by Maria Hummel
As I pulled Layla’s extra-frothy coffee closer, I noticed the guest list she had handed back to me. Scribbled in the margin, in tiny letters, were two words:
Quit now.
I took a sip of coffee and flinched. My tongue shorted out on the heat.
Across the room, Layla looked up and aimed a vacant smile at me. I returned it with a frosty, close-lipped version, and bent back to the press release, crossing out her note.
This day was growing new depths already. I took another sip, ignored the burning.
10
AN HOUR LATER, MY PHONE’S buzz pierced the quiet of the gallery. Kaye: She’s running late. 1:30 okay?
Sure.
Great!! Sorry.
Across the room, Layla moved closer to Pearson and Erik. “‘Of course your work has holes in it. You’re a woman.’ That’s what that stupid aesthetics dude said to me,” she told them, clearly continuing some previous conversation. “Can you believe it?”
Erik shrugged. “Sounds like a stupid aesthetics dude.”
“And then for three hours we didn’t get off whether you have to ‘earn’ the right to make protest art. Whether you have to be a ‘true victim’ in order to have a voice,” said Layla. “I shouldn’t have signed up for that slot. October is the worst. Everybody is sick of looking at art, and they just want to seethe about politics.” She paused. “They just want to sound impressive to Hal.”
Layla had to be talking about her crit. I had listened many times to my coworkers, LAAC graduates, gripe enjoyably about crits at the school. The crit was LAAC’s principal way of teaching art, and generally meant an hours-long, in-class conversation with one student about his or her work. I’d heard that crits could go on for six or seven hours in Hal’s courses, lasting late into the night with sleeping bags, but even Layla’s three-plus hours sounded long to me. Still, there was a hint of neediness in her voice. She wanted to be heard.
“I’m just sensitive right now because open studios are coming up.” Layla dabbed her forehead with her fingertips. “I’m not ready.”
Another pause, during which neither man spoke.
“I was all set to show my nail-salon-worker series, but now I’m having second thoughts,” Layla added.
“Crits got the best of you? Trouble with your oeuvre?” Pearson spoke in a honeyed tone to a men’s penny loafer. “Drown your sorrows with a reality check at the No One Gives a Crap Saloon. Open 24/7. Locations everywhere.”
“Shut up,” Layla said blankly. It was hard to tell if his ribbing upset her.
Pearson tossed the loafer toward Erik. “Who were you expecting to appear at your ‘open studio’?” he asked.
“Never you mind,” Layla said. She tied the laces of a child’s sneaker in a neat bow.
“Seriously, who did Daddy line up for you this time?” Pearson didn’t wait for her answer but instead stomped around the room, flinging shoes aside, as if looking for something.
“Come on,” said Erik, glancing at me. “We need to focus on this together.”
“We need the shoes,” grumbled Pearson, dredging a skein of wire from beneath a heap. “I wonder whose bright idea it was to send them to LAAC.”
“It was Hal’s idea,” said Layla. “And I’m expecting Lynne Feldman at my open studio, okay? I told her myself, and she sounded really thrilled to be reminded. She said she loves the open studios.”
Lynne Feldman sounding “really thrilled” about anything but her own museum shows and her cats was laughable to me, but I was impressed with Layla’s pulling power. From the way my LAAC friends had painted it, the open studios were less a chance for unknown students to get discovered than a big, raucous party celebrating the common tragedy of their anonymity. But Layla would never be anonymous. Not to a Rocque chief curator. Because of her father, she was a potential future donor.
Pearson studied the wire as if something important was written in its loops.
“Sorry, Layla,” he said. His voice was gruff but penitent. “You should use any connections you’ve got. I hope it’s a great visit.”
“I wish I was back in my second year, prepping for open studios,” Erik said, “and actually graduating on time.”
“You will,” Layla said with a force that verged on fury—only it wasn’t against Erik; it was for him. “And you’ve already got two major collectors and a curator sniffing around. You just have to get it done.”
Erik hung his head, sheepish, as if he had been chastised instead of praised, and gestured at the pile of shoes. “This is what we need to get done.”
Another text from Kaye: Bad news. Call me ASAP.
“I know,” said Layla. “We should work late,” she added. “We should call off those interviews.”
I didn’t want to phone Kaye. It was obvious that the actress was canceling on me.
“Okay?” Layla said when neither of the men responded. “We shouldn’t be doing them anyway.”
“Okay, okay,” interrupted Pearson, surveying a column. “That one’s crooked.”
Layla threw a blue sneaker toward Erik. “Okay?” she said in a despairing tone.
My phone started buzzing. I turned it off.
Erik didn’t answer, just crouched low and shoved at a sandal sticking awkwardly from one side of the column. Now the three crew members made a triangle, Layla the tallest point, Pearson bending, Erik low to the ground. A close silence rose between them, and suddenly they all seemed so young to me, clean and smooth as new candles.
“It’s not going to bring her back,” said Layla, her voice full of emotion.
Erik shrugged, stood. He walked over to another column and examined it from all sides, pushing, adjusting. His hands were so strong that their sinews popped when he squeezed. “It’s not about bringing her back,” he said, flushing.
Layla didn’t react right away. She sorted a couple of shoes, then let her head fall forward, her red hair tumbling over her face. “Right,” she muttered.
Pearson watched the exchange, his eyes gleaming as the tension rose.
“Look,” said Erik, “the guy said he has something to show us, and I want to see it.”
“Help me out, Pearson,” said Layla, still kneeling, looking up. “You didn’t want to do it, either.”
Pearson straightened to his full height. “I don’t recall having a personal reaction,” he said coolly. “I just questioned the merits.”
“Fine. Question the merits now. What can they possibly be?” Layla said.
Neither man answered.
“Are you asking me?” Pearson said after a moment. “Perhaps some of us would like closure.” He inflected the last word with his usual mocking tone, but he pegged a shoe across the room with extra force.
A shadow appeared at the door, knocking, then clinking—the sound of rings on a fist hitting the glass. I spotted a thin, unsmiling face framed by a black, chin-length bob. Zania de Wilde, the last of the foursome. I let her in. She mumbled a thank-you and scurried past me.
Zania was slim and olive-skinned, with a high waist and small breasts, but her most noticeable feature was her expression. She wore the regal, overly patient face of someone who ruled a tiny, misunderstood country. As soon as she entered the gallery space, the men scrambled and shifted as if they’d been caught slacking, and Layla stood up, dusted her hands, and went to her friend.
Whatever distancing effect Zania had on the others, she drew Layla to her instantly. They spoke in low, intense tones, Layla slouching and gathering herself like dough around Zania’s upright frame. According to Ray, Zania was Nelson’s daughter from his former and only marriage. At eighteen, she’d trained as an anarchist and then disappeared into a maw of global protesting for three years before emerging to get her undergraduate degree at LAAC. Like Layla, Zania exuded wealth even though her jeans were deliberately ratty, her tank top tight and plain. She had the ripped abs that only a personal trainer can summon, and her bob looked expensive.
“The shoes,” said Zania, her voice high an
d soft, “will be here any minute.”
As the crew burst into talk about what they’d built so far and what they needed, I took a sip of Layla’s latte. It had finally cooled and it tasted delicious, with caramel and hints of smoke.
I needed to call Kaye, but I didn’t want to face the truth.
For a few more minutes, I watched the crew. Layla seemed like several people at once—the silent adorer of Erik, the eager subordinate to Zania, the sly one who’d told me (or warned me?) to quit. She also wanted to nix the interviews with Ray, which might have been ordinary caution, or a wish not to dredge up more grief. But maybe it was to protect Erik from further scrutiny. Clearly, he wanted to talk about Brenae. Why?
There was a charmed air about Erik; he had the harmless good looks and superficial ease that people used to call bonny. He’d also left the room three times for the bathroom and come back flushed. Whatever substance habit he had, he was barely hiding it, but in the orchestration of the artwork, the others treated him with deference, stepping aside to let his eyes and hands take over. It was clear he was their star.
I turned my phone back on and slipped out onto the palm-lined boulevard outside. After years of navigating downtown’s skyscrapers and steep hills, the first thing that struck me about the Westing’s block was its flatness and open sky. The street was wide enough and the buildings short enough to allow sun to flood the sidewalks all day. Restaurants greeted the brightness with patios, striped umbrellas, and lemon-ginger elixirs. Beside them, tiny, cave-like shops peddled army jackets and T-shirts so flimsy they were already shredding on their racks. Some pedestrians were clearly tourists, trudging along in capris, sucking in their inland waists. Others looked like they’d been posed there with their low-slung jeans, bone hips, and gleaming tans. The overall atmosphere didn’t feel snobby, though, not exclusive at all—but insatiably splendid. There was so much light to go around. Venice reminded me of every beach town, and none of them.
I spotted Ray across the street and up a block, sitting in a parked gray sedan. His eyes were closed. Had he fallen asleep? I thought of his face in the coffee shop this morning. He looked different from when I’d first met him. There was something sunken about his face, especially around the eyes.
My phone thrummed. Kaye.
“Maggie, I’m sorry,” she said. “I think you should go there at one thirty anyway, but she will likely not show up. She’s got tons of calls with producers. She’s gotten so hot all of a sudden. Like overnight.”
“I understand,” I said coolly, although my face felt numb and warm. My suit hung on me like a wet towel.
“But you should go just in case,” she said. “You should definitely go.”
I felt a nudge. Zania had somehow materialized beside me, along with a whiff of coconut shampoo.
“The shoe truck’s coming. Supposedly there’s a dolly in my father’s office,” she said. “Do you have a key?”
“Maggie?” Kaye sounded farther away. “Are you at work?”
“Are you leaving?” Zania said. She looked troubled by the idea.
“In an hour or so,” I told her, and turned away, cupping the phone. “I’m sorry,” I said to Kaye. “Can I call you back?”
“Of course. You should go. And let me know if she comes,” said Kaye, already fading.
I hung up and turned to Zania. “It’s really tight out here. For a truck,” I said to her, gesturing at the wedge of curb space not already occupied by parked cars.
“There’s a back door,” Zania said. “The gallery has reserved spots back there. Where did you park?”
“I got dropped off,” I lied.
“You should take a reserved spot next time,” she insisted. “Don’t pay the meters of this corrupt city.”
The others glanced up as we entered. They were down to the last shoes, but they needed so many more. Instead of looking closer to finished, the elegant room looked violated by heaps of junk.
I told Zania I would search for the key, but she was already pulling open a desk drawer, handing me a gold one attached to a keychain that was a blank white cube.
“Ha-ha,” I said. “Did he have this specially made?”
Zania shrugged. If she’d known where the key was, she could have gotten the dolly herself, so I wasn’t sure why she’d followed me outside. Her face registered nothing but a slight impatience. As in, Do your job, gallerina. I walked down the hall to the only door and unlocked it. A murmur of conversation began behind me, and I paused, trying to catch it.
“. . . and she’s paranoid she did something to offend my dad,” Zania said. “He won’t say. He didn’t fire her, though.”
“Well, it’s not an improvement,” said Layla’s voice, “so hopefully it is temporary.”
Pearson muttered something indistinct.
“I thrive on judging,” said Layla. “I mean, who would ever wear this sandal? It looks like a straitjacket for a hamster.”
“Norwegian hippie hamster,” said Erik. “With relatives in the mafia.” Then, “Nelson’s probably paying her more than Hal is paying us.”
“I’m going to be so late for class today,” said Zania. “Undergrad sucks. You can’t fathom how oppressive my schedule is.”
“Actually, we can,” Pearson pointed out. “We already got our BAs.”
“I blocked mine out,” said Layla.
I pushed open the door to Nelson’s office and slid through, leaving it open a crack. Beyond stretched a sitting area with a turquoise modernist couch and two chairs, an oval of orange carpet. This must have been where Nelson met his clients. Bright, clean, and a little too empty. This was your groomed future, complete with an artwork you just had to buy.
Nelson’s desk posed in the far corner, bare except for a printer and a couple of files; the ribbed curve of his office chair aimed toward the spot where his laptop would sit. Three chrome file cabinets lined the other wall. A couple of wooden art crates stood nearby, a crowbar on top. The room was a replica of Nelson de Wilde—polished and immaculate—except for a lumpy bag of takeout containers in his trash that smelled faintly of rotting coconut.
There was no dolly here, but I walked around the room once anyway, peering behind the couch, possessed by the sudden intuition that there was something here to find. But what and why?
I didn’t know much about Nelson beyond his power as a gallerist. Whenever he appeared at any opening, Nelson struck my artist friends speechless. They didn’t see a forty-something man with sun-stained skin who rarely touched food or drink, whose only appetite appeared to be young women. They saw a kingmaker. Nelson specialized in showy, conceptual pieces, and he liked objects more than performances. He liked things he could sell. Kim Lord had fit his bill in every way. He had discovered her, supported her. And yet he had also betrayed her. He had to have betrayed her. For money. And now he was letting us spy on Hal for money. He needed a lot. Nelson was famous—revered—for his long-term support of artists. Once he signed someone, he never let them go, which was not true of many gallerists. He gave generous stipends and waited years for work.
The door opened, and Zania’s frowning face poked through. I blurted, “I can’t find a dolly,” but she was fixated on the trash can.
“What is that smell?” Her small mouth crumpled inward. “Oh God. He forgot again.”
I saw Pearson stride down the hall behind her.
“Incoming!” he shouted.
AS SOON AS THE RAMP went down, Layla vanished to make a phone call and Zania continued to loudly “search” the gallery for the dolly. As I watched the men struggle alone with the giant task of unloading crates of shoes, I had a lightning-fast internal debate about whether I wanted the crew to take me for a real gallerina or if I wanted them to trust me. Ray was right; I was more persuasive on sincerity than on sophistication. So I helped out. I lugged and staggered, truck to building and down the hall to the gallery. The hall was the worst—narrow and practically forty feet long. After a few chuffing trips, Pearson came up with the id
ea of sliding the crates on blankets from the truck and into the building, but it was still hard work, and I felt a third sweat soaking my suit and dripping my thin layer of foundation away. The two men didn’t say anything to me, but I caught Pearson giving me an appraising glance when he thought I wasn’t looking. He appeared less condescending as he flexed and strained, and more like the kind of sturdy, unflappable person you hoped would show up to fix your broken furnace. Erik pounced and sprang, as agile as ever, but he was laboring, too. His cheeks puffed with breath when he upended the crates into enormous piles in the gallery space. Hundreds and hundreds of shoes. The crew had their materials now.
When Zania and Layla reappeared, they ignored the unloading and waded straight into the shoes. “Let’s get an all-suede pile,” Erik told them. “All leather, too.”
“We’re fine,” Pearson said to me when I walked back to the truck. “We can take it from here. Thanks, though.”
By the curious way he said it, by the way we were suddenly alone and only a few feet apart, I felt compelled to explain. “I grew up in a rural state,” I said. “We were raised to pitch in.”
“You’re from New England,” he said.
I regarded him as calmly as I could, but he didn’t look calculating, just curious.
“How’d you know?” I said.
He shrugged and moved toward another box. “Just a lucky guess.”
“Come on. What was the clue?”
“Your accent and your crow’s feet,” he said, sounding resigned. “Long winters are hard on the face.”
I tried not to touch the wrinkles I’d always hoped would wait to form until I was at least thirty-five and married, with a mortgage and a child on the way.
“How about you—Brooklyn?” I said.
I was wrong, I knew, but I suspected that Pearson preferred to fool people with his urban veneer.
“Hudson, actually.” He wiped his brow with a blue handkerchief and gazed out to the truck. “It’ll be Brooklyn in another ten years. But when I was a kid, Hudson was a train stop and a river. Latchkey kids wandering around the rust and brick.”
