The Wicked Redhead, page 8
Fergus raised his head. “Excuse me for a moment, please.”
“Okeydokey.”
He set down the magnifying glass and went to the shelves behind the counter. Ran his fingers along the spines. His movements were jerky, full of excess energy. Ella’s hand was still inside her laptop bag, rubbing the curve of her silent cell phone. Fergus made a noise in his throat and pulled out a volume from the shelf at the top, a catalog of some kind, shiny and floppy. He opened it as he walked back to the display table. Flipped through pages, wetting his finger every so often.
“Here!” He thrust the book forward.
Ella, taken by surprise, took it gingerly. The page before her looked like an encyclopedia entry, illustrated with sepia cards, all of them depicting the Redhead in various poses, various scenes. She was naked or mostly naked in each one, her miraculous chest in clear, adoring focus, her face either disguised or turned away, her hair the only patch of color. Redhead Goes to Bat. Redhead Takes the Cake. Redhead Dreaming. Bon Voyage, Redhead.
“They sold in their thousands when they came out,” Fergus said. “But very few survive to the present day. Maybe a dozen or so examples of each. Lost or thrown out by wives and lovers, probably.”
“When were they made?”
“The first one was issued in 1922. The last one in 1924. A new photograph came out every month or two, and its arrival would have been much anticipated among the gentlemen of Manhattan.”
“I’ll bet. But it’s not exactly pornography, is it? It’s something else.”
“Actually, the photographer was a minor artist. A fellow who went by the name of Anatole, although his legal name was Andrew Green. Andy Green. You can see the skill in composition, the way he poses her, the way he lights the scene.”
“He was in love with her.”
“Probably. We don’t know anything about the model herself, unfortunately. Not even her name.”
Ella looked up from the catalogue. “Seriously? Nobody knows her name?”
Fergus shook his head. “Nothing at all. She’s like a ghost. Appeared in 1922 out of nowhere, disappeared in 1924. No other pictures of her exist, just these. And a series of six or seven paintings by Anatole himself—nobody’s exactly sure how many—which were exhibited in early 1922, before the first card was printed. At the time, they were a sensation.”
Ella pointed to Redhead Beside Herself. “You mean like that one above that sofa?”
“Yes,” Fergus said.
“Where are they now? The paintings?”
“Again, nobody knows. Nobody even knows what they look like. Like the Redhead herself, they disappeared. Not a single one has ever come up for public sale since the original exhibition. We can only speculate how they were executed, based on the descriptions in the reviews at the time. The reviews of the exhibition, I mean. The gallery itself is long gone, of course, and its records and descriptions with it.”
“Well, except this one, I guess. We know what that portrait looks like, the one above the sofa.”
Fergus looked back down at the card on the table, lying on its cloth of black felt. He picked up the magnifying glass, and his hand was shaking a little. “But that’s what’s so extraordinary, Miss Gilbert. Has your aunt had this card in her sole possession, all these years?”
“I don’t know. I guess so. I think she knew the Redhead, actually. So maybe it was a gift or something.”
“She knew the Redhead?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s what she said. I don’t remember her exact words. I think they used to hang out at the same places, back in the twenties. Speakeasies and that kind of thing. My aunt was a flapper.”
Fergus straightened again. Laid down the magnifying glass. Reached for his eyeglasses and set them carefully back on the bridge of his nose. “Is it possible for me to speak to your aunt, Miss Gilbert?” His voice trembled.
“I don’t know. She’s a very private person. Kind of difficult, to be honest. And she’s old, obviously. Ninety-six years old.”
“If I could just speak to her. I’d be happy to drive out and meet her in person—”
“But why?” Ella demanded. “What’s so extraordinary about this card?”
Fergus took a deep breath and knit his fingers across his ribs, almost like he was readying himself to pray. “Because Redhead Beside Herself never actually made it to sale. It was the last of the series. Printing was halted and the cards themselves disappeared. Presumed destroyed, all these years. And nobody has ever seen one, until now.”
BY THE TIME ELLA returned to Hector’s apartment, it was almost lunchtime, and she was both ravenous and nauseous at the same time. That was a bad sign, wasn’t it? She opened the fridge. For a guy, Hector kept a fair amount of fresh groceries on hand. There were apples and carrots in the fruit drawer, eggs and cheese, a tub of hummus, milk and juice and pickles—pickles, dear God!—and three different kinds of mustard. None of it appealed to Ella. She shut the fridge and went to the fruit bowl and started to unpeel a banana, but the smell made her gag. She set it down again and poured a glass of milk, which she sipped slowly, sitting at the counter. Staring at the open shelves of glasses and thinking about how much bourbon she had drunk here, how much wine. Not every day, never enough to get drunk, but still. She put her head down on the counter, on top of her folded arms. She should be drinking orange juice, right? She’d heard something about the importance of folic acid.
On the other hand, what did it matter? She might still lose this one, like the others. And even if she didn’t . . .
She lifted her head and reached for the laptop bag, before the thought could take hold. Before the word, even, could sound itself out in her head. Unzipped the main compartment and pulled out the ziplock bag containing the felt sack that now contained the Redhead.
Fergus hadn’t wanted to part with her. Asked Ella if she realized just how much this card was worth, if she realized that some of the world’s wealthiest men were Redhead collectors. He could pick up that phone, he said (pointing to the telephone on the sales counter, next to the tarnished brass cash register with the pop-up numbers), and get her a dozen six-figure offers for Redhead Beside Herself, not including museums, not including universities.
No dice, Ella had said. Sentimental value. The Redhead belonged to her.
Think it over, said Fergus. And in the meantime, maybe he could speak to her aunt? Drive out to the Hamptons and meet her?
Sorry, Ella said. Aunt Julie’s sick.
That was a lie, her first lie. The second lie was more in the nature of an omission. She thought about telling Fergus what she knew, as he wrapped up Redhead Beside Herself in her swaddling. His long, manicured fingers caressed the photograph; at each painstaking step in this process—wiping the card clean, slipping it inside the felt sack, folding the sides of the sack so it encased the card exactly—he let out aggrieved sighs. Possibly he was contemplating murdering Ella and taking the Redhead for himself; possibly he was calculating the odds that he could get away with it. The necessary logistics for such a crime, in a city like New York. When he finished, he presented the ziplock to Ella with both hands, still covered by their felt gloves.
Let me know if you change your mind, he said.
Ella grasped the sides of the plastic bag and said she would.
And as they stood there in the center of the shop, the glass display case between them, each holding a piece of the Redhead, she thought maybe she should go ahead and tell him the Redhead’s name.
But she didn’t.
ELLA TOOK THE MILK and the ziplock bag and her cell phone into the bedroom, Hector’s bedroom, and lay down in the middle of the bed. Nellie jumped up behind her and settled near the warm part of Ella’s waist, turning around three times before curling into a tight, silken ball. Nellie didn’t go to sleep, though. She kept her round eyes open, fixed anxiously on Ella’s face.
Ella had been right about Hector. He was a fantastic lover, and the most amazing thing about Saturday night—the telling thing, in Ella’s view—was this: he had only come once. He spent the entire night running up to the brink of orgasm and drawing back. They made love on the bed, on the sofa, on the piano; sitting up and lying down; they had made love with their mouths and hands; they had made love with words and deeds. But Ella was the one who climaxed, over and over, while Hector just paused and bided his time. What about you? she asked breathlessly, at one point, and he kissed her and said he was just enjoying the journey, not to worry, they had all night. Ella was mystified. With Patrick it was all about the orgasm, it was all about the finish line. During one twenty-four-hour period on their honeymoon, he came five times and called it his PB. His personal best. The last one took forever, but he refused to quit until he got there. Ella was so sore the next day, she couldn’t wear her swimsuit.
Hector, on the other hand. Whereas Patrick turned inward during sex, concentrated on his own pleasure, actually rated each climax on a scale of 1 to 10, Hector went outward. He was fascinated by Ella, transfixed by Ella’s responses and by the arc of Ella’s sexual experience. Only at the end of the night did he let himself go. Ella lay on her back on the edge of the bed, and Hector was thrusting luxuriously, holding her hips, and for some reason—some surge of reckless trust—she opened her eyes, and there was Hector, eyes also open, watching her watching him in the literal act of making love. Ella thought, This is the sexiest thing I’ve ever done. She reached up and touched his cheek, and the next second his hands tightened, his shudders passed through his body and into hers, on and on, and she was so happy she thought she might pass out. His joy was her joy. At the end, he sank quietly atop her, and she loved his weight, his tranquility, his silence. When he lifted himself away and took care of the condom, she rolled on her side and watched him. His rangy, unashamed limbs, his olive skin. Nellie came up to him as he emerged from the bathroom, and he bent down and caressed her ears. Ella held out her arms and said, Let’s go to sleep now.
So they slept.
But this was Monday afternoon, not Saturday night, and though Ella was lying in the same spot in the middle of the bed, the same dog curled into her waist, she couldn’t gather back that peace. Just couldn’t find the sense of that moment, the proximity of Hector, the way it felt to drift to sleep to the rhythm of Hector’s breathing. She put her hand on her stomach and thought, If only you were Hector’s baby. This would be so simple if you belonged to Hector. If, in some alternate universe, she had discovered Patrick’s seedy habits a month earlier, and Hector hadn’t been so careful with the condoms. And for an instant she pictured telling Hector he was going to be a father, what he would say. The strangeness of making a baby with someone you had only known for a month, the rightness of its being Hector. She felt sure that Hector would be happy. Dazed, maybe, but happy. He would be into the idea of fatherhood. He would find her pregnancy sexy. Six weeks. Six stupid weeks, and this would be Hector’s baby, and it would be complicated but it would be okay.
Poor baby. Not your fault. You can’t choose your daddy, can you?
That’s mommy’s job.
And mommy kind of screwed up. Not on purpose. Actually, it was daddy’s screwup, but mommy should have known, she should have realized long before what daddy was up to. Should have realized that daddy and mommy were inhabiting two completely different marriages. Just like Aunt Julie had realized and known.
Ella sat up and drank the rest of the milk. Unwrapped the ziplock bag and the felt until Redhead Beside Herself rested on Ella’s lap, her skin bathed in ethereal light. Geneva, Ella thought. That was her name, the name Aunt Julie had called her. A woman named Geneva Kelly, who had lived right here in this building and then disappeared. Was that the reason for all those sympathetic clarinets echoing about the walls? The jazz band drifting through the cinder-block wall in the basement, the speakeasy laughter interrupted, from time to time, by a gunshot and a scream? Who knew, maybe the Redhead had also gotten herself knocked up by the wrong fellow. Or maybe that was the least of her troubles. A woman like that, she could get into any kind of trouble she wanted.
Ella flipped open her cell and scrolled through the memory list until she found Aunt Julie’s number at Maidstone Meadows. The phone rang and rang. Aunt Julie had her own apartment at the Meadows—Tombstone Meadows, as the residents blithely called it—and her own private line, but she never had turned on the voice mail function. Also, she only picked up the receiver when she felt like it. If you really wanted to speak to Aunt Julie, you had to drive out to the Hamptons and find her.
After the fourteenth ring (Ella counted), she hung up. Sat with the phone in her lap and stared not at the Redhead, but at Nellie. The wonderful thing about dogs; you could gaze at each other without embarrassment, without the naked intimacy that she’d shared with Hector Saturday night. With Nellie, there was no intensity, no nakedness. Just a frank exchange of opinion. You should call him, Nellie told her. It’s the right thing to do. The poor man is worried sick, and it’s not his fault. He did everything right.
But I can’t tell him now. Not over the damned telephone. Not before I’ve even told Patrick.
You don’t have to tell him that. Just tell him you’re alive.
Ella flipped the phone back open and dialed Hector’s cell number. Prayed it would go to voice mail, but he picked up on the second ring.
“Ella! Are you all right?”
Deep breath.
“I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m so sorry. I should have called you before. I just—I just . . .” I just found out I’m pregnant with my husband’s baby. “It was just so much.”
There was the slightest pause. “Okay,” he said slowly, and then, “Hold on a sec.” (She heard him talking to someone, faintly.) “Give me a minute, okay? Yeah, I’ll catch up. Go ahead, I’ll get a taxi.” (Then his voice again, low and urgent.) “Ella?”
“Right here.”
“Where are you now? How did everything go at work?”
“I resigned, actually. Handed in my letter. It turned out they weren’t going to fire me after all, but I resigned anyway.”
“Happy?”
“Yeah. I think so. Still a little dazed. How about you? How’s everything with the movie?”
“It’s great. It’s great. I played them my stuff. They were excited. Going to watch the rough cut now. Ella, seriously. Are we good? You’re okay? You didn’t answer my question. Where are you?”
She smiled. “I’m sitting on your bed right now, okay? Thinking about you. Nellie’s here with me. She misses you. Says hello.”
There was an audible release of breath on the mouthpiece. “You have no idea—”
“I know, I know. I just—the sound of your voice—I couldn’t even read your note at first. I missed you too much. It hurt too much. It hurts to hear your voice right now.”
“Ella, you have no idea, no idea how much it hurt to walk out of that apartment Sunday morning. The sun wasn’t even up. Everything dark. Felt like I’d ripped myself open and left my guts behind with you.”
“Eww.”
He laughed. “Sorry. What I mean is that I hated that, I hated walking away from you without saying good-bye or anything. Then the radio silence. So I basically went from miserable to worried. Then frantic worried. First I thought you’d freaked out because I came on too strong, and then I thought—well, I thought the opposite, like maybe I didn’t make myself clear enough.”
“No. I mean, neither one of those things.”
“Because, just to be clear, Ella, crystal clear, that was it for me. Saturday night was it. Being with you, that was the best night of my life, on every level, does that make sense? You know what I mean, right? Don’t be afraid. Don’t think you need to hold back.”
“Okay,” she whispered. “I won’t.”
“Ella. You’re okay?”
“Yes. Sorry. You’re just making me cry, that’s all. Saying all that—and your voice—I’ve always loved your voice.”
“Well, you had me going last night in my big lonely hotel room when I hadn’t heard back, so fair’s fair.”
“I am so, so sorry for that. I was a total jerk. I was just scared, I guess.”
“That’s what I figured. That’s what I hoped. I mean, not that I wanted you to be scared, but—”
“I know. I’m not. I mean, I’m not scared about—it’s not what you think. It’s not you.”
“As in, it’s not you, it’s me?”
“No! I mean, yes. I mean . . .”
She faltered and went helplessly silent. Turned to Nellie, who laid her head on her paws and looked worried. The door to the living room stood open, and she could just see the black tip of the piano around the corner, surrounded by the gloom of a rainy Manhattan afternoon, and her breath stopped in her throat.
Hector said, “Phones suck, don’t they?”
“Yes.”
“So I have an idea. I’m taking the red-eye back Friday night. Let’s not talk until then. We’ll say it all on Saturday. Whatever needs saying. How does that sound?”
“Sounds like you’re going to miss your taxi.”
“Fuck the taxi. Saturday morning. Do we have a date?”
Ella closed her eyes. “I’ll make the coffee,” she said.
“Good. Great. Perfect. Love coffee. I will be thinking about nothing else.”
“Me neither.”
“Okay, then. Agreed. No more words. Hanging up now.”
“Hanging up.”
“I love you,” he said, and clicked off.
Act II
We Are Cleft in Twain
(sic transit gloria mundi)
COCOA BEACH, FLORIDA
April 1924
1
A THING YOU may not know about me: I am a bastard. I was born a full two years before my mama married my step-daddy, and I never did know the man who sired me. Some New York swell, whose identity I have never discovered. He must have been a devil, however, if he left my mama and me to the tender protection of Duke Kelly.
