ALL DAY, ALL OF TOWN Hall stayed crowded in one conference room, where a TV replayed the planes cutting into the Twin Towers. Everyone except Becky. She was in her car, in the parking lot out back, with her cell phone and a notebook. First she called every relevant party in any current deal, nailing down who and what and how much. Then she worked international contacts, waking them up to reassure spooked Euro gallerists and Asian businessmen that her funds were liquid and in play no matter what. Every few minutes another dealer or collector would call her, wanting to share in the shock and fear of what was happening, but as soon as she could she got off the phone. Later was the time for can you believe this and I just can’t believe this. Now was for clear thinking and quick acting.
The last set of calls was to her artists, the four or five she kept in supplies and with living expenses, the ones who gave her peace of mind when the sheer strain of her transgressions threatened to engulf her: These people are making their work (and eating), because of me. And my Activity. She made sure the New Yorkers were safe and accounted for; most of them had still been in bed when the attacks occurred. She got addresses for studios in SoHo, Tribeca, anything south of Union Square. I’ll take care of it, she said over and over, to the painters and sculptors and filmmakers, stunned and afraid for their work and supplies, for colleagues and friends, for the meaning of art in the face of such a horrific, global event. Bit by bit Becky’s calm steadiness, her willingness to see to all the details, let the artists gather their wits. Okay, they eventually said, breathing out. Distracted, watching TV throughout the conversation. Okay, thank you, okay.
Be safe, she told them. Call me anytime.
The only non-art call she made was to Ingrid. They had a two-minute conversation of the kind people all across the country were having, and for the first time Ingrid hung up first, wanting to get back to her kids.
When Becky finally went back inside, only Ken and a few others were still there. Still contacting surrounding counties, in discussion with Springfield and Chicago. Were further attacks a possibility? What emergency protocol, what statements were needed? Becky slid into her usual seat, exchanged one notebook for another. She jumped right in with questions for Police Chief Myerson, new in the job this year. Ken watched her and said nothing but she could feel what he didn’t ask, what he never asked her: Where have you been?