Leap Year (12 page)

Heath was trying on a pair of black and white checked pants and a black T-shirt.

“That looks kind of cool,” Gerard said.

“What do you mean, ‘kind of’?”

“It needs a belt,” said a salesman. He unlooped one from a belt corral. “Try this,” he said. “It’s genuine unborn calfskin.”

“Does that mean it’s from a cow fetus?” asked Heath.

“My motto is, ‘The fewer questions asked, the better,’ ” the salesman said. “This is the ultimate in leather. Just feel it.”

“No thanks,” said Heath. “I have some belts at home.”

The salesman rolled his eyes: He could well imagine Heath’s belts. “The wrong belt could ruin everything,” he said. “Accessories are key, you know.”

“We’re aware,” said Gerard.

“How much is this shirt?” asked Heath.

“It’s one eighty,” said Gerard. “But forget the price. How many times in your life do you attend your first SoHo opening?”

“Whose opening are you going to?” asked the salesman.

“His,” said Gerard.

“Really? What kind of art do you do?”

“Photography,” said Heath.

“Oh,” said the salesman. “That’s funny. I thought photography was dead.”

Amanda was terrorizing the caterers when the phone rang. She excused herself and went into the office. “Gallery Shawangunk,” she said. “Out of Control.”

“Hi, Amanda. It’s Anton.”

“Hi, baby. What can I do for you?” asked Amanda. She was looking out through the window at the waiters, who were setting up tables. They weren’t as attractive as she had hoped. In fact, a few of them were downright ugly. What was the world coming to?

“I just wanted to warn you,” Anton was saying. “We’d better be careful. Solange is on the warpath.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m not sure. But we’d better play it cool with her tonight.”

“Is there any other way to play it with a block of ice?” asked Amanda. “Don’t worry about me. I can handle Syringe.”

“I’m not so sure. Also, I told her I fired you. I think it would be good if we got our stories straight, so she doesn’t get suspicious. So could you consider yourself fired?”

“And I told you I quit. I got the job at MOLTCATO starting September first.”

“I know, I know, but could you, just for tonight, be fired? And act kind of destitute and tragic. It may help soften Solange up.”

“Soften her up? Who are you kidding? A blow torch wouldn’t soften her up.”

“You don’t know Solange like I know Solange.”

“Just one of the many things I’m eternally grateful for,” said Amanda.

Amanda had instructed Heath to bring a woman—a beautiful woman—to the opening as his date. He decided to ask Tammi, his waitress friend from the Wisteria. They arrived at six-thirty in the car Amanda had sent for them. Heath looked through the tinted glass into the gallery window. A lot of people he had never seen before were standing around inside, drinking. No one seemed to be looking at the photographs.

“I can’t do it,” he said. “I can’t go in there.”

“Unfortunately you have to,” said Tammi, a practical woman. “Maybe you should have another drink.”

“I don’t know,” said Heath. “I already feel a little schlitzed.”

“Well, maybe a smoke then,” said Tammi. “Just to relax us.” She opened the rhinestone-studded clutch she had borrowed from the lost-and-found box at the Wisteria for this occasion and fished out a joint. She lit it and handed it to Heath. “Relax,” she said.

They sat there smoking, watching the crowd in the gallery. Who are all those people? Heath wondered. He thought he saw the salesman from Barney’s go in, but then realized that all the men looked like Barney’s salesmen.

“I feel ugly,” he said.

“You’re gorgeous,” said Tammi. “Everybody in there wants to fuck you.” She laughed. “A friend of mine worked as a dresser for some summer stock theater—you know the kind where all the alcoholic has-been actresses play Blanche DuBois or Maria Von Trapp? Anyway, she’d have to get them out on the stage, you know, but every night they’d choke. So she’d tell them, ‘You’re gorgeous. Every man in that audience wants to fuck you,’ over and over again and then push them out into the lights.”

“That’s a real encouraging story,” said Heath. “Thanks.”

“Here he is!” exclaimed Amanda, when Heath finally made his entrance. “Darling,” she said, kissing both his cheeks, “congratulations! There are so many people I want you to meet.”

“This is Tammi Bullota, a friend of mine,” said Heath.

“Hello there, Pammy,” said Amanda.

“Tammi,” corrected Heath, but Amanda took no notice. She slunk her arm through Heath’s and maneuvered him away.

“Anton,” she said, “you remember Mr. Jackson?”

“Of course,” said Anton, and shook Heath’s hand.

“And this is Anton’s lovely wife, Solange,” said Amanda. “The two of them jetted back from France just for the opening.”

“Oh,” said Heath, “that was very kind of you.”

“Kindness had nothing to do with it,” said Solange, smiling brightly.

“Will you excuse us?” said Amanda. “I want to introduce Heath to our friends from the media. Listen,” she whispered to Heath, as she steered him away from the Shawangunks, “let me do the talking. And stop smiling like that. Try to look a little bored. Relax.”

“Okay,” said Heath.

“Let’s schmooze,” said Amanda. “Jon, darling,” she said to the man who looked most like a salesman from Barney’s. “I’d like you to meet Heath Jackson. Heath, this is Jon Cadogan. Jon’s with
ARTnews
.”

“Hi,” said Heath.

“Greetings,” said Mr. Cadogan.

“And Heath, this is Leonora Trumpet. And where are you now, Leonora? It’s always someplace new!”

“I’m the Tuscan correspondent for
OM
.”

“
OM
?” said Amanda. “I’ve not heard of it.”

“It’s the new magazine for old money,” explained Leonora. “It’s the magazine for people who didn’t make their money yesterday.”

“Speaking of which, any sales yet?” asked Jon.

“Just a tremendous amount of interest so far,” said Amanda. “Heath’s vision is new. We don’t expect it to be immediately embraced.”

“I beg to differ,” said Leonora. “I find Mr. Jackson’s vision extremely embraceable. If you know what I mean.”

This debate was interrupted by the arrival of Solange. “Amanda, my dear,” she said. “Are you ready for the little talk you wanted?”

“Later,” said Amanda. “I hardly think these good people are interested in our affairs.”

“I’m all ears,” said Leonora.

“
Moi aussi
,” said Jon.

Solange smiled. “Perhaps you’re right,” she said. “There’s a time and place for everything. And it is time, I think, that I become better acquainted with our artist. Will you allow me to steal Mr. Jackson from your clutches? I promise I’ll return him.”

“He’s all yours,” Leonora said.

“Go for it,” said Jon.

Heath followed Solange through the crowd into the gallery office. She closed the door and lowered the shade over the window. “There,” she said. “Alone at last.”

Heath was feeling nervous, and he wished now he hadn’t smoked that joint with Tammi. He decided to sit down.

“Yes, make yourself at home,” said Solange. “Would you like a cigarette?”

“No thanks,” said Heath.

“Do you mind if I…”

“Uh, no,” said Heath. “Go ahead.”

Solange extracted a pack of Galoise from her purse and lit one. She inhaled, exhaled, and then looked at the cigarette, as if it were malfunctioning. “So,” she said. “You haven’t said much. Do you know what’s going on?”

“Going on? What do you mean?” asked Heath.

“Poor boy,” Solange murmured. “Amanda”—and she gestured with her cigarette toward the gallery proper—“is not a nice woman. I hope you have at least figured that much out.”

“She’s been nice to me,” said Heath, although ‘nice’ didn’t seem to be the best word to describe Amanda’s behavior.

“In fact she hasn’t,” said Solange. “Just because people do nice things
for
you doesn’t mean they are being nice
to
you.”

“Oh,” said Heath.

“Amanda is using you. She is making a fool out of herself, but she is also making a fool out of you.”

“Oh,” said Heath. He was finding it difficult to concentrate. He wished this woman would go away. “How so?” he managed to say.

“Did you not find it surprising that Amanda was willing to show your work in this gallery, given the fact you have not shown elsewhere, given the fact that you are incredibly young, unknown, and given the fact that your talent is, shall we say, unproved?”

“Well, sure I was surprised,” said Heath. “But…”

“Why look a gilt horse in the mouth?”

“Gift horse,” said Heath. He felt himself sweating.

“Whatever,” said Solange. “Here is my point: Amanda has been using you. She has purposefully mounted a laughable show to embarrass the gallery, Anton, and myself. Not to mention Heath Jackson.”

“Laughable?” said Heath. “I don’t hear anybody laughing.”

They were quiet for a second, and, as if on cue, a gale of laughter arose from behind the wall. Oh, God, thought Heath. I hate you, God. I hate myself too. I hate photography. I hate art. “I hate art,” he said aloud. He stood up.

“It’s Amanda, not art, you should hate.”

“I hate them both,” said Heath.

“Hate is a powerful emotion,” said Solange. “It is a creative emotion. It is, personally, my favorite.”

“Why would Amanda want to embarrass the gallery? And us?”

“For an artist, you are curiously unintuitive. But then perhaps you are not an artist. We shall see.”

“I am an artist,” said Heath. He had to sit down after saying that, because he had never uttered those words, not even to himself, before. I am, he thought. I am an artist.

“Why do people misbehave?” asked Solange. “Why are people petty? Why are they vindictive?”

Heath knew the answer to that one. “Because of love,” he said.

Solange smiled. “Because of love gone wrong,” she corrected.

There was a knock on the door.

“
Entrez
,” said Solange. It was Anton and Amanda. They came in and closed the door behind them.

“Excuse us,” said Amanda. “But we needed something in here.”

She went over to the desk and opened the top drawer. She was wearing a pair of gloves. “Ah,” she said, removing an object from the drawer, “here it is.” She turned around. She was holding a gun. She pointed it at Solange and fired it once. It made no noise. Solange looked surprised for an instant, crumpled up, and fell to the floor.

“Hey, Tiger, think fast,” said Amanda, throwing the gun to Heath.

Your natural instinct, when something is thrown at you, is to catch it. There was so little time to think. Heath caught the gun, and when he looked up, Amanda and Anton had disappeared.

DEAR LEONARD,

Since I haven’t heard from you in such a long time, I’m not sure where to address this letter. I’ll send it to the address I have, with the assumption that you’re still there. I assume that if you’ve moved on, you would have let me know.

The first thing I have to tell you is that Kate is safe and sound. Loren and David are with her now in Los Angeles, and they say she is fine. Unfortunately, Loren was in an accident involving a glass wall. She was in the hospital for several days with 74 stitches but she’s out now. She says it sounds worse than it actually is—I wanted to fly out but she told me it wasn’t necessary. So I’ll be glad to see her—they come back to New York after a quick trip to Disneyland.

To tell you the truth, I’m worried about her. She is usually so tough, you know, but this ordeal—Kate being kidnapped and then this accident—well, I don’t know how she’s stood it all. And things with Gregory do not seem to be going well. Although she doesn’t talk about it (at least not to me). I just hope this doesn’t drive her and David back together. Sometimes I think they will never learn.

I suppose the same could be said of me. Oh, darling, I wish you were here, so I could
talk
to you! Anyway, this next bit I’ve debated telling you, and I’ve decided I should. You see, I’ve fallen in love, I think. Or I have fallen into something like love. I don’t know. It all happened rather oddly and unexpectedly (as you well know, I am hardly a candidate for this sort of thing). It seems pointless to burden you with a detailed description of him—suffice it to say he is hardly the lover you would imagine for me, if you can imagine such a thing. I certainly couldn’t, and that’s why I didn’t resist—because I never thought it would develop. You see, I never thought I was capable of this. But I’ve discovered, to both my fear and my delight, that I am capable. I’ve surprised myself, and I’m sure I’ve surprised you, too. So far it is all very innocent. I don’t know what, if anything, will come next.

It may be wrong of me to write and alarm you, to spoil your precious (and I mean that sincerely) solitude. So I suppose I am writing for my sake, for I can’t continue without this confession to you. It
was
all your idea, this year apart. I know I agreed to it, but I realize now I feel betrayed by it—by your need for it. I should have told you that sooner but I have only just realized how I feel. I tried so hard to embrace the idea that I was dishonest with myself. You may think this liaison I mentioned is motivated by that feeling of betrayal, but I don’t think it is. Who knows what’s motivated me to behave in this very uncharacteristic fashion? Whatever it is I’m experiencing, I think it’s separate from what I feel for you. All those feelings are intact. They wait for you.

Darling, if you receive this letter, will you write me? Please. Just to let me know it found you, and more if you would. Do you still plan to return at Christmas? Perhaps this is all about missing you. I feel it very keenly now, at this moment: missing you. I feel confused and lonely. Please write to me.

With love,

Judith

OUT OF CONTROL:

PHOTOGRAPHS BY HEATH JACKSON

The Gallery Shawangunk, New York

What at first seems to be yet another portfolio of standard New York City images, evolves, upon closer inspection, into something considerably more exciting. Although the subject of these photographs may be clichéd, Jackson’s rendering of each image is very much his own. His vision is menacing, yet narrative: Objects within the frame, seemingly unrelated, conspire to tell us something, and if the scenarios here are not clear, the mood, at least, is. A snarling dog watches a woman nurse a baby on a park bench; a flock of stilleto-heeled shoes seem to hover above a rabbi’s head; and in the signature image, a cat delicately sucks a noodle off a man’s face. Within a single photograph, there are several fields of focus, as if each object is moving at its own select speed. If some of these images seem too artfully posed, the best of them transcend artfulness and announce a vision that bears continued attention. —Jon Cadogan