CHAPTER IX
Swick keeps one appointment, but postpones another
The subway, as some refer to the elevated trains that screech when they go and screech when they stop, veers east above Coney Island, then turns away from the ocean. At this, the southernmost point of Coney Island Avenue and only steps from the boardwalk, Swick and Dilly, in their heady romantic history, often dined al fresco after overheated in camera meetings. Directly across CIA, and in Swick’s line of vision on many evenings, was Boris Claude’s Artist Rookery. As Swick enjoyed chili sausage and Dilly’s facile observations, he watched Rookery’s doors. Canvases, crates, objects: carried, pushed and pulled inside.
Inveterate dabbler Swick was determined to join the artistic community and further his own anticipated career. He ventured into the gallery one Friday to experience Rookery’s Bi-Monthly Open Varnishing Night, marveled at the tantalizing variety of media, attended regularly thereafter and soon met Mr. Claude himself.
An excessive sweater, Claude wore silk waistcoats in shades of dark forest, always unbuttoned, with loose black shorts. His green tattoos, dense configurations of paisleys on torso, limbs, neck and scalp, exuded a mystic radiance which glistened year-round. Claude’s Boris and Claude were of recent vintage; so was his eloquence, mastered at warehouse security in Piscataway, NJ. He failed to recall what was warehoused, but after a decade he’d returned with exotic diphthongs, money, and illimitable confidence in avant-garde plastic trends.
From behind his office desk, Claude scrutinized the unkempt gentleman who visited his gallery every Friday evening and studied each exhibit from every angle.
“My eyes tell me,” said Claude, “that you, sir, are likely an aspirant, presently struggling through stages of artistic growth. All of us who live our lives in art, for art, are compelled. Correct?”
“I’m a part-timer myself.”
“Amateur.”
“Yes and no. I sold some pieces recently.”
“To friends, family.”
“Among others, particularly a recluse collector from Rockaway.”
“I think I know who.” Claude left his desk. “A shame I can’t see them.”
“I have plenty, at home, even at the office.”
“Office?”
“I’m an attorney. Sander Kohrnough.” Swick shook Claude’s wet hand. “And you’re the famous curator. Connoisseur.”
“Wonderful! An advocate! I’ve encountered too few with your combination of talents. And what branch of law is your specialty?”
“The legal spectrum, that’s my niche.” Swick was delighted to be so charming. “But my love is doing, creating. You of all people understand.”
That evening, Swick remained after hours to savor a soft red with his new mentor who outlined, vaguely, his petty legal predicament, an effrontery. No sooner had Swick finished his drink than he was at Judge Van Fessel’s private side, informing her, ex parte, that the opposing attorney in a certain matter, to come before her next month, had stated in Swick’s very presence that “ ‘Something stinks at Boardwalk.’” “ An effrontery to the court,” Swick said; Van Fessel took it, personally, as such; and Claude’s pesky nuisance was summarily dismissed.
“I’m most grateful,” said Claude, who dismissed the nuisance of Swick’s pesky fee as “an encumbrance to our friendship.” Swick accepted postponement. Thereafter, minor infractions -- disorderly conduct, slightly forged signatures, assault -- Claude was cornered, innocent, forced to defend himself – were dispatched expeditiously and paid for, symbiotically, with a place on any wall, floor or ceiling of the Rookery, bi-monthly, in perpetuity.
As jury of one, Claude ordinarily reviewed submissions, charging a measly fee to discourage recyclists of trash from decanting his endemic champagne. Swick, unique exception, thought their agreement an excellent bargain. But he soon realized that Claude, by allowing Swick discretion, had exposed him to the scorn of the gallery’s erudite guests. He milled about, that evening of his debut, anonymously near a copy of his own law degree, which he had tattered, then splashed with vibrant brown. Snorts, grimaces, unrestrained yawns were painful but the laughter was unbearable, even if his was not the only piece to suffer such vulgarity. Swick was owed more than money; he employed professional reticence, too. Thus claiming his due bi-monthly, he consulted with Claude. Each project and its critique brought him closer to exposing his peculiar genius; for Swick knew it was there, latent, lingering, bashful and stubborn as only the unconscious can be.
Forecasters warned of flooding, thunderstorms. Swick found parking just a storefront from Claude’s. Good omen. Worried that the downpour might affect his paste’s patina, he waited, twelve minutes. His briefcase was beside him, closed; enough law for today. When the rain subsided, he hurried with his bundle into the gallery.
A skinny tanned woman in a skimpy white dress, Vera, Claude’s young assistant, was climbing a twelve-foot ladder. Around her neck: flimsy transparent plastic streamers of various lengths, most longer than she. When her tiny right foot—scantily shod in white pom-pom high-heeled sandal—reached the rung below the top, she glanced down at Swick. “You’re late. Where were you?”
“The rain.” Holding his still-dry future in his arms, he watched. Both sandaled feet on the rung, she pressed one undernourished knee, the right, against the ladder’s top, lifted her left foot behind her, balanced, and hooked the streamers to loops in the ceiling. The eastern wall was covered with streamers, the floor with colorless circles. She took care of reception, cold drinks, even mounted Claude’s heavy sculptures. Undoubtedly, Claude – she called him Bor -- recognized all her talents. Vera looked down again, Swick looked up. Dilly never wore heels. If he was too old for Vera, so was Claude.
“What’s that?” Swick asked.
“Ronald Tamarind’s latest. And before you offer your opinion, guess his title.”
“Huh. ‘Tears for Our World.’”
“How did you know?”
Always the obvious. Sentimental sell-out, but he sold. Last year, spiked coffee mugs, Deadly Drinks. “I suppose there’s a buyer.”
“How did you know?”
The familiar rush of inadequacy burned Swick’s veins. In fifteen years, not one of eighty-four attempts had sold. Asking about price was a blood pressure risk. “How’s Bor?”
“His nose is out of joint.”
“What?”
“In his office. Go. I can’t talk and hang.”
Swick walked past Claude, seated in his fuzzy leopard executive chair, wiping his face and neck. Unwrapped papier-mâché was placed on the floor of the large back room. Claude walked in and asked,
“Well, counselor, what is it this time?”
“It just came to me.”
“So I see.”
Claude’s tone was flat; Swick’s assurance faltered. Claude squatted, his green knees shone. “What is it?”
“It just is, shaped like a horseshoe.”
Claude turned it over. “It has texture,” and over again, “and a singular aroma.”
“It might sell?” Swick asked.
Although heedless of artist sensibilities, Claude never disparaged this persistent amateur. He stood, nodding. “You have a genuine feeling for papier-mâché. Stay with it. Go deeper, into the recesses of your very being.”
Headed in the right direction, two weeks before the next show.
“Think of something we haven’t seen before,” Claude said. “I’d like to look at it by Monday.”
“In ten days? I can’t.”
“Take two weeks. You’re in, as usual.”
“Storms worst in decades! Winds! Tides! Torrents!”
Swick tuned to weather updates as he drove. Hyperbole, but it forced one to attention. Dampness threatened his sculpture; he ought to go straight home. No messages on his cell phone meant that Dilly intended to keep their appointment at the diner. He didn’t, and pulled over. Phone in hand, he weighed options: Dil, I’ll bring take-out, take care of paperwork while you take me in han
d for as long as it takes and then to sleep. Cuddle on such an awful night. Tomorrow’s trial? I’ll review it in the morning. Take his horseshoe inside, too.
He phoned and made his offer.
“No!” Dilly said. “You just caught me. I’m leaving.”
“Wait. You’re working tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll bring your papers, after court.”
“You know I hate delays. Oca said he’s worse.”
“Then he’ll be worse tomorrow. I’ll be at Treatment. 2:00 sharp,” Swick said.
“No. Where’s the petition now?”
If she wouldn’t budge, neither would he. “The office.”
“It should be with you.”
“Busy day. I forgot.”
“Get it.”
“Come on, Dil. It’s the worst storm in decades.”
“If I let you come, will you get it?”
So she’d cornered him, but it was worth it. “Sounds good.”
“Not to me! Be at the diner in fifteen minutes.”
“Tomorrow at Treatment.”
“Fine, but I’m putting you on notice. When I have your connections I’ll make some changes.”
He laughed. “Then I’m safe.”
“2:00. We’ll check everything.”
“I’ll call when I leave the courthouse. Don’t worry. She’s my judge.”
Dilly was tempted to call Ernest. No, she had work. He should call her.
In the kitchen, Oca was staring, her face in the freezer. Vapors that hung around her head did nothing to clear her vision of dinner. Buy fresh fish down at the bay or thaw the halibut, really enough for two, baked, and toss in three peppercorns for each spoon of butter, squeeze lemon when it was all bubbling. Lamb chops were almost as good, three from last weekend with new potatoes, that recipe copied into her laptop.
Mom limped in.
“Oh,” Oca said, and shut the freezer.
“I hate delays and he knows it. Grown man, afraid of the rain.”
Mom never touched butter. Oca camouflaged her disappointment with curiosity. “You’re not going out?”
“I’ll sign everything tomorrow.”
“Mom?”
“I see it at work all the time. They think it won’t happen. Then it happens.”
“Mom? Are you hungry?”
“Grandpa can’t live alone much longer. Find out if he’s OK.”
“But it’s raining.”
“Did I ask you to go? Make a phone call! I do a lot more than you.”
“You want dinner?”
“Call him.”
“What about dinner?”
“I missed two days last week with all that teaching. Too much.”
“Not even tea?”
“Call him. Just call him.”
While Mom worked in her study, Oca enjoyed halibut, extra butter, and baby peas. Grandpa answered after eleven rings and told her not to call so late. It was close to 7:00.
Swick and frame arrived home, dryly, that dark and stormy night. His plan: to dream of solutions to his problem. Vera, as angel of inspiration, flew above his bed, but she never alighted long enough to be of any help.