June (34 page)

Jack pulled the roadster up on Broad Street. June knew exactly where they were. Her father had once driven her to this exact same spot in the burgundy Plymouth he’d adored. The sand-colored art museum boasted three two-story arches across its front; on its wings, spread out east to west, were friezes of robed men. Artists, thinkers.

“It’s Monday,” she said crisply, as Jack pulled the key from the lock.

“Why are you mad?”

“The museum will be closed.”

He took her chin and turned her head toward his. That same hand had gripped Diane’s throat. She was sick of Diane, sick of him with Diane, sick of all of it. She pulled away.

His eyes danced all over her, worried. “What’d I do?”

She held back her tears, but they wanted out. “I saw you on Saturday. After the garage. With Diane.”

“I didn’t touch her.”

She realized he thought she meant romantically. “You hurt her.”

He pulled his hand away quickly and lowered it into his lap. He groaned in resignation. “My temper flared.”

“You should never touch a woman like that.” She hated how shrill her voice sounded. “I don’t care what she did.”

He looked pathetic now, slumped behind the wheel, a little boy caught kicking a puppy. Then he looked back at her, his eyes great sinkwells of sorrow. “She spoke ill of you. She’s obsessed with me. You’re in her way. I can’t stand by and let her threaten you.”

“But that’s just it, Jack. I never asked you to protect me. I don’t need protecting.”

“Believe me”—he chortled—“Diane is different from any girl you’ve ever met.”

“I’ll bet she fits right in in Hollywood.”

“Not everyone is like her out there.”

But the words were dazzlingly true now that they’d escaped her. “You keep saying you want me to come with you, but, Jack, be serious.”

“I am serious.” His hand was on his door handle. “Let me show you.” He got out of the car. She waited, watching the traffic pass, and then he was at her door, opening it as if she was his queen.

On the day June’s father had taken her to the Columbus Museum of Art, they’d gone in through the center arch, directly into a marble lobby and up a set of steps that matched the sandy outside of the building. But, today, Jack led her around the left wing of the building and toward a small, dark door on the ground floor marked
STAFF ONLY
. He took her hand in his. She almost withdrew—she was still angry and it was broad daylight—but then his grip loosened and she decided to keep her palm pressed against his just for the risk of it, and because she couldn’t ignore that fluttering in her chest at the touch of him, or the warm bud of desire between her legs.

He knocked a playful tattoo on the door, raising his eyebrows to ape for her. She let herself smile, but only for an instant. Then the door pushed open and, peering up at them stood an older woman with glasses tipped onto the end of her nose. She wore a cardigan and a wool skirt. June withdrew her hand from Jack’s.

“Mrs. Scott?” Jack asked.

“Mr. Montgomery.” Mrs. Scott looked amused at the sight of them.

“This is my friend June Watters,” he said.

June was surprised to find her hand enveloped in the other woman’s grasp. Her paper-thin skin was soft and cool. “Pleased to meet you,” Mrs. Scott said, shaking hands like a gentleman. Jack held the door ajar and ushered them inside.

It was cool and dark on the ground floor. The place smelled of the parched earth after a good rain. Every footfall and whisper ricocheted. Mrs. Scott wasted no time, briskly leading them toward a wide staircase and up to the main floor. “I must say, I’ve had some unusual requests in my time,” she remarked, as they passed galleries hung with landscapes, “but this takes the cake.”

June caught a glimpse of Jack lifting his finger to his lips. Mrs. Scott locked up her mouth and threw away the invisible key. June was surprised at the old woman’s deftness. In St. Jude, women like Mrs. Scott ran the library or sewing circle, but she was in charge of Picassos.

Up the stairs they went, footsteps echoing, until they came to the museum’s entrance. June hesitated, glancing at the ticket booth where her father had opened his billfold. Jack took her hand, gently leading her behind Mrs. Scott up the final set of wide stone stairs and onto the main floor of the museum.

Down the hall, June knew, there hung a Cézanne of a man sitting in a chair with his hands folded, and a John Singer Sargent of a girl with a red ribbon in her hair called
Carmela Bertagna,
and a Picasso composed of brown squares and pieces of fruit with the word
Journal
emblazoned across a small black panel at its center. Her father had laughed in front of that painting, shaking his head in delight as if he and Picasso were in on some joke, and she’d flung her arms around him, which had only made him laugh harder.

But they weren’t going down the long hallways into the other galleries. Instead, Mrs. Scott was leading them straight ahead, into the central, covered hall at the heart of the building. The vast room was fancier than a simple banquet hall; red velvet curtains hung all about its edges, which were carved with a series of grand archways on either side. Mrs. Scott pulled one of the curtains aside, and June thought this must be what Italy was like. Jack bowed, letting go of her hand.

Mrs. Scott flipped on the lights.

There, leaning against the eastern wall, stood a Jackson Pollock.

It was bigger than June had guessed it would be. Vibrant. Alive. It contained every color she knew, but it somehow achieved that with mostly black and white. She moved toward it, realizing it was twice her height and three times as long. If you looked at one spot long enough, it revealed the other colors hidden below: greens and browns, golds and beiges. The trick reminded her of what she had once read about zebras, how they were camouflaged in relationship not to their environment but to each other. It was as if color itself was camouflaged inside the painting. Part of the giant piece looked smooth like marble. Part of it looked violent, filling her with the urge to run and jump as she had as a girl. And part of it looked wet, as though it had just been made. And part of it looked like what Lake St. Jude looked like when you skipped a rock across its still surface. There was no way to have known a painting could take up this much air.

June felt as though she was being reunited with an old friend she’d never known before. She felt very worldly and very wise. Mrs. Scott and Jack and the museum and the memory of her father fell away as she drank the canvas in, top to bottom, left to right, back again, up and down. Why couldn’t she contain all of it at once?

She could feel Jack’s eyes on her.

“You did this for me?” She turned toward him.

“This is what it would be like.” His hand waved toward the painting. “Every day would be like this.”

Just like the party. June realized this would always be their problem; he would never stop gilding the world for her. He couldn’t understand that what makes a rare thing wonderful is just that: it is rare. June’s heart surged at his simple blindness. She curled a hand around the back of his neck and nestled her fingers into his short hair. She kissed him. Right there, right in front of Mrs. Scott, never mind Artie or Diane. Jack Montgomery was kind and dumb and proud of himself, and he had to be kissed.

In the Chintz Room, on the top floor of Lazarus, Lindie ordered the Little Red Hen—creamed chicken in a mashed potato nest. The dress she wore flourished with yellow roses; lemony rickrack ticked its way along the neckline. Under the table, her white patent leather Mary Janes capped cotton kneesocks. She did her best to keep from kicking the table legs, because Diane pursed her lips every time she did. The lunching ladies were doing a fine job of pretending this was an ordinary Monday afternoon. They chewed and whispered, forks scratching china, but it didn’t escape Lindie that what they were really doing was watching Diane DeSoto’s every move.

Meanwhile, Diane was watching Lindie like she was her own little pet pony. She looked so pleased. Lindie tried to ignore the brassiere digging into her rib cage and pulling at her shoulders, the crinoline scratching her waist and rasping down along her legs. Never had she felt so far from herself as when the woman at the store escorted her to the full-length mirror, hands hiding her eyes. The woman had peekabooed them open, revealing Lindie to herself as though she was the bride and her reflection, the groom.

Lindie had never understood what the word
faint
meant, not from the inside, before that moment. She’d believed it was weak to swoon at the sight of something awful, that swooning was something only prissy girls did. But in front of that mirror in the Lazarus dressing room, she felt her head grow light as a balloon, and her arms prickle, and her chest tremble, and she understood that fainting was a very wise reaction to seeing the worst of what life had to offer.

She wasn’t herself anymore. Not dressed like this. She saw the truth now. Saw that it wasn’t simply a matter of having the right dress or a mother who could show her how to wear it—she couldn’t wear a dress, not ever again. The problem of this revelation sickened and thrilled her at once. She didn’t know how she’d be able to grow up to become a woman if she couldn’t wear a dress, even though her body was turning into a woman’s body. And yet she felt a tingle of conviction run up her torso every time she let her mind trip over the discovery anew. What she felt was not hopeless or angry, but curious and proud.

Of course she wanted to rip the horrible yellow confection off immediately, but that challenge was simply a question of mind over matter. Clyde and Diane were in cahoots. Thomas was not brave. Her father was in peril. It was up to her, Lindie, to get them out of this mess. So what if Diane had forced Lindie and Thomas into telling her about Idlewyld? There was plenty to be done with the information Diane had revealed as well. Diane had underestimated her, thinking her just a dumb small-town girl. Let her keep believing it. Let Diane believe she’d bested Lindie; Lindie would keep her close, observe and calculate and gather, and, along the way, figure out how to exact revenge. Besides, the dress had an oddly powerful appeal; feeling estranged from oneself, Lindie learned, made it possible to distill one’s focus, keep one’s eye on the revenge to come.

Diane tried to pay the check, and the waitress tittered nervously that lunch was on the house. Diane feigned surprise, putting a hand on her chest and gasping, “Well, aren’t you just adorable.” She loved being treated like royalty.

They made their way back down through the department store. News of their presence had spread, and groups of starstruck Ohioans clapped and gaped along the parade route. There, at the front door, the saleswoman waited with a cart hung with garment bags and piled with hatboxes and shoes. Diane had spent hundreds of dollars on Lindie, and already Lindie knew she wouldn’t wear a stitch of it. But she turned with Diane to wave at the crowd. She was very good at this game of pretend.

The press had been called. They were outside, between the entrance and the car. Diane placed her hand on Lindie’s shoulder, instructing her to stand up straight and smile. The shutters clicked, the bulbs flashed. To the reporters, Diane spoke in generalities, about her love for the good people of Ohio, and how much she’d miss the tuna casserole. They asked who Lindie was. Diane drew Lindie closer and said she was a sweet little friend from St. Jude. “I dream of someday playing dress-up with my own daughter.”

“Has Jack proposed yet?” another reporter shouted.

Diane fluttered her eyelashes and offered up a perfect crimson blush before slipping through the car door that Thomas held ajar.

As they pulled off, Diane retrieved a gold pocket watch from her handbag. “Six o’clock, you said?” she asked.

“I don’t know anything,” Thomas mumbled, pulling away from the curb.

“But you made the reservation. So you know something.”

Thomas shrugged grudgingly. Lindie guessed this meant they were going out for dinner together before heading back to St. Jude. Maybe she would order a Shirley Temple.

“We have plenty of time for Marshall Field’s,” Diane said.

“Marshall Field’s?” Lindie whined, dropping her mask for a moment.

“You don’t think we’re done shopping just yet? We have to find you play clothes. And, besides, we’re meeting the mayor’s wife for tea.” Diane reached over to brush Lindie’s cheek with her delicate fingers. And, remembering that she was not herself, Lindie leaned in to the touch.