Yellow Mesquite (22 page)

“Good to see you, Sidney. Welcome to the Garden of Eden.”

Sidney held him at arm’s length. “My boy, you look marvelous. A little weathered, but it suits you.”

Sidney collected his one bag and got in the car. He gazed out at the open country, his quick eyes absorbing everything. “Ye gads. What space.”

“It’s a whole lot of nothing. That’s for sure.”
 

“What a perfectly clear cerulean sky.”

Harley drove into the front yard and stopped. Sidney got out, still staring into the distance. “Fan-tas-tic!”

Sherylynne opened the screen door and stumbled out, glassy-eyed. “Sid-
ney
!
Welcome to the Waldorf.”

Sidney gave her a quizzical, faintly amused look. “Sherylynne. Nice to see you again.”

“You’ve come to talk art with Harley. Poor boy. Ever since Mavis went in the hospital, he got nobody to talk art to.”

Harley frowned. “Where’s Leah?”

“Now, Harley Jay, don’t you worry your arty little head about Leah.” She hooked her arm in Sidney’s. “Come on in, Sidney. Let’s have a drink and talk us some art.”

Harley hurried through the house and found Leah in her playpen in the backyard. He scooped her up and after a quick inspection brought her back inside.

“Y’all sit down there while I fix everybody a drink,” Sherylynne said.

“Oh, thank you. A small glass of wine would be welcome. What a beautiful child.”

“Tell me,” said Sherylynne, “do you think she favors her father?”

“Ye gads, no! Fortunately, she looks exactly like her mother.”

Sherylynne blinked. “Well…how nice.” She took a bottle of red wine from the cabinet and poured half of a water glass for Sidney.

“I have three children of my own, you know.”

Harley looked up in surprise.
 

“Yes, they’re in France with their mother, Renee.”

Harley blinked. “I didn’t even know you were married.”

“Oh, I’m not. Heaven forbid!”

Sherylynne sobered. “You have three children, and…and you’re not married?”

“Zounds, no! It’s hard enough being an artist, much less supporting a family as well.”

Sherylynne looked confused. “Really? What does your, uh, the children’s mother think about that?”

“Oh, she’s perfectly marvelous, well aware of the singular focus it takes to be an artist. I do hope one day to bring her and the children here, when I can afford a second home.”

“A second home? They won’t live with you?”

“Gads, no. I couldn’t possibly work with a family underfoot.”

Sherylynne got to her feet, unsteady.

“You okay?” Harley asked.

“Headache. I’m gonna lie down a minute.” She went back into their bedroom and closed the door.

“You hungry? I’ll stir up something when we finish these drinks.”
 

Sidney rubbed his hands together. “First, my boy, let’s see the work. The work.”

“You want a refill on that wine?” Sidney had hardly touched what Sherylynne had poured him.

“No, indeed, thank you. I want to see what you’ve been doing, your paintings.”

A few minutes later, Harley stood in the doorway, holding Leah. Sidney looked through the paintings.

“I’ve read all the books—Kant, Espinoza, Heidegger, Kierkegaard, all of them.” He saw the paintings through Sidney’s eyes, felt the growing weight of failure in the silence.
 

Finally Sidney stood up with a sigh and what was obviously a forced attempt at a smile. “Well, my boy, I hardly know what to say.”

“You’re disappointed.”

Sidney took a deep breath, let it out. “I suppose you’ve done well, considering.”

Harley felt a mantel of depression engulfing him. He lowered his gaze and tried not to let it show. “I’ll fix us something to eat.”

EARLY THE FOLLOWING
morning, Harley stood at the kitchen sink, washing breakfast dishes, keeping an eye on Leah through the rear screen door, Leah in her playpen in the backyard.
 

Sherylynne appeared in her robe, unkempt, looking wearily about. “Where’s Sidney?” she muttered.

Harley focused on the dishes at hand. “I drove him to the airport. He went on to New York.”

Her gaze seemed fixed on a point directly in front of her face, thoughts turned inward. Then: “He’s sick, you know? I mean, really sick, leaving his kids over there in France like that.”

“He was disappointed in my work.”

She paused. “Well, he’s not such a hotshot, anyway.”

Harley had been baffled himself. It had occurred to him that Sidney might even be jealous. But that was out of the question; Sidney had just had a huge success and was relocating to New York—everything Harley dreamed of. Harley paused over the dishes, thinking, recalling Sidney’s attitude from the moment Harley picked him up at the bus station. On the surface he had been pleasant enough, but now, thinking back, he had had about him a certain reserve that struck Harley as out of character. Sidney may have been disappointed in the work, but what he was
really
disappointed in, Harley realized, was that Harley had chosen to have a family, taking a living-wage job, rather than devoting himself full time to art, the way Sidney had. Now that Sherylynne mentioned it, Sidney had made an issue of it by comparison, pointing out that he, Sidney, had left his wife and children in Paris in order to devote himself to his work. The whole thing was pretty transparent, now that he thought about it. He laughed out loud.
 

Sherylynne gave him an odd, quizzical look.
 

“That conniving old fart!” Harley said, and laughed again.

Sherylynne stood very still, watching him.
 

“I’ll pour us some coffee,” he said. “Let’s go sit with Leah.”

She reached to get the cups down, slowly, as if in a trance…or hungover.
 

Harley dried his hands on a towel and poured. Sherylynne held the screen door. He carried the cups out.
 

Leah had gone to sleep, cuddled up on a pillow, arms around a Raggedy Ann doll and her bottle.

“Harley,” Sherylynne said when they were seated in the lawn chairs, “I haven’t been very supportive lately. I’m sorry.” He looked at her, at her woebegone expression as she slumped, gazing into her coffee cup.
 

She looked up, eyes focused on him in earnest. “Your art, that’s who you are. You can’t give that up.”

He watched her, uncertain, wondering if she were still drunk.
 

“I’ll do better,” she said, eyes glistening. “I promise. We’ll cut back, get you off to New York one way or another.”

He felt a sudden rush of gratitude, of love for this wonderful woman who was not only the mother of his child, but his partner in shared dreams.

Chapter 25

Memorial

A
SMALL GROUP
of locals, including the sophisticates who had arrived from Dallas and Houston, had already gathered at the little plot some two hundred yards east of Whitehead’s house when the two limos arrived. Long, black, sleek, moving slow, one behind the other. They came to a stop near Whitehead’s Mercedes and another half dozen upscale vehicles a short distance from the memorial plot. When the dust settled, uniformed drivers got out, one from each car, and opened the rear doors. Five women emerged, two from the first limo, three from the second.
 

The women—all in conservative dark suits, wearing black gloves and hats, and little or no jewelry or makeup—advanced, looking elegantly at odds with the windblown plains and the locals from Dallas and Houston.
 

There were two newly erected headstones inside a twenty-by-twenty foot black-iron enclosure with spear-pointed spindles, also newly erected. Whitehead had the memorial constructed hastily, probably in an attempt to present himself in a more positive light to Maude, her family and friends. Good luck with
that
, Harley thought.

In fact, Harley thought it all a little odd, considering that no bodies would be interred here. Buddy had blown himself into irretrievable bits, and, as Whitehead had complained earlier, Mavis’s ashes would be going back to Pennsylvania with Maude.
 

One of the women carried a single flower wrapped in tissue, a porcelain urn clutched to her bosom. Harley assumed that this was Maude. Obviously she had picked Mavis’s ashes up at the mortuary in Houston. Each of the other women carried handkerchiefs and small bouquets, though both headstones were already heaped with flowers so you could hardly read the chiseled inscriptions. One of the women, younger than the others, carried what looked like a framed plaque of some sort.

Harley, Leah in his arms, stood alongside Sherylynne. He wore the dark suit he had bought for Uncle Jay’s funeral, a white shirt and tie. Sherylynne wore a royal blue dress with fine gold embroidery on the collar, cuffs and hem, a dress Neiman Marcus described as “A Rio Grande Hostess Dress.” Harley hadn’t said so, but he thought it was a little showy for the occasion.
 

On the other side of Sherylynne stood Wesley Earl in pressed jeans, a green-and-white plaid Western shirt with piping, mother-of-pearl snaps, and lizard skin Nocona boots. As always, his freshly shaven jaw was knotted with a plug of Red Man chewing tobacco. He carried a paper cup in one hand into which he occasionally spat. In his other hand he held his baseball cap clutched respectfully to his chest. His wife, Maxine, wore a gaily flowered dress with flats, one hand caught in the crook of Wesley Earl’s elbow.
 

Lupe and Álvaro stood a little ways back, teary-eyed Lupe in a long Mexican skirt and a lace-collared white blouse, a black mantilla draped over her head and shoulders. From time to time, she crossed herself, mumbling under her breath. Álvaro, stoic as ever, wore starched khakis and an open-collared dress shirt, straw hat clamped to his chest in weathered hands.
 

Whitehead, lips drawn tight against his teeth, looked ill at ease in a pinstriped suit, a white dress shirt and tie. He stepped forward and met the women at the open gate.
 

“Maude,” he said. “Glad y’all made it. Come on in here.” He turned to the little gathering. “This here’s Maude, Mavis’s sister, and this is Maude’s daughter, Erin.” A murmur of greeting floated through the gathering. Maude turned to the three women from the other limo. “It is my pleasure to introduce three of Mavis’s closest friends; Carla Ambrose, Jennifer Jeffries and Frankie Mussette.”

It took a moment to register—
Frankie Mussette—
the name Mavis had given him scribbled on the little scrap of paper in the Houston hospital. She was younger than he expected, not much older than himself. Trim. Ash-colored hair pulled back in some kind of twist at the back of her head under the brim of a conservative black hat. All five women suggested an ambience of self-possessed elegance and sophistication. Harley almost felt sorry for Whitehead. But Whitehead was doing a fair job in his usual blustery manner, holding his own in the presence of what Harley suspected was meant by the term “good breeding.” Which, he thought, was just another name for “privileged.” Only the scuffing of Whitehead’s boots in the gravel and an occasional hint of a glare in his eagle eyes betrayed his discomfort, perhaps his resentment.
 

The woman carrying the framed plaque was younger, probably late twenties. Harley discounted her, assuming that the Frankie person would be one of the older women, more near Mavis’s age.
 

“Glad y’all could all come,” Whitehead said. “She’d ’preciate it.” An awkward moment of silence; then Whitehead said, “Listen, Maude, you know I’m no good at this sorta thing. If any of you want to say something, just go ahead.”

Maude, clutching the urn along with one white lily in a tissue, took a small step forward, attempting a smile for those in attendance. “On behalf of the family, we thank you all for coming.” She paused briefly, then continued. “For those of you who may be wondering, this is an urn with Mavis’s ashes. She left specific instructions for their internment in Pennsylvania.” She smiled a faint, pained smile. “I thought it appropriate that she attend her own memorial. Thank you all again for coming. I know she would be touched.” She stepped back and nodded to the younger woman alongside, the one with the framed plaque. “This is Frankie Mussette, a dear friend of Mavis’s.”

The woman, eyes glistening with unshed tears, stepped forward. “Mavis will be missed,” she said softly. “Not only as a dear friend, but as a champion of the arts. As you may know, Mavis was a former trustee at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. As a spokesperson for Blackstone Group Management, I have the pleasure of announcing that the board is erecting a plaque on the museum’s premises in her honor.”

Harley was shocked. He knew Mavis was a patron of the arts, but he had no idea she had been a trustee at the Metropolitan Museum in New York.
 

Frankie continued, “Mavis Barrington-Whitehead’s acumen was unsurpassed in business and artistic taste. She will be missed, yes, but never forgotten.” She stopped, cleared her throat and continued. “Mr. Whitehead, it is my privilege to present you with this facsimile. The original, of course, will be installed in the museum.” The woman handed the framed plaque to Whitehead. He took it, awkwardly. Someone started to clap, a few more took it up, but then it died out from either a lack of enthusiasm or a question of appropriateness. Mrs. Mussette knelt, placed her bouquet against Mavis’s headstone, then stood back and touched at the corners of her eyes with her handkerchief.

“Anybody else?” Whitehead looked around, red-eyed, mouth pinched. The little group shuffled in silence.
 

“Would
you
perhaps like to say something?” Maude said. Her voice carried the faintest edge of a challenge.

Clutching the framed facsimile in both hands, Whitehead cleared his throat. “She was good people. A big loss.” He took a deep breath, let it out and looked briefly around at the little gathering. “Nobody else got anything, I guess we can call it a day.”

A few locals began to shuffle toward the gate and their cars. One couple approached Whitehead for a look at the plaque. The other four women placed their flowers alongside Frankie’s, all piled against Mavis and Buddy’s headstones.