“Who was that?” asked Ted as Alfonso replaced the receiver. He had come into the central hall—where the telephone sat on an elaborately carved Chinese rosewood table—from the kitchen, where he was preparing a large casserole for the several guests who would be staying with them for the funeral.
“Juanita Diaz Fitzgerald, the lovely lady I met at Yardley and Williams on Sunday. She and her husband and son witnessed the accident. Their car was heading down Fireplace Road as Jackson’s was going up. They saw the whole thing. I invited them to tea this afternoon.”
“Why did she call?” Ted wondered.
“I don’t really know. She was a bit mysterious, said she’d tell me in person. They’re from the city, out here on holiday. Perhaps she’s just curious to know more about Jackson. We shall soon find out.
“What time are we expecting Charles and Frank?” he asked. Two of Jackson’s brothers were flying in, Frank from California and Charles from Michigan.
Like an efficient social secretary, Ted had made all the connections. The long-distance telephone lines had been busy for the past two days.
“They’re going to stay in the city tonight with Jay and Alma, and come out on the train tomorrow morning. Alma isn’t well, so Jay begged off. The Potters will put them up—Jeffrey will pick them up at the station. Sande and ’Loie are driving down from Connecticut today with the kids and mother Stella. They’ll stay here with us tonight and tomorrow night, and go back on Thursday unless there’s some reason for them to stay on.”
Alfonso was sanguine about Lee’s relations with the Pollock family.
“I doubt Lee will be wanting them to hang around. She and Stella have their differences, and she’s suspicious of Sande’s motives. According to her, he thinks he’s entitled to some compensation for all the years he babysat Jackson. I daresay he is, but not by her lights. I think she’s being unreasonable, but she’s in no state to be reasoned with. She told me that Jackson’s will leaves everything to her, nothing to any of the brothers. That was certainly her doing—she wants complete control of his estate, just as she had control of his career when he was alive. Even Sidney Janis, one of the shrewdest dealers in New York, has to get her consent before he makes a sale.”
Ted sniffed his disapproval. “As if Sidney doesn’t know what he’s doing. She has him to thank for Jackson’s prices. Why, he told me Ben Heller is paying eight thousand dollars for a big 1950 canvas. Eight thousand, can you believe! Lee should be kissing Sidney’s ring instead of second-guessing him.”
“But you know,” Alfonso reflected, “when Jackson boasted about his prices, his artist friends weren’t pleased. In fact, to be blunt, they were envious. Even as they were slapping him on the back and toasting him with the drinks he bought them, you could almost hear them thinking, Why him and not me?”
Ted agreed. “The art world is so competitive, and such a slave to fashion. You’re all the rage one season and passé the next. At least in the dance world you know where you stand. Either you can do it or you can’t.” His eyes dropped, and he shrugged. “Anyway, I’d better get back to work.” He turned and headed for the kitchen.
Alfonso understood his sudden change of tone. Five years earlier, just as Ted’s career with George Balanchine’s New York City Ballet was shifting into high gear, he gave it up to move with Ossorio to The Creeks. Once it was decided they had never discussed it again, but they both knew what that sacrifice had entailed. When Ted closed the stage door, it was locked behind him. Now, at thirty-five, he was the male equivalent of a stay-at-home helpmeet, entirely dependent on Alfonso. But with that dependence came mutual devotion, as well as material comfort and travel.
A further benefit was a glittering social life among Alfonso’s wide circle of friends that extended well beyond the art world’s narrow confines, including the film and stage luminaries Ruth had touted to Edith, as well as intellectuals, scientists, and religious leaders. When guests crossed the threshold at The Creeks, it was Ted who orchestrated the occasion while staying largely in the background.
“Oh, they’re not interested in me at all,” he would confide to those few, like Jackson and Lee, who became his intimates. Then, with a mischievous grin and a wink, he’d add, “but when I make myself interesting, they change their minds,” leaving it to his listener’s imagination what “interesting” meant.
Now, in a chef’s apron over shorts and a T-shirt, he busied himself with preparations for the onslaught of guests, both at The Creeks and at the funeral. After the service at the Springs Chapel and burial in Green River Cemetery, there would be a reception at the Pollock house. With no idea how many people might turn up, but anticipating a crowd, Lee had agreed to leave the catering in Ted’s capable hands. He had ordered plenty of food from Dreesen’s and liquor from Dakers’ to be delivered to the house on Wednesday afternoon. He’d also called Vetault’s to get some flowers for the chapel—nothing ostentatious, just a wreath of daisies like the ones in Jackson’s garden.
But no matter how efficient he was, there was no way to prepare adequately for the inevitable emotional strain, which he knew would only be increased by the presence of the other mourners. Somehow Lee had managed to erect a seemingly impenetrable barrier that walled in her feelings, but Ted was not so resolute. He didn’t think he’d be up to the service or the interment, so he had volunteered to stay behind at Lee’s house and prepare for the reception.
Better to grieve alone in private than to risk an embarrassing breakdown in front of witnesses. There’ll be more than enough of that without me adding to it, he reasoned.