The ten-year-old was standing only inches from Picasso’s Harlequin at Rest, the painting Peter had chosen for the cover of his catalog. Hands in pockets, the boy rocked on his heels, exposing a strip of pink-buttoned belly flesh. Hardly black-tie appropriate.
Peter watched him rocking back and forth on his heels. Suddenly a giant pink bubble formed and grew on the boy’s face.
Bubble gum!
Peter’s rage exploded before the bubble did. He grabbed the kid’s shoulder and pulled him back, away from the painting.
The bubble burst.
“What are you doing?” the kid asked, speaking through the thin rubbery film, which now covered his face from nose to chin.
“What are you doing?” Peter demanded in turn.
Mrs. Vanderwaal hurried over. “Is something the matter, dear?” she asked.
“This child was chewing gum.” Peter could barely contain his rage.
Mrs. Vanderwaal said, “I know, dear, it’s not good for the teeth.”
The child’s mother approached. She took her son by the shoulders and asked, “Are you all right?”
The child began peeling the burst bubble from his face. The boy’s mother helped him peel off the last of it. She rolled the pink film between her thumb and forefinger. Peter watched, torn between fascination and disgust.
In that uncomfortable interval, Mrs. Vanderwaal turned to the mother and said, “My son was just so surprised to see a child chewing bubble gum. He had just mentioned to me that he thought that chewing gum among minors had become illegal—like smoking. He said he can’t remember seeing a chewing gum commercial on television for years.”
The mother said, “Your son obviously doesn’t watch television at the right times.”
Peter started to say something, but his mother interrupted.” Obviously,” she said.
The boy’s mother turned to Peter and said, “Nowhere is it posted that people are not to chew gum in here.”
She took her son by the shoulders and led him across the gallery. As soon as they were out of earshot, Peter said, “Nowhere is it posted that you are not to chew gum in here, and nowhere is it posted that you are not to spit either. Whatever happened to the unposted laws of civilized behavior?”
Mrs. Vanderwaal placed her arm on Peter’s elbow and guided him away from the Picasso. “Peter, dear,” she said, “I think you overreacted.”
Peter took a deep breath. “Really, Mother! Anyone who blows pink bubbles in front of a Picasso Blue painting should be arrested.”
Peter would later say that he invited his mother, Amedeo, and Jake up to his apartment because any party as molto, molto as his deserved a second life. In other words, Peter needed more talk. They were no sooner inside the door than Peter loosened his cummerbund, removed his jacket and tie, and was again ready to take center stage.
Did they like the string quartet? YES.
And did you notice that the champagne was brut? YES.
And was served in real glasses. The stems always come off those plastic ones.
YES, the champagne was wonderful, and YES the champagne glasses were elegant.
Yes, yes, and yes.
Mrs. Vanderwaal said, “You are to be congratulated, dear. The evening was a resounding success.”
“I know it was, Mother, and do you know how I know?”
“I wouldn’t presume to know, dear.”
“Well, the average time spent in front of a single work of Modern art is less than forty-five seconds. Doesn’t that shock you?”
“Just a little.”
“Of course, those are average times for average viewers, and that crowd this evening was hardly average. Do you know how much time some of those people spent in front of a single work this evening?”
“I wouldn’t presume to know, dear.”
“One couple spent so much time in front of the large Braque, I thought they might have taken root. They were mesmerized.”
“I’m very proud of you, dear. Opening night was a resounding success.”
Jake said, “A molto, molto magnifico success.”
But they had to agree several more times. Too much praise was almost enough.
About midnight, Mrs. Vanderwaal excused herself and left the room. Everyone assumed that she was going to bed, and Jake took it as a cue to start gathering their things to prepare to leave for their hotel.
But Mrs. Vanderwaal returned to the living room, carrying a big gray metal box in one hand and two small framed photos in the other. She laid the box on the floor at Peter’s feet. If she had planted a bomb, Peter could not have been more surprised.
“What is this, Mother?” he asked.
Mrs. Vanderwaal carefully placed the two small frames on top of the box. She aligned the larger of the two with the sides of the box. “They’ll fit,” she said, almost to herself.
“Well, dear,” she began, “this is the box I gave you when you were in Epiphany for your father’s funeral.”
“I know what it is, Mother. I still have traces of black-and-blue from the crushing it gave my thighs as I ran to the plane.”
“Have you looked in it?”
“A little. I found the tablet, Mother, but, honestly, I haven’t had the time to look beyond that. I’ll take care of it now.”
“I was hoping you would take the time before the show, but you didn’t.”
“So am I being criticized for something else I didn’t do—like not posting a No Bubble Gum Allowed sign?”
“Don’t be so sensitive, dear. I simply didn’t want you to worry when you notice that the box is gone.”
“Where is the box going?”
“I’m taking it with me.”
“Taking it with you? Where?”
“Well, dear, you know it was a dream of your father’s and mine to travel the country in a Winnebago, but after he came down with his kidney problems and needed the dialysis three times a week, we couldn’t do it. So before he took to the hospital that last time, he made me promise to buy a Winnebago.”
“All right, Mother. When do you plan on doing this?”
“I already have, dear.”
“What about the house?”
“I’ve sold the house, dear.”
“You’re leaving Epiphany?”
“Yes, dear, I am.”
“You’re going to travel by yourself.”
“Yes, dear, I am.”
“You surprise me.”
“Well, you know what they say, dear. ‘It’s a wise child that knows his own mother.’”
“Mother! That’s not it at all It’s not what they say. It’s Shakespeare. And Shakespeare says, ‘It is a wise father that knows his own child.’”
“Is that it, dear? He should have said it the other way around. ‘It’s a wise child that knows his own father.’”
Peter leaned over and tapped the metal box. “When you gave this to me, the word Winnebago did not even cross your lips.”
“You had a lot on your mind, dear. Getting ready for this show.”
“Exactly, Mother. And that is the very reason I did not have an opportunity to open that box again.”
“And the show was the very reason I gave you the box.”
“This show, Mother? My Once Forbidden show?”
“Yes, dear. This show.”
“But what I saw was only part of a story Dad wrote.”
“Yes, dear, but there’s more. I had hoped that you’d look at all these papers before your show. I thought they might be useful to you.”
“Mother, if you are trying to make me feel guilty, it’s working.”
“I know, dear.”
Mrs. Vanderwaal picked up the two old black-and-white photos. “I’m taking these with me, too. They weren’t in the box. I brought them with me. I don’t think they’ll be damaged by the trip. I do intend to drive with the windows open.” Mrs. Vanderwaal handed Jake the first picture. “This is the one I kept on my desk when I worked for the city of Epiphany.” Jake moved over on the
sofa to make room for Mrs. Vanderwaal to sit between them. Peter sat on the arm. The photo showed three young people sitting on a tower. Amedeo recognized the tower as one of the three that stood high on a hill in Epiphany and that Jake took care of. In the picture the tower was still unfinished, not much taller than either of the girls. Peter was sitting on top of the tower, one of his hands on the head of each of the girls. All three were mugging for the camera.
Mrs. Vanderwaal pointed to one of the girls and said to Amedeo, “That’s your mother.”
“My mother?”
Peter said, “Your mother and I grew up in the same neighborhood in Epiphany.”
Jake laughed. “What was it Mrs. Vanderwaal just said? ‘It’s a wise child that knows his own mother.’”
Amedeo said defensively, “I knew that. I definitely knew that Peter knew Mother before you did.”
He returned the framed photo to Mrs. Vanderwaal, and she offered the other picture to them. “This is the other one I’m taking with me.” The photo was so old that the whites were yellow and the blacks were umber. There were two young men standing on either side of a table. The men looked enough alike to be twins of different ages; they were holding up champagne glasses, as if to toast each other. There were candles on the table and a picture calendar on the wall above the table. Amedeo had seen the photo before. It used to sit on the mantel in the living room of Mrs. Vanderwaal’s house in Epiphany.
Mrs. Vanderwaal pointed to the younger man on the right of the picture. “That is Peter’s father,” she said, “and the other young man is—was—his father’s brother, Pieter. Peter is named for him. This was long ago. In Amsterdam.” Mrs. Vanderwaal held the picture to her heart. “It will keep me company while I’m on my trip.”
“Mother,” Peter said, “I think you’re being very theatrical.”
“Am I, dear?”
“Yes, you are,” Peter answered. “You know that being theatrical is my job.”
“Well, dear, I’m sorry if I intruded.”
Peter got up from his chair and threw his arms out. “Come here,” he said. “Peter needs a hug.” When Mrs. Vanderwaal loosened herself from Peter’s hug, he held her at arm’s length and said, “You know, Mother, I do worry about you. I worry if you’ll be safe, driving yourself all around the country in a Winnebago.”
“Oh, Peter, dear. How nice of you to worry, but I have insurance—”
“That’s good.”
“—and I got one of those car phones. I’ll give you the number. But we must keep all our calls brief. It’s very expensive.”
“Good.”
“And I have a can of Mace.”
“Mother! Mother, what good will that do you? Are you planning on baking cookies?”
“Mace, dear, is not always a spice. It’s also pepper spray. For protection. I wouldn’t leave home without it.” Mrs. Vanderwaal smiled. “Have I upstaged you again, dear?” she asked.
“Like nobody ever has before,” he said. “Any more surprises, Mother? When are you leaving?”
“Tonight.”
“And that isn’t a surprise?”
“I suppose it is, dear.”
“Where is your car?”
“My Winnebago is parked down the street. I didn’t think the people in this apartment house would enjoy having an RV in their parking lot.”
“The Winnebago is here? In Sheboygan?”
“Yes, dear. I drove it from Epiphany.”
“Mother,” he said, “do you know what Buckminster Fuller said about the caterpillar?”
“Is he another Shakespeare, dear?”
“There is only one Shakespeare, Mother.”
“So will you tell me what Mr. Fuller said?”
“Buckminster Fuller said, ‘There is nothing in a caterpillar that tells you it’s going to be a butterfly.’”
“That’s lovely, dear, but I’ve always known I had wings. Isn’t there a stage between caterpillar and butterfly?”
Peter hugged her again. “Yes, Mother. It’s called a chrysalis. The wings are there, invisible and under a hard protective cover.”
Mrs. Vanderwaal leaned into her son’s embrace before breaking away. She thumped the top of the metal box. “A hard protective cover. Yes, dear.”
“Is there a butterfly in there?”
“A hero.”
“With wings?”
“A hero, dear. Not an angel. You’ll see.”
THE LIBRARY IN MRS. ZENDER’S house was an enormous room with what appeared to be a walk-in fireplace. Two walls had shelves from floor to ceiling. Every shelf was stacked with books and pictures in silver frames, small bronze figures, and glass objects (all of which needed cleaning). Mrs. Zender sat at the library table and pored over small items; Mrs. Wilcox had asked her to sort those she wanted to keep from those she wanted to sell.
Since William had given Amedeo his own china marking pencil, they shared chores, and when the day was over, they could not reliably tell who had done what.
They were polishing one of the several pairs of andirons that Mrs. Zender would not be taking with her—there would be no fireplaces in the Waldorf—when Mrs. Zender said, “Mr. Zender loved having a fire in the fireplace. When Daddy built this house, the only fireplace was in the living room. When Mr. Zender added the library and the master bedroom wing, he included a fireplace in each room and enlarged the dining room so that he could add a fireplace there as well. Mr. Zender had the architect draw up plans for a fireplace in the master bath, but for some engineering or scientific reason, it couldn’t be done. Something to do with chimneys and exhaust fans. Who knows?
“We certainly had a plentiful supply of kindling and fire logs from Daddy’s mill, but I can tell you Mr. Zender never could start a fire.” She looked mischievously at Mrs. Wilcox, who blushed. “But he was no Boy Scout, either.”Mrs. Wilcox blushed again.
“Oh, well,” Mrs. Zender continued, “Mother always said that Mr. Zender had other talents. He was good-looking, and I think Mother put looking good right up there with the harpsichord, an instrument that has limited performance time and requires a great deal of maintenance.” Then before putting her eyeglasses back on, Mrs. Zender stole a glance at Amedeo and William to make sure they were in on her joke. “Of course, Mr. Zender couldn’t play the harpsichord, either.”
There was so much stuff in the room that some things were on the steps of the ladder that rolled along the top of the shelves. Those had to be removed before Amedeo and William could begin to empty the shelves. Mrs. Wilcox stood by, holding a yellow lined tablet and a pen, listing each item as it was taken down. From one of the ladder’s steps, William took a framed menu from a French restaurant that had a squiggle of a drawing and a signature.
When he handed it to her, Mrs. Zender said, “Sandy Calder. That is, Alexander Calder, the artist who does those mobile things. He had dinner with Mr. Zender and me in Paris. He was a jolly man. He signed this menu instead of the check. I didn’t mind, but Mr. Zender did.” She laid the menu on the desk. “Don’t bother to list this, Mrs. Wilcox. I’ll take it with me.”
On the highest shelf to the left of the giant fireplace was a row of books with foreign titles. William blew the dust off their tops and sent up a cloud that made him sneeze. Amedeo stood at the bottom of the ladder to take the books from him. “Don’t drop those,” Mrs. Zender said. “They are signed first editions.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Wilcox said. “Used books are a specialty, Mrs. Zender.”
“These books are not used, Mrs. Wilcox. I’ve never read them.”
Amedeo read off the titles. “L’Étranger, L’Être et Le Néant, Le Deuxième Sexe . . .”
Mrs. Zender smiled. “Yes,” she said. “Gifts from fans. All of them. They all wanted to sleep with me.” Her smile broadened as she watched Mrs. Wilcox turn a shade of merlot, then she complimented Amedeo on his French. “Your accent is quite good. Where did you study?”
“New York,” he answered. “I know that’s not an excuse.”
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Mrs. Zender paused a minute before her laugh rumbled up. “Touché!” she said.
Mrs. Wilcox was returning to her natural color when Amedeo said, “Le Deuxième sexe, The Second Sex,was written by a woman. Simone de Beauvoir.”
Mrs. Zender smiled. “Yes,” she said. “Simone.”
“And?”
“And read the inscription.”
He opened the book to the title page and translated as he read, “‘Dearest Aida, your Cherubino was superb! Simone.’”
“You see, bitch or boy, I was superb.”
Amedeo examined the spine of the next book that William handed him. “From Here to Eternity by James Jones,” he read. “This one is by an American.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Zender said. “James Jones. Mon cher Jimmy. He was living in a beautiful maison on the Ile St. Louis, in the heart of Paris, when he gave that to me. Jimmy’s place was party central. He was the most generous man I’ve ever met. Of course, Hemingway hated him.”
Amedeo asked, “Why did Hemingway hate him?”
“For the same reason Mailer did. They hated his success. He was not literary enough for them. I say, they shouldn’t have come to his parties.”
Mrs. Zender put on her thick black-rimmed glasses and started leafing through the book. “Of course, I’ve never read it, but I did see the movie. There was scene on the beach that caused quite a scandal at the time. I enjoyed that very much.”
Mrs. Wilcox suggested, “These here books ought to be looked at by a proper expert, Mrs. Zender. I can call in a dealer I know.”
Mrs. Zender looked up at Mrs. Wilcox, removed her glasses, and rested her elbow on the library table. She twisted her eyeglasses in slow circles with only the smallest movement of her wrist. Then, almost dreamily, she said, “I’ll take these autographed first editions with me.” She shook her head as if to bring herself back into focus, put her glasses back on, and sighed dramatically. “Putting my past on a shelf.”