Page 49 of Drawing Home
What are you doing, Henry?
He was speaking to her from the grave. Of that she was certain. But what was he trying to say?
Think, think. She closed her eyes, trying to put herself back into that long-ago night.
By the mid-1970s, Bea was so busy with her roster of artists and the Spring Street gallery that she rarely had time to scout for new talent. Henry, increasingly bored with painting and tired of the competitive scene in New York, was frequently away. He sought out the company of artists who worked in other media and who lived in other places. “There’s a purity to their work that is impossible to maintain here,” he’d told her. “This city is all about money.”
And what was wrong with money?
With space between herself and Henry, she filled her time with her other clients. There was no shortage of people begging for her eye, her opinion, her validation. She was also in demand socially, and she had recently started dating a banker named Shelby York.
Bea liked dating men outside of the art scene. They found her exotic and thought her world was glamorous, and this fed her ego. In return, she brought some excitement into their conventional lives. (Nothing like the appearance of Andy Warhol to spice up a dinner party.)
When Henry suggested a road trip to visit an unknown sculptor’s Pennsylvania farmhouse, she didn’t, as she so often had in the past, jump at the chance to travel with him. She was too busy and she didn’t want to deal with his moods.
“This guy is talented,” Henry insisted. “You’ll kick yourself if someone else snatches him up. Trust me.”
She could tell from his urgency that Henry had already promised the artist a visit.
“You owe me one,” she said.
It was a four-hour drive, and by the time they reached the Pennsylvania Turnpike, Bea had all but forgotten the appointments she’d had to cancel and the theater tickets Shelby had bought. Henry seemed lighthearted, more like his old self, and they fell into an easy rhythm of gossiping about everyone in their circle, about whose star was on the rise and whose had fallen, about who was sleeping with whom. They both wondered why the entire scene felt suddenly bloodless.
“Everyone’s playing it safe,” Henry said.
“You’re just cynical.”
“I’m serious, Bea. That whole world has lost its luster for me.”
She didn’t take this seriously. He was having a midlife crisis. If he’d been married, he would’ve been looking to have an affair. “You’re an artist, Henry. You can criticize the Manhattan art scene all you want, but it’s where we both belong. And it’s rewarded us greatly. What’s this really about? Are you frustrated creatively?”
“Not at all. I feel incredibly inspired, in fact. Just in a different way.” He told her he’d been learning to play the guitar. “I brought it with me,” he said. “I think you’ll be impressed with my repertoire.”
“I’d be impressed with a little more painting from you,” she replied.
It was dusk when they reached the farmhouse of Jed Rellner. Jed, tall and ruddy with prematurely white hair, was clearly nervous in her presence. It was agreed that she would look at his work in the morning, in natural light. Jed’s wife served dinner outdoors. It was warm for October, and the foursome ate and drank bottle after bottle of red wine under the stars at a picnic table.
When Jed finally showed them to a single guest room, a loft above the barn, he said, “I know the room is probably more rustic than you’re used to…”
“Don’t be silly. It’s absolutely charming,” Bea said. And she meant it.
The room had two twin beds dressed with patchwork quilts, a bureau in unfinished wood, and that was about it. The bathroom was outside.
“A far cry from your accommodations when you’re traveling with Mr. Finance, I would imagine,” Henry said. “What do you see in him?”
She sat on one of the small beds and gave him a look. “Shelby’s a very nice person, which you would know if you spent any time with him. Besides, it’s nothing serious.”
“You’re never serious about anyone,” he said. “Ever think that might be a problem?”
“You’re never serious about anyone either.”
“I’m open to it. I’m looking for something outside of work. I know there’s more to life.”
“Let’s not start with this again,” she said.
He opened his guitar case, took out the guitar, then sat beside her. “Case in point—my new hobby.”
He began strumming but she didn’t recognize the song.
