The Talented Miss Farwell Page 7

“Nope,” Becky said. “It’s just that I like to get a head start on balance sheets each morning. That way when I see Karl I can let him know the . . .” Here she went off on an ultra-detailed description of the most technical accounting tasks, including segues into the new banking systems. The woman visibly flinched at the onslaught of unnecessary information and Becky wrapped up by saying, in a singsong way, “So don’t mind me, I’ll be out of your hair in one sec.”

  And so the pattern was set. Becky Farwell, tedious overachiever, now wanted to get her mail first thing. It spread through the office, as she knew it would, causing annoyance and minor ridicule, but soon was accepted as status quo, the way most people’s quirks eventually were. From there it was a short step to Becky’s actually picking up the entire office’s mail from the post office on her way in. As Ingrid had said, this was indeed an option on offer—especially in their tiny town, where the box of mail soon had a regular spot of honor in the P.O. foyer, set aside for Miss Farwell daily—extremely convenient for her to review all bank statements and set aside if necessary. Including the ones for an account newly renamed RF Capital Development at Midwest Credit Union, which began arriving in September 1987.

  The branch location in Grantford, twenty minutes from Pierson, was a decent-sized one-story brick building scarred by a huge new false facade complete with plaster pillars and a clockface bigger than a car door. Becky stood out front, sweating in late summer’s strong morning sun, and waited for the few employees inside to open up. Eventually one of them came over, flipped the sign, and unbolted the heavy glass door. “Morning!”

  “Morning.” Becky spoke fast and clipped, nervous as hell. Air conditioning did nothing to calm the red flushes along her neck and hairline. It was her first time in here, but you’d never know that from her swift and direct walk to the teller behind the counter. “I have a few deposits,” she said, “to a municipal account that we recently . . . Yes. Here.”

  The teller, a pleasant chubby man in his fifties, took her checks over the counter. Becky bent to fill out the deposit slip, pressing down too hard with the ballpoint pen. She forced herself to say nothing as the man slowly, very slowly, went through each check. She wouldn’t let herself look at them in his hands, even out of the corner of an eye, knowing each one by heart: the insurance payment made out to Accounting, one to Karl from Sandstone Repairs, and one Becky had written herself, out of the Water Management account at Federal. In total, $3,223. The symmetry of that number pleased Becky and was partly why she’d chosen these for her first deposit.

  The teller took her deposit slip and compared it to the checks. He turned to his monitor and began to key in some numbers, using a pair of readers set way down on his nose. A few other customers had entered the bank by now, calling out greetings and asking questions. Two people queued behind Becky. She wouldn’t let herself wipe at the cooling trickle of sweat on her nape.

  It was over before she knew it. The teller gave her a brief smile and nod as he handed over her stamped deposit carbon copy. Becky thought she would almost pass out as she backed away and turned to go.

  “Wait a second— Excuse me.” His voice stopped her short.

  The next person in line looked back at her, confused. Becky couldn’t speak.

  “Pierson, is that right?” the teller called over to her. Jesus, his voice, so loud.

  Becky made some sort of motion with her head.

  “You all still doing Petunia Fest? My wife runs a gardening club and she can’t stop talking about it.”

  “Every July,” Becky coughed out. “First week.”

  “Good to know,” he said. “I’ll be the one watching PGA in your finest pub.”

  She waved at him and managed to walk steadily out into the humid glare. Holding her breath, slamming her fist against her hip. She did it. She did it. She did it.

  8

  Chicago

  1987

  On Friday, December 4, 1987, RF Capital Development held forty-two thousand dollars. When Becky arrived at Chicago’s massive Merchandise Mart at precisely 10 am on the Art Expo’s opening day she had in her purse a pristine checkbook, two pens, three forms of identification, and a new lipstick from Ralph’s: Apricot Dream.

  The international art expo—Becky had worked out the shorthand for “exposition”—comprised three days of contemporary art sales, panels, and exhibits. Becky wanted nothing to do with the latter two. She’d told Karl she needed a personal day and had been up until 1:30 am sorting through potential outfits, wishing she could ask Ingrid’s opinion. In the end she decided to mix the daring (Sergio Rossi zebra heels, found on consignment in Rockford) with the tried-and-true (black pencil skirt that hugged her ass, silk blouse with a floppy bow), and after much deliberation she’d pulled her hair back into a basic chignon, a slightly dressier version of what she and Ingrid wore to Ballet Stretch.

  Unfortunately, she’d had fewer options when it came to outerwear and the eighteen-degree temperature meant the big coat, no discussion: navy blue, but not in a good way, hooded, enormous. Even a woman with two inches on Becky would have been dwarfed by this thing, a mispurchase from last year that she regretted but hadn’t gotten around to correcting. Her cheeks burned in line at the coat check and she held the wadded-up big coat under her arm like a bag of dirty laundry. Released from it, she felt instantly lighter, anonymous.

  She paused briefly in the entrance of the main hall, fighting down a rush of anxiety under her breastbone. Before her stretched a space at least the length of a football field, divided into hundreds and hundreds of walled-off makeshift display areas, each marked with a sign flag stating a gallery’s name and city. Aisles branched into sub-aisles, which split into cul-de-sacs and dead ends. Paintings were hung inside and outside each gallery’s designated movable partitions, so close to one another it was hard to tell who was showing what. People passed back and forth, meant to circle around, took a wrong turn, and ended up fifteen minutes later on the opposite side of the convention center. Becky thought of the giant corn maze at Thigpen’s off County Road N and just as quickly told herself to cut it with the hick town associations.

  High above the echoing warren of art cubicles arced the hall’s unfinished steel rafters and domed ceilings. Becky gazed at a large gorilla made of thousands of glittery beads, suspended from a beam and revolving slowly in the heights of the dust-moted air. Enormous, ridiculous, a bit lonely: the gorilla floated serenely over the mass of people and objects below, and no one else seemed to notice her up there.

  Becky gripped the chain of her purse and set a course for square number 131, the Ferramini Gallery from New York. Three weeks of frantic research said they were bringing some Eric Fischls, and Becky was going to buy one—her first big-name piece. First time in the big time. Becky blew a tiny kiss up to the floating gorilla for luck.

  The Eric Fischls were there, three of them, hung on their own partition at Ferramini. Becky didn’t pause in her moment of relief at seeing them—this was only the first of many steps. Although she had run this transaction through her mind a hundred times, she hadn’t banked on there being so many people around. Pressed shoulder to shoulder, jostling Becky, taking their sweet time in front of the works and blocking the painting—which one would it be?—that was going home with her. She pegged two gallery assistants, clerks, whatever you called them: a bone-thin sallow woman in a Mao-collar dress, and a handsome black man who was only as tall as Becky. She edged her way in front of the paintings—a small, medium, and a large—and had to stop herself from bouncing up and down on her toes.

  “Do you have a price list?” she said, louder than she’d meant to. She’d memorized this phrase from ARTnews—or was she first supposed to ask “Is the work still available?” Shit. Too late now.

  The handsome guy handed her a leather folder, like a menu. The figures were much higher than Becky had expected, but still within the range of RF Capital Development. Did she love these particular paintings? Maybe. Not really. It didn’t matter. This was
going to be a strategic buy, her first, to put her in the mix. Everything she’d read confirmed this was what you needed, a blue-chip trading piece.

  The guy had moved on to help someone else, so Becky decided to plant herself at the elbow of the skinny woman, who was intently listening to a long story told in hushed tones, alternately, by an older couple in matching glasses. Eventually Becky’s presence must have bugged her enough to hold up a finger to them and fake-smile at Becky. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes. I want to buy one of the Eric . . .” Becky had to swerve away from pronouncing the last name, and instead gestured to the wall. “The medium one. I mean the medium-sized one.”

  But in response the gallery woman only smiled at her. A wide, pleasant smile, as if Becky had complimented her earrings. “I’ll be with you in a minute.” She turned to the older couple, who immediately resumed whispering their story. Becky stood there, uncertain and mute. What had happened? In her daydreams saying the words “I want to buy it” triggered a flurry of excitement and deference. She shifted from foot to foot, unsure whether she was supposed to wait here, adjacent to this never-ending conversation. Or maybe she should go over to her painting, claim it? Wasn’t someone supposed to be giving her forms to fill out? Or a cup of coffee at least? For a sweaty confused moment she felt like she was wearing the big coat. Lumpy, uncool, out of place.

  Eventually the woman double-cheek-kissed the older couple and gazed fondly after them as they made their slow way out into the crowded aisle. Then she abruptly turned to Becky. “Now. Let’s sit for a minute, shall we?”

  The sudden solicitous attention unnerved Becky, and she took a cautious place on an ottoman cube next to the woman, who introduced herself as Lori Levine.

  “I’m interested in either the small or the medium—”

  Lori waved that off. “Remind me how we know each other?”

  “Well, I don’t—”

  “You weren’t in Berlin for Roger’s fiftieth. Wait, don’t tell me. At the Fraelick show? Not at Bibi’s, because I was in Milan for—”

  “We’ve never met,” said Becky firmly. “However, I’m ready to buy the Eric . . . ah, the Eric . . .”

  “Fischl,” Lori said, still musing. “You weren’t at Larry’s last month, were you? Or the Artforum thing, with the horrible food? I remember Eric and April went straight to Fanelli’s afterward.”

  Becky, quiet, raced to catch up.

  “You’re local? Chicago-based? Because I don’t recognize your name from our client list. Farwell. Far-well.”

  And now Becky began to understand.

  “These particular pieces have been promised to certain collectors for months. As I’m sure you can imagine.”

  “You mean . . . all three? But they’re not marked ‘sold’ or anything.”

  Lori flashed another wide, wide smile, and touched Becky on the knee. Signaling to her colleague, she said, “Trey can put you on our mailing list. I’m so glad you came by.”

  Her moment was slipping away and Becky panicked. “How much, um . . . What was the price, for the other collectors?”

  Lori froze, face pinched in disbelief.

  “Because I am prepared to offer ten percent more.”

  As soon as it was out of her mouth, Becky knew she’d made a dire faux pas. Even Trey seemed to edge away from her. Lori slowly stood up from their shared ottoman and moved to greet some other viewers as if ignoring what Becky had said was the kindest for all involved.

  Two hours later Becky was drinking a second Bloody Mary at the café on the west side of the convention hall. Drinking it in hard fast pulls through a straw. One side of her chignon—probably it was just a bun—drooped and the stereo behind the bar played Madonna’s “Cherish” for the second time in a half hour. Becky sat with her back to the expo, pointedly ignoring the loud-talking visitors who chattered on in German or whatever over cappuccinos or plastic flutes of champagne.

  A man leaned over with a light tap on the counter to get her attention. “Buyer’s regret?” he said, in English. “Or a good chance missed?”

  Becky eyed him, straw in teeth. Tall, fifties, pin-striped. Violet pocket square and more than one ring on his fingers—homo, probably. “Little of both,” she said, rattling the ice.

  “Allow me.” The man slid onto the stool next to her and waved for another Bloody Mary. “Sounds like you’ve had a day. Tell Papa all about it.”

  Becky snorted. Well, why not? “I thought I knew what I was doing but . . . there are rules they don’t tell you, you know? One set of rules for some people, and another set for other people. Why is that?” Pinstripes held up his hands in mock surrender. “And who are you?”

  “Am I one of them, you mean? Not really.”

  “Not one of me, though,” Becky mumbled at her drink. She missed her old straw, the one she’d chewed to bumpy perfection.

  “My name is Frederick Palliser.” Did this guy pause, as if she was supposed to know him? Forget it, buster. I don’t know anything. “But most people here call me Mac.”

  “Well, my name is Rebecca Farwell but most people call me—”

  “Reba, I hope!”

  Becky stared. He couldn’t mean Reba McEntire, the country singer. Not here, not in this world.

  “Well, you do bear a faint resemblance.” He hummed a few bars of “You Lift Me Up to Heaven” that were remarkably in tune. Could this day be any weirder?

  “Sure, call me Reba,” Becky said. “So, Mac: what do you have to do to buy a painting that you really really really really really really really want?” She broke off, tearful, drank again.

  “Ah.” The teasing tone left Mac’s voice. “What happened?”

  So she told it all, in a ragged tumble of details and shame, and Mac listened closely, frowning, occasionally interrupting with a question or clarification. As soon as she said the name Lori Levine he murmured, “Oh dear.” But when she got to the part where she tried to outbid the reserved Fischls he had to stop her.

  “No.” Mac put a finger to the bridge of his nose. “No, you didn’t, my sweet Reba.”

  “I did,” Becky whispered miserably. Mac put his hand on hers and she dropped her forehead to it, bonking an eye socket on one of his rings. “The way she looked at me!”

  “You didn’t know.”

  “Now I do. It’s who you know, isn’t it.”

  “Now you know me, sweet pea. Oh, come now. None of that.” For Becky was blubbering, at least until Mac gently but firmly pulled his hand out from under her wet face. He gave her a pristine and scented handkerchief (after dabbing at his own hand). “Just think of all the money you saved, darling! Between us, our Mr. Fischl is a bit, well . . . what’s the saying about fish and visitors after three days?”

  “I may have had a little too much to drink,” Becky announced.

  “But now you can go find something else! Oh, let’s go do that. Buying well is the best revenge.”

  “I can’t!” Becky wailed. “I already spent it all!”

  “On what, you crazy girl?”

  Becky sniffed and pulled a crumpled receipt from her purse. Mac studied the image stapled to it. “It’s . . . nice. There are some nice things someone could possibly say about a piece like this.” Then he flipped to the receipt, stamped PAID. “Sweet Mary, mother of Jesus.”

  Becky said nothing. She barely remembered the transaction, the white-hot wrath in which she had smoothly signed away all the money in RF Capital, plus a good chunk from her own checking account, for a flashy piece that even at the time of the sale didn’t do anything for her. All that work, all those months, the basement files . . . Gone. Pointless.

  Mac exhaled. “Well. How about you come with me. I keep a place on Oak, and I need to let the catering people in. You can take a rest in the guest suite and—” He circled a hand at her face and hair. “Freshen up a bit. And then I’ll introduce you to some useful people.” He folded the receipt twice and slipped it into his inner jacket pocket. “And we’ll sort this out.”
>
  Above them the glittering gorilla spun slowly, implacable. Crowd noise peaked, and a clutch of late lunchers vied for space in the café.

  Becky accepted Mac’s arm to navigate stepping down from the stool in her zebra heels. She felt depleted, emptied so far there was a new kind of space inside her—room to look around, room to make new moves. In sixth grade she had first grasped the concept of negative numbers in one widening tumult of realization: sinking below zero only revealed more options! A mirrored infinity of values. Underneath the placid surface of zero lay an ocean of possibility.

  Walking with Mac through the Art Expo—a slow procession, since he had constant greetings to exchange—gave Becky that same unlocked sensation. She carried deficits—the blown money, Lori Levine’s shaming pity—but the equation wasn’t complete. Not yet.

  “I have a big coat,” she told Mac, on their way out.

  “Of course you do,” he murmured.

  What followed were two days and nights in the wild swirl of Mac and his coterie. That afternoon while Becky lay on his Memphis chaise longue with her shoes off and a glass of Alka-Seltzer in hand, Mac worked the phone: first an old client, then a friendly dealer, then a rival dealer. In thirty-five minutes he had unloaded Becky’s painting—later to be referred to only as “The Horrible Mistake”—and turned a slight profit too. Which stayed with Mac, no discussion needed.

  “I think I’m in love,” Becky said, with a gentle burp.

  “Aren’t you sweet.” Mac spread an afghan over her legs. “I’m going to speak with Maria about canapés.”

  Becky closed her eyes and drifted in a vodka haze on that strange and expensive sofa. She wanted to stay awake, she wanted to memorize every detail of the layout and furnishings. A woman in an honest-to-god black-and-white maid uniform had brought her the fizzing glass of Alka-Seltzer. On a tray! But her stomach was heaving, and she couldn’t even focus her eyes enough to see what Mac had hanging on his walls. Canapé, she whispered to herself, savoring the word.