Color Blind (39 page)

H
ad they made the aisles in D’Agostino’s narrower, or did it just feel that way to Nola? She felt as though her girth was about to knock the packages of Oreos and Pecan Sandies and a whole rack of Pepperidge Farm cookies right off the shelves and onto the floor. She tossed a couple of boxes of Mallomars into her wagon.
What the hell?
It wasn’t like another dozen cookies were going to make a difference, not at this point.

“Those are my favorites too.”

Just what she needed, some creep to annoy her. But when she turned around, Nola decided that maybe she didn’t mind being annoyed, because the creep was, in fact, a very cute guy.

“You like them too, Mallomars?”

“Nothing better, except maybe Oreos. Sometimes. Depends, of course.” He smiled.

Nice mouth.
“Tough contest,” said Nola. “By the way, I’m pregnant, not fat.”

The guy laughed. “I sorta figured that.”

“Oh. Good.” She shifted her impressive weight from one foot to the other, and smiled.

The guy smiled too, then said, “See ya,” and continued down the aisle.

I’m pregnant, not fat. What a jerk. Like any fool could not see that.
Well, forget it. She was dreaming anyway, that any halfway decent guy would even look at her. Nola sighed, watching the handsome young man pluck a box of pretzels off the shelf. For a moment she considered going over to him, offering him a cup of coffee and some Mallomars, but she didn’t, and then he was gone. Too late. And in a few weeks, really too late. A baby.
A baby.
She must have been out of her mind.

At the checkout she realized she had bought too much, milk and juice, two heavy bags, but it was too late and it wasn’t like she was infirm or anything, she could handle it. Not worth a delivery guy. It was only a few blocks.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

The cute guy, one aisle over, collecting his one bag. “You gonna carry those bags all by yourself?”

“Thought I would.”

He scooped one out of her hand, then the other. “You shouldn’t be carrying heavy bags. Not in your condition. You’ve gotta think about your baby, you know. Babies need taking care of.”

“I guess I’m about to find that out.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Central Park West. It’s just four blocks over.”

“Yeah. I know. Come on. I’ll walk you.”

After a block, Nola’s lower back was aching and she was glad someone else was carrying the bags, particularly this cute guy, even though she had sworn off men, especially white men, after Matt Brownstein.

“You live there, on Central Park West?”

“Temporarily.”

“The park is nice.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“Is it?”

“Sure is. I’m staying with a friend. Until I have the baby, then I’ll see. I have some things to figure out.”

“Uh-huh.”

Nola could just about hear his thoughts:
Knocked up. No husband. Living with a friend. Pathetic.
“I’m at Barnard,” she added, as they crossed over Amsterdam Avenue.

“What’s that?”

“Barnard, the school. You know, the women’s part of Columbia, or was. It’s just its own thing now.”

“Oh, right. Cool.”

He seemed a bit embarrassed about not knowing Barnard, though not everyone did. So he was uninformed, maybe even a little goofy, but sweet too, and his looks made up for a lot.

“Well, I
was
at Barnard, I mean. I’m taking a leave.” She patted her belly.

Just at the corner, a half block from the twin entrances to the San Remo towers, he stopped. “I should get going. I, uh, live in the other direction.” He handed the packages back to her.

“By the way, I’m Nola. And you are—”

“What?”

“Your name?”

“Oh. Right. Dylan.”

“Nice name.”

“Thanks. So, uh, what are you doing later?”

“Later? Well, I’m going to this opening tonight, an art opening, in Chelsea, a sort of big deal, a friend of mine—”

“Art opening?”

“Yes, you know, a show, an exhibition. My friend is a painter. It’s at the Petrycoff Gallery, on Twenty-fifth Street.”

“WLK Hand?”

“You know Willie?”

“Willie? Is that his name?”

“Yeah. WLK Hand was his
handle,
you know, his graffiti name, when he was back being a wild child in the projects.” Nola laughed. “He kept the handle, but believe me, he’s come a long way from there. So you know his work?”

“I saw it. On TV.”

“Oh. Of course. On Kate’s show?”

“That’s right.”

“You should come tonight.”

“Yeah. I might.”

“I’ll tell Kate I met a fan. Isn’t Kate wonderful?”

“Yeah.” He lifted his wraparound sunglasses for a second, blinked, smiled, than set them back in place. “She’s grrrrrrrrrrrrreat.”

I
met the sweetest guy,” said Nola, hoisting her shopping bags onto the kitchen island.

“Why are you dragging heavy bags around?” Kate gave the girl a stern maternal look.

“To annoy you?” Nola grinned.

“You can have them delivered, you know.”

“I didn’t carry them. That’s where the guy comes in.”

Kate started unloading the bags, orange juice and milk into the fridge, cookies onto the counter.

“We started chatting in the cookie aisle, about Mallomars. Then at the cash register we bumped into each other again and he offered to carry my bags home.” She patted her belly. “Guess he took pity on me.”

“And?”

“And nothing. But he was cute. Very.” Nola went for the Mallomars. “How any cute guy could look at me—”

“You look beautiful.”

“For a baby orca.” She took a bite of the cookie. “I should stop eating these. What am I going to wear tonight? I’m so sick of being fat.”

“You’re not fat, you’re pregnant.”

“That’s what I told the guy.”

“We’ll wrap one of my pashmina shawls around you. You’ll look gorgeous.”

“You better start sewing two of them together.”

Kate laughed, but wasn’t particularly cheery, her emotions in a state of chaos, one minute euphoric over Richard’s innocence, the next despondent over his death. That, plus a mix of excitement and anxiety about Willie’s opening, all the people she would have to see, when all she wanted was to be alone, to try and sort out some of these feelings.

Nola dusted cookie crumbs off her chest. “I think I’ll lie down for a few minutes so I can stand up at the opening. Wake me in a half hour if I’m not up, okay?”

K
ate took her time dressing. She wanted to look good for Willie’s show—and for Richard, too. It was the first time since he had died that she cared about her appearance.

Nineteen days. Less than three weeks. A lifetime.

“What do you think, honey?” she asked Richard aloud as she perused her closet, pushing aside dresses until she found the answer.

She slid the charcoal-gray top off a hanger, a simple Armani number that Richard had bought her for absolutely no reason other than he’d been passing the elegant Madison Avenue shop, had seen it in the window, and imagined her in it.

It fit perfectly, the scoop collar showing off her long neck and sculpted collarbones, the smoothness of her skin against which the chain and ring rested.

Pencil-thin black pants and charcoal heels to complete the outfit.

Kate brushed out her hair and let it rest gently on her shoulders, simply, the way Richard liked it. Some blush on her high cheekbones. Gloss on her lips. A soft smoky shadow on her lids and mascara on her lashes.

She grasped Richard’s ring as she regarded herself in the mirror, noting how Richard had always known just what she liked and what she looked good in.

She pictured him smiling his approval.

T
here.” Kate finished arranging the steel-gray shawl around Nola’s shoulders.

“You’re sure all this gray doesn’t make me look like the Goodyear blimp?”

Kate stood back, closed one eye, peered at her through the other. “No. The blimp’s definitely smaller.”

“I hate you.”

“You look great. What’s the big deal anyway? You know how people are at art openings. They only care about how
they
look.”

“Yeah, but…” Nola played with the shawl, tying it loosely, then untying it. “I sort of invited Dylan, and he said he might come.”

“Dylan?”

“From D’Agostino’s.”

Did his name have to be one that reminded her of the psycho?

“What?” asked Nola, catching Kate’s faraway look.

“Nothing. Forget it.”

T
he shower is just what he needs. He wants to look good, to feel and smell good—for her, the art
her-story-n
.

He’s tired of waiting. It’s time.

He pictures the pregnant girl, Nola, and what it will be like to open up her belly. He could see she liked him, that she will go anywhere with him.

He thinks about where he should take her, and decides that he will let
her
take
him
. What a good idea.

It’s grrrrrrrreat!

“Thanks, Tony.”

The WLK Hand exhibition. The Petrycoff Gallery. It all makes perfect sense.

He towel-dries his hair and stares at his reflection in the mirror. His flesh is still slightly gray, but his hair has a brownish cast with just the slightest hint of sunglow. He is almost cured. And after he sees her, talks to her, Kate, the art
her-story-n,
the cure will be complete. He is certain of it.

T
he Vincent Petrycoff Gallery was humming, wall-to-wall artists and dealers and collectors and hangers-on, a sea of black and gray, scattershot bits of Willie’s paintings playing peekaboo in between them.

Kate tried to see around a couple blocking her view.

“I’m telling you it’s the muscle that lifts the testicles,” said the man.

“Are you sure? I thought Cremaster referred to the testicles themselves,” said the woman.

“No. I looked it up after I saw the film. It’s the
lifting
muscle.”

“So the film is about lifting balls?”

“Not that I could see. But Ursula Andress was in it. Remember her,
Dr. No
?”

“No.”

“James Bond? The girl on the beach, in the bikini?”

“Whatever.” The woman shrugged. “I remember the artist’s first video, the one where he climbed the gallery walls, which I think were covered with Vaseline, in his jockstrap.”

“Hmmm…sort of like being inside the womb.”

“Could be that the jockstrap connects to the Cremaster idea, the idea of lifting the testicles?”

“That’s brilliant. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Excuse me,” said Kate, trying to get past them, wishing she could think of something witty to say, but she was preoccupied, definitely on edge. She looked around the room. Everything seemed in order, and yet that odd buzzing sensation had started—
why?

Petrycoff came through the crowd to greet her, face glowing with artificial bronzer, silver hair slicked against his skull, ponytail gelled into a spear. “It’s yours,” he proclaimed.
“Harm’s Way.”

“Harm’s Way?”

The art dealer pointed toward the mirror-and-glass painting mostly hidden by a mass of bodies.

“Oh, I didn’t know the title.” Kate wasn’t sure she liked it either. There had been a bit too much harm coming her way recently, though she wasn’t sorry to own the painting. She got a peek of it through the crowd, dozens of fragmented faces and bodies reflected in the bits of mirror, and felt another chill.
What is it?

“All sold. Every one,” said Petrycoff.

“What?”

“I said the paintings are all sold. The Reina Sophia will just have to wait until our boy genius does a few new pieces.”

Kate wasn’t sure she believed him, but she hoped that at least half of the hyperbole was true, for Willie’s sake.

Petrycoff excused himself, and Kate watched him slither into the crowd like an eel.

“Kate, darling.” A hand on the small of her back. “I knew I’d find you here.”

Kate turned and kissed Blair’s cheeks, which she could not help notice were smoother and glossier than ever. She scrutinized her friend’s face. “Okay, what’s the deal? You look fifteen, and you haven’t had time for another face-lift—and I don’t see any bruises or new scars.”

“The magic of Botox. I just hope it doesn’t give out in the middle of some important event.” Blair laughed, mouth opening slightly, nothing else on her face moving. “You should try it, darling. Your forehead’s becoming a map.”

“I had it chiseled into my skin so I wouldn’t forget my way home.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?” Blair frowned; maybe. “Old age is no joke. You’ll see.”

Kate thought sixty-year-olds masquerading as sixteen-year-olds wasn’t a joke either, but maybe she was wrong. Who knows what she’d think in a couple of years, when her skin really started to sag, in this culture where youth and beauty were worshipped above anything else—except perhaps money.

Willie leaned between Kate and Blair and accepted kisses and compliments, and Kate felt proud and happy and sad all at once, wished that Richard were here to see Willie’s success; Richard, who had been the first to step up to the plate and buy one of Willie’s paintings.

“Divine,” said Blair. “But I don’t have the walls for them. They’re all so huge. Can’t you make smaller ones?”

“You could get bigger walls.” Willie flashed a grin. “But check out the drawings in the back. They’re small.”

“Very classy.” Kate smiled, and in her mind said to Richard,
He’s something, our Willie, isn’t he?
She patted Willie’s cheek, and as she did felt another chill. Was it thinking of Richard? Or…she wasn’t sure. Kate attempted to scan the crowd, but it wasn’t possible. The place was jammed. And what was she looking for? She had no idea. She spotted Nola, the back of her head, anyway, talking to someone whom she could not see, and that buzz seemed to intensify, though it didn’t make any sense. Maybe it was just the excitement in the room and the thrill of the evening, but it was definitely there, that odd sensation she always got when she was on to something. Perhaps it was just the horror of the past weeks getting to her, and her emotions playing with her psyche. She smiled again at Willie, but a museum director was talking at him a mile a minute, and Kate knew business when she saw it, and eased away. She tried to get Nola’s attention, but Nola didn’t see her waving, still rapt, talking to some guy, his back to Kate; Nola smiling, maybe flirting. Could be Mr. D’Agostino, thought Kate. Better to leave the girl alone. She wished that feeling would leave her alone too, but it had intensified, along with a chill that felt as if someone were running ice cubes along her spine. She needed a good night’s sleep, that was all, maybe even that trip to Florida, sit on her mother-in-law’s porch for a full week and stare at flamingos.