The Masterpiece

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

March 1975

As the weekend crawled by, Virginia replayed the confrontation with the Lorettes in her head, kicking herself for how stupid she’d sounded. When she’d spotted the couple on the lower concourse, she’d been sure it was a sign, that this was their chance to shock them with Clara’s existence and force their hand. Now she was even more convinced that they were the sellers of The Siren. Their excuses for hanging on to the watercolor were thin. It had to be because they didn’t want the auction interfered with.

On Sunday morning, as Virginia was drying dishes at the sink in her apartment, Ruby touched her arm and made her jump.

“Mom. Hello? I said your name three times.” Ruby looked more confused than exasperated.

Virginia picked up the spoon she’d dropped into the sink. “Sorry, darling. What’s up?”

“Nothing.” Ruby perched up on the counter. “Ryan and I are going out for a bite before we open up for the day. Wanna come? You’ve been holed up in the apartment all weekend.”

“No, I’m fine here. You go, enjoy yourself.”

“You seem weird. Is something going on?”

Even though Virginia had promised not to reveal Clara’s identity, Ruby had been by Virginia’s side through some difficult months and deserved to hear the story. She could be trusted to keep the secret. Virginia threw the tea towel over her shoulder. “I found the artist. The one who did the Clyde sketch.”

“Clara Darden?”

“Exactly.”

Ruby squealed. “That’s wild. What’s she like? Where was she?”

“She was dressed as a he and was working in the information booth with me. Right under my nose the entire time. She was also trying to track down the watercolor, but I got to it before she did.”

“Fantastic! Then she can claim it back.”

Virginia sighed. “We tried that. The Lorettes won’t budge. So now I’ve ruined her life.”

“Come on, Mom. You’re being dramatic.”

She gave a rueful smile. “You’re right. Here I thought you were the dramatic one. But still. I feel really bad.”

“Can we go to the police?”

“Unfortunately, it’s not really an option. No New York cop is going to stop fighting crime long enough to mediate an art dispute between a bunch of old folks.” And neither she nor Clara had the money to hire lawyers. Her empty threat to the Lorettes was just that. Empty. Dead ends all around.

But it helped, having talked it through, and by Monday morning, Virginia was eager to try to apologize again, let Clara know that she was truly sorry for having mucked it all up. But Clara ignored her, turning away when she approached.

“Serious cold shoulder going on there,” observed Doris. “Did you have a spat? Put the timetable in the wrong slot or something?”

“Very funny.” Virginia backed off but kept a close eye on Clara when she left for lunch. Virginia waited ten minutes and then followed her path.

She found Clara in the art school, in the smaller studio, palette in hand, staring hard at a piece of paper on an easel. Clara looked up, and her forehead creased. “You.”

“Sorry. I don’t mean to bother you.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I do. I want to talk. Can we talk?”

“About what? About how you ruined everything?”

“Yes. I own that responsibility and want to apologize to you.”

Judging by the furious look in Clara’s eyes, she’d been stewing all weekend as well. “That’s all you do, apologize. I came back to stake my claim and instead have been maligned, yet again, by the Lorettes. A ‘second-rate illustrator.’ How dare they! I’m worse off than when I started. I have no money left, no reputation. With no chance of reclaiming either.”

Virginia stood her ground. She’d heard enough moaning from having a teenaged daughter over the past few years, and this was no different. “You’re the one who ran away in the first place, may I remind you? Yes, there was a terrible tragedy, but you could have bounced back. Declared that you were Clyde, staked a claim. You had talent, but you took off for the hills and threw away your life.”

“Far from it.” Clara threw back her shoulders. “I taught generations of children how to draw. When I watched a child blossom during class, saw her recognize her own talent and feel special, it was well worth it. I might have lost my chance to make it big, but I did everything in my power to ensure other young girls could reach their full potential. The students at the Grand Central School of Art could be petty, competitive. Once I removed myself from the fickle art world, I began to appreciate art for its own sake, like I had long ago. In many ways, I was finally free. After I became Totto, I wasn’t beholden to anyone. I had mad affairs, some thrilling, some not.”

“You had affairs?” An unexpected admission. Clara as Totto was so tightly wound, Virginia couldn’t imagine it.

A glint of pride shone in Clara’s eyes. “Does that shock you?”

“Nothing shocks me anymore.” Virginia envied Clara’s life, suddenly. No longer trying to please everyone else, only herself. “But then you came back.”

“When I saw the painting in the catalog, it was like seeing my own reflection. It made me realize I deserved more. This was my last shot.”

She had a point. She did deserve more. “I’m sorry the Lorettes have stolen that opportunity from you and that I had a hand in it. But I’m still glad I found the watercolor. The watercolor, the sketch—they were magical when my life was not. They helped me get by.” She stared up at the skylights, where a weak sun filtered through a thin coating of dirt. “I wanted to be like that woman, The Siren. The woman in the painting, mysterious and powerful.” She paused. “How can I make it up to you?”

“You can take off your dress.”

“What?” Virginia wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly.

“Take it off. I want to paint you.”

“No. I couldn’t.”

“You asked a question. I’m answering it. Take everything off, place the stool on top of the model’s stand, and sit on it.”

“You want me to be naked?”

“Stop being a ninny. Do you know how many people took off their clothes and posed in this studio over the years? Hundreds. Now do it.”

They locked eyes. Clara stood warrior tall, the palette like a shield in one hand, the brush a spear. After everything that had happened, it was the least Virginia could do. She untied her wrap dress and let it drop on the floor as Clara began organizing the supplies. After taking a deep breath, Virginia took off her bra, the air cold on her skin but not on the thick scar tissue, where she had no feeling, only numbness.

“Sit down.”

“I’m really not sure about this.” She covered her chest with both arms.

“You want me to paint? Well, I’ve found my subject. If you want to make it up to me, sit yourself in that chair and uncross your arms.”

Virginia placed the stool on the model stand, checking to make sure its legs weren’t near the edge.

“Stop stalling.”

Clara had put down the palette and was sharpening one of the pencils, her nose scrunched up like a bunny. The thought made Virginia smile.

“Stay like that.” Clara’s commands grew less severe as she became engrossed in the work. When she looked up, she didn’t look into Virginia’s eyes, but everywhere else. Her thighs, her feet, her hairline. But not in the way that Chester or Dennis had. Nothing ravenous. More an intellectual examination of her muscles and skin, hair and bones.

To her surprise, Virginia fell into a quiet meditation. Free of all clothing, she was like a child again. Pure and open. The minutes ticked by, but she didn’t care. The only sounds were the pencil scraping the canvas and the quiet whir of the terminal, as if it were breathing in tandem with her own lungs. She closed her eyes and let her thoughts roam.

“What the hell is going on in here?”

Three men in suits stood in the doorway. Virginia dashed to her clothes, clutching them to her, the stool sliding off the model stand with a loud bang. She ran behind one of the easels and tried desperately to get back into her bra and dress, her hands shaking with shame.

“We’re making art,” Clara thundered. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re doing an inspection for Marcel Breuer. For the new building.”

“Inspect away. We won’t stop you.”

The taller man stepped forward. “Who are you?”

“We work for Grand Central. We’re on break.”

“This area is off-limits. I won’t tell the stationmaster that you were here, but you better get out.”

By then, Virginia had pulled everything on but her underwear, which she stuffed into her handbag.

“All right. We’re going.” Clara waved to her, and Virginia scooted over, keeping her eyes on the floor in front of her.

“Wait a minute. How did you get in? If you have a key, hand it over, now.” The man held out his palm.

Clara did so without saying a word and began shoving the supplies into the storage case. Virginia’s hands trembled; her face burned at the thought that these men had seen her disfigurement. Clara put a protective arm around her shoulders, and together they walked out. The sound of the men chuckling to one another echoed down the school’s hallway.

“Bastards.” Clara slammed the door on their way out and headed to the left, away from the elevator.

“Where are you going?” Virginia yanked her dress closed at the bosom and stared after her, shell-shocked. Her worst nightmare had come true, and Clara couldn’t care less.

“Follow me. It’s quicker this way.” Clara opened a door at the very end of the hallway and went down a stairway, the pad tucked under one arm and the painting kit in the other.

Virginia stopped, her shoulders heaving with sobs, her humiliation complete. “They saw me.”

Clara turned to her with a sad half laugh. “Do you really care, though? What does it mean to you that they saw you?”

Virginia considered the question. “They know I’m not a whole woman.”

“And?” She shrugged her shoulders. “Look at me. No one knows what I am. But I don’t care, because I love the way I move in the world. I love my perspective on the world. I’ve earned it, and anyone else can go to hell. I wouldn’t have wanted to paint you if I didn’t think you were a fascinating subject: a woman of a certain age, with the wounds to prove it. That’s what interests me. Desperate to cover those wounds but still carrying them capably. A woman who is just learning her own strength.

“Besides, it’s a great big world out there. Living in the West, surrounded by ancient mountains and a huge sky, shows you how inconsequential you really are, in the grand scheme of things. I find that reassuring.” She pointed to the right. “Look.”

They were standing at the edge of a frosted-glass catwalk sandwiched between the double-paned east windows. Virginia stepped onto it. Below her, the entire concourse spread out. People darted in all directions, one man running, another strolling, a woman herding three small children. All were miniature figures of themselves; the clock above the information booth glowed like a lighthouse beacon.

Virginia’s tears had dried. “It’s magnificent.”

“If you wanted to see magnificent, you should have seen it in the 1920s. Like a European cathedral.”

“That’s what they said at the press conference.”

A dull roar thundered through the passageway.

“What was that? The subway?” asked Virginia.

“No. It came from Forty-Second Street. Let’s see.” Clara walked away, leaving Virginia to hurry after her retreating back. They turned another corner, back up the stairs, and into a tiny room where a ladder rose up through the ceiling. “Leave all your things here. We’re going up.”

“Leave them?”

“Yes. This way. Levon and I used to sneak up here on breaks, to get away from the students.”

After ducking under a low beam, Virginia followed Clara up a narrow metal ladder, then another, until she finally stepped out onto a tiny platform. Looming above them was the reverse side of the massive Tiffany clock that adorned the very top of the terminal’s south face. Clara clicked a latch at the base of the clock, and the oval containing the roman numeral VI opened inward. Another roar. They poked their heads out.

Below, on the elevated roadway that encircled Grand Central like a belt, stood a rabid crowd. Normally, taxis would careen by in a yellow blur, but today the street had been blocked off.

“I’d completely forgotten. It’s one of the protests to stop Penn Central.” Virginia pointed to a man with a bullhorn. “That’s the mayor. Look, right beside him is Jackie O.”

“Impressive crowd. Too bad they can’t do anything about it.”

“Do you really think so? You think that the collective voice of all these people doesn’t count?” Virginia stuck her head out farther. “There must be hundreds, thousands. If enough of us protest, then they have to do something about it. It’s our city, after all.”

“Then you ought to be out there protesting.”

Virginia withdrew her head just as the clouds cleared and sunlight hit the clock full on, beaming jewel-colored rays into the chamber, turning it into a giant kaleidoscope. Both she and Clara stood still, looking about, transfixed by the glorious show.

The words Jackie had used in the press conference came back to Virginia: Even if it seemed too late, maybe it wasn’t. That with great effort, you can succeed, even at the eleventh hour. Jackie O really believed it, and that made the rest of the city believe it, too.

But what if this wasn’t just a fight to save the terminal? Maybe everything Jackie said in the press conference applied to artists like Clara, and possibly dozens of others, who’d been lost in time. Artists whose works had been cannibalized by the greed of others.

As the light swirled around Virginia, a plan clicked into place.

The art auction was still a month away, so maybe the fight wasn’t over quite yet.

She could save Clara, save Clyde.

And she knew exactly how.