The Violet Hour: A Novel (40 page)

“Of course,” she said.

He sighed and crouched to retie his sneaker, bending forward so that she could see the creamy curve of his skull beneath his thinning curls. He took his time down there, long enough for her to feel that it would be okay to reach out her hand and place it on his head. He shifted slightly beneath her hand, as though she’d managed to pin him in an uncomfortable position from which he wanted to be released. But she held firm and soon he had reexerted his force upward to meet her in her fingertips and palm. She imagined she was an alien, scanning his brain with her hand. The thoughts she would trap, the motivations she would discover. At long last, she thought, she’d know what was happening inside him when he failed to respond to her questions, when his eyes lost their focus and shrank into tiny black pebbles. Of course it was impossible to really know another person, but even now, he was still the other person she’d known the best.

His hushed answer came swimming toward her like one of those fish that inexplicably travels upstream, flouting reason, refusing every natural advantage. Just two measly syllables—“okay”—but she knew she would save them for the rest of her life. When she finally let go of his head, he shivered, as though she’d somehow been keeping him warm.

O
f course, she hadn’t known at the time that they’d be the last months of her marriage. At the time they merely felt like life, like something to be taken for granted. Which probably should’ve been her first clue. With Elizabeth coasting through college applications, and Abe long since commanding his own practice, she felt that they had finally arrived. For years she had yearned for the future: as a child for the glamour of high school, as a teenager for the freedom of college, as an unmarried woman for passion, as a married woman for artistic success. She was still excited for her daughter’s future, but her own life—certainly her marriage after that early disturbance—had grown remarkably stable, like the knee-high barrel vase she’d labored over years ago, greedily wetting and rewetting her clay as it grew ever more elegant and impressive, now kiln-fired, cobalt-glazed, and—too dear to part with—fully functional, holding all their umbrellas in the hall.

Stable, but somewhat neglected. Cassandra, Abe, and Elizabeth rarely ate family meals anymore, each of them leaving and coming home at odd hours, especially Elizabeth, who was involved in a different school activity every night. During the week, most conversations seemed to take place in pajamas, in pairs rather than all together, a
toothbrush in somebody’s mouth, the dog’s slumbering paws twitching at the end of the hall. Though she still had her attic studio at the house, in those days, Cassandra did most of her work in a space she rented at a community studio, needing, like her husband and daughter, to have a place she had to go.

Flyers circulated the studio regularly, advertising this exhibition or that lecture, some of which Cassandra attended, many of which she felt sorry to miss, but not sorry enough to have attended in the first place. One day in her box she found a postcard announcing the opening of a new gallery in Oakland. From the card stock alone, it was clear that money had been spent. She hadn’t heard of the owner—Vincent Hersh—but savvy colleagues were pretty sure he was a New York transplant, and well connected. Not everyone in the building was invited.

“I was hoping you and I could actually have dinner together Wednesday,” she told Abe as she slid into bed that night. “But now there’s this opening. It might be a snob scene, but it might not. Regardless, I think I have to go.”

“That’s a shame,” Abe said into his book. Not for the first time, he was stretched out on top of the covers, making it difficult for her to flex her feet underneath. It was one of his many habits—like throwing away her
Artforum
s before she was done with them—that had recently begun to irk her. She had no idea whether he’d always done these things or not.

“Do you mind?” she asked, allowing herself to sound just the slightest bit surly. “I can barely move here.” He looked at her as though she’d just asked him his name, and for a moment it seemed possible that he wasn’t really her husband. She looked closely at the line of his jaw. She’d once seen a TV special about Capgras syndrome, a rare neurological disorder resulting from severe head injury, that causes the patient to believe a person she loves has been replaced by a perfect impostor. She tried to remember, briefly, if she’d ever been in a devastating accident.

Abe lifted his butt, ceding a few inches of bedclothes. “What’s
Elizabeth got that night?” he asked, amiably, as if to prove he’d been listening all along.

She relaxed a little and shuffled her toes around under the slightly roomier covers. Ferdinand, who wasn’t allowed on the bed, came and rested his chin by her feet. “Wednesday’s cross-country,” she said. “A race. I really hate to miss it. But then she goes straight to newspaper. Remember, it’s press week? There wouldn’t even be time to talk to her.”

“When has she ever made a big deal about cross-country? She knows there isn’t much to see. I don’t even think she likes when we watch her run. It makes her nervous.”

Cassandra pictured Elizabeth’s pale legs at their steady gait, her determined face flushed and boyish with sweat. “That may be. But I’m still disappointed about dinner. Isn’t it your one free night next week?”

“Well, what if I meet you at the gallery? Where is it, Oakland? We can grab a bite somewhere.”

Cassandra turned on her side, bending her knees into his hip. “Really? You wouldn’t mind?”

He smiled but still did not move under the covers. “Why should I mind?”

T
HE GALLERY WAS
located in a renovated livery that had, in its most recent life, been used as a warehouse for remaindered books. The exterior had been painted a chic blue and the interior still retained its original wood floors and beams, the art displayed throughout on soft white walls and pediments. They were early, but already several dozen people banded together throughout the space. In a corner to the left stood a trio of lifelike animals—a cow, a rabbit, and a sheep—each approximately the size of a basset hound and each bearing sets of painfully tumescent teats. A table piled with berries, figs, prosciutto, and cheese beckoned from in front of the sliding garage door while a bar held down the far end.

Cassandra and Abe took glasses of red wine and stood together in front of the cow, which was made entirely of leather and suede. The artist was a New Yorker in her late twenties and had, according to Cassandra’s program, already been included in a few significant group shows. Cassandra was beginning to think she’d actually heard of the woman before, so persuasive was the wording of her bio, and so elegant the slim capital typeface the gallery had chosen to showcase her name.

“They really can get like that,” Abe said, indicating the cow’s udder. “You’d see it at the Virginia dairies all the time.”

“I can’t decide if I like it or not,” Cassandra said, balancing her wineglass as she bent down to check out the udder from below.

“Well, essentially it’s a stuffed animal,” Abe said, more diagnostic than dismissive. “
Over
stuffed. What’s it made of—suede? Right, exactly. A stuffed animal.” He seemed ready to write his report.

“Can I offer anyone a bite?” The voice came from behind them and when they turned they were greeted by a hulking, vaguely goofy man in his thirties clad in the slimmest of black suits, his white shirt unbuttoned a few notches to reveal a wantonly hairy chest. He had the bulging eyes of someone who subsisted on speed, a stretched equine face, full ladyish lips, and mucky black hair that appeared deliberately unbrushed. In each hand, he held a square plate of crostini topped with blue cheese, which he raised in the direction of the sculptures. “Loaded question, I know.”

“Cow’s milk?” Abe asked.

“Swear to God.” The man smiled, revealing bright pink gums.

“Well, as long as we’re being honest.” Abe reached forward to accept the plate. “Thank you.”

“Maybe in a little bit,” Cassandra said, holding up her wineglass and program. “I kind of have my hands full at the moment.”

“Here,” Abe said, balancing his plate and glass in one hand just long enough to pluck the nibble from the second plate onto his own. “We can share.”

“Good,” the man said, satisfied. “Are you liking the show?” He
spoke with a whiff of investment, like a host, not at all like a hired waiter.

“We’ve only just arrived,” Cassandra said, “but we’re enjoying ourselves so far. The space is gorgeous.”

“You’re an artist, right?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Cassandra saw Abe smile. He loved when people in the art world recognized her as one of their own, as though it had something to do with pheromones and intuition and not her immediate surroundings. They were in a gallery; everyone was some kind of artist.

“Yes. Sculpture mostly.”

“I
thought
so,” the man said mischievously. “Vincent Hersh.” He held out his hand, which she shook, flabbergasted, her upper arm still pinning her program to her side.

“Cassandra Green. My husband, Abe. But you’re so young!” she blurted. “I’m sorry, you must hate that. I know I would.”

He laughed. “Not at all. I take it as a compliment.” He rocked forward over his pointy shoes, apparently used to compliments, perhaps even feeling entitled to them. “And anyway, I’m not as young as I look.” His voice had the cheerful, stoned inflection of the new straight-acting gay generation. Was he gay? She wasn’t certain, but she was fairly certain he was exactly as young as he looked.

“Well, it’s a wonderful space you have here. You must be very excited.”

“Off the charts. We’re going to have some excellent stuff coming through this season.” He paused and looked at her searchingly. “You said Green? From Berkeley?”

She pursed her lips, used to the assumption by now. “How’d you guess?”

He snapped his long fingers and pointed. “
The Reaching Man
! Culver Reichman.”

“That’s right!” Abe exclaimed, his wine sloshing around in his glass.

“But how’d you know that?” Cassandra asked.

“They’re my lawyers. I stopped to appreciate it just last week when I was there. Man. It’s really something.”
The Reaching Man
was one of her commissioned pieces. A resin cast painted bronze, it stood nearly nine feet tall in the lobby of the venerable San Francisco law firm of Culver Reichman Sanders and Schmidt. The man was Greek in musculature, but elongated, arms raised toward some vaunted ambition, which he tilted his head back to see. Her client had been extremely pleased. It was just the sort of neoclassicism the partners had hoped would inspire their associate attorneys on the way to the elevator bank, the sort that makes corporations feel human and thoughtful, not to mention supportive of the arts. Conventional, certainly, but she had to admit, well executed.

“Thank you. One of my bigger projects. I mostly do vases and bowls.”

“They’re lucky to have it. The distortion is just out of this world.” He gave another gummy smile and glanced over his shoulder, having apparently reached his conversational limit. A blonde in a blue Chinese dress took his cue, and waved him over from the center of the room.

“I’m wanted. Great meeting you both—Cassandra, Abe. Stay as long as you want. Eat everything.” With that, he sauntered off with the empty plate, bending backward in delight at his next introduction as if inspired by the Reaching Man himself.

“I
REALLY THINK
you should feel good about tonight,” Abe said as he drove them home, gaily palming the wheel. “This is proof, as though you needed it, that people know who you are.”

Cassandra pressed herself back into the headrest. She’d had too much wine and her head was beginning to swim. “I told you, it’s a coincidence. Trust me, I’m not known. I know who the known people are.”

“You got invited to this thing, didn’t you?”

“Everyone got invited.”

“Ah-ha! Everyone did
not
get invited. You said so yourself.”

“I only said that because I thought you weren’t listening.”

“Liar. You said you didn’t know why you’d been chosen. Well, maybe now you know. He put together the guest list, didn’t he? Face it: he likes your work. And he’s a serious curator, even if he is just a kid.” They passed under a series of yellow lights, dancing on their wires in the wind.

“Come on,” she said. “You saw the barnyard animals, the industrial installations. He’s not
really
interested in tame public art. He’s a schmoozer.” She couldn’t allow herself to let down her guard, but privately, she was grateful for Hersh’s praise. Certainly, it was better than the sideways bullying to which she’d grown accustomed in her field, the tough love (more tough than love) she knew all too well from her family, which was supposed to make you stronger or make you quit. Preferably, in the art world, the latter. “He’s the kind of person who wants to make everyone feel special so that everyone will keep coming to his shows.”

“That may be,” Abe said. He barely eased off the accelerator as he spun into their neighborhood. “I’m not saying anything will come of this. A solo show at his gallery or what have you.”

“Abe—!” she protested, superstitiously.

“I’m not saying that. Maybe it’ll happen, maybe it won’t. All right, probably not. But even if it doesn’t, you should still feel good about what he said to you tonight.” He pulled into the driveway and put the car in park. “Because, after all—it’s true.” He looked so resolutely into her eyes that she had no choice but to look away, at the grit that had collected around the window buttons in the control panel between their seats.

“Is it?” she asked, hopefully. “You don’t know.”

“Enough,” he said, kissing her. “Enough.”

S
HE SPENT THE
next several weeks working on her most avant-garde piece in recent memory, a three-dimensional resin wall hanging of
a woman’s body metamorphosing into the trunk of a tree. It was Greek-inspired, too, but she didn’t think anyone could accuse it of neoclassicism. Photographs taken near her parents’ home of sycamores, which, with their peeling silver bark, seemed to suggest a second body underneath, covered the wall above her desk, and she’d brought in a potted fig tree and a basketful of assorted barks and leaves to give her something useful to touch.