Carroll Jonathan. The Marriage of Sticks

 
   CLAYTON GAVE ME many wonderful things over the years, but the introduction to Frances Hatch was the most important. I will remember that first morning with her as long as I live. Afterwards we met frequently, both to settle the business of her collection and because I loved being in that room with her and her crowded memories. In college I’d read a poem by Whitman about an old man in a boat, fishing. He has lived a full life, but is tired now and waiting peacefully to die. Until then, he’s content to sit and fish and remember.
   Even as a kid, full of pepper and brass, I was enchanted with the idea of living so fully that at the end you had nothing left you wanted to do and were willing to die.
   When we left her apartment that day, I felt like I had been in a room with pure clarity and understanding, if such things are possible. As if they were concrete substances I’d been allowed to hold in my hand awhile and I’d gotten their weight and feel. It proved such things were feasible and it lifted me.
   I went back to my store feeling supercharged. I buzzed through the rest of the day wishing only that I had someone important with whom to share the experience. I was glad for the party that night, glad I could mingle and talk and hope for some of the common magic Frances had found all of her life.
   I’d been to Dagmar Breece’s home for several dinner parties. Frequently they were loaded with both interesting people and strange people. In contrast to Jaco, who didn’t like anyone stealing his thunder, Dagmar and her boyfriend Stanley had the modesty and good sense to invite an intriguing crowd and let them steer the evening. What was also nice was that you weren’t expected either to dress up or to perform. Showoffs were discouraged, and only if they were engaging were egos permitted to flourish.
   I went home at five and changed. The phone rang while I was dressing. It was Zoe, calling to chat. We spoke too long and I barely had time to finish up. Luckily Dagmar and Stan’s building was only a few blocks from mine—although in a decidedly nicer neighborhood.
   One of the reasons why I liked living in Manhattan was that the city would share your mood the moment you walked out the door. If you were in a hurry, everything else was too, even the pigeons. You shared the same speed and sense of urgency to get wherever you were going.
   When you had time to kill, it was happy to give you things to look at and do that easily took up whole days. I didn’t agree with people who said Manhattan was a cold, indifferent town. Sure it was gruff, but it was also playful and sometimes very funny.
   All the way to Dagmar’s the traffic lights were green for me. When I got to her block, I said a little thank-you. Seconds later, a madman pushing a baby carriage heaped with junk wobbled by. Without saying a word, the man smiled and tipped an imaginary hat at me, as if he were the city’s spokesman acknowledging my thanks.
   On the back wall of the elevator was a large mirror. Riding up, I had a look. My hair was shorter than a month before. Why do women cut their hair shorter the older they get? Because they don’t want to be bothered? Because few faces can bear to be framed so luxuriously after a certain age? Looking more closely, I saw a lot more gray in my hair than I had been expecting by age thirty-three. The lines around my mouth were okay, but the beauty creams I used were getting more expensive because they were supposed to work that much harder. I held up both hands and turned them back and forth to see how theywere doing. The elevator stopped. Dropping my hands, I turned around quickly.
   The doors opened and I stepped out into the corridor. To my surprise, Dagmar was standing outside their apartment with a champagne glass in each hand.
   “Miranda! There you are.”
   “What are you doing out here?”
   “Hiding from the men. They’re in there talking about boxing.”
   “Aren’t there any women?”
   “Not yet. Men always come early to parties when they know there are going to be gorgeous women.”
   “You didinvite other women, I hope.”
   “Of course. And couples too. I wouldn’t throw you completely to the lions.”
   “Now I’m nervous.”
   “Don’t be. Just take off your clothes and walk right in. Come on.” She handed me a glass and we went in.
   Unlike the Hatch apartment, Dagmar and Stan’s was very sparsely furnished. Jaco had been there once and spitefully said you could clean the whole place with a fire hose and three Brillo pads. That wasn’t true, but it was not cozy and I never understood how two such warm people could be comfortable living in a hi-tech igloo. Walking down the hall to the living room, I heard a bunch of men burst into laughter.
   The living room was full of people, but the balance was about half-and-half. Doing a quick scan, I recognized a bunch of them and waved to a few. The unfamiliar men I saw on first glance looked good but not interesting. To a one, they had hair that was either slicked back with gel, gangster style, or falling over their shoulders in the chic of the moment. I knew it was an unfair assessment, but that’s how I went about things: Guilty until proven interesting.
   Dagmar squeezed my shoulder and went off to talk to the caterer. A man I’d met there some months before came right up and introduced himself. He was a broker who specialized in railroad stocks. For the next few minutes, we chatted about train rides we had known and loved. That was fine because he did most of the talking, which allowed me to continue looking.
   A waiter came around with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Their nice smell reminded me that the only thing I had eaten that day was a Ding Dong and a cup of coffee in the taxi with Clayton. Railroad Man and I took what looked like caviar-and-egg biscuits and popped them into our mouths.
   The hors d’oeuvre was so lethally hot and spicy that it exploded on contact. I barely had enough presence of mind to slap a hand across my mouth before squealing like a stabbed rabbit. He did almost exactly the same thing. We stared at each other. It was so unexpected and shocking. Thank God he fumbled in his pocket, brought out a package of tissues, and handed me one. Without a second thought, we spat the bombs into the tissues and wiped our mouths. I think we might have gotten away with it, but some people had seen us and were watching. He looked at me and made the sound of a train whistle: “Woo-OO-Woo!”
   I laughed and gave him a push. My eyes were tearing, my mouth was on fire, and I was embarrassed as hell but couldn’t stop laughing. “Everyone’s staring!”
   “So what? My life just passed before my eyes.”
   Everyone wasstaring, but that made us laugh harder. Stan came over and asked what was wrong. We explained and, sweet man that he is, he ran to stop the waiter from offering the hors d’oeuvres to other people.
   Who would have guessed that moment on fire would change everything?
   Half an hour later dinner was announced. As we moved into the dining room, a man I didn’t know came up and asked if I was all right. In his forties, he had a big thatch of unruly brown hair a la John Kennedy, and the kind of warm broad smile that made you like him right away, whoever he was.
   “I’m fine. I just ate an hors d’oeuvre from hell and it paralyzed me.”
   “You looked like you’d seen a goat.”
   I stopped. “You mean a ghost?”
   There was the smile. “No, like you’d just seen a goat walk into the room! Like this.” In an instant, he wore an imbecilic expression that made me giggle.
   “ Thatbad?”
   “No, impressive! I’m Hugh Oakley.”
   “Miranda Romanac.”
   “This is my wife, Charlotte.”
   A knockout, she had the kind of unique beauty that only deepened and became more interesting with age. Her eyes were Prussian blue, the hair as white-blond and swept as a meringue. My first impression was that everything about Charlotte Oakley seemed Nordic and… white. Until her mouth, which was thick and sexual. How many men had fantasized about that mouth?
   “Hello. We were worried about you.”
   “I thought I’d eaten a flare.”
   “Make sure to say a little prayer to Saint Bonaventure of Potenza before going to bed tonight,” Hugh Oakley said.
   “Excuse me?”
   “That’s the saint invoked against diseases of the bowels.”
   “Hugh!” Charlotte pulled his earlobe. But she was smiling, and oh, what a smile! If I’d been a king, I would have traded my kingdom for it. “One of my husband’s hobbies is studying the saints.”
   “My new favorites are Godeleva, who protects against sore throats. Or Homobonus, patron of tailors.”
   “Come on, Saint Hugh, let’s eat.”
   “Don’t forget—Saint Bonaventure of Potenza.”
   “I’m praying already.”
   He touched my sleeve and moved away with his wife. We continued to our places at the tables. By coincidence, Hugh and I were seated at the same one, although there were people between us.
   Unfortunately, my neighbor took a shine to me and all through the first two courses asked personal questions I didn’t want to answer. Sometimes I looked over and saw Hugh Oakley talking with a well-known SoHo gallery owner. They seemed to be having a great time. I wished I were in their conversation and not mine.
   Because I wasn’t paying attention to what the guy on my right was saying, it didn’t register when he began to touch me as he spoke. Nothing bad, just a hand on the arm, then a few sentences later fingers on my elbow to emphasize a point, but I didn’t want it. Once when his hand stayed too long on mine, I stared at the hands until he slowly pulled his away.
   “ Oops. Sorry ‘bout that.”
   “That’s okay. I’m hungry. Can we eat?”
   The silence that followed was welcome. The food was good and my hunger had returned. I dug into the chicken-whatever and was content to eat and let the talk flow in and out of my mind. If it hadn’t been for that, I wouldn’t have heard what Hugh said.
   “James Stillman would have been one of the best! It was a tragedy he died.”
   “Come on, Hugh, the guy was uncontrollable. Don’t forget the Adcock disaster.”
   Hugh’s voice was angry and loud. “That wasn’t his fault, Dennis. Adcock’s husband had us all fooled.”
   “Yeah, your friend Stillman most of all.”
   I leaned so far forward I felt my chest touching the table. “Did you know James Stillman?”
   They looked at me. Hugh nodded. The other man snorted dismissively. “Sure, who didn’t? Half New York knew him after the Adcock thing.”
   “What was that?”
   “Tell her, Hugh. You’re his big defender.”
   “Damned right I am!” He glared, but when he spoke to me his voice dropped back to normal range. “Do you know of the painter Lolly Adcock?”
   “Sure.”
   “Right. Well, a few years ago her husband said he had ten of her paintings no one had ever seen. He wanted to sell them and contacted Bartholomew’s—”
   “The auction house?”
   “Yes. Adcock wanted them to handle the auction. James worked for Bartholomew’s. They thought veryhighly of him, so they sent him to Kansas City to verify if the paintings were real.”
   The other man shook his head. “And in his great enthusiasm, Mr. Stillman cut a deal with the wily Mr. Adcock, only it turned out the paintings were fakes.”
   “It was an honest mistake!”
   “It was a stupid mistake and you know it, Hugh. You never would have done it that way. Stillman was famous for going off half-cocked. Half-cocked Ad-cocked. I never thought of that. Very fitting.”
   “Then explain how he found the Messerschmidt head that had been lost for a hundred years.”
   “Beginner’s luck. I need another drink.” The man signaled a waiter. While he was giving his order I grabbed my chance.
   “Did you know him well?”
   “James? Yes, very well.”
   “Can we—Um, excuse me, would you mind if we switched seats? I’d really like to ask Hugh some questions.”
   The gallery owner picked up his plate. As we were changing, he asked, “Were you also a Stillman fan?”
   “He was my boyfriend in high school.”
   “Really? I didn’t know he hada past.”
   I felt the hair on the back of my neck go up. “He was a good man.”
   “I wouldn’t know. I never cared to spend time with him.”
   When I sat down I was so angry I couldn’t speak. Hugh patted me on the knee. “Don’t mind Dennis. He needs Saint Ubald.”
   “Who’s that?”
   “Patron saint against rabies. Tell me about you and James.”
   We talked through the rest of dinner and dessert. I didn’t eat a thing.
   Hugh Oakley was an art expert. He traveled the world telling people what they owned, or should buy. Listening to him talk, I quickly understood why he looked so young. His enthusiasm for what he did was infectious. His stories about unearthing rare or marvelous things were the tales of a boy with a treasure map and a heart full of hope. He loved his work. I loved hearing him talk about it.
   Years before, he had given several lectures at the Tyler School of Art in Philadelphia, and that’s where he met James. Hugh described James as a young man who was lost but convinced there was something significant waiting for him. Something that would arrive one day out of the blue and lead him home.
   “After my last lecture he came up, looking so bewildered that I was concerned. I asked if he was all right. The only thing he could say was, ‘I want to know about this. I haveto know more about this.’ I’d felt that same excitement at Columbia when I heard Federico Zeri speak. Do you know his book Behind the Image? You must read it. Let me write the title down.” He slipped a hand into his pocket and brought out a Connolly leather notebook and a silver mechanical pencil. He wrote down the title and author’s name in distinctive block lettering. It was not till later that I learned it was the typeface known as Bremen. Another of Hugh Oakley’s many hobbies was meticulously copying in various faces poems and stories he liked and then, like a monk from the Middle Ages, illuminating them in paints he made from scratch.
   I was so absorbed in what he was saying that it took a while to realize I was hogging him from the rest of the party. I worried what his wife would think. Looking around, I was relieved to see her deep in conversation with Dagmar Breece.
   Somehow we’d gotten off the subject of James. I needed to know as much as Hugh was willing to tell.
   “What exactly didhappen to James?”
   “The idiot heart.”
   “What do you mean?”
   “ ‘Hope gleams in the idiot heart.’ It’s a line from a Mayakovski poem. His girlfriend had those words—the idiot heart—tattooed on the inside of her wrist like a bracelet. Can you imagine? But it’s the ageof tattoos, isn’t it?
   “Her name was Kiera Stewart. She was a graduate student at Temple. Beautiful Scottish girl from Aberdeen. James was nuts over her, but you only had to meet her once to see she was an ocean of bad news. Women like that give you wonderful for the first few months, but then start taking it back bit by bit as the relationship goes on. After a while you’re wondering if that great stuff ever really existed at all. But you’re so hooked on them by then and the tidbits of delicious they parse out, it’s like being addicted to drugs.
   “The tragedy was, James was just coming into his own around the time they met. He’d found what he wanted to do with his life. And he was so good at it that the right people were already watching to see what he’d do next.
   “The good is always the enemy of the great. From the beginning, he had the rare ability to discern between them. The trouble was, in our business insight often comes slowly and through meticulous detective work. James constantly wanted to achieve right now, this second.” Hugh shook his head. “He once said he had a lot to prove but didn’t know to whom.
   “So everything happened at once. Not many people can handle that. His star was rising, he’d met a wild woman who sent him spinning, and then his bosses sent him to look at the Adcock paintings. James thought he was invincible. For a while it looked like he was.
   “Then it all crashed. He made a big mistake. Adcock’s husband turned out to be a clever crook, but not clever enough. The deal blew up in James’s face. That was bad enough, but then Kiera got wind of what happened. Over the phone she told him their relationship was finished. Over the phone. Classy, huh? A platinum bitch. He got in his car in the middle of the night, drove down to Philadelphia to see her but never made it. That’s the story, Miranda. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more. He was a great favorite of mine.”
   “You haven’t touchedyour desserts!”
   Startled, I felt a firm hand on my shoulder and looked up to see Dagmar glaring at us.
   “I’m sorry. We were talking—”
   “No excuses! That is a yogurt trilogy, which I had to torture a man into making. So eat!”
   She stood there until we picked up our spoons and started shoveling it in. Tasted like yogurt to me. Everyone else was finished and leaving the table. Charlotte Oakley came by.
   “What are you two talking about? You look like you’re sharing atomic secrets.” She was smiling and her voice was only friendly. A beautiful nice woman. Anyway, why should she be worried? She won any contest in the room. Whenever I’d looked at her, I’d noticed at least two men staring at her each time. Who wouldn’t?
   “Charlotte, the most amazing thing! James Stillman was Miranda’s boyfriend when they were in high school.”
   “Really? I loved James. He reminded me of Hugh when he was young.”
    Thatwas it! I’d not been able to put a finger on why I liked Hugh Oakley so much. The instant she said it, I realized a great part of my attraction to her husband was that he seemed to have the same kind of roaring spirit and curiosity as James.
   “I hadn’t seen him since high school. Then I went to our class reunion and heard he was dead.”
   She frowned. “A bad place to hear something like that. James was the Prodigal Son always sneaking back in through the dog door. The original Bad Boy, and always a pleasure! Any time we spent time together he absolutely melted my underwear. I would have eloped with him any time. But that girlfriend, Kiera! She went from zero to bitch in two seconds.”
   “What happened to her?”
   “Wait a minute, I have a picture of them.”
   “You do?” Hugh sounded as surprised as I did.
   “Sure. The time we all went to Block Island?” Charlotte carried a small purse but had a large wallet wedged into it. She took it out and rummaged through. “Here you go.”
   She passed me a photo and although I took it, I couldn’t look immediately.
   “What’s the matter?”
   “It’s hard—the life I never lived is right here. On this piece of paper.”
   “Nah. Do it, Miranda. Then you won’t be haunted.”
   I took a deep breath and looked. James, Charlotte, and Kiera were smiling at the camera. He had short hair, which was a shock, because when we were together he wore it down to his shoulders. He looked older. There were wrinkles, and the gaunt face he’d had in high school had filled out some, but there was that same smile with the white, white teeth. Long artistic hands.
   My eyes filled. “I can’t stand it.”
   “He was great. You would have loved him.”
   “I did.” I looked at Charlotte and tried to smile.

4. BABE RUTH’S SMALL HEAD

   IN THE MONTH that followed I didn’t think much about the Oakleys. Business picked up, and I met a man who went from Promising! to Forget It! in just four dates. Do(u)g Auerbach came to town and we devoured each other for the weekend he was there. Twice I had tea with Frances Hatch, After the second time, she said there was a brain behind my face and she liked me. That made me feel very good. I said I liked her too. She responded playfully “But do you want to love, or beloved?” For a long time the question fluttered around my mind like birds that fly into a building but can’t get out again.
   Doug said that while in Germany he had watched a TV documentary about people who had sexual fetishes for amputees. The show was very calm and informative and without any attitude. They showed snippets from amputee porno films, magazines, social clubs, and even comic books.
   “I’m a hip guy. You know, try not to judge others, be as open as possible. But I saw this show and my mouth dropped open. I kept wondering, do I live on the same planetas these people?”
   Frances liked to talk about sex, so I told her about it.
   “What’s the matter with you, Miranda?”
   “What do you mean?”
   “You sound so prissy. Wouldn’t you go to bed with a man without a leg or an arm if you loved him?”
   “Yes, of course.”
   “What about a woman?”
   “I can’t imagine loving a woman that way.”
   “A child?”
   “Frances, you’re just trying to provoke me.”
   “How old is a child to you? How old would they have to be before you would sleep with them?”
   “I don’t know, seventeen?”
   “Ha! A lot of men made love to me before I was seventeen and that was eighty years ago.”
   “Yes, but you’ve led a pretty unique life compared to most people.”
   “So what? Know when Ithink a person is old enough to make love? When they become interesting.” She held a cane in her hand and knocked it on the floor.
   “I don’t think you should run for president on that platform, Frances. They might burn you at the stake.”
   “I know. I’m too old. My heart doesn’t live here anymore. That’s why memories are good: you wake up every morning and put them on like hand cream. That way, the days can’t dry you out.
   “Listen, Miranda, I have a favor to ask. Do you know the painter Lolly Adcock?”
   Hugh Oakley’s face came instantly to mind. “Funny you ask. Someone was talking about her just the other day.”
   “A miserablewoman, but quite a good painter. I have a small watercolor by her I want to sell. Would you be willing to look into the best way for me to do it?”
   I told her about James Stillman and me, about his dealings with the Adcock estate, and what happened to him afterwards.
   “Too bad you two didn’t meet when you were older; you’d probably be happily married with a house full of kids. But that happens: we keep meeting people or having experiences at the wrong time. The greatest love of my life was a man named Shumda, but I didn’t know that till I was ten years smarter. When we were together, I was just a kid auditioning different men for mad love affairs. I was looking for heat, not light.
   “You know how we look back and say, ‘Gee, I was dumb when I was seventeen.’ What if you look at it the other way—seventeen-year-old Miranda looks forward at you now. What would shehave to say about what you’ve become?”
   “What would seventeen-year-old me think of me now?” I laughed.
   “Exactly. She’d probably be furious you didn’tmarry this James and save him.”
   Hugh had given me his business card at the party. I called and we made an appointment to meet. Frances gave me the Adcock painting to show him. I was surprised she was willing to trust me with something so valuable.
   “You can only steal it. But if you do, then you won’t be able to come back and visit. I’d rather know me than rob me.”
   The day before our meeting, Hugh called to say he had to go to Dublin immediately. We could cancel the meeting, or he could arrange for one of his assistants to see me. I said the assistant would be fine. If necessary, we could meet after he returned. When I put the phone down I was disappointed, but nothing more.
   An hour before the appointment, I had a confrontation with the man I had been dating. He came into the shop all excited about a new video camera he’d just bought.
   Within fifteen minutes he was insulting me. He said I was cold and calculating. I’d squeezed him empty like a tube of toothpaste, then dropped him in the trash. I let him go on until all he had left was splutter.
   “I have an appointment now. I have to go.”
   “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”
   “Haven’t you said it all?” I stood up.
   I don’t know what my face said at that moment. My heart and stomach were calm. More than anything, I was glad it had come to this. Now I wouldn’t have to diplomatically sashay around him anymore. I’d have guessed my expression was nothing but empty. Who knows? Whatever was there, his eyes widened and he slapped me across the face.
   Staggering backward, I banged into a metal filing cabinet. The edge of it stabbed me in the small of the back. Crying out, I fell to my knees. I saw his feet coming toward me. I curled my body inward, sure he was going to beat me.
   He started laughing. “Look at you! That’s where you belong, on your fucking knees. Let me get a picture of this. I want to remember it.”
   I heard a whirring sound and, fearfully looking up, saw the camera up to his eye, pointing at me.
   “This I gotta have. What a memory!”
   It went on forever but I wasn’t about to do anything to anger him further.
   “Miranda, get off your knees, honey. You don’t have to beg me for anything. You’re the liberated woman.” He dropped the camera to his side and walked out.
 
   MY MOTHER USED to hit me. Long after I’d grown up and could talk to her about such things, I asked why. She refused to admit she ever had. I said, “Don’t you remember the time I broke your purse and you slapped me?”
   “Oh, well of course, then. Dad gave me that bag.”
   “I know, Mom, but you hitme!”
   “You deserved it, dear. That’s not hitting.”
   All grown up, on my knees, petrified he would come back and do worse to me, I wondered if I deserved this too.
   I could call the police, but what might he do then? I felt helpless. So tough and clear in business, I easily held my own in most situations, but most situations didn’t scare you to your marrow where a child still lives and cowers at the real monsters walking the earth.
   Hugh Oakley’s office was in a building on Sixty-first Street. I went in spite of what had happened. I knew if I didn’t, I would have gone home and been afraid. I needed something to do. This meeting wasn’t so important that if I started crying again in the middle of it, I couldn’t leave fast.
   When I got out of the elevator, I took a couple of deep breaths and tried to pull myself together. For the next few minutes I could be cool, crisp, and professional. Try to avoid my fear that way. But when it was over I would have to return to the world where helived. What could I do about that?
   The door was marked simply OAKLEY ASSOCIATES in the same letters Hugh had used to write down the book title for me at the party. As I put my hand on the brass doorknob, I heard, faintly, a violin inside the office playing something sprightly. I felt a jolt of joy. The unexpected music said there were still lovely things on earth. I went in.
   The outer office was furnished with antiques and paintings, but there was no sign of a receptionist. The phone on the desk was lit with blinking lights.
   The music grew much louder. I made out a flute and bass along with the violin. I know nothing about Irish music, but from the jump and flow, I had a hunch.
   A few steps farther into the office, I called out a tentative hello. Nothing. More steps, another hello. The music kept going, light and gay as a dance. I thought, What the hell, and went toward it. There were several rooms. One was open and I peeked in. The place looked like a laboratory. Test tubes and Bunsen burners… It reminded me too much of high school chemistry class and I moved on.
   At the end of the hall was another open door and that’s where the music was. It abruptly stopped and a woman said loudly, “Damn!”
   “That was good! Why’d you stop?”
   “Because I blew the damned passage again!”
   “Who cares?” Hugh said.
   “I care.”
   Walking over, I knocked on the door. “Hello?” Slowly poking my head in, I saw Hugh, a man, and a woman sitting in straight-backed chairs with music stands in front of them. Hugh had a violin on his lap, the woman had some kind of flute, the man an acoustic bass guitar.
   “Miranda, hi! Come in!”
   “Am I interrupting?”
   “No, we’re just practicing. Miranda Romanac, this is Courtney Hill and Ronan Mariner. We work together.”
   “Your music is wonderful.”
   “Our lunch hour. Come on, sit down. We’re going to run through this again and then we’ll talk. We’re playing ‘Ferny Hill.’ Do you know it?”
   “I’m sorry, I don’t.”
   “You’ll love it. Let’s go.”
   They started playing. I started crying. I didn’t realize it until Courtney looked at me and her eyes widened. Then I felt tears on my cheeks and gave a gesture that said it was the music. And it was, more than anything else. Nothing could have been a more perfect antidote to what happened earlier. Irish folk music is the most schizophrenic I have ever heard. How can it be so sad and happy at the same time, even within the same note? Simple and direct, it tells you yes, the world is full of pain, but this is the way through. As long as you’re in the music, the bad things stay away. They performed the tune perfectly. For those few minutes, I cried and was more content than I had been in days.
   Finishing with a flourish, they looked at each other like kids who had sailed through a great adventure without a scratch.
   “That was beautiful.”
   “It wasgood, huh? But let’s get down to business. What have you brought us?” Hugh looked at me and obviously saw the tears but said nothing. I liked that.
   I undid the strings and paper around the painting and held it up so all three of them could see it at once. They looked at it, then at each other.
   “Is that what I think it is? A Lolly Adcock?”
   “Yes.”
   Hugh took it from me. They huddled over it, making quiet comments, pointing here and there.
   “Hugh didn’t say anything about you bringing in an Adcock.”
   “I would have, if I’d gone to Dublin,” Hugh said.
   Ronan rubbed his mouth. “You know what my gut reaction is? Stay the hell away from it, Hugh. Even if it’s real, after the Stillman fiasco, people are going to be gunning for anyone who authenticates an Adcock.”
   Hugh brought it close to his face and sniffed. “Doesn’t smell fake.”
   “It’s not funny, Hugh. You know exactly what he’s saying.”
   “I do, Courtney, but that’s our business, isn’t it? We call them as we see them. If we’re wrong, then we’re wrong. Who knows, we may find out it’s a fake when we check it out.”
   “I still agree with Ronan. Whatever we might get out of it, it’s not worth the trouble.” She looked at the painting and shook her head.
   “Fair enough, but would you begin to check it for me?” He spoke quietly. The others got quickly out of their chairs and headed for the door.
   We sat and listened to them walk down the hall. Far away, a door closed.
   “Why were you crying?”
   “I thought you were going to ask where I got the picture.”
   “Later. Why were you crying?”
   “Does it matter?”
   “Yes. When you came in, your face was somewhere else. Someplace bad.”
   “Excuse me?”
   “You weren’t expecting this.” He held up his violin. “You had a different face on and you had to change it very fast. For one second I could see you brought something awful in from outside. The tears proved it.”
   “You’re a good detective, Hugh.”
   “It’s only because I care.”
   What could I say to that? We sat long moments in silence.
   “Someone hit me.”
   “Do you need help with them?”
   “I don’t think so.”
   “Why would someone want to hit you?”
   “He thinks I’m a bitch.”
   Hugh took two yellow hard candies from a shirt pocket and handed me one. As I unwrapped it, he opened the other and popped it in his mouth; then he picked up the violin and began to play quietly.
   “I don’t think I’m a bitch.”
   He smiled. “Who is he?”
   “A man I’ve been dating.”
   He nodded, silently saying, Go on. He played the Beatles’ “For No One.”
   I started out slowly but was full speed ahead in a few moments. I described how we’d met, the dates we’d had, things talked about, what I’d thought of him right up until the fateful slap.
   “A painting licker.”
   “What do you mean?”
   “There’s a man in England who goes around lickingthe paintings he loves. Locking’s not enough for him. He wants a more intimate experience with his favorite pictures, so when he’s at a museum and guards aren’t watching, he licks ‘em. He has a postcard collection of each one he’s done.”
   “Crazy.”
   “It is, but I understand it. I think that’s what happened with your man: he couldn’t have you and it drove him crazy. So he did the only thing he coulddo to own you for a few minutes: scared you. It always works. For today, or however long you’re going to be afraid of him, he doesown you.”
   “Damn it! Damn that power men have. Whenever they don’t like something, they can always hitus. You’ll never know that feeling. Always that little bit of fear in our heart.”
   “Not all men hit women, Miranda.”
   “But you can, and that’s the difference.”
   A small white bullterrier ran into the room and over to Hugh.
   “Easy! Miranda, this is Easy. Whenever we play, she runs and hides. The only dog I’ve ever known that actively dislikes music.”
   “That breed always scares me.”
   “Bullterriers? She’s a cream puff. She only lookslike a thief.”
   She looked more like a bleached pig, but her face was sweet and her tail was wagging so furiously that I couldn’t resist reaching out to pat her. She moved over to me and leaned like a stone against my leg.
   “Why do you call her Easy?”
   “My daughter named her. No reason. I brought her home from the kennel; Brigit took one look and said her name was Easy. Simple as that.”
   “How many children do you have?”
   “A daughter and a son. Brigit and Oisin. Oy-sheen.”
   “Oisin? Is that Irish?”
   “Yes. Both kids were born in Dublin.”
   “By the way, why didn’t you goto Dublin?”
   “Because you were coming. When you said you’d be happy to see my assistant, I thought, Uh oh, when would I see her again? I knew I had to be here.”
   Once again I tried to figure out how to respond.
   “You say things that throw me off, Hugh.”
   “People say I’m too direct. I didn’t go to Dublin because I had to see you again. It’s that simple.”
   Courtney called out from down the hall, asking him to come. He stood up, put the violin on the chair, and started out of the room. “I was going to call you the other day but you called me. I didn’t want to wait any longer. Ever since we met, most of my days seem to be about you.”
   He left me sitting with Easy leaning against my leg. It took a while before my body started shaking, but when it did, it came on strong. So strong that it roused the dog from her doze. She looked up at me. I closed my eyes. My heart pounded inside its cage of bones. I couldn’t wait for him to return.
 
   HERE I AM, an old woman with a shaky hand and a cheap pen, writing about sex. Is there any greater irony? Most of the time I cannot even recall what I ate yesterday. How do I presume to remember and write honestly about that most evanescent act, fifty years after it happened?
   I will stand up and walk to the kitchen. On the way I’ll think about how to do it. There are some chocolate cookies left. I want to eat two and drink a glass of cold water. Eating is sex for old people.
   This is my home, what’s left of a life in its final few rooms. There are some photographs. My parents. Hugh and me. Zoe on the porch of this house. The only piece of furniture I have kept over the years is Hugh’s easy chair. Despite having been re-covered two times it is shabby-looking now, but I would never give it away. On the table nearby is a photograph of Frances in her New York apartment. All of her possessions surround her, the paintings and rugs, that lush abundance of color so much a part of her being. The difference is, Frances wantedto remember everything. I don’t. Better to keep my last surroundings simple. Avoid any fatal memory or malevolent connection from things best left to their uneasy sleep in my heart.
   Certain things must be here. Most importantly the pile of sticks in the fireplace. Every one of those pieces of wood is important. Written on each is a date and a reason. I have never counted, but would guess there are twenty now. Hugh’s collection was much larger, but he started his years before I did.
   It was his idea: When anything truly important happens in your life, wherever you happen to be, find a stick in the immediate vicinity and write the occasion and date on it. Keep them together, protect them. There shouldn’t be too many; sort through them every few years and separate the events that remain genuinely important from those that were but no longer are. You know the difference. Throw the rest out.
   When you are very old, very sick, or sure there’s not much time left to live, put them together and burn them. The marriage of sticks.
 
   AN HOUR AFTER I visited his office to have the painting appraised, Hugh Oakley and I were walking through Central Park. He told me about the marriage of sticks and suggested I start my collection right then. I was so nervous about what was about to happen that without thinking, I did. It was from a copper beech tree. I knew nothing about trees then. Foliage, plants, things that grew. I was a city girl who was hurrying to a hotel to have sex with a man I knew was happily married with two children.
   “What’s the matter?” He stopped and turned me so we were face to face. We were holding hands. A moment ago we’d been racing to get to a hotel. I assumed he’d been there before. How many other women had he sped along like this, rushing to get them into bed?
   “You look miserable.”
   “I’m not miserable, Hugh, I’m unstrung! Somebody hit me this morning, and now I’m here with you.” I stared at our clasped hands and kept staring while I spoke. “I don’t do things like this. It’s everything together, full volume. Dangerous, right, wrong… Everything. I thought you’d be in Ireland. I thought your assistant was going to appraise the painting and I’d go home. Not this. This is all new territory for me.”
   He looked around and, seeing a park bench, pulled me to it. “Sit down. Listen to me. What you’re doing is right. It’s your heart and the adventurous part all saying go. Our checks and balances hold us back too much from risking anything.
   “Don’t let them, Miranda. Do it. If nothing else, you’ll remember this later and say it was crazy but you’re glad you did it.”
   My eyes were closed. “Can I ask a question? Will you answer honestly?”
   “Anything.”
   I straightened my back. “Are you worth it?”
   I heard him take a sharp breath to answer but he stayed silent a long moment. “I think so. I hope so.”
   “Do you go to hotels a lot with women?”
   “No. Sometimes.”
   “That doesn’t makes me feel special.”
   “I’m not going to apologize for the person you didn’t know till today.”
   “That’s facile, Hugh. This is a big thing for me.”
   “I’ll do whatever you want, Miranda. We can stay here and talk. Go to a movie, or go somewhere and make love. It’s all the same to me. I just want to be with you.”
   Two Rollerbladers pounded by, followed by a bunch of kids in crooked caps, carrying a big boom box.
   We watched the parade pass before I spoke. “Know what I want to do? Before anything else?”
   “What?”
   “Go to the Gap and buy a pair of khakis.” It was a test, plain and simple. I said it only to see how he would react.
   His face lit up and he smiled. It was genuine. “Sure! Let’s go.”
   “What about the hotel?”
   He paused. When he spoke his voice was slow and careful. “You don’t getit, do you? I’m not twenty, Miranda. I don’t ride my cock around like a witch on a broomstick. I want to beyou. If that’s in bed, great. If not, then together is all the matters.”
   “Then why were we going to a hotel?”
   “Because I dowant to touch you. I thought you felt the same. But I was wrong. Big deal. Let’s go buy your trousers.”
   “Really?” The word came out scared.
   He put his hand on my cheek. “Really.”
 
 
   WE WALKED OUT of the park as fast as we’d walked in. I would have given a month of my life to know what he was really thinking. He took my hand again and we kept squeezing back and forth as if to say, I’m here, I’m still with you. No matter how this day ended up, I knew I’d be running the replay in my brain for a long time.
   I didn’t need new pants. The only reason I’d even said it was because a few minutes before I’d seen an ad for the Gap on the side of a crosstown bus.
   “Here we are.”
   I’d been thinking so hard about what was happening that I didn’t realize we had arrived at the door of a Gap store.
   “You get your khakis and I’ll buy a cap. It’ll remind me of today. You’ll have your first stick and I’ll have a baseball cap.”
   “Are you angry, Hugh? Tell the truth.”
   “I’m excited.” Without another word, he pushed the door open and gestured for me to go in.
   “In what way?”
   “I’ll tell you later.” We walked in. He moved away from me and picked up a green sweatshirt.
   Nothing else to do but find the damned pants. When a saleswoman came up and sweetly asked if she could help, I snarled out, “Khakis! I’m looking for khakis, okay?” As she backed off, her face was one big “Uh-oh.”
   I didn’t care. I was in a damned Gap store, shopping, instead of having devil-may-care sex with a fascinating man. Why was I a coward with him? I’d done it before in a blink. That time outside the China Moon Restaurant in San Francisco? Or with the model in Hamburg on the bed with the broken spring? I hopped into bed with other men and things had worked out fine. The memories were happy and guilt-free.
   I looked around the store and saw Hugh trying on baseball caps in front of a mirror. A nice-looking man in his forties in a dark suit, pushing boys’ hats around on his big head. Why notwith him?
   Because I could love him.
   It began in his office when he said, “It’s only because I care.” As honest and simple as a piece of white paper with those words printed large and black on it. His candor disturbed me because I loved it. It seemed everything he said was either honest or interesting, usually both. He knew so much, and even if a subject had never mattered to me before once he began speaking I was hooked. Like the words he’d learned in Khalkha when he was in Mongolia researching Genghis Khan, or James Agee versus Graham Greene as a film reviewer, or the plumbing system Thomas Jefferson invented for Monticello…
   His face was all animation, all angles and eyes. His chin was square, his teeth were smoker’s yellow. There were deep wrinkles down either side of his mouth. When he smiled they almost disappeared. His eyelashes were long and thick. I didn’t want to kiss him yet, but wouldn’t say no if he tried to kiss me. When he asked me to lunch I said yes. When we walked out of his office and his colleagues stared I didn’t care. When we stood on the street and Hugh said he wanted me, I said okay without hesitating.