The Truth About Lorin Jones (41 page)

Jacky shook his head, bringing on another attack of coughing. “Not too well, I’m afraid. It’s beginning to look as if he won’t be coming back to the gallery.”

“So you’ll be taking over for good?”

“Well, yes; I think so. Paolo’s wife wants me to. I told her I’d like that, but I felt that there really had to be some drastic changes. Frankly, just between us, the Apollo hasn’t taken advantage of recent developments as it should have done.”

“Mm?”

“You know, there are a lot of exciting new artists coming along. And new collectors. For them Lorin Jones is almost an old master. Since you’re such a feminist, perhaps I should say old mistress. But somehow that doesn’t sound right, does it?” Jacky giggled, wheezed.

“Anyhow,” he continued when he had caught his breath, “I’d really like the Apollo to take a few more risks. I even considered whether we should move downtown; but I decided against it. Most serious buyers, you know, especially the foreigners, don’t really enjoy the trip to Soho. Even in a limo there’s all that awful midtown traffic to fight your way through, and the streets are dirty and full of spaced-out types. So by the time they get there they’re already unhappy and impatient, and in no mood to make a commitment. Much better to bring the work uptown.” He smiled.

“And you’ve discovered some new artists.”

“Oh yes. For instance, there’s this very very interesting woman from California called Ceci O’Connor who does pieces that rather remind me of Islamic wall decorations. The ones with all those bits of mirror embedded in plaster to form abstract or floral designs, you know?”

“Mm.”

“Well, she’s brought that basic idea up to date. I think she’s going to be a great success. The work is very strong, and really beautiful. And then it’s also metaphorically rather brilliant: the painter orders the world, and the viewer projects himself — or herself, darling, don’t get cross — into this new vision. You must come round and see her slides as soon as you have a free moment. How is the book coming, by the way?”

“Oh, all right, I guess.” Polly tried to summon enthusiasm, but failed.

“I know how it is,” Jacky said sympathetically. “It’s always the hardest part, the first draft. If you’d like me to look at the manuscript anytime, you know, I’d be glad to.”

“Thank you,” Polly said, thinking that if Jacky saw the book she was trying to write he would never ask her to tea again.

“I mean that. I’d really be happy to do anything I can. ... Oh, Tommy. That looks delicious. Shall I pour?”

In her empty apartment on the day after Christmas, Polly Alter sat moping in front of a work table covered with stacks of notes, transcripts of interviews, filing folders, three-by-five cards, and magazines and catalogues with markers in them. Stevie was off playing Christmas video games with a friend, and she should use the free time to work, but her book was now totally blocked. Whenever she looked through her papers, trying to get a perspective on the project, she became confused and depressed; she felt her subject splitting into multiple, discontinuous identities.

There was the shy little girl Lolly Zimmern; the flaky college freshman Laurie; the bohemian art student; the ambitious, calculating young professional that Kenneth Foster had taught; and the neurotic, unworldly artist that Jacky knew. There was the poetic lost child Laura whom Garrett Jones had married, and the obsessed genius who had died in Key West. According to her niece, Lorin was generous and sensitive; her stepmother remembered her as selfish and spiteful.

And what’s more, it was clear by now that none of the people Polly had interviewed were lying, not wholly anyhow: everyone had told her the truth as he or she knew or imagined it. All they agreed on was that Lorin was beautiful and gifted (the two things I’m not, Polly thought sourly). Otherwise, everyone seemed to have known a different Lorin Jones; and most of them also had different versions of the other people in Lorin’s life. As Lennie Zimmern had warned Polly, she had found out too much. How the hell was she ever going to make sense of it all?

Maybe what Lennie had said back in September was right, she thought. Maybe I should just talk about the paintings, instead of trying to write the biography of somebody I don’t begin to understand; somebody who probably wouldn’t have liked me or wanted me — or anyone — to write about her. If the grief and guilt I felt that last day in Key West was real, that’s what I’d do. It would be a lot easier besides, and Lennie would thank me. But then all these notes; all these wasted months — Polly groaned aloud.

If only Jeanne were here, she thought, forgetting all that had gone wrong between them, remembering only her friend’s intelligence, warmth, and sympathy. Remembering how, long before Jeanne moved into the apartment, back when she had lived three blocks away, they could call each other anytime.
I need to talk to you,
Polly would say.
I’m in a total funk. ... Oh, my dear,
Jeanne would murmur.
I’m so sorry. Tell me about it.

Jeanne was up in Vermont now, but Polly could still talk to her on the phone; Ida would have the number. She shoved back her chair and went into the kitchen.

“No, she’s not in town,” Ida said in charged, emotional tones. “She’s in Vermont with Betsy. ... I don’t know when they’ll be back. They’re with friends.” Her pronunciation of the last word suggested that Polly was not in this category.

“Can you give me the number there, please?”

“No,” Ida said; it sounded as if she were breathing hard into the phone. “I don’t think I can.”

Polly suppressed an impulse to swear. “Jeanne promised she’d call when she got there, you see, but she hasn’t,” she explained.

“No. I shouldn’t expect she would.”

“Why not, for God’s sake?” Her voice rose.

“Jesus. If you don’t know that,” Ida said, with a slight but marked pause on the pronoun.

Polly gave a loud, angry, uneven sigh. “Well, when you speak to her, tell her I’d like to hear from her.”

“Oh, you would.” Now Ida’s voice began to shake. “There are a lot of people who genuinely care for Jeanne, in case you didn’t realize that,” she said. “People who respect her emotional commitments, her privacy, her personal integrity —”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No. You wouldn’t, would you?” Ida’s tone had become so sneering that Polly lost her cool.

“Oh, go to hell, you old bitch,” she cried, and hung up.

Feeling even worse than before, she began to wander through the apartment, dim now in the fading winter light. There was nothing to see; only, out of one window after another, the backs of other apartment buildings, blurred by the drizzle of snow that had been falling all afternoon. From her bedroom, though, if she stood close to the cold glass and looked sideways, a narrow vertical strip of Ninety-second Street was visible. Everything in this elongated rectangle was black or gritty gray, like an early twentieth-century Ashcan School etching: a lamppost, a couple of snow-whitened cars, an attenuated Peggy Bacon cat, two figures walking hunched together against the wind. It was as false and limited a version of Ninety-second Street, Polly thought, as each of those transcripts on her desk was of Lorin Jones’s life. But it was all she could see, just as to her informants their reports were the whole truth.

Every one of those people expected her to reproduce their narrow vertical view of Lorin Jones. And what’s more, if she didn’t, they would be angry with her. Whatever she wrote, she would satisfy some of them and enrage others.

Suppose, just for the sake of argument, she were to write the biography of Lorin Jones that Jacky and Garrett expected, in which Lorin would appear as an eccentric, neurotic genius, and they as generous and wise and tolerant. They would be pleased, and reward her; they would see to it that her book was well and prominently reviewed — Jacky had already hinted as much. If she put her career first, this was the choice she would make.

And suppose too, just for the sake of argument, that she were to accept Garrett’s job offer. Since she’d told him she was a lesbian, he probably wouldn’t bother her with any more sexual advances; at least he wouldn’t come on to her overtly. And as his protégée she would have many privileges. She would meet the most important artists and collectors; she would be invited to review for newspapers and magazines.

And let’s not forget the money. If she were working for Garrett, Polly would be able to take taxis when the weather was lousy or the buses crowded; she would never have to descend into the dirty, threatening catacombs of the subway. She would travel business class on planes and visit museums in distant cities, and maybe even abroad. She would see the Prado, the Musée d’Orsay, the Hermitage, the Uffizi; famous private collections here and in Europe would be open to her.

She might as well cultivate her professional connections, Polly thought, because it was clear now that after what had happened Jeanne’s friends would reject her. In fact, judging from that phone call, they already had. Even if she could write the book she had first planned, Ida would not forgive her. Feminist reviewers might praise and admire her, but she would never again be invited to Ida and Cathy’s study group; though she might one day sit on the floor of some other apartment in some other circle of women, with one hand in that of a shadowy lover.

But maybe she wouldn’t care; maybe she wouldn’t write that book anyhow, but one that would please Jacky and Garrett, and become a success.

Against the screen of grainy, drifting snow, Polly saw herself in this alternative future, at a party in an East Side townhouse. She was elegantly dressed in black, and carefully made up; her hair was professionally styled and smoothly blown dry (in this incarnation she would be able to shop at Bendel’s instead of Macy’s, and go to the beauty salon once a week). The people at the party gazed at her with interest; not only because she seemed so cool and confident, but because she was a figure of growing importance and power in the New York world of museums and galleries and artists and dealers and critics. Other expensive-looking men and women stood around her, some of them recognizably famous. Maybe she was involved with one of them, though not seriously. If her career really took off, probably she wouldn’t have the time or energy for a serious relationship: she would either be celibate or have brief affairs with men or women whom she didn’t like or trust very much; who didn’t much like or trust her.

Maybe that was why the face of the central figure in this scene showed no joy or ease: her expression was wary, calculating, and self-conscious. She looked like someone Polly wouldn’t want to meet, let alone become.

The idea that she was about to choose, not only a version of Lorin Jones’s past, but her own unattractive future, made Polly giddy, as if she were standing on the top of a steep hill instead of looking out of an apartment window in a snowstorm. And what made it worse was the blurry knowledge that, once she had chosen, she would forget that there had ever been a choice. From the crossroads at the crest of the hill you can see in every direction; but after you start down one of the paths the view narrows, and other landscapes vanish.

The Polly in the circle of women and the Polly at the party in the townhouse would forget that there had been any alternatives. They would believe that they had taken the only possible route. The book they had written, the life they had chosen, the person they had become, would seem inevitable; as inevitable, say, as her separation from Jim.

But how inevitable had even that been? Suppose she had agreed to go to Denver; probably she would soon have convinced herself — or rather, she would have become the person who believed — that keeping the family together was more important than anything else. She would have gone on loving Jim and believing that he was decent and trustworthy. Maybe she would have found another job in Colorado, or begun to paint in a different way that had nothing to do with Lorin Jones, and she would have taken that for granted too.

Now, soon, the biography of Lorin Jones she would write, the life she would choose, would seem the only possible one. She would become an angry, depressed lesbian feminist or a selfish, successful career woman. And Lorin Jones would be established in the public mind as an innocent victim or as a neurotic, unfaithful, ungrateful genius; but it would all be lies.

What she’d really like to do, Polly thought, resting her elbows on the crossbar of the window and watching the flakes of snow, like fine gritty ash, whirl and eddy and descend between the walls, was to write a book that would tell the whole confusing contradictory truth. She’d like to put in all the different stories she’d collected, and — as her father used to say — let the devil take the hindmost.

Yes, but who would be the hindmost? Polly Alter would be that; her biography would be called unfocused and inconsistent, and would enrage everyone who was important to her.

The heavy, damp depression that had been hanging above her head all day descended on Polly like a dirty, sopping-wet blanket. She wished to God she had never heard of Lorin Jones, who was responsible for everything that had gone wrong in her life over the last year, right down to what had happened with Mac.

It’s too late to brood about that, she told herself. You’d better make up your mind and get started on whichever goddamn book it’s going to be; the grant money will run out by May. But she felt too sodden and sluggish to move. Outside the window, the ash fell.

After what could have been one minute or twenty, the buzzer from the downstairs door sounded. Slowly, Polly moved away from the window and the darkening, sliding snow. Jeanne, she thought foolishly; and then, more reasonably, that Stevie must have forgotten his keys. But it was only Federal Express announcing a delivery. “I’ll come down,” she called into the intercom, thankful for any distraction.

The package turned out to be bulky and, she was surprised to see as she carried it back up in the elevator, from her father. It must be a present for Stevie. Not the check Carl Alter had said he would send, but almost on time for once in a lifetime. But when she opened the box on the kitchen table, the first thing that fell out was an envelope with her son’s name on it. Both a check and a gift, then: extravagant and unnecessary. As usual the wrapping paper was far too childish for Stevie; it was also inappropriate for a boy: cutesy little girls carrying miniature Christmas trees, for shit’s sake.