Art on Fire (24 page)

Francesca held up her cigarette. “A few minutes, please,” she said.

Reluctantly, Charlotte left them alone, closing the door, muting the crowd behind her.

“I hate important people.”

“I'm not important at all,” Shanta answered.

Francesca laughed. “I'll bet someone thinks you're important.

Shanta shrugged. “Anyhow, it's your party. Why stay if you're not having a good time?”

It took little to convince Francesca to bring her bike around from behind the gallery. Shanta climbed onto the back of the banana seat and held on. They drifted between cars parked on both sides of the narrow road until they had reached the quiet highway. Francesca pumped up hills with boundless energy, sped down the other side. The wind wrapped itself around them and, at the same time, kept them warm in a way that only humid sea air can. They took a long route to Shanta's condominium, along the old and barren Route 6, stopping in the middle of the road to kiss, then share a cigarette. Once again, Francesca felt her life change. She laughed at how crazy it was. First she'd been Francesca number one: hiding in the hut, dirty and reticent and awkward. Then Lisa kissed her and she became Francesca number two: awake, but lost. Now, she was Francesca number three: the artist. Freedom filled her body. She chucked her cigarette far out into the tall reeds and continued pedaling down the empty road.

In the small house on Longwood Terrace where she'd resided since 1946, Evelyn Horowitz began to forget where things were. Things that had always been in the same place. The broom, for instance. Forks. She put away the milk in the cabinets with the canned goods, left the curling iron on for hours at a time while she went to the Stop 'n Shop, arriving at the store only to discover she could not remember why she'd come. She stood in the parking lot, wearing her housecoat and slippers, metal clips ensconced in her dirty, cement-colored hair, trying to remember whether she'd walked or driven, what she'd meant to purchase, how to get back.

Her driving, too, had become erratic. The Chevy, its engine parched from lack of oil, retched along the middle of busy Whalley Avenue. Evelyn moved her foot from gas to brake, sometimes unable to remember which was which, speeding up when she meant to slow down and vice versa.

Alfonse had broached the subject as though crossing a minefield, touting the merits of the bus, boasting how he'd been a cabbie for a time and wouldn't mind honing the old skills. Never mentioned were phrases like “license revoked” or “hazard on the road,” or anything minimally inflammatory. Still, she'd pitched a fit, backed him across the carpeted living room, speckling his face in angry spit.

May 10, 1983 was a warm day. Moved by the bright blue sky and gentle spring breeze, Evelyn felt a nostalgic urge to drive to Edgewood Park and feed the ducks. She dialed the DeSilva house, then ran the tap to rinse off some dishes, always preferring to multi-task while talking on the telephone. “Put Franny on,” she said to Vivian.

“What?”

“I said put Franny on,” Evelyn repeated, irritated, slamming dishes around inside the ceramic sink.

“Ma,” Vivian put her hand on her heart and capped her pen. “Francesca is gone.”

“Who is this?”

“Ma, you called me,” said Vivian.

“Wha—?” Evelyn held the receiver away to inspect it, then banged it against the long arm of the faucet and listened again. She hung up, put on her fake beaver coat, slipped her tired, sculpted feet into bedroom scuffs, and stepped outside. At the end of her street she turned left, edged nervously along the sidewalk of the main road, having forgotten why she'd left home. A young couple passed, holding hands, swinging briefcases.

“What's the date?” she demanded.

They looked at her, then at each other.

“The date. What's the date?”

“May 10?” the man asked the woman. The woman nodded.

It was Francesca's birthday! Of course! That's what she was doing. She checked for her purse but found she'd forgotten it. No problem: Mort had known her for years. He'd let her purchase on credit. Still, she chastised herself for neglecting to order the cake ahead of time, as she used to in the old days, before age corroded her excellent memory.

She walked with greater confidence now, repeatedly whispering the word “bakery” to herself as she made a left at the bottom of the hill. She glanced up at the house where her friend Sylvia had lived before she'd gone to Florida, lost her husband, returned to New Haven, and died in the Home. Everything right on schedule. She shook her head and turned right at the main road, crossed a block, then noticed a family in front of Burger King, eating hamburgers on the hood of a car. She shook her head. “No class,” she muttered, then stepped inside the air-conditioned bakery. The bells on the door rang.

“Hi ya!” she shouted and waved in an exuberant gesture.

“Afternoon, Mrs. Horowitz,” said the baker's son.

“What about it?” she asked.

The boy looked at her, confused.

“You said ‘afternoon,' so I said ‘what about it?'” She paused, then
made a silly face, pointed her finger at him, and laughed. “Gotcha.”

He forced a laugh. “Yes, you did.”

“I forgot to order in advance,” she announced. She looked at the glass case. The cakes were so fancy. So many colors and shapes. Purple flowers, green vines. She pointed to a caramel-colored square cake with white and yellow roses on top. “That's nice,” she said. “That's a German chocolate cake.” He removed it from the case, brought it up onto the counter, inches from her nose. She could smell the sweetness of coconut and butter. “What kind of name is that?” she asked.

“Pardon?” He leaned in closer.

“German? What's German about it? That's a stupid thing to call it. Where's Mort?” She peered into the kitchen.

Another customer entered the shop. He looked at Evelyn, then at the cake.

“What's in it?” she asked, shifting her shoulder in front of the cake so the new customer couldn't see it.

“It's a coconut-chocolate instead of plain chocolate frosting, very creamy, with a caramel filling and chocolate fudge cake.”

“Whew! Busy,” said Evelyn.

“It's our most popular cake,” added the son, glancing at the new customer.

“Call it something else and I'll buy it.” She paused a moment, then winked. “I'm pulling your leg,” she said. “I want it personalized. For my granddaughter.”

The son slid the cake off the counter and onto a wood slab behind him. He removed the icer from underneath the shelf, selected a dark, red cream from the refrigerator. “And what'll it say, Mrs. Horowitz?” he asked.

“How do you know my name?”

The son pointed to himself and tried to look harmless. “I'm Ira. Don't you remember? I went to school with—” he stopped.

“You own this place now?” she asked, glancing up at the fluorescent lights aiming for the center of her eyes. She turned to look at the other customer—a stranger. More and more, people were strangers. When had so many people arrived in her city? Her face tightened with panic and she began to sweat.

“I'm Mort's son,” he said gently.

“Oh, of course you are.” Evelyn waved good-naturedly. “Anyone can tell that. Christ.”

“Is the cake for Isabella?” he asked.

“Isabella? What are you, crazy? Franny. For my Franny.”

Ira looked toward the kitchen, where his father was sliding a tray of challah breads into the oven. “I'll be right with you,” he raised his index finger and nodded at the other customer.

“Take your time,” the man nodded knowingly.

“You look familiar,” Evelyn said to the stranger.

“I'm Don Stein. I sold you homeowner's insurance.”

Aha, a German
. But she could no longer remember why this mattered.
Homeowner's insurance? What the hell is that
? I need to be insured against owning a home? She wrinkled her brow, thinking it was a crazy world, and found a dusty tissue at the bottom of her coat pocket. She dabbed at her forehead, then found some Juicy Fruit gum, folded a stick onto her tongue even though it irritated her dental work. She begrudgingly held out the pack to the German.

“You want?” she asked.

He shook his head and smiled.
Good
. She put it away, feeling around in there, finding hair clips, a receipt, some pennies.

Ira returned. He used a rubber spatula to transfer the red cream into an icing bag, then turned the cake on the wooden board and wrote
Francesca
.

“Has Francesca come home?” he asked casually.

“What?” Evelyn divided her cautious gaze between the boy and the German. “How much is this gonna set me back?” She felt at her sides for her pocketbook. “Where's my bag?” Her heart began to pound. She glared at the German.

“Perhaps you left it at home, Mrs. Horowitz,” Ira said carefully.

She hated this more than anything, the way the young, whose charge it was to be insolent and crass, were always so damn polite now that she was old. “Someone took my f-ing bag.” She began to rub her head, leaving red marks where her fingers disrupted the loose skin.

“Try not to worry, Mrs. Horowitz. I'll bet it's at home. You can pay us another time.”

Evelyn stared at the son. “You think I left it home?”

Ira flipped around, slid the boxed cake onto the counter. “Here we go,” he said.

She pointed her finger. “You're a good boy.” She took the cake from the counter and held it carefully by a delicate knot tied at the center of the butterscotch box.

“Tell Francesca Happy Birthday,” said Ira.

Evelyn stopped in the doorway, disoriented. She noticed the cake—somehow it had gotten there—and stumbled out into the day. She walked toward the parking lot, feeling her pockets for the keys and looking for the Chevy. Mort emerged from the back door then, looking like a doctor in his white coat. For a quick moment, she feared he was coming to take her away. He clapped his floury hands on his linen apron.

“Mrs. H.,” he said. “How's my favorite customer?”

“You big flirt,” said Evelyn.

“I only flirt with my most beautiful customers. The rest come in and I hide in the kitchen—”

“Oh, get out of here—” Evelyn blushed, waved her free hand.

Mort opened the car door. “Let's go find that pocketbook.”

“It's probably right where I left it,” said Evelyn, making a face, disgusted with herself.

Mort bent over and extended his hand in a grand gesture of chivalry. Evelyn eased herself into the car. He closed the door gently and hopped around to the other side.

Such a young man. So good looking
. She wished she could remember his name. He turned the air conditioning on full blast, and backed out of the gravel lot, took the side streets up through the small neighborhood. Evelyn looked at him. She could not remember who he was or where they were going. Behind him, through the window, she saw the familiar matchbox houses, the gardens of daffodils, geraniums, little aprons of grass. How comforted she was by her neighborhood. Even if she could not remember where she was coming from or where she was going, she always knew these plain little streets.

Though Mort offered to help her up the stairs, Evelyn was adamant she could do it herself. Still he waited in the car. She tried
to hurry but her knees were unsteady and it was tricky, balancing the cake and concentrating as she raised each foot up to the next step. She dragged her hand along the rusted banister. When finally she got to the top, she was relieved to see she'd left the door unlocked. Her pocketbook was right there on the sofa. She picked it up and walked back to the door, held it in the air. Mort waved, tooted his horn, then backed out. She watched him go, trying to remember who he was and what he was doing in her driveway. She looked at the cake in her hand and thought she might sit down and have a slice along with a cold glass of milk.

By 1987, Francesca had achieved notoriety as a young painter of prodigious talent. Paul DeVaine, in
art
, called her “the first female painter to make gender irrelevant,”
⁶²
though many others objected to this classification. Lucinda Dialo wrote, in a letter to the editor, “In fact, deSilva's concerns are not with making gender irrelevant—quite the opposite. Never has a painter turned such a fierce and unsparing eye upon the female gender.”
⁶³

And Cynthia Bell added, in a letter published in the same issue of the magazine, “DeSilva is less concerned with the
experience
of women; rather, like so many celebrated male artists throughout history, she was driven by desire for women and all the conflicting feelings unearthed by that desire—repulsion, disgust, fascination, worship, and so forth. Once again, Paul DeVaine, surprising no one, sidesteps the unique source of tension in deSilva's work: her reluctance to view the world through the only lens she possesses—that of a lesbian. In her ambivalence about the female gender, she is far more connected to her male peers than her female predecessors; however, because she remains branded a “female painter,” she bears sad little connection to any of them (except perhaps her friend and compatriot, Jean Michel Basquiat).”
⁶⁴