Right Hand Magic (22 page)

I was being drawn toward him, his handsome face filling my view, as if I were a compass and he were true north. His smell was intoxicating, and his breath was warm and sweet against my cheek. And I knew that all I wanted right there, in that moment, was to have his arms around me and feel his lips against my own.

Suddenly my coat pocket began to play the chorus from They Might Be Giants’ “Instanbul (Not Constantinople).”

The magic bubble that seemed to surround us disappeared, shattered like a hammer tossed through a stained glass window. Despite myself, I let go of his hand and reached for my phone.

“I’m sorry. I’ve
got
to take this,” I explained apologetically as I turned my back. “It’s Derrick calling to find out about the delivery. ...”

My conversation was brief—no more than a minute—but when I turned back around, Hexe was gone, like moonlight come the dawn.

“Why are you taking an overnight bag?”Lukas asked. He was sitting on the edge of my bed, watching me pack. “Is Chelsea that far away?”

I had spent the last few days shuttling between the house and the gallery, making sure the sculptures were unpacked and posed properly, and arranging the lighting for each piece. The time for preparations was finally over. Tonight was the big night.

“No, it’s not. But I’m not going to wear my good clothes on the subway,” I explained. “I’m taking a bag with me so I can change when I get to the gallery.”

“You must be so excited, Tate,” Lukas enthused. “This is an important night for you!”

Lukas was right. It
was
an important night, as it marked a decisive victory. After years of struggling against the expectations of my parents and my childhood peers, I was finally having my first show, in a moderately important gallery, and it was due entirely to the strength of my art, not the family name.

“It’s an important night for you, too,” I pointed out. “You were the model for the
Cyber-Panther
, which Derrick went absolutely gaga over, by the way.”

“Is that good?”

“It’s
excellent
!” I grinned, handing him one of the postcard-sized invitations.

Lukas stared at the black-and-white photograph of
The Dying Gaul
that graced the invitation. “Why does it say ‘Action Figures’ at the bottom?”

“That’s the name of the show,” I explained. “It’s what I call my sculptures, because they’re movable like a G.I. Joe doll, excuse me,
action figure
.”

“It’s really wonderful, Tate,” he said wistfully as he handed the card back to me. “I’m happy for you.”

“You’d better keep that on you,” I said. “You’ll need it to get into the opening.”

Lukas’s eyes widened in surprise. “You mean, I can finally go somewhere?”

“You didn’t think I’d have an art show and not invite my model, did you?” I grinned. “Hexe and I discussed it the other night. He and Dr. Mao decided you are ninety-nine percent recovered. Plus, Chelsea is way outside the Malandanti’s stomping grounds. The chance of your being seen and recognized is almost zero once you’re out of Golgotham. Hexe has arranged for Kidron to drop the two of you off as close to the subway as possible. From there it should be easy to make your way uptown.”

“Thank you, Tate!” Lukas said, throwing his arms around me. He was so happy, he was purring.

 

 

I emerged from the subway at Eighth Avenue and West Twenty-third. After spending the last two months in Golgotham, I was having difficulty transitioning back to the New York I once knew. As I made my way to Derrick’s gallery on Twenty-fourth, people hurried past me in all directions.

I found myself unconsciously searching the crowd for those characteristics I had come to view as “typical,” such as cat-eye pupils and pointed ears, even the occasional set of horns, and was saddened to find them missing. Despite the recent confrontation, I still felt far more comfortable traveling the streets of Golgotham than anywhere else.

Like the rest of the city, the gritty, industrial romance of West Chelsea was rapidly succumbing to the onslaught of towering condos that threatened to turn Manhattan into a featureless mass of glass and steel. As I neared Tenth Avenue, I spotted the refurbished High Line, looking like a cross between a cast-iron window box and an elevated terrarium. I reflected sourly on how the only things left from the old neighborhood would soon be the Chelsea Hotel and the Empire Diner, and even then they would probably only be spared because they were tourist attractions.

A delivery van honked loud and long as I stepped off the curb, forcing me to jump back. I shook my head in wonderment. Although I had grown up in this city, I suddenly found myself unaccustomed to its traffic. The streets of Golgotham might be crowded, but they at least were free of automobiles and trucks. It seemed strange to me now to look around and see only yellow taxis instead of centaurs and their hansom cabs.

If I was feeling this out of step, I could only hope the culture shock would not prove overwhelming for Lukas and Hexe.

Templeton Gallery was in the heart of West Chelsea’s thriving arts district, situated on the second floor of a converted commercial building and accessible only from the street via a narrow staircase. On the street-level door was a poster-sized version of the postcard invitation. I paused to stare at my name and then headed upstairs.

The moment I set foot inside the gallery, Derrick, hurried forward to greet me. He was a moderately handsome man in his early forties, with collar-length gingerish hair.

“There you are! The phone’s been ringing off the hook,” he exclaimed breathlessly. “I have critics from the
Village Voice
and the
New York Press
confirmed for tonight, as well as the critic for the
Times
. There are also a couple of very wealthy collectors showing interest, especially after I described the
Cyber-Panther
to them over the phone. ...”

The gallery was divided into two sections, the first of which was the reception/sales area, where the unsold remnants of previous shows hung on the walls, hoping to entice a buyer. The front of the gallery also had a floor-to-ceiling glass window that looked out onto the street with a neon sign that said in huge block letters, TEMPLETON. The second, larger section of the gallery was reserved for the current show, and it was there I found my “action figures,” posed atop white wooden boxes. The carefully angled track lights made their metallic skin glisten like the jeweled carapaces of scarab beetles. Presented in such a manner, they seemed more like idols dedicated to some strange, future faith than works of art.

“So, what do you think?” Derrick asked.

“They look amazing, Derrick,” I said, nodding my head in approval. “You’ve done a wonderful job.”

“I’m only as good as my artists.” He smiled, brushing up against my right arm. The contact was brief, but far from coincidental. While setting up the show, I had discovered Derrick was what you might call “touchy-feely.” He wasn’t a gropey bastard, like the life-modeling teacher I had to punch in the balls my sophomore year of art school, but it was still a little disconcerting.

I continued to smile as I stepped away, pretending to pay attention to another of my sculptures. I didn’t want to get on Derrick’s bad side by punching him in the nuts, but I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea, either.

“I see you brought a change of clothes.” He smiled, motioning to my overnight bag. “You’re perfectly welcome to use my apartment upstairs as your dressing room.”

“You actually live over your own gallery?” I glanced up at the ceiling in surprise.

“Not really,” he admitted. “It’s where I stay when I’m in town. My actual home is in Connecticut, with my family.”

“I see,” I said, stealing a glance at his hands. Although there was no wedding ring in sight, I doubted the “family” he referred to meant his mom and dad. “I appreciate the offer, Derrick, but I already have a place to go change.”

A flicker of disappointment crossed the gallery owner’s face. “Oh. Very good.” He frowned at the expensive watch on his wrist. “The opening isn’t until seven, but I need you back by six thirty. That’s when the photographer from the
Village Voice
is supposed to show up to snap a few pictures. I definitely need you here for that.”

After assuring Derrick I’d return in plenty of time, I left the gallery and made my way back to Tenth, where I flagged down one of the numerous taxis crowding the wide avenue.

The cabbie didn’t blink twice at my tattoos and eyebrow piercing. “Where ya headed, lady? West Village? Hell’s Kitchen?”

“Eighty-third and Fifth,” I replied as I slid across the backseat.

Now
that
made him blink.

I hadn’t lived under the same roof as my parents since left for college, nearly seven years ago. I had been back to their apartment numerous times since then, but only as a guest. As I stepped out of the elevator, I was greeted by the life-sized portrait of my ancestor, the original Timothy Alden Talmadge Eresby, which had hung in the marble-clad lobby of the penthouse for as long as I could remember.

Back in the day, he’d owned railroads and newspapers and factories that made everything from burlap bags to steam whistles. Not bad for a guy who came to this country on an English cattle boat to escape debtor’s prison.

I reached behind the portrait and retrieved the house key tucked between the frame and the canvas and unlocked the front door. My father’s family had lived in the six-bedroom, seven-bath penthouse for more than eighty years, passing it down from one generation to the next. I smiled as I stepped into the grand foyer, with its familiar crystal chandelier and antique furnishings. “Home again, home again, jiggity-jig,” I said aloud to myself. I ambled down the main hallway, looking for signs of life. I peeked into the library, which my grandfather Timothy Alden Talmadge Eresby III had transplanted in toto from an eighteenth-century French villa, but I saw only shelves of leather-bound books. I then looked into the dining room and found the family butler, Clarence, sitting at the end of the eight-foot-long table, stolidly polishing the silver while staring out the window at Central Park.

“I see my mother is putting you to good use,” I said wryly.

Clarence blinked as if started from a daydream, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Miss Timmy! I didn’t hear you come in! It’s so good to see you!”

“It’s good to see you, too, Clarence,” I replied, moving to embrace the elderly servant. “You’re the only person alive who can still call me ‘Timmy’ without getting a knuckle sandwich, you know.”

Like the portrait of my great-great grandfather, Clarence had been around since before I could remember. To my shame, I wasn’t sure if Clarence was his first or last name. Not that it mattered. He was Clarence, just as the sun is the sun and the moon is the moon.

“Are my parents home?” I asked.

“Not at the moment,” he replied. “Your mother is taking tea with Mrs. Petrie, and your father flew to Chicago on business. He’s expected back later this evening.”

“Just as well.” I sighed. “I only stopped by to freshen up and change my clothes. I have an event in Chelsea tonight.” I handed him one of the postcard invitations. “You’re more than welcome to attend.”

Clarence smiled as he studied the photo of
The Dying Gaul
. “You were always quite talented at creating things, even as a child. I still have the ashtray you made for me when you were in second grade.”

“Even though you don’t smoke,” I laughed.

“True. But I did contemplate taking it up after you presented it to me. It is a
very
nice ashtray.”

 

 

I went upstairs to my old bedroom, which had been converted to yet another guest room. I laid out my change of clothes across the queen-sized bed and headed into the en suite bathroom. After months of sharing a bathroom with my housemates, I allowed myself the luxury of soaking in a bath of warm bubbles. Once I was finished, I toweled off and put on a particularly alluring little black dress I had bought for the occasion, one that would show off both my tattoos and my figure to their best advantage, and a pair of matching strappy high heels. As I applied my makeup, I mulled over how I should wear my hair, which I kept fairly short because of the welding helmet, and black because, well, because that’s what I was born with. Should I go punk or pixie? In the end I decided to split the difference.

As I got ready, I kept telling myself that I was dressing up for my “public.” People have expectations of what artists look like, especially those who work in metal, and I wanted to both play to and subvert my audience’s preconceptions. But that’s not why I was humming a little song while I applied my lipstick and mascara. Critics and collectors be damned, I was dressing up for Hexe.

Since the day we first met, Hexe had graciously included me in his world, showing me about Golgotham and educating me as to its mysteries and mundanities. Now it was my turn to return the favor and bring him into
my
world. It might not be supernatural in origin, but it was easily as strange and exotic in its own right. Besides, what good is an opening night—or any night, really—without someone to share it with?