Authors: Kathryn Shay
“No, really?”
He bit the inside of his jaw not to laugh. She could be charming. When she wasn’t being a brat.
Letting out a faked disgusted breath, he sat forward. “Show me.”
She opened the book to where it was marked. A pink card said, “Take this to Sal.”
“Who’s Sal?”
A smiled bloomed on her face. It was absolutely beautiful. “My sister’s son. He was named after his Uncle Salvador, but he had an art teacher who convinced him he’d inherited Salvador Dali’s talent.”
“How old is he?” “Seven.”
She giggled. “His mom is engaged to that teacher.”
Now Nick remembered. One article recounted that her sister Antonia had been seen around town with Rafe Castle, the famous painter.
“The opening of the exhibit will be…”
He tuned back in. But it was hard to concentrate on what she was saying. Her eyes lit from within, and pure pleasure emanated from her. She loved this stuff.
“Now,
here are my favorites. Dali’s
Apparatus in Hand
and Picasso’s
Femme Dans Un Fauteuil
.
“I’m not big on French, either.”
“The title will give you too much of a clue. Tell me what you see.”
“This isn’t a test.”
“Come on, don’t be such a wet pillow.”
A wet pillow?
That was a new one.
He gazed down at the images. Trained to notice details, he cataloged what he saw. “The one
on the left, Picasso’s, has a brown background with something red in front of it. Then there’s this big beige arrow, with a triangle beneath. Those look like eyes on it, and teeth, but I have no idea what those two pointed things are at the bottom.”
“Excellent literal analysis.”
“Isn’t that what you asked for?”
“Not exactly. I meant, what does it make you feel?”
“Nauseous.”
“Stop it! What if I told you the name of this is
Woman in an Armchair
?”
“I’d say you needed a psychiatrist.”
“Art scholars believe this is a depiction of Picasso’s mistress, Marie
-
Thérèse.”
“The poor girl. So deformed.”
She ignored the barbs. “Knowing that’s a woman, apply what you said.”
“Obviously they
are
eyes, but they’re on the same side of the head, teeth totally not where
they’re supposed to be, either.”
“What about those pointed things you didn’t recognize?”
He leaned in closer. “I’ll be damned. They’re breasts.”
“You’re right.”
“You gotta be shittin’ me.”
“I’m not.”
“What’s the purpose of this, Elizabeita?”
“Picasso liked to break things down and put them back together in an unusual way, so viewers could see the image from their own
vantage points.”
“Am I supposed to like it?”
“Do you?”
“No. It’s bizarre.”
“But meaningful, once you see it differently.”
“What does it mean to you?”
“The simplification and purity of a female form could show Picasso’s love for elemental womanhood. Which is the basis of all human life.”
He sat back and stared at her. “Do you honestly like deciphering paintings? I thought
they were meant to be…enjoyed, I guess.”
“Some are. More representational stuff. But the beauty of modern art is that it portrays the individual reaction of the artist, which is supposed to elicit an individual reaction from the viewer.”
“Wow. I had no idea.”
“No sarcastic comments?”
How could he, when this was so meaningful to the woman explaining it to him? Besides, it was interesting.
“No. To each his own.”
“Want to see more?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“This is the companion piece of Dali’s to the one we just saw of Picasso’s. It’s called
Apparatus in Hand.”
“Its wavy lines are eerie.”
“They’re supposed to be. Dali was involved with dream analysis and a movement toward surrealism…”
An hour later, someone came to the door. “There you are. I’ve been searching for
you.”
“Dee, hi.” Elizabeita gave the woman a warm smile. “We’re planning out the Dali/Picasso exhibit.”
“I was standing here for a bit. I think you have Mr. Caseman half convinced it has value.”
“Did you need me for something?” Nick asked.
“Yeah. Can I take him, Elizabeita?”
“Sure. I’ve stolen enough of your time, Nick.”
For some reason, he wanted to tell her he liked analyzing
the weird paintings. But he couldn’t say anything in front of Delores. It would be awkward. Besides, he didn’t want to encourage her to treat him like a person and not just an employee.
Really, he didn’t.
On Monday night, Elizabeita, aka Lizzie again, walked from the Met into the Baden Street Center. She was armed with games and pens and papers and nearly everything she would need to work with the teens who would show up for her weekly class. Her intent was to introduce the world of art to the kids, who had scant enrichment in their lives. She strolled into the center,
a little case on rollers, full of books behind her.
“Hey, there she is,” Sammy at the desk said. “The Art Lady.”
She grinned at the term. He had a crush on her, which she thought was cute. About her age, he worked the night shift. Elizabeita had never been attracted to guys her own age. “Hey, Sam.”
“Hey.” Giving her a male onceover, he said, “Like the duds.”
For these nights, she
was her most outlandish Lizzie. Yellow jeans and pink Converse sneakers, a magenta blouse, its material falling off the shoulder to the side, revealing her tattoo—a lightning bolt. She had a coat in the case for later. “Thanks. How many are here?”
“Ten. It’s growing. This is an awesome thing you do for the kids.”
“You said that before. But I never tire of hearing it.”
“I might duck
in this week on my break.”
He’d done that every week.
The subsidized center was in a large, rambling building owned by the city. To the right was the rec room, and on the left, a gym. Other rooms were down hallways. Heading right, Elizabeita was hit again by how much she liked volunteering here. She felt something she rarely experienced—contentment. She’d have to think about that.
Ten kids were scattered throughout the room. They had some books on their laps or sketch pads on a table in front of them. She’d bought some cheap art supplies for them to keep and bring back weekly. She’d also confiscated a few books the Met had thrown out and was working on getting better ones from an art school nearby. The staff told her not to give the kids things to keep, that they’d destroy
them or forget to bring them back. But from what she saw tonight, they wanted stuff of their own and were caring for it.
“Hi, guys.”
Greetings all around. Except from one girl, Brandi, who didn’t talk much. But she watched Elizabeita carefully. And she was the most talented in analyzing art. Elizabeita had been that way in high school. “Hey, Ms. L,” one called out. “What’d you bring tonight?”
“Some different art books. And more supplies. Whoever wants to draw or paint, come sit at the table.”
One boy migrated to join the others. After she doled out the new things, she left them and walked to the back.
“The rest of you, come over here. I’ll set my laptop up there.”
Brandi sat behind the other four kids. As Elizabeita got herself organized, she talked to them. “So, I have
slides to show you of some more famous paintings. Who can remember the three we talked about last week?
A cute girl raised her hand. “The lady with the badass smile.”
“Thanks, Susie. Anybody remember the name?”
Silence. Then, “
The
Mona Lisa
.”
“Do you remember who painted it, Brandi?”
“Leonardo da Vinci.”
A boy called out, “I remember those people on the ceiling. Some church.
But I don’t remember the dude who did it.”
Elizabeita loved their ingenuousness about art. They were tough kids, but interested ones. “That dude was Michelangelo, and the place was the Sistine Chapel in Rome.”
When they’d finished their recap of last week, Sofia showed a slide of Degas’s ballet dancers. Brandi gasped.
“Something wrong, Brandi?”
“It’s so beautiful.”
“This series
is one of my favorites. What do you like about it?”
She spent most of their time on Degas, then left them with the art books she’d lugged here. When she switched to the other group, she saw Brandi pouring over the Impressionists. She’d learned some things about their backgrounds. Brandi was in foster care. Marco lived with his brother. Some of them were from single-parent homes. Most came
from the neighborhood.
When the group broke up, she asked Brandi to stay back.
“Did I do something wrong?” Brandi asked.
“No, honey not at all. Here.” She handed her the Degas book.
The young girl’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I want you to keep this.”
“Why?”
“Because you like the style. And you seem to have a real knack understanding art.”
She shrugged
“Take this as a gift.”
Hesitating, Brandi stared at the book. Then she snatched it and held it against her chest. “I’ll bring it back next week.”
“If you want to. But it’s yours.”
Brandi left, confused. Elizabeita would have to think about more ways to draw her in. She enjoyed using the art to help these teens. Once again, she experienced contentment
o0o
Rosie’s
Bar was a neighborhood establishment a few blocks down from the Met. Dean Morris, Nick’s contact at the NYPD, had suggested this place because he’d had a funeral to go to not far from here. As he waited for Dean, Nick sipped his beer and thought back to the afternoon.
Damned if he wasn’t coming to like Elizabeita/Lizzie, as well as feeling the attraction increase every time they were together.
When he’d seen her note in the Dali book to bring something home to someone named Sal, he’d pictured some sexy Spaniard waiting to study art with her. And it disturbed him. What the hell was happening here?
Dean walked into the bar. Wearing his police uniform. Hmm. Nick hadn’t thought about that. Still, even if they were spotted, he was entitled to friends. “Hi, Captain.”
“Hello,
Captain
.”
“Nah, just an agent on a state task force now.”
His friend slid in and ordered coffee, as Nick had. “I still can’t believe you left the NYPD.”
Sometimes Nick couldn’t, either. He’d become a cop at eighteen, along with Angie, who he’d met at the police academy. After she’d died five years ago, he lost his heart to do the job. Then the anti-police sentiment started, along with tension
with the community. Half the city called the cops racist, the other half thought the police should have free reign over the residents. He’d handed in his star and retired just after his fortieth birthday, with over twenty years on the force.
“Nick, where did you go?”
“I was thinking about why I left.”
“I heard why. We lost a good officer when you walked away.”
“I got snagged back
somewhat.” He nodded to the uniform. “In-the-line-of-duty death?”
“Yeah. Like Angie.”
Her funeral, where hundreds of cops showed up, was a blur. Nick had been grief stricken, inconsolable. He shook off the memory. “So, what do you think about the vandalism at the Met this morning?”
“He or she’s stepping it up, I’d guess.” Dean frowned. “We’re sending patrol cars over there tonight.
I’m going myself right now to walk around.”
After discussing the situation and making a plan to meet again, they left the bar. Night had fallen but the streets of the East Side were lit like the rest of the Big Apple.
“Good luck, Nick. I—”
“Hello there, gentleman.”
Nick couldn’t believe his ears. He spun around, and there was Lizzie, in an even crazier getup than last week. She
could pass for a hooker!
Dean stepped forward. “You don’t want to approach us, Miss. I’m a captain in the NYPD, and right now, I don’t have time for your…solicitation.”
Elizabeita burst out laughing. Big hearty belly laughs. He saw his friend’s jaw harden.
Nick interjected, “You got it wrong, Dean. This lady works at the Met.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“It’s the truth. She just dresses
like a punk rocker by night.” To her, he said, “Where have you been and why do you have the suitcase?”
“At the Baden Street Center. These are art books.”
“Doing what?” Dean asked doubtfully.
“Working with some teenagers.” “And you dressed like that?”
“None of your business,” she said, honing in on his uniform, “Officer.”
“Elizabeita…”
“Nope, I’m Lizzie tonight.”
“I
don’t get it.” Dean glanced at his watch. “But I have to get going.”
“Take care, buddy.”
Dean socked Nick in the arm. “You, too. Don’t let her hurt you, Nicky.”
Elizabeita frowned. “How do you know that guy?”
Fuck, he didn’t have a cover story. He hadn’t known he’d need one. “From the army.” Which was a lie. He’d never fought in foreign wars. Only local ones on the streets.
Her face sobered. It was incredibly different without the sassy expression she usually wore with him. “Where?”
“Um, Iraq.”
She touched his arm, a spontaneous gesture, a real one that sucked him in like her enthusiasm for art had. “Thank you for your service, Nick. I admire war veterans.”
Crap. He’d not only lied, but now she’d think he was some kind of hero. And her change in mood,
demeanor and maturity was scrambling his brains. “You’re welcome.” He didn’t know what else to say. “So,” he continued. “Were you really at the center?”
“Of course. I don’t lie.”
He did. Everything about him was a lie. He had a feeling there’d be hell to pay if she knew that.
“Where are you going now?” “I’m headed home.”
“Alone?”
“What is with you? Single women of every age
walk the streets of New York at night. It’s safe.”
“Honey, you have no idea what lurks in the dark corners of NYC.”
“Well,” she said, smiling like a siren. “Unless you want to buy me a drink in Rosie’s Bar, I’ll be going.”