Leap Year (15 page)

ORCA
:      Are you aware that witnesses say Amanda was at the reception at the time of the shooting?

HEATH
:    Yes, but she wasn’t. She and Anton came into the office.

ORCA
:      Heath, we have a surprise for you. Let me welcome Leonora Trumpet, the well-known lifestyles expert. Welcome, Ms. Trumpet.

LEONORA
:     That’s Trom
pay.

ORCA
:      I’m sorry: pay. Welcome to “The Orca Show.” Now tell us, you claim Amanda was speaking with you at the time of the shooting?

LEONORA
:     Yes. I had been introduced by Ms. Paine to Mr. Jackson. We were chatting when Solange—Mrs. Shawangunk—appeared. There was obviously something stewing between her and Mr. Jackson. And I mean stewing as in hot!

HEATH
:    Hey, wait a minute…

LEONORA
:     Well, they excused themselves and disappeared into the office. Amanda and I continued talking—we were, in fact, discussing the alleged murderer’s photographs. A short while later, she wanted to show me slides that were located in the office. We entered that room to discover the scene you described: Mr. Jackson holding the gun, and Mrs. Shawangunk lying on the floor, moaning and bleeding. It was awful.

HEATH
:    This lady’s out of her mind.
(Leonora weeps; Orca holds her hand.)

ORCA
:      Let’s hear from one of our viewers. Mike, are you ready with a phone call? Go ahead.

VIEWER
:     Hi, Heath. I think you’re great, and I really like your work. My question is: what speed film do you use?

HEATH
:    It depends what I’m shooting.

LEONORA
:     What if you’re shooting Solange Shawangunk?

ORCA
:      We’ll be back with Heath Jackson after this important message.

SECOND COMMERCIAL BREAK

ORCA
:      Heath, it seems to me that like many of these crimes of passion, there are questions here that won’t be resolved until the case comes to trial. Far be it from me, Orca, to try to answer those questions at this time. So let’s turn our attention away from the specifics of the case and talk about your personal life. Tell me, Heath, were you sexually abused as a child?

HEATH
:    No, I wasn’t.

ORCA
:      It helps to talk about it. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Are you sure you weren’t sexually abused?

HEATH
:    Not that I recall.

ORCA
:      I understand the content of your photographs is controversial. Is it true that many of your photographs depict sexual relationships between people and animals?

HEATH
:    NO.

ORCA
:      NO? What about this one? Mike, can we get this on the monitor so the people at home can see? Great. Tell us, Heath, what’s this a picture of?

HEATH
:    That’s my boyfriend and his cat.

ORCA
:      Your boyfriend?

HEATH
:    Well, my ex-boyfriend.

ORCA
:      Are you trying to tell us you’re gay? I thought you were having an affair with Solange Shawangunk.

HEATH
:    That affair is a fabrication of sick minds.

ORCA
:      Heath, are you bisexual? Or is it multi-sexual? Men, women, cats? How about children, Heath? Little boys? Do they turn you on?

HEATH
:    Sorry, Orca, I’m just gay.

ORCA
:      Well, Heath, I’m afraid our time is up. I do thank you for joining us today. You folks at home, don’t go away. We’ll be back after this brief message, with Dr. Kelli Loe, author of
Whence This Rage: Working Women in Love
…

Solange heard the TV go off. Anton came and sat down beside her. She could smell him. She tried to speak, but the words she made sounded, even to her, like gibberish. Faraway gibberish. She wasn’t even sure what she was trying to say; maybe that’s why it came out so distorted. She could sense Anton leaning over her, the warmth of him, his smell. She could smell his fear. Or was it hers? What does Anton have to be afraid of? She tried to raise her hand to touch him, but it wouldn’t move. For some reason, all she could see was the hotel room in Aix: the doors to the terrace open, the curtains blowing back into the room. It was raining, and they were making love, for the first time after so long.…She could smell the rain. The traffic on the wet street. Her head was hanging off the bed, her neck hurt, the ceiling so far away, so beautiful, Anton above her, between her and the ceiling, like now, only.…She felt his hands on her arms—what was he doing? And then she knew. They were both afraid. The rain was coming in the windows, falling on them. The wind had turned cold. The curtain flapping.…No. She shut it all out, stopped, thought of what to say, concentrated, forced talk to bubble up from deep inside her, words she could not hear, but kept repeating, over and over, Darling, don’t kill me, darling, don’t kill me, no, darling, no, don’t kill me, please, my darling, no.…

“I
S
G
REGORY STRONGER
than Daddy?” asked Kate.

“Well, Gregory is bigger,” said Loren.

“But is he stronger?”

“Maybe,” said Loren. “Just a little.”

“Gregory used to threw me up, when he put me to bed. He’d threw me up and catch me.”

“Throw me up,” said Loren. “What book do you want to read?”

“I don’t want to read,” said Kate. “I want Gregory to threw me up and catch me.”

“He can’t,” said Loren. “He doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Is he on vacation?”

“No,” said Loren. “Maybe Daddy will throw you up. Should I go get him?”

“No,” said Kate.

“Daddy used to throw you up. When you were little. You’re getting too big for that now.”

“No I’m not. It’s because Daddy’s weak.”

“Daddy’s not weak.”

“He’s weaker than Gregory.”

“Daddy does other things for you. He took you to see
Bambi
.”

“Bambi’s mother died,” said Kate.

“I know,” said Loren. “That was very sad, wasn’t it?”

“Did you almost die, when the wall crashed on you?”

“No,” said Loren. “I just got some bad cuts. Some booboos. But I’m all better.”

“You have scars,” said Kate.

“Yes,” said Loren. “But scars are okay. They mean you’re better. Now, are you sure you don’t want to read a book? What about
Bambi
?”

“No,” said Kate. “If Daddy threw me up, would he drop me?”

“No,” said Loren. “Of course not. He’d catch you. And throw you up again. Should I get him?”

“No,” said Kate.

“Daddy loves you. He would never drop you. I love you, too. Do you want me to throw you up?”

“No,” said Kate. “Is Daddy your boyfriend?”

“Yes,” said Loren. “I suppose he is.”

“What about Gregory?”

“Gregory is my friend. He’s not my boyfriend anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because you can only have one boyfriend at a time.”

“So you take turns?”

“No,” said Loren. “Well, sometimes. But the idea is to find one person, forever.”

“Oh,” said Kate. She thought for a moment. “Is Gregory homeless now?”

“Of course not,” said Loren. “He lives in California.”

“He has a house there?”

“Yes,” said Loren.

“How do you know?”

“He told me.”

“Does it have a pool?”

“I’m not sure,” said Loren.

“Can I go visit him?”

“Maybe,” said Loren. “Someday.”

Amanda Paine found orchestrating a cover-up a not unpleasant task. She had a flair for it. Perhaps I should run for public office, she thought. Or better yet, be appointed to public office. Something with the New York State Council on the Arts. Someone would eventually have to replace Kitty Carlisle Hart.

The future of the Gallery Shawangunk was uncertain. Heath’s show had sold out, and Amanda was planning to curate for MOLTCATO come September. In the interim, she visited the gallery infrequently. Margot Geiger was there every day and had proved herself adept at handling the curious crowds who came to gawk at Heath’s work.

One particularly dead August afternoon, when Amanda had stopped in the gallery to see about cleaning out her desk, Margot appeared in her office doorway, seeking an audience. Amanda bade her sit. “What is troubling you, my child?” she asked, à la the Mother Superior in
The Sound of Music.
Unfortunately she had the feeling that Margot would prove to be a less malleable novitiate than Julie Andrews.

“Well, it’s about this murder stuff,” Margot began.

“Attempted murder,” Amanda corrected.

“Whatever,” said Margot. “It’s just that …well, I feel…you know what I told the police? About seeing you and Anton in the gallery when it happened? Well, I’ve been thinking, maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Why ever not?”

“Because I don’t think I did.”

“Did you see us in the gallery before the…the event?”

“Yes.”

“And after?”

“Yes.”

“Then doesn’t it follow, my dear child, that we were there
during
?”

“Well, not really,” said Margot.

Amanda sighed. How exasperating people could be! “Margot,” she said, “the police do not believe you were a private detective. You were a young woman at a very crowded, very happening social event. As I recall you had been drinking.”

“I had a glass of champagne.”

“Exactly,” said Amanda. “Of course you did. That is my point: You were at a party. And it is in that social context that you gave your statement to our friends the police. I hardly think they expected you to be scrutinizing the crowd, noting every single appearance and disappearance.”

“Well, maybe I should have made that clearer—that my statement was, you know, not professional. My mother thinks—”

“Your mother!” exclaimed Amanda. “Really, Margot, let’s leave our mothers out of this.”

“But I needed advice.”

“All the more reason to avoid one’s mother. Darling, listen to me. If one wants advice, one talks to one’s hairdresser. One’s therapist. The salesgirls at Agnes B. In a pinch, perhaps to one’s friends. But darling, one does not consult one’s mother! Call Mathilde Krim, call Ivana Trump, but for God’s sake let your mother enjoy her golden years in peace.”

Margot was offended. Her mother was only forty-four. “What about you?” she asked Amanda. “May I ask you for advice?”

“Of course you may,” said Amanda. “I would be delighted to advise you.”

“What do you think I should do? Should I see the police about modifying my statement?”

Amanda pretended to ponder this. “No,” she decided. “I think not. The less you have to do with the police the better. Further contact with them, altering your statement—which we have agreed is acceptably accurate—will only draw attention to yourself. There are times, of course, when women benefit from attention, but I assure you that this is not one of those times.”

“So you are thinking of my best interest?”

“But of course I am,” said Amanda.

“I wonder, while you are considering my best interest, if you could tell me who will succeed you as gallery director in September?”

“Well,” said Amanda, thinking, The little bitch. The revolting, scheming little wormette. “That is Solange’s decision. It is, after all, still her gallery. If she were to die—God forbid”—and here she paused to cross herself, unpracticed heathen though she was—“it would become Anton’s decision. In that case, I would use my influence with him, negligible though it is, to help chose my successor.”

“Have you any candidates in mind?” asked Margot.

“I haven’t given it much thought,” said Amanda. “But I see now that it is time I did. Let us be perfectly honest with each other, Margot. You have proved to be an excellent assistant, but you must know that it would be highly unlikely for you to be appointed director.”

“But do you think it an impossibility?” asked Margot.

“I like to think,” said Amanda, “that nothing is impossible.”

“So do I,” said Margot. She stood up.

“Then we have an agreement?” asked Amanda.

“Yes,” said Margot. “I think we do.”

L
ILLIAN STOOD, TRANSFIXED
by a landscape of Rubenesque red peppers. She was at Davenport’s Farm Stand, buying produce, one of her favorite bucolic activities. She came every day and lingered in the cool, shaded shed, shaking cantaloupe, peeling back the leaves of corn, sifting through the bin of tomatoes, seeking the reddest, firmest, loveliest specimens. Hers was a quest for perfection, and it was a quest with many easy rewards, some of them sublime. Is there anything more perfect than the perfect peach?

“What’s wrong?” asked a voice.

Lillian looked up from the peppers. The man from the pond was standing in the next aisle, behind a landslide of lemons and limes.

“Oh,” said Lillian. “Hi. I was just…uh, you know…”

“Vegging out?” the man said.

“No,” said Lillian. “It’s just the peppers, they looked so incredibly beautiful, it was weird for a moment.”

“What, is this 1968? Are you tripping?”

“No,” said Lillian. “I’m just easily…”

“Stimulated?” the man suggested. He came around and looked in her basket. “You need a lemon,” he said, dropping one in. “You’ve got to maintain a careful balance of colors.” He was standing close enough so that Lillian could smell him. He smelled a little of sweat and a little of cut grass.

“Are you a food stylist?” Lillian asked.

“Kind of,” he said. “I run a restaurant.”

“Oh,” said Lillian. “I thought you were learning the piano.”

“Well, that’s true. That’s what I really do. This restaurant thing is just a hobby.”

“Where is it?” asked Lillian. She had no idea where these questions were coming from. It suddenly occurred to her that she was flirting. This realization almost stunned her—it had been ages since she had last indulged in this sort of behavior, but somehow she managed to collect her wits.