Lee slept late. She had finally allowed exhaustion to overtake her, leaving the mess from the post-funeral reception to deal with in the morning, but the morning was gone by the time she woke up. Dreading what she would face downstairs, she took her time washing and dressing, but when she finally went down, the place was neat and tidy. Ted, Cile, and Sherry had been there and taken care of everything. There were even fresh flowers in a vase on the breakfast table, and a plate covered with a napkin. She removed the napkin, and found three newly minted Dreesen’s donuts.
Somehow this simple thoughtful gesture released the pent-up feelings she had struggled so hard to contain. All through the preparations, the funeral, and the burial she had kept them in check. And last night she had been the perfect hostess, seeing to her guests’ every need, dispensing refreshments, accepting commiserations gracefully, comforting others even as she found no comfort in their expressions of sympathy and sorrow. Afterward, those who had been there agreed that her performance was amazing and marveled at her poise and self-control.
Now, alone in the kitchen, staring at a plate of donuts, she felt the floodgates open. She slumped down in a chair, buried her face in her hands, and howled with fury as the tears poured forth. Bile rose into her mouth, carrying with it the grief, anger, pain, regret, and frustration she had been aching to express. She ran to the sink and vomited, heaving up the bitterness she knew would be a lifelong curse.
Let it out, she told herself as her stomach contracted again and again, get it over with. Exhausted, she made her way back to the chair and tried to bring her breathing back to normal. Of course it was not over with, there would be many more trials ahead, but at least she wouldn’t have an audience. But who was she kidding? From now on she would be under constant scrutiny. The whole art world would be watching to see how she handled the estate. She knew the score—hadn’t she been managing Jackson’s career ever since the beginning?
Yes, but it was different when he was alive. Even after he began to slide downhill, there was always the chance he’d pull himself together. God knows he tried. The homeopathic remedies, the special diet, the injections, the kosher salt baths, the private clinic, the psychiatrists—something was bound to work.
If only Dr. Heller had lived, she thought ruefully, he would have gotten Jackson back on track. He was the only one who had any success. Just a local G.P., not a specialist, but Edwin Heller kept Jackson off the booze for two years. Jackson trusted him, followed doctor’s orders, then Heller had to get himself killed in a goddamned car crash. Even more ironic, he was only forty-four, the same age as Jackson when he died.
This is getting morbid. Pull yourself together and be practical. Jackson may be dead, but by God I’m going to see that his work lives on, that he’s right at the top of the heap, up there with Picasso, that old has-been, and Matisse. In fact, he’s going to become even more famous, more respected—and his work more valuable.
What was it Sidney said last night? Just leave everything to me. Fat chance! Sure, he knows the market, but he’ll have his commission in mind when he’s making a deal for top dollar. The price isn’t the only consideration—it isn’t even the first one. It has to be the right collector, someone with a reputation, not just a fat checkbook. Or the right museum, one that will hang the painting prominently, not just dump it into storage. The cheapskate curators are always crying poor; they just want deep discounts. But if they offer an inducement, like a one-man show, Sidney has to be persuaded to take a smaller cut, maybe even forgo his commission. If something comes up at auction, he has to bid it up even if he winds up buying it himself.
“Meanwhile,” she said out loud, “what the hell am I going to live on? I’d better get onto Izzy right away.” Apart from the pathetic balance in her bank account, $100 in uncashed traveler’s checks, and some loose change in a coffee can in the pantry, she was broke. Her brother Irving would have to ride to the rescue.
She rose and went to the parlor, where the telephone sat on a small mahogany drop-leaf table that friends had given them when they moved in. It was a souvenir of their struggles in the early years, when there was hardly any demand for Pollock’s work and they often depended on gifts and loans to get by. Now she needed another loan, a big one, to tide her over until the estate was settled.
The phone was off the hook—another kindness, courtesy of Ted, that had allowed her to sleep undisturbed. Silently thanking him, she depressed the cradle, released it, and got a dial tone. Before dialing her brother’s office, she checked her watch and saw that she could make the 2:13 train to the city.
The secretary at the insurance company put her through. Greater New York Mutual was on Madison Avenue at 35th Street.
“I have to see you, Izzy. Now, today. I’m going to take the train to Penn Station and get a cab to your office. I should be there by five thirty, but if I’m late wait for me.” She hung up before he could argue.
Her next call was to Schaefer’s Taxi. She had over an hour until train time, but she needed to throw a few things in an overnight bag and cash one of the traveler’s checks, so she ordered the taxi for one thirty. Len Schaefer would wait for her outside the bank and get her to the station in plenty of time.
She decided she’d better eat something, even though her stomach was far from settled. There was leftover ham and potato salad in the icebox, so she forced some of that down with milk. She wrapped the donuts in tinfoil. I can share them with Izzy, she said to herself.