The Black Velvet Coat

by Jill G. Hall

  She hung the lantern on a hook over the bed, crawled beside a dozing Lucy, and picked up the jackalope postcard. With a magazine underneath and pen in her hand, she began to write:

  Dear Paul,

  I’m okay. Are you?

  She thought that sounded stupid and crossed it out, then got mad at herself for ruining the postcard. She scrounged in her purse to find the notepad and envelope she’d taken from the Monte Vista.

  Dear Paul,

  I saw a deer today. It looked at me. I’m sorry.

  She thought it best to try and be funny and started again:

  Dear Mr. Dictionary,

  Sorry I left without saying goodbye. It was necessary. I’m okay. I’ll be gone for a while. (Don’t worry; I’m not buying any jewelry!) Take care of Milo and Ella and yourself. Don’t try and find me. I need to be alone.

  Sincerely,

  Sylvia

  She yawned. In the morning, she’d write to Milo and Ella. She folded the top edge of the blue paper back and forth and carefully ripped off the hotel’s name. The note to Paul slid with ease into the envelope. She licked it, and with the pen she scratched out the hotel insignia and wrote Paul’s office address. In the next town, she’d buy stamps and drop the letter in a mailbox.

  She turned off the lantern, and the trailer became pitch black. Then she realized that the postmark would reveal her location. Were the police checking the mail? Did they really do that sort of thing?

  31

  Anne rode the elevator to the third floor, stepped out, and followed the voices down a hall to the gallery. She’d had to pour on the makeup to cover puffy, jetlagged eyes. But she felt voluptuous in the green dress, velvet jacket, and upswept do. This time, she’d made three ponytails, twisted them together, and used plenty of bobby pins to keep it all up. Too bad her slingback heels were already killing her. She pushed through a couple making out in the doorway and entered the large space jam-packed with people, where techno music played.

  Giant canvases hung on the walls painted in bold colors such as the ones that come in kindergarten paint boxes. Yes, these were Dottie’s, all right. Circus characters at play: red-nosed clowns in polka-dotted costumes, a blue-tutu-wearing dancer on an elephant’s back, acrobats juggling balls.

  They seemed like ordinary pieces you might find in a child’s room, except they appeared to have been painted upside down. It was obvious to Anne that they had been created right side up and then just turned around and displayed upside down. As her mind twisted them around, they seemed so familiar. Then she realized they were the same paintings Dottie had shown at her senior college exhibition—only tonight they had been hung upside down!

  Anne leaned in and looked at the acrobat’s price card: Juggling Your Way Through Life, $10,000. “Yowser!”

  “What do you think?” Dottie put her hand on Anne’s shoulder.

  If she let on that she knew her friend’s secret, how would she react? Laugh? Deny it? Anne studied Dottie’s heavily made-up eyes for a clue. “Intriguing.”

  “Yes, everyone says so. That lady over there just bought one.”

  Anne forced out a smile. “Congratulations.” Unbelievable!

  A guy with a red bandana tied around his head and a beer belly underneath his leather jacket nodded at Dottie from the doorway.

  “See you later.” She moved toward him as if he were a magnet.

  In the change jar there had only been enough for one slice of pizza. Now Anne’s stomach gurgled with hunger, and she wandered through the horde to the appetizers. She dropped a few limp carrot sticks along with watery Ranch Dip on a tiny paper plate and ignored the bowl of Cheetos—their orange covering would stain her hands and mouth. Not a slice of cheese or even a little quiche was to be found, and no dessert either. What happened to sweet and salty? And to think she had planned to have dinner here.

  For her own solo show, she envisioned an elegant affair—a cloth-covered table, champagne or martinis, delicious canapés, and, of course, chocolate. Anne looked across the room at her friend. If Dottie could do it, so could she.

  Anne nibbled a carrot stick and panned the room looking for a place to sit, but no chairs were to be found. All the other guests wore black from head to toe—knit hats, turtlenecks, dresses, leggings, and combat boots. The Kelly green cocktail dress with the tulle skirt made her stick out like the Incredible Hulk. Why hadn’t Dottie told her not to wear it? At least Anne had on her black coat. She touched the snowflake pin, also pretty sparkly for this crowd.

  “Well?” A man moved next to her.

  “Well, what?” she asked.

  “What about the paintings?” He too, of course, wore shades of black: a handsome charcoal suit with a gray tee underneath. Curly dark hair was pushed back behind his ears, accentuating a Roman nose and chiseled cheeks.

  “Interesting.” She didn’t want to badmouth Dottie. “What do you think?”

  He paused for a moment. “They’re colorful.”

  Had he guessed her secret too? Anne grew warm and wanted to take off the coat but didn’t wish to expose more of the bright dress. “Do you know Dottie?” She nodded toward her friend in the corner surrounded by a Goth group of people.

  “Who?”

  “Dorothea.”

  “No. Do you?” He poured wine from a box into a plastic glass.

  “College roommates.” Anne nodded. “I guess she’s really an artist now.”

  “What do you mean?” He tasted the wine and set it down with a grimace.

  “We had a professor once who didn’t think you were a true artist until you’d had a solo show.”

  The man smiled at her now, revealing beautiful white teeth. “Nonsense. I believe someone’s an artist the moment one picks up a paintbrush.”

  “What about training?”

  A woman stepped in front of them to get to the wine, and the man put his hand on Anne’s back and moved them out of the way. “Maybe someday, but the act of simply creating makes one an artist.” He popped an olive into his mouth and chewed.

  “But don’t you need to have your work chosen by a gallery in order to be bona fide?”

  “No. A true artist doesn’t need to please anyone but themself.”

  Anne smiled at him. “You must be an artist too.”

  “Not exactly, but I do follow the trends. Where did you girls go to school?”

  “U of M.”

  He looked confused. “Missouri, Montana?”

  “No, Michigan.” She stuck another carrot in her mouth.

  “Are you a true artist?” Someone had turned up the music, and he had to yell to be heard.

  She finished chewing and said, “Yes and no, according to your definition. Occasionally when I’m in the zone, I forget to remember to care if others like my work.”

  He laughed. “Maybe someday you won’t care at all. What medium?”

  “Mixed media.”

  He nodded. “Are you showing here in New York too?”

  “I live in San Francisco.” She put down her plate. “Trying to break into the field.”

  “Sergio.” He put out his hand.

  She clasped his firm grip and didn’t want to let go of his smooth palm. “Anne, Anne McFarland.”

  “Irish?”

  “With a bit of Scotch. You’re Italiano.”

  “Sì. Speaking of Scotch, would you like to leave this party and get some? Or perhaps an Irish coffee?” His eyes sparkled at her. They were practically burnt sienna, her favorite brown hue.

  “How about a Chianti for you?” She couldn’t believe she was being such a flirt. It would be fun though to have a fling while here in New York.

  “Anne!” A shriek could be heard from across the room, and Crissy swept forward, her blonde curls pinned up into an exquisite coiffure and perfectly painted nails that only an afternoon at a salon could achieve. Her knockout body was accentuated by a black mini-dress.

  “Aren’t you all gussied up?” Crissy giggled her high-pitched laugh and gave Anne a big
hug. “How’s California? Anything in the Getty yet?”

  Embarrassed, Anne frowned. “Not yet.”

  “Who’s this hunk?” Crissy grabbed Sergio’s bicep and lifted her eyes to Anne.

  “Sergio. This is Crissy.”

  He shook her hand. “Glad to meet you.”

  “Charmed. I’m sure.”

  “How in the heck do you know Dottie?” Anne asked.

  “Who?”

  “Dorothea.”

  “We’re Facebook friends through you.” Crissy giggled.

  “You came all this way to see her show?”

  “We’re hunting for an apartment.”

  “But I thought you lived in Michigan.”

  “We do, silly. Our second home will be here. Johnny.” Crissy pulled her husband from the appetizers. “Here’s Anne from high school. I’ve told you how we all knew she’d hit it big. Remember, she lives in San Francisco now and does collage, all that gluey stuff?”

  He bowed and shook Anne’s hand. “Jonathan.” With his silver hair and button-down shirt, he really did look like Crissy’s father.

  “I’m glad to finally meet you.” Anne smiled at him.

  Sergio asked, “Crissy, are you an artist too?”

  Jonathan placed his hands on her shoulders. “Her ducks are superb.”

  Sergio looked at Crissy’s cleavage with confusion. “Ducks?”

  Jonathan grinned. “It’s amazing how real they look.”

  “I see.” Sergio suppressed a smile and glanced at Anne out of the corner of his eye.

  Crissy pointed to a painting of a seal holding a beach ball. The upside-down animal looked like it was balancing on top of the ball. “Johnny, let’s buy that one for the new apartment.”

  “Anything you want, sugar!” Jonathan kissed her cheek.

  Crissy giggled. “We’re opening a gallery here.”

  “Maybe you’ll show Anne’s work?” Sergio suggested.

  “Oh, dear me, no! Her stuff is too modern.” Crissy giggled again.

  Anne felt her face turn red. The black-clad bodies made her start to feel as if she were at a funeral.

  “We’ll mostly show landscapes. You know, trees, lakes. And, of course, my ducks. Midwestern themes.”

  Anne had heard enough. “Gotta go.” She felt Sergio’s eyes on her as she walked to the exit and left without even saying goodbye to Dottie.

  Anne tottered down the hall in her tight heels, rode the elevator down, and stepped out into the cold evening. The wind flounced tree branches to look like dancing arms, and crowds of people bustled by on their way to maybe other gallery openings, theatres, or restaurants. A parade of taxis drove by, but she didn’t have the money to hail one.

  Snuggling into her coat, she hiked uptown toward the apartment. After a block and a half, she stopped to check the street signs to make sure she had been going the right way. Oh, great. Twenty-third Street, only twenty more blocks to go. Her feet stung, and her toes felt as if they were getting frostbitten. She should have worn her wingtips or clunky boots even if they didn’t go with her cocktail ensemble. Either would have fit in more with the gallery crowd anyway.

  She tottered down the sidewalk again, but her shoe caught in a grate. “Aaah!” She tugged her foot, but the heel popped off and fell down into the sewer. Peering into the abyss, she realized that even if she could retrieve the heel, who knew what it would be covered in? She tried not to think about it and continued along the sidewalk: Up down, up down, up down. No way would she be able to walk all the way back to the apartment now.

  It began to rain, but the drops quickly turned to sleet. This weather was one of the main reasons she had moved from Michigan. The icy blast soaked her hair and started to seep down the coat onto her shoulders. Sheltering under a Laundromat’s awning, she leaned against the door and looked for a bus stop. Then she spotted a subway entrance across the street and felt for the leftover change in her pocket. She’d heard horror stories about the New York subway but didn’t really have much choice and crossed the street toward the entrance.

  32

  In the morning, Sylvia thought she’d whip up some Spam for breakfast. From the blue can’s back, she pulled the key, inserted it, and rolled back the top. At least an opener hadn’t been necessary. Yuck! The Spam smelled like dead baloney. She located a frying pan and looked out the door to check on Lucy romping outside under a baby blue sky. Sylvia inhaled the fresh pine scent, trying to mask the Spam’s odor. She turned the knob on the range but nothing happened; then bent over and inspected it. Why didn’t it work? She used her lighter and turned the knob, but it still wouldn’t go on.

  Lucy rushed in with a hungry whine. Sylvia scooped some of the Spam into the bowl and set it on the ground. The puppy gobbled it right up. The odor didn’t seem to bother her. Sylvia thought she would try it too and examined a glob on a spoon. It looked a lot like pâté. She held her nostrils shut with one hand, stuck out her tongue, and licked a small amount off the spoon. It tasted disgusting! She spit it in the sink.

  Ella would know how to make it edible. She would sit on her high stepstool in the kitchen and read the Joy of Cooking as if it were a romance novel. “Hey, Sylvie! How about persimmon pumpkin pudding or chestnut soufflé with chocolate caramel sauce?” What Sylvia wouldn’t do for one of Ella’s home-cooked meals now.

  Sylvia’s stomach now felt a little queasy from the Spam episode, so she decided to take a stroll before a peanut-butter-on-Ritz breakfast. She stepped into the sunshine, where nearby boulders had been cleansed to a lustrous sheen. An adorable rabbit with a cotton-ball tail nibbled grass nearby. Lucy shot out of the trailer and chased it down the path out of sight.

  “Come back!” Sylvia ran after her but couldn’t keep up. “Lucy!” she called. Out of breath, Sylvia slowed down and continued to pursue Lucy’s bark. Soon the pines grew dense, blocking the sun. The smell of bacon overpowered the pine scent, and Sylvia followed it into a clearing, where a station wagon and small tent stood. A cook stove with frying bacon and eggs sat on a picnic table.

  A manly kind of woman with broad shoulders and stocky legs held out a piece of bacon. “Sit, girl.” Lucy obeyed with her tongue hanging out and accepted the bacon crumble.

  Sylvia was astounded by Lucy’s response to a stranger. Usually it took her a while to warm up to someone, but she guessed that with bacon, anyone could be Lucy’s friend.

  “Hi-dee-ho.” The woman waved then wiped her hands on her shorts. “Come join me. Doris is my name.” Her buzz-cut brown hair was plain, but it showed off her teardrop diamond earrings that sparkled in the light.

  Sylvia felt surprised she didn’t want to touch them. In fact, she hadn’t had a desire to touch anything sparkly since she’d sold her jewelry.

  “I’m S . . . Susie Stevens.” Sylvia shook the woman’s outstretched hand.

  Lucy whined and jumped up on Doris.

  “Lucy, don’t beg.” Sylvia felt herself grow red.

  “Sit.” Doris held out the rest of the bacon strip. Lucy sat and was rewarded with the whole leftover piece. “Susie, you have a seat too.”

  Sylvia parked herself at the picnic table and felt the warm sun on her back. The Spam taste long forgotten, her mouth now watered from the bacon smell.

  “Had breakfast yet? Just scrambling some eggs.”

  Sylvia shook her head. “No.”

  Doris heaped food on two plates and handed one to Sylvia. Lucy jumped up and put her paws on the bench.

  “Lucy, down.” Doris’s voice was rigid.

  Lucy sat and stared at the food. Sylvia had never been so ravenous and took a big bite. Somehow the food tasted better than anything she’d ever eaten before. “Delicious.”

  “It’s the fresh air. Weaves itself into the vittles.”

  Sylvia believed her. She swallowed the last of her eggs, started on the bacon, and pulled off a little bit. “Lucy, sit.”

  Lucy hurried over and leapt on Sylvia’s leg.

  Doris directed: “Be firm an
d honest.”

  “Lucy, sit.” Sylvia made her voice sound deep and serious. Lucy sat. Sylvia giggled and gave her the snippet.

  “Where you from?” Doris asked.

  Sylvia took another bite of bacon and swallowed. “Flag. You?”

  “Kentucky.”

  Sylvia watched as Doris poured water from the stove into a tub and rinsed the dishes.

  “May I help?” Sylvia asked.

  “Nope.” Doris flipped them upside down on a towel. “They air dry.”

  “What’s Kentucky like?” Sylvia thought she might want to go there too.

  “Mostly farming. Not much to speak of.” Doris sighed and looked up at a tall pine. “Going home today.”

  Disappointed, Sylvia thought she could learn a lot from this pro, and she watched her take down the tent and pack it up.

  “Sure you don’t need any help?”

  “Got it.”

  Sylvia admired the keen way Doris folded over and rolled up her sleeping bag. It had been hard enough for Sylvia to refold the map again. “Doris, do you happen to have an extra can opener?”

  “Sure do! And more. I can’t fit anything back in my car; it’s filled to the gills.” She laughed. “I’ve collected too many rocks and Indian keepsakes. How about the stove too?”

  “That would be great!” Sylvia liked the idea of learning to cook outside. She could still smell the fresh bacon and eggs.

  Doris piled everything, including cans of Spam, on the table.

  “Thanks, but I don’t need the Spam.” Sylvia felt nauseated just looking at it. “But I’ll take everything else.” She played with the amulet, then had another idea. “Would you do me another small favor?”

  “Probably.”

  “Mail a letter for me when you get to Kentucky?”

  Doris eyed her curiously.

  Sylvia fibbed: “I don’t want my boyfriend to know where I am. He might try and find me.”

  “Oh, a Dear John letter.”

  “Something like that.”

  Doris grinned. “Been there before. Yep, be happy to.”

  Sylvia lugged the stove to the trailer. She grabbed the envelope and delivered it to Doris with some coins for postage. “I really appreciate it.”