Talk of the Town (18 page)

"Yes," he said, slipping into the room-for-many tub, clothes and all. Her shocked giggle barely escaped before his mouth closed over hers, his hands skimming over her body.

And the mess of wet clothes and towels and loose pools of water on the floor after their lovemaking? Well, it was nothing compared to the chaos they left behind getting ready for the ball.

When Rose finally emerged from the bathroom amidst a cloud of powder and rose-scented perfume, she looked for all the world to see, like something ethereal in Lu's made-in-heaven dress.

"Wow." Harley was the only one who could manage to speak. Earl and Gary stood gaping and dazed.

"You all look so handsome," she said, warm and blushing during their astonished inspection. "I say we skip the ball and just stand here admiring each other."

"Not me," Gary said. "I want to hang you on my arm and go downstairs to show you off. You're stunning."

She simpered uncomfortably, unused to such distinct and spirited praise. She looked up when his proffered arm came into view. She questioned the adoration in his eyes for a split second, then smiled and basked in it. Then they both glanced at Earl when he let loose a loud barking cough.

Clearly the oldest and, in his absolute opinion, the most dashing man in the room, he took no notice of Gary and swaggered across the room like a young lumberjack to take Rose's arm himself.

Without a word, and with a great deal of affection for the old fart, she tucked her hand in the bend of his arm, stood a little taller to meet his fine height, and allowed him to lead her away.

Never one to hold a grudge for long, Gary grinned and waved Harley through the door ahead of him.

TEN

It was a fairy-tale evening.

It was a magical time touched by pixies and sprites.

It was a night that excited the senses and soothed the soul. For when the elevator doors opened, the first thing they saw was a bright red and yellow Alexander Calder creation dangling poised and balanced on the far side of the lobby. A large anteroom had been converted into a small museum of select and precious sculptures, with everything from a pure, extremely simple and totally lovely piece of Jose de Rivera's construction series to a welded metal configuration by John Chamberlain to an assemblage by Jasper Johns, who had a real knack for painting everything he could find bronze and giving it a title—his paintbrushes, toothbrushes, and flashlight for example.

A David Smith classic in stainless steel took Rose's breath away. She hadn't recovered it when she spotted the Ibram Lassaw piece in bronze alloys, copper, and steel. Poor baby, she was weak kneed and drooling by the time she got to the 1915 Lipchitz bronze. Gary, however, gravitated toward the sculptures with identifiable parts—the James Seawright composition of metal, plastic, and electronic parts, and the box constructions of Joseph Cornell. Earl—surprise, surprise—was completely taken with a Jean Dubuffet mixed-media collage and wanted to buy it, until Rose took a guesstimate on a price for him. Even Harley found an original masterpiece by Harold Tovish that he could relate to. He said it looked like the metal man in
Terminator 2.

She took the opportunity to give him a brief explanation of ceramic-shell casting, sand casting, and the
cire-perdue,
or lost-wax process used by Tovish to create his sculpture and was gratified by the semi-interested nod she received for her efforts.

It was a moment-to-moment, revelation-to-revelation, marvel-to-marvel event—and they hadn't yet left the anteroom.

A night unlike any Rose had ever dreamed of, it was as rare and unique as—as a glass slipper. The ballroom had the rich warm glow of gold on white; crystal twinkled and tinkled all around. Glorious gowns shimmered and jewels glistened. The smiles were dazzling.

It was a phenomenon so different from the last ball Rose had attended. Gracious. Grand. Graceful and surprisingly cordial.

Or . . . perhaps it wasn't so different? Perhaps
she
was.

She had firm recall of feeling toadlike compared to the beautiful women around her. Dark and warty amidst the gaiety; frightened and prepared to make an escape if anyone approached her. Alone and lonely, with no grisly old face to nod recognition to from across the room, no warmhearted gaze to glance at for reassurance, no heavy-metal mouth to grin at her from the buffet table.

Tonight she felt beautiful, charming, and witty. Accepted and loved. She was the difference. She began to perceive the power of the possibilities. They surged through her veins like adrenaline, filling her with determination and a small sample of faith in the future.

Gary wasn't much of a line dancer or a two-stepper, but he could waltz like a member of the Welk family. A-one and a-two and a-off he'd go, stepping in squares but spinning her in circles until her mind reeled. Chandeliers glimmered from above, and she and Gary giggled together, blithe and breathless. The orchestra played music that made their hearts light and their eyes shine. Good food and drink brought out the best in everyone.

Even Justin, arriving more than an hour late, took note of the highly festive atmosphere. Of course, he had only one thing to talk about, but even then, he was enthusiastic and upbeat.

"To create shapes which triumph over insipid stereotypes the artist must utilize his individual sensitivities; contrive a unique and personal representation, and remain vulnerable to new experiences. Develop, in short, those characteristics which we are in awe of in children," he was telling Gary after a brief introduction and his comment on the evening, which went something like "Yes, impressive. Aha. Interesting."

"We are continually challenged with things as they are, not as we dream them to be," he continued in the same breath. "But to see things as they are, to appreciate the subtleties which differentiate each element and particle of time, requires a process of visualizing which has no room for preconceptions and prejudice. We become, then, attentive to relationships, rather than details and time separately, and we give harmony and perception to vision.

"The wide range of materials and complex expertise integral to an industrial society has produced advantages for the sculptor of today which would have been inconceivable at any other time. . . ."

A quick glance at Gary, and Rose could see that his eyes were fixed and dim with boredom and disinterest. Not that she could blame him. The music and light-heartedness around them didn't lend itself to a verbal art lesson – Justin's good intentions notwithstanding.

". . . To contrive a finished piece of sculpture requires a perception of solidarity with the method, an appreciation of the change in forces, a realization of the restrictions, and a deep admiration for the excellence of material and method. ..."

"Justin," she said, breaking in as he took a second breath. "You haven't asked me to dance yet."

He looked at her, confused.

"That
is
what people do at balls, you know. They dance."

"Oh. Yes, of course, how dull of me," he said. Then, looking at Gary, he added, "Business, business, always business. But you don't get to be a man in my position without a few sacrifices. However, in this case, I believe Rose is right Time to slow down and enjoy a waltz or two. May I?"

Gary all but pushed Rose into his arms with a too-magnanimous smile. Having met Justin had put any fears he might have had about her interest in him to rest. Killed them dead, in fact. He went off to find Earl, who had last been seen with a tall, willowy brunette in his arms. He was dying to know if the old man was actually asking women to dance or merely jerking his head toward the dance floor and grunting.

"I must admit that this antipollution person you've been seeing is doing something right. I've always thought you a striking woman, Rose," Justin said, dancing her slowly back and forth near the center of the room, where everyone was sure to see him. "But you have this new inner glow that's very attractive. So appealing."

"I'm sure it's this dress," she said, half serious. "I've been expecting to sprout wings all evening. Don't you think it looks like an angel costume? I'm pretty sure it has something to do with the glow you're seeing."

"If it is an angel's costume, it's simply because you're wearing it."

Oh boy. She had hoped to avoid a repeat of their last meeting.

"Well, I wouldn't be in it at all if it weren't for you," she said, changing the subject. "I should have called to thank you, but I wanted to wait until tonight. Until I could do it face-to-face. It's one of the nicest things anyone's ever done for me."

"It was my pleasure," he said, smiling. "Whatever it was, I'm sure I was glad to do it."

"The tickets," she said, floored. How nice it must be to have so much money that giving away a thousand dollars' worth of ball tickets could be so easily forgotten, she speculated. "Remember? You sent me four of them."

"Tickets to what?"

"To this," she said, thinking him dumber than a barrel of hair after all. "You can't have forgotten. Remember I told you that I couldn't afford the tickets, so I wasn't planning to come, and then you sent me four tickets in the mail?"

"Four? Why would I send four? That's . . . darling, that's a thousand dollars."

"I know. That's why—" She stopped. "You didn't send them."

"Well, if it was the nicest thing anyone's ever done for you, I wish I had. That's a lot of money to pay for something you can't insure, but if—"

"You didn't send them," she said again.

"I'm afraid not."

"Then who?" she wondered aloud, her feet stopping as if it were impossible for her to determine the likely prospects and dance at the same time.

"The pollution person?"

Gary? A long shot, but ... "Why didn't he say anything? For weeks I've been telling everyone how terrific you were to ..."

A familiar sensation swept over her, and a smile tugged at her lips. She'd walked into another one of Gary's little traps. He'd let her go on and on, singing Justin's praises, knowing in the end that she'd find out who really sent the tickets and how truly terrific her real champion was.

Not that she hadn't known all along, she thought, glancing around the room for him, eager to show the proper person her appreciation – and in a manner she wouldn't have shown to Justin.

That's when it happened. When it started, anyway.

With that seventh sense that a mother develops during gestation—that same instinct that alerts her to missing cookies before dinner; that warns her she's getting a raspberry when she turns away; that tells her when to get the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth and when a major misdemeanor is in the making—she took heed, cocking her head like a doe in a forest, watchful, searching for Gary, she thought, but instead happening to catch sight of Harley removing a glass of wine from a passing waiter's tray.

It was not a huge crime, and certainly not one she shouldn't have expected—what with young boys being what they were. But it was a violation that he shouldn't repeat if he didn't want to be falling-down drunk before the end of the evening.

"Justin, will you excuse me?" she said, keeping an eye on the felon as he slipped back into the shadows with his spoils.

'"'You can thank him later," he said, unaware that she had morphed from a grateful lover to a correctional officer before his eyes. "I want to introduce you to some important people with deep pockets. Otis Remson in particular. Very into large sculptures. Owns two of Herbert Ferber's."

"All right, but it'll have to wait a second or two. I just saw Harley ..."

"Your child? He's here?" He
made it
sound as if she'd brought along the family dog.

"I had four tickets," she said defensively. "I thought ..."

No, Gary had suggested they all go together. And despite what she'd just witnessed, it was a suggestion she couldn't regret taking. In the past two weeks she'd discovered more about herself and Harley and Earl as individuals, and as a family, than she had in—in all her life.

They loved her.
Lots
of people loved her and cared about her life. It was still an odd notion to maneuver around in her head, but her heart was already settling into it comfortably, delightedly. Having them with her that night made her feel as if she belonged; it was a reminder that she did belong and could belong anywhere she happened to be.

"... I thought it was your wonderful and most generous idea for me to bring them along," she said, finishing her sentence in a light he could use to make himself look better. Or not.

"This is no place for a boy his age," he said, ignoring the light. "What if he does something . . . adolescent?"

"What if he does?" she asked, prickling as any mother might, despite what she'd observed moments ago. "And he's not a boy or a child. He's fifteen. He's a young man. A very bright young man, and he knows how to behave himself." Sort of. "If he happens to make a mistake due to his inexperience, who would hold that against him?"

"Perhaps not him, darling, but certainly you for bringing him. Whatever made you think of it?"

Gary. With something as simple as pulling up a shade, he'd shown her life outside herself. He'd let her see that there were people standing nearby who wanted to be a part of her life, and all she had to do was smile and wave them in.

She smiled now. "The devil made me do it, and, frankly, I'm glad he did. Don't worry so much. Everything will work out fine," she said, actually believing it for a moment. The music was slowing to an end. "Where will you be? I'll come find you in a few minutes, but I really should check in with Harley."

Disgruntled, he made a vague gesture to the far side of the room and let her go. Her maternal radar kicked in, and within minutes she spotted the back of her son's red head.

"Hi, honey, how are you doing?" she asked, waiting to catch him with his lips to the glass. The startled sputter was gratifying, the cough was appeasing, and the hurried and difficult gulping noise in his throat as he cleared away the last few drops of evidence was well worth the trip across the room, if the sour look on his face when he turned around was any indication.