Page 25 of Drawing Home
Bea wandered in and out of a few art galleries. Every twenty feet she found another storefront filled with paintings.
She turned off Main and onto a side street, then walked toward the old Bulova watchcase factory that had been converted into luxury apartments. On Washington Street, she spotted yet another small gallery tucked between two furniture stores. The window display featured three bold, vivid portraits. She walked inside and appraised the work, surprisingly impressed with a few pieces done in oil on aluminum.
A young woman approached her. “Welcome,” she said.
“Are you the owner?” Bea asked.
“No, the owner is Carol Amsterdam and she will be here tomorrow. I’m Julia and I’m happy to help you with anything you need.”
Julia went on to tell Bea that the gallery specialized in contemporary art with a focus on narrative portraiture and magical realism by emerging artists.
“This artist is a woman?” Bea asked of the oil on aluminum.
“Yes. I’ll show you her catalog.”
Bea followed Julia to a back office. Her hip hurt and she pulled out a chair for herself but froze when she noticed a series of framed drawings on the wall—drawings just like the ones in Henry’s library. She leaned in, pulling her glasses out of her handbag.
The work reminded her of David Hockney’s drawings, not anything Henry had ever done in his career. But Henry’s initials and the date were in the lower right corner, just like in the others.
“Are these…”
“Original Henry Wyatts. Remarkable, aren’t they?”
Bea didn’t bother responding. She moved close to the drawings, recognizing the first as their old building on Spring Street. Another was the scene of a crowded party. One showed a man fishing. But the sketch that took her breath away depictedher,sixty years earlier, sitting next to Henry on a bench in Washington Square Park. The details brought her back to the exact moment—the thirty-cent can of beef ravioli in his hand, the knee-length thrift-store coat she wore. It had been one of their earliest days together, a time when their shared vision for the future was hatched. She’d made her official pitch to be his manager, convincing him that with his talent and her ambition, they could be major players in the art world. He said, and she remembered it like it was yesterday,I trust you, Bea.
And for the rest of his career, he did. Henry created, Bea managed. Even when he changed direction, even when he knew she didn’t approve his choices, he couldn’t resist calling her out to Long Island to see his work. And yet he had never mentioned these drawings.
What was going on here?
A temporary wall surrounded the charred grounds of the former movie theater. It had big red lettering thanking the first responders who’d battled the fire that scarred the “beloved Main Street,” and it had two round windows so people could peer in and view the wreckage. Penny couldn’t resist looking every single time she walked to the historical society or the whaling museum.
She stared at the burned ground now, seeing it as a perfect reflection of her mood.
Around her, people started lining up for the jitney. Penny thought it was strange that the company hadn’t moved the pickup location after the fire. Now, instead of standing in front of a nice theater, people had to gather in front of that wall.
But they didn’t seem to mind. Or notice, really. Penny watched them stand right in front of the burned-out pit and just check their phones, not giving it a second glance. They were just visitors, she guessed. People who lived in town knew exactly what was missing.
Only one guy peered through the windows, just like she always did. He wore a gray T-shirt and faded jeans and had a suitcase by his feet. Even from her side view, she realized she recognized him. He was hard to miss because he looked like that actor from the movieJurassic World,Chris Pratt.
“Hey—you were at the house earlier,” she said. “With the old lady.”
He looked down at her, surprised. “Yeah. That’s right.”
She asked him his name.
“Kyle,” he said, then he turned back to the wall. “What happened here?”
“A fire. Last December. It sucks.”
“Well, it looks like they’re going to rebuild.”
Penny shrugged. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
The guy—Kyle—looked at her again. “That’s pretty cynical for someone your age.”
And then, before she realized what she was doing, she reached out her hand and leaned on the bus-stop sign. Gross! Immediately, she wiped her fingers on her denim shorts, but that wasn’t going to do the job. “Do you have any Purell?”
Kyle shook his head. “Sorry.”
