“That’s Harley Buchanan, right? I’ll tell her you called. You might try again later.”
“Thanks again. I ’preciate it. Good-bye.”
He hung up with a sigh of relief. At least he had tried.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, a Tuesday, he picked his clothes up from the laundry and returned to his room. He knew he should continues his job search, but he couldn’t help but dwell on the Cézanne painting, and after a hurried breakfast he found himself entering the Met again.
It was just as he remembered. With effort he tore himself from the painting and proceeded in to the exhibition itself.
Again he was jolted, seeing in van Gogh an altogether different structure—a whirling, writhing grid of violent stormlike energy—but a structure, nevertheless. Then a Jasper Johns: Numbers in Color. While more sedate, the grid, being fairly equal rectangles, was even more obvious. De Kooning’s Excavation was especially eye opening—a direct descendant of Cézanne’s Sainte-Victoire—but, Harley realized, with one missing generation: Cubism.
Excavation existed on a frontal plain minus any semblance of classic perspective, other than little puckerlike pinches, small potholes on the frenetic surface.
He told himself that, of course, grids weren’t the be-all, end-all to art, that other painters were doing significant work in other venues. But for the moment this was all his mind could absorb.
When he returned to the YMCA, the registrar behind the desk flagged him in passing. “Message,” he said, handing Harley an envelope.
Apprehension flooded him as he envisioned all the bad news that might bring a message from home so soon upon arrival.
But there was no stamp or address on the cream-colored envelope, only his name written across it in a neat feminine hand. Carefully, he tore off one end.
Harley,
So sorry I missed your call.
Having a small get-together
tonight around eight.
Come, and we’ll watch the
election returns.
Apt. 2-A, 21 West 45th St.
Expecting you,
Frankie Mussette.
P.S. Very informal.
The election returns. Barry Goldwater and Lyndon Johnson. In all the excitement, he had forgotten entirely. He was pleased with the invitation, but with reservations, wondering if Frankie was inviting him from a sense of obligation to Mavis. Then, too, he pictured himself, the country bumpkin in Frankie’s group.
He spent the rest of the afternoon in another session of armchair job hunting.
Later he polished and buffed his ostrich-skin boots to a fine luster. There was the question of an appropriate hostess gift. He briefly considered taking her one of his drawings, but this wasn’t Rosie at the general store who would ooh and ahh over anything he did. He rejected the idea of flowers as too personal and settled on the traditional bottle of red wine. He worried about the money. Five days he had been in New York, and all he had to show for it was a brain jumbled with images. Fortunately, he had learned from Mavis a couple of decent, inexpensive wines.
Chapter 30
Election Night
AT A FEW minutes after eight that evening, a cab drove him up Sixth Avenue, past the Museum of Modern Art on Fifty-third, then around onto Fifty-fourth. He paid and got out, carrying the wine in a gift bag tied with a silver ribbon.
An elderly doorman stood at the bottom of the steps, hands clasped behind his back. The old man watched with rheumy eyes as Harley went past and in through the first set of glass doors. The second set was locked. The doorman, looking like an old general in his uniform, flip-flapped after him in a kind of hurried slow motion.
“M-may I h-help you?” he wheezed.
“I’m here to see Mrs. Mussette.”
“She expecting y-you?”
He took the note from his jacket pocket. “Supposed to be, but looks like she’s got the door locked.”
The old general heaved in his uniform, watching Harley with suspicion. “Of course it’s l-locked.” He nodded toward a row of buttons on the wall. “You c-call?”
“Call?” He saw there were names by each of the buttons.
The back of the general’s knobby head arched up. “C-call up, l-let them know you’re h-here?”
They stood looking at each other, the general blinking nervously; then he eased past Harley and pressed one of the buttons. After a moment Frankie’s voice sounded over the intercom: “Yes?”
The general kept one eye on Harley. “T-there’s somebody down h-here, sez he’s here to see y-you.”
“Oh, who is it, Quinn?”
“It’s, uh…” The general made motions at Harley to speak up.
“Harley. It’s Harley Jay Buchanan, ma’am.”
Her “Oh, wonderful!” was interrupted by a grating bratzzz. The door clicked and the general heaved it open, visibly relieved.
Harley stood, one fist cocked on his hip, looking at the door, then at the panel of buttons. “Well. How about that. Thanks.” He had caught on right away, but the old general was enjoying being useful. He watched, grinning, as Harley got on the elevator and the doors closed.
Frankie stood in the doorway to her apartment. She wore a soft gray blouse, black pants, and black patent-leather pumps. Her ash-blonde hair was swept back on either side in a simple style, falling from a silver pin high in back, curving under at her shoulders. Her nails were perfectly lacquered, lips a light gloss framing an easy smile. Half a dozen silver bracelets on one wrist complimented the silver hairpin. Quite different from when he’d seen her at Mavis’s memorial. In each case, looking just right for the occasion.
“I’m so glad you could come.” She held her hands out, and he took them in his, tucking the bottle under his elbow. She leaned toward him, aiming the smoothness of her cheek up… But he wasn’t prepared for this. Back home a polite woman like Sherylynne would stand back from the door and ask you in. Wesley Earl’s wife might say something like, “Harley Jay, you old shitass, get yourself in here.” Apparently, Mavis had adapted to the customs of West Texas. So Harley did the same thing Frankie did—leaned his head down and presented his cheek next to hers. They stood for a moment, his head slumped over her shoulder, like two horses humped up against a sandstorm.
His wits returned with a rush and he turned to kiss that cheek, quick, and at the same time she turned to see where he’d gone. Their jaws knocked together. Frankie took a step back.
“Oh, damn!” He grabbed for her and almost dropped the wine. “Sorry… Are you okay?”
Frankie blinked, touched her jaw, and then burst out laughing. “I’m quite all right! My god, do you always greet your women friends with a slug in the jaw?”
He felt himself blushing. “Sorry, but I— You sure you’re okay?”
She took him by his free arm. “Oh, yes, of course. But I must say, you do make an entrance.”
Feeling more the bumpkin than ever, he handed her the wine.
“How nice. Thank you. First let me introduce you to the others. Here, I’ll take your jacket.”
She hung his Levi’s jacket in a foyer closet and led him into a large room where the furniture looked old and rich. Firelight shimmered on tufted horsehair, gleamed on marble and fine wood inlays. There were fresh flowers and a grand piano. Mid-eastern rugs softened the parquet floors; intricate crown moldings set off the high ceilings.
But what he saw first, even before he saw the rich furnishings, or the other people in the room, were the drawings. The walls were covered with drawings—all kinds of drawings in fine frames, many with their own little lights, much like a museum.
He wanted to look at the art, but forced himself to turn his attention to the people—a small group of five or six who, he was pleased to note, looked a lot more like himself than Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Two men stood at an ornate bar that curved out from the wall. One of the men held a sheet of illustration board. The other was rinsing his hands in the bar sink, looking at the board over his shoulder. A
small TV sat against the wall behind the bar, and Walter Cronkite was explaining delegate votes.
Another man with shoulder-length hair and a short beard slumped on the sofa across from a woman who stood with her back to a crackling fireplace, hands clasped behind.
Frankie led him to the two men at the bar. The one behind stepped around, drying his hands on a towel.
“Cecil,” Frankie said, “I’d like you to meet Harley, the young man I told you about. Harley, my husband, Cecil.”
Cecil was a scrubbed-looking man in gray slacks and a wine-colored jacket with an ascot tucked in the collar of his shirt. His features were delicate, his skin pink and translucent, like alabaster stained through with a pale mineral dye.
“How do you do,” Cecil said, shaking Harley’s hand with just his fingertips and thumb.
“Nice to meet you,” Harley said.
Frankie nodded toward the other man. “And this is our good friend Max Spiro.”
Max smiled crookedly. He pumped Harley’s hand and the smile ran all over his face. “H’lo, h’lo. Max the man, that’s me.” He craned toward the woman at the fireplace. “And that gorgeous creature over there warming her buns, that’s my wife, Betty. Ha-ha-ha,” he laughed.
Harley nodded hello and smiled at the woman, wondering if her husband was drunk.
“Max wouldn’t know warm buns if they jumped in his lap,” the woman at the fireplace said, and hiked her dress up in back, a little theatrical flourish at the fireplace.
Frankie’s husband, Cecil, rinsed his hands again. “Frankie tells us you’re from Texas.”
“Yessir. Just got here last week. Thanks for having me over.”
“Come.” Frankie took Harley by the hand, led him to the fireplace and introduced the woman again. “This is my dear friend Betty. Betty, Harley Buchanan.”
“Hi.” Betty was pretty, a little plump and a little worn around the edges, hard but for a hint of humor about her eyes.
“It’s a pleasure,” he said.
The man on the sofa lowered dark glasses on his nose and studied Harley over the rims.
“And this is Miles, our creative director at the agency,” said Frankie.
“Oh, that’s what he does,” Max said from his perch on the bar stool. “I thought he was one of those beatniks wandered up from the Village. Ha-ha-ha.”
Frankie dismissed Max with an affectionate smile.
Miles had been thumbing through an issue of Women’s Wear Daily. He remained seated on the sofa, and lifted his hand as though it were a lot of bother. He wore brushed-cotton denim pants and a matching blazer with a flowery shirt and flat-heeled boots that zipped up the insides over his ankles.
“Nice to meet you,” Harley said.
“Far-out footwear,” Miles mumbled. He withdrew his hand, eyes riveted on Harley’s ostrich-skin boots.
“What’s your drink, Harley?” Cecil Mussette called from behind the bar. “I bet you’re a bourbon man.”
“Fine. Thanks.” His eyes kept straying to the walls, to the drawings.
“On the rocks?” Cecil asked.
“Yes, thank you.” He went to the bar as Mr. Mussette poured a shot of Jack Daniel’s over a couple of ice cubes that popped and snapped in the glass.
Max was pondering the illustration board again. “Cecil,” he said, “there’s absolutely nothing wrong with the nostrils.”
Mr. Mussette handed Harley the drink. “I don’t like them,” he said to Max over his shoulder.
“What kind of rationale is that? ‘I don’t like them.’ Let’s have specifics.”
“Nostrils are distasteful. At least, these nostrils are.” He glanced at Harley. “You agree?”
Harley looked at the board. There were several sketches of a Humpty Dumpty–like character scattered among renderings of flour and cake-mix packages.
Harley shrugged, unwilling to get involved. “Beats me.”
“Looks Oriental,” said Mr. Mussette. “Like some kind of damn Buddha. It’s those nostrils. An egg shouldn’t have nostrils.”
“If you want to be literal, they don’t have eyes or mouths, either.”
Mr. Mussette frowned. “I can’t imagine how they ever came up with this as a product identity image.”
“That little Seals Agency out in Cleveland, they hit on it, and the old man there at the mill in Columbus, he’s nuts for it. Ha-ha-ha. Loves it!”
“Can’t we put a cute little nose on it? Something soft and cuddly? People like soft and cuddly. What about it, Miles? You fix the nose?”
“No way.” Miles barely looked up.
“No? Why not?”
“Cute doesn’t fit with the program, man.”
Mr. Mussette frowned. “Do something with it, Miles.”
Miles turned his dark glasses toward them. “No way, baby. The nose stays.”
“No, the nose goes.”
Miles set the trade journal aside and began to pull himself up from the sofa, taller than he looked sitting down. “You know the whole campaign’s built on that look. This isn’t Walt Disney’s Bambi shit. We change the nose, we’ve got to change the whole fucking program, man.”
Harley looked up at the f-word. But Cecil went on as if he hadn’t heard.
“Okay, so change it.”
“Aw, shit, man…”
Mr. Mussette glanced back at the board. “Yes, this Humpty Dumpty looks like a fucking Chinese Buddha.”
Harley glanced around. Even Whitehead, who couldn’t open his mouth without cursing, never used the f-word.
“Aw, shit, man. All that work down the drain because you don’t like the nose?”
Mr. Mussette laid the illustration board on the bar, went around behind, and began to rinse his hands in the sink again. “Why didn’t you show me the sketches on these sooner?”
“Man, I’ve been trying to catch you for a week. Why do you think I brought them here? Because I can’t catch you at work, that’s why.”
Frankie laughed. It sounded strained. “You do still work at your own agency, Cecil?”
“I’m not demanding a whole new campaign, Miles. Just change the nose. We’ll discuss it tomorrow. Say nine in my office?”
Miles sighed with resignation.
Mr. Mussette smiled easily. “Miles, let me freshen your drink.”
Harley side slipped toward the wall to look at the drawings. There were no paintings, just drawings. Drawings by Degas, Vuillard, Bonnard, van Gogh, some of the German Expressionists, a Goya, a Tiepolo. There were a lot of the newer people, too; Elaine de Kooning and Larry Rivers, Jim Dine and Claes Oldenburg and others he didn’t know. At first he had thought they might be reproductions, but no, they were the real deal. Whitehead and Mavis had paintings, but they didn’t have drawings, not like this. It struck him that there was an honesty, a directness in drawing that seldom made it through to the conclusion of a painting. He was overwhelmed in the presence of so much talent. And here they were, Frankie and her husband, living right in the middle of it all, arguing over the nose on a Humpty Dumpty.
“Frankie tells me you’re quite the artist,” Mr. Mussette said.
He nodded pleasantly to Frankie. “That’s nice, thanks, but, well, I’m afraid that remains to be seen. I came here to go to school.”
Frankie had never seen his work, so if she said anything about his work, it must have come form Mavis. He wondered if Mr. Mussette might offer him a job at the agency, but apparently not. Just as well; he couldn’t visualize himself sitting at a drawing board all day, repairing noses on Humpty Dumpty’s.
The conversation turned to talk of drawings and paintings and artists and art schools, and they all appeared to know a lot about it, especially Cecil. Cecil agreed with Frankie that it would be hard to beat the School of Visual Arts for what he wanted. He wondered about the tuition, whether it was on a par with Pratt, which Sidney had mentioned. Only he had discovered that Pratt was across the East River in Brooklyn.
The election was turning out to be a Lyndon Johns
on landslide, and nobody paid much attention to the TV except for the commercials; then the men shushed everybody quiet and leaned forward, mesmerized: “That’s just too much!” they’d say. Or, “Geez, those guys over at Y and R are off the wall with that Gulf Oil account!” This was something new: Who ever heard of people who only watched the commercials?
But they knew about art. Real art. And here he was—him—Harley Jay Buchanan from Separation, Texas, sitting right here in the big middle of them—right here in the middle of New York City, within a stone’s throw of the Museum of Modern Art, sipping Jack Daniel’s and talking art with people who seemed to really care about such things. Son of a gun.
He glanced at the ice melting in his glass; it must be the Jack Daniel’s. How many had he had?
“Here, let me freshen that drink for you,” said Mr. Mussette.
Harley took the drink and sat on the sofa alongside Miles. Frankie sat in a chrome and leather chair at an angle nearby. The sound was shut off on the TV, and the charts and graphs of the election results rolled by silently. Frankie had put music on and that new group from England were unobtrusively playing “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” Mr. Mussette rinsed his hands. There was talk of the sit-ins taking place in the South, the growing unrest in Vietnam, the new Op art, and Larry Poons, whom Harley was unfamiliar with.
Soon Harley said goodnight to everyone. Frankie followed him to the foyer and collected his jacket.
“Thanks for having me up,” he said. “I had a nice time.”
“The Larry Rivers retrospective is on at the Jewish Museum. If you’re free tomorrow perhaps you’d like to see it?”
“Uh, yes, thank you. That’d be good. Real good.”
Frankie smiled her light-infused smile. “If you like I’ll show you around some, afterward, help you get a fix on the city.”
Chapter 31
The Belmore
FRANKIE SAID, “First, we’ll go up to the Jewish Museum to see the Larry Rivers exhibition. It’s an important show. Then we’ll take a cab downtown, get an overview of the city so you can find your way around. The city’s pretty simple, really…well, from about Fourteenth up, at least. Downtown can be a little confusing.”
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