The Talented Miss Farwell Page 20

  Where. When. Where did he—

  “Well, he usually picks up lunch on Saturdays, doesn’t he, Jo? Panda Express.”

  12:52. Becky ran across the grass divider, up onto the macadam, swerved around pissed-off cars and grocery-cart moms who yelled take it easy. She hit the glass door of Panda Express with so much force that the paper-hatted workers all looked up in unison. She pegged the branch manager at first sight and immediately did two things: pointed out the time, 12:54, and laser-beamed into his young fleshy face every iota of Farwell magnetism she possessed. Also she’d buy him lunch. Back they went to the bank for her deposit.

  1:14. Becky sat in the stuffy driver’s seat of her car and cried. Half-cried, half-whooped. To think that broccoli beef and an order of cream cheese rangoon was all that stood between her and discovery—how could anyone not laugh to the point of nausea? That baby-faced manager in the poly-blend suit, short-sleeved dress shirt—he saved the day, saved the two Rothkos, her one Klimt, and several Bonnards, the Miró sketches and . . . Had he ever seen a piece of art, real art, Branch Manager Mike Dobbin? Because he may have single-handedly preserved the integrity of a collection worth $300 million. By processing the deposit of a $1,700 check.

  Later in the day—she didn’t know how much later, sunk in the Art Barn with a bottle of Château Latour—one of the many sucking-up gifts regularly arriving at her P.O. box—Becky regained her calm. Ingrid would be pissed at her, but when she got home the first thing she’d done was send over one of the girls from the office temp pool with the promise of twenty dollars per hour for as long as Ingrid needed her. Tacking up crepe paper and icing cupcakes weren’t Becky’s forte, even Ingrid would agree. And Becky was too exhausted to take on another project.

  When hunger forced her aboveground again the sky had darkened. She sang along to Tanya Tucker while microwaving some broccoli cheddar soup, then curled up on the couch with a stack of personnel reports: it was annual review season. Before bed, she’d have half a sleeve of SnackWell Vanilla Cremes and play the next section of Rosetta Stone’s conversational Italian.

  But she couldn’t shake a keyed-up mood, an uneasiness. Why hadn’t Ingrid called back? Not once, not on Becky’s cell or her answering machine. She gave up on the SnackWells and got in the car. “It’s the perfect time for me to show up,” she argued aloud. The kids would be watching their movie, and the bottle of Cab she had on the passenger seat would soothe Ingrid by the time the cork was pulled.

  The Yeskos’ house was quiet and dark when she pulled into the driveway. No balloons tied to the metal porch railing. No shrieking pack of kids thundered to the sound of the doorbell. Becky waited, then went around back and let herself in through the mudroom. In the kitchen the lights were off, dishwasher thrumming. An open can of Pringles on the counter.

  Becky followed the muffled noise of the TV down carpeted steps to the basement, where Neil Yesko was on the couch watching the game, one leg thrown sideways, beer in hand.

  “Hi, Becky. What a super surprise.”

  “Where is everyone?” Becky tried to avoid addressing Neil’s crotch in its green sweatpants. “The kids, the party . . .” She gestured to the darkened house. “Your wife?”

  “Huh.” Neil glanced to the TV and back. “Well, my kids are upstairs asleep, Jesus Christ God willing, and my wife is at a hotel in Iowa City, and as for a party . . . you’re looking at it.”

  Becky sat on the basement stairs. “But she—I was supposed to—” Did he say Iowa City?

  “Yes, you were, Becky Farwell.” Neil muted the TV in one stabbing gesture. “You were supposed to come over here middle of the day, and pop the champagne that’s upstairs in my fridge, and get in our car where you’d be driven two hours just in time for the opening acts at the Country Bash Fall Festival. Which is on my credit card as we speak, two all-weekend passes and a non-refundable hotel.”

  Becky couldn’t catch up. “She didn’t tell me.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s how surprises usually work.” Neil put the volume back up and turned back to the screen.

  Then Becky saw her own suitcase, set against the wall near the garage door. Ingrid must have used her keys, and she knew where to find all Becky’s clothes, her cosmetics. The image of Ingrid’s thrill at sneaking in to pack a surprise overnight bag flooded Becky with such wretchedness that she shut up her mind and made herself review, instead, if she’d left anything suspicious out at home (a receipt, a piece of packing material). But Ingrid—Becky knew this utterly, with a throb—would have been too excited about her own plan to care or snoop.

  “How was she?” she asked the grubby beanbag chairs, unable to look at Neil.

  “Before your little hired help showed up, you mean? Or after?”

  Fuck. “Why didn’t she call me?” Becky burst out. “Or you could have!”

  Neil said nothing for a long moment. “She didn’t want to go, but I made her. I tried to get her to ask someone else, anyone, of all those hundred goddamned girlfriends, but she wouldn’t. So she went by herself—”

  Becky squeezed her hands over her ears. “Which hotel.”

  Neil raised his voice. “—And god knows I hope she’s living it up with Garth Brooks, my wife who hasn’t taken a day for herself in over three years, who sits up at night each time TJ can’t sleep, which is every night, and who wanted a couple of days to party and sleep in, have a good time, maybe order late-night room service with the person she calls her best friend—”

  “Neil, just tell me where!”

  “But let’s be real, she’s not going to any concert tonight, is she?” He got quiet, forcing Becky to look up. “She’s watching the same crappy TV we always do. Alone in the double queen room that cost extra so you two wouldn’t look out onto a parking lot.”

  “I’ll drive there. Right now.”

  “She doesn’t want to see you.”

  “Please,” Becky said.

  Neil studied her for a long time. “The Hilton Garden downtown.”

  Becky took the stairs two at a time, bumping her suitcase against the wall. From the car she called the hotel, got through to Ingrid, who was, as Neil predicted, watching TV in a sulk. It took nearly an hour, Becky flooring it along I-88, to cajole her out of her funk, but she did it.

  Late that night, sweaty dancing and drunk with relief, Becky marveled at how close she’d come. How it had all almost unraveled for real, for good. Instead of handcuffs and a jail cell, here she was in a dive bar at 1 am with a happy Ingrid waving her up onto the karaoke stage for the Dixie Chicks’ “Wide Open Spaces.” They could do the harmony by heart.

  Rachel’s tenth birthday was in June. When it came time for her party, Becky was there early to tack up streamers and keep TJ away from popping balloons, and help Ingrid pour out pop and slice cake.

  Becky struggled mightily not to go overboard for a present but ended up giving the girl a framed poster of her favorite band, five prepubescent boys, signed by each one—“Rachel, you’re the reason we make music! XOXOXO, Robbie.” “Rachel Y, all my love, Miguel.” “HUGS, R!” Getting this done—those stupid teens had shark managers—had taken as much effort and money as procuring a Philip Guston, but Rachel’s literal tears upon unwrapping the poster made it worth it.

  While Rachel read out each inscription, shaking with delight, Becky thought about QT Pets. Rachel’s once-prized specimens were now gathering dust on a dresser and would eventually end up in a box, in a closet. But Becky remembered the avid hunt to gain a full set, the feeling of completeness when the panda had been placed on the shelf beside the fox and the dog. Maybe she should try something new with her own collection. One last play.

  25

  Pierson

  September 11, 2001

  All day, all of Town Hall stayed crowded in one conference room, where a TV replayed the planes cutting into the Twin Towers. Everyone except Becky. She was in her car, in the parking lot out back, with her cell phone and a notebook. First she called every relevant party in any curre
nt deal, nailing down who and what and how much. Then she worked international contacts, waking them up to reassure spooked Euro gallerists and Asian businessmen that her funds were liquid and in play no matter what. Every few minutes another dealer or collector would call her, wanting to share in the shock and fear of what was happening, but as soon as she could she got off the phone. Later was the time for can you believe this and I just can’t believe this. Now was for clear thinking and quick acting.

  The last set of calls was to her artists, the four or five she kept in supplies and with living expenses, the ones who gave her peace of mind when the sheer strain of her transgressions threatened to engulf her: These people are making their work (and eating), because of me. And my Activity. She made sure the New Yorkers were safe and accounted for; most of them had still been in bed when the attacks occurred. She got addresses for studios in SoHo, Tribeca, anything south of Union Square. I’ll take care of it, she said over and over, to the painters and sculptors and filmmakers, stunned and afraid for their work and supplies, for colleagues and friends, for the meaning of art in the face of such a horrific, global event. Bit by bit Becky’s calm steadiness, her willingness to see to all the details, let the artists gather their wits. Okay, they eventually said, breathing out. Distracted, watching TV throughout the conversation. Okay, thank you, okay.

  Be safe, she told them. Call me anytime.

  The only non-art call she made was to Ingrid. They had a two-minute conversation of the kind people all across the country were having, and for the first time Ingrid hung up first, wanting to get back to her kids.

  When Becky finally went back inside, only Ken and a few others were still there. Still contacting surrounding counties, in discussion with Springfield and Chicago. Were further attacks a possibility? What emergency protocol, what statements were needed? Becky slid into her usual seat, exchanged one notebook for another. She jumped right in with questions for Police Chief Myerson, new in the job this year. Ken watched her and said nothing but she could feel what he didn’t ask, what he never asked her: Where have you been?

  26

  Pierson

  2002

  Underground in the Art Barn it was impossible to know the weather. Or care, frankly. Tarek mentioned something about rain, though Becky hadn’t really listened; Tarek tended to talk while he installed.

  Becky sat in the only chair, reviewing the paperwork for her new acquisitions. Tarek went about his business with the usual not-unpleasant accompanying soundtrack: squeaking drill bore, scrape and brush for paint touch-ups. Every so often Becky would look up over her drugstore readers to check his progress. Today he was removing and crating two larger oils to make room for three plexiglass-framed photo collages by Lolly Macnamara, to go with the two she’d bought months ago. All five together comprised the artist’s entire body of work in the photo collage medium.

  Lolly Macnamara was in her eighties. Always about to be rediscovered. She’d recently come to photo collage, a kind of work she hadn’t made since the 1960s, apparently as a farewell tour of her previous modes. How nice it was, Becky thought, to see an older artist digging back into what she did well, instead of flinging herself into a last hurrah of some new and overblown technique, often tipping into melodrama and grandiosity, trying too hard. These pieces were tightly focused, subtle but rich.

  She’d gone through half a dozen installers before finding Tarek and locking him down with a monthly retainer, enough that he’d be all too happy to bail on a job for his dad’s cabinetry business when she called, as she did about twice a month. Tarek lived in Rockford with a sometimes girlfriend and her kids, had superior rough and finish carpentry skills, and couldn’t have been less interested in art if he tried. He’d answered her (online!) ad for custom side work, shown up on time and aced her test job, matter-of-factly took the large sum of cash with which she’d paid, and gave her his cell number. She liked the way he fiddled with his work, adhesives and fasteners and mounts, breathing in exasperated huffs, until it was clockmaker-perfect to him. And how he shut up and let her look at the pieces he’d put up, sometimes for a long time, and didn’t complain if she then changed her mind and asked for a rearrangement.

  But today she wouldn’t need a rearrangement. The Macnamara pieces looked good. More than good. The knowledge that she had them all, that there were no other Macnamara photo collages out there, in any other galleries or on any other walls, gave Becky the kind of thrill-shiver she hadn’t felt in some time. Tarek stretched out on a paint tarp, eyes closed, while she walked back and forth, limping a bit because of the needly pain in her left buttock, now shooting down her leg.

  All of something. This idea, born out of QT Pets, tested with these Macnamaras, now took hold of Becky so entirely that she began to shake. All of an artist’s works in one medium, whether pencil or gouache or brass. All of an artist’s work in one time period. All of the artists from one time period. Every piece that included an image of a diner mug, a dead person, an animal baring its teeth. You could slice the pie a thousand ways and still only be beginning. The collector determined the size of the field, the rules of the game, and what it meant to win.

  “Okay,” she said, loud enough that Tarek startled. “You can take down the other pieces in this room.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yep. Also some next door, I’ll show you.”

  “Big plans?”

  But Becky was already into the next gallery, too busy with her thoughts to reply. It felt like starting over.

  “Bankrupt,” Ingrid said, her sleepy voice perking up with attention. “For real?”

  Becky rolled over and shifted the phone to her other ear. “I shouldn’t even be telling you this.”

  “I didn’t even know that was possible. Towns, like, a whole town . . . can declare bankruptcy?”

  “Not sure,” Becky said truthfully. “The consultant said he’d heard of a couple municipalities downstate.”

  “So that would mean, what, all of Pierson’s debts cancelled? Then what? We’re under control of some bank? Or do the feds own us? What if they rename Pierson? What if they take over Town Hall and make you share your office?”

  “Let’s not get crazy. It’s not going to happen.”

  “Mayor Ken must be wigging out.”

  “He is indeed.” In fact, he’d gotten so disgusted with the consultant’s digression about Illinois’s murky laws on the matter, that it wasn’t clear if Pierson would be eligible for Chapter 9, that he’d stood up right in the middle of the man’s sentence and thanked him for his time.

  Despite that awkward moment, Becky had been hugely relieved. The one or two times before this when Ken had brought up the possibility of bankruptcy as a solution for the town, Becky had successfully ignored it or distracted him. Then to hear from the consultant Ken brought in that there really was no clear path for this option should have been the end of it. Except she had a nagging feeling that Ken wasn’t done with this idea, because she knew Ken. She would tread softly here—any vociferous pushback on his half-baked plan would likely cause him to ramp up in response . . . or worse, to get suspicious.

  In response those next weeks, Becky funneled as much money as she could back into the town. Patching one leak after another, Band-Aids on a perpetual gusher. The way the corners of Ken’s mouth had gone white during the consultant’s presentation . . . the memory of that could make Becky transfer cash from RF Capital Development to a playground repair, a radio equipment upgrade for the fire department. The problem was, of course, that her new collecting plan demanded just as much skimming, if not (she hoped not, she told herself not) a bit more.

  “Chicago-based collector Reba Farwell, in McQueen, consults with gallerist Paul Merkanen, at T+Go’s Art+Design Fair in New York.” Town & Country. “Museum director Chan Traylor and noted collectors Frank and Betty Linson dine with Reba Farwell after the show.” Vanity Fair. “Reba Farwell, seen chatting with Liz Frederick, neé Rockefeller, at a private event held at Gramercy Tave
rn.” New York Times Style Section.

  Each time Becky saw herself in a society page photo layout she winced first, and scrutinized second. How did her hair look, her shoes—they rarely shot full body, which was a pity for her shoes—and why did her mouth make that strange shape when she was talking? Why did designers never think about women shorter than five foot three? Shorter than six foot three, for that matter? She’d get so caught up in evaluating her own image, one of many in dozens of thumbnail party shots, that she’d forget the real problem wasn’t the way her jaw stuck out when she was caught faking a laugh at Dave Zwirner’s boring story, but the fact that she was in the photo, in the magazine. In many photos, many magazines, more and more often.

  It had a name, her new collecting plan, though she didn’t hear the term completist applied to herself until much further into this, her next and biggest and most audacious phase. And it took a while for Becky to accept the label and then delight in the term itself, the way the word elevated collecting to a new level, the way it echoed artist.

  Being a completist had the unintended and mostly unwelcome consequence of boosting Becky’s visibility. Maybe some of it had to do with the way the art world, so insular and clubby in the past, now extended and crossed over into fashion, movies, design. Magazines and newspapers and new online forums seemed to care more about art events, keeping a closer eye on who was in attendance and naming them, increasingly, in their monthly society roundups. Jessa had been a fixture of these for years, of course, in photos with and without her odious husband, but Becky’s appearance was relatively new. She realized that her own recent deals had propelled her up the chain: Farwell held all the pencil sketches from Calder’s year before Paris. Farwell had bought all nine watercolors by some new artist before he was featured in British Vogue. Farwell had gotten there first, and cornered the market.