by Gun Brooke
Ready to snatch it out of her hand, I walked over to the luxurious kitchenette area, where I poured myself some coffee. “Remind me to take that damn thesaurus away from you.” I sipped the hot beverage and made a face; it had clearly been sitting in the pot too long. Still I needed the caffeine so I didn’t complain.
India came up to me, her expression contrite. “Come on, you know I’m only teasing you, Greer. Tell me more about Hayden’s work. Are we going to show it?”
“If it’s the last thing I do,” I muttered into my coffee mug. “I’ve already taken the initial steps to ensure it.”
“Now you’ve lost me.” India jumped up to sit on the counter in the kitchenette. “Doesn’t Hayden want an exhibition?”
India’s question made me pause. Surely Hayden wanted to exhibit her art? Wasn’t that what all artists desired, to be viewed, to be seen—to be paid? A small voice inside me objected. Apart from her looking pleased that Luke had sneaked her painting into the students’ exhibition, I had no way of knowing what she wanted, at least not yet. “I think she does, but I have to be careful around her. She’s not like any other person I’ve ever met.”
“I see.” India gave me her best wise-old-oracle face. “And how much did you have to sell your soul for to even get a chance to exhibit her art?”
“My God, you’re good. I take away your thesaurus and you pull out your clairvoyance. Am I going to have to frisk you for your crystal ball?” Pouring the last of the horrible coffee into the sink, I rinsed my mug. “I’m going to teach a master class at the Rowe Art School once a week this semester.” I wiped my mug on a paper towel, waiting for India’s response.
“Holy cow, you’re teaching? Are you crazy? You’re going to work for her, the pink lady?” She shoved the pen back into her hair so hard I feared for her scalp.
“Wait, there’s more. Hayden will co-teach with me.” Knowing India, I might as well get the whole truth out there right away. She had these methods of extracting information from me; I’d learned that the hard way. I can sustain only so many hours of inquisition à la India. “Now I’ll get to know her, and her work, better.”
Her face brightening, India smiled. “Now we’re talking. By the way, how old is Hayden?”
“I’m guessing mid-twenties perhaps. Hard to guess.”
“Hey, we should Google her.” Before I had the chance to respond, India hurried over to her desk on the other side of the glass wall. “Let’s try this. Hayden Rowe, Boston. I think we have to add Leyla and the school.” She pressed Enter with emphasis and started scrolling. “That’s kind of weird. I don’t see anything about Hayden.”
“Add Isabella Rowe.” Intrigued, even if this didn’t feel quite right, I pulled a chair and sat down next to India.
“That’s the grandma? Look! Here’s something.” India clicked on a link. “Wow, it looks like something from a tabloid. Hardly a reliable source.”
“Let me have a look.” I leaned forward. “Why would there be anything about Hayden in a tabloid?”
“God almighty. Because her granny is Isabella Calthorpe Rowe.” India glanced up at me, looking awed. “That would explain the media posse at the time. The Calthorpes have owned most of the best real estate in Boston since they probably rowed over from Europe before the Mayflower.”
It wasn’t as big an exaggeration as India might think. The Calthorpes wielded a lot of power and came from not only old, but ancient money. They were involved with politics, culture, and industrial business, and owned two large independent newspapers. Some of the young people in this dynasty were almost as popular as the Hilton sisters in the tabloid press.
I began to read, and it didn’t take me long to realize that a veritable war had been fought for years within Hayden’s family. On one side, Hayden’s parents, Leyla and Michael Rowe, and on the other, Isabella Calthorpe Rowe and her grandson, Oliver. At the center of the conflict: Hayden. The tabloid article stated that Hayden had some sort of autism, and her grandmother insisted that Leyla and Michael did not act in their daughter’s best interest. She even suggested that their approach harmed Hayden and was emotionally abusive.
This made me stop reading for a moment, and I pictured how Hayden had clung to her brushes and also how she’d taken my words very literally. I knew little to nothing about autism, but if Hayden was diagnosed as autistic, she certainly seemed to be highly functioning. I grimaced inwardly at this thought, as it made me feel like I was describing a thing, not a person.
“When was this?” I tapped the arrow on the keyboard, making the page scroll to the date. “Really? March 8, 2001? How old can she have been then? Fourteen? Fifteen?”
“This is seriously fucked up,” India said, her voice sorrowful. “I know better than to trust this type of press, and besides, I don’t get it why the tabloids tear into people’s private life like this. Well, yeah, I do. They’re out to make money. Still, if there’s any truth to this, this girl could be pretty damaged.” India looked at me with caution. “But if you say she’s a talented artist, that’s all I need to know.”
Hayden was beyond gifted, that much was obvious to me. I refused to let a rumor of a diagnosis influence me from what I’d seen of her work so far. I’d let my emotions and gut feeling steer me on several occasions during my career, and that approach had never let me down. I pictured the old gym hall, its walls filled with canvases of different sizes. Hayden said she’d stayed there for a year. I doubted she had taken all of her previous production with her to the school. This would mean she had painted what was there during that time. She clearly lived for her painting.
“Why don’t you clear your own schedule and accompany me when it’s time for me to give the first master class? You can meet Hayden, and her mother too, I’m sorry to say. I need you to help me plan which type of exhibition is best for her work.”
India beamed. “I can join you? Oh goody!” Her computer beeped and a calendar appeared on the screen. “And you have to get ready for your next appointment. The Tokyo delegation will be here in fifteen minutes. I bet they’ll be prompt.” She actually shooed me toward my private area, which didn’t have transparent walls.
“All right, all right. I’m going.” I raised my hands, palms forward. I checked the time. I had time to quickly rinse myself off and change clothes. Being impeccable when it came to dealing with the Japanese was a courtesy they both expected and appreciated. After my morning with Leyla and Hayden, I felt like I’d run the Boston Marathon. When I stood in the shower stall, alternating between hot and cold sprays—my trademark method to sharpen the senses—my thoughts were still with Hayden. It surprised me I wasn’t focusing on her art alone, which would be normal for me. Instead, I let the water gush over me, envisioning dark-gray eyes regarding me with a curious care.
*
Later that evening, having taken the Tokyo delegation to, of all places, a sports bar, I pulled up my schedule that India had worked on during the afternoon. Apart from being an art connoisseur, India was an administrative miracle. She had freed Thursday mornings throughout the semester for four-hour master classes. Pulling out Hayden’s note with her phone number, I hesitated briefly before dialing. Hayden answered after the first ring.
“Hayden Rowe.”
“Good evening, Hayden. This is Greer Landon.” I put the phone on speaker mode and wiped my palms on my robe.
“I know. I entered your phone numbers into my contacts.” Hayden’s voice was as dispassionate as I remembered it. “Your name showed up on my screen.”
“Great. Excellent.” Shoving my hand through my hair nervously, I forged on. “My assistant—her name is India—has gone over my schedule. I will come every Thursday morning for the duration of the semester. If that sounds all right with you, I’ll have India email your mother with the contract containing the specifics tomorrow. I wanted to touch base with you first.”
“Yes. It sounds all right.”
Was it my imagination or did Hayden actually sound relieved? Thoughts of w
hat might have taken place between Hayden and her mother after my visit had worried me on and off throughout the day. “Did your mother give you a hard time after I left, Hayden?” I just had to know.
“My mother always gives me a hard time. Today was no different.”
“I don’t mean to come off as presumptuous, but you sound…tired?” The word I really meant was weak; she sounded frail and hesitant. Perhaps it was arrogant of me to even consider myself able to decipher her voice, but I didn’t think I was wrong. “Did something else happen?”
“Maestro Gatti came into my studio.” Hayden took a deep breath.
This time I knew I hadn’t read anything extra into her voice, as it had definitely trembled. I shoved my fists into the pockets of my robe. “What did he do?” My question came out like a growl.
“He yelled a lot.” I heard Hayden walk across the wooden floor. “He…he stood too close.”
Oh, my God. “Was your mother there?”
“Not at first. She came when he started shouting. Luke and Ulli came too. I think they showed up because both Maestro Gatti and my mother were yelling.” Hayden sounded calmer now, as if retelling the events was helpful.
“Why were they so loud?”
Hayden sighed. “Maestro Gatti started shouting. He kept poking me above my collarbone, saying it was my fault my mother had fired him. He said I should be locked up.” She cleared her voice, and some of the stress I’d noticed earlier reappeared. “I don’t like him. I don’t like being pushed or shoved or yelled at. I was holding my brushes…I was holding my…my brushes…” Her voice failed her and she grew quiet.
Furious now, I grabbed my cell phone and stalked up to my roof terrace. “Keep going, Hayden. I’m listening.”
“I only wanted him to back off, not to stand so close.” Now Hayden sounded weary. “I put my hands up and pushed—hard. Perhaps I really slammed into him? There was blood and he was screaming. Mother showed up and started shouting as well. I was holding my ears. Luke came running. Ulli too. I closed my eyes and kept pressing hard against my ears. When I looked up, everyone was gone.”
“Did they come back to check on you?” I sat down in a wicker lounge chair and pulled a wool blanket over me.
“No. Mother must have listened to Maestro Gatti because I heard her turn the key in the door lock downstairs. I found blood on the handle of my brushes. He was right. I…hurt him, so they…they…they locked me up.”
Her words were unfathomable. I had to put my cell phone down or I would have crushed it. That madwoman, that infuriating, pink-colored, poor excuse for a mother. I was so angry, I could hardly breathe. She’d actually locked Hayden up. What if the door was still locked? What if there was a fire? Reeling my fury in, I spoke slowly. “Please do me a favor, Hayden. Take your phone with you and walk downstairs. Check if the door’s still locked.” If it was, I was calling the police.
“All right.”
I heard Hayden’s footsteps cross the floor again. The sound of them changed as she walked down the cast-iron stairs, the metallic sound singing in the background. A rattling noise from the phone made me clutch it harder.
“Greer. It’s unlocked.” Hayden drew a trembling breath.
“Thank God. Listen to me, Hayden. She cannot do that. She cannot lock you in. It’s against the law.”
“Okay.” More rustling noises, and then a deep sigh came over the phone. “The key was still in the lock on the other side. I took it out.”
“Good.” I pinched the bridge of my nose and told myself it was important to remain calm. “Don’t give it back. Keep your phone in your pocket at all times. If something else happens that you’re uncomfortable with, call me.” I didn’t think Hayden would actually telephone the police on her mother, but she might just dial me. “And come to think of it, why don’t you lock the door from the inside from now on?”
“All right,” she said again, followed by a clanking sound.
“Excellent. I’ll see you on Thursday, nine a.m.”
“Yes.”
“Good night, Hayden.”
“Good night, Greer.” She was so polite, but also had more confidence in her voice. I heard Hayden begin walking upstairs again before the call disconnected.
I stood on my roof terrace, clutching my cell phone as if I were still connected to Hayden. The young woman seemed to forgo any inner filter when it came to confiding in me. I didn’t get the impression she was this open with other people, not even Luke, whom she thought of as “acting friendly.” Hayden was clearly very attached to her grandmother, but apart from that, did she have anybody? Was it my appreciation of her art that made her put faith in me? Or did she sense the embryonic protectiveness she seemed to stir in me? I shivered in the cool evening air and walked inside. No matter why or how, this unfamiliar connection was as unexpected as it was rare. I didn’t simply take to people or find myself easily fascinated, and my own reaction was just as puzzling as Hayden’s circumstances.
When I went to bed, I was far too busy drawing up plans for the master classes and working on ideas for Hayden’s future showing, but a smaller part of my mind was plotting imaginary ways to get back at her mother for the stunt she’d pulled on Hayden today.
Chapter Five
The classroom was filled to the last seat. With its tall ceiling and ornamented window frames, it by far outshone the classroom I’d visited last week. Perhaps Leyla was out to impress, but I found the large room gloomy and depressing. I recognized some but saw also a few new faces, students who hadn’t been present the last time. All the easels were taken. A few other kids stealthily snuck in and sat on the low storage shelves along the walls. I figured it wouldn’t do any harm to have spectators.
I glanced at India, who was busy introducing herself to the students. Some of the men were giving her long looks, something I’d witnessed many times when India entered a room. Her sparkling personality combined with her dramatic colors had a pull on both men and women. The art students were no different.
I checked the time on my phone. One minute before class began and Hayden wasn’t here yet. Thankfully, neither was her mother.
Five seconds before the master class was to commence, Hayden strode into the room. Dressed in a blue-gray button-down shirt and black chinos, she stopped by the podium, looking calmly at me. She carried several canvases tied together with a thin leather string under her arm. Her right hand held a set of paintbrushes in a tight grip. This reminded me of how Hayden’s voice had trembled over the phone when she talked about her brushes being stained with blood. It seemed to me brushes represented a sense of safety. I couldn’t imagine what having a few specks of Gatti’s blood on them had done to her.
“Hello, Hayden,” I said and smiled. “So nice to see you again.”
“Greer.” Hayden put her burden down and extended a hand. She shook mine in three rapid movements up and down and then let go very fast.
“India? Come say hello to Hayden.” I waved India over. For some reason I was nervous about introducing them and had no idea why.
“Great to meet you. Greer’s talked a lot about you and your work,” India said and shook Hayden’s hand. I noticed Hayden managed to sustain contact with India only briefly.
“I haven’t heard of you or your work,” Hayden said, looking serious.
India didn’t seem fazed by Hayden’s directness. “No wonder. I can’t even draw a straight line. I’m Greer’s assistant and also manage her Boston-based gallery. Just a cog among many in her vast empire.”
Hayden blinked. “You regard yourself as a piece of machinery?”
“Er…” India glanced at me. “Not really. Just a figure of speech.”
“I see.” Nodding slowly, Hayden smiled and spoke in a way that looked totally rehearsed. “I often misunderstand commonplace analogies and metaphors. My apologies.” She clutched the paintbrushes in her left hand.
“No worries.” I stepped in, as I couldn’t bear to see the awkwardness emanating from Hayden. How ma
ny times had she been chastised for not catching on to sayings or slang? This would perhaps look like nothing to other people, but it pained me to imagine a younger Hayden trying to figure out enigmatic adages that made no sense to her. “India runs my business here, and she’s curious about the school and your art as well.”
“Lovely!” Leyla’s piercing, high-pitched voice sent my skin into goose-bump mode for all the wrong reasons. I turned, forcing myself to appear polite, when all I could think about was how this woman had actually locked up her daughter only days ago. “Now, now,” Leyla continued, clapping her hands as if there was a remote chance anyone in the classroom could have missed her appearance. “As you can tell, we have Ms. Landon back, and the good news is she’s back for the duration of this semester. She’s brought one of her staff with her…yes, your name, dear?” She motioned insistently toward India.
“India Duane.” It amused me when India donned her “don’t-think-I’m-impressed-with-you” face.
“How quaint.” Either India’s expression wasn’t enough to put a dent in Leyla’s demeanor, or she simply treated anyone she considered a minion in the same condescending way. “As Maestro Gatti had to leave us on short notice due to a family emergency, we’re fortunate to have Ms. Landon to step in.”
“Not to mention Hayden,” I said, my voice silky, which didn’t escape India, who smirked knowingly.
“Yes. Yes.” Leyla’s hands began to flutter as she straightened her collar and fluffed her golden-blond hair. Finally they settled against her midsection, which seemed to be their normal resting place. Somehow I had a vision of the small, bejeweled hands acting like cobras, able to quickly snap forward and slap a little girl’s face. I didn’t know why I pictured this so vividly; I had no real cause to think it’d actually happen. Then again, a woman who incarcerated her own grown daughter…
