by Tara Conklin
Lina beamed.
“Garrison?” Dresser shifted his attention away from Lina, and she too turned to look at him. He sat in an uncharacteristic slouch, his long legs stretched before him, eyes trained on his toes, looking less like a corporate lawyer than a petulant teenager gearing up to challenge his curfew. Garrison inhaled and then said, “I’m going to ask Dan if he’ll let me off this case, Mr. Dresser. I don’t believe I’m the right person to be working on it.”
Dresser raised his eyebrows. “And why is that?”
Garrison pushed himself out of his slouch, crossed right ankle over left knee, and looked squarely at Dresser. “I think it’s an ill-conceived case. I think it will be laughed out of court. And, to be perfectly honest, it’s not something I want to be associated with right now. The cause, I mean. The reparations idea. I think in the long term it will hurt my career.”
Lina swallowed hard; he had never mentioned these reservations to her before.
“I appreciate your frankness, Garrison,” Dresser said with a smile. “It’s always refreshing when a young person speaks his, or her, mind. I do hope you’ll reconsider. It would be a shame to lose you at this stage. It would put us back.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“And Garrison, I think you’re wrong. I think you’re just the person to be working on this case. You’re—how old?” Dresser leaned back, settled himself into Dan’s chair as though expecting to stay awhile.
“Twenty-five.”
“And what do your parents do?”
“They’re lawyers, both of them.”
“Good education, good family. Such success so early in life. Now, just bear with me here for a minute.” Dresser paused and smiled at Garrison, an easy smile, as if they sat together at the end of a meal and both their stomachs were full. “Let me ask you something else. You walk down the street here, outside this building, Midtown Manhattan, center of the world in many ways. People coming, going, important people, people with money, people with power. Now how many black people do you see?” He paused. Garrison did not answer. “How many black men driving cabs, selling hot dogs, hauling garbage or furniture or what have you? How many black women getting off the night shift, or pushing a stroller with a white woman’s child inside? How many do you see? And then you step inside this building, how many black men and women do you see in here? How many are wearing suits? How many are giving the orders? How many are emptying the garbage? How many are dishing out the macaroni? Now multiply your little life by forty-one million, and is there a need for some acknowledgment that the deck is stacked? Of course there is. This case, the reparations idea, won’t lift those men and women out of their disadvantage, but it will cause the whole rest of the world to take notice, to do some counting on their own. And not just the Caucasians, but you too, boys like you who have achieved success in this world easier than you thought you would. Easier than your parents thought you would. We’re talking about a conversation here, not a public whipping. It’s just that money is the quickest way to get people’s attention. You call it the legacy of slavery and nobody bats an eye. You call it six point two trillion dollars and it’s a different story.”
Dresser eyed Garrison levelly. Garrison did not meet his gaze; he swallowed, and his Adam’s apple rose and fell like a cork on a rough ocean. On the other side of the door a photocopier started up and the office reverberated with its throbbing sound, the whoosh of paper slotting into plastic trays.
Abruptly Garrison began to speak, his words coming in a rush. “I mean, it’s not like Dan is on board with any of this, not really. You know he’s only doing this for the marketing. It’s a PR thing, diversity.”
Lina watched Garrison’s careful demeanor crumble. She glanced at Dresser, whose lips were pulled down in a grim frown. “Mr. Dresser,” Lina interrupted, wanting only to rescue this rapidly deteriorating situation: if Garrison managed to lose a client as powerful as Ron Dresser, he wouldn’t just be fired from Clifton—he would never find legal work in New York again. “What Garrison is trying to say is that … the firm values diversity, of course. But this case is so much more. Dan was just now, just before you arrived, telling us what sets the reparations suit apart. Why the legal issues are almost secondary here. This case will make history.”
Dresser smiled. “Lina, don’t worry. It does not surprise me that Daniel J. Oliphant the Third is not fully committed, body and soul, to the principle of reparations due and owing for the labor of our enslaved predecessors. I could care less what Dan believes. Dan is a businessman. I am a businessman. We understand each other, and we understand that I am calling the shots here.” Dresser shifted his gaze from Lina to Garrison.
“If Dan was committed to this, personally committed, we’d be taking charity here, and that’s not what I want. I don’t want his charity. I want him to jump when I say. And he jumps pretty damn high. And someday you’ll be talking to all sorts of baby Dans, and they’ll ask you how high to jump. You see what I’m saying?”
Garrison nodded.
“So are you still asking to be removed from the case?”
“No.” Garrison’s voice was low. “No, I guess not.”
“Good. Glad to hear it. You know, it’s Lina who’s got the harder road.”
Garrison glanced toward her, happy, it seemed, for Dresser’s focus to have shifted.
“She’s a fish out of water, that one,” Dresser said, as though she were unable to hear him.
“Um—” Lina stuttered, starting to laugh, to ask what he meant, but Dresser placed his palms on the desk and stood. From behind, Lina heard the assistant rise with a crack of knee.
“Well, I will leave you fine attorneys to it then,” he said. “Thanks very much for the updates on your work. I’m glad we had this chance to discuss the issues. Discussion, always a good thing.”
LINA SAT AT HER DESK, trying to study a list of prominent African Americans in New York City but really considering what Dresser had said. The harder road. Because she was a woman? Because she was short? Because her law school ranked top-ten but not top-five?
“Hey.”
She looked up from her list. Garrison stood in the hall outside her office.
“Hi,” Lina said uncertainly. Garrison had exited the meeting quickly, his head down. They had not spoken since.
“I just wanted to explain about all that earlier, with Dresser.”
“Oh, no need.” Lina waved her hand as though fanning away smoke. “I understood what you were saying. I was just worried Dresser might … you know, take it the wrong way.”
“This case has been getting to me. And Dan, sometimes it’s hard to take him seriously. But I shouldn’t have asked to come off the case. Or said that about Dan. Dresser must think I’m an idiot.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t,” Lina said, relieved to hear the old companionability in his voice. “Just make sure you impress him with the brilliance of your legal mind.”
“If only it were that easy.” Garrison gave a wide smile. “And I wanted to ask you about that artist angle. Dresser seemed really impressed with you.”
“I wasn’t sure I should mention the idea, actually. Dan’s been against it from the beginning. He thinks it’s a wild-goose chase. And a waste of money.”
Garrison’s gaze shifted to the corkboard behind Lina’s computer where Lina had pinned a printout of Lottie next to the photograph of Lu Anne and Josephine on the porch at Bell Creek. Garrison moved into Lina’s office and bent to examine the portrait. “Those eyes are so intense,” he said. “Is that the artist?”
“No, that’s her work, or some people think it is.”
They both studied Lottie in silence and then Lina said, “Hey, do you want to go to the show? The exhibit opens tonight at a gallery downtown.” The words were out of Lina’s mouth before she had time to consider all the various ways Garrison might take such an invitation. They were just friends, weren’t they? A sliver of doubt existed, and this uncertainty forced an unexpected rush of he
at to Lina’s cheeks as she waited for his reply.
“Sorry, Lina. I already have plans,” Garrison said slowly, eyes still on Lottie. “Some other time, I promise.”
LINA ARRIVED LATE AT THE Art and Artifice exhibit, just as Porter Scales was finishing his lecture. The gallery was packed, almost impassable, and with difficulty she nudged her way into an empty corner and stood on tiptoe to see Porter, who stood atop a small platform set up in the back gallery. Despite their numbers, the crowd was hushed, attentive. Porter spoke without amplification but his voice filled the space.
“… So, where does that leave Josephine Bell?” he was saying. “Based on my analysis of subject matter, brushstrokes, and materials, it is without doubt that the separate hands of two artists are represented in the Bell catalogue. In my opinion—and I stress that this is an opinion based on my experience as an art historian, academic, and critic—it seems most likely that Josephine Bell, the house girl, created the slave portraits, the Bell Creek landscapes, Children No. 2, and the other most accomplished, best-known works. I have come to the painful conclusion—and let me be frank, it has been a painful journey for me as one who has studied and loved Lu Anne Bell for many years. But the Bell works present such a departure from the formalistic plantation landscape of the time period that I believe only an artist who was removed, so to speak, from the confines of that world could have given us the realism and the sensitivity that make the Bell works such masterpieces today. Josephine Bell was an artistic outsider in every sense of the word. And it was only Josephine Bell who was beside Lu Anne Bell all day, every day during the relevant time period. It was only Josephine Bell who had the opportunity and the reason to create these pictures.”
A ripple of heads turned toward neighbors, whispers and nods swept through the crowd.
“However,” Porter resumed, “definitive proof is still needed before we can formally credit Josephine Bell with authorship. I would urge everyone who cares about this debate, who cares about setting the historical record straight, to support further research and analysis. I urge the Bell Center and the Stanmore Foundation to open up their archives and allow independent art historians to review the available materials.” He paused, then smiled. “And I encourage everyone to enjoy the show tonight.”
Porter stepped down and immediately the chatter of the crowed rose, loud and surprised. An elegantly dressed man next to Lina shook his head. “Jesus Christ,” he said to a woman with long blond hair and bare shoulders standing beside him. “So what’s my Bell worth?”
Lina slowly made her way into the main gallery where the portraits hung. The scene was chaotic—photographers and journalists everywhere, confused-looking critics, dazed and worried owners of Bell works—and progress was slow. Near the door, Lina stepped outside for some air.
Marie stood alone on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette and adjusting the complicated shoulder straps of a long and tight burgundy dress.
“Marie,” Lina said. “Congratulations on the show. You couldn’t fit one more body in there.”
“Ah, thank you.” Marie lifted her eyebrows and exhaled a rolling column of smoke. “But did you hear? The Christie’s guy refused to come tonight. The Stanmore Foundation says they want to sue me! Me!”
“But why?” Lina asked.
“Libel, they say. It is incredible,” and she drew out the word, enunciating each syllable with her French throatiness: in-cre-dee-ble. “They say the Josephine theory is all political correctness, historical revision, no basis in fact, blah blah blah. But Porter is convinced, and he knows the Bell work inside out. And finally, finally the authenticators are starting to look at the canvases. X-raying and searching for fingerprints with these funny cameras they have. Handwriting samples. It will take some time to prove Josephine, that is all, but it is killing me.” She sucked at the last bit of her cigarette and crushed it under a stiletto.
“How is Mr. South Virginia holding up?” Lina asked.
“Fine, but we can’t sell a thing now, of course. Who knows what this will do to value? If nothing definitive comes out, the market for Bells will be flat, too much uncertainty. And if Josephine is proven, well, then they will go like little hotcakes.”
Marie paused to reapply her lipstick, peering into a tiny silver compact she pulled from her slender purse, and Lina was seized by a sudden impulse, perhaps self-destructive, almost certainly unwise, but she followed it. “Marie,” she asked, speaking quickly, “were you and my father ever involved? I mean, romantically?”
“Oh, my darling.” Marie touched a finger to the corner of her lips and closed the compact with a sharp click. She sighed. “Yes. Yes, we were. Many, many years ago. You were just a baby.”
With an immediate shattering sadness Lina thought of the photo of her parents, Grace’s gaze fixed to Oscar’s face, their hands clasped. “Did my mother know?” Lina’s voice was faint.
“Ah.” Marie shook her head and looked to the sidewalk, the crushed cigarette butts and stray plastic cups stained red with wine grit. She raised her green eyes, darkly shadowed with makeup, and looked directly at Lina. “I do not think so. But I could be wrong. It was a very … short affair. I knew your mother, of course. We were friends. It was not my … finest moment.” Before Lina’s eyes, Marie’s glamor seemed to fade with this regret, her face turning pale, the makeup garish, and Lina wished, almost, that she had not asked the question. For a moment they remained motionless and silent on the sidewalk outside the gallery. Lina watched a yellow cab glide slowly past, looking for a fare. Confirmation of Oscar’s lie had left her with a coldness in her limbs and a fluttery unease in her stomach, but she felt no antagonism toward Marie; Marie had told her the truth.
Lina reached out and squeezed Marie’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it,” Lina said. “Let’s go back in.”
“Oui, my tiny American,” Marie said, with relief as bright as her lacquered fingernails, and together they reentered the gallery. Just inside the door, a tall man tentatively approached Marie.
“Ms. Calhoun?” he said and reached out his hand.
At that moment, Lina’s attention was drawn toward the back of the gallery. She glimpsed an angular shoulder, a thin form, a flicker of familiar face. Was it—Garrison? Lina craned her neck but the figure melted away.
“And let me introduce Lina Sparrow, a lawyer here in New York.” Lina turned back to Marie, who was making terse, efficient introductions. Lina took the man’s outstretched hand and looked up: he had dark hair shaved close, large amber-brown eyes, the color of honey in a jar. Along the upper rims of his ears, where the cartilage curved with the delicacy of a seashell, jutted two studded rows of piercings.
The man tilted his chin down. “Nice to meet you.” He seemed to Lina about her age, perhaps a bit older. Over a black T-shirt and green cargo pants he wore a tuxedo jacket that fit snug around his wide, wiry shoulders.
“Lina, this is Jasper Battle. He has some Bell pictures, so he believes, but he’s uninterested in selling. I’ve told him that I’m in the business of buying art, I am not a freelance authenticator, but he has been very persistent.” Marie flashed him a winning smile that undercut, somewhat, the irritation in her voice.
“I’m sorry I’ve bothered you. I just don’t have the money for an authenticator.” Jasper returned her smile, his genuine, a little sheepish.
Marie’s gaze shifted, and she laughed and waved at a stout man in owlish glasses standing several paces away. “I’m afraid you must excuse me,” Marie said, and flashed Lina a brief look of apology as she darted into the gallery.
“And she was the only one who even returned my e-mails,” Jasper said, seemingly more to himself than to Lina, and rubbed a flat palm over his shaved head. Lina noticed slender tattoos that circled his wrists like bracelets or chains.
“So what makes you think you have some Bells?” Lina asked, unsure if she really wanted to hear the answer. Everything about Jasper Battle—from his piercings to Marie’s obvious reluctance to speak with
him—gave Lina reason to exit this conversation as quickly as possible. She skimmed the crowd, hoping for another sight of Garrison, a friend of her father’s, anyone.
“Mine are so similar to these,” and he waved a hand toward the wall of portraits. “But I have no idea who made them. They’re family heirlooms, so my dad always said, but no signature.”
“Family?” Lina settled her gaze firmly on Jasper’s face. She noted the color of his skin: a burnished tan that could have passed for Persian, African, Latino, Caucasian. “So are you related to Lu Anne Bell?”
“I don’t know. Either Lu Anne or Josephine, I guess, depending on who you believe.” He shrugged his shoulders. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
Suddenly the noise and bustle of the room fell away and Lina felt a sharpening of this little pocket of air and space where she and Jasper stood.
“Do you mind if we go someplace to talk?”
“Talk about …?” A half-smile tweaked his mouth, though in flirtation or surprise Lina couldn’t say and didn’t care.
“About your family heirlooms.”
“MY DAD DIED THREE MONTHS ago,” Jasper said, picking at the label of his beer bottle. They were sitting atop high stools at a long mahogany bar strewn with bruised rose petals. After leaving the gallery they had wandered a few blocks south to a bar Jasper knew, a cavernous underground space lit by flickering torches affixed to the walls. The place smelled of woody incense and the salty heat of bodies and liquor.
“These drawings have been hanging in my parents’ room for as long as I can remember,” Jasper continued, not looking at Lina. “My dad always said that the artist was a distant relation. But that’s all I know. He didn’t talk much about his family. He was an only child. I never even met my paternal grandparents—they died before I was born.”
Lina jotted notes as Jasper spoke. A tall cylinder of orange juice stood untouched on the bar in front of her. She sat with legs crossed tight, her back straight.
