Page 26 of Drawing Home
She bent down to rummage through her backpack but knew she wouldn’t find any hand sanitizer. She’d followed Dr. Wang’s instructions not to carry it, and now she regretted her decision. She looked up at Kyle.
“So, is that old woman your grandmother?” she asked.
He looked confused. After a beat, he said, “Uh, no. I work for her.Workedfor her, actually.” He glanced down the street, checking for the jitney.
“It’s late a lot,” she said. “So, listen, can you tell her to leave us alone? The house has nothing to do with her. Mr. Wyatt wanted us to have it. My mom isn’t good with change, and your boss saying all that stuff is making it harder for her.”
“What’s your name?”
“Penny.”
“Penny, I don’t really know what’s going on with that house. But I do know that Ms. Winstead was very good friends, longtime friends, with the owner. This is nothing against you or your mother. Ms. Winstead has just lost a friend, and as a friend she wants to look after his house and his art.”
“He was my friend too.I’mupset too.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know exactly why he left me the house. Maybe it’s because I like to draw and he gave me art lessons and he told me it was the happiest he’d been in years. Hetoldme that. Maybe it’s because he was rich and he knew my mom works really hard but we don’t have a lot. I mean, not compared to most of the people around here. I don’t knowwhyhe did it, okay? The point is, hedidit, and no matter how long that lady hangs around here, she won’t change that.”
The bus pulled up and the waiting crowd moved into an orderly line. Kyle slipped the adjustable handle down in his suitcase.
“Did you hear what I just said? About Mr. Wyatt?” Penny said.
He didn’t answer her. But the weird thing was, he didn’t get on the bus either.
Chapter Eleven
Can you tell me how the owner acquired these drawings?” Bea asked the gallery assistant.
The woman looked up from sifting through catalogs. “The Wyatts? The artist gave them to Carol Amsterdam this past fall. Aren’t they spectacular? So stark and emotional.”
Indeed. “Was the owner of this gallery very friendly with Mr. Wyatt?”
“Everyone knew Henry.”
“And did he just give his drawings to everyone?” Bea pressed, irritated.
The young woman, confused by the shift in tone, paused and then answered, “I don’t really know.”
How long had he been in this new phase of his career? But the more pressing question was why, after always being so protective of his work—of having Bea act as the steward of everything he created—had he started giving it away?
Bea was the one who’d convinced Henry to walk away from the downtown scene and aim for something bigger. It was 1961. John F. Kennedy had just been inaugurated. The country had a new heroine in First Lady Jackie. Bea, remembering the Newport frenzy over the Kennedy wedding seven years earlier, felt like it was a sign, confirmation somehow that, like Jackie, she could emerge from Newport and shine in a bigger arena. This was her moment, and she had to make it happen.
“We need to get you into one of the new galleries on Fifty-Seventh Street,” she told him.
Henry protested; his friend was putting together a show for him in a space just a few blocks away.
“You can do better,” she said, generations of entitled Newport breeding coursing through her veins. As much as she loved the romance of the artists’ collectives, she sensed something bigger was around the corner, and if she didn’t become a part of it, she would be left behind.
The era leading up to this moment had been the time of the Tenth Street galleries, run by the artists themselves. But Bea believed things were starting to change. Those closest to the scene would not or could not see it, but Bea was just outside enough and sharp enough to see that new power players were entering the game.
How did she know this? The same way Henry knew that the blue and black in the configuration of his painting would work. It was what she was hardwired to do. As much as she was attracted to the art world, she didn’t have one moment of delusion that she herself was an artist. But she felt confident she could succeed on the business end of things. She didn’t know exactly what her job would be or how long it would take to make something happen. She would just put one foot in front of the other until she got there. And she would take Henry Wyatt along with her.
Bea had her eye on the Green Gallery. Unlike the pop-ups and collectives on Tenth Street, the Green Gallery had financial backing and a wealthy, uptown clientele. Bea, unlike her new friends, was very comfortable around money. She spoke the language. She belonged.
Bea convinced Richard Bellamy, the gallery director, to visit Henry’s apartment and view his work. After seeing Henry’s paintings, Bellamy didn’t waste time being coy.
“How soon can you be ready for a show?” he asked the artist.
Bea didn’t let Henry answer; she walked Richard down the murky building stairs and, on the second-floor landing, told him that if he wanted Henry’s work, he had to pay her part of the gallery’s 50 percent commission.
“You’re just a kid,” he said dismissively. It was true, and she felt it sometimes—especially in that moment talking to him. He had experience and influence. Who was she to make demands? But she knew that if she let that cow her,shewould never get to be the person with experience and influence.
