Lion's Share (29 page)

Red velvet
—precisely what that line in the painting had made her think of! No wonder she'd been frightened by the image. Maybe Ed was right, maybe she should have begun painting stuffed animals years ago. Maybe then that stupid dog wouldn't have snuck up on her like all the other camp memories.

She never wanted to paint again. She wanted to never be alone again, to never again use her art to assuage loneliness. No, that wasn't what she felt—when the work was going well it nourished her. The problem was that she wasn't sure she
could
be alone again, wasn't sure she'd be able to paint without being scared off. She'd been working toward transformation but hadn't planned on giving up control, and suddenly, loss of control became terrifying.

Even Ed's presence in the bed tonight proved harrowing. He slept restlessly. Jana kept flashing on his shocked, sleepy head as it turned to her and found her still awake. She was terrified he was going to wake up completely, turn over, and jab it in her.

Jab it in her! Jana clenched her eyes at the words. Always she'd been terrified of being jabbed—when she was too little to swallow a pill, her mother used to threaten that, if she didn't take the medicine like a good girl, the doctor was going to come in the middle of the night, wake her up, and give her a shot. Just jab the needle in her. Dr. Waters had threatened to give her a needle, too, hadn't he? At the infirmary, the first time, the time she was honestly sick. Ed…

But Ed's body was turned away from her. She lay back again, thinking over the day's events, then the week's events, then the month's events. She was starting to feel nauseous. She got up and made her way silently into the bathroom.

As long as he was awake, Ed was sensitive to her every movement: a twitch of her muscles unsettled him, and he would explore her body searching for the tiny area that was feeling, perhaps, unloved. But the moment he fell asleep he closed off to her—she sighed or coughed while he snored to covet these interferences. One night, two weeks ago, she'd gotten nauseous before Ed fell asleep. He called out once to see it she was okay, then turned over and buried his head in the pillow. Faking sick to get attention, or sometimes actually getting sick, was what Kathe used to do, begging him to soothe the pain another man had caused her.

There wasn't much Ed could do. Jana rationalized between bouts of choking. She flashed on childhood nights, alone in her room, when she would cry, softly at first, then gradually louder, waiting to see how long it would take her parents to come in. They heard her every time.

The effort to muffle her choking made her feel worse. Jana sat on the toilet seat, shivering and sweating at the same time, hoping she'd be able to get up, turn around, and aim for the toilet bowl. She didn't make it. One quick stream of vomit on the tile floor, a bit on the bath mat. She went into the kitchen, got cleanser, tore off several paper towels, went back and cleaned it as best she could, returned the cleanser to its place under the sink, washed off somewhat, patted herself dry. Ed was liable to waken if her body was wet and sticky, and it was too late for him to help her now.

She crawled back into bed, lined her back up rigidly against Ed's, tried to get comfortable. She slept off and on, a deep sleep for maybe an hour, the rest haunted by dreams she seemed to play no role in. She was wide awake when Ed's alarm went off, but remained motionless, her eyes closed. She got up the moment she heard the door lock.

She wasn't due at the gallery until eleven—plenty of time to relax this morning. She was drinking her second cup of coffee when she decided to check over that guest list. It wasn't in her pocketbook. Damn, it must have fallen out when she was searching for her keys last night. She ought to stop home and get it, she supposed. She didn't want to leave Ed alone again this evening, and there was no telling how late she'd be tied up at the gallery.

Jana grabbed a cab across town. She retrieved the guest list and shoved it in her pocketbook. She intended to step around the easel as she headed for the bathroom, but found herself mysteriously drawn to it. “Oh, for God's sake,” she admonished herself. “What is this,
The Portrait of Dorian Gray”?
It was sheer insanity to allow one painting to haunt her.

She bit her bottom lip and pulled the tarp off, then turned the canvas toward her. Wow! It was like seeing a stranger's work. The beige and white strokes held a surprising energy, yet they emanated from a still center. That woman's chest seem to be throbbing with anxiety bordering on ecstasy. Of all her recent paintings, this might even be the strongest. And the red line? If she insisted upon pigeonholing it, it could be a heart as easily as anything else.

“THERE HE IS.” Marsha spotted Ed near the entrance to the Vista Hotel ballroom and approached with the program director for a dance company which had recently received funding. “Ed's put a lot of extra effort into this exhibition, and we'll have him to thank if our board of directors appropriates more money for arts-related expenditures in the near future,” she said by way of introduction.

“It's extremely impressive,” the woman to Marsha's left said. “I'm continually going to charity and publicity functions, but this is the first one in years I've
enjoyed.
You're not forcing art down people's throats, you're giving them space to appreciate it. Even the opening ceremonies were concise and appropriate.”

Ed smiled and asked noncommittal questions about the dance programs the company planned for the coming year. He wasn't used to hearing Marsha—or, more importantly, Frank—praising him for the success of a program he'd recommended for funding. Although he told himself he was happy mainly for Jana's sake, he was looking forward to working with other arts organizations. He wanted to see, feel,
smell
new projects taking shape. He'd always wanted to do the best job he could, but suddenly he envisioned unprecedented returns from his efforts. A successful community arts project seemed to subconsciously enrich people's lives. They didn't flock to view it, often they didn't notice it, and yet it had its effect. Yesterday afternoon he'd dropped by Lincoln Center just after the show had been hung, and felt an aura of serenity hovering above the crowd. Tomorrow it might be a harried worker or shopper slightly calmed by drawings on the walls of the Herald Center. Next month perhaps a child would laugh at the mime performing on a street corner, part of another arts project APL was sponsoring this summer.

A few feet away from where he was standing, a photographer from the
Times
clustered Frank, Natalie, and Ed Koch together for a picture. Ed understood Frank's inclusion in the photo to be one more point in his favor—executives who work for the corporate sponsors were usually cut from the focus. The smile on Phyllis' face as she stood beside the photographer assured him he wasn't the only person aware of this little triumph.

He watched Jana flit from one group of people to another. “What's your secret?” he asked when they found themselves alone for a split second. “You're more of a charmer than Phyllis is tonight, and it's her
job
to be charming.”

“Maybe it's the extra rush of adrenaline,” she said. “When I start to speak, the right words come out. To tell the truth, I hadn't realized.”

“Don't be so quick to discredit it,” Ed cautioned as she moved gracefully on to the next conversation. Was this the same woman who paced the apartment last night, worried that the gala wouldn't go well, that she'd find herself off in a corner like she did at the parties she'd gone to when she first moved to New York? Her description of those days had been so vivid she'd almost convinced him. Tonight she exhibited the same confidence and ease he'd been attracted by the first time they met, talking to Frank one minute, to Marilyn the next, to some man or woman unknown to him the next. Now she led a tall, thin man who reminded him of Abraham Lincoln in his direction.

“This is Lou Daniels,” Jana said as she introduced him. “I was just telling Lou that you saw his show at The Paperworks Space last year.”

“I most certainly did,” Ed said, reaching out to shake Lou's hand. “Your drawings not only made a strong impression, they convinced me that The Paperworks Space was the right gallery to work with on this project.” Smiling to himself, he recalled the events of that afternoon—the first time he and Jana had been alone. A quick glance at Jana revealed she was thinking the same thing. “That show also convinced me I'd found the perfect curator,” he added, drawing Jana close to him.

“So Jana tells me,” Lou said, laughing. “Always glad to be of use. That show was my first in the Big Apple, and I hoped it would lead to bigger things, but I never dreamed something like this was in the works.”

“At the time, neither did I,” Jana insisted, smiling up at Ed.

Ed was called over to meet someone Frank and Marsha were talking to. Jana turned around to find Marilyn behind her. “Are you certain you curated this exhibition?” Marilyn asked in greeting. “You seem much calmer tonight than you are at openings at The Paperworks Space.”

“There's something to be said for working through the City of New York,” Jana laughed. “I wasn't allowed to drive a single nail. If you're going to curate a show, I'm learning you might as well go for broke—I didn't get any more frazzled supervising the hanging of a hundred drawings than I do hanging ten, and there wasn't time to stand there staring at the lighting or getting myself worked up over trivialities.”

“I have a feeling other elements of your life entered into this,” Marilyn said. “You and Ed make a great couple.”

“That's precisely what Natalie told me a year ago. I don't know whether to laugh or cry hearing it from
you
now.”

“Natalie and I have a right to agree once in a while, even if we don't use the same methods to draw conclusions. Seriously, you seem radiant. I've never seen you look so good.”

“Thanks. I've been feeling pretty good, too—emotionally
and
physically.” Jana squeezed Marilyn's hand as she excused herself, promising to call early next week. She'd talked to Marilyn several times that week when she was upset about the possibility of a wart virus, but every time they'd talked since then she'd been so caught up in talking about the show at the Walker or what was going on with the exhibition that she'd never told Marilyn the final verdict on those “warts.” After next week I'll have time for friends again, she reminded herself as she hastened over to an artist who'd been standing behind Marilyn trying to get her attention.

Word had gotten out that dinner would be served soon, and people began hunting for their placards and taking their designated seats. Jana searched the crowd for Ed, spotted him over by the far wall, and started toward him, then pulled up short as she drew near. She'd noticed from the distance that he was talking with Bill Fitch, but now she saw Matt Fillmore standing next to Bill. The three men were heavily involved in conversation. All Jana could think was “let me out of here!” But it was too late—both Bill and Ed had spotted her. Here it comes, she thought, taking one step at a time. Ed's going to make some asinine political comment, he and Matt are going to get into an argument, and I'm going to have to back Matt up. As curator, it's my duty to stand behind my artists. Besides, my views are probably closer to Matt's than Ed's. Ed and I will probably spend all night arguing once we get home—assuming we even go home together. She took another step and found herself standing at Bill's side.

“Quite a speech the mayor gave,” Bill was saying. “I wasn't expecting Koch to speak out against toxic waste as strongly as he did. I was at a dinner where John Harrington spoke last month, and he seemed to be carefully avoiding controversial issues.”

“Who?” Jana asked.

“John S. Harrington, Reagan's Energy Secretary, such as he is.”

“New York City has a Democratic administration,” Ed said. “Most Democrats are willing to take a stand on environmental issues.”

“So our city's willing to take a stronger stand than APL is, right?” Matt asked. There was a threatening edge of mockery in his voice. Jana could no longer pretend Matt didn't know who he was talking to.

“We sponsored the exhibition, didn't we?” Ed laughed back. “Besides, APL is accountable to its stockholders. Koch is only accountable to the voters, and this isn't an election year.” Bill and Jana laughed; Matt held his ground. “I stopped by Lincoln Center yesterday,” Ed continued. “Your drawings make a strong impression.”

“Too strong for you?” Matt asked. This time even Bill glared at him.

“Have you seen the show yet?” Bill asked.

“Can't say as I have,” Matt admitted. “So how's the plaque look?” He let a brief grin cross his face.