I guess Mom is sleeping in. When she was a social worker, she was always up at five thirty. She said that one of the great things about starting her own business is that she can make her own hours. She gets more sleep these days, but she still seems tired.
I kiss Dad on top of his head, and he looks a little surprised, but he smiles at me.
I shake cereal into my bowl, and the three of us sit there in silence. Then I kiss Desmond and head out the door.
Down on the street, the water is coming at me sideways. The city is a dismal place in the rain. Water fills up the potholes and pools in strange ways at the curb so that you are constantly trying to leap over huge puddles while dodging traffic. The taxi drivers actually seem to make a game of trying to splash people—they zoom right up to the edge of the road. Once, I saw this lady get nailed by an absolute tsunami of brown pothole water. And the other thing that happens is that rain always seems to bounce up off the pavement so that your legs are wet by the time you get to where you are going.
To put it philosophically: bad weather is okay, as long as you don’t have to go out in it. Because otherwise it’s a mess to deal with.
So I am very relieved to get to my grandmother’s apartment lobby. Robert is wearing his full-length raincoat today, and a little shower-cap–style protector over his hat. He scowls at my feet as I track rain into the lobby.
“Hi, Robert.”
Robert cocks his head slightly, which I think is maybe a kind of a salute. Anyway, I take it as a compliment and head over to the elevator, and who should be stepping out of the mail room but Mr. Johnson!
“Callie!” he says warmly, as if he knows me really well. “Are you on your way up to your grandmother’s apartment?”
“Yes.” We both step into the elevator, and Mr. Johnson punches both 19 and 20, which I think is quite gentlemanly. “Did you go for a walk?” I ask. His hair is tousled and damp, and his jacket is speckled with rain.
“Sure did! Every morning, to grab my joe.” He holds up a blue paper coffee cup with a white Greek key pattern on it. “Forget all the French press drip pour-over espresso nonsense! For coffee, you can’t beat the Greek deli!”
“That’s exactly what my dad says, only he says it about bagel sandwiches.”
“Wise man.” The elevator bings and slows to a stop. There is a pause, almost like the machine is catching its breath, before the door opens and Mr. Johnson steps out into the hallway. “Would you mind taking something up to Hildy for me?”
“Oh, sure.” I step out into the hallway, and Mr. Johnson walks down the hallway to apartment 1986.
“I’ll just be a minute,” he says, ducking inside. “You can come in, if you like.”
I kind of half step into the entranceway, leaving the door open behind me. Mr. Johnson crouches down, flipping through the vinyl records on his bottom shelf until he finds the one he is looking for. I take the opportunity to look around the apartment. A framed black-and-white painting is on the wall. It looks like intestines, or squiggles, but when I look more closely, I see that there are human figures mixed in. Some seem to be trapped, others are stacked, some are held by giant hands.
“Keith Haring started as a subway artist,” Mr. Johnson says when he sees me looking.
“I think I’ve seen his stuff.”
“A lot of it is iconic. This is for Hildy.” He holds an album with five people floating on a red field. They’re photographed at odd angles. Blue Angel is written across the cover.
I look more closely at the figure on the left. “Is that Cyndi Lauper?”
“This was her first band—Blue Angel.”
“I love her.”
“Your uncle did, too, according to your grandmother. This is for her. I don’t think she realizes that I meant for her to keep it.”
I look up at Mr. Johnson. He has a wide, even smile, and I think he is pretty good-looking, even though he is mostly bald, with only short white hair on the sides of his head. His cheeks are pink, probably from being out in the cold rain, and he looks almost like an illustration from a children’s book, the kind where the characters have eyes that twinkle. He seems like the kind of person you can really talk to, so I decide to just go for it. “Why is this place so eighties?” I ask him.
He lets out a long, loud laugh. “What’s wrong with the eighties?”
“What’s wrong with now?” I shoot back.
He laughs again. “Lots!”
“Well—lots was wrong with the eighties, too.” I don’t actually know if this is true, but I’m a little defensive about the present, for some reason. I guess because it’s my home, and all.
But Mr. Johnson doesn’t get mad. He just says, “That is the truth!” and laughs again. “Well, Callie, I never really meant to have such an extensive collection of memorabilia, to tell you the truth. But I sold my first company in 1983, and I started collecting things. I started with Star Wars figures. Once you start collecting, well—sometimes the collection just takes over. Now I deal in 1980s art and collectibles; I’ve still got a shop downtown. But I like living with all these relics. The phones are easier to use. And I love the music. The new stuff, well—it makes me feel old. Here in my little apartment, I have more energy. It’s like I’m the same young man I used to be.”
I look around the apartment. There’s a phone on the wall, the kind with a curly cord. And a huge box with a tiny screen—I think that’s the computer. It’s strange, but I can kind of see how this place is like a time machine. Like the Temple of Dendur. When you’re there, it’s easy to imagine the desert and the Egyptians all around you. Time is such a strange thing. It’s so weird to think that maybe this age—the one I am right now—will be something I miss when I’m older. I guess I can’t imagine being that different from how I am now—won’t most of my thoughts be the same? Won’t I still be me?
I hug the album to my chest and say, “I’ll get this to her. But I don’t think she has a record player.”
“She does,” Mr. Johnson says. “Or she will—tomorrow. It’s being delivered.” He gives me a wink and a mustache-y smile that makes me giggle.
Mr. Johnson waits by the door and I call out, “Bye!” just as the elevator door chunks closed again. He’s a little weird, but at least I know that he’s nice and has good taste in grandmothers.
I swing open my grandmother’s front door, and Biddy greets me, winding around my legs (which is ew because they are kind of wet and now have cat hair on them) and sputter-meowing.
“Gran?” I call.
“Callie?” she calls from the kitchen, and a moment later she appears, wiping her hands on a decorative dish towel.
I hold up the album and say, “This is from Mr. Johnson.”
“Oh.” My grandmother takes the album and looks down at it. “That was nice of him.” Her voice is faint, though. Like a shadow of a voice.
“You don’t want it?”
Her brown eyes snap onto mine. “Larry used to play this all the time when he was in high school.” She sighs and looks at me. “We would dance around the apartment.”
“Oh.”
She looks at the album for a long time then. “I remember when Larry bought this. He used to spend all of his allowance downtown, at the music stores.” With a sigh, she places the record on the coffee table, in the exact place where the Time magazines were a few days before. Then she walks over to the plaid wing chair beside the couch and sort of sinks onto the cushion. She looks up at the painting of Larry, and my heart starts to pound. It’s so uncomfortable to see adults feeling sad. I kind of wish I could change the subject, but I know that won’t help. “Do you still miss Uncle Larry?”
“Very much. They say that time heals all wounds, but . . .” Her voice trails off. I try to imagine what it would be like for my parents if I died, or if Desmond did, and then I regret thinking that thought, because if anything happened to Desmond I would never get over it. Never.
“It has been interesting, spending time with Earl. His apartment brings u
p so many memories for me . . .” For a moment, everything is so silent that I hear the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen. Biddy has perched herself in a windowsill, and is looking down at the wet weather with cat disapproval. Only one floor lamp is lit, and it’s dim and dreamlike in the living room.
“Sometimes, I wish I could go back in time. I wish things could be the way they were,” my grandmother says at last.
“Back when you and Larry would dance around the house?”
“Back before things got . . . complicated.” She casts her eyes up to the painting. “That’s how I like to remember him—the way he was in that self-portrait.”
I stare at it for a moment. I’ve never really looked at that painting closely before. It was just always there. “Who’s the other guy?” I ask.
Grandma Hildy looks confused. “What other guy?”
“The other guy in the painting.”
“It’s a self-portrait. Larry is looking in a mirror.”
I cock my head, but I’m pretty sure I’m right. “It’s not a mirror.”
Grandma Hildy insists, though. “You see the way his hand is pressed up against the fingertips in his reflection?”
“It’s a window.” I walk over to the painting and squint at it, but I’m sure. The vantage point is over a man’s shoulder. He is wearing a navy blue jacket. Through the window and viewed from the front, Larry is also wearing a navy blue jacket. But Larry’s shirt is white, and the strip of collar visible above the other man’s jacket is pale blue. And there’s more. “Their hair isn’t the same.” I point out the slightly different shades of brown. “And there’s this little bit of cuff on the sleeve; see how it’s different from Larry’s? It’s meant to look like a self-portrait, but he’s really looking at someone else. Their fingers are almost touching, just separated by the glass.”
My grandmother is staring, and I’m feeling pretty proud of myself, and like my week at the museums has really paid off. Slowly, slowly, she gets to her feet and walks over to the buffet. She picks up the photo I found in my bag—the one of Larry and my dad and their friend. “It’s Stephen,” Grandma Hildy whispers. And then she stares up at the painting some more. “He’s looking at Stephen.”
I walk over and stand by her elbow. I can see that she’s probably right. Stephen is wearing a navy blazer in the picture—and a blue shirt. “Hey, that’s cool!” I say, but my grandmother does not look like it’s cool. She’s gone pale. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she whispers.
“Are you—are you sure?”
In the kitchen, the phone begins to ring. “I should get that,” Grandma Hildy says. “I’m fine, Callie. I’m—thank you.” She gives me a quick hug.
“Oh, you’re welcome.”
She smiles at me, and even though her eyes are sad, it doesn’t seem like a fake smile. It seems real.
“Bye,” I call as she hurries off to the answer the phone.
I take one last look at my uncle’s painting, at his expression, which is happy and hopeful and dreamy. He looks a little like Grandma Hildy did the other day, when she was thinking about Mr. Johnson.
I wonder what it means.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Frick
CASSIUS IS WAITING FOR me on Seventieth Street in front of the Frick Collection. He is wearing this crazy rain poncho that is kind of pulled tight around his head, so that only his face is sticking out beneath a small brim. He looks like he is ready to go camping in the woods as the rain streams down the silver plastic. He is also wearing sunglasses.
“You look like one of those silver balloons they have in balloon bouquets,” I tell him. “You should see yourself.”
“I guess I’m lucky that I can’t.” He smiles, and I feel the tight ball of yarn that has been wound up inside my chest all morning start to unravel. A droplet of water is dripping from the tip of Cassius’s nose, just hanging out there, and I don’t even say anything. I don’t care about it. I’m just so glad he’s here. Cassius is wet and poorly dressed, but I sort of like that about him. He doesn’t care about impressing me, and I know I’m not impressing him, because I’m not even trying.
Yes, I am skipping school again. I have realized that it will actually just be easier to skip the rest of the week. Then I can maybe just tell Zelda that I’m too sick to go to the concert and I’ll find a way to get her the money later. The only problem is that homework is piling up. But then, I guess no plan is perfect.
We walk inside together and stand for a moment, dripping onto the marble.
There’s just something about the Frick.
I mean, it used to be someone’s house! People used to live here! That seems both amazing and totally messed up to me. Kind of like the royal family in England, or the Kardashians—like, it’s really cool that those guys get to wear jewels and crazy fashions and travel all over the world and stuff. Cool for them. But why are they so special? Like, what have any of them ever done except be born to the right people? Is it fair that the Kardashians exist while Anna has to shop at Discount Blowout?
These are the kinds of deep thoughts that one can have at the Frick, which is easily one of the most beautiful museums in the world. I think it’s nice that the family gave it away along with the art in it so that normal people such as myself can come in and take a look around without having to get a job as a scullery maid.
The entrance hall is this gorgeous room with all of these curlicue marble things at the top of the walls, near the ceiling. It leads straight down to the garden court, which is an open area with a marble fountain and a massive curved skylight. I love that court—it would be the perfect place to have a swanky party or commit a murder or something. Even though the day is gray, dim light gleams at the end of the hall, and I can see the edge of some giant palm frond. We stop at the smooth brown desk on the right and show our passes to the man with the comb-over behind the counter. He has a bit of a cold and snuffles into a handkerchief as he gives us the entry stickers. Then we drop off our wet stuff at the cloak room, and my umbrella goes into a plastic bag, where it will be safe.
I ask if we can just head to the courtyard for a minute, and Cassius says sure. Neither of us is here to see anything in particular, so we’re not really in a hurry. When we get there, I stand by the fountain and look at the neatly manicured plants all around me. Then I take a deep breath. The air is sweet, but not like Bath and Body Works perfume-sweet. This is probably some of the best air in Manhattan. They should bottle it and sell it in the gift shop, so that people could inhale it when they’re having a stressful day or if they get a lungful of exhaust fumes or a noseful of body odor on the bus.
“What are you doing?” Cassius asks.
“Just breathing.” I take another deep inhale. Then I let it out.
Cassius takes a deep breath, too. “Are we meditating?”
“Can’t a girl just breathe without it being a thing?”
“Okay.” Cassius and I breathe some more, and he doesn’t say anything else, which is totally the nicest thing he could do. So we just stand there breathing like a couple of breathing lunatics, and the yarn ball in my stomach unspools and unspools until it is just thread. This is even better than being on the roof of my school because I do not have to worry that I will be late for class or that a meteor will drop on me from outer space while my eyes are closed, and also because Cassius is with me.
I think maybe I should write to Althea about this.
When we are done breathing, we head to the Oval Room, which is in the shape of an oval, so that is quite a coincidence. The paintings are all these tall portraits by this Whistler guy, and they are lovely. These are not the kinds of paintings that are my favorite to look at, but if I could paint, I would want to paint like that, because if I could paint like that I would know that I was a good painter.
Cassius does his usual weird staring thing, where he tilts his head way back and leans in way forward to inspect some detail in the background of the painting—maybe the wallpap
er or the hem of the woman’s dress. I notice a security guard looking at him strangely, which I must say does not surprise me anymore.
We make our way through the rooms. I think my favorite is the Fragonard room because the art is huge and it is all of these fancy ladies frolicking around in meadows, and it is the easiest room to imagine as my own, because it has this amazingly huge mirror with a gold frame that I could totally see in my room.
“Fragonard,” I say out loud. It is very fun to say Fragonard, so I say it again. “Frag . . . o . . . nard.”
Cassius laughs. “It’s French.”
“Oh. Frag-uh-narrrrrrrrrrrrrcchhh?” I ask with a kind of a choking gurgling sound. I don’t speak French, but that is how French sounds to me, and I must be somewhat right because Cassius says, “Yes, exactly,” but he is laughing, so it is a bit hard to tell if my pronunciation was really perfect.
We make our way into this vestibule, and I start to head toward the staircase, but while I take the first step, Cassius trips and sprawls flat on his face. His fall echoes crazily, bouncing off the marble floor, walls, stairs.
“Are you okay?” I ask as Cassius lets out a string of curses. He rolls over and sits up, holding his hands over his nose. When he takes them away, a small trickle of blood is coming out of his right nostril.
“I’m fine,” he says.
“You’re bleeding!” I reach for his elbow to try to help him up, but he jerks it away.
“I’m fine.” Cassius stumbles to his feet unsteadily and knocks over a freestanding plaque with information about an ancient bowl. The plaque clatters, and I swear that it is so loud that it sounds like someone just shot a wooden ship out of a cannon on top of a volcano. A security guard comes running over.
“We’re fine! It’s fine!” I pick up the plaque.