Right Hand Magic (23 page)

As I was applying the finishing touches to my toilette, there was a rap on the bedroom door. I opened it to find Clarence standing in the hallway, looking apologetic.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Miss Timmy, but madam has returned from her afternoon tea. She requests your presence in the Grand Salon.”

“Tell her I’ll be down shortly.”

“Very good, Miss Timmy.”

“Oh, and Clarence? Please call me ‘Tate’ from now on, won’t you?”

“I’ll do my best to remember that, Miss Timmy.”

 

 

Over the years I have developed pretending to talk to my mother into a fine art. I long ago learned how to appear to be attentive, utilizing both physical and verbal signatures triggered by shifts in her tone of voice that do not actually require me to listen to her conversation. To tell the truth, “conversation” is something of a misnomer. My mother has never engaged in discourse, only monologues. As long as I made the proper number of “ah’s,” “uh-huh’s,” and “Is that so?’s” during the appropriate lulls and breath stops, my mother seemed satisfied that I was paying attention to her.

Still, there was always the danger of the occasional pitfall, since she occasionally expected me to respond in something other than monosyllabic grunts or shrugs. I dreaded those prickly occasions, as it required me to actually listen to what she was saying, which meant I was probably going to lose my temper.

These verbal sorties were usually presaged by a rhetorical question, spoken with more than the usual dollop of disdain, thereby guaranteeing a response on my part. I had come to recognize these lead-ins as a sign of danger, like the fin of a shark briefly cutting the surface of an otherwise glassy sea.

The Grand Salon was indeed that. Forty feet long, with a coffered ceiling taken from a seventeenth-century Venetian palace, it was a sunken room, five feet below the main hallway, and only accessible via a pristine marble staircase said to have originated from the same quarry as Michelangelo’s
David
.

Across the room, huge windows started below the level of the top stair, creating a vertiginous effect as I looked down onto MoMA’s roof. I remembered riding my Big Wheel across the room’s polished stone floor as a child, weaving in and out between the priceless Italian Renaissance statuary my great-grandfather brought back from Europe. And my parents were at a loss to understand why I would take up the arts?

My mother was seated in front of the wood-burning fireplace, still dressed in what I recognized as her “lunching” ensemble. She was holding the invitation I had given to Clarence earlier.

Once, long before I arrived on the scene, my mother was a stunningly beautiful woman. Over the years she had worked very hard at maintaining her face and figure, all too aware of how easy it would be to wake up one day and find herself replaced in her husband’s affections—not to mention his last will and testament—by a piece of giggling arm candy. That was why she limited herself to one, and only one, pregnancy. Much to her chagrin, I did not prove to be a son. Oh, well. My father would simply have to make due with an heiress instead of an heir, because she certainly wasn’t putting herself through
that
again.

It was also why she had surrendered the nursing, toilet training, and upbringing of her only child to a brace of qualified professionals. It was too easy to lose track of one’s husband if one paid too much attention to one’s children. Although I could tell by the way she eyed the tattoos on my arms and the surgical steel ring adorning my brow ridge, she now wished she had double-checked the references on a few of the nannies.

“Hello, Mom,” I said as I sat down in the chair across from her. “You’re looking well.”

“
What
is the meaning of this, young lady?” she demanded, thrusting the invitation at me as if it were a bad report card.

“I would think it’s self-evident.” I sighed. “It’s an invitation to my gallery showing. The opening is tonight.”

“How can that be?” she sniffed. “Your name isn’t mentioned anywhere on this postcard.”

“Don’t be obtuse, Mother. You know better than that.”

“Well, what kind of name is ‘Tate’ for a woman, anyway? Honestly!”

There it was. The question that did not require my answer, yet one she knew I could not ignore. Although I fully realized she was leading me into a discussion I did not want to have, I could not keep from responding. Was this how the bulls felt when they saw the red cape before them, barely concealing the flash of the matador’s sword?

“It’s the name
you
gave me.” My reply sounded sullen and childish in my ears, as it always did when I stooped to her level.

“Your name is Timothea Alda Talmadge Eresby,” she shot back haughtily.

“The Fifth. Don’t forget my numerical sequence,” I sneered, sliding back into adolescent habits. “After all, only royalty, popes, and manufacturers put numbers behind their names.”

“And what is
wrong
with that? You certainly don’t have problems cashing the checks signed to your
real
name!”

“You’re the one who was afraid I’d besmirch the good name of Eresby Industries with my art in the first place!” I exclaimed, rolling my eyes in disgust. “I’m just saving you some worry, that’s all.”

My mother shot me a venomous look as she removed the stopper from the cut crystal decanter beside her chair. For as long as I could remember, her personal scent had been a mixture of Chanel No.5, Benson & Hedges, and twenty-three-year-old Evan Williams. It was not an aroma that triggered pleasant childhood memories.

“Don’t you dare pretend you’re thinking of anyone but yourself!”

I lifted a hand to my mouth, but not before she noticed my smirk.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.” Which was true enough. My mother’s gross self-involvement was many things, but amusing wasn’t one of them.

She gave me a lengthy glare, as if dimly aware that something, somewhere, was occurring at her expense, and then resumed filling her glass.

“I don’t like your tone of voice,” she said petulantly. “I am your mother, after all. I believe I would never see or hear from you at all if it weren’t for your quarterly trust fund payments.”

“I’m here now, aren’t I? And it’s at least another month before my next check.”

“That’s true,” she admitted. “So why
are
you here?”

“I stopped by to change my clothes, and”—I paused and took a deep breath—“I came to invite you and Dad to the opening.”

It was then the matador’s sword came out from hiding and plunged itself deep into my heart.

“You father and I couldn’t possibly attend on such short notice,” she said dismissively. “Besides, all it would do is encourage you even further with this foolishness.”

I felt the old resentments swelling up inside me, but I tried to tamp them down. Getting visibly angry would only prove that she still had the power to hurt me.

She opened the enameled box next to the decanter and took out a cigarette. Despite the trend toward nonsmoking in fashionable society, she had yet to drop the habit for fear of gaining weight. As she saw it, the risk of cancer was a reasonable trade-off for remaining a size two. She eyed my outfit as she lit up yet another Benson & Hedges.

“Is that what you’re wearing tonight? Well, at least you’re not going dressed in overalls and a welder’s helmet.” I knew from past experience that was the closest I was going to get to her approving of how I was dressed. “So where have you been keeping yourself, lately?” she asked, knocking her ash into a silver Cartier tray. “I’ve been told you moved out of SoHo. Felicity Arbogast’s nephew lives in the same building, and he told her he saw movers carrying furniture out of your apartment.”

“I needed a bigger place, where I could live and work in the same space. ...”

“You didn’t move to Jersey, did you?” she asked, a touch of alarm in her voice.

“Nooo ...”

“Thank goodness!”

“I’m living in Golgotham now.”

“You’re doing
what
?!?” She came out of her seat as if someone had stuck a joy buzzer under her ass.

“You heard me,” I said, taking far more pleasure in my mother’s distress than someone my age probably should. “I’m living in a boardinghouse in the heart of Golgotham, between Beekman and Perdition streets. It’s a great old house, the rent is crazy cheap, and my landlord is a really cool guy. ...”

“Is he a warlock?” she asked suspiciously.

“He’s a Kymeran, if that’s what you mean,” I replied.

She grabbed my arm, squeezing it so hard I yelped. “Whatever you do, Timmy,
never
eat or drink anything he offers to you, you understand? Everybody knows they slip you aphrodisiacs when you’re not looking!”

There was a frightened, almost frantic look in her eye, which unnerved me. This was the first time in ages I could remember my mother showing concern for someone besides herself. Because of that, I tried to calm her fears by explaining the situation to her.

“It’s not like that, Mother. Hexe isn’t some creepy date rapist. Kymerans might make come-hithers and love potions, but they don’t use them. Numps—I mean, humans—do. Besides, you don’t have anything to worry about, because Hexe doesn’t practice Left Hand magic, the kind that harms people.”

“Don’t let him fool you, Timmy,” she sniffed. “They all know how to curse people, every last one of them. Never forget that. And
never
trust a kymie.”

“Don’t call him that!”
I shouted.

My mother looked genuinely startled, at least as much as the Botox would allow. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open and, for once, she was at a loss for words. People didn’t raise their voices in our family. And they certainly didn’t raise their voices to
her
.

I got to my feet, thrusting a trembling finger in her face as anger spread through my veins like poison. “You’re never to talk about him like that to me again
,
you hear me?”

The door opened slightly and Clarence stuck his head inside the Grand Salon. “Madam? Is there something wrong?”

“There’s a
hell
of a lot wrong, Clarence!” I snapped. “But I’m leaving now, so it doesn’t concern you!”

“Very well, Miss Timmy,” Clarence replied evenly as he withdrew from the room.

“Here,” I said to my mother, as I hurled the pair of invitations I had set aside for my father and her into a nearby wastebasket. “Let me save you the trouble!”

I stormed out of the room without looking back. I had suffered my mother’s thoughtless cruelty for years without once yelling at her. Instead, I would laugh and shrug and tell myself it didn’t matter, because the alternative was to cry like a heartbroken child. But to hear her talk about Hexe in such a way, as if he were some kind of subhuman beast, made my blood boil. I would never dare speak up for myself, but I had no problem shouting my mother down in his defense.

Upon entering the Grand Foyer, I found Clarence waiting to see me out. “May I inquire as to where you are living nowadays?” he asked as he helped me into my coat. “Chelsea? The East Village? Tribeca, perhaps?”

“Golgotham,” I replied flatly.

A flicker of alarm crossed Clarence’s stone face, only to be quashed by decades of training. “Very good, Miss Timmy.”

Family drama aside, I was able to get back in time to have my picture taken by the
Village Voice
’s photographer. Not long after she finished snapping the last shot, the first of the evening’s visitors started showing up at the gallery.

A bar was set up in the corner, dispensing white wine to those looking to get their drink on, as well as mineral water for the Twelve Steppers in attendance, while a couple of waiters carried trays of hors d’oeuvres about the room. It wasn’t long before the main gallery was full of well-dressed young urban professionals, scruffy hipsters, and art world scenesters, sipping at their drinks and nibbling cubes of cheese as they milled about, talking among themselves as they stared at my sculptures.

As I stood on display beside my handiwork, I scanned the slowly shuffling crowd for a sign of the arrival of Hexe and Lukas, but my efforts went unrewarded. I checked my watch. It was going on seven thirty. Where could they possibly be? I glanced up at the Thinker, as if he might have an answer. He sat there frozen, silent, yet somehow more alive than the scores of art fanciers who crowded the gallery. I searched the room yet again, and this time I was rewarded by the sight of familiar faces, although not the ones I had been looking for.

“Templeton really made sure you got a nice turnout,” Vanessa said by way of greeting. “These sculptures are awesome! They’re your best work to date.” She was accompanied by her boyfriend, Adrian Klein, who taught art history at NYU. Where Vanessa was outspoken and something of a firecracker, Adrian was understated and laid back, but with a mordant sense of humor.

“Thanks for coming, Nessie,” I said, giving her a hug. “It’s good to see you again, Adrian.”

“Same here, Tate. Nessie told me all about your wild ride together,” he laughed. “I’m looking forward to meeting this ‘magic man’ of yours, Tate. It seems I owe him a favor.”

“How so?” I frowned.

“After Nessie came back from visiting you in Golgotham, she accepted my proposal. She claims the reason she agreed to marry me is because your warlock friend got her stoned and opened up her third eye, or something like that.”

I gasped and turned to look at Vanessa in disbelief. “You said
yes
?”

“Afraid so.” Vanessa grinned, displaying the diamond engagement ring that now decorated her left hand.

“Oh, my God!” I exclaimed, throwing my arms about the two of them. “I’m so happy for you. You are
perfect
for each other.”

“Where’s Hexe?” Vanessa asked. “I can’t wait to introduce him to Adrian.”