Lion's Share (14 page)

“The reason I called,” Steve Whitman began while Jana pressed the receiver to her chest and looked over a letter the intern had typed, “is that Sara George, one of our former administrators, now works for the Department of Cultural Affairs in New York City. She saw the slides you submitted for a possible commission over the summer, and suggested I get in touch with you. We're in the process of curating an exhibition scheduled for this coming March entitled ‘Three Artists, Three Cities,' and Sara thought I should I consider your work. I realize it's short notice, but could you rush copies of the slides to me?”

Jana caught her breath. “I have them right in front of me,” she said. “If you give me the address, I'll get them to the post office before six tonight.” She scribbled the address down, got off the phone, typed a new label, placed it over the DCA address, and told Natalie she had to run. “You won't believe what Whitman wanted,” she added, hurrying out the door. Harriman might have prevented the DCA commission, but he had no control over other invitations resulting from her efforts.

“Sara George.” As she headed for the post office, Jana repeated the name Steve Whitman mentioned. She couldn't recall having heard it before, but she owed Sara George one hell of a favor now. Much as she would have liked to suppose her paintings had been noticed on their own merit, she'd been around the scene long enough to realize her résumé, with “Curator: The Paperworks Space” boldly on the top, had made the first impression.

Before the month was out, Steve Whitman had called to say he found her work perfect for the Three Artists, Three Cities show; his secretary would be mailing the contract next week. Before the month was out, Jana found herself spending every night at Ed's apartment. They seemed to grow closer every night—emotionally, if not physically. “This
is
making love,” Ed assured her.

ED WALKED into the restaurant with that same peacock strut Jana had observed last March. He kissed her hello, sat down, and ordered a split of champagne. “Here's to Frank's levelheadedness,” he said, lifting his glass. “I told him we're seeing each other.”

“What? Why?” Jana's first swallow went down the wrong pipe. She'd heard stories about men spreading their romantic conquests throughout the office, but she hadn't expected it from Ed.

“Hey, take it easy,” Ed said. “I
had
to talk to Frank. It's one thing to have a few dinners with someone who works for an organization we're funding. Even spending a night or two with them isn't exactly condoned by the higher-ups, but everyone tends to look the other way. Seeing that person on a regular basis is another story, and we've been together a month now.”

Trying to stay calm, Jana asked what Frank had said. Ed's chest puffed out again. “He told me what I did on my own time was my business. He assumed I was a consenting adult when he hired me, and he'll continue to expect adult behavior from me. Then he went on to praise the work I've done so far on the exhibition.”

“That's all?”

“Just about all. There were the usual formalities—he assured himself that my interest in you had no bearing on my recommendation of The Paperworks Space for funding, and he warned me to let him know if I saw our relationship starting to interfere with my job. All said and done, it wasn't nearly as tricky as I'd feared.”

Jana set her glass down firmly on the table. “What if he'd said no?” Ed was letting Frank call the shots. If Frank had said they couldn't see each other, he'd have sent her back to her own apartment. It was that scene at camp all over again. “You have to go back to your bunk tomorrow,” the doctor had told her. “The counselors are getting suspicious because you're here all the time.”

“Hey, Frank didn't say no.” Ed's voice was saying. “At worst, I imagined he might take me off the exhibition, but he wasn't going to insist we stop seeing each other. Basically, I think he's happy for us. His last words were ‘enjoy yourself.'”

The same thought simultaneously crossed both their minds:
Little does he know.
They burst out laughing. “Does Frank suspect there's a scared high school virgin underneath this polished surface?” Jana asked when she'd caught her breath again.

“There won't be for long,” Ed promised.

Everything seemed simple while Jana was at Yaddo: she'd lose her virginity within a week at most, then she'd see a gynecologist. But she'd been with Ed for over a month now, and she was still a virgin. The longer she put off going to a doctor, the more intimidating the prospect loomed. No matter how responsive she might be to Ed's gentle fingers, she didn't trust the excitement to continue. Some manipulative doctor could touch her in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and that would be the end of it. All she needed now was to wind up with another Dr. Anderson.

She'd gone to Natalie's gynecologist six years ago. Before even starting the examination, Dr. Anderson asked if her periods had been regular, then scolded her viciously when Jana responded that she didn't know. After what seemed a grueling examination, she diagnosed a yeast infection and gave Jana a tube of medication, along with an applicator that looked like a gaping needle, instructing her to apply it twice daily. “Isn't there a pill I can take instead?” she pleaded, revolted at the prospect of touching herself “there.” Making no effort to hide her disgust, Dr. Anderson asked if she had ever thought of seeing a psychiatrist. An hour later Natalie assured her crying friend that yeast infections eventually went away on their own. Wrapping the tube and applicator securely in a brown paper bag, Jana threw it in a garbage can.

Thinking back on it now, Jana felt a chill that probably had more to do with this paper gown that was supposedly covering her. It didn't wrap all the way around and had ripped when she'd lifted herself onto the high table. Recalling Ed's promise that there would be more, and better, love-making to come, Jana waited nervously for this new doctor. The stirrups, threatening a few inches away from her unshaven legs, didn't seem as far apart as they had been on Dr. Anderson's table. She lay back, testing the feel of it: hard.

A knock on the door. Dr. Barbash, a short plump woman with freckles, her hair in one long braid, entered. She sat on the stool at the end of the table, then walked its wheels closer, like a kid who'd outgrown her tricycle. She fumbled with some instruments in a metal tray.

Jana tensed as she felt the gloved finger enter. There was pain, but she had felt similar pain before: it was Ed's pain. The glove paused. Dr. Barbash told her to take a deep breath. She took a Pap smear, then reached for a different instrument and continued probing. Jana screamed. Dr. Barbash eased her way out. “Almost done now, stay there for one more moment.”

She caught sight of the glove suspended in air and had to fight the temptation to reach out and fondle it. This was not Ed, Jana told herself—the doctor's hand might have entered her vaginal cavity, but it did not bask in her wetness. Instead it pulled a tissue from a gray, unmarked box and wiped her dry.

Dr. Barbash told her to get dressed, then come across the hall to her office. Jana found it uncomfortable to close her legs, hard to walk straight. The thick seam of her jeans rubbed painfully against her crotch.

“I suggest you continue using prophylactics for the time being,” Dr. Barbash began. She explained that birth control pills had too many side effects once a woman turned thirty, and in Jana's case a diaphragm might cause needless pain. Apparently her vagina was “the size of a seventeen-year-old's.”

“I feel an obstruction there, possibly a cyst,” Dr. Barbash continued, “but I can't get close enough to tell precisely what it is. As your sex life increases, you'll be easier to examine. Meanwhile, let's wait and see if the Pap smear indicates any problems.” She asked Jana to find out if her mother took DES during pregnancy, commenting that similar blockages were often found in DES babies. Smiling reassuringly, she ushered her new patient to the door.

On the subway downtown, Jana struck upon the perfect image for the Artistic Response to the Environment exhibition: a series of inkblots. She'd title them “Vaginal Blockages: DES Babies.” “No thinking about the environment exhibition today,” she chided herself, closing her eyes in disgust. As Natalie continually reminded her, life at The Paperworks Space couldn't come to a halt simply because of the city-wide exhibition. They scheduled twelve six-week shows, two at a time, with three days between shows for taking one down and hanging the next. Life was always busiest during these interim periods.

The packer was putting the lids on three crates when Jana walked in. “The artist isn't going to be very happy about getting these back,” Natalie mumbled.

“I know,” Jana said. Those crates seemed larger and more imposing today than when they'd first arrived. “How many sold?”

“Two. And they were the cheapest works.”

“Does he know yet?”

“Not unless you told him. Those details are your responsibility.”

“I was trying to forget.” Jana sat down and shoved paper in her typewriter. She banged out the artist's name, then tried to think what to say next. With most people, she could write “We're delighted to inform you that The Paperworks Space sold x number of drawings,” but this guy wouldn't sit still for that. A native Georgian who had not previously shown in New York, he'd formed unrealistic expectations: All New York shows would be covered in every major arts magazine and sell out the first week. He'd already complained when
The Village Voice
was the only paper to review the show. He'd probably blame the insignificant sales on the gallery's poor management. For the first time this season, Jana made her yearly vow to exhibit only artists who displayed a professional outlook. Even as she made that promise, she glanced at the crates stacked against the far wall and wondered if the artists they'd begin hanging tomorrow would be any easier to work with.

“You've got to be more patient with people,” Ed would say if he saw her now. In his job, in his life, in their life together, Ed was a living, breathing model of patience. “And look where it's gotten us,” Jana thought angrily, pressing her hand to her stomach.

Ed massaged her clitoris, still sore from the doctor's probing. “I always thought I ought to be a doctor,” he told her.

“You would have made a wonderful doctor.”

“When I was four years old, my aunt gave me a doctor kit for Christmas. I went around for weeks treating everyone in the family. I used up the candy pills, so they gave me jelly beans to put in the bottle. I still remember: the white ones were for headaches, the yellow ones were for fever, the pink ones were for upset stomachs. My cousin kept faking sick because he wanted candy, but I fixed him good—I gave him shots instead.”

Ed moved his fingers gently while he talked, recalling how those nights when his mother returned from the doctor were the hardest. Usually the doctors—one after another—could find no physical cause for her symptoms, and she would get depressed and lie in bed for days. “My mother told me I was better than those insensitive doctors who treated her,” he said out loud. “She taught me to dab the skin with alcohol before giving a shot. She taught me to warm the stethoscope in my hands before I held it against her. I was so proud.” He kissed Jana's chest.