Leap Year (10 page)

“I wanted to ask you about that,” said Heath.

“Oh,” said Amanda. “Ask what? Ask away.”

“Well, it’s just that…I just wondered if that name was, you know, final.”

“Why?” asked Amanda. “No you like?”

“Well,” said Heath, “to tell you the truth, I don’t like it. I mean, the ‘Simultaneous Organisms’ part.”

“Well,” said Amanda. “I don’t want you to be unhappy about the name of your show. That would be…”

“
Quel
tragic,” suggested Kennedy.

Amanda shot her a glance. Heath had the feeling she was trying not to laugh. He suddenly felt very uncomfortable. This is getting weird, he thought.

“It would be unfortunate,” Amanda decided. “And I want Heath’s entree to the art world to be nothing less than perfect.”

“Well, it’s no big deal,” said Heath.

“You’re right,” said Amanda. “It’s a detail. But details are important. If we don’t take care of the details, the details will take care of us.” She paused, stunned by her pithiness. Then she continued. “What do you think, Kennedy?”

“I agree with Mr. Jackson. I think a less …ambitious name would better serve the photographs.”

“Well,” said Amanda. “Thank God I haven’t printed the cards yet! So be it: ‘The Photography of Heath Edward Jackson.’ Is that unambitious enough for you?”

“Could we skip the ‘Edward’?” asked Heath. “I really hate my middle name. I never use it.”

“No,” said Amanda. “Middle names are hot. Is there another name you prefer?”

“What about ‘Tiger’?” said Kennedy. “I’d buy a photograph by someone named Heath Tiger Jackson.”

Every Wednesday morning the Galton siblings—Lillian, Adrienne, and Julian—gathered in Julian’s office for a weekly meeting. Julian had the biggest office. He was the founder and president of Galton Enterprises, Inc. Both Adrienne and Lillian were vice presidents, and they constantly argued over who should get the second biggest office. Luckily the smallest office had the best view, so they switched on and off. Presently Lillian had the room with the view.

“Peter Boyde from
SATAN
called again,” Julian began.

“Can’t you even say it?” said Lillian. “Say it. Say South Africa Tourist Authority Network.”

“South Africa Tourist Authority Network,” said Julian.

“Shut up, Lillian,” said Adrienne. “I have a headache. Does listening to a Walkman give you a headache? I always get a headache when I do.”

“You only listen to it so you won’t hear the phone ring,” said Lillian. “I know all your tricks.”

“Not all,” said Adrienne.

“What about South Africa?” said Julian.

“I thought we decided that last week. I said I’d quit if we represented them.”

“Lillian, if you quit every time you said you would, you’d be dead from exhaustion. It’s an idle threat. Besides, this is a very big account.”

“I think that’s immaterial,” said Lillian. “We all know it’s a moral rather than a financial question.”

“But it’s not like we’re forcing people at gunpoint to vacation in South Africa,” said Julian. “We’re just making them aware of their options. People should be aware of their options, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Oh,” said Adrienne. “Speaking of options. Mom called this morning. She wanted to know if anyone was coming home for the Fourth.”

“You can count me out,” said Lillian. The thought of barbecues and potato salad nauseated her.

“South Africa,” said Julian. “South South Africa Africa.”

“Julian,” said Lillian, “we’re not doing South Africa. You know it. You’re just scared of Peter Boyde. I’ll call him if you want. Do you want me to call him?”

“Okay,” said Julian, who was, in fact, scared of Peter Boyde. “Now, what’s new?”

“Mom also said the Loessers want to rent their summer house. She thought one of us might be interested.”

“I meant what’s new business-wise,” said Julian.

“Where is it?” asked Lillian.

“I’m not sure,” said Adrienne. “Upstate somewhere. One of those hot counties people are talking about. It’s supposedly very nice. It’s on a pond or something.”

“How much is it?” asked Lillian.

“I don’t know. You should call Mrs. Loesser. Mom gave me her number.”

Julian stood up. “You’re both fired,” he said.

“What?” said Adrienne.

“I said you’re fired,” said Julian.

“If I’m fired, I won’t call Peter Boyde,” said Lillian.

“All right. You call Peter Boyde. Adrienne’s fired.”

“Talk about idle threats,” said Adrienne, inserting the humming prongs of her Walkman into her ears.

Several thousand miles away, Sonia Sanchez-Wheeler threw open the glass doors and strode into the lobby of Agon, Mix, Broadhill, and Sanchez-Wheeler, where Loren and David sat on a tangerine-colored leather couch.

“Welcome!” Ms. Sanchez-Wheeler brightly proclaimed.

Loren and David stood up. Ms. Sanchez-Wheeler shook both their hands. “Why don’t we go to my office?” she said. “It’s more comfortable there.”

They followed her down a long hallway of glassed-in offices. “Is this your first visit to Los Angeles?” Ms. Sanchez-Wheeler asked over her shoulder.

Loren and David looked at each other in disbelief. “Where’s Kate?” Loren asked.

“Here we are.” Ms. Sanchez-Wheeler directed them into the office at the end of the hall, a large corner office filled with sunlight and trees and wicker furniture. “Could I get you something to eat or drink? Have you had breakfast yet?”

Loren repeated her question.

“She’s on her way,” Sonia Sanchez-Wheeler said. “I just talked to Lyle. They’re stuck on the freeway. It’s a wonder you got here from the airport so quickly. Are you sure I can’t get you anything? A croissant? Some o.j.? It’s fresh-squeezed.”

“No thank you,” said David.

“Well, then, please sit down.”

Loren and David sat. “We’ll get right to business, then,” said Ms. Sanchez-Wheeler, picking up her phone. “Antony? Could you bring in the Lyle Wallace agreement? Thanks.” She hung up. “I hope you’re keeping track of your expenses. As we agreed, my client will reimburse you for all the costs you incur. How long are you staying out here?”

“Just a day or two,” said Loren. “We’re taking Kate to Disneyland. We thought it might be a good way to ease her out of this ordeal.”

Ms. Sanchez-Wheeler laughed. “If I’m not mistaken, Lyle’s beat you to it. He took her to Disneyland yesterday. They stopped in on their way. Kate’s a lovely child! Have you ever thought of having her tested?”

“For what?” David asked.

“Screen-tested,” said Ms. Sanchez-Wheeler. “I think she has a very appealing quality. You might consider it, as long as you’re out here.”

“We’re not interested,” said David.

“Of course. You’ve other concerns presently. I understand. But let me give you my husband’s card. Donovan Wheeler. He’s with CAA.” She opened her desk and extracted a business card, which she offered them.

“We’re not interested,” David repeated.

“Oh,” said Ms. Sanchez-Wheeler. “I’m sorry.” She looked at the card for a second, then laid it on her desk.

An awkward silence was interrupted by the arrival of Antony. “Here you are,” he said, handing a folder to Ms. Sanchez-Wheeler.

“Thank you, Antony. Well,” she said when he had departed,

“I think these forms are pretty straightforward. They’re the exact ones that have been vetted and approved by your lawyer, but let me leave you alone with them for a moment. I’ll go find out where Mr. Wallace and your daughter could be. If you need me, I’ll be right next door.”

“She’s the one I’d like to sue,” said Loren when they were left alone. “She’s horrible.”

“She’s a lawyer,” said David.

Loren shuddered. “I’m not signing a thing till I see Kate. What if she’s brainwashed or something? Remember Patty Hearst? Maybe he’s turned her into some militant starlet.”

“I think it would be tough to brainwash Kate,” said David. “Her mind is pretty much her own.”

“Well, I’m not taking any chances.” Loren stood up and looked out the window. She seemed to be in the very center of the city: It spread out in smoggy sunshine as far as she could see. She was standing like that thinking, I’ll never live here, not for a minute, when the skin along her spine began to effervesce, and she turned to see Kate running down the hall, her arms outstretched, straight toward her mother and the plate glass wall.

T
HE MORNING
L
OREN LEFT
for Los Angeles to retrieve Kate, she had woken up at five-thirty to find she was holding Gregory. They were stuck together with a thin sheet of sweat. She couldn’t tell if it was his back that had been sweating or her stomach—probably a combination of both. She also couldn’t tell if he were awake. She guessed not, got out of bed, and took a shower. Her plane was at eight a.m. David was coming by in a cab for her at six-fifteen.

As she dried herself, she could hear the whine of the coffee bean grinder. The bed was empty. She got dressed and took her suitcase into the living room.

“Do you want some coffee?” Gregory asked. He was standing in the kitchen, naked.

“No,” she said. “I better get going.”

Gregory looked at the clock to indicate he was aware of the time—she had plenty of time for coffee—but was kind enough not to mention this fact.

“I want to make sure I’m there when David comes,” said Loren. “I don’t want to keep the cab waiting.” She was meeting him on the corner of Houston and Greene.

“Right,” said Gregory. He put down the grinder and came out from behind the counter. He wasn’t naked; he was wearing boxer shorts. “Do you want me to come down with you?”

“No,” said Loren. “Why don’t you go back to bed? It’s still early.”

Gregory just smiled. He picked up her suitcase. “It’s heavy,” he said. It was a comment rather than a condemnation. Loren took it from him, then put it down while she unfastened the locks. She opened the door.

“Listen,” said Gregory. “Will you call me tonight? Just to let me know everything’s all right?”

“Of course,” said Loren.

They stood for a moment by the open door.

“Okay,” said Gregory. “Go.” He reached out and touched her shoulder, lowered his face to kiss her.

Loren put down the suitcase and embraced him. She started to cry. “I’m sorry,” she seemed to be saying.

Gregory held her and stroked her hair. It was still damp from her shower. It smelled clean. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s all okay.”

“No,” said Loren. “I’m sorry.”

After a while they pulled apart. “Call me tonight,” Gregory said. “Tell Kate I said hi.”

Loren nodded and picked up her suitcase. Gregory closed the door behind her. He heard the elevator’s loud ascent, its door clang open, and then its retreat.

He stood for a minute beside the front door, leaning against the wall, and then went over to the window. He was just in time to see Loren turn the corner. Across the street a man was sitting outside of a produce market, chopping the green shocks off carrots. A dog watched him. A woman came out of the store. She inserted a straw into a small carton of Tropicana and drank some. She stood in the sun for a moment talking to either the man or to the dog. Then she headed in Loren’s direction. Gregory tried to picture Loren. Was she still standing on the corner? Or was she already speeding toward the airport? He wasn’t sure. What he was sure of was that she was gone.

“Why is it,” asked Solange Shawangunk, “that the road from the airport to the city always takes the ugliest route possible?” She peered out of the limo’s windows, whose green tint gave Queens a particularly ornery glow. Then she turned to Anton. “Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“It’s true for every city,” Solange continued. “Think of it: Paris, London. They should hand out blindfolds at the airport.”

They had been away for six weeks, and in that time their apartment, on the thirty-eighth floor of the Trump Tower, had forgotten them. So while Solange perused the mail that had accumulated, Anton moved about, turning on lights, flushing toilets, sitting briefly in all the chairs, reasserting the Shawangunk presence.

“Look at this,” said Solange. She handed him a postcard. On one side was a black and white photograph of a cat eating a noodle out of a man’s eye socket, and on the other side the following message was printed:

OUT OF CONTROL:

PHOTOGRAPHS BY HEATH JACKSON

THE GALLERY SHAWANGUNK

JULY 13-AUGUST 27, 1988

OPENING RECEPTION WEDNESDAY, JULY 13

6:00-9:00

And below that, the following message was scrawled:
I’VE CANCELED ARNOT! SURPRISE! XO AMANDA.

“What’s going on?” asked Solange. “You told me you had fired Amanda.”

“Did I?” asked Anton.

“Yes,” said Solange. “As a matter of fact you did.”

“Well,” said Anton. “It was a tricky situation. I decided it would be best if we let her stay on—you know: Humor her.”

“Anton, darling, we had an agreement.
Comprends
?”

“Yes,” said Anton. “It’s just that…well, maybe it’s a joke.”

“In my short, unhappy acquaintance with Ms. Paine, she did not strike me as being a humorous woman. I doubt it’s a joke. And here she’s canceled Gilberto’s show—Gilberto, who I hasten to remind you is our only economically profitable client—and replaced him with pictures of bestiality!”

Anton took another look at the photograph. “I don’t know,” he said. “This looks kind of interesting. Amanda has an excellent eye.”

“I hadn’t thought it was her eye that made an impression on you.”

“Oh, Solange, don’t get nasty. You know it’s over between Amanda and me. You know that.”

“I know we had an agreement, and I know I kept my half of it. I’m not so sure what I know about you and Miss Paine.”

“Well, listen, don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. I’ll call Amanda and find out what’s going on.”

“I think not,” said Solange. “I think, my darling, I will proceed from here, as I should have proceeded long ago. Give me that postcard.”