed (how did you skip twenty years?), and he would make a big deal of her marriage to Jack. He would put in some pictures relating to DBS and her friends there, but what gave her such a hollow feeling was wondering where, outside of a picture of the gang from DBS, would Alexandra be in that book of pictures. And that thought, of everyone making it into her album as part of her personal life except the person she had come to realize she loved most, frightened her.
Cassy’s head picked up at the sound of laughter coming down the hall; she closed the album and slipped off her glasses. A moment later a radiant Althea Wyatt appeared in the archway with the bundle of her baby son in her arms. Samantha had returned to school and so the rest of the Wyatts were free to joyfully tend to the new member of the family. He was beautiful. He had very light skin, lighter even than Samantha’s. The nose must be the father’s for Cassy did not recognize it, but the baby had the same high chiseled cheekbones Sam and Althea had. Cassy smiled to herself. This child could very well be Althea’s because of the resemblance. In any case, he was her child.
“Hello there, Samuel,” Cassy said gently to the child. “You are the most gorgeous creature on the face of the earth, yes you are. Except for my grandchildren. All right, I give in, you are just as gorgeous as they are.”
“He is gorgeous, isn’t he?” Amanda Stewart said, coming into the living room to stand with them. She peered down at the baby over Althea’s shoulder. “You made Mrs. Goldblum smile and smile, didn’t you, Samuel?”
Cassy glance up at Althea. “So how’s the nanny hunt coming?”
“It’s not,” Althea said. “I mean, when the right one appears I figure I’ll know it.”
“Amanda’s pushin’ Madame DeFarge on her,” Rosanne contributed, breezing by on her way to the kitchen.
“I am not, Rosanne,” Amanda protested. To Cassy she explained, “We’re not renewing Madame Moliere’s contract.”
“Really? Why not?”
“We frankly don’t have the room for a live-in here. Not if we’re living here full-time. I need her room for the baby.”
“If we’re going to Mrs. W’s for tea,” Rosanne announced, coming back in, “we need to get a move on. It’s going to take a while to wrap Nanook of the North and then unwrap him again.” Rosanne had already put o
n her coat and was holding the baby’s outdoor garments. “Are you sure you don’t want to go, Mrs. C? Because I’ll stay.”
“No, no, you go ahead,” Cassy said. “I’d like to sit with Emma for a while. I brought the paper to read.” Cassy used to read the paper to Emma but not anymore. She read it to herself while Emma dozed.
After the ladies bundled Samuel up to everyone’s satisfaction, they left and Cassy walked back to Emma’s bedroom. Virginia was smoothing the bed linens. The hospital bed was raised and Emma lay back against the pillow, her eyes closed. She looked very clean and tidy.Virginia dampened a washcloth and patted Emma’s mouth with it, which made Emma open her eyes. They seemed to be very heavy for her. She made a sound, trying to say something Cassy couldn’t understand.
“She knows it’s you,” Virginia told her, standing by the bed.
Cassy drew up a chair and sat down, reaching through the bed rail to take Emma’s hand. The diamond in Emma’s engagement ring caught the light coming through the window. The view was spectacular from here, of the park and the river and the setting sun.
Emma’s hand seemed even lighter and more fragile than two days ago. “I admire you above all others,” Cassy heard herself say in a hushed voice. “Your faith, your loyalty, your strength, your love, Emma. You have always been there for everyone who loves you.”
Mrs. Goldblum’s eyes had closed and she whispered something. Cassy didn’t dare ask her to repeat it because she was so obviously weak.
“She says you are like her,”Virginia told her.
Cassy’s eyes filled. “Oh, how I wish it were true.” She sighed. She felt the tiniest little squeeze from Emma’s hand. “But thank you, Emma, thank you for saying that.” She stood up to kiss her on the forehead. “You give me the mark to which I aspire.”
Emma’s eyes opened. She looked past Cassy, searching for Virginia. Cassy sat down and the aide leaned close to Emma’s mouth. “She wants to know if Rosanne’s still here.”
“No, Emma, she went out,” Cassy said, still holding her hand. “With Althea and the baby and Amanda. They went over to Harriet’s for tea.”
Mrs. Goldblum’s eyes trailed back up to Virginia and her lips moved again. Cassy thought she said, “Are they gone?”
Virginia nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Goldblum, everyone else has left.”
Emma’s eyes moved to Cassy and her lips moved, but there was no sound.
Cassy looked up at the aide.
“She’s asking if she can go now.”
Cassy tried not to cry. “Yes, Emma,” she whispered, “yes, you can go now. It’s all right.”
“Did you hear that, Mrs. Goldblum?” Virginia murmured. “She said it was all right for you to go.”
Emma did.
MARCH
V
41
The Memorial Service
THE DAY AFTER Emma Goldblum died she was laid to rest next to her husband in a Long Island cemetery. A few weeks later, as she requested, a small memorial service was held on the terrace of the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument of Riverside Park. It was a bad day out, windy with rain threatening to turn to snow, but Jackson Darenbrook dispatched a crew from the West End Broadcasting Center with a corporate tent, which included attachable sides with plastic windows and space heaters. Between the whipping winds and rains and space heaters, however, everyone was either very cold or sweating while seated in their padded folding chair. Some were even simultaneously both, as young Emily Stewart claimed.
“Mother wrote everything out about how—exactly—she wanted this service to go,” Daniel Goldblum said, holding up a sheaf of papers for everyone to see. “So if any of you have any complaints you’ll have to take it up with her.” Pause. “She even wrote that line for me to read—that you’ll have to take it up with her.” Everyone started laughing, which was a good beginning.
As his mother had directed, Daniel read from a history of Jewish immigration to New York, which focused on the arrival of Emma’s own parents from Eastern Europe after World War I. Then Daniel read a brief outline of her life. Jason then got up to read a poem she loved, about God’s green earth; Rosanne went up to read some remembrances of happy times Mrs. Goldblum had dictated, about Operation Sail on the nation’s Bicentennial, when the great ships had sailed up the Hudson, about the block parties and about her friends and neighbors.
“‘When you have lived in this neighborhood of New York for as long as I have,’” Rosanne read for Mrs. Goldblum, “ you come to appreciate its magnificence—and its significance.’”
Cassy noticed Amanda Stewart mouthing the words; she had helped Emma to write this.
“‘Of how beautiful God made this place, and of how dramatic the city’s history had to be in order for us to reach this special place. We are blessed in this community, as people who have come so far from so many places, to have this place and to have each other. Never in my life have I been prouder of this neighborhood, this city and this country, than I was after 9/11. God bless you all. I love you. And God bless America.’”
They were all crying their eyes out at this point, of course, and Jackson put his arm around Cassy. The baby Wyatt was crying and Althea carried him to the back of the tent. Howard and Amanda Stewart sat with their heads pressed together. Sam gave Harriet his handkerchief and put his arm around her. Daniel Goldblum’s wife was patting his back, and Jason was holding his mother’s hand.
Cassy had paid to place Emma’s photograph and obituary in the New York Times. It was not a remarkable life to read about but the obituary was meaningful to those who knew her. Perhaps most significant was how Emma had requested it to read:
She is survived by her son, Daniel Goldblum, of Saddle-brook, New Jersey, and by her daughter, Rosanne DiSantos, and her grandson, Jason DiSantos, of New York City.
In lieu of flowers she wished donations to be made to The Riverside Park Fund.
Daniel and his second wife (“the floozy with a heart,” Rosanne called her) elected to lunch with distant relatives while the neighbors went back to Mrs. Goldblum’s for something to eat. It was a quiet affair, with people simply eating and drinking and talking about memories they shared of Mrs. Goldblum. Jason, in a sharp blue blazer, gray slacks and tie, acted every bit the polished young man he had become, playing host.
“Can you get over the changes in him?” Cassy asked Howard Stewart. “He’s really a young man now.”
“I look at those two—” he gestured to Emily and Teddy, playing a card game on the floor in the corner “—and I just can’t believe it. Where does the time go?”
“I’m afraid it only gets worse, Howard. Time passes faster and faster.”
He nodded. He was watching Amanda now, Cassy could see, and his expression made Cassy inwardly smile. Something had changed in the Stewart household recently. She assumed it had to do with Amanda and the children planning to move back to Manhattan this summer. Cassy was happy for the Stewarts because it was clear the bond between husband and wife had been renewed in an almost adoring way. At least that was the way Howard was looking at his wife in this moment.
Howard frowned suddenly. “Excuse me, Cassy,” he said, touching her arm, “but my son is trying to sneak his twentieth brownie. Teddy!”
“So what do you think?” Jackson said, coming to stand next to Cassy. “Time to shove off?”
She sipped her iced tea. “Attorney Thatcher wants to read the will and then we can go.”
Jackson looked at his watch. “So when will this happen, do you think?”
Cassy went over to confer with Rosanne and Thatcher, who both agreed now would be fine. Cassy made the rounds of the room, telling people what was happening next. “This is by Emma’s request,” she explained, encouraging people to fan out around the living room and take what seats were available.
“I don’t care what she said,” Rosanne said to Cassy, “I still think this is creepy.”
“Just sit,” Cassy instructed her, absently patting Rosanne’s shoulder before moving
on to steer more people into chairs.
“Very well,” Attorney Thatcher said, drawing a piece of paper out of his breast pocket. “This is not a formal reading, but this is the last will and testament of Emma Goldblum—”
There was a short sob from Amanda Stewart, who had covered her face.
Attorney Thatcher was not unmoved. He cleared his throat and proceeded. “It meant a great deal to Mrs. Goldblum to have you all gathered here. She wanted you to hear this together, so there would be no question down the road as to what her last wishes were.”
They all looked at each other.
“Separate from the will itself she left a detailed list regarding the distribution of her personal property. Anything not specified on this list shall go to her son, Daniel.” Attorney Thatcher looked around the room. “You should know that Daniel has already agreed to fulfill the wishes of his late mother, although in regard to this list of personal property he has no legal obligation to do so.”
They all looked at each other again, except for Rosanne, who kept her eyes on the window, looking neither right nor left. She was exhausted, Cassy knew, to the point of numbness.
“Mrs. Goldblum wanted her grandmother’s walking stick, with the silver handle, to go to Amanda Miller Stewart,” Attorney Thatcher said. Amanda’s eyes filled again and her daughter went over to sit in her mother’s lap. “She also wanted Amanda and Howard Stewart to have her signed, first edition of The Painted Bird.”
“We’re getting a bird?” Teddy whispered. A few people laughed.
“The watercolor of the Hudson River that hangs in the foyer—” there were murmurs because it was so beautiful and such a familiar sight to them all “—is to go to Cassy Cochran.” Cassy was totally unprepared for this.
“She wanted Sam and Harriet Wyatt to have her husband’s stamp collection.”
The Wyatts looked thunderstruck. It was a valuable collection.
Riverside Park Page 28
