The Bubble Gum Thief (8 page)

A lesser man might have held a grudge. But in 1936, weak and weary and dying of cancer, Mellon met FDR for tea at the White House and told him that he wanted to create a National Gallery of Art in the nation’s capital that would rival the best galleries of Europe. With FDR’s approval, Mellon financed construction of the gallery and donated his vast collection of art, then valued at $50 million. He died a few months later, just before the Board of Tax Appeals unanimously cleared him of all charges. The National Gallery of Art was completed in 1941. Thirty years later, a second building was added. It became known as the East Building; the original became known as the West Building.

A statue honoring Mellon now sits in a small park next to the West Building. Dagny and Mike raced past the statue on their way to the East Building. Although they had arrived late, they were greeted by a blinding flash from a
Post
photographer at the door. Mike gave him their names, spelling “Dagny” twice.

Inside, the gallery’s atrium was filled with floating red heart-shaped balloons. Below them, the district’s high society was at play. Dagny was trying to eavesdrop on George Will’s conversation with Senator Mitch McConnell when Mike tugged her toward a heavyset Mexican man wearing a big grin.

“Diego, this is Dagny Gray,” he announced.

“She’s even more beautiful than you described.” Diego hugged Dagny and kissed her cheek.

“It’s nice to meet you, Diego. I’m excited to see your exhibit.”

“Forget that!” Diego bellowed under the weight of too much wine. “Tonight is about something much more important.”

“Raising money for your charity?” Dagny asked.

“No. Dinner!” Diego laughed. “I put you guys with Carville and Matalin. You won’t have to say a word all evening.” A museum employee called for Diego. “Let’s talk after, okay?”

“Of course,” Mike replied as Diego jogged away.

“He seems like a very nice man,” Dagny said.

“Biggest heart in the world. A good friend. You want to see his work?”

Mike led Dagny up a staircase, then steered her past several paintings to a watercolor of a young Mexican fording the Rio Grande. His jeans were covered in dirt and mud, his shirt was ripped, and he had a scar across his forehead. The man looked tired, but also hopeful. Afraid, but free.

“It reminds me of your work, Mike.”

Mike pointed to the young Mexican in the painting. “That’s a young Diego Rodriguez. It’s a self-portrait. He came over in ’81. Took the amnesty in ’86. He used to sell his stuff on Sunday mornings at Eastern Market. That’s where I met him. He taught me more than any professor ever did.”

They walked around the rest of the exhibit. Together, Diego’s paintings seemed to tell a single story of Mexican immigrants pursuing the American Dream. Unlike most modern art, Diego’s was vibrant and alive and inspiring. It was like Mike’s, except that Mike’s was better. Mike’s work should be here, too, Dagny thought.

February 15—Columbus, Ohio

Melissa Ryder snipped the price tag off her pink lace Victoria’s Secret V-string underwear. She tossed the tag into the trash, dropped to her dorm room floor, and sighed. She didn’t want to go to the Black Out party at the Sigma Epsilon house, but Janet Hodges was her best friend, and Janet liked skinny white boys in OSU ball caps. That was pretty much everyone in Sigma Epsilon.

It was never much fun to go to parties with Janet, even the cool parties with the introverted boys who liked jazz or read Kerouac. Janet was beautiful. Melissa was “cute enough.” Her mom had told her that in high school: “Don’t be silly, Melissa, you’re cute
enough
.” Standing next to Janet made her feel barely cute. Or barely there. When Janet was around, Melissa was the invisible woman, even to the geeks and outcasts.

The Black Out party was an illegal party, a vile and filthy annual affair that had led to a yearlong suspension for the Sigma Epsilon house just three years ago. At Black Out parties, cardboard boxes were ripped apart and taped to the frat house windows, so at midnight, when the frat brothers killed the lights, it was pitch black inside. Under the cover of darkness, things
happened that shouldn’t, and no one was quite sure with whom they happened. Melissa had heard that the boys would put on night-vision goggles and trade women back and forth without them knowing.

This was not the reason the Sigma Epsilon house had been suspended.

At the Black Out party, all of the men wore blackface. This was the reason the Sigma Epsilon house had been suspended.

“But it’s different now,” Janet pleaded. It wasn’t any different, Melissa thought, as she walked past the two boys manning the door, slathering greasepaint on every guy who entered. Melissa noted that the racist routine had been updated. No longer were the white boys pantomiming slaves and servants; now they were decked out in wifebeaters and grills and bling, and grinding to Snoop, Childish Gambino, and 50 Cent, or “Fitty,” as they were wont to call him.

Red lights pulsated to the beat of the music. People were dancing—or moving, anyway—shaking and swaying and stumbling. A girl in a short skirt with a bare midriff was giving a lap dance to a boy sitting on a couch. Two other girls were kissing, to the delight of a group of boys gathered around them. Everyone held plastic cups; none of the cups stayed full very long, and none of them stayed empty either. There was lots of beer but no food.

A black man wearing blackface and a ball cap walked by Melissa. He was smiling and talking with some cute white girls. Wasn’t he offended by this? The women at the party were giggling, smiling, laughing, flirting, kissing, and grinding. Didn’t they know this was wrong? Didn’t they realize that by being here, they were condoning this behavior? Melissa paused for a moment. She was at this party, which meant she was condoning this behavior. When she turned to tell Janet that she wanted to leave, Janet was gone.

Someone put a beer in Melissa’s hand; without Janet, she was visible again. Melissa decided to leave after she finished her beer.
Then when she finished her cup, she decided to dance for just one song. But then they played the Jay-Z and Beyoncé hit she liked, and a Fat Joe song after that. While she danced, she thought about how much she hated these people, how mad she was at Janet for ditching her so quickly, and how she had to finish writing a paper for her journalism class. As the evening drew closer to midnight, Melissa noticed that men and women were pairing up and that she was going to be one of the leftovers, again.

A tall man walked over. He seemed a lot older, but it was hard to tell behind the blackface. He wasn’t skinny like most of them; he was fit and built. Handing her a seventh beer, he whispered in her ear so she could hear over the noise. “This party sucks, doesn’t it?”

He turned his ear to her mouth and she whispered back, “It’s awful. It’s racist and sexist and awful.”

“I’m writing an article about it.”

“What?”

“I’m writing an article about it.”

“You’re a reporter?”

“Yes.”

“And they let you in?”

“The guys manning the door aren’t exactly at the top of their game.”

He was right about that. One of the doormen was crouched on the floor, throwing up. The other was laughing hysterically, and then he fell to the floor as well.

“Are you with the
Dispatch
?” she asked.

“Yeah. Do you read it?”

“Of course, I’m a journalism major.”

“That’s great. Are you covering this party, too?”

“I should be, but no. I came with a friend.”

“Where is he?”

“She.”

“What?”

“She!” Melissa yelled over the noise of the crowd.

“Where’d she go?”

Melissa shrugged.

“She just abandoned you?”

“Yep.”

“Some friend.”

“I know.”

“What?”

“I know!”

“You want to go upstairs and find somewhere that we could actually have a conversation?” he suggested.

“Very much.”

Grabbing her hand, he led her up the stairs. He opened the first door at the top of the steps, looked in, then closed it quickly. “We don’t want to go in there.” They continued down the hallway to an empty room at the end. There were no posters on the wall. The shelves were bare. There was just a double bed, neatly made. “Must be a guest room,” she said softly. They sat on the bed.

“Would you like some gum?” He handed her a pack of Chewey’s. It was already opened, and three pieces were gone.

“Sure.” Was her breath bad? She grabbed a piece by its silver wrapper and slid it from the pack, then removed the gum and folded it into her mouth. He was older than she first thought, maybe even forty, but he was very handsome. “How long have you been at the
Dispatch
?”

“I’ve been there a long time.”

“What do you cover?”

“I’m on the crime beat.”

“Why are you here tonight? Is this a crime?” She giggled.

“It will be. How are you feeling?”

“What?” It was hard to follow him. “Will be?”

“How are you feeling?”

It was a strange question. “I feel fine. I just feel a little...”

“A little?”

“I just feel a little...” Was it dizzy? Was it tired?

“Maybe you should lie down,” the man suggested. Melissa slid down on to the bed, and he lifted her feet up to the mattress. He walked over to the door and locked it. “Because of your father, Melissa.”

His words were slurred. Or was it her hearing? “What?”

“Your father.” It was the last thing she heard.

Everything after that was hazy. She felt some jostling, some nausea, a heavy weight pushing down on her. After a couple of minutes, everything went black.

When she woke a few hours later, she was certain something awful had happened. She tried to get out of bed but slipped to the floor. Her legs ached. She struggled to stand again, then hobbled to the bedroom door and down the steps. The few people she passed along the way were asleep. Outside, the cold winter air helped wake her as she stumbled across the campus, back to her dorm. She fished through her pocket and found her card key, flashed it at the door, and entered the building. She climbed a staircase and turned right, passed seven doors, and found her own.

She closed the door behind her and finally felt safe. Still, it took a few minutes before she realized that the loud wheezing sound she heard wasn’t a neighbor’s alarm clock; it was coming from her.

Slumping to the floor, Melissa leaned against the wall and brought her knees to her chest. She tried to count the blocks in the wall, but they were shaking. She tried to count the beats of her heart, but they were too fast. She counted the passing seconds, as they tumbled into minutes and hours. And then a calm came, as the distant hum of a furnace filled her ears like the gentle crash of ocean waves, washing away her thoughts. It could have
been a minute or an hour, but she held to it with all her might, even as she felt it slipping away. And when it was gone, the storm returned.

Suddenly, her clothes were disgusting—they had to be removed, maybe destroyed. She jumped to her feet and tore off her shirt, shed her skirt, and ripped away her bra. When she kicked her shoes into the closet, she caught a glance in the mirror. Her underwear—her nice, new pair—was ruined. Stained by her blood. She tore them off and flung them into the garbage. Something was inside her. Reaching between her legs, she removed a blood-soaked piece of paper. She unfolded it and tried to make out the letters.

THIS IS MY FOURTH CRIME.
MY NEXT WILL BE BIGGER.

Her thumb stuck to something on the other side of the card. It was a chewed piece of gum. She tossed the card into the trash, dropped to the floor, and sobbed.

February 26—Alexandria, Virginia

In Washington, DC, homes, restaurants, and schools are expensive, but you can sail on the cheap. The Sailing Club of Washington operates out of the Washington Sailing Marina on Daingerfield Island, next to Reagan National Airport, in Alexandria, Virginia. For seventy-five dollars, you can take a SCOW course. If you pass a test, you become a skipper. For an additional hundred dollars a year, a skipper can use any of SCOW’s four nineteen-foot Flying Scots.