A WOMAN TOOK their jackets and Alix snooped after her, looking into the enormous closet, a room really, lined with hooks. On the hooks were baseball caps layered three or more deep. All teams, all colors, a preponderance of black caps. A billionaire’s mudroom. He could wear a different cap every day. Alix pictured him grabbing a fresh cap as he sauntered out of his townhouse, into a waiting car or perhaps for a stroll with one of his dogs a couple of blocks away in Central Park, his unlined face shaded beneath the brim. Or did he have someone else pick out his hat for him? She had been in so many houses like this, but she never entirely understood the inhabitants or felt a part of this world. She preferred apartment dwelling, and little help. She was a hermit, in a way, and too many objects and servants made her uncomfortable.
She followed Ian from the ground floor up a curving staircase, swept along by the flow of people. Ian rushed ahead; he’d meant to be there earlier but she had been late to meet him at the theater, and he wanted to get to the performers upstairs to run over a few things. Alix felt nervous on his behalf. These fancy benefits in private homes. Special previews for the heavy donors. Creating buzz, building interest, giving an inside peek. An easy audience, but still. Everything had to go smoothly, perfectly. Or what? What would actually happen, she wondered. Would the god of disappointed benefactors spoil the show? Would tomatoes rain down from the 1940s French light fixtures? What was at stake, really? Was she sensible to question the value of these events, or was she being haughty? Did she not understand because she had never had to work for a living? But she did work, she had been working on her monograph on medieval art for fifteen years, and she lived modestly, could afford a room for baseball caps but chose not to have one. Did this make her better? Or was she a phony? Should she live in a double-wide house and collect art? Someone had to support artists. Of course she did support artists. Hadn’t she supported Ian for years until he could support himself? Didn’t she give? In fact, hadn’t she paid to attend this fund-raiser? Of course she had. The rich people needed the artists and the artists needed the rich people. They were all connected. No one was pure. Everyone was complicit. Some fortunes were built on a crime, but most weren’t. Money was neither good nor evil; only people were.
The champagne was excellent. Her thoughts were bubbling. Her vision the teensiest bit pixilated. Was that a Picasso? Why yes it was. And over there, did she recognize a de Kooning? So many powerful images in one room it felt a bit like a boxing ring. She was punched from every side by muscular, perspective-wrenching paintings, manly agonies assaulting her wherever she turned. This was like being in a poorly hung museum. Too many masterpieces on one floor. She decided to keep heading upstairs.
In the library more-contemporary works mingled with objects and books. A Guston drawing, a Marden print, an Agnes Martin, yes! A woman artist, finally. She could be happy here. A Lisa Yuskavage painting. Well, now, she might just sit down. As she entered the room farther she noticed that in the corner sat a woman reading, wearing a long Fortuny silk gown, looking not the least bit overdressed or out of place. She sported significant jewelry on her bare arms and around her neck, interesting, complicated, yet elegant arrangements of metals and stones. Her face, on closer inspection, was shockingly asymmetrical. She was sexy and unsexy. It turned out, after she and Alix had struck up a conversation, that she was also the woman of the house, the billionaire’s wife. Alix vaguely recognized her, an actress in a former life and now a mother, a philanthropist, a supporter of the arts. But not musicals. She detested musicals. That’s why she was hiding out in the library. Zinging piano music leaped and kicked its way up the stairs, seeming to illustrate her point. Alix confessed that she didn’t much care for musicals either, but that she was there to cheer on a friend. She said goodbye to the woman, Genevieve was her name, and went back to the parlor floor for the presentation.
It was a beautiful night so they decided to walk downtown, all the way home. It could have been so pleasant, but it wasn’t. Alix had had too much to drink and Ian was distracted, unintentionally provoking her with his lack of interest.
You know I realized something tonight, she said.
What was that?
I don’t like musicals.
Ah. Thanks. My life’s work.
Oh please, you’re taking this personally?
No, no, of course not.
I just realized that I don’t respond to that kind of theater, that’s all.
I get it. Thank you.
Isn’t it a little interesting? Aren’t you the least bit curious how someone could not like something you like?
They ambled along Fifth Avenue, past stores as imposing and massive as Greek temples, painted gods and goddesses posing in the windows.
People have different tastes.
Yes, but I’d think you’d want to understand those tastes.
You know, Alix, some of us have to make a living.
Of course! I know that. You think I don’t understand that?
No. I don’t. But don’t take it personally.
Well, you’re wrong. I understand it perfectly. We all have to make a living, even if we don’t have to make money. Everyone has to make a life.
That’s what I mean…
What?
You don’t get it.
Should we have this out? Finally? This unspoken conversation that’s been simmering between us all these years? Because if you resent me for my family circumstances you should know by now that they’ve been pretty fucking miserable.
I don’t resent—
Yes, you do! You’re jealous.
Ian laughed. No, no, I’m not.
You wouldn’t even know if you were, that’s how little insight you have.
So who’s resentful? Sounds like you think I don’t understand you, don’t appreciate your pain.
That about sums it up. Yes. She kept going: And you have such naïve views about money anyway, as if you don’t benefit from the rich as much as anyone. As if money isn’t what we make of it.
She continued: Morality is the real issue. Humanity.
Yes, she said, if an immoral person has access to great wealth they can misuse it, but it’s not inevitable. And if an immoral person without money wants to act out their problems, then they can do a lot of damage with very little money, believe me.
Are you finished? he asked.
Yes, she was calming down.
So we’re equally disappointed in each other, he said. A perfect match.
Her head was hurting, her feet were hurting. She wished she could take off her heels and walk barefoot on the sidewalk.
He wanted to tell her about Poppy, almost told her about Poppy, needed to show her that his pain, his guilt, his unhappiness, his predicament, were so much worse than she knew. But then he let it go. Some of it was cowardice; he didn’t want to get into morality or humanity right now, maybe not ever, with her, on the subject of Poppy. Some of it was pity for her, for Alix. Some of it was friendly love and some of it was the distance that comes from growing, gradually, apart.
A perfect match, she repeated.
The white and screaming lights from a gargantuan storefront lit up her dry, brittle, shoulder-length hair. A demented and drooping halo. What had happened? She had been his best friend for so long. Was it just the secret between them now creating an abyss? No, he thought, it wasn’t just that. She was right. It was true. He had taken her horribly for granted. The rest of the walk they discussed trivial matters. They had exhausted this topic of conversation.